I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair. I hate the way you drive my car. I hate it when you stare. I hate your big dumb combat boots, and the way you read my mind. I hate you so much it makes me sick; it even makes me rhyme. I hate it, I hate the way you're always right. I hate it when you lie. I hate it when you make me laugh, even worse when you make me cry. I hate it when you're not around, and the fact that you didn't call. But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you. Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all
~You're not as vile as I thought you were.
~Kat Stratford: You are amazingly self-assured, has anyone ever told you that?
Patrick: I tell myself that every day, actually.
~Patrick: Well maybe you're not afraid of me but I'm sure you've thought about me naked, huh?
Kat Stratford: Am I that transparent? I want you, I needyou, oh baby, oh baby.
~Patrick: Some asshole paid me to take out this really great girl.
Kat Stratford: Is that right?
Patrick: Yeah, but I screwed up. I, um, I fell for her.