Our wedding invitations, sent out in early 2001, were very formal, with the exception of a website address at the very bottom.  It was a concession that I insisted on, even though wedding websites were not yet the norm.

I wrote all the HTML by hand in Notepad and then uploaded it to my server.  It had links to online registries, photos of the engagement, frequently asked questions that demonstrated my particularly absurd sense of humor, and descriptions for each of us.

Most of Amy’s family had not met me, and most of my family had never met her.  We decided to have brief introductions that could act as mini-biographies, except, being geeks of the highest caliber, we couldn’t leave it at that.  Instead, we each opted to write the other’s biography in the voice of our favorite authors.  I wrote Amy’s description as if it were out of a Sherlock Holmes story, and she wrote mine as if it came from the mind of Anne Rice.  And now I’m sharing them here, written back in the optimistic year of 2001 . . . well, you know, before that whole terrorist attack thing happened the month before we got married:

The Amy Conundrum, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle:

To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she encompasses the quintessential factors known to man, or in such a case, to woman: motivation, discipline, beauty and grace. And thus, when I look at the three massive volumes which contain our work for the past several years, I confess that it is very difficult for me, out of such a wealth of material, to select the cases which are most interesting in themselves and at the same time conducive to a display of those peculiar powers for which my friend was famous. Out of all of these cases, on the whole I am of the opinion that none of them unite so many singular points of interest as that which I have titled the Amy Conundrum.

---

As the hansom rolled to a stop, I nudged Holmes awake, as he had been sleeping very soundly. “Eh?” he asked, “Ah, we have arrived home. Quickly, Watson, to a warm fire and an even warmer brandy!” We absconded from the hansom and as it rolled away, I realized that this was not, in fact, 22B Baker Street. In fact, peering through the pouring rain, I could not discern our location at all, and I was a fellow well acquainted with the dark corners and alleyways of dear old London.

“Holmes, we . . ” I began, but Holmes cut me off with a motion as he bounded up the steps of the closest apartment to us. He knocked on the door, waited for a moment, then with a flourish, opened the door wide and entered. I quickly followed, glad to have a respite, however brief, from the downpour.

There was no resident around and no servant to announce us. “Whoever do you think lives here?” I pondered aloud “And, speaking of here, where are we?”

Holmes looked at me and took a deep breath. Upon his exhalation, I was well aware that I was once again to be a witness to one of the most spectacular occurrences in the world – the infallible deductive ability of Sherlock Holmes. “This apartment is inhabited by a young lady in her mid 20s who wears glasses, is blonde, and stands at about 5’10″, originally from Nashville, Tennessee, then spending time in Denver, Colorado, where she received a Bachelor of Science degree and a Master’s degree in Accounting from University of Denver. She then moved to Saint Louis, Missouri, where she is pursuing a juris doctorate from Washington University School of Law. She is a CPA, and she plans to move to Los Angeles, California, in the spring, to work for the international firm of Deloitte and Touche, LLP. She owns three ferrets. Two are sables and one is an albino. And this apartment is not in London, but in Saint Louis, where she currently resides. Oh, and her name is Amy Youngblood.”

“My God, man,” I exclaimed, “However did you know that?”

With a pitying glance, Holmes said, “My dear Watson, if you could only substitute a greater attention to detail for your amazement and persistence, you would discover that it merely an obvious recitation of the clues around us. For example, from this one picture on the wall, we can determine several facts. First, the height that the picture is hanged against the wall tells us an approximation of her height. Second, there is a long blonde hair stuck in the corner of the frame, which, combined with the faint scent of perfume that is evident in the air, tells us this is a blonde woman. Finally, the photo itself, with a picture of a tall, blonde woman in her 20s wearing glasses receiving two diplomas from a University of Denver graduation fills in some of the blanks.”

“Well, yes, I see that now,” I said, “but how did you know what her studies were in and that she is a Certified Public Accountant?”

“Ah, well that was obvious as one glances at the bookcase against the wall. The number of accounting and tax related textbooks tells us that she would have received at least an initial degree in Accounting, and the CPA study book tells us that she has a Master’s, since it is a requirement to obtain the CPA.”

“But, Holmes,” I protested, “Maybe she studied for the CPA but gave up and never received either a Master’s or her CPA.”

