Looking back I can see that there have been no breaks from one departure to the next; I start planning again before we've even arrived back home.
Olga was better, in the sun, where he could see every pore in her skin. Get closer. Feel her next to him. It was all he wanted in the world. It was the last thing in the world that he could do.
I got my girlfriend knocked up. Next time I’ll ring the doorbell before I enter. I think we’re about to witness the birth of a new me.
I’m hypoglycemic and squeamish and liable to pass out at the first sign of blood. That happened this morning. I came into the kitchen and found blood on the floor, right next to a few dead hookers.
Come buy from me what you could rent elsewhere. Like a Like button or a wiggly wrench—or donuts that yesterday would have been free at the store next to mine.
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.
Love spends more time washing its hands than it does pissing in the kitchen sink. Remember that next time someone locks themself in your bathroom for the duration of the football game.
There’s bacon in my bed. Extra crispy, like the fresh dollar bills stuffed in the mattress. I make love like I make sure I’m prepared for the next financial crisis.
In her daydreams, they aged miraculously, she still trim with a blond ponytail, standing next to her strong, tall husband with his thick, curly dark hair and straight white teeth. Money was never an issue.
Pure and soft, the melody is entrancing. Haunting. I’m glued to my seat, waiting, hoping for the next enthralling sound. I’d close my eyes if I weren’t afraid I’d miss a second of his performance.
I told you before, I don’t want out of this marriage. And if you give me nothing but daughters for the next twenty years, I would consider myself blessed.
Stop thinking all the time that you're in the way, that you're bothering the person next to you. If people don't like it, they can complain. And if they don't have courage to complain, that's their problem.
Hazel Motes sat at a forward angel on the green plush train seat, looking one minute at the window as if he might want to jump out of it, and the next down the aisle at the other end of the car.
I feel as if the world is listening for my next thought. But I can't think of anything. Sorry, but I just can't think of anything.
I believe that sexual offenders and predators should be released…as long as it is mandatory they get to move into the house next door to the judge that released them.
Don't you agree? Swordplay is a dance of sorts, an understanding of the logical, most sophisticated next step. Except that in a fight, one must take the unexpected step. In dance it is all about taking the right, expected step.
I sat next to a salmon on the sofa. After ten minutes of bear-like conversation, it was dead. Oh well, at least surrealism is still alive.
And the next moment the fierce wind comes screaming, whirling the needle-pointed dust, stifling all hope. And you know then that what has not happened will never happen. That hope is an end within itself.
Next morning while imbibing his morning tea beneath his pink silken quilt Bernard decided he must marry Ethel with no more delay.
I want a trophy wife. I’ll keep her on the shelf next to my future Nobel peace prize. (I plan on inventing a gun that shoots love, not bullets.)
By the time of my ninth birthday, I had become a bit of a socialist, as I am said by conservative colleagues to be to this day. I went on within the next few years to volunteer as an envelope stuffer for the American Labor Party, and my political thi...
