Thursday, June 19, 2003

Put on your thinking caps, kids. Last words, think 'em up. Here's a few to get started:

Damn it . . . Don't you dare ask God to help me.

Joan Crawford's parting shot. Biting off Warren for this one, but, well, what the fuck, right? Brain is toasted today. Dylan Thomas:

I've had eighteen straight whiskies, I think that's the record . . .

The Lord loves a poet, no?

God bless... God damn.

James Thurber. I can empathize with that one. Wonder how many good deeds I need to do to make up for the casual blasphemy. Any RC priests reading this?

I have offended God and mankind because my work did not reach the quality it should have.

Da Vinci. Don't you wish you only slept three hours a day?

Either that wallpaper goes, or I do.

Oscar Wilde. There is nothing finer, I begin to think, than a dry wit.

I'm fucked, fried and finished, friends. Talk to you later.

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