I felt like it needed some color down there, so I painted the walls with the motherfucker.
Love requires Context.
God saves - but not now, and not here. His salvation is on layaway. Like all grifters, He asks you to pay now and take it on faith that you will receive later. Whereas women offer a different sort of salvation, more immediate and fulfilling. They don't put off their love for a distant, ill-defined eternity but make a gift of it in the here and now, frequently to those who deserve it least. So it was in my case. So it is for many. The devil and woman have been allies against God from the beginning.
Work and pray, live on hay, youll get pie in the sky when you die.
The soul is an irrational, indivisible equation that perfectly expresses one thing: you. The soul would be no good to the devil if it could be destroyed. And it is not lost when placed in Satan's care, as is so often said. He always know exactly how to put his finger on it.
The blood of a redheaded woman is three degrees cooler than the blood of a normal woman. This has been established by medical studies.
If you didn't have me to rake you over the coals now and then, there wouldn't be any fire in your life at all.
I didn't know the inner me was hungry," I said to Art. "That's because it already starved to death.
The difference between childhood and adulthood, Vic had come to believe, was the difference between imagination and resignation. You traded one for the other and lost your way.
When you think about it, most of the good ideas came along to make sin a whole lot easier.
She just knew that even when you had nothing, you still had love.
Men, she thought, were one of the world's few sure comforts, like a fire on a cold October night, like cocoa, like broken-in-slippers. Their clumsy affections, their bristly faces, and their willingness to do what needed to be done - cook an omelette, change lightbulbs, make with hugging - sometimes almost made being a woman fun.
Were talking about an attitude. Delayed gratification is there, planning, be able to give up something now to get something later.
Her sanity was a fragile thing, a butterfly cupped in her hands, that she carried with her everywhere, afraid of what would happen if she let it go-or got careless and crushed it.
Horror was rooted in sympathy . . . in understanding what it would be like to suffer the worst.
Don't ever have children, Tyler, unless you're ready to be afraid everyday for the rest of your life.
The language of sin was universal, the original Esperanto.
You'll have pie in the sky when you die.
I'll take the shooting. I'm used to that. I've been shot a few times in the past, and I guess I can stand it, again.
It bewildered Ig, the idea that a person could not be interested in music. It was like not being interested in happiness.
It was like wondering how evil had come into the world or what happens to a person after he dies: an interesting philosophical exercise, but also curiously pointless, since evil and death happened, regardless of the why and the how and what-it-meant.
She liked things that had been written by people who had lived short, ugly, and tragic lives. Or, who at least, were English.
Well. That's helpful. We'll put an APB out on the Gingerbread Man. I'm not hopeful it'll do us much good, though. Word on the street is you can't catch him.
I am; I was. I want to be.
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