These people who need their television or stereo or radio playing all the time. These people so scared of silence. These are my neighbors. These sound-oholics. These quiet-ophobics.
Ghoulie or ghosty or long-legged beastie, I just want my hand held.
Monster Girl Steals Festive Holiday Bird.
Posing girl, you are so Godawful ugly. Did you let an elephant sit on your face or what?
The first time Marla filled a crematory urn, she didn’t wear a face mask, and later she blew her nose and there in the tissue was a black mess of Mr. Whoever.
Between the yams and the stuffing, Dad looks down at his plate and says, “Do you know about rimming?” I know it isn’t table talk. “And fisting?” my mom asks.
Either a brave, stubborn southern belle is trying to keep the Union army from burning the apartment next door, or somebody’s television is too loud.
We’re bright young things, and no bright young thing wants to squander his life as a custodian to the dead.
When nobody will look at you, you can stare a hole in them.
Religion... is merely what people invent when they wake late at night filled with ancient terror of being found out in their little nest of grasses and torn to shreds by the inevitable.
And, leaning over sideways to look, Comrade Snarky says, “My eyes are green, not brown, and my hair is naturally this color auburn.” She watches as he writes green, then says, “And I have a little red rose tattooed on my butt cheek.” Her eyes settle on the silver tape recorder peeking out of his shirt pocket, the little-mesh microphone of it, and she says, “Don’t write dyed hair. Women either lift or tint the color of their hair.
I’d make you list at least fifty hand signals. That way you’d always, always be aware of the variety of gestures you can insert into dialogue.
Create tension by pitting your character’s gestures against his or her words.
The insomnia distance of everything, a copy of a copy of a copy. You can’t touch anything, and nothing can touch you.
The insomnia was on again, and I was in the mood to destroy something beautiful.
The fifth rule about Project Mayhem is you have to trust Tyler.
For serious, the Mommy told him, “Art never comes from happiness.
Just because it’s anal intercourse doesn’t mean it’s not love.
Yawning and laughter,” she went on to explain, “are contagious because they were the protohuman’s method for regulating the mood of their group or tribe.
It’s Project Mayhem that’s going to save the world. A cultural ice age. A prematurely induced dark age. Project Mayhem will force humanity to go dormant or into remission long enough for the Earth to recover.
All much valued education of Pavel, all skill and experience, every memories, dreams for glory, regrets, affection and loathing, education of history events and trigonometry equation, entire personality with identity, all of these blasted. All skill and talents. Past and future. All meticulous plan and training and practice. Pulverized and shattered. All former joy and sorrow made steaming gray meatloaf, evicted from skull out exit wound.