Seems like the only kind of job an American can get these days is committing suicide in some way.

Think of what a paradise this world would be if men were kind and wise.

I didn't know then what a sperm was, and so wouldn't understand his answer for several years. "My boy," he said, "you are descended from a long line of determined, resourceful, microscopic tadpoles-- champions every one.

Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.

There's only one me, and I'm stuck with him.

He became fubar in the classic way, which is to say that he was the victim of a temporary arrangement that became permanent.

If I am going to spend eternity visiting this moment and that, I'm grateful that so many of those moments are nice.