We had a blast at my magical birthday party. There were midgets, fairies, glass slippers, and I actually got to ride in a pumpkin.
How to duplicate yourself: hang out with the same people and say the same things all the time. The you of today is a clone of the you from yesterday.
I told her I'd rather talk about her, instead of listening to her drone on about the weather. Little did I know she was an aspiring meteorologist.
I don't understand people who say they need more "Me Time." What other time is there? Do these people spend part of their day in someone else's body?
I want to fill a jar with a lot of clapping, and sell my applause next to the applesauce in a grocery store. You can eat the praise you didn’t earn, but did pay for.
I want to mass produce wretchedness. An unsatisfactory factory. Then I want to produce cologne and stench—at different ends of the production line. So it would be an olfactory factory.
Labels are necessary, for dating purposes. I’m not talking about gay versus straight. I’m talking about milk versus its expiration.
There’s nobody worth talking about, so let’s not talk about it. Only let’s do it anyway. I’ll make it up and then make up later.
Distributing unsolicited You’re Welcomes, it’s a thankless task. It’s almost as if people don’t want to see me at 4 AM as I knock on their doors.
I need to work smarter, harder, faster, and longer than you. And if I still don't come out in front, then simply changing directions will correct that.
Wrapped inside one is love. Wrapped inside another is hate. What do you think is wrapped inside the third? If you answered meat, beans, and cheese, you'd be correct.
I can fly a plane, but I can’t fly a planet. Not without a seatbelt the size of the equator. The way I eat @McDonalds, I may need a seatbelt that fat.
I couldn’t steal an idea. Not even if my clone came up with it. But I could steal your heart—even if my clone had it stored in a cryogenic freezer.
My heartbeat’s so loud it’s like a tap dancer in my chest. No, it’s more like Mr. Morse, tapping out the code of love.
My apartment complex isn’t. No, it’s simple. I used to think our love was simple, until Chris Hemsworth moved into your heart.
I could have murdered a man today, but by not doing so I saved his life, and thus became a hero to myself. I’m like that all the time. Being heroic, I mean.
Who wants to be the unsung heroes of my voiceless choir quartet? We’re the Helen Kellers, and I’m holding auditions with oven mitts, because they’re sure to be hot.
The ultimate dead end is murder. My house is on a dead-end street, and it’s killing me. My house is so small it’s trying to suffocate me.
We were divided by color. Not black and white, but colour/color. She was British, and I was honoured to engage her in a spelling debate.
I ordered an extra large handshake to go, but I had no idea it would be so greasy—or that it would leave a stain on my crotch. Ugh, politics!
His last name was Worthless. Or was that just the perfect word to describe him? Shouldn’t our names summarize who we are? If so, I want to be called Al Auttalovetogive.