Holmes countered, “I would agree if I were blind. However, a man gifted with sight can tell that this apartment does not belong to a quitter. Its cleanliness and arrangement tells a story of a determined and motivated woman. She would not have given up; therefore, she has a Master’s and a CPA.”

Begrudgingly, I said “Well, I can see these deductions. How did you know that she was born in Nashville, Tennessee and she is currently in Saint Louis attending law school?”

“As you know, Watson,” Holmes said bemusedly, “I can name thirty-four thousand decorating styles that all relate to certain areas of the world. The style of decorating in this apartment is very diverse, but its underlying style is an older style from the Southeast United States, and with my expertise, it is a small feat to pinpoint that is from Nashville, Tennessee. There are also styles from Oklahoma and Denver, Colorado, along with a slight Chinese influence.” He sat with a flourish, removed his sodden hat, and lit his pipe. After a few puffs, he turned and continued. “There is a letter on the table to your right. It is from the American Bar Association and is addressed to our resident here, Amy Youngblood, in Saint Louis, Missouri. Obviously, she is a law student, and since she went to the best college for accounting, it is apparent that she would not waste her time with any of the unmentionably poor law schools in this area, other than the exceptional Washington University.” He arched an eyebrow in my direction and said, “And before you protest further, Watson, I knew that she had three ferrets due to the small hairs evident on the carpet. It is obvious that the brown hairs are different lengths and thicknesses and therefore belong to two different animals. Similarly, the white hair belongs to yet a third animal. From my extensive knowledge of animal hairs and their origins, I knew they were ferrets, from the polecat family.”

“And your knowledge of her future plans?” I inquired.

“It was a simple step to infer that if she would choose the best law school in the vicinity, she would similarly join up with the superior accounting firm and move to the highest point of activity for achievement.”

“Once again, Holmes, you have awed me; however, upon your explanation, it seems as plain as the glasses on my face.” I stated. “Do you know how it is that we managed to come to Saint Louis, Missouri in the United States in the 21st century when our original location was in London a hundred years earlier?”

“Of course,” said Holmes with a smirk, “It is elementary, my dear . . . “

The Morbidity of Curiosity about Adam, by Anne Rice

I am the Avitable. Do you know me? I am that comic face in the crowd that makes others laugh, that cosmic smirk that draws attention to the idiosyncrasies, idiocy, absurdity of school, law, and life. I am that dashing, well-groomed six foot tall man with the brown hair, the beard, the penetrating eyes. Others are drawn to me, yet they know not why. Perhaps it is because I speak Japanese or clothe myself as a law student so they can never discover the real me.

But, of course, there is no real me. There is no Adam Heath Avitable from Ormond Beach, Florida. There is no son of Robyn and Jimmy Avitable, no graduate of Washington and Lee University in Virginia, no Washington University law student. No, there are none of these things – only me, a shadow of humans, a webmaster. My identity, if one could call it that, must, of necessity, remain elusive. Who, they may ask, dared to tell jokes in class and respond to professors’ inquiries with sharp wit and a twinkle in his eye? Who, many contemplate, would tempt the fickle hand of fate by completing exams in half the allotted time, leaving the rest of the students to their exercise in futility? Who, everyone demands to know. Alas, I can only answer with a smile.

For inscrutability is life itself, allowing me to skillfully weave my web, enticing those who dare to enter, auction, at their own peril. I may freely prowl the internet in search of my prey, some sad and loathsome creature unable to master the power of html, some hungry beast yearning for those things which only I can give, in exchange for their soul, or ten dollars. Ah, this is my domain, and I can truly be the lurking embodiment of that which envelops the lonely core of my existence, as the French say, the entre preneur.

Whatever may have come after that doesn’t matter. At that point, we were young, happy, and, most importantly, completely unashamed of our absolute nerdiness.

Today would have been that day. The tin anniversary. The one that surely would have been punctuated by a weekend trip to Savannah or Atlanta or the Keys. Where I would have spent too much on a pair of diamond earrings just for the look on her face.

Ten years is a long time. I thought we had it in the bag. It was a done deal. 10, 20, 30, 50, 75. Piece of cake.

I had to look through my blog archives to figure out what we did for our five-year anniversary, and due to her work and travel schedule keeping her away for almost three weeks in a row, we did absolutely nothing. That was part of the issue. At first, I hated those long work trips, leaving me alone with the dog, lonely and bored. But over time, very gradually, I began to anticipate her trips. I would count on them – that was my time to relax and do what I wanted to do. I would encourage her to travel more and more, just so I could have time to be me.

