Spunky Quotes

Shigure: "That's lovely. She’s so... how shall I say it? By putting it into words I'm afraid the nobility of it all would only be obscured." Yuki: "Of what?" Shigure: "You know, she's so spunky!" Kyo: "You sick bastard!

I’ve grown quite weary of the spunky heroines, brave rape victims, soul-searching fashionistas that stock so many books. I particularly mourn the lack of female villains — good, potent female villains. Not ill-tempered women who scheme about landing good men and better shoes (as if we had nothing more interesting to war over), not chilly WASP mothers (emotionally distant isn’t necessarily evil), not soapy vixens (merely bitchy doesn’t qualify either). I’m talking violent, wicked women. Scary women. Don’t tell me you don’t know some. The point is, women have spent so many years girl-powering ourselves — to the point of almost parodic encouragement — we’ve left no room to acknowledge our dark side. Dark sides are important. They should be nurtured like nasty black orchids.

You saved me,'" said Seneca softly. "You took a direct hit, and you survived because of your gift." Jake was slightly startled when she spoke. Seneca’s voice had changed. It was airy and light. Her spunky, deep voice was gone, as were her golden-blonde locks. Her hair was completely white, with silver streaks highlighting it throughout. He had noticed the beginnings of the change before they teleported. The transformation was now complete. Her eyes were a brilliant, majestic blue with flecks of silver that caught the light. She had approached quietly, and her presence made them all listen intently. Seneca was the Druid of the true prophecy. 

He sighed. It was a long sigh, weary and worldly-wise. The kind of sigh you could picture God heaving after six days of hard work and looking forward to some serious cosmic R&R, only to be handed a report by an angel concerning a problem with someone eating an apple.

Brock sighed. “Alright then, Spunky. I was thinking about life, I guess.” Spunky grunted. “In other words, you were thinking about a woman.” “I didn't say that—” “No.” Spunky grinned knowingly. “But your face did.

The important thing is not what they think of me, but what I think of them

You're spunky. I like it." He took a sip of his beer. "You're creepy. I don't like it.

No one likes an angry woman. She is the worst kind of villain: a witch, obnoxious and ugly and full of spite and bitterness. Shrill. I do anything to avoid that feeling, anything to stop myself from being that woman. I try to make anything resembling anger seem spunky and charming and sexy. I fold it into something small, tuck it away.

I've got a sweater." Ben pulled off his coat and held it out for her. "Here." "Thanks, Ben. It's lovely and warm." Then she said, "Ben, I-- I can tell you how I feel about-- about everything. I think you're the best friend I've ever had. I-- I'd lie down and die for you if you wanted me to." "Honey," Ben said. "When I get you to lie down for me it won't be to die.

Gripping his hand, she shook. “The name’s Neve, not damsel in distress.

Humans are fragile, but spunky. They tend to throw their delicate bodies around like the strength in their hearts could make up for the strength their bodies lack.

Maybe he used to like me, but I doubt he does anymore, now that I’ve insulted his bird fetish.” Peter smiled.   “He’s not going to stop liking you over one little argument.   I don’t think he’s the type to just fall for someone and then hate them the next day.   We don’t live in that kind of world anymore, anyway.” “What do you mean?”   “Well, when there were thousands of possible mates to choose from, it was like being a huge candy store with a billion types of sugary things to choose from.   You could sample one of everything and not worry about whether you’d like it much or whatever, because there was always another jar of candy nearby.   But now, there’s no candy store.   There’s a single jawbreaker that you found in the gutter.   And there are no more jawbreaker factories.   No more candy stores.   No more refined sugar.   That one jawbreaker you found could be the only one you’ll ever have again.   You aren’t going to just eat it and say goodbye.” His analogy wasn’t perfect but I saw where he was going with it.   “So I’m like a jawbreaker.   A dirty one you find in the gutter.” “Yeah.   And he likes that candy.   It’s his favorite.   So he doesn’t care that it has smelly feet.” I scowled at him.   “How do you know he likes jawbreakers so much?” “I just know.   I can tell a good match when I see one.   He needs someone spunky and tough, someone different than other girls.   That’s you.” I smiled, liking how Peter had described me.   “But what if he just decides to eat it real quick and then move on?   I mean, there are other jawbreakers out there.   They’re just more rare.” “That’s not how he is.   He’s methodical.   A thinking person.   He’s not rash. And he knows his odds of finding a jawbreaker of this flavor?   Are pretty slim.” “I’ve seen him do some stupid, rash things … like going after the candy at the Cracker Barrel.” “That was all a very carefully-crafted way of making sure he had a good grip on his jawbreaker.   He wants to keep the candy happy.   Keep it sweet.” I rolled my eyes.   “Ugh.   Your analogy is making me want to eye gouge you right now.

