He'd asked me to marry him. He'd kissed me. Twice. He said he loved me. What a scum, rat, dog bastard. I wouldn't sleep with him now if I was dying and the only thing that could save me was a penis injection from him.

I cast a glance in my new admirer's direction. "You may call me Your Highness," I said. "Or Empress Beauty."
He chuckled. I wasn't kidding.

My ex—may he soon discover tiny worms have invaded his body and are slowly eating him alive—once told me God made men so perfect because He'd wanted to make up for the inadequacies of women.

What's that smell?"
I froze. What? Did I really smell so distasteful he had only to lean in my direction to catch a putrid whiff of me? I stayed the urge to break his freaking nose for pointing out my stinkiness.
He sniffed again. "I can't place it."
"How bad is it?" I asked, my cheeks heating.
"It's good. Some kind of flower."
My first thought: Hurray! I don't stink.
My second: Ohmygod!

Neighbor… was that the word for "whoring tramp" nowadays?

Me: I think we should have sex again.
Royce: Bad idea.
Me: Why?
Royce: I want more from you than sex.
Me: Goodbye, you prudish bastard.