A little honesty and communication would have gone a long way towards that issue. It’s my fault that I wasn’t willing to open that dialogue and that I continued to push for us to lead our separate lives, and I accept responsibility for that. Taking responsibility is something that I’ve come to learn in the last few years, and I’ve realized that I needed to take a lot more, both in my marriage and outside of it. It used to scare me, that idea of being responsible for the negative things that happen, for the bad choices that are made, but now I realize it’s just part of being human.  You don’t need to hide all of the bad things in order to truly enjoy the good.

Had I acted honestly and told her how I felt, would I be celebrating with her today? I don’t know – probably not. But I’ll never know.  And while I am at peace with that, with the potential that any tin anniversary I may ever have (or any anniversary, for that matter) will be with someone else, there will always be that small part of me that feels like a failure.

In 1998, I met Amy.
In 2001, we got married.
In 2009, I had an affair.
In 2010, we got divorced.

I never thought I would be the type of person who would have an affair. I’ve since learned that there is no *type* of person who has an affair. It can happen easier than you think. There will always be temptation, there will always be opportunity, there will always be moments of unhappiness, and sometimes those ingredients mix together to make a big old bowl of Failing At Marriage Soup. And that’s what it is – there is no way to sugarcoat it: If you have an affair, you just failed at marriage. Even if you pick up the pieces and Humpty Dumpty the shit out of them, you still got a big fat “F”, and you will be taking make-up classes and doing extra credit for most, if not all, of the rest of your marriage. More power to you, though, because I just took the easy route and quit. I ran away. I took my “F” and dropped out.

For the first time since I was 21 years old, I was single. My life was in shambles, my heart crushed into pieces. I spent my nights curled up under my desk, sobbing until I couldn’t breathe. I had my first panic attack, then a series of them. I finally grasped what it meant to feel empty inside, and I had no idea what to do to fill that void. I felt unwanted and unloved and rudderless.

No book or self-help guide can help you in this situation. Some people take their guilt and wear it around their necks like a yoke, allowing it to color their interactions with every person they meet. Others might withdraw from society and some will cling to their next relationship like a life preserver. I turned to casual sex with as many people as I could, limiting myself with a few basic rules.

Rule 1: Don’t lie or obfuscate the truth in any way. Be completely honest about your desires, motivations, and needs.

My divorce taught me that I never wanted to engage another person in any situation without honest and open communication. I would never again be someone who cheated or lied or sneaked around. I know that I’m naturally charismatic, and because I know how to listen to and talk to people, it’s very easy for me to convince someone to do what I want them to do.  A policy of complete transparency and honesty allows me to be responsible for my actions and words, and only my actions and words.

Rule 2: Don’t get attached. Nobody sleeps over, and as soon as someone gets attached, it’s time to end it.

My first sexual encounter after I moved out was with someone who was also in the process of a divorce. She had shown interest before, and I had no doubt that our first night out would end well. We agreed that our time together was purely casual and so we met several times, but the night that she laid her head on my shoulder and said “So you’re sure that you wouldn’t want to date?”, it was over.

Rule 3: The farther away they live or otherwise occupied they are, the better.

I focused my effort on women who lived far away or had children or busy work schedules. If our time together could be limited to an evening out once or twice a week, I was interested. If they lived in another state, even better. If they were married, so what? I was single, and it wasn’t my right to enforce a moral code on them. If a woman wanted to violate her wedding vows and fuck me, why would I say no to that? I was done assuming that I knew better than someone else and insulting them by doing so.  My interactions were with adults who can make their own decisions, and did.

That version of me isn’t someone I’m proud of. He was not an exemplary person. He was human and flawed and broken and vulnerable and needy. This Adam engaged in behaviors that made it difficult for some of his friends to be his friends. This was a person who was selfish because he had to be selfish for the first time in his life, and yet I embrace and accept him fully, because I had to be him to get to the place where I am today.

For almost two years, I was physically unable to handle the mere concept of a relationship that required any degree of commitment.  If I even considered relying on one person to be there for me, fulfill my needs, and support me, an elephant would sit on my chest and my vision would go dark. I noticed and mentally recorded every flaw of every person I was with, reminding myself of those flaws over and over again. I felt no guilt about having sex with four different women over the course of two weeks and continuing to see two of them intermittently. I made explicit, detailed plans for every trip I took to have sex with different women who lived in or were traveling to my destination. As far as I could see, it was the only path.

