“Romance is a dream. I can get better shit at the liquor store.”

I gave her address to my soul. Ans she fucked the mailman.

I liked her simplicity. She wanted coffee and orgasms.

In an endless universe, she needed space.

I messed up a lot of things. I called it poetry.

Overcoming guilt, its the first step to doing it again.

Sometimes there are no words. Sometimes, it’s just poetry.

I wake to find her there, with glowing eyes and tangled hair. She is my sunrise.

Her memory still lingers, like a cockroach in my heart.

True love is letting her know that her ass really does look fat in those jeans.

If there’s never been a restraining order, it ain’t love.

It wasn’t forever. But I loved her until I hated her.

She was only a collection of flaws and she was beautiful.

There’s a strange beauty in her. She shines like hell.

He opened her cages, and freed the things inside.

I’m wrong but I’m real.

Break me. Until there’s nothing left and I’ll be free.

I have this disease late at night sometimes, involving alcohol and the telephone.

The club isn’t the best place to find a lover so the bar is where I go.

There is more refreshment and stimulation in a nap, even of the briefest, than in all the alcohol ever distilled.

If they took all the drugs, nicotine, alcohol, and caffeine off the market for six days, they’d have to bring out the tanks to control you.

Wouldn’t it be terrible if I quoted some reliable statistics which prove that more people are driven insane through religious hysteria than by drinking alcohol.

Alcoholic: anybody who drinks more than I do.

I have been advised by the best medical authority, at my age, not to attempt to give up alcohol.

I don’t drink anymore, on the other hand I don’t drink any less either.