Kim: First, you need to understand that it is only under duress that I am here at all. I was perfectly content with my existence as a walk-on character, enjoying the freedom to be as misanthropic as I chose. But some of you started filling Mitchell’s head with the utterly inappropriate idea that I would be an excellent hero for her next book. Listen, I need a relationship slightly less than I need another seventy-hour shift at the hospital. What would be an excellent idea would be for me to get that fellowship in San Diego and move a continent away from my parents who want to know when I’m getting married. But that’s not going to happen is it?
Kim: (folding his arms) I see. All right. The sex is good. But I’ve learned from watching Chase’s mistakes with his little dick magnet and don’t for a minute think I’m going to be that easy. Shane is way too big and dorky to work cute, sweet, and helpless. He may be a lot smarter than he acts, but I’m smarter, and I’m telling you this does not work.
The complete impracticality of such a relationship aside, it’s disconcerting to have my internal cognition subject to her--and your--scrutiny. But the most unforgivable aspect of all is that Mitchell left us in severe physical jeopardy at the end of chapter seven for months while she entertained herself with other characters. Characters from 1814, exactly how imperative could telling their story be? They’ve been dead for more than a century.
K.A.: I had a deadline.
Kim: Nice excuse. You know what I say about excuses.
K.A.: Like I wouldn’t? And you say it about rationalizations, asshole.
Kim: You do realize this whole conversation with the product of your own imagination qualifies you for some aggressive chemical intervention, right?
K.A.: Shut up or I’ll make you cry.
Kim: Over Scuba Cowboy? (scoffs and affects a drawl) Best think again there, ma’am.
K.A. Ma’am? Harsh.
Kim: Deserved. I’m telling you, my life was fine before I met him--or you--and it’ll be fine after you send me the fuck to San Diego, got it? And no more of this limbo shit. If you’re going to fuck with my life do it and get it over with. I have the rest of my misanthropic existence to get back to.