I Want Fake Love. But That's All

We All Believe That We Are A Certain Kind Of Person, But We Never Know Until We Do Something That Proves Otherwise, Or Until We Die.

But Whenever I Meet Dynamic, Nonretarded Americans, I Notice That They All Seem To Share A Single Unifying Characteristic: The Inability To Experience The Kind Of Mind-blowing, Transcendent Romantic Relationship They Perceive To Be A Normal Part Of Living. And Someone Needs To Take The Fall For This. So Instead Of Blaming No One For This (which Is Kind Of Cowardly) Or Blaming Everyone (which Is Kind Of Meaningless), I'm Going To Blame John Cusack.

When Someone Writes A Book Review, They Obviously Already Self-identify As A Writer. I Mean, They Are. They're Writers, They're Critics, And They're Writing About A Book About A Writer Who's A Critic. So I Think It's Really Hard For People To Distance Themselves From What They're Criticizing.

In Some Ways, Halloween Is Much Easier For Women. They Can Just Dress As Sluts, And It's Kind Of A Costume, If They Never Do Any Other Time.

Sometimes I Think That The Amount Of Time You Live On Earth Is Just An Inverse Reflection Of How Good You Were In A Previous Existence. For Example, Infants Who Die From Sids Were Actually Great People When They Were Alive For Real, So They Get To Go To Heaven After A Mere Five Weeks In Purgatory. Meanwhile Anyone Willard Scott Ever Congratulated For Turning One Hundred Two Was Obviously A Terrible Individual Who Had Many Many Previous Sins To Pay For And Had To Spend A Century In His Or Her Own Unknown Purgatory Even Though The Person Seemed Perfectly Wholesome In This Particular World.