Robert Burns was never called Rabbie or Robbie—though he did occasionally call himself Spunkie.

His alpha powers were strong, but she was going to be the feisty, spunky heroine stereotype and get her own way this time.

Fuckin’-A,” Ripper said, backing away, looking disgusted. “Keep your Sparky Marky and the Spunky Funk stories to your fuckin’ self.

You say a man’s got no brain, when he’s a fool: and no heart, when he’s mean; and no stomach when he’s a funker. And when he’s got none of that spunky wild bit of a man in him, you say he’s got no balls. When he’s sort of tame.

No matter how strong or strong-willed you are, you cannot live a stressful, maxed-out life without that pace eventually biting you in the butt. It is necessary to take breaks, set parameters, and be kind to yourself if you want to continue making an impact in your little corner of the world.

She was opinionated without being pushy. When choosing a book to read aloud, she would try to interest him in those spunky English heroines she liked so much. He proposed Thucydides, but he understood how she, being a Quaker, did not want to read about the Peloponnesian War. They came together on Henry James.

On the Electrodynamics of Moving Bodies” Now let’s look at how Einstein articulated all of this in the famous paper that the Annalen der Physik received on June 30, 1905. For all its momentous import, it may be one of the most spunky and enjoyable papers in all of science. Most of its insights are conveyed in words and vivid thought experiments, rather than in complex equations. There is some math involved, but it is mainly what a good high school senior could comprehend. “The whole paper is a testament to the power of simple language to convey deep and powerfully disturbing ideas,” says the science writer Dennis Overbye.

The only time I'll be caught dancing is in the end zone after scoring a touchdown.

Someone like me cares about others, but I guess you wouldn't know anything about that.

You needn't be thinking," he said to the goldfinch, "that because I'm coming down this line alone day after day, it's always to be so. Some of these times you'll be swinging on this wire, and you'll see me coming, and you'll swing, skip, and flirt yourself around, and chip up right spunky: 'SEE ME?' I'll be saying 'See you? Oh, Lord! See her!' You'll look, and there she'll stand. The sunshine won't look gold any more, or the roses pink, or the sky blue, because she'll be the pinkest, bluest, goldest thing of all. You'll be yelling yourself hoarse with the jealousy of her. The sawbird will stretch his neck out of joint, and she'll turn the heads of all the flowers. Wherever she goes, I can go back afterward and see the things she's seen, walk the path she's walked, hear the grasses whispering over all she's said; and if there's a place too swampy for her bits of feet; Holy Mother! Maybe--maybe she'd be putting the beautiful arms of her around me neck and letting me carry her over!

10 faint heart __-fearing: 3 God fearing combining form: 6 -phobic Fear Inside, The (1992 film)    cast: Christine Lahti, Dylan McDermott, Jennifer Rubin Fear in the Night director: 5 Shane fearless: 4 bold, game 5 brave, cocky, gutsy, nervy, stout 6 awless, brassy, daring, gritty, heroic, plucky, spunky 7 assured, aweless, dashing, defiant, doughty, gallant, impavid, leonine, staunch, valiant 8 heroical, intrepid, resolute, spirited, stalwart, unafraid, valorous 9 audacious, confident, dauntless, dreadless, unabashed, undaunted 10 courageous, mettlesome,

Suddenly, he wanted some credit for it. He wanted someone to thank him for not crapping on the institution of love. He wanted someone to thank him for not being yet another dilettante. He wanted someone to thank him for quitting poetry. He wanted some great poet to thank him for quitting poetry instead of desecrating it with his amateurishness. He wanted some unborn child to thank him for not conceiving her and not leaving her a hope chest full of mawkish villanelles. He wanted some sort of organization of martyrs to give him an award. He wanted to be decorated for not putting up a fuss. He wanted to be the president of forgettable people. He wanted there to be a competition for the least competitive person, and he wanted to win that competition. He wanted some sort of badge or outfit or medal or key or hat. He wanted to be asked to stand. He wanted to be considered. He wanted to be considered in earnest before being ignored. He wanted all the insane and beautiful and passionate people in the world to take one moment of silence in gratitude for the ones who had ceded them the stage-- he, the unread poet, the sacrifice, the schoolteacher-- he wanted one goddamned moment of appreciation.

