To Get At Her, They Had To Tell Him Horrible Things.

Stocked her car with concrete blocks.

Confused her finances with the cash of a fuel-attendant from Ghana.

They were repellant and neverending, and knew how to wear down their relationship as if they studied her whole life.

There was only one way to get back at them, of course, to prove to him she was right, to fix their sex-life, and she was going to need more jars and bits of car-parts to do it.

Cut-Cockpit Tree Genocide & Addicted Deer Sissies, Page 142.

The reproductive success depends on a chain of events so unlikely as to appear implausible.

. . .

Anarchic Viola Turnovers, Page 179.

"It's a theatrical troupe," she said, "so you'd be wearing costumes and doing dramatic exercises, and occasionally committing crimes."

You Always Think It's A Bloodlust That Makes You Do It.

But it's a love of blood that no one wants to talk about.

. . .

Anarchic Viola Turnovers, Page 149.

"You should be ashamed of your freaky selves!"

I'm Sloshing In The Glands Of The Present, Taking Everything I Don't Care About For Granted.

If the children are the future that never comes, my sex-life is hyper-modernism.

A moment, a now, that lasts a micro-second before a stupid and pointless death.

Anarchic Viola Turnovers, Page 110.

"They couldn't wait to see the lions devour you, and all of us need to do our part to give people what they want."