Who is the architect? I am the architect.
Small towns are sometimes like that; familiarity runs high, while regard for personal space is low, if nonexistent.
If you really believe in what you're doing, work hard, take nothing personally, and if something blocks your route, find another. Never give up.
I majored in journalism at Arizona State University, where I began writing the columns I write now, but I cannot, in good conscience, refer to myself as a writer. I'm a columnist, maybe a journalist, I guess I'm an author, but writer. . . no. That's not up to me to call myself, that's rather lofty. It's for the reader to decide.
I could croak with no warning, and the only tragedy anyone would experience would be showing up on the last day of my estate sale simply to discover that all remaining items had copious amounts of dog hair on them.
You're fighting a battle of good and evil with your dog pimp! Your only weapon is the shimmy! There is power in the shimmy! Make him fear your shimmy! Now, goddamnit, show me your war shimmy!
Bad boyfriends don't disguise themselves; their girlfriends do it for them.
A man of worth never gets up to unsay what he said yesterday.
Sorrow's child grieves not what has passed, but all the past still yet to come.
I know I'm not exactly a bombshell, but one has to make the best of what one's got.
As a general proposition, campaigns do not linger on the vice presidential nominee. When they have, it's always meant very bad news for the ticket. Think of Spiro Agnew's foot-in-mouth disease; Tom Eagleton's medical history; the real estate holdings of Geraldine Ferraro's husband; the unbearable lightness of Dan Quayle; Sarah Palin's reading list.