I’ve aged more this past week than I did in all six days that preceded it. Will you still love me tomorrow, when I’m an older man?
I am an uncle, though this is not a new feeling for me, as I’ve been one before. I’ve also been 2 through 32, and I turn 33 in March.
Women always want to look younger, and I always want to look older, so I could look like Pliny the Younger. As a lover, that would give me the best of both worlds.
The woman I love rolled through town yesterday, and she didn’t even stop her wheelchair once as she passed through. I got so angry I had to walk it off.
People are so particular. Unlike animals, which can be lions, eagles, or sharks, people are only people. (Though some people can easily be mistaken for animals—namely politicians.)
My girlfriend bought me a collared shirt for my birthday, mainly so I don’t get too far ahead of her when she takes me for a walk.
As an animal lover, I don’t like zoos. I feel the only creatures that should be caged behind bars are politicians, lobbyists, and lawyers. And rapists, but I’ve already listed that three times.
I traded in my car with no gas in the tank and my new car came with a full tank. So I at least profited there. That makes me appreciate my depreciation more.
We’re different, you and I. I am a Rorschach Test, and you, you are a butterfly. No, wait, you are a bat. Actually, you are the Galapagos Islands. Or perhaps you are a failed Pollack painting.
If I asked people how many people there are in the world, I’ll bet more than half would reply, “More than half.” True, but would they also know Georgia is a state, a country, and a painter?
I made art out of all the phone numbers on napkins I’ve had over the years. So it was just one napkin, and I wiped my mouth with it after I was done.
If I could capture the rays of the sun in a can, I'd paint a canvas with it and have you look at my work until the memory of my work was burned in your mind and your retinas burned out.
I am a single drop of blood trying to mix in with billions of red paint splatters in this Pollack painting called life. I think the cops are trying to frame me.
My hand inside a glove is like a painting in a frame, and should be insured as such. The things my hand makes have immense value, so how much more valuable is the thing that makes the things?
I’m stoic like a statue of Stonewall Jackson. I’d make a great U.S. President, but I’d make an even better chiseled piece of marble—and that’s what makes me such an amazing lover.
Making art can be a mystical, spiritual experience. Sort of like golfing on water, which I haven’t done, because I’m more Michael Phelps and less Michael Phelps.
I make art and I make love, and I almost always do both at the same time. If the cops ask, I’ll tell them I was framed. Same goes for the museum.
I wanted to observe how a genuine people person, who happens to also be a salesman, handles himself in the presence of a stranger. And few people are stranger than me, so I was paying close attention.
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?
As a fiction writer, let me make it up, and let me make it up to you. I’ll pen our love story, if you’ll be my co-author.
Sometimes I’ll read a book and feel it was written just for me. Then I’ll flip the book over to look at the cover to see who wrote it, only to discover that it feels like it was written for me because it was written by me.
