Our home tells a story about us, so we may as well take the opportunity to make it a stylish one.
I just hope I remember to tell my kids that they are as happy as I look in my old photographs. And I hope that they believe me.
I just want you to know that you’re very special… and the only reason I’m telling you is that I don’t know if anyone else ever has.
I think that if I ever have kids, and they are upset, I won't tell them that people are starving in China or anything like that because it won't change the fact that they are upset.
Have you ever seen the stars in the night? See them closely, they will tell you, how to be open, how to love and how to shine and twinkle without any differences and jealousy of other stars.
All good stories - stories that touch your soul, stories that change your nature, stories that cause you to become a better person from their telling - these stories always contain truth.
And I suddenly understand what to do when bad things come. You don't hide, you don't look away; you get right up on them, you take the reins and you ride.
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.
Maybe I could hear better if my ears weren’t flipped inside out. Unlike a cat’s ears, you can’t tell mine are flipped over. But they must be, because I only seem to listen to myself.
In life or death situations, my father has only been there once for me. So I'd like to tell him thanks for not pulling out when I needed him the most: conception.
Some men want to go out with a bang. Personally, I'd rather not die from sex. I mean, what will my wife think when the police tell her?
If flip flops were oppressive, I wouldn't wear any. I'd go around showing of my bare feet of freedom. And I'd tell everyone that freedom causes blisters.
Sometimes no words come as a response, only shapes spring to mind. But after you tell me you love me, I can’t very well reply, “Hexagon!
The best thing about dating a deaf woman with no nose is being able to fart in bed and have her not know. Well, that is unless Edmond tells her, but I don't think he will.
But I don't know how I'll ever get a college degree and rise in the world with no high school diploma and eyes like piss holes in the snow, as everyone tells me.
If I say your breasts are perfect, don’t tell me I’m wrong—prove me wrong by showing me. If more people voted with their wallets, more strippers would be elected officials.
I make books because I love them as objects; because I want to put the pictures and the words together, because I want to tell a story.
They should make blindfolds with circles cut out where the eyes are, so kidnappers would be able to tell when their victims‘ eyes are closed, so their secret locations aren’t revealed.
I want to invent a What does it do? machine. “What does it do?” you’re probably wondering. Well, I’ll tell you. What it does is makes you wonder: What does it do?
You don’t look like anyone special at all,” I tell him. And I curse him. And I start a club to hate him. And I make a magic spell to get rid of him.
I want to go back to the tell-me-again times when I slept in her bed and we were everything together. When I was everything to her. Everything she needed.
