I’m an open book—an open book I’m still writing and editing. My book is a romance novel, sort of like The Secret.
In 1,000 pages of Orafoura’s novel, I noticed he repeated one word twice. It really stood out to me. The word? Sit.
There are certain books in the history of the world that should never have been written. This book makes all those look like masterpieces.
My clone will have my mind, but I don’t mind. Two heads are better than one—especially when those two are one and the same.
I had a dream about your brain. I wish I could eat my dream.
I made plans out of hope, expectation, desire, and duct tape, and I broke those plans with my bare hands.
You gotta run more than your mouth to escape the treadmill of mediocrity. A true hustler jogs during the day, and sleepwalks at night.
On Halloween I like to scare up business the old fashioned way: with flyers, business cards, and electroshock therapy while wearing spooky masks.
A window—it’s more entertaining than TV. Just ask a cat looking out, or a man looking in on a life he desires.
A great band name would be Tickling Whiskers. Especially if the lead singer is a cat. I’d love to audition for backup dancer.
I feel self-conscious calling my cat fat in front of a fat person, considering I’m skinny and inconsiderate.
I'm sort of a girly guy in that I love cats, rainbows, sunsets, flowers, trees, and sex. But not sex with trees.
When he misbehaves, I’ll clap and then point at my cat, as if transmitting the sting of the slap towards him in punishment.
Schrödinger’s cat was a Siamese cat, must have been, because if it’s at once alive and dead, it’s a zombie, and the only zombie cats are Siamese cats.
Cats are like mushrooms, only you'll rarely ever hear me scream, "Get off my pizza!" to a pack of mushrooms.
I killed a flea this morning. I may have been a bit overzealous, because I accidentally killed the cat too.
If I could change any one thing about me, I’d change you.
On a unicycle, my tire will tire before I do. I ride for charity. I’m trying to raise enough money to buy a bicycle.
Mannequin parts disassembled and discombobulated coming together for a good cause—to sell some clothes. That’s what charity is all about.
Pete Rose’s last name is so sweet, he can’t be a cheater. But a cheat by any other name would smell just as sweet.
Maybe is the lovechild of No and Yes. We should make love. I’ll be the No, you’ll be the Yes, and maybe I won’t call the cops but will call you again sometime.
