I don't know if you have noticed this, but it is quite possible for two human beings to have a conversation in which one or both parties involved has absolutely no idea what they're talking about.
Anybody can be charming if they don't mind faking it, saying all the stupid, obvious, nauseating things that a conscience keeps most people from saying. Happily, I don't have a conscience. I say them.
No big deal. We all have blood in us, the trick is keeping it inside.
Nothing in life is fair. Fair is a dirty word and I'll thank you not to use that language around me.
And so as much as I can, I care about her, dear Deborah. It's probably not love, but I would rather she were happy.
I don't do my job to catch the bad guys. Why would I want to do that? No, I do my job to make order out of chaos.
IN MY LIFELONG STUDY OF HUMAN BEINGS, I HAVE FOUND that no matter how hard they might try, they have found no way yet to prevent the arrival of Monday morning. And they do try, of course, but Monday always comes, and all the drones have to scuttle back to their dreary workaday lives of meaningless toil and suffering.
Weren't we all crazy in our sleep? What was sleep, after all, but the process by which we dumped our insanity into a dark subconscious pit and came out on the other side ready to eat cereal instead of our neighbor's children?
...she opened the door very slowly and carefully, half hiding behind it, as if badly frightened of what might be waiting for her on the other side. And considering that it was me waiting, this showed rare common sense.
I did not like this feeling of having feelings.
It's that moon again, slung so fat and low in the tropical night, calling out across a curdled sky and into the quivering ears of that dear old voice in the shadows, the Dark Passenger, nestled snug in the backseat of the Dodge K-car of Dexter's hypothetical soul. That rascal moon, that loudmouthed leering Lucifer, calling down across the empty sky to the dark hearts of the night monsters below, calling them away to their joyful playgrounds.
Killing makes me feel good.
It was clear to me that it wouldn't matter what I did - they would never truly appreciate me or learn what I had to offer. They were far beyond fickle - they were insensible, like kittens,predatory little things, distracted by the first bit of string or shiny bauble that rolled across the floor, and nothing I could ever say or do could possibly make any kind of dent in their willful ignorance.
It was such an unexpected and genuine smile that if I only had a soul I'm sure I would have felt quite guilty.
I thought about the nice clothes that I always wore. Well of course I did. I took pride in being the best dressed monster in Dade County.
Really now: If you can't get me my newspaper on time, how can you expect me to refrain from killing people?
It was almost enough to make me feel emotion.
Life's only obligation, afterall, was to be interesting.
…a cheerful black shadow reared up behind him as he spoke, thundering a happy challenge to my Dark Passenger, which slid forward and bellowed back.
I often find myself in situations where it seems to me like everyone else has read the instruction book
Now I know what it is like to feel like a total idiot.
We can't always do what we think we have to do. So when there's nothing else you can do, you wait... No matter what... pressure... you might feel.
Money to me had always been merely something the sheep used to show each other how wonderful they were.
She really did like me, the idiot.
And once again I found myself wondering, as I drifted off to stunned and unbelieving sleep:How do these terrible things always happen to me?
Follow AzQuotes on Facebook, Twitter and Google+. Every day we present the best quotes! Improve yourself, find your inspiration, share with friends
or simply: