I am so tired, I can hardly type these worfs.

Everyone should be able to do one card trick, tell two jokes, and recite three poems, in case they are ever trapped in an elevator.

There was still plenty of water in the basement, and I felt it soaking me from the knees on down. If someone wanted to torture me until I told them a critical piece of information, all they would have to do is get my socks wet. It feels terrible.

Literature doesn’t exactly have a strong mental-health track record.

Tea should be as bitter as wormwod and as sharp as a two eged sword
Kit Snicket (a series of unfortunate events)

What a schmuck!