May the IRS find that you deduct your pet sheep as an entertainment expense.
One of them hissed-not the hiss of a cat, a long, steady tone-more like the hiss of air escaping the rubber raft that is all that lies between you and a dark sea full of sharks, the hiss of your life leaking out at the seams.
Only by being prepared for your death can you ever truly live.
Lonliness evaporated off of them like the steam off dry ice, and by morning it was just a cloud on the ceiling of the room, then gone with the light.
The gourney, the big file drawers of the dead, the instruments of dissection – this sure looked like the morgues in the movies. Something had gone seriously wrong while she slept.
Even a mentally challenged shark would figure out that sea turtles did not wear boxer shorts printed in flying piggies, and no sea turtle would be yattering streams of obscenities between chain-smoker gasps of breath.
Most of us don’t live our lives with one, integrated self that meets the world, we’re a whole bunch of selves.
Theophilus Crowe’s mobile phone played eight bars of “Tangled Up in Blue” in an irritating electronic voice that sounded like a choir of suffering houseflies, or Jiminy Cricket huffing helium, or, well, you know, Bob Dylan.
I am convinced by the events of the last few weeks that nefarious forces of people – unidentified but no less real – are threatening life as we know it, and in fact, may be bent on unraveling the very fabric of our existence.
I could stand on my head and flick the bean right there at the dinner table and my mom would be all, “Honey, Christmas is family time, we should be together” and make me finish in front of everyone.
Sarcasm will make your tits fall off.
She’s evil. Evil, evil, evil. I want to see her naked.
I think I’m what they call a never-was.
I think there was always some scrawny dreamer sitting at the edge of the firelight, who had the ability to imagine dangers, to look into the future in his imagination and see possibilities, and therefore survived to pass his genes on to the next generation.
I’ve won Satan’s lottery.
You sure about this writer thing son?
She doesn’t understand that a writer is a special creature – that I’m different from everyone else. I’m not saying I’m superior to other people, just more sensitive, I guess.
I know that even now, having watched enough television, you probably won’t even refer to them as lepers so as to spare their feelings. You probably call them ‘parts-dropping-off challenged’ or something.
She was an alien, really – a sort of eating, pooping, tantrum machine – and he didn’t understand anything about her species.
Do we look like thrill-seekers? Wasn’t it enough that we had to put up that sign reading NO HABLA ESPANOL and acknowledge the existence of thirty percent of the population, even in the negative?