Grief, regret, pain, and of course anger. Another loss. And when you compare this one loss to the hundreds and maybe thousands that occur people stop thinking they matter. It does matter though. Every loss matters.
Maybe the Good Friday story is about how God would rather die than be in our sin-accounting business anymore.
Some men are too dull to feel what might happen. Others torture themselves with maybes and populate their dreams with horrors more terrible than their worst enemy could inflict upon them.
You need to relax. Maybe we should stop at a bar for alcohol first." "For me or for them?" "For them, of course. It's important to get them loaded early in the day. Makes them easier to control.
Dios mio, I think my brother lost his balls somewhere between here and Mexico. Or maybe Brittany has them zipped inside that fancy purse (of hers).
A brick could be grown on a tree, much like an apple or money, so that maybe humanity could achieve world peace—starting with not killing innocent fruits and vegetables.
Maybe this is why we read, and why in moments of darkness we return to books: to find words for what we already know.
I’m about to cross a time zone, and I feel younger already. If I keep traveling west, maybe I can catch up to the love of my youth.
She said she loved me, and I didn’t believe it for a minute. Maybe 59 seconds, but not a whole minute. I may be gullible, but I’m not without an accurate way to measure time.
My response landed me in hot water. A dirty dish also landed in hot water. If I weren’t such a raging feminist, maybe I’d buy a dishwater instead of scrubbing them all by hand.
My love is ripe for the peaching. Let me make Georgia to you all night long—and if I have the endurance, maybe even up to South Carolina.
I don’t have any inkling what to do with all the ink in this digital age. Maybe I’ll write a bunch of love letters to a dead author. Who moved my mayonnaise?
Maybe I could hear better if my ears weren’t flipped inside out. Unlike a cat’s ears, you can’t tell mine are flipped over. But they must be, because I only seem to listen to myself.
The best thing my grandpa ever said to me was, “Gladys, bring me some more damn soup.” Well, maybe he wasn’t talking to me, but it was still good to hear he was a romantic.
Maybe I will buy my nephew an aquarium for his next birthday. It’s got to be better than the bathroom sink, which is where my brother is keeping him now.
I was in Love once. I think I stayed at a Holiday Inn. Or maybe I was in Loveland, Co. But either way it felt great to be so directionless and unaware of my surroundings and so utterly lost.
So where did you get your information? Werewolves for Dummies? No, wait, you watched Underworld? Or maybe you were raised by wolves? Stop me when I’m warm.” - Shella
I want to assure you, I’m not that kind of pervert. But don’t worry, goat lady, there’s somebody for everybody. Or anybody for nobody. Maybe I have that backwards, and upside down.
If love fell in love with another word, do you think that word would smell, taste, and rhyme with it? I think so, and I think that word is jambalaya, but maybe I’m pronouncing love wrong.
I wonder if that's the perennial story of writers: you find the true light, you lose the true light, you find it again. And maybe again.
Everybody thinks they’re a prophet. They must, or nobody would get married. Or maybe at a 50% divorce rate, only half the people are fortune tellers. Probably the men.
