Most men want sex, without the kids or commitment. I want sex, but I don’t want to have to pay any money. But is that possible? I should invent a vending machine that dispenses sex. I guess it’ll also distribute political favors.
I just realized my lips are inside out. They should be turned inwards, because I spend most of my time talking to myself.
I love letting her know how much she means to me. A love in secret is but a shadow that’s cold and lonely.
I use one word to ward off love: No. She used no words to ward of love. Seriously, she tells me nothing, and in this way she tells me she doesn’t love me.
If body language is 90% of a conversation, then obviously what’s being said is only half as important as what’s not being said. And what are you saying? I can’t hear you when my back is turned.
I’ve always wanted to send a message in a bottle, with my message saying something like, “Don’t litter.
I sent a message silently, through body language and body odor.
When I smile, not only do my ears rise, but so does my listening ability. When my mouth goes all Helen Keller, you know I heard you.
I don’t know how to say it without saying it, so I’ll just not say it. Or I could show it, because that’s the only way to make love visible.
Language is the proper way to communicate, followed closely by five balled up fingers forming a fist and flying at a face. Violence is never the answer—unless the question is: What the fuck are you going to do about it?
I hear what you say in what you don’t say, you see, because I’m a Helen Keller kind of communicator. Love is just as visible as invisible.
We agreed to meet at 4. I meant AM and she meant PM, so we both just stood around thinking we’d been stood up.
A crime scene is a silent witness that speaks louder and clearer than any human. Just ask Helen Keller.
I can’t remember the last time I had fun. Wait, yes I can. It was 1989, and I was wearing a t-shirt that said, “Communism, like the mullet, will never go out of style.
I had a dream about you last night. We started a shoe company, and a competitor (probably someone from Nike) attacked you, so I had to stab them in the throat with a shoelace. I guess it would have been better to use that shoelace to strangle them. �...
Generally, competition is a good thing. But not when it’s between two nipples, specifically mine, over which one can suck the most.
People say I can handle pressure, but there is one sporting competition where if I were in the finals, I’d surely choke, and that’s the hotdog eating competition.
I don’t just want to be the best in my field, I also want to be the greenest.
In golf, you don’t beat the other golfers—you beat your self-doubt. That’s why I don’t play, because I can’t beat anyone—not even myself.
When I win, it’s because I’m skilled. When I lose, it’s because my opponent is lucky. But when I fall in love, it’s because I’m lucky and she’s skilled.
Winning the lottery is all skill, and that’s why I don’t play—because it would be unfair to all the other competitors. I’m like that as a lover too, always thinking about the other competitors.
