You came to my room in the middle of the night to show me your swords? And they say romance is dead.

Knowledge is a rope, and you're weaving a noose out of it. Leave some slack for the enemy.

Most creatures run when they sense danger. People grab a six-pack and a folding chair.

In my experience, the romance novels written about BDSM have about as much in common with actual BDSM relationships as a child playing with a jump rope.

As if I'd had time to drug it in the two milliseconds she'd let me out of her sight.

You couldn't find your dick in the dark, you scheming, sleaze-mongering scumwad.

Go make love to a tube sock.

Too bad. Game over. Insert new fucking quarter.

We both want you dead. I'm bringing the friendship bracelets to the next meeting.