Tea and sympathy. Beer and bull shit. Hot chocolate and clean socks. Coffee and soft words. It's all the same. Comfort for a weary soul.
"No Imagination" is just about the worst label that can be hung upon another person.
It's funny how unlike me most other people are.
Every Tom, Dick, and Harry these days is named Michael.
Jesus was a vagrant. They passed laws to deal with his kind.
"Meet me at the trysting tree." You don't hear many people say that anymore.
I'm thinking of writing a paradigm store novel. I know there's no market for it at the present time, but there might be sometime in the future.
Waste of money. Waste of time. Waste of energy. Waste of sentiment. Did it anyway. Regretted it. Waste of regret.
Life is mourning. That's all I remember of life anyway. If there was time before loss and regret I am unable to envision it. Me, with my funeral face, move from one disaster to another.
Time turns experience into a literary endeavor. What was lived is eventual read like a novel.
I like to call the Republican Presidential debates "The Tiny Penis Parade."
Selective compassion is no compassion at all.
He's a horse and buggy personality in an age of jet planes. One step behind and a dollar short would be an improvement.
Fuzziwuzzy was a bear. Fuzziwuzzy had no hair. Fuzziwuzzy died of exposure because of his physical deformity and the harsh Michigan winters when he was still a cub.
Our eyes naturally look ahead, least we trip over the future.
If you knew what kind of life was ahead of me without you, would you have cared?
Happiness is problematic. Only misery is pure. Such is life.
There is no remedy for my malaise. The time for cure has long passed. I will carry this virus until my blood runs dry.
Another year. Another trip around the Sun. All that traveling and we all just end up back from where we started from.
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