I had everything I’d hoped for, but I wasn’t being myself. So I decided to be honest about who I was. It was strange: The people who loved me for being funny suddenly didn’t like me for being… me.
I like sitting at outdoor restaurants; it would be nice to go someplace on the street and not worry about somebody taking my picture while I’m about to take a bite of something.
You know, it’s hard work to write a book. I can’t tell you how many times I really get going on an idea, then my quill breaks. Or I spill ink all over my writing tunic.
You can always tell when the relationship is over. Little things start getting on your nerves, ‘Would you please stop that! That breathing in and out, it’s so repetitious.’
Penguins mate for life. Which doesn’t really surprise me, because they all look exactly alike. It’s not like they’re gonna meet a better-looking penguin someday.
