As the ice melted, we fell in love—slowly. I just wish the ice were in two glasses of vodka, and not surrounding our bodies.
My hands will get dirty holding your rose-like heart, because love is like gardening—it’s earthy and takes work to keep it alive.
I think eulogies are wasted on the dead. It’s the living who need to hear kind words spoken about them.
There’s nothing special about politicians as people. Now as animals, they’d be extraordinary for their ability to be intelligent enough (barely) to be potty trained.
Stupidity mixed with arrogance mixed with anger mixed with adrenaline is a deadly combination. Just as deadly as adding fries and a soda and making it a combo meal.
If I could go back in time, I'd love to whisper sweet nothings in Van Gogh's ear, but not while it was attached to his head.
Chivalry, stimulating conversations, everything is said to be a lost art nowadays. But nothing is a lost art, unless it’s a sunken statue—in a river of lava.
It’s very hard to whisper in your own ear. Love is an art, but as an artist, I guess I’m no Van Gogh.
A blank canvas is so abstract that only imagination can fill it. But wait! Don't hang it on the wall like that. It's upside down.
As a sculptor, I prefer busts. As a lover of women, I prefer busts. And as a football enthusiast, I prefer Robert Griffin III.
We’re all artists. It’s just most people keep their inner artist locked behind their rib cage.
I’m itching for battle—with a mosquito bite. The only thing in life I’ll scratch at more is the need to be loved. I’m so bloody needy.
I don’t want my love with her to wither like grapes on a vine, so I’ll water it with romance to turn it into wine.
Amy, she’s got a memory like an elephant, and a body like a meow.
I think a funny picture would have a caption that read, “Believe in yourself,” with an accompanying image of a wilting flower.
I've often wondered what makes a relationship last. I guess the best answer is it's the one right after the next to the last one.
Love can come shooting out of nowhere, much like semen shoots out a penis. Too many lives come to an end—and begin—from random shootings.
My love started the day I was born. If you run you can probably catch up. Remember, think marathon—not sprint.
I put out the Greg Call, which sounds like a whistle-quack, and a few dozen Toms responded. The only time I need a Tom is tomorrow.
I ate the evidence he’d been murdered. What Carl called “Kevin,” I called dinner.
My soul is invisible, like an anorexic’s dinner, but it sure enhances how I feel about my body.
