It is very difficult to make one’s way in this world without being wicked at one time or another, when the world’s way is so wicked to being with.
They were almond cookies, although they could have been made of spinach and shoes for all I cared. I ate eleven of them, right in a row. It is rude to take the last cookie.
Various parts of my body told me that in the future they would appreciate it if I slept lying down on a bed instead of sitting at the counter of Black Cat Coffee. I quietly reassured them that this was an unusual situation, and had the machinery make me some bread as a breakfast.
It is likely I will die next to a pile of things I was meaning to read.
There is no way of knowing for sure whether or not you can trust someone, for the simple reason that circumstances change all of the time.
We laughed the rest of the way, because the point of this story is, it is not the cookies. It is the love.
There are some people who believe that home is where one hangs one’s hat, but these people tend to live in closets and on little pegs.
I write storys to entertain not to be the best.
Figuratively, they escaped from Cout Olaf and their miserable existence. They did not literally escape, because they were still in his house and vulnerable to Olaf’s evil in loco parentis ways.
Sometimes, just saying that you hate something, and having someone agree with you, can make you feel better about a terrible situation.
Today was a very cold and bitter day, as cold and bitter as a cup of hot chocolate, if the cup of hot chocolate had vinegar added to it and were placed in a refrigerator for several hours.
This toast feels raw. Is it safe to eat raw toast?
Blinded following the Blindfolded.
Every night I give a violin recital for six hours, and attendance is mandatory. The word ‘mandatory’ means that if you don’t show up, you have to buy me a large bag of candy and watch me eat it.
Can’t we sleep ten minutes more? I was having a lovely dream about sneezing without covering my mouth, and giving everybody germs.
After a certain age, you couldn’t even say where you were from. You went someplace, and lived there. And then you went someplace else.
Dead women tell no tales. Sad men write them down.
There are few sights sadder than a ruined book.
For Beatrice – My love for you shall live forever. You, however, did not.
This is love if it’s not with you, a terrible fiery something that makes people look away, and it feels like a punch in the throat.