I’m not a bicycle. Don’t try to ride me and leave me in the garage. I’m a treadmill. Walk on me and leave me in a guest room.
Don’t step on my toes. Especially if I’m walking on my hands.
Conventional wisdom holds that water is liquid at room temperature. Well, not if that room’s temperature is 32 degrees. That also happens to be the optimal storage temperature for all the love I have for you.
It’s easier to win an argument over a dinner you’re paying for.
Her name is Denise, and she has green eyes and red hair. Well, this week. Last week her hair was dyed blonde, and she had blue eyes. Or maybe that was a different woman. I don’t know. All I know is that she is my soul mate.
His name is Randy Randy (Or is it Randy Randy?), and he probably makes women doubly horny (randy).
I want to invent a What does it do? machine. “What does it do?” you’re probably wondering. Well, I’ll tell you. What it does is makes you wonder: What does it do?
My mouth is often wounded by my sharp words, so sometimes when I’m out in public, I’ll wear a large Band Aid over my lips.
Don’t lift my words without permission. It might lead to a hernia.
I wrote a coded love note in my report for work. All the letters you need to read what I wrote are there—you just have to find them and rearrange the order until you’ve arrived at something romantic, and then you’ll have discovered what I wrote...
I want my writing to be as smooth as drinking a glass of water—pool water, with piss in it.
I’m ambidextrous. I can write just as poorly with either hand.
The word ubiquitous is itself ubiquitous in today’s writing.
