Some people die and shit along the way too.
We all gathered in the Darwin Dancehall, and spent the weekend dancing, eating great food and tie-dying shit.
It's unnervingly funny too, even down to Burt's exclamation in the play's dying minutes: "Shit.
If Mailer was America's Byron, Vidal was the Republic's Wilde, the master of the quotable quote, from, 'Whenever a friend succeeds, a little something in me dies' to 'Shit has its own integrity.' Once upon a time, at the end of the Second World War, his generation was immortal.
I mean people die from that shit".
Did you really find yourself paralysed in a cubicle wondering whether this will be the time you're going to die, puke or shit yourself – maybe all three?" If I see it online, where it often manifests, I want to quote the tweet and show the mutation of language for what it is.
Did you really find yourself paralyzed in a cubicle wondering whether this will be the time you're going to die, puke, or shit yourself maybe all three?" If I see it online, where it often manifests, I want to quote the tweet and show the mutation of language for what it is.
If you don't eat, you don't shit, and if you don't shit, you die.
'You get old, you get fat, it all turns to shit, you die.'" The woman replies, in a shrugging tone quite typical of Enright's women: "Yeah well".
(One request: please, no e-mails telling me to eat shit and die for implying that Democrats are gulag-building commie murderers).
