We made love like a flag draped over the coffin of a soldier. But that soldier, he fought for that flag’s enemy—he fought for the innocent people living under the shadow of that flag.
Love is a combination of understanding and misunderstanding. I’m understanding of your flaws, and I’m misunderstanding why you don’t try to be perfect, like I am.
The words I love you, as a unit, are like a knife that only stings once you remove the blade from the relationship.
I breathe, I walk, I listen, I love. But not in that order, because right now I’m sitting down, testing my lung’s storage capacity, and ignoring you.
How to Lose Weight Through the Miracle of Diarrhea. That sounds like a bestselling Romance novel title if I’ve ever heard one. I’m a sucker for a good love story.
He had short hair. The technical term is bald. I’m sure he would have made a better lover if he were wearing a Donald Trump wig.
I’ve always felt that love and luck are two sides of the same pair of jeans. Pick a partner that won’t pick your pockets, and you won’t have to be plucky to find pleasure.
Love can make a flower more fragrant, a blue sky bluer, and an empty bank account emptier. I should probably sign up for another credit card.
I have salmon slippers. I just hope the bears don’t try to eat my feet. Not that it matters, since the empty turtle shell stole all my love.
Our love was separated by time—and six feet of dirt. Still, I had to keep digging, because that’s just who I am, a romantic.
The snow covered the two hills like vanilla frosting on two breasts. That’s what I thought then, because I was in love, and ready to sled down the icing on a birthday cake.
Improve your life by taking advantage of new technologies like bleach and a drinking glass. Show your love for the globe by reducing an overpopulated world by one.
My three favorite times are 3:33, 12:34, and the moment I fall in love. Unfortunately, I haven’t figured out how to set an alarm to alert me for the first two.
I love writing, and the feeling it brings me can’t be described by words. So here are a few grunting noises that capture my mood when I write: ugh, eek, umph, and ahh!
If Mother had to be told not to shove the entire brick of Ivory up Junior's hindquarters, constipation is the least of his problems.
And I apologize to all of you who are the same age as my grandchildren. And many of you reading this are the same age as my grandchildren. They, like you, are being royally shafted and lied to by our Baby Boomer corporations and government.
But the lucidity of her old age allowed her to see, and she said so many times, that the cries of children in their mothers' wombs are not announcements of ventriloquism or a faculty for prophecy but an unmistakable sign of an incapacity for love.
Clearly, imagining cannot be expected to mean exactly the same thing today as it did in the Middle Ages or antiquity. For one thing, Aristotle and Aquinas never watched television.
Do the thing you love to do. Hank Williams died at the ripe old age of twentynine. Stevie Ray Vaughan at thirty-five. Jesus at thirtythree. Don’t think you’re special and the Lord’s gonna bless you with time.
But old age, to begin with, has something in common with death. Some face it with indifference, not because they have more courage than others, but because they have less imagination.
For a child, it is in the simplicity of play that the complexity of life is sorted like puzzle pieces joined together to make sense of the world.
