It's never good to fall in love with someone whom you'd have to stab in the eyeballs to elicit a response.

Not all shabby is chic, just like not every porn actor is a star.

Sometimes in New York, you're walking down the street and you realize there's a girl walking in front of you whose thighs you could hit a golf ball through, and maybe that makes you depressed.

For the average person, taken to their sick bed, it takes a serious bout of pneumonia or a full body cast to completely forget the life they had prior to falling off the rollercoaster. I, however, will do this over a paper cut on my thumb, obsessing of said cut and being generally consumed by it.

I'm a summer baby, so I usually have my birthday as a good summer memory.

I would gladly have accepted a heaping spoonful of nepotism when I got out of college and was looking for a job.

I used to think that nails-down-a-chalkboard was the worst sound in the world. Then I moved on to people-eating-cereal-on-the-phone. But only this week did I stumble across the rightful winner: it's the sound of a baggage carousel coming to a grinding halt, having reunited every passenger on your flight with their luggage, except for you.