The Enchanted Broccoli Forest. Oh, what a pleasure that was! Mollie Katzen's handwritten and illustrated recipes that recalled some glorious time in upstate New York when a girl with an appetite could work at a funky vegetarian restaurant and jot down some tasty favorites between shifts. That one had the Pumpkin Tureen soup that Margo had made so many times when she first got the book. She loved the cheesy onion soup served from a pumpkin with a hot dash of horseradish and rye croutons. And the Cardamom Coffee Cake, full of butter, real vanilla, and rich brown sugar, said to be a favorite at the restaurant, where Margo loved to imagine the patrons picking up extras to take back to their green, grassy, shady farmhouses dotted along winding country roads. Linda's Kitchen by Linda McCartney, Paul's first wife, the vegetarian cookbook that had initially spurred her yearlong attempt at vegetarianism (with cheese and eggs, thank you very much) right after college. Margo used to have to drag Calvin into such phases and had finally lured him in by saying that surely anything Paul would eat was good enough for them. Because of Linda's Kitchen, Margo had dived into the world of textured vegetable protein instead of meat, and tons of soups, including a very good watercress, which she never would have tried without Linda's inspiration. It had also inspired her to get a gorgeous, long marble-topped island for prep work. Sometimes she only cooked for the aesthetic pleasure of the gleaming marble topped with rustic pottery containing bright fresh veggies, chopped to perfection. Then Bistro Cooking by Patricia Wells caught her eye, and she took it down. Some pages were stuck together from previous cooking nights, but the one she turned to, the most splattered of all, was the one for Onion Soup au Gratin, the recipe that had taught her the importance of cheese quality. No mozzarella or broken string cheeses with- maybe- a little lacy Swiss thrown on. And definitely none of the "fat-free" cheese that she'd tried in order to give Calvin a rich dish without the cholesterol. No, for this to be great, you needed a good, aged, nutty Gruyère from what you couldn't help but imagine as the green grassy Alps of Switzerland, where the cows grazed lazily under a cheerful children's-book blue sky with puffy white clouds. Good Gruyère was blocked into rind-covered rounds and aged in caves before being shipped fresh to the USA with a whisper of fairy-tale clouds still lingering over it. There was a cheese shop downtown that sold the best she'd ever had. She'd tried it one afternoon when she was avoiding returning home. A spunky girl in a visor and an apron had perked up as she walked by the counter, saying, "Cheese can change your life!" The charm of her youthful innocence would have been enough to be cheered by, but the sample she handed out really did it. The taste was beyond delicious. It was good alone, but it cried out for ham or turkey or a rich beefy broth with deep caramelized onions for soup.

I am only as good as my last publication. Guess I am doing ok in that area.

What do we have here?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “Get out.” Scarlett clenched her teeth. Bubbles formed in the tub as the water turned off. “Better?” At least her body wasn’t on full display now. “Can I help you?” “You make me curious.” “I’m glad.” “And you’re spunky, too.” “You’re welcome.

I don’t understand people who don’t like their pictures taken,” said Spunky. “If you can go out in public wearing your face, then how can it bother you for somebody to take a picture of that face?

OPPOSED THOUGH I AM TO UNIVERSALIST HUMANISM, THIS IS A PRETTY DAMN UNIVERSAL RECORD. WITHIN THE DEMOCRATIC BOUNDS OF POP ACCESSIBILITY, ITS BICULTURALISM IS STRIKING, ENGAGING, UNPRECEDENTED--SPRIGHTLY YET SPUNKY, FRESH YET FRIENDLY, SO STRANGE, SO SWEET, SO WILLFUL, SO RADICALLY INCONGRUOUS AND PLAINLY BEAUTIFUL.

If you thought “Rabbie Burns” wrote “Auld Lang Syne,” you’d be doubly wrong. Burns never signed his name “Rabbie” or “Robbie” (or, indeed, “Bobbie” Burns, as some North Americans insist on calling him). His signatures included “Robert,” “Robin,” “Rab”—and, on at least one occasion, “Spunkie.

Fuck you,” Cox shot back. “I miss pussy. Period. I don’t give a fuck what’s packin’ in the back, I just want some goddamn fuckin’ pussy. I’m ’bout ready to blow and fill Kami up with all the fuckin’ spank juice she wants.” “Fuckin’-A,” Ripper said, backing away, looking disgusted. “Keep your Sparky Marky and the Spunky Funk stories to your fuckin’ self.

