She pulls a spare head from beneath a pile of shoes and raises it by the hair. It looks like one of those cheap, blue heads that botwhores keep for lonely sci-fi freaks who want to pretend they’re fucking the queen of Xenon.
I had a dream about you. We almost made love in the produce section of your local grocery store, but when I asked if you brought protection, you told me you’d forgotten the coupons at home.
My toothpaste tastes like baloney, so I brush my teeth with wheat bread. Guess what flavor my love is, and what kind of mechanical apparatus I use to make it.
Check a phone book out of a library. Inside is a foggy castle covered by a black leather glove, watched over by a shaggy gray dog. My name is written in numbers in the sky by the hand of Hans H. Handey.
It’s raining cats and dogs. Good thing meows and barks bounce off my umbrella, and I just poured a large cup of love in the left cup of your bra when you weren’t looking.
Our relationship is getting serious. I now know she likes Karaoke. Next she’ll tell me she loves coffee. And then she’ll say she loves me—but not as much as she loves coffee.
I told her I loved her, knowing she’d tell her I loved her and I wouldn’t have to tell her first face to face to see her reaction and feel rejection.
We were young and in love. Well, at least I was young. I was fourteen and she was ninety-four. She tried to act like she never remembered we were dating, probably due to her dementia.
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.
I write music—for whales. You can’t hear it, but rest assured, it’s excellent. Mostly they’re love songs. Listen with your heart—but be careful, because my songs have an irregular beat.
I stepped on the bug to prove I love her, and show that I’d kill for her. Is there really any mystery as to why the guy she was talking to before me just disappeared out of her life?
I make love like I make money. Well, I would, if somebody would actually pay me to have sex with them. So here I am, broke and sexless.
I make love like I make sausages. And I don’t make sausages. At least not myself. I pay someone to make it for me. And sometimes I even pay for the sex that I’m paying someone else to make for me.
For every uneaten sandwich there’s an unopened sandwich bag full of baby’s tears. I’d give you a straw, but around here, those anal devices are rare. Also, I think I’m in love. Either that or I’m thirsty.
I can’t remember if I’ve time traveled, because memory only covers the past, and it’s likely I’ve only been to the future. But that’s natural, because that’s where I store all my love.
Steal my stuff, but don’t you dare steal my time. It’s all I’ve got in this life. Well, that and a lot of love to give. Oops. Did I say give? I meant sell.
If you can pick the baby up without him squirting our of your hands like a bar of soap in the shower, he's not oiled up enough.
In Paris, the dance was everything. The dance of romance was what a man could remember in his old age. Didn’t all young Americans come to Europe in search of that kind of romance?
Outside, in the hallway, my mother stopped. She pressed both hands to her chest, closed her eyes, and said under her breath, 'It's so bitter.' 'What, Mama?' 'Old age.' [p. 187]
Words are but symbols for the relations of things to one another and to us; nowhere do they touch upon absolute truth.... Through words and concepts we shall never reach beyond the wall off relations, to some sort of fabulous primal ground of things.
