The Age of Information, Has turned out to be the Age of Ignorance.
I've gotten crankier in my old age.
Moving is both liberating and debilitating. Undertaken too late, it is a very stressful process, one that sometimes seems to catapult people into frail old age, and undertaken too soon, it may preempt other possibilities. [p. 38]
Adam Antonovich's father was a tubby tyrant with a triple chin and chinks where his eyes should have been. All his life he had amassed money. In old age he had exchanged it for space; his estates grew, grew and swelled. ("Adam")
She didn't say it, I only thought she said it. So really it was my thought, my words, and not hers. How could I confuse "I love you" with "May I take your order?
His haircut looked like a spinning Frisbee on his forehead, and that’s why I fell in love. Because his girlfriend got tired of stray dogs trying to catch his face, and she liked that I attracted cats with my catnip body odor.
Vanessa Sky Ellis scours the streets of NYC looking for celebrities to take selfies with, while I scrounge up quarters to try to buy love out of vending machines. I have had sex with more plastic bottles than I care to take pictures of.
She wasn’t much for words, but she told me she loved me in other ways, like showing me her main superpower—invisibility. I often wouldn’t see her for weeks straight, and for her to show me the unshowable showed a lot of trust in our relationshi...
I loved her bravely, like a fighter turned sprinter. I loved her so fiercely that I never even dared speak of my feelings. And because I displayed as much passion as a statue, our relationship stood perfectly still and never moved anywhere.
I tried to save money by saving time and not showing up to work. I had more important things to do, like sleep. If I lived in Paris, I’d probably be considered a romantic, but since I’m an American I have to conceal my true identity with the labe...
What does it say about me that I don’t say much? It doesn’t say I love you, and that’s sad, because when I ignore you, that’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you.
Pain produces progress. So if you truly love me, you will try to hurt me as much as you can. If you really want me to grow as a person, you will water me with betrayal, abuse, neglect, derision, thievery, and possibly even torture.
Love isn’t a series of slogans like “Just do it,” “It’s the real thing,” or “Go ahead, stick it in my butt.” Love is much more than that. Love is also a logo. I know, because I have it tattooed on my ass.
When I was in the second grade, I used to think love was the feeling a man gets while riding a motorcycle and having a woman embrace him tightly from behind. Maybe I’m cynical now, but I’m starting to think love is a unicycle with a flat tire.
A car’s gas tank should be see-through, so I don’t have to rely on a possibly faulty gauge to tell me it’s approaching empty. The human heart should also be see-through, so I can tell if you’ve really given me all your love.
You never forget how to ride a bicycle—or the first time you made love on one. I’ve made love on a bicycle twice, to two women—both times were with both women. Foreplay is amazingly difficult with four lanes of traffic honking at you.
I have 26 silly faces, each represents a different letter of the alphabet. So while you think I am grimacing over what you are talking about, I am really spelling out I love you.
Every age has its book.
Age is a sorry travelling companion.
If youth knew; if age could.
Every age wants its playthings.