Ultimately, though, neither refocusing on the Holocaust nor reenergizing Tikkun Olam could dilute the lure of the melting pot. Assimilation, according to surveys, soared, with as many as 70 percent of all non-Orthodox Jews marrying outside the faith. The younger the Jews, statistics showed, the shallower their religious roots. The supreme question asked by post–World War II Jewish writers such as Bernard Malamud and Philip Roth, “How can I reconcile being Jewish and American?” was no longer even intelligible to young American Jews. None would feel the need to begin a book, as Saul Bellow did in The Adventures of Augie March, with “I am an American, Chicago born.” Bred on that literature, I saw no contradiction between love for America and loyalty to my people and its nation-state. But that was not the case of the Jewish twenty-somethings, members of a liberal congregation I visited in Washington, who declined to discuss issues, such as intermarriage and peoplehood, that they considered borderline racist. Israel was virtually taboo. For Israel had also changed. From the spunky, intrepid frontier state that once exhilarated American Jews, Israel was increasingly portrayed by the press as a warlike and intolerant state. That discomfiting image, however skewed, could not camouflage the fact that Israel ruled over more than two million Palestinians and settled what virtually the entire world regarded as their land. The country that was supposed to normalize Jews and instill them with pride was making many American Jews feel more isolated and embarrassed. I shared their discomfort and even their pain. Yet I also wrestled with the inability of those same American Jews to understand Israel’s existential quandary, that creating a Palestinian state that refused to make genuine peace with us and was likely to devolve into a terrorist chaos was at least as dangerous as not creating one. I was frustrated by their lack of anguish in demanding Israel’s withdrawal from land sacred to their forebears for nearly four millennia. “Disagree with the settlers,” I wanted to tell them, “denounce them if you must, but do not disown them, for they—like you—are part of our people.

The two Ednas were nothing alike. They were as different as Methuselah and Enoch. Mother Edna was kind, sweet, supportive, and submissive. Sixteen-year old Edna was spunky, feisty, independent, and stubborn. Methuselah’s differences with his father haunted him wherever he turned. The living quarters they occupied were humble compared with other palace servants or royalty. According to Enoch, a wisdom sage was not concerned about the things of this world, but about truth, justice, and heaven.

You are a beautiful creation and were made like no one else. Your uniqueness is a pleasant gift you can give to the world if you are willing to define and live that out. And, it is the best gift you will ever give yourself.

The lunch menu consisted of a seafood appetizer, creamy chicken in a pastry shell, and a green salad--none of which was really kids’ food. Patrick and Caroline toyed silently with their seafood and managed a few obligatory bites. I noticed Diana’s eyes twinkling with amusement as she watched them. I had to admit “Patrick and Caroline aren’t especially fond of shellfish.” When the chicken was served, Caroline didn’t know how to serve herself and cast an imploring look at me that said, “Oh, help! What do I do, Mom?” Before I could react, Diana, so attuned to children, jumped up and came over to serve Caroline and cut up her chicken. I was speechless at her rapid, sympathetic response. Caroline thanked her, then gazed at her in adoration for the rest of the meal. She was in heaven! Dessert was tricky and delicious--ice cream in a slippery chocolate shell. This time two people served all of us, so my children would not have to struggle for themselves. During lunch, Diana made a point of asking Patrick and Caroline about their travels, their schools, and their hobbies. Patrick’s responses were very polite, but tended to be rather subdued and brief. I wanted him to sound a bit more animated. I resisted the urge to give him a sharp kick under the table. Caroline was more talkative. Diana seemed to enjoy my lively, spunky daughter. My children behaved themselves beautifully amidst the unaccustomed formality and luxury. My years of daily training paid off. They answered questions politely, sat up straight in their chairs, and even chewed with their mouths closed. I thought of my mother-in-law’s claim, “You can take those children anywhere.” Their lunch with the Princess of Wales certainly proved her point. I was very proud of them.

I couldn’t help but smile when my Aunt Bailey answered her phone. “Hey, Liv, whose ass do I need to beat?” “Why do you assume that’s why I’m calling?” I asked with a laugh. It was the first time I had smiled in days. But with Bailey and her spunky attitude, it was hard to avoid. “Because darlin’, I got you figured out. You sent out a mass message to us stating you were studying for finals. You’ve neglected to respond to any messages that followed, and that spells out one thing. Trouble on the college guy front.” I could hear a baby squealing happily in the background. “So I’m gonna ask again. Do I need to catch a plane to Texas and beat the shit out of this Keeton guy I’ve been hearing so much about?” “Are you there?” I asked, because it wasn’t like Bailey to remain so quiet. “Um, yeah,” she said in return. I could hear clicking sounds as if she was typing on a keyboard. “I’m just checking flights to Texas, because this Lacy bitch needs to meet your Aunt Bailey.” “You need to make this Lacy realize she won’t run you off.” I sat silent, letting everything Bailey said sink in. “If he’s who you want, Liv.” I bit down on my lower lip. “If Keeton is who you want, then you have to show her he’s yours.” “I do,” I whispered. I had never felt about anyone else the way I felt about Keeton. But my fear was that the man I was already falling for was a man I didn’t even know.

