You'd better close your mouth; are you trying to catch flies?
[…] this was Jason’s rage, the red unbearable fury which on that night and at intervals recurring with little or no diminishment for the next five years, made him seriously believe would at some unwarned instant destroy him […]
Mom smiled at Sister Veronica. “St. Anthony of Padua.” I have to believe that she smirked. Now this was Ireland, 1963. It was still six years before Johnny Cash's hit “A Boy Named Sue.” Anything genderbendy was unheard of at the best of times, let alone in the parish church of a Catholic village with a population of 900, including surrounding farmlands. Taking a male saint's name—Mom says it was on a dare—was unheard of and, as far as I know, unreplicated since.
For so long, Theon Greyjoy was the punching bag of Game of Thrones, a sort of shitty Charlie Brown who not only failed to kick the football, but would then be beaten savagely with it every time he landed on his ass.
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