My head hurts, my feet stink, and I don't love Jesus. It's that kind of morning.
The cheating was sweet, but my heart is beat. Don't tear it apart, please by-pass this heart.
Any attempts at autobiography before the age of eighty seem pretty self-involved to me. There are a lot of smart middle aged people but not many wise ones.
It was too much Tequila, or not quite enough.
What if life is just a cosmic joke, like spiders in your underwear.
Indecision may or may not be my problem.