All killer whales are named Kevin. You knew that, right?
You were supposed to empathize with your friend’s problem, but they were, after all, your friend’s problems...
Life is messy. Would that every puzzle piece fell into place, every word was kind, every accident happy, but such is not the case. Life is messy.
This Roberto. He no like the light.
I fear you may become a lonely man, even in the company of others.
Charlie had Sophie strapped to his chest like a terrorist baby bomb when he came down the back steps. She had just gotten to the point where she could hold up her head, so he had strapped her in face-out so she could look around. The way her arms and legs waved around as Charlie walked, she looked as if she was skydiving and using a skinny nerd as a parachute.
Like looking down on a lubricious chess set, isn’t it? The king moves in tiny steps, with no direction, like a drunkard trying to avoid the archer’s bolt. The others work their strategies and wait for the old man to fall. He has no power, yet all power moves in his orbit and to his mad whim. Do you know there’s no fool piece on the chessboard, Kent?” “Methinks the fool is the player, the mind above the moves.
Their names are Death, Disease, War, and Sparkle-Darkle Glitter-tits,” Sophie said. “They’re the four little ponies of the Apocalypse.
You should never pass up an opportunity to be kind. You should never not thank someone. You should never not say something nice when you think it.
God is a comedian playing to an audience that is afraid to laugh.
She can be a whirlwind of tits and terror when she puts her mind to a purpose, can’t she, sir?
Tommy moved on. “Lash, your people have been oppressed for hundreds of years. It’s time to strike back. Look, you don’t have your MBA yet – they haven’t completely juiced you of your usefulness yet. Would Martin Luther King back down from this challenge? Malcolm X? James Brown? Don’t you have a dream? Don’t you feel good, like you knew that you would, now?
Faith isn’t an act of intelligence, it’s an act of imagination. Every time you give them a new metaphor, a mustard seed, a field, a garden, a vineyard, it’s like pointing something out to a cat – the cat looks at your finger, not at what you’re pointing at. They don’t need to understand it, they only need to believe, and they do. They imagine the kingdom as they need it to be, they don’t need to grasp it, it’s there already, they can let it be. Imagination, not intellect.
I like my tea like I like my men,” Audrey said. Jane looked at her quizzically. “Weak and green,” Charlie said.
It was the kind of kiss that he wanted to wake up to and keep refreshing periodically until he got one long last one, salty with tears, in his casket.
Henceforth and from now on, I decree that whenever something bad happens to me, there shall be bunnies around. So it shall be written.
Everything is a story. What is there but stories? Stories are the only truth.
He didn’t understand religion. It was like heroin or golf: He knew a lot of people did it, but he didn’t understand why.
When he was reading he could fly away into the wildest skies of imagination, untethered to the reality that his soul was trapped in a wretched creature cobbled together from meat and bone, like us all.
LOST 2 Irish Hellhounds. Very black, like bear. Huge, like bear. Answer to Alvin and Mohammed. Like to eat everything. Like bear! REWARD!