Over the last few weeks, I started dating someone casually. She made it clear that she wasn’t interested in non-exclusive dating, which would normally be a sign for me to end things and move on. But this time, I didn’t. I pictured dating her exclusively, seeing her regularly, if not daily, relying on her to be there for me, and there was no anxiety attack. There was no feeling of panic. No urge to go out and pick someone up at a bar to fuck. I traveled to San Diego for a week, surrounded by three thousand beautiful women, and had no desire to have sex with any of them.  It was like a switch had turned off.

The last two years have been terrible. I betrayed my morals. I lost my wife, my best friend, my dog, my house, my life, my security, my comfort, and I lost my identity. I hurt others in my pursuit to heal myself. I’ve been told by friends that I’m an asshole, a horrible person, that I’m manipulative, selfish, bad, immoral, unlikeable, unsafe, dangerous, pathetic, sad, and too hard to be friends with. I’ve also had friends who stayed by me, who bit their tongues and hoped that this wouldn’t last. They knew that the Adam they loved was there trying to figure things out. That he was emotionally crippled and damaged, but he would heal.

And with a simple decision to enter into a relationship with someone, I’ve felt my priorities shift and I know, from the deepest part of me, that finally, thankfully, I’m back.

It was one year ago today that I went to my official divorce proceedings.  If you haven’t read that post, go check it out.  I’ll wait.

And here I am, one year later.  Wiser?  Maybe.  Happier?  Sometimes.  Better?  Not necessarily.  Just . . . different.

I still miss things, like. . .  Having someone to watch your favorite shows with and to laugh with.  Knowing that there’s someone there for you no matter what and being there for someone when they need you.  Talking about your day and hashing out problems and sharing the burden of life.  Laying next to someone in bed, every night.

I’m functioning on my own, but still not to a point where I’m happy with who single Adam is.  I may keep my house relatively clean, but there are times when I let the bills go for a month without looking at them and can’t even think about touching the dishes in the sink. I may make my bed every single morning but that doesn’t mean that there are some mornings when I can barely bring myself to leave it.  I enjoy the quiet of a still home at time, and other times I talk to myself to shatter the silence.  I know I’m still terribly broken, but the pieces are slowly fitting together as time flies by.

I last saw her a year ago (well, except for this awkward day a few months later), and to this day, I still have nothing but hope that she will be happy.  I feel regret that I had to take the steps that I did, because I know all it did was sow confusion and resentment, but when I had the realization that contentment did not equal happiness, I knew I needed change. And I think it was tearing my life apart and rebuilding from scratch that has sharpened my focus on my future and given me that real potential of finding what everyone wants in life:  happiness.

So, today is my one-year divorceversary.  It’s not a time for congratulations nor a time for regret.  It is a celebration of sorts – one year from the day that new Adam was thrust, naked, hairy, and scared, into a new world.

To hell with all of you Valentine's Day haters!

I’ve noticed over the last few years that there are a lot of people who hate Valentine’s Day, all for a variety of reasons, from “it’s a commercial holiday” to “I don’t like flowers” to “I don’t think there should be only one day where my spouse/s.o. does something nice for me.” And sometimes this dislike spills over into a type of derision towards people who do celebrate Valentine’s Day.

You know what? ENOUGH.

I like Valentine’s Day. And I think that if you don’t, it’s a problem with you and your relationships, not with the holiday itself.

This year and last year, I didn’t have anyone with whom to celebrate Valentine’s Day, but when I did, it was an occasion worth celebrating. I don’t begrudge anyone who is celebrating it this year – I think it’s a fun holiday and a romantic one and it can be amazing and cheesy and wonderful.

Here’s what Valentine’s Day is not.

It is NOT the solitary day of the year where a man should show his love and appreciation for his girlfriend or wife (and I understand that it’s sexist to put this all on men, but it’s just for the sake of argument. I’m aware that women can be the same way.) In a good relationship, with open, honest communication and two people who know how to use their words, that appreciation is shown on a more regular basis. A year of neglecting to inform the woman that you love how you feel cannot and should not be wiped clean because you brought home roses and chocolates.

