Der Untergang des Abendlandes
will not be televised.
Paris is worth a màs.
Without you, I am nothing. With you, I am less than nothing.
That's funny, you don't look prolish.
I'm in love with myself, but, alas, my affection is unrequited.
Is the heterosexual female scholar's equivalent of a Scholar's Mistress
called a Scholar's Gigolo?
My love is like a red, red nose -- I hope I don't blow it.
Her dress was as red as her politics.
Help me, I think I'm fallen.
I've done my share of looking for love -- and lust -- in all the wrong places. In all the right places, too.
Scribo ergo sum. (I write; therefore, I am.)
Pobre Canada, so far from God and so close to the United States.
Demons thrive on silence.
The heart has its reasons of which political correctness knows nothing.
-- the choice of a new generation.
Almost everyone's life is like a soap opera. Some of us just have better storylines than others.
We may not choose with whom we fall in love but we do choose what we do about that love.
Almost everyone's life looks happy from the outside. It's how it looks from the inside that counts.
Normality is a state of mind.
Poverty, like war, is most easily glamourized by those who have never experienced it.
It's easy to love people you rarely see. It's when you see them all the time that the real test of love begins.
It's easy to love people you see as being perfect. It's loving people you see as being imperfect that's the real challenge.
There is no such thing as a golden age or a master race. All ages have their bad sides and no race is perfect.
If you cannot forgive imperfections in other people, then you will find yourself doomed the day you discover imperfections in yourself.
Labels: Amor, Canadá, Der Untergang des Abendlandes, Escribir, Mestizaje, Normalidad, Pensamientos Aleatorios I