If I typed out positive words, printed them out, blended them together with fruit and ice, and spoke all those words into my drink before chugging, would I absorb those positive attributes faster?
I want to find myself as a person, and I’ve enlisted the help of my clone to aid me in this. It’s like finding Waldo, except I’m only half wearing the red and white sweater, because I’m only half-finished knitting it.
I’ll watch the Final Four when there are three teams playing at once for two titles and one large bag of regrets. That bag is mostly full of air, like a bag of potato chips, only harder to chew.
I run my household like a marathon. That’s 26.2 miles of me taking orders from my significant other, who has significantly more control over the relationship than I do.
I won't discuss non-discussable things with her, like the sound of silence or the vertical dimensions of an awkward moment. Those sorts of things are best left unsaid, like the last time I told her I loved her.
You’re as likely to see me sleeping on the job as a snooze is liable to grow legs 26.2 miles long and run a larm. What’s a larm? A buzzing sound the length of a marathon, but I always sleep through them—including the one in Boston.
She must have said wear flip-flops, but I heard flippers. I might not have been able to run fast, but oh could I swim. Like a dolphin. Mahi-mahi yum!
L and V, both angular. O and E, both vowels. Coupled together, like a couple of couples coupling and copulating, and you have love. All this talk of sex makes me nostalgic for the Rasputin era.
The worst part about working in a hotel is when I’m tired, I know I can’t sample the very thing I sell: sleep. I also sell sex, but I must be discreet in the sheets.
If love tasted like pork, and you were allergic to Francis Bacon, could I be your Shakespeare? We could make love on a pizza and make much ado about nothing, everything, anything, something.
Love is two smiles shared between two people. Or two smiles and a smirk, shared between one couple and a jerk. Or maybe three smiles and a frown, shared between two parents, their child, and a clown.
I can’t work well when I am under stress. It reduces me to normalcy. Stress is my kryptonite. And I usually don’t change in phone booths, though I do take long distance showers there.
Before work I like to relax and collect my thoughts. That’s why I carry a wicker basket. So it’s no wonder that I fell in love with Sigourney Weaver. I often ponder aliens, working girls, and eyewitnesses.
If the word "committee" were an acronym, the two "T"s would stand for time travel. How else can a group waste so much time unless they feel they can always go back and retrieve it?
I would hate to see seventeen people with monosyllabic names like Mike or Ann die, but if they did, and you wrote down all their names in groups of 5-7-5, you'd have one tragic haiku.
He was a pleasant fellow, saying please and thank you as he pounded me in the face. That’s why I sent him a Get Well Soon card, since he was probably interested in my well-being.
War is not a homemade product. You make it at someone else’s house. If you’ve got the eggs, flour, milk, sugar, oil, and gold, then I’ll bring the guns. Be expecting me at 8:00, because I plan on surprising you early.
A picture is worth a thousand words, but is 400% less valuable, because a picture only captures one of the senses—sight. However, words can describe the other four senses, making writing four times more potent than photography.
Even if there were only seventeen syllables left in the universe, I still don’t think The Mythical Mr. Boo would write a haiku. Especially not if those syllables were groups of “oh,” “no,” “ah,” “ouch,” “ugh,” “eek,” and “...
When I write I am an avocado, and in a team sport setting, I am guacamole. And not to sour cream on your dreams, but with my love life, I am a nacho.
When a writer has deep thoughts, I expect him to also have a deep voice. And if he doesn’t, he should remain silent and let his writer’s voice do all the speaking for him.
