I’m too busy to chew. That’s why I blend all my meals into smoothies, and I make love as slowly as ice cream melts in the Sahara.
I mopped up my moped off the street, and drove home on the unicycle below my handlebar mustache, while I thought about the path love might take now.
I saw a white toilet, with no plumbing, alone in a field of snow. Well, almost alone. There were two naked albinos and a polar bear sitting on it, and I felt inspired to write a love poem.
She said she loved me, and I didn’t believe it for a minute. Maybe 59 seconds, but not a whole minute. I may be gullible, but I’m not without an accurate way to measure time.
She doesn’t want me to leave, and she doesn’t want me to stay. That’s a double helping of Doesn’t Want Me, and one big I’m Not Hungry back at her.
To let her imagine how great a lover I’d be, I ate soup with chopsticks. She went home with another man, but I’ll bet she fantasized about me.
You will know my power when you feel me compress you into a ball and bowl with you. I make love like I just rented these fabulous shoes.
I’ll sit on a soda and drink a sofa. It’s just healthier. You should see how I make love. Show starts at 8:00. Tickets are ten bucks at the window.
My love is heavy with ink, so I took it and transformed it into a poem for you. I would give it to you, but Grandma took it because I left it on the counter, and she mistook it for the grocery list.
I’m late to dinner, but I’m early to being in love. I’m such a gentleman that I hold every door open—even if the guy sitting in the bathroom stall is protesting.
If I were in a band, people at my shows would fight for tickets—that’s how much I believe in love. I’d call my band “The Black-eyed Peasants.
I got you a box full of unfull. I know I shouldn’t have, but that’s why I should have. As a lover, I always leave you hungry for more.
My love is a cloud sound, silent as an orange flamingo. Too many swimmers have drowned while trying to fly, and there should be a law against making a law against that.
I don’t like like like I love love, but I’ll bet we have that in common. You have so much love to give that I’m surprised I haven’t received any of it.
The human voice isn’t like water,” I shouted. “You can’t drown out somebody just by raising the level.” But it was useless. I felt like Noah preaching to a pack of Helen Kellers.
Love is a lot like bowling, I thought as I drove by a boarded up and abandoned bowling alley. Like the economy, I’ve made a full recovery since we broke up.
I fell in love like Mondays at noon. Too bad none were around to witness my epic Tuesday. Let’s make Wednesday one last time before you have to Thurday.
Pterodactyl has a silent P. I talk entire conversations using only silent letters. They're also invisible. My I love yous are camouflaged amidst my absence.
There’s a hair in my food! Well, I did order all the cuddles I can eat. A buffet of sleep is how I describe my love to strangers on trains.
My response landed me in hot water. A dirty dish also landed in hot water. If I weren’t such a raging feminist, maybe I’d buy a dishwater instead of scrubbing them all by hand.
My love is ripe for the peaching. Let me make Georgia to you all night long—and if I have the endurance, maybe even up to South Carolina.
