rigorousintuition.ca

He looks like a pink nightmare.

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- Merry Christmas, you old Bijou Theater! Merry Christmas, Mr. Potter!
- And a Happy New Year to you - in jail!

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Our free range days are over.

My prediction? Pain.

It must be WONDERFUL to be a writer!
Oh, thrilling!

First, you find a little thread, the little thread leads you to a string, and the string leads you to a rope, and from the rope you hang by the neck.

The cat's in the bag. And the bag's in the river.

"Why do you want to leave me? Why? I'm sorry I'm not real. If you let me, I'll be so real for you!"

The chain in those handcuffs
is high-tensile steel.

It'd take you ten minutes
to hack through it with this.

Now, if you're lucky...

...you could hack through your ankle
in five minutes.

Go.

"I know I've made some very poor decisions recently, but I can give you my complete assurance that my work will be back to normal. I've still got the greatest enthusiasm and confidence in the mission. And I want to help you."

Release the kraken.

I studied philosophy, history of religion, aesthetics. And ended up putting myself in chains. Of my own free will.

No-ho on the ro-ho.

AhabsOtherLeg wrote:I must have some booze. I demand to have some booze.

If you're hanging on to a rising balloon, you're presented with a difficult decision — let go before it's too late or hang on and keep getting higher, posing the question: how long can you keep a grip on the rope?

You're born, you take shit.
You get out in the world, you take more shit.
You climb a little higher, you take less shit.
Till one day
you're up in the rarefied atmosphere
and you've forgotten what shit even looks like.

Welcome to the layer cake son.