Specific by Belinda Roddie "Where were you?" I scowled. "Out," I replied. My dad stared at me through his murky glasses. "You're going to have to be more specific," he growled. "I don't need to be anything, asshole. I'm an adult. And I was out." He looked ready to hit me. He wouldn't. But he looked like he wanted to. Meanwhile, my mom continued washing dishes, whistling a dissonant tune.

Lower by Belinda Roddie "You're an asshole, George," grumbled Emily. "I mean, could you be any lower? Could you be any more of an entitled snotbag who thinks every girl should fall to her knees in front of you and suck your dick?" George said nothing, looking at his murky reflection in his beer glass. This only encouraged Emily. "Seriously, man," she continued. "You want to be desirable without actually showing desirability. You're a joke. You're not even 'nice.'"