I like making money. I make it out of wood. I make nickels mostly.

I let go of her memory the moment I let go of her hand. She fell over 500 feet to her death.

A Dragon Rose is a flying flower that breathes fire. A relationship isn’t truly a romance if there isn’t a tiny element of danger involved.

I’m strapped for cash, and I’m also strapped to a chair in someone’s basement.

Like the ocean I wave. Hello and goodbye are the same, when I talk with my hand.

I could fuck on my back like 4:44. But I don’t. I do it like 3:33.

Employment: I’ll trade my time and labor for your money. So time is not money, because money is time plus labor. I spend my time saving money, I spend my money saving time, and I...

My fake mullet wig turns women on. Probably.

It’s me and you, or me and knitting. Don’t make me choose. Ugh, #love.

Money I don’t earn is worse than money I squandered—because not only do I not have the money, but I don’t have the trinkets, knickknacks, vacation photos, or whatever else I could have left over...

I once inscribed the word “Ennui” backwards on my forehead, and I was so bored that I stared at it in the mirror for hours. And at the end of that time, I felt like...

In the spirit of slumber parties, I want to have a sleepover and invite only narcoleptics.

My love is in the shape of a car, and when it hits you you’ll notice.

If artists often get famous posthumously, then there is only one thing for me to do—fake my own death. Or I could just wait for science to give me a clone, and kill him instead....

I just got circumcised, and to help the homeless, I’m going to make a tent out of my foreskin. But right now I’m offering free coffee if you haven’t got a place to sleep.

Love in a box. It’s a gift—for both of us, from both of us.

It’s not how much you paid, but how much it would cost to replace it that’s important. What is the price of love?

I’m a dyslexic dancer. Instead of leading the women, I follow. Quick, cab driver, follow that woman!

When one is two, it is love, and one plus one equals three.

I eat soup with chopsticks—and straws. And I make love with the surgical precision of a sledgehammer.

so you suspect his death was a suicide.

I’ve been to a horse farm, a magical place where jockeys grow on trees. That’s where we made love for the first time like it was the second time.

I make love like Brett Favre threw his first pass as a Green Bay Packer—to himself. Obviously, himself is myself.

Don’t litter.

I invented a Love Machine. You should buy two, one as a backup—or to run both simultaneously while you masturbate.

Half my body is sunburned, and the other half is melted like ice cream. But at least my love for her is still cold.

She looked like the kind of woman I could fall in love with. Trouble is, she was standing next to the kind of woman I’d like to make love to.

Words are all we’ve got. Besides, of course, actions. But you can’t print out and read actions. Actions also don’t carry ideas with the same ease as words.

Sexy isn’t my middle name. Lust-factory is, with the hyphen.

Love is the jelly to sunshine’s peanut butter. And if I tell you that I’m in sandwich with you, I’m not just saying it to get in your Ziploc bag.

Men will tolerate what they are used to, even if it’s intolerance. That’s why I still drink milk, even though I’m lactose intolerant. Mamma didn’t raise no bigot.

A blanket could represent change, and a brick represents consistency. Do you embrace the blanket, or the brick?

To love someone as much as you love yourself, that is the ideal. Especially if that someone is your clone.

In the future, man will travel on flying carpets, and shoes that float on water. And we’ll all make love together, as one, as one might masturbate today.

Even though I know my own name (barely), I still sometimes write my name wrong. Usually it only happens when I write in cursive and am endorsing checks for money I can’t recall earning.

Hydrogenated and androgynous milky white love is all I have to offer you. Would you like me to pour it in your coffee, or directly into your soul?

Some people work to live, and other people live to work. Then some people, like me, are both unemployed and alive (at least at the time of this writing).

I’m trying to translate what my cat says and put it in a book, but how many homonyms are there for meow?

She has a sly smile, and eyes that seem to see my essence as they explore my soul and implore my spirit to enter her. I look at her and I see love.

Last night at work, I was short people. I was two midgets and a mute.

I wear a helmet when I write, because if you’re doing it right, writing is dangerous.

In a blind taste-test, my kisses were rated as Helen Kelleresque. Women love how the only sense I keenly possess is nonsense.

My clone will have my mind, but I don’t mind. Two heads are better than one—especially when those two are one and the same.

My printer printed off blank pages. Is my printer out of ink, or do I just have nothing to say?

The cat hair floated in the air like a sound vibration, and I plucked it like a guitar string. Sometimes I can be so musical I’m like a living love song.

I’d like to see a flag made not out of stars and stripes, but rather fingers and knuckles, so that it could really wave in the wind. It would be the most welcoming flag in...

I could have thought up a lot of things, but many great people had to go and live before me. They might have stole my thunder, but I’ve got a tight hold on the lightning.

What can I say about love that’s never been said by me or anyone else? Well, sometimes love smells like my farts, after I eat a dozen roses.

Tell me there’s a God, and I’ll believe you. But tell me you’re not in love with me, and I’ll shoot you an incredulous look. Then I’ll shoot you.

You can read until you’re blue in the face, but I’d recommend writing until you’re red in the face. And ass.