When I first started doing these roasts in the mid '90s, they were a lost art, like jousting or calligraphy. But I feel like roasts help tame the room and let off steam... It's like it's all being handled by professionals.
This guy looks like a murderer trying to look like a normal guy trying to look like a murder. Could he be the killer? Only if M.C. Escher is the victim.
We come to a lamp beside the pathway, and suddenly we stop walking, and we start to dance, and we glitter in the shafts of light, like stars, like flies, like flakes of dust.
Words should wander and meander. They should fly like owls and flicker like bats and slip like cats. They should murmur and scream and dance and sing.
If you want one thing too much it’s likely to be a disappointment. The healthy way is to learn to like the everyday things, like soft beds and buttermilk—and feisty gentlemen.
Yeah, reflections! The same, but different. Like twins - like blood brothers! And when you need something bad done, like punishment or revenge, you'll just ask me, and I will do it -
To avoid excessive talking, I stay positive. By saying things like, “I like it,” rather than “I don’t like it,” I can save up to 25% on my energy output.
Ben let a slow smile play over his face. He loved this part. It always felt like revealing to a disbeliever that he had magical powers or something.
Is it possible that that's all maturity is? Speaking better? Is it possible that everybody in the world, is just a dumb, stupid kid acting like a grown-up because they can sound like one and look like one? It almost seems easy.
He didn't like religion, hadn't liked it for years, but he adored churches, loved them like old scientific instruments whose time is long past but are nevertheless fascinating and strange.
Many a night I woke to the murmer of paper and knew (Dad) was up, sitting in the kitchen with frayed King James - oh, but he worked that book; he held to it like a rope ladder.
And I feel like a real Dad when I read to her at night. She won't sleep without one story, at least.
just a little bit longer, sing: like rain, like sand, like wind in the night, prickling" from the poem - STAY from the book "Riding the Escalator
I don’t like like like I love love, but I’ll bet we have that in common. You have so much love to give that I’m surprised I haven’t received any of it.
Sometimes I feel like this. Sometimes I feel like that. I wish I could be more specific, but that’s how I feel—vague.
Malibu: With sounds of waves crashing, and the ocean at the doorstep, you feel like you are hours away from civilization. And with L.A. traffic, YOU ARE.
You make me feel like I am everywhere when I am right here, completely still with you.
It's hard to say which I like more, the perfectly happy days or the hours right after we've ended a good fight.
These days, I'm finding it harder and harder to breathe. My chest pounds with every heart beat like you're here, again, standing in front of me, your two hands around my neck.
I'm offering you love on a stick. If you'd like, you can grab it to go. It’s like a popsicle, only it won’t melt if you put it through hell like you did with you last boyfriend.
I don't know why, it's the same reason why you like some music and you don't like others. There's something about it that you like. Ultimately I don't find it's in my best interests to try and analyze it, since it's fundamentally emotional.
