Anyone who shoots a real gun at you when drunk and angry is simply not husband material, regardless of his taste in literature.

Any chance beats no chance.

You know, exams are like war -- the birth rate of ideas goes up. Anything to keep from this dismal regimen, says poor mind, and hopefully tosses up another distraction.

I dreamed horse and lived horse and expected, if necessary, to marry a horse; for all practical purposes I was a horse.

The only way I can possibly heat my so-called mind up to working temperature is to imagine I'm talking to someone I admire.

Did you ever look into the personalities of male cooks, Army, logging camp, etc.? They're all supposed to be crazy, incomprehensible, contemptible. And angry. The act of feeding adult males seems to have strange personality effects.

All I can say is that laughter is my music; I would deeply suspect an argument which hadn't laughter.