He’s a policeman, a soldier, a programmer, a farmer, a murderer, a priest and a politician. He is anything that he wants to be. He’s a salesman by day and an author by night.
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All of my wife’s clothes are imported.
Fig trees won’t grow in our area of the country.
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I’m going to make up new words all day and make Webster work for a living.
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My thighs are rubbing. Why are my thighs rubbing?
Oh, there you are!
My brain mouse got loose again.
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The Internet is one big reality show called Dementia for the Masses. You can either tune in to the far left or far right of your dial. There’s not much in between.
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Why do I write this way?
My fingers have Tourette’s syndrome.
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