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- Don't tell me. My doorman's another one of your admirers.
- Look, I guarantee that we'll have tough times. And I guarantee that at some point, one or both of us will want to get out of this thing. But I also guarantee that if I don't ask you to be mine I'll regret it for the rest of my life. Because I know in my heart, you're the only one for me.
- So, um, may be you and I should, you know, What do you think, Huh?
- To Maggie's family and friends, may you find yourselves the bull's-eye of an easy target, may you be publicly flogged for all of your bad choices, and may your noses be rubbed in all of your mistakes.
- You're a cynical, explotive, mean-hearted creep who wouldn't know real love if it bit him in the armpit.
- There is a distinct possibility that I am profoundly and irreversibly screwed up.
"Dear Editor: Greetings from the sticks. Perhaps you believe that a rural education is focused mainly on hog calling and tractor maintenance rather than reading. Why else would you print a piece of fiction about me and call it fact? I suppose Mr.Graham was too busy thinking up slanderous statements about how I dump men for kicks to bother with something silly like accuracy in reporting, which is understandable because with a man-eater like me on the loose, who has time to check facts? That's why I was surprised to find Mr. Graham's editor was a woman. Call me a sentimental fool, but I sort of hoped we man-eaters could stick together. Anyway, I'm just dropping you big-city folk this little note to say that I have thought of a ritual sacrifice that would satisfy my current appetite: Ike Graham's column on a platter. Yours truly, Maggie Carpenter. P.S., I have enclosed a list of the gross factual misinterpretations in your article. There are fifteen."