I define myself and grow as a person through emotional torment, so if you love me, you will inflict as much pain on me as you possibly can.

All thoughts, secret or spoken, belong in a coffee table book written in Braille, so you can really feel the emotions.

I hid my feelings for her for years, and I thought all was well until my neighbor went digging in her garden and found them buried in the ground. I’m so embarrassed I could just...

I drank her essence, and it’s like she never existed and now I’m thirsty again. Let this be a lesson in love.

I bought a five-pound sack of sugar. Now I just need to buy a cup of coffee to dump it in.

Jacksonville is home to the most romantic man in the known universe. And it will be for some time, until I either move away, or my clone arrives to challenge me for my title.

It’s absolutely unfair for women to say that guys only want one thing: sex. We also want food.

This book has nothing to do with cats. Or mice. Or self-motivation. This book is 100% 50% finished. But don’t worry, I finished the good half. But don’t be mistaken—the good half isn’t good at...

I’ve got better things to think about than thoughtlessness.

I am the alphabet soup of love. Eat me or read me, but don’t feed me to the cats.

I think the perfect pen name is Quill McSeagull. Especially for writing flights of fancy—and nothing has more feathers than a love poem.

A brick could be used to help you become the next Great American Novelist. Hopefully after you use it to crack your own skull, and not too long after your death, the public will realize...

My name is Meow. At least that’s what my cat calls me. But you can call me after nine.

As soon as we met, she probably imagined herself marrying me. Then within five minutes, she was probably already envisioning divorce.

A brick could be used to stop people from reading my book. Just place the brick on the book’s cover, to discourage people from opening it up.

I’m not courageous. In fact, when I shadow box I wear boxing gloves that are outfitted with flashlights.

Taste my tears and tell me I don’t have the saltiest love you’ve ever licked. My love for you is like a liquid potato chip.

A great band name would be Tickling Whiskers. Especially if the lead singer is a cat. I’d love to audition for backup dancer.

If your house was burning, what would you grab? I’d grab my penis. Repeatedly.

I believe in the power of love. Also, I like cats.

More people are leaving TV behind to read my books than ever before. In the last year alone I gained over two readers (three, to be exact). So I’d like to take a moment and...

No matter how much water a sink takes on, it never lives up to its name. The Titanic would never have sunk if it were made out of a sink.

It’s just a dream, I told myself. I hate when I dream of alarm clocks going off.

Is a picture really worth a thousand words? What thousand words? A thousand words from a lunatic, or a thousand words from Nietzsche? Actually, Nietzsche was a lunatic, but you see my point. What about...

When I see a cop’s lights behind me at two in the morning, and I have my disco ball dangling from my rearview mirror, it’s like, Hey, a party! Especially if I’ve been drinking.

The other day I went to the Huddle House. I wasn’t hungry, I just wanted to call some plays.

Who would you rather make love to—me, or the dead carcass of a deer? Don’t deliver a hasty answer. Think it over.

I have good news and I have bad news. The good news is that your house hasn’t burned down, you don’t have cancer, and your daughter hasn’t been raped or murdered. The bad news is...

He doesn’t have sex with sheep—he sleeps with scapegoats. He is my father, and I haven’t seen him since before I was born.

I’m twice as old as she is tall. She’s half my age in height. We have a David and Goliath kind of love.

Many people wonder, is my love a llama—or an alpaca? The answer, is yes.

My love is like the shape your mouth makes while you whistle. Would you mind if I accompanied you on my harmonica?

I have a phobia of balloons—and other sharp objects. I also have a fear of too much love—giving, not getting.

I went to a potluck. I brought my own pot—and luck. The pot was empty, just like my promise to bring food the next time.

I had tons of fun, minus 3,999 pounds.

A brick is a lot like love. I mean, I’m sure it is. It simply must be. However, I can’t think of how at the moment, but that’s natural, because I’m not Cupid. OK, here’s...

Question for your life: If you could change War’s name, do you think you’d change its nature?

A brick could be used as a stamp on a letter, to increase the weight and boost the cost and profitability of the postal service. It would be government efficiency at its finest.

I once watched several criminals engage in an organized argument, while an audience of supporters cheered them on, but I was so disgusted that I had to turn off the political debate.

Nothing, Everything, Anything, Something: If you have nothing, then you have everything, because you have the freedom to do anything, without the fear of losing something.

There’s a relentless wave of WTF coming out of Washington DC.

The truth is I did try to stab him. I tried to stab him with a butter knife. Why? Because it seemed deadlier than trying to stab him with a melting stick of butter.

Handcuffs barely wrap around the girth of my penis. I should run for Congress.

In a battle of believability, the winner is the one with the best body language, not the clearest logic.

Do you ever wonder if you’re the antichrist? I do. Not for myself of course, but I think you’re the devil.

There’s truth in what you say, even though it’s all lies.

Mr. Shit gives politicians a good name. It’s the rest of the politicians who give Mr. Shit a bad name.

Reading a book is like having the ability to dip a straw into the author’s soul and sip and slurp without lowering the water table of wisdom.

I wish somebody would combine tasers and dildos, and test the devices out on all the politicians in Washington DC. Well, all the politicians except Barney Frank, who’d actually derive pleasure from the experiment.

At first, the drudgery of mastering your craft is a prison—boring, slow, and with an awareness of how much time you’ll have to put in. But somewhere along your prison sentence, you come to see...