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Face the facts: The facts are faceless.
"I'm not a loser! I like cool stuff!" -Every loser at some point in their life
Mornings are not my specialty.
Growing up should require a permission slip.
Not very convenient for Gotham, only being able to contact Batman at night.
Unfadeable, so please don't try to fade me, maybe?
Hot, cold, hot, cold. Chicago appears to be going through menopause.
I didn't want to tell you this, but...you can't make me.
Another miserable miasma of early evening winter worsening.
My ex told me "Have a lice knife!" when she moved out. Dyslexia, probably. I boiled my knives anyway.
Just another day where I stand in front of the firing squad, hoping not to be noticed.
Bottled up my boredom and sold it to the hipsters. They say it's horrible but they keep coming back for more.
Cold morning light rudely elbows its way into my apartment through the windowshades.
Sunday morning coming down. Afternoon, whatever. Shut up.
I tell my sandwiches I love them, and I'm sorry it has to be this way. Then I administer a lethal injection of sandwiches to my belly.
Girl, gimme your foam number. I need to numb some foam.
I used to like golf, but I got sick of playing with little white balls in the outdoors. Now I just play with my little white balls at home.
"Zen And The Art Of Napping" taught me that any time is a good time to take a nap.
The words of the profit were written on the subway walls: "Sell big, buy small."
Barely a bore, bearing the brunt of the burgeoning buildup.
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