Love Is Art, Not Truth. It’s Like

But That Inadequacy, Or Feeling Of Inadequacy, Never Really Goes Away. You Just Have To Trudge Ahead In The Rain, Regardless.

The Affectionate Farce I Make Of Him Ignores The Ways I Feel His Lack Of Love For Me. But We Are Managing.

If You're Suicidal, And You Don't Actually Kill Yourself, You Become Known As 'wry.

I Count Too Heavily On Birthdays, Though I Know I Shouldn't. Inevitably I Begin To Assess My Life By Them, Figure Out How I'm Doing By How Many People Remember; It's Like The Old Fantasy Of Attending Your Own Funeral: You Get To See Who Your Friends Are, Get To See Who Shows Up.

I Don't Think Of Any Sentence As A "one-liner", But I Do Pay Attention To How People Actually Speak When They Are Being Funny. Rhythm Is Key.