It IS the day to take that love and appreciation and have a mutual time to share it with each other. It’s a day to set aside time for both of you to be romantic and cheesy and lovey and goofy and embrace everything that you love about the other.

It is NOT the only day to share that love and appreciation. It is NOT the only day when you should be surprised with a token gift because he was just thinking about you. It is NOT the only day when you should get flowers.

It IS the day when you and he should do something that’s special for you. If that’s not flowers and chocolates, okay. If you don’t like going out to dinner, that’s okay. A handwritten note and a walk on the beach at sunset is as romantic to some as a candlelit dinner in a five-star restaurant, followed with a night in a high-end luxury hotel. Whatever works for the both of you – whatever little inside jokes and romantic gestures you have, Valentine’s Day is the day to celebrate them. It’s the day when all of that love and appreciation that the two of you have been sharing through the year culminates.

If you don’t like Valentine’s Day, examine the reasons. Do you think that because it’s a holiday invented by a greeting card company, it’s somehow evil? Do you cynically claim “I’m too old for stuffed animals and flowers die in two days”? Are you bitter because you’ve never experienced a good Valentine’s Day? I’m sorry. I wish that you could just let yourself go and enjoy a day when chocolate has no calories, when the room smells like roses, and when you can celebrate the one you love.

Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone.

I’m totally copying this title and idea from Jenny Grace.

THERE IS SOMEONE FOR EVERYONE BUT HERE ARE SOME THINGS THAT AREN’T FOR ME:

Bad breath: If my first encounter with someone results in me inhaling your nasty-ass breath, I will never breathe in and speak to you again, forever. That’s not an exaggeration. I will forever hold my breath when you speak to me.

Excessive makeup: Blemishes happen.  Pale is cute.  Freckles are fucking awesome. But having your face be a different color from your neck because you don’t know how to apply makeup?  Not for me.

Dirtiness and odor: If you can’t be bothered to shower and stay clean, do your laundry, and clean under your fingernails, I won’t be interested.  It can’t be a chore – you have to like to be clean and make the effort to do so of your own volition.

Is there anyone who WOULD want to date someone who met those three descriptions?  I can’t imagine that there is.  And the fact that these three things are the only things that I can think of that (as far as general categories go) makes me feel like a whore.

Except!

If a woman does any of the following things, I’m not interested:

• Chews like a cow
• Uses text-speak regularly
• Supports Sarah Palin
• Thinks Leno is the funniest late night host
• Refuses to read
• Will not shave or maintain her bushfro
• Drinks until she pukes every time
• Gets violent when she drinks
• Cannot take a joke
• Doesn’t know how to tease or understand sarcasm
• Has hairy armpits
• Prefers ignorance over education
• Speaks another language when she gets mad
• Likes to be peed on
• Thinks she’s not good enough
• Is intolerant or hateful
• Treats money like it grows on trees
• Relies on her breasts to get ahead
• Needs everything spelled out
• Poops with the door open
• Thinks farting on someone is funny
• Treats her friends poorly
• Doesn’t “get” the Internet
• Hates all kids
• Has no sense of whimsy or wonder
• Has no healthy skepticism, either

I guess I’m not such a whore, after all.  I’m a pretentious ass instead!

Don’t forget! Tonight at 9 PM EST is the relaunch of Clearly, You’re Retarded! Go here to listen.

A little over 7 months ago, I did a post showing the pathetic contents of my refrigerator.  I thought it would be interesting to revisit my refrigerator now that I’ve lived in my new home for over 9 months, and see how it’s changed.

Here’s my fridge from April 2010.  I’m not going to identify everything as numbered – you can go to the original post for that:

Refrigerator on April 5, 2010

And here’s my refrigerator as of this week:

