All we think about these days are life and death.
They were here in January, too, when we returned from New Hampshire. I cried when I saw them.
“English, motherfucker! Do you speak it?”
Countless flakes falling at once is a childlike joy that will never grow old, but flurries merit an older, wiser joy.
Words in a handwritten letter resonate like sound waves.
I’ve reached an era when everything is about doing instead of being.
They might make you feel better during times of crisis, but they suck as grenades.
The paperwork is far worse than the pain.
I am a saint for refraining from shoving pantookas and wuzzles two feet up her ass before I walked out forever. Trust me on this.
I want to hear Bernadette in “Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert” say, “NO MORE FUCKING DVORAK.”