It’s been a bad month.
“What happened?”
You don’t really want me to answer.
“I didn’t realize it until you said it; yeah, I was really hoping you wouldn’t.”
I’m touched that you pretended to care.

Honest communication is an evocation of the speaker, not the audience.

In which L[] takes a page out of the anti-vapid book: ‘Well, I don't know about that. I'm fine with it; it's just really ephemeral.’
I will respect someone more who says, ‘In which L[] takes a page out of the anti-vapid book’ than, ‘Well. I don't know about that. I'm fine with it; it's just really ephemeral’.’

Extra special order.

I just had the Wait, what’s B[]’s last name? moment.
LOL
I’m confused. Is A[] a stripper?
lol Not as good as What's B[]'s last name?, though.

Certain names are verbs, allowing a name (Clive Staples Lewis) to become a sentence. Less remarkable are last names (Brooke Shields) which strain the bounds of transitivity. Rare are the fortunate ones (Mark Felt) whose first and last names are both verbs, allowing multiple possible sentences.

I have none.
Clearly, this is why you need more friends.

Quirk is established in slight exaggeration.

I can express what I need to express, and only those who understand me will understand me.

Hyperbole is the compensation for the loss of experience in communication.

((4! + 4)/4)^sqrt4 = 4! + 4! + 4/4 = (4 + 4 - tan (pi/4))^sqrt4

Number families.

More horizontal than vertical.

“Synthesize, organize, assuage, rutabage.”

Part to part to whole to whole.

Now I'm only trying to figure out whether we can have a metametonymnym.

“Dating, like the tyrant, seeks perfection (within a certain price range). Whereas the heart, like the eye, can only cling to imperfections: her funny stride, and the way her voice breaks, child-like, on the phone. And so the dater, self-baffling, seeks what the heart cannot understand. We must stop dating. But we can't.”

The past is dated.

“The only way to stop dating is to fall in love. But how, under conditions of dating, would this be possible? You are affected by all the dates you've been on, the relationships you've had. The pain you've inflicted binds you to the people who bore the brunt of it.”

Where's that from: 'I like you…kuleles'?
"I just like ukuleles. I didn't get it from anywhere."
I was afraid of that. Well, now you know what keeps me up at night.

Dreams are art without a soundtrack.

"Yeah, I look up youtubes of ukuleles at night."
Now I know what keeps you up at night.

Underwhelming: The Epic Continues.

Turnover prior to halftime.

Or maybe, Disappointing: The Last Battle.

“Have you ever seen a one trick pony…”

Wrestler is a struggle towards a tragically predictable ending. A stoic can take on any hurt and not feel it, except the hurt they themself inflict, and those hurts become self-inflicted as everything changes except self-identity. It should be so easy to halt, but in a contrived world that has glimmered with glory for too many decades, reality and phoniness become so indistinguishable to the observer and to the self, that physical pain leads to emotional torment. Any political or religious overtone is coincidental. The world is fake. The world hurts.

“…Tell me, friend, can you ask for anything more…”

Emotional investment is required to enjoy a spectator sport, but it need not be the spectator’s emotion. Another’s, be it stoic endurance or passionate outburst, will suffice as conduit.

1) It’s a home team.
2) They’re the underdogs.
3) I have family in Philadelphia.
4) I’m rooting against R[].
This is easy.

Sibling or Date: every waiter’s favorite game.

“I did my best to notice…”
I really hate, when I try to do something good for someone who deserves it, that the result is only worse for everyone.
“…My sign is vital…”
I realize I am lucky.
“…My hands are cold…”
I feel nothing.
“…I’m on my knees looking for the answer…”
I don’t even know what to pray for.
“…Are we human…”
We make mistakes.
“…Are we dancer…”
We keep moving.

There should be room temperature snow.

“I want you to know…”

Dear Charter,

Please put a note in my file that says that there’s an Internet outage in my area every time the power goes out, so that when I call in after the power goes out, you don’t treat me like a moronic liar who needs to be walked through a modem reboot 3 times and then scheduled for an unhelpful, unwanted, and unasked for router upgrade, as you have 7 times in 2 months when the problem is- and has always been- on your end.

ps Thanks for not hanging up on me the second time I called.

“…You oughta know…”

“Walking on, walking on…”

Keep moving, back to whatever shattered remains of what slipped from my fingers to crash windingly into my side so that I recoil away, letting it fall, to create a symbolic splintered destruction across the floor through where I still must somehow proceed to exit.

Watch your step: this may hurt.

“…Broken glass…”

I don’t even think they can diagnosis it, but the medicine is making me kind of loopy.

“I've become so numb / I can't feel…”

“You don’t hate yourself. You’re annoyed at yourself.”
Don’t you understand our angst expression by now? The fact that I don’t have that lost iPod any more is the way she knows I still don’t have a time machine.

Dimensionally unique.

I’m pulling a you.
I’m pulling a you pulling a me.

No Shame tonight: 10pm Women’s Building, Olin 2.
Good chance of drama.

“CRAIGSLIST MEDLEY”
or
“I FEEL SO CLINGY”
a one-act play within a one-act play in two acts
based on the play
“CRAIGSLIST MEDLEY”
by
LAURA CASTANON
adapted for the stage by
DANNY BRAVMAN and MELISSA DUCHIN
for
NO SHAME THEATRE
at
WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY
in
SAINT LOUIS
on
JANUARY 23, 2009
starring
FOUR GUYS
FOUR GIRLS
and
ONE LUCKY AUDIENCE MEMBER
with special guest appearance by
SATHYA SRIDHARAN