Love is a circular emotion that surrounds you, like a hug. Or a noose.
A shower curtain would make a great dress. If I make it for you, will you make love to me? Before you answer, you should know that I’m a bring my own bathtub kind of guy.
I must have told her I loved her a thousand times. But none of that matters now that she has discovered that I told her best friend I loved her a thousand and one times.
Dragons breathe fire, but what if fire breathed dragons? I make love like that—instead of it being hot, it’s cold and scaly.
I wake up to write stuff down all night. Useful things like this: To more efficiently make love nocturnally, I must combine the best characteristics of bats, bears, and my Uncle Norman who disappeared in the mountains in ’94.
Some people snort cocaine. I snort powdered love. It’s like powdered sugar, only sweeter.
I think it was love. She was the kind of woman I’d like to spend the rest of my life with—if I’d just been told I have six months left to live.
A rose symbolizes my love for you, because it’s dying.
After you first tell someone you love them, the weight of the wait for them to tell you they love you too feels like an elephant doing jumping jacks on the back of your mouse-like ego.
Love is a rainbow of emotion. My favorite part is the pot of gold and the Irish midget.
I’ve just walked ten feet in the wrong direction, and I’m too tired to turn back around and trudge back. Oh, the lengths I go to for love.
We made love like the three minutes between 3:32 and 3:34. My endurance is even worse than my math.
If love were a color, it would be green. At least for me. But her love is blue, and she’s too cool to see that my envy is just amped up jealousness, and a display of how much I care about her and want to see her happy, alone, and imprisoned in the ...
My love is forever, like eternity, only not.
The punishment for misbehaving in hell is a trip to Cleveland. Or maybe making love to the same person for eternity.
Love is a door leading to a better existence. But knock before entering, because behind that door I think grandpa's taking a shit.
Love is something I know all about. Not from experience, but from quizzing numerous hookers about their chosen industry.
They should make condoms shaped like socks, so I could wear them with sandals and properly express my love for you.
I showed my concern by showing her my penis. Was that not appropriate behavior at a funeral? What better way to display a lifetime of love that’s been zipped away from the eyes of world?
I had to hand it to him, leaving the empty glove lying on the bed was an apt metaphor for love. Two things I can say about my grandpa are that he is wise, and his left hand is probably cold.
My dad and I aren’t close, despite the fact that he’s standing in my shadow. My love for him must make him chilly.
