A good server knows how to be seen, yet remain invisible. I was a great server, and I achieved invisibility by never showing up for work. My boss ended up firing me, probably over petty jealousy.
The very thing keeping me alive is also killing me—love. No wonder the rose symbolizes both love and death. They should have a deal where if you buy a dozen roses you get a free headstone.
I don’t like breakfast—I prefer fixslow. I eat it like I devour your love, and it may take time, but we can put our relationship back together. Just pass me the maple syrup.
I prefer kissing over dinner. Not that I prefer kissing to dinner, but I prefer kissing over the plate containing my dinner, especially if my dinner consists of something romantic like monkey brains.
Cats are meowable gloves you don’t wear, you pet to keep your hands warm. But I keep my hands warm the old-fashioned way—by applauding all the political rhetoric coming out of Washington DC.
I sympathize with a mother who has three mouths to feed—especially if two of those mouths are on her face. With a woman like that I’d listen twice as hard for doublespeak. I’m pretty accustomed to picking up on political rhetoric.
If my clone were standing next to me, I’d be beside myself with joy. I’d also be literally beside myself. In that case, I’ll bet you’d love me twice as much, huh?
When I was young, I was 13 going on 31. Then when I was 30 going on 31, I was 30 going on 29. Now I’m in love and I’ve lost all sense of time—and all the rest of my sense.
Quicksand is nature’s way of saying slow down. Me pushing you in quicksand is my way of saying be still and let me love you. Isn’t it funny how a lasso looks like a noose?
Everywhere I go, I bring Bring, and a feeling of redundancy. I love you because I love you—and because I love you. What more do you want?
This morning, as I was driving to work, I mistook a big brown box on the side of the road for a deer. It was dark, and I swerved at the last second, and even though it wasn’t a deer, I still managed to nail that son of a bitch.
I don’t want to ever see her again, because I want to always remember her as she was—young and beautiful. She won't remember, because she was 88 when we met and suffering from dementia.
I thought you were her because she wasn’t here yesterday and neither were you. What would I do without you? Probably the same thing I didn’t do yesterday—nothing.
If anger were money, only a fool would greedily save it up. And a wise man would let it slip out of his heart like change slips out of his pants pockets.
She told me she might not be there when I get back, and I got so angry I said something stupid. I told her I might not be there when I get back either.
Somebody once asked me where I come up with my stuff. I replied, "Who knows? Where does yellow snow come from? It's just a gift from God I guess.
I’d love to try to sell a blank white canvas to an art dealer. And when he asks what it is, I’d tell him, “It’s a landscape painting of Key West, from the perspective of an optimistic blind man.
I collect hair. I keep most of it on my floor, but my most valuable patches I display on the bodies of a few cats I have roaming my house like walking art displays that meow.
I’m an artist. I’m a cave painter. Archaeologists and art critics of the future are going to call me a genius. They’re going to say I was so far ahead of my time that I was way behind my time.
I wish art was like money in that the more I made, the more interest it developed and plentiful it became. Money makes money, and if art made art, there’s no prison in this country that could hold my creations.
If you see me sitting at a dining room table with a clean plate and bowl in front of me, you’ll know it’s because I’m a starving artist. I’m also thirsty, as my cup is also empty.
