My love has six sides, but it’s not a coffin. That’s just an optical illusion. Still, one day my love for you will be the death of me.
I’d rather be assassinated. It’s not like I’m doing anything this evening. Inevitably there’ll be a parade, so just remember your umbrella.
If I got a new heart with a heart transplant, I’d be forever grateful. Or at least grateful for the next 50 years or so.
My plan to live from 65 to forever is to simply keep showing up. I also don’t want to retire at the same age as a road’s speed limit—unless that speed limit is 35. Live slow, die old.
What is life without death? That's like asking what is peanut butter without jelly? Or a baseball game on TV and changing the channel? Or government without taxes? Actually, I like those last two.
Life is is, while death is isn’t. Isn’t that also what you believe? Or is it what you believe?
Dream as if you’ll die tonight, and live as if you’ll sleep tomorrow. Let us make love sometime between the two.
Her name was Rose, and I’d hoped that one day our love would blossom like her name. It didn’t, so today it lives on atop a grave.
If I asked God to see into the future 50 years, and I couldn’t see myself, I wouldn’t assume I was dead. No, I’d assume I was simply hiding.
Aside from those few times I’ve killed a man, I’m not a violent person.
My last name comes after my first name, but it came before my first name, and it’ll be around after my first name dies (my first name will die with me). I wish my first name were 12:34 AM, so I’d always be ascending.
He died a suspicious death. But only because he was a politician, and everything he did was suspicious.
There was an eerie quiet about last night, like death sleeping on the beach of Lake Erie. I woke up with sand in my shoes and tiny coffins on my feet.
I would sacrifice my life to save two lives, provided those two people would sacrifice their lives to save four lives. In this way, billions would die so that billions could live.
I can only think of one good reason not to kill you: because if I killed you, I’d have to bury you, and that means shoveling. And I hate shoveling almost as much as I hate digging up dirt on politicians.
He was born after me, and he died before me. I gave him life, and I killed him. He was an idea, and considerably harder to stab than grandpa.
Sure, I’d fake my own death. But only if I had the following items: duct tape, seven slinkies, a parachute, and a mannequin that looked like me.
One of the things you never want to be in this life is boring. But once, sad to say, I put my cat to sleep. Who knew you could euthanize any living creature by reading it a political speech?
