"I'm her bitch, Anton. I am straight up stone cold her bitch. I'm the only one in this relationship with a cock and I'm still the fucking bitch. Just once - ONE FUCKIN' TIME - I'd like to be the guy who pays for shit, but I can't - she's, like, fuckin' classy, I can't take her nowhere she deserves t'go. Pints at Molly Mag's a hangout, not a fuckin' date. Orderin' in for Chinese 'n' makin' out on the sofa's not a fuckin' date either, not for some classy chick like her. I'm just a fuckin' Southie, I don't know what the fuck to do with no classy chick. An' - like, she likes my cussin' and my bein' just a fuckin' Southie, y'know? But sometimes it makes me feel like I'm her fuckin' pet. Ain't nothing she says, just me bein' my touchy-ass guttertrash self, but, y'know, fuck. And she bought me a fuckin' shirt to wear to a restaurant y'gotta have a suit for where I won't even know what the fuckin' menu says and it won't have prices put on so at least I won't know HOW MUCH TO THE DIME I am her bitch."
At the end of this rant he sighed and looked over at Anton with one eyebrow raised. "An' none'a that makes any fuckin' sense t'you, does it? 'Cause you weren't raised like me. 'S one'a those things you're gonna rephrase so I sound like a dumbass."