All Men Love To Talk

Love, Whether It's Friendship Or More, Is Like A Cup. It Fills Up Drop By Drop, Until One Last Drop And The Cup Is Full. The Liquid Hangs There Almost Above The Rim, Hangs There On Surface Tension Alone And You Know That One More Drop And It Will Spill Over.

I Hated Missing The End Of Anything. I Was Always Convinced That The Bit I'd Miss Would Be The Best Part.

No. But Then The American Government--whatever Branch--has Never Really Grasped The Concept Of Tribal Identity.

What's Your Name?" Donald." Hi, Donald, Missed You At The Wienie Roast.

There Had To Be A Circle Of Hell Where You Were Eternally Fourteen, Eternally In Junior High. One Of The Lower Circles.