Boring myself to death is taking fucking forever.

This is the worst advice column I've ever read.

The owl knows more pronouns than he lets on.

I've been outdoors. It's just as the poets describe it.

I don't think the outdoors will ever become as popular as the Internet.

'No, children, you can't have any opinions until you've eaten all your facts.'

With me, you don't just get some out-of-touch man of letters who trades in arcane half-truths and cheap pseudo-verses, but you do get that.

In a thousand years, when archaeologists unearth my ruined hovel, they'll wonder why I had ten tea pots and only one pornography machine.

The kids go to the bibliothèque to dance to all the latest books.

It's not so much that I live in the past as that I barely exist in the present.

Running around like a chicken with its credit cut off.

Before Twitter, I had no idea what people really ate or drank, only guesses.

A restaurant for self-conscious, single diners, with desks instead of tables. That's my big idea.

I played peek-a-boo with a toddler. Predictably, I won, but it was the sportsmanship that I enjoyed.

'That's a nice dog,' I sometimes say to people pulling wheeled luggage. No-one smiles.

Couldn't stop sleeping. Had a terrible dream about being unable to spell 'manoeuvres.'

A sigh is a 'Get well soon!' card you send to yourself.

I wouldn't wish empathy on any of you.

Describing it as a fetish is easier than justifying it as a hobby.

One minute you're keying a car; the next minute you're carving a pumpkin. Revenge is tricky in fairy tales.