Last night I snuck an orchestra into the elevator at my apartment. We made elevator music history until Marvin got his oboe caught in the door and Mrs. Hoffstead started singing "Yes We Have No Bananas Today" in the hall so loud the police were calle...
People don’t know I have a checkered past. I used to be a picnic table cloth.
I live in a tourist town, and I hang out in souvenir shops because it feels like home. Visitors want to buy everything from postcards to my love, and I love that. However, only the postcards are for sale—and not my love. No, my love is for rent.
The ultimate dead end is murder. My house is on a dead-end street, and it’s killing me. My house is so small it’s trying to suffocate me.
Love is a bridge between your future and mine. A bridge constructed entirely out of trust, honesty, and in our case, wooden planks.
If I were a superhero, I’d be Honesty Man. I’d be so transparent I’d be invisible.
We were divided by color. Not black and white, but colour/color. She was British, and I was honoured to engage her in a spelling debate.
I made 100 dollars, or a Ben Franklin, today. And out of that I probably spent his face, or about five bucks, but I squandered it dishonorably. I should have saved face and saved face, so that I’d have more purchasing power to bolster the perceptio...
I love you like bananas—bunches. Monkeys also love bananas. I’m growing a tree in honor of honor, and I think we should hang out.
In flew influence, and out fluttered humility.
I may not be able to remember your name, but I remember your address and what time you leave in the mornings. Your name isn’t Rob, is it?
If a handicapped woman says she wants to be friends with benefits, I always ask her if that includes parking.
Hungry and thirsty? Soup solves both problems at once. My love for you is starved and dehydrated, and all I need is one spoon.
I don’t call watches watches, I call them grasps, because one, they grasp onto your wrist, and two, time isn’t something you can watch; it’s a concept you have to grasp.
I ordered an extra large handshake to go, but I had no idea it would be so greasy—or that it would leave a stain on my crotch. Ugh, politics!
Different people have different ideas. We need to kill them—the ideas, not the people. The people we just need to torture.
Shakespeare asked what’s in a name. Well, each of my clones won’t be named the same as me, but they’ll be me and just as sweet.
I am not who I pretend to be, even when I act like myself.
