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That's not writing, that's typing. Truman Capote |
Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.
He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.
John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.
McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty Bag filled with vegetable soup.
Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze.
They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan's teeth.
The red brick wall was the color of a brick-red Crayola crayon.
The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't.
He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.
Her eyes were like two brown circles with big black dots in the center.