A man’s subconscious self is not the ideal companion. It lurks for the greater part of his life in some dark den of its own, hidden away, and emerges only to taunt and deride and increase the misery of a miserable hour.
I’m not a detective from Baker Street or an old lady who solves crimes while she’s knitting in an easy chair. I’m just a book girl. So I can’t make a deduction, only take a flight of fancy–er, forget I said that. I meant, I can only take a guess.
Go take a shower, you smell like good sex and unnecessary regret.
Amusement, even ironic amusement, is the beginning of sincere appreciation, as any lapsed hipster knows.
Mr. D,” Grover asked timidly, “if you’re not going to eat it, could I have your Diet Coke can?
Orange is the New Black is a really boring porn.
Most people want to be delivered from temptation but would like it to keep in touch.
Isn’t it a pity we can’t have two husbands? One to look at and one to talk to.
I’d much rather be a woman than a man. Women can cry, they can wear cute clothes, and they are the first to be rescued off of sinking ships.
Am I on your walk of shame? You did sleep with the right MacGregor, didn’t you?