Before work I like to relax and collect my thoughts. That’s why I carry a wicker basket. So it’s no wonder that I fell in love with Sigourney Weaver. I often ponder aliens, working girls, and eyewitnesses.
If the word "committee" were an acronym, the two "T"s would stand for time travel. How else can a group waste so much time unless they feel they can always go back and retrieve it?
I remember the good old days. You must remember the good old days, because they were the days with the long white beards.
I would hate to see seventeen people with monosyllabic names like Mike or Ann die, but if they did, and you wrote down all their names in groups of 5-7-5, you'd have one tragic haiku.
He was a pleasant fellow, saying please and thank you as he pounded me in the face. That’s why I sent him a Get Well Soon card, since he was probably interested in my well-being.
War is not a homemade product. You make it at someone else’s house. If you’ve got the eggs, flour, milk, sugar, oil, and gold, then I’ll bring the guns. Be expecting me at 8:00, because I plan on surprising you early.
A picture is worth a thousand words, but is 400% less valuable, because a picture only captures one of the senses—sight. However, words can describe the other four senses, making writing four times more potent than photography.
I’ll bet if I write a sentence and mention the word “edit,” people will slow down and scour my words for errors. Did it wrok?
Even if there were only seventeen syllables left in the universe, I still don’t think The Mythical Mr. Boo would write a haiku. Especially not if those syllables were groups of “oh,” “no,” “ah,” “ouch,” “ugh,” “eek,” and “...
When I write I am an avocado, and in a team sport setting, I am guacamole. And not to sour cream on your dreams, but with my love life, I am a nacho.
When a writer has deep thoughts, I expect him to also have a deep voice. And if he doesn’t, he should remain silent and let his writer’s voice do all the speaking for him.
I can tie a cherry stem into a knot with my tongue. Now, if only I could do the same with my shoelaces, I wouldn’t have to banana pudding my way to success.
One thought I think every person eventually thinks is, “Holy shit, I’m going to die!” Sorry, I just turned thirty yesterday, so my mortality is on my mind.
I have the worst kind of history—a non history. I wasn’t born poor, oppressed, rich, famous, or any other such extreme. I was born in the middle, and I desperately want to hide it.
Grow a garden. When there’s a food shortage in the future, you’ll need it. And when people try to steal your food and you shoot them, you’ll also need a good place to hide the bodies.
I cried so hard after I put my cat to sleep. I guess I shouldn’t have cried so hard, because with all my sobbing, I ended up waking it up.
Losing a child must be the second most painful thing ever. The most painful thing would be to lose the child, find him, and then watch him be murdered by his sibling, who happens to contain half of Satan’s DNA.
My coffee gets increasingly better the more I drink and the closer I come to the bottom of the cup, where all the sugar is. I wonder if life is the same way as we approach the end.
If I could die saving two lives, I would, provided each of those two people were the kind of people who would die to save two more like them.
Just one simple word choice directed at me can throw me into a bad mood and make me believe there’s tension between us. That one simple word is “die.
Every morning I think: What’s the latest I can sleep in ‘til, and still be on time for work? Well, I used to think that, before unemployment turned every day into a Saturday.