Refrigerator on November 15, 2010

1. Tru Blood, ordered from HBO.  Carbonated blood orange beverage.  Goes well with vodka.
2. Mountain Dew and Coke Zero.  Both go well with vodka.  No, really.
3. Orange juice.  Goes well, with, umm, vodka.
4. Soy milk.  Because I like how it tastes better.
5. Juice boxes left here from a cookout I had in May.
6. Bud Light.  Most definitely not for me.
7. The largest tub of mayonnaise a man can legally buy without a three-day waiting period.
8. Two-liter of Diet Coke. Probably flat.
9. Hummus.  Food of the gods.
10. Two-liter of Mountain Dew.  Probably flat.
11. Giant Hershey’s Bar.  Usually doesn’t last 24 hours.
12. Leftovers from June.  May contain living organisms by now.
13. The same baking soda, tonic water, and blue Gatorade from April!
14. Giant-ass thing of garlic. For all that cooking I don’t do.
15. More beer.  Shudder.
16. Bottled water.  I have enough cases of it in the garage to kill a thousand aliens from “Signs”.
17. Daiquiri mix. Goes well with rum.
18. Ketchup.  To be mixed with mayonnaise to make fancy sauce.
19. Hershey’s syrup.  Goes well with burritos.
20. Another giant-ass thing of garlic.  For keeping Edward Cullen away?
21. More fucking beers.
22. More ketchup, also opened.  In case I feel like exercising and reaching lower when opening the refrigerator.
23. Relish. Which I don’t eat.
24. A giant box of individual cheese slices.  Because you can never have enough cheese?

Hmm.  Well, it seems like it’s a minor improvement, at least.  What’s in your fridge?

Nine years ago, I said “I do.” I stood in a church, surrounded by family and friends, standing awkwardly in an ill-fitting tuxedo, too preoccupied with what needed to be done to be nervous, and said those two words.

Knowing where I am now, sitting alone in a quiet house, naked fingers rattling on the keyboard, would I change it if I could have?  Would I have thrown away eight years knowing that it was going to come to an end?

No.

I did not waste my life over the last nine years.  I lived my life to the fullest that I knew how.  I had contentment and I experienced success, and I will always have stories and fond memories.  I am glad that I had what I had.

Now, my perspective on life has shifted.  I know what I need for me to be truly happy, and I see that there may have been holes in my life of which I was completely unaware.  I may be living my life differently now, but 9 years ago, 20 years ago, 33 years ago, it was still MY life and that will never change.  All I can do is look back at each stage in my life as a series of steps.  I don’t know where they’re leading, but I’m taking them one at a time.

On this date, though, while I sit here with wet eyes, I regret the pain I’ve caused.  I reminisce somberly on the times I’ll miss, and on the love I experienced that has now ended.  This date will always be important to me.  It may no longer be an anniversary of my declaration of eternal love for my bride, but it will serve as a reminder that I made a choice to say “I do” and I made a choice to move on.  I will always know that I didn’t have the strength of character or faith in myself to become who I needed to be confined by the bonds of matrimony, and that I must own my decision to sever those bonds, just as I must own my decision to say “I do” in the first place.  I will embrace my past, my choices, my life, and never stop learning as I move onward and upward.  One step at a time.

When you haven’t been on a date since BEFORE THE Y2K fearpocalypse, it’s a frightening concept to consider talking to women because you just know that they can smell it on you and they know and they’ll laugh to themselves and you’ll just die a little inside until you’re just a shriveled husk of a boy. Or is that just me?

Regardless, it can be hard to come up with conversation topics with women other than “I love your shoes” and “Can I get a light even though I don’t really smoke *hack* *hack* *cough* *lung*?” And those two topics suck because one tells her that you’re gay and the other tells her that you really like her shoes.

I’ve decided to help all the single men out there by digging deep into my memory and pulling out some of the timeless pick up lines that will always work. It’s been a while, though, so my memory’s not what it used to be:

• If I told you that I had a huge penis, would you hold it against me?
• If I could rearrange the alphabet, I’d put your V and my P together.
• Oh baby, you look so sweet, you’ve given me a toothache. And now I need to go to the fucking dentist. Thanks.
• Did it hurt when you plummeted from heaven, had all of your flesh burned off as you entered the atmosphere, and crashed here on Earth?
• Are you from Tennessee? Because you’re the only ten I see. And you look inbred. Plus you’re wearing overalls.
• If you don’t give me my heart back, I’m going to call the fucking cops, you goddamn thief.
• Do you have any raisins? How about a date? A prune? Some type of fiber – I’m really constipated.
• Fuck me if I’m wrong, but haven’t we met before?
• That outfit would look great in a pile next to my bed which is shaped like a racecar!
• I’ll bet you $10 that I can fit something about seven inches long into something about four inches deep.
• I just moved you to the top of my tasks list.
• How do you like your eggs? And do you want bacon or sausage? Orange juice? How do you like your coffee?
• Do you know karate? Because your body is totally embracing the martial arts discipline appropriately.
• Excuse me, but does this smell like chloroform to you?