First, there’s “San Francisquito Canyon Road,” which weaves down through the mountains for about 20 miles and puts you right at the edge of Valencia. Then there’s “Spunky Canyon Road,” which most of the other streets in the town branch off of as it connects up the neighborhoods. Commuters traveling between the Antelope Valley and the Santa Clarita Valley drive up and down San Francisquito Canyon every day which also provides a quick way for families and teenagers to get to Magic Mountain from Palmdale or Lancaster, if they don’t feel like taking the freeway.

Then you repeat. The thing that goes badly wrong means that the someone we like has to take another step to get around the bad wrongness and back toward the something he wants VERY BADLY. He takes the next step, and everything goes even more badly wrong. Then he loses his map. Then his flashlight falls into a storm drain and he has an asthma attack and his seeing eye dog dies. Then the cop who pulls him over for speeding while driving drunk in the nude turns out to be the short-tempered father of the bride he is marrying tomorrow. Then it goes more badly wrong for the someone we like, much more badly. Then the party is attacked and scattered by a band of goblins, and then the Gollum is on his trail, and the lure of the Ring is slowly destroying his mind. Then he finds the blasted corpses of his foster parents killed by Imperial Storm Troopers, and his house burnt to the ground. Then Lex Luthor chains a lump of Kryptonite around his neck and pushes him into a swimming pool and fires twin stealth atomic rockets at the San Andreas Fault in California and at Hackensack, New Jersey. And the spunky but beautiful girl reporter falls into a crack in the earth and dies. Then he is stung by Shelob and dies. Then he is maimed by Darth Vader and discovers his arch foe is his very own father, and he loses his grip and falls. Then he steps out unarmed to confront Lord Voldemort and dies. Then Judas Iscariot kisses him, Peter denounces him, he is humiliated, spat upon, whipped, betrayed by the crowd, tortured, sees his weeping mother, and dies a painful, horrible death and dies. Then he is thrown overboard and swallowed by a whale and dies. Then he gets help, gets better, arises from his swoon, is raised from the dead, the stone rolls back, the lucky shot hits the thermal exhaust port, and the Death Star blows up, the Dark Tower falls, the spunky but beautiful girl reporter is alive again due to a time paradox, and he is given all power under heaven and earth and either rides off into the sunset, or goes back to the bat-cave, or ascends into heaven, and we roll the credits.

This is where it all started. Eleven years ago, a spunky brunette literally marched into my life and turned it upside down.

God, I really hope his size wasn't wasted solely on his height and there's something left to gag on.

Even lost in lust, her spunky personality shone through.

Oh, oh. Or let him fuck my milk bags ‘til he gives me that creamy throat yogurt.

chesticles.

I’m not a whore,” I agree, and he nods like he knew that already, but is still wary. “I’m just horny.” 

Tell me how much you love Mommy’s carrot stick fucking your tight little dookie hole,

I swear to God, if Story hired some escort to show me a good time again, I’m going to lose it on her. After I fuck him, of course. I can’t let her money go to waste. 

Yeah, I know. I’m the best blower in the East.” I smile proudly. “I’ve even won an award. Wanna see?” I leap off the bed and snatch the golden dick off the floating shelf across the room. “My bestie, Story, gave it to me after I gave fourteen blowjobs in one week. Not my all-time record, but it was the first time I hit the teen’s.”  I stroke the thick vein wrapping around the trophy, happy tears filling my eyes. And my parents always said I wouldn’t amount to anything.  “Well, look at me now, Dad! I’m the World’s Best Cocksucker!” I

Women. Hetero. I dug women. Particularly the short, spunky ones who liked to read. The point was, I was not gay. Not into guys.

You loved when Mommy played with your chocolate channel. You’ll love it now, too. Just relax and breathe for me.” 

