I’m so tired of fiction that seems to subsist solely on cleverness. Give me realism, characters I can relate to, just because you’re a talent doesn’t give you license to squat over the page and crap all over the reader.

Someone who knows more than you.

She crumpled it up in her hand and made as if to open the door and force me out at thirty-thousand feet.
Were you worried?
No, embarrassed, though. Embarrassed plenty enough to not drink for the rest of the flight.

I continually downshift and never slow down, which only makes it harder on my engine.

Everybody who knew me then thinks I’m like dead or something.
Not everyone. Not me.
Well, everyone who’s known me since thinks I’m some kind of bastard or asshole.

Conventionally views of beauty don’t interest me.
No? What does then?
Only my own lust, only what makes my blood boil.
You’re a very selfish lover, aren’t you?
Aren’t we all?
Is that what you’ve come here to find out?
No, Amanda. I came here to talk to you about your sister.
I told you, she isn’t home.

Words with Z’s are fascinating to me because of the way they sound. The English tongue was made for Z’s.

The xylophone is a vastly underrated instrument.

I read something interesting in the USA Today.
Why were you reading that piece of shit?
Larry King’s column.
Who?
This writer and interviewer.
Never heard of him.
That don’t matter listen. King’s says that he read where the pinky toe is getting smaller all the time and in that in a few short millennia man will have lost it all together.
Good!
Good?
Fuck a-right. Most worthless goddamned digits on the feet.

Their minds barely know what their fingers are doing and not one looks at the clock. But the work is done absolutely on time every time.