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I know girls who pine for it. They like to play dress-up and pretend being Vor ladies of old, rescued from menace by romantic Vor youths. For some reason they never play ‘dying in childbirth’, or ‘vomiting your guts out from the red dysentery’, or ‘weaving till you go blind and crippled from arthritis and dye poisoning’, or ‘infanticide’. Well, they do die romantically of disease sometimes, but somehow it’s always an illness that makes you interestingly pale and everyone sorry and doesn’t involve losing bowel control.

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Think of the glory. Think of your reputation. Think how great it’ll look on your next resume." On my cenotaph, you mean. Nobody will be able to collect enough of my scattered atoms to bury. You going to cover my funeral expenses, son?" Splendidly. Banners, dancing girls, and enough beer to float your coffin to Valhalla." – Miles coaxing Ky Tung to agree to an almost suicidal mission

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I feel like a lot of people talk about in rom-coms, there’s the female best friend. There’s all those archetypes in rom-coms. But even among a movie about man-children hanging out, there is always the one who’s often the fat one, often the one with the beard, who is like the man-childest of them all. He’s the one that eventually meets the fat girl or the quirky girl of the girl group of friends and really hits it off.

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I came to the realization that I started dating my now-wife junior year of college, before you actually went on a date. You didn’t take girls from college out to dinner. I’ve never been on a date. I’ve never been on a date where I didn’t know the end game. I’ve never casually dated someone. I’ve only been out to dinner with the woman who would eventually be my wife.

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There are some women and a lot of dudes who are into my look, but I need to convey that I’m funny ahead of time. That’s how I got laid. Every girl I’ve ever been with is because I was funny, not because they were into a 300-pound bearded, pale dudes.

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Rappers make what’s in, in. If we want to bring back something like Jordache, we just say it and the girls start wearing it. We have a lot of pull.

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[The] majority of the girls working there had major emotional problems. And not cries-too-much emotional problems; more like stabs-her-boyfriend-with-a-steak-knife-then-falls-into-a-corner-and-starts-whispering-to-herself emotional problems.

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I was always an unusual girl. My mother told me I had a chameleon soul, no moral compass pointing due north, no fixed personality; just an inner indecisiveness that was as wide and as wavering as the ocean.

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Every now and then the stars align, <br>Boy and girl meet by the great design, <br>Could it be that you and me are the lucky ones? <br>Everybody told me love was blind, <br>Then I saw your face <br>and you blew my mind, <br>Finally you and me are the lucky ones, this time

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[About Paz De La Huerta….] And there is this girl in the audience and she’s gorgeous I can only kind of see her silhouette and she’s getting like her t*ts out and I’m like: God, that’s unusual.

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I didn’t have a knee-jerk reaction like some people did to the language and the violence. My stepfather was a history teacher at Lincoln High School in Dallas. So, I was already familiar with the N-word and the brutality of slavery. What I was drawn to was the love story between Django and Broomhilda and how he defends and gets the girl in the end. I thought it was just an amazing and courageous project.

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What’s weird is when you meet a girl who is 23 and you are talking to her, even her voice is high-pitched, she’s young. You ask her how old she is, she says, ‘Twenty-three, how old are you?’ and when I tell her I’m 41 it’s like I’ve just told her I have cancer. It’s, ‘Oh my God, how long have you had that?’

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What irritated her most was that they kept brushing off her arguments with patronizing smiles, making her feel like a teenager being quizzed on her homework. Without actually uttering a single inappropriate word, they displayed towards her an attitude that was so antediluvian it was almost comical. You shouldn’t worry your pretty head over complex matters, little girl.

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Women have to be careful and teach their girls to be aware of their surroundings and never be alone with testosterone-crazed boys. A lot of little lives are being ruined and our society is to blame. Our kids are just searching and being curious but they are dangerously looking for the wrong kind of attention.

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I think even though things are changing a bit, we still kind of tend to grow up with girls being like, ‘Don’t be too loud, don’t be too rude, don’t be too naughty,’ or whatever, to act a certain way.

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The dead do walk and haunt and crawl into your bed at night. Ghosts sneak into your head when you’re not looking. Stars line up and volcanoes birth out bits of glass that foretell the future. Poison berries make girls stronger, but sometimes kill them. If you howl at the moon and swear on your blood, anything you desire will be yours. Be careful what you wish for. There’s always a catch.

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I am almost a real girl the entire drive home. I went to a diner. I drank hot chocolate and ate french fries. Talked to a guy for a while. Laughed a couple of times. A little like ice-skating for the first time, wobbly, but I did it.

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If I had lady-spider legs, I would weave a sky where the stars lined up. Matresses would be tied down tight to their trucks, bodies would never crash through windshields. The moon would rise above the wine-dark sea and give babies only to maidens and musicians who had prayed long and hard. Lost girls wouldn’t need compasses or maps. They would find gingerbread paths to lead them out of the forest and home again. They would never sleep in silver boxes with white velvet sheets, not until they were wrinkled-paper grandmas and ready for the trip.

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I see a girl caught in the remains of a holiday gone bad, with her flesh picked off day after day as the carcass dries out. The knife and fork are abviously middle-class sensibilities. The palm tree is a nice touch. A broken dream,perhaps? Plastic honeymoon, deserted island? Oh, If you put in a slice of pumpkin pie, it could be a desserted island! (Pg 64)