The revolutionary woman knows the world she seeks to overthrow is precisely one in which love between equal human beings is well nigh impossible. We are still part of the ironical working-out of this, our own cruel contradiction. One of the most compelling facts which can unite women and make us act is the overwhelming indignity or bitter hurt of being regarded as simply __he other_, __n object_, __ommodity_, __hing_. We act directly from a consciousness of the impossibility of loving or being loved without distortion. But we must still demand now the preconditions of what is impossible at the moment. It is a most disturbing dialectic, our praxis of pain.

Will you be able to touch me again without thinking about Sean? I don't want you to be disgusted by me.

Don't see me as a girl. See me as a buddy of yours or something." He cast his eyes downward and didn't look back up to my face. I looked down and groaned. Such a guy. "My buddies don't have boobs, as far as I know." "Because you felt them up to be sure?" I chuckled, against my better judgement. Once again, his mouth dropped open.

I love you, Skye. You__e in my heart, in my head, under my skin. You__e my present and my future.

Maybe Duke was just the kind of person you don__ keep in your life, but the kind of person that changes your life forever.

I love you to insanity. I'm not even sure if it's a good thing.'' _ Duke