There are worse things than death. Once you’re worm food, it’s over. Painless. Quiet. While the rest of us are stuck digging holes, picking up the pieces and remembering.
The only decision I’m qualified to make is bourbon or more bourbon.
The moral of my s***ty story is, if your dead parent comes back to life, stick ’em back in the ground.
The line keeps moving. And I keep stepping over it. How far is too far? And will there ever be a way back?
Summer in New York City. It’s hot. It’s humid. And everyone’s just a little more pissed off than usual. Scratch that. A lot more.
Sometimes there is no question, no doubt. You know what you’re looking at. You know exactly what to do. Get the bad guy.
So you infected him? Wow! I wish I had a Mother of the Year award so I could bludgeon you with it.
Simpson was right. It takes a monster to stop a monster. He just wasn’t the right monster.
Saving someone doesn’t mean unkilling someone else.
Pictures tell stories, too. But sometimes the real story is just out of frame.
People don’t usually panic at the sight of cops unless they’ve ridden in the back of a cruiser.
People do bad s***. I just avoid getting involved with them in the first place. That works for me. Most of the time.
