I’m still not a very good white wine, but I’m drinkable – you could put me in a punch, anyway.
There were about seventy-nine squillion people in the world, and if you were very lucky, you would end up being loved by fifteen or twenty of them.
There are many differences between a baby and an I-Pod. And one of the biggest is, no ones going to mug you for your baby.
What you don’t catch a glimpse of on your wedding day- because how could you?- is that some days you will hate your spouse, that you will look at him and regret ever exhchanging a word with him, let alone a ring and bodily fluids.
Even bad times have good things in them to make you feel alive.
It’s often the way that people who take their work seriously laugh at stupid jokes; it’s as if they are under-humored and, as a consequence, suffer from premature laugh-ejaculation.
The outward manifestations of an inner combustion are never very directed.
Books are, let’s face it, better than everything else.
When you get older, it feels like happy memories and sad memories are pretty much the same thing. It is all just emotion in the end. And any of it can make you weep.
We are never allowed to forget that some books are badly written; we should remember that sometimes they’re badly read, too.
And mostly all I have to say about these songs is that I love them, and want to sing along to them, and force other people to listen to them, and get cross when these other people don’t like them as much as I do.
You wouldn’t believe that so much could change just because a relationship ended.
One could argue that most of the trouble in the world is caused by introspection.
We can’t be as good as we’d want to, so the question then becomes, how do we cope with our own badness?
I couldn’t bear to think about the proper future, so I just tried to make things better for the next twenty minutes or so, over and over again.
Love, it turns out, is as undemocratic as money, so it accumulates around people who have plenty of it already: the sane, the healthy, the lovable.
I lost the plot for a while then. And I lost the subplot, the script, the soundtrack, the intermission, my popcorn, the credits, and the exit sign.
The trouble with history is that there are too many people involved.
I don’t even feel as if I’m the center of my own world, so how am I supposed to feel as though I’m the center of anyone else’s?
As I get older, the tyranny that football exerts over my life, and therefore over the lives of the people around me, is less reasonable and less attractive.