People never believe you.

You don't know how to talk to people you don't like. Don't love, really. You can't live in the world with such strong likes and dislikes.

Get your dirty stinking moron knees off my chest.

Almost every time somebody gives me a present, it ends up making me sad.

Then again you may pick up just enough education to hate people who say, 'It's a secret between he and I.'

The cards are stacked (quite properly, I imagine) against all professional aesthetes, and no doubt we all deserve the dark, wordy, academic deaths we all sooner or later die.

Don't hate me because I can't remember some person immediately. Especially when they look like everybody else, and talk and dress and act like everybody else.