A new man is like a new toy. Fresh and interesting. Almost intriguing. It's like when you get a new car. Everything is different. The smell, the sound of the horn and seats, and it even ride good for a while. That's what a man is like to me.
Most of the passenger cars are lined with thick patterned carpets, upholstered in velvets in burgundies and violets and creams, as though they have been dipped in a sunset, hovering at twilight and holding on to the colors before they fade to midnigh...
There’s no room for love in my life. My car trunk is already full of groceries, a spare tire, and two kidnap victims.
I knew we were destined to be lovers from the moment she tied me up and stuffed me in the trunk of her car.
Here was a man who'd learned to write before he could think, a man who threw out logical fallacies like tacks behind a getaway car, and he always always always got away.
You have a choice. Live or die. Every breath is a choice. Every minute is a choice. Every time you don't throw yourself down the stairs, that's a choice. Every time you don't crash your car, you re-enlist.
I said I’d drive to her place. But she lives in her car, so I don’t see why she couldn’t just drive her place to my place.
Jesus, Morelli, you sound like you have PMS. You have to learn to lighten up a little. It's just a car alarm. You should be thanking me. I had it installed with my own money.
Time. Time has a way of standing still during the moments that define one’s life. The first kiss, the birth of one’s first child, a paralyzing car accident, hearing of the death of a parent, the last kiss.
There is a cookie trail of all my interests lodged in some digital sphere which will one day consolidate the collected data of six billion souls and vomit out—I don’t know—personalized infomercials for deodorant and car wax.
Depressed people tended to end things on special occasions and party goers drank too much and then got behind the wheels of vehicles. But Valentine’s Day wasn’t too bad as far as suicides and car wrecks were concerned.
My hands fell asleep, so I washed them with hot coffee. Then I had donuts for breakfast, by way of spinning circles in my car and burning rubber in the parking garage of my office building.
I make an H2O alternative with my armpits. I left you a ten-gallon sample in your car, as a going away gift.
If I’m homeless and pushing a shopping cart filled with all my worldly possessions, don’t be surprised to see me stopped behind a few cars in the turning lane, because I’ve got to get off this road.
Out there was a man who had murdered his daughter. And another who had stepped on her heart. His hatred should be aimed at the one who killed her, but all he could picture was Yoshino being literally kicked out of that car.
The motel owner, who walked up when the police car came screaming in with lights flashing, takes me into the office. He sits me down with a mug of coffee. The mug is blue and reads in white lettering, Warning: Murderous Until Caffeinated.
It’s hard being pissed with a nice car and a good job. Fed up on filet medallions and swimming in chilled martinis. We know what we think and our life here is our reward for thinking it.
I had a dream about you painting the scene of a house fire. The clocks were melting and Salvador Dali was riding around in a clown car muttering something about irony.
The of learning. It's the same when you approach any new skill or technique, from a dance step to driving a car. The effort of learning stops you, at first, from doing it well.
... It seems to me / the the great bards of the 20th century are in Publicity / those Keatses and Shelleys singing the Colgate smile / Cosmic Coca-Cola, the pause the refreshes, / the make of car that will take us to the land of happiness.
In the last three years of racing I've met as many women fans as men fans, and in NASCAR it's the same thing. My wife loves cars, but the difference is she doesn't have 20 years of understanding the background of them. She basically drives them and u...
