Being negative, that’s no good. Also, being no good is no good. By your silence I can tell that you love me. Either that or you’re a disciple of Helen Keller.
Rejoiced in youth, repented in age.
Every artistic form has its golden age, and unfortunately I think the golden age for whatever I do probably ended about 1990.
If you look at body fat, it seems to increase with age, even though your weight does not. That's a physiological fact of aging, they say. Heck it is. It is an adaptive effect of aging.
Old age realizes the dreams of youth: look at Dean Swift; in his youth he built an asylum for the insane, in his old age he was himself an inmate.
From a young age I was obsessed with the mysterious, the esoteric, the paranormal.
Old age is a woman's hell.
She told me she loved me. She told me a lot of things. Some of those things were true, and some of those may or may not have been true. It’s kind of hard to tell, because to be honest, I wasn’t listening.
He met her because I didn’t show up that day and he went in my place. If they get married, I should be the best man. I am Invisible Cupid, so where’s my monument to love?
I pee in the sink, so I can save time by washing my hands at the same time that I am urinating. I’ll bet you’re wondering where my favorite place to make love is.
I sorted my sordid sort ofs from my maybes. Then I made love like never before. Seriously, I’d never made love before, and I have to say, it didn’t cost me as much money as I expected.
I told her, “I admire your mustache madam, but I wonder, what’s for dessert?” Knowing her and knowing me, she probably thought I meant I love you.
I wore a hat, to compensate for the fact that my pants were unzipped. When we made love, she asked if I brought a condom, so I showed her my tube socks. I brought two, for twice the protection.
My meeting was at 9:00 AM, and I walked in the room at 9:01. She said, “You’re late.” I stopped, my jaw open and slack, because I knew she was right. I was late—but for what? I was late for love.
When the sky is blue, I think of her. When the sky is gray, I think of her. When the sky is black, I think of her. But when the sky is orange, I think of juice, and how I am thirsty—for her love.
I tried picking my nose once, but I was too indecisive. I would tell you I love you, but I can’t decide if maybe I’m not really in love with your clone.
From across the bar, I saw her see me seeing her see me, and I knew that she knew, and with all this knowledge and vision I figured it must be love. But I could be wrong, because it turns out that I need glasses.
Words can have a healing effect. The words “I love you” can stop bleeding faster than a Band-Aid. It’s true. It worked for me after I stabbed my grandpa.
Love me for me, not for how much I resemble my clones, or how handsome they are, or how brilliant they are, or how much you want to have sex with all of them, at once, in my basement, while I film.
The only drink I like ice in is water, because you can’t water down water. I’m like that with love, too. Don’t you dare add any ice to the hot liquid loving I’m trying to pour all over you.
You tell me you love me, but I’m not sure you know what love is, or how fast it flies, or how much it resembles a UFO, or what kind of weapon you’d use to shoot it down.
