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Life teaches us that human thought almost never walks hand in hand with logic, and it is usually counterproductive to raise the point.

Jeff Lindsay

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Jeff Lindsay
Age: 72
Born: 1952
Born: July 14
Novelist
Playwright
Writer
Miami
Florida
Jeffry P. Freundlich
Jeffry P. Lindsay
Point
Raise
Hands
Raises
Thought
Logic
Human
Usually
Humans
Walks
Never
Hand
Life
Teach
Counterproductive
Almost
Teaches

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First things first has always been my motto, mostly because it makes absolutely no sense - after all, if first things were second or third, they wouldn't be first things, would they? Still, cliches exist to comfort the feeble minded, not to provide any actual meaning.
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Killing makes me feel good.
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As I've said, freedom is really an illusion. Anytime we think we have a real choice, it just means we haven't seen the shotgun aimed at our navel.
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...my conscience has the same hard reality as a unicorn.
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I looked around the store and what I saw was not very encouraging. There were rows and rows of violent toys...aisle after aisle of training devices for recreational slaughter. No wonder our world was such a mean and violent place...if we teach children that killing is fun, can we really be surprised if now and then someone is smart enough to learn?
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For my part, my interest in Paris had faded away completely long ago when I learned that it was in France.
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Now I know what it is like to feel like a total idiot.
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I know family comes first, but shouldn't that mean after breakfast?
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A man can take only so much. Even a phony man like me.
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When faced with people who have very limited conversational skills and no apparent desire to cultivate any it's always easier to simply go along.
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...she opened the door very slowly and carefully, half hiding behind it, as if badly frightened of what might be waiting for her on the other side. And considering that it was me waiting, this showed rare common sense.
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Mutilated corpses with a chance of afternoon showers. I got dressed and went to work.
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And then more quiet, silence so deep it almost drowned out the roar of the night music that pounded away in my secret self.
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Rectory always sounded to me like a place where you would find a proctologist.
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I rose to my knees, mouth dry and heart pounding, and paused to finger a rip in my beautiful Dacron bowling shirt. I pushed my fingertip through the hole and wiggled it at myself. Hello, Dexter, where are you going? Hello, Mr. Finger. I don't know, but I'm almost there. I hear my friends calling.
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Life's only obligation, afterall, was to be interesting.
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But of course, there's no rest for the wicked, which I certainly am as I said, no rest for the wicked.
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Perhaps because I'll never be one, humans are interesting to me.
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What to wear? I could think of no guidelines on what we were wearing this season to a party forced on you to celebrate an unwanted engagement that might turn into a violent confrontation with a vengeful maniac. Clearly brown shoes were out, but beyond that nothing really seemed de rigueur.
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