With uncharacteristic dominance, he grips my hair, tilts my head back, puckers his lips, and pushes the mushy banana from the tiny hole. It drips into my mouth, mixing with his spunk. It’s banana man milk. My new favorite treat. 

His finger moves down to my chocolate starfish and massages it, coaxing more pleasure from me. 

He wasn’t a guy from a book. Life would be so much better if men were written by women.

God, I really hope his size wasn't wasted solely on his height and there's something left to gag on. 

Mommy needs to milk you.” 

cunny

climax popsicle. 

I need ye again,” he breathes, pressing his cock-a-doodle-doo head against my entrance.

My fingers trail through the thick forest of sweaty pubes before I reach his magnificent man meat. His thick, hard love sword is heavy in my hand, and so hot, it nearly sears my palm. He hisses as I wrap my fingers around him, feeling his foreskin shift as I begin stroking him. “That’s it,” I murmur, smiling up at him. “You like when Mommy milks your big shaft, don’t you, pookie bear?”  My grip tightens, and his head lifts off the pillow, his body tightening. Leaning down, I nibble at his dark red mushroom head, making little snacking sounds. “Nom nom nom,” I mumble around him. “So yummy. Mommy could just eat you right up.

Mav laughed and pressed a kiss to her temple. "Damn, I love you." She went still, like a woodland creature who'd spotted a predator. "You look more scraed of me than the assassin chasing us," he said dryly. "Mav-" a taut whisper filled with so much emotion. He loved this woman. This smart, spunky, loyal woman. He'd convince her of that after they got out alive.

They had terrorized this poor, defenseless beauty. He would make them rue it. As for Kate, after all she had been through, she had impressed him with her self-possession, to say nothing of her fiery spirit. She had stood there ready to battle him like some spunky little terrier barking at a wolf, aye, and throwing the greater predator into temporary confusion with her unexpected show of ferocity. Though petite of build, she was large in courage, a little lady of intrepid spirit

Arielle. We’ll figure things out here and talk with Father. Then, we’ll work on returning back to our usual schedule. I bet Sia misses your spunkiness. "Bru," she replied. "Okay...I love you." Her little expression of worry broke my heart, making me realize I must have really scared her and she'd just been putting up a confident front this entire time I'd been recovering. I love you even more.

We obviously needed more of these spunky, insanely powerful ladies, for sure.

There was a corresponding orbit of moods this obligatory food preparation induced in my mother: no-nonsense competence, spunky pride, and seething resentment.

Spunky sat in the reception of the Hotel Majestic, one eye on yesterday’s Times, the other eye would have been used for looking at the comings and goings of people in the foyer, but he only had one good eye following the War.

There was a corresponding orbit of moods this obligatory food preparation induced in my mother: no-nonsense competence, spunky pride, and seething resentment. From my mother, I learned that you can make your family feel a wonderful sense of protected indulgence by cooking them something with jolly care. I also learned that you can launch a powerful campaign of resistance by mincing garlic like a martyr.

The scenery is the only good thing I can say about the bus ride,” Ally answers. “I can’t wait until we get to the inn.” Running her fingers through her short, unruly red hair, she stretches dramatically before flattening the wrinkles in her shirt. The spunky pre-teen stands a couple inches shorter than Sam. The freckles that run across the bridge of her nose, combined with her blue eyes, give away her Irish heritage.

A kind of sundering was taking place within me: There was the good-natured patient, young and spunky and cheerful, who raged courageously against her disease, determined to make the best of her terrible circumstances, and this new version, envious, short-fused, sleeping sixteen hours a day and rarely ever leaving her room. On Sunday nights, when Will packed his bags, preparing to leave Saratoga for the workweek, I wanted to put on a happy, supportive face. I tried. But as the weeks passed and I got sicker, it grew harder. It was unfair of me to resent him for going—not least because I was the one who had convinced him to take the job—but an anger unlike any I’d experienced before was building inside me, contained for now, but threatening to consume everything around me. Will, the social worker, everyone else who was out there participating in the world—they weren’t the enemy, the disease was. I knew that, but with each day, each dream deferred, it got harder and harder to tell the difference.

Your advanced alien science is no match for our spunky Earthling pop culture.

Dong had Spunky Jefferson, his crust sock flail, dangling over his shoulder. He liked to keep the nickel end of the stinking sock near his ear, even though I was pretty sure the thing was talking to him in his mind.

Annika. The spunky human girl had made me feel alive for the first time since I’d been turned into a vampire.

That’s it,” I murmur, smiling up at him. “You like when Mommy milks your big shaft, don’t you, pookie bear?”