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I'm telling you this for your own good, that's the worst fuckin' sweater I've ever seen.
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Two days like car wrecks. It's a wonder anyone has the balls to sell me insurance.
Just put it on plastic and forget your debts; forget them all to heck.
Only fries and fingers go in the fryer. Remember that for your pension.
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I fear if I was to post a classified ad ("In search of a little passion.") all the replicants would probably already have the wrong idea.
Lick reverse and apply metaphor here.
I don't think enthusiasm reads the newspaper.
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Is this the part where I cut my hair and move out west?
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footsteps
I'm happy with the way this one turned out.
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