‘It’s my birthday. Isnt it my birthday?’
——Bars exist to help give strangers a place to gather till they get
——just drunk enough not to care no one knows them.
‘I’m glad I got that off my chest,’ the scat fetishist said.
‘Whiskey neat is like [a novel]. It’s a process. There’s a beginning, a middle & an end.’
——A very cleansing poop, the soothsayer says.
‘It’s my birthdaaaaaay,’ she says, standing on the seat, cushioned.
——Ginger Falcon Punch to the face.
The brown-noser. The bookworm. The hippie.
——Weak acid is a persistent chubby for yr whole existence.
‘Nice sweater, bitch.’
——’You’re rad. Taste my weiner sauce.’
‘It’s my birthday in 11 — no, in 43 minutes.’
——It’s the power of art that someone often first relates their life
——events to some fictional happening.
Most of what happens to everyone else is fictitious, but so is
everything that happens to you.