I can’t work well when I am under stress. It reduces me to normalcy. Stress is my kryptonite. And I usually don’t change in phone booths, though I do take long distance showers there.

I need either a small coffee or a large nap.

He was a pleasant fellow, saying please and thank you as he pounded me in the face. That’s why I sent him a Get Well Soon card, since he was probably interested in my well-being.

I’ll kill you with kindness. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll kill you with something deadlier, like a karate chop.

I chug coffee—for fun and for love.

I asked the girl at the coffee shop out on a date. Unfortunately she said no, probably because I asked her out to coffee.

The number I had for her didn’t work. But in this depression, could you blame it?

I invented scissors with wheels, so I could cut to the chase. Next time we make love it will be the first time, and I’ll bring a sock soaked in coffee.

I didn’t have enough money to tip the waitress, so I offered to take her out on a date, provided she paid for dinner. And picked me up.

Our love meant the world to me. Well, certainly a globe at least.

Love is a lot like coffee in that I can never seem to get enough of it, and hers is hot and mine is iced.

I murdered all my staff. I’m terribly sorry. I thought they were someone else (my wife).

I don’t trust you.” I’ll tell you, it’s like looking in a mirror when you make eye contact with your clone.

The Book of Us. I’m writing it. And you’re in it.

If somebody kills me, at least I won’t be accused of murder. Well, assuming all my clones have alibis.

We Do.” My tagline will be: We at We Do do what we do so you don’t have to.

I wrote half this book (the left half) while I was asleep, and I wrote the other half (the top half) while daydreaming. So here we have a case where two halves equal one quarter,...

My farts smell like coffee. Drink them up. But slowly, because they’re hot.

Loyalty is for the dogs. Count me among the cats. And count me twice—once for each of my faces.

When I feel sad, I try to think of someone else in the world who is suffering worse than me. Like someone in Seattle, who is hurting so bad financially that instead of a vente...

When a writer has deep thoughts, I expect him to also have a deep voice. And if he doesn’t, he should remain silent and let his writer’s voice do all the speaking for him.

I’ll see a cat and instinctively start petting the hair on my back.

He looks like you’d imagine him to look like, if you had no imagination.

While getting a haircut, I thought about my failed marriage. Instead of feeling bad, I thought I’d grow a beard, move to the mountains, and start over.

The last time somebody pointed out that cowboys ride horses, not tricycles, I shot him. Of course, I waited until another gunslinger gunned him down, but nevertheless, I still shot him.

Out of love I made you a cake. Also out of milk, eggs, flour, sugar, and vanilla.

A person crying is like a sponge wringing itself out. Love is better than a sink that turns itself off without you having to touch the handle.

You know cats, always scratching on this or that, but never scratching what you want when you want it. (Like my balls, when they’re itchy!) I recently got him declawed, which sucked for him, but...

I look for patterns that nobody else does. Like I noticed that my face looks like a tablecloth. Especially when I have food all over it.

It was a cold night, so I got a fire going. I lit a scented candle.

I love when my cat crushes his forehead into mine like my skull is an empty beer can. But it’s not—there’s still a sip left.

She gave me the cold shoulder, so I heated it up in the microwave. Sometimes #love is leftovers.

If somebody pushed you down a well, I’d rush over and toss you a bucket, because I’m fucking thirsty.

Happy Birthday.

My love is like leftovers, and her image is the original meal. I should have eaten it all in one sitting.

When your action is gone, and all that’s left is motionlessness, I’ll be there, whistling.

I just bought a small condo overlooking the water. The water is in a cup, one floor below my unit.

I’m clingy like clang on pots. My love is cookable.

I loved her like the sun might say to the moon, “Stop stealing my light!”

I may not be able to remember your name, but I remember your address and what time you leave in the mornings. Your name isn’t Rob, is it?

I want a moon canoe, because have you ever tried paddling through dirt? Love is a journey, and I try to travel as efficiently as I can.

I coiled my empty straw wrapper around like a snake. Then I bit it before it could bite me. My love is as dangerous as my drinking habits.

I was seen spotted with an older woman and a girl half my height in age. A leopard was also spotted.

Right on cue, I figured out the letter that comes after P.

Welcome to Dinnerville, where it’s always breakfast. When love is in the air, you can tell it’s about to rain.

Can America get back to a point where politicians are honest? Not unless that point is the tip of a sword.

Dream dialogue: -Don’t cry. I, too, know what it’s like to be different. -But I’m not different. I’m normal, I’m average, and that’s why I’m crying.

I wish he had even half Napolean’s height in ambition. Maybe then he could stand taller and be proud.

I write love quotes for all ages—Teenagers, Young Adults, and even the Middle Ages—like between the years of 1200-1700. Erasmus loves my work. Well, probably he does, but as he’s dead you really can’t prove...

I often wear camouflaged pants so when I walk I look like a floating torso. I love with the same air of mystery.