Something, something, "inferior twink body"

Patches, stirring tea: Oh, so now I'm TOO friendly? There's no pleasing you.

Bapawmet: Two sugars, please.

Sparky: Are you okay?

Brownie: Uh, yeah, sorry, that was autocorrect.

Coco: Autocorrect wrote "your so hot step on me"?

Brownie: Yeah, it's supposed to be "you're."

Brownie:

Brownie: I'm gonna tell them.

Sparky: What?

Patches: They looked after seven grapes for three days because they thought they were a bird's eggs.

Patches: Who the hell is Steve Jobs?

Coco: Watching Olive die is NOT a toy!

Olive: Yeah, I have one question?

Patches:

Mittens: Look at it. What does it think it's doing here? Lying there, broken, skeletal. There hasn't been rain in fifty years. The soil is cracked and parched. Any vegetation that claws its agonized way up out of it is maggot-white and dry as dust. The only moisture is from the wet rot of the junkpiles that stretch thirty feet above the ground in all directions, spilling out into the sandy, sloping basin that was once a seabed.

Mittens: Stupid umbrella. Does it think there is a monsoon coming? Does it even remember what a cloud of water vapor looks like? The clouds that pass now are oily and stink of sulfur, waiting for you to stop paying attention before they climb down your throat and settle in your lungs.

Mittens: Perhaps this idiot apparatus thinks it can protect from the relentless heat of the sun, but its fabric is torn and ruined, hanging from the snapped metal limbs, desperate for a breeze to stir it from its complete stillness.

Angel: