• Scrine is the home of lost, forgotten, and lonely sentences.
• Play nice. Be kind. Post only single sentences.
• Scrine gives everyone plenty of rope to play with, but reminds everyone that even the longest rope is capable of hanging a person.
• Censorship is ugly, but still not the ugliest bird in the sky. Happily, this has never been necessary.
• The appropriateness of all sentences will remain the sole discretion of Scrine's tender.
• Anyone. Reading along costs nothing but time.
• Membership is required to post your own sentences. Joining is quick and painless.
• With membership comes the unique privilege of calling yourself a Scriner.
• Your information will never be sold, given away, shared, or even traded for an unimaginably delicious slice of pie.
• The above sentence may be the only sentence on this site that is 100% true.
Use this space for notes and reminders to yourself.
This is a private space. Only you will see your notes.
Expiration date is not required, only if you want the note to magically disappear.
A great place to keep your fantastic ideas, like, "Hey! I need to write more sentences about crickets and English gentlemen with unruly beards."
The vast potential of coconut drinks comes not in the vessel, so much as the delivery system for the sweet blotting effect; they’re all about love.
Begin by looking deeply into this glass of scotch.
Two sentences were sitting at the bar, discussing meditation over glasses of scotch, when one says to the other, “You know, I agree with you about corporations destroying your will to live, but I’ll have you know, the result of working for yourself, and maybe this is also the out-and-out goal of the large corporation, is the destruction of your ability to live.”
Tequila is not a hallucinogen, tequila is not a hallucinogen, tequila is not a hallucinogen…
I don’t understand why everything about religion has to be so complicated; for instance, the guys and I are thinking about driving up for the Pope’s funeral, but if we call it a roadtrip, will it sound like goofing off; and can we drink beer on the way?
There are those who say time is a vexing illusion, others will tell you it’ll take you on the wildest ride of your life, once there was even a brilliant philosopher who claimed the true passage of time could only be measured by the burnt, curled edge of his plastic spatula, but when it comes down to it, there is only one reason for the existence of time and one thing you need to know about it: Friday afternoon Happy Hour begins down at the local tavern at 5:00 p.m. sharp.
Mimosas are for sissies; from now on I’m re-constituting my frozen orange juice with nothing but rum.
Just as soon as I finish this beer, I’m going to get out of my hammock, turn on the hose, and put out the fire that seems to have spread from the grill to the house.
Pain that is kicked out of one’s muscles by liberal oral application of tequila is sure to come back about 12 hours later, duller, sodden, very pissed off and dead-set on taking up residence inside one’s skull.
As he poured another drink, Joe thought, my liver is a muscle, so the more I use it and the harder I push it, the stronger it will get.
All other things being about equal, 160 proof bourbon will cause a far worse hangover than the same quantity of 120 proof scotch.
Julie noted ruefully that there is a meaningful difference in the intensity of the hangover from drinking four martinis over the course of a long evening compared with what happens when you drink the same amount of gin from a water glass 15 minutes before going to bed.
Wine works a lot better than beer, but expensive drinks made by recent immigrants are the most effective of all.
Today, I'll think I'll up the ante to a jack and coke, instead of just that lonely ass beer I've been utilizing. You do know something about shoring up the…
if you down a 6.8 fluid once bottle of 20 proof, but only mix it with coffee; are you really drunk?
1/3 part kahlua, 1/3 part raw tupelo honey, 1/3 part strong coffee (to chase 10mg of valium with….)
Bronwyn looked around the office wondering whether it would be better (less bad?) to drink warm gin from the cat bowl or directly from the bottle.
Schuster couldn’t help me move on account of the trial, but each night he’d stop by to help polish off the beer and tell me something new about Mr. Bevins.
“Sure I get drunk every other day,” my friend Schuster told me last night, “but I like to think of myself as a half-sober kind of guy, which makes me an optimist.”
Rufus thought it was beginning to feel like Christmas at the house, but my friend Schuster only scoffed, pointing out that there wasn’t any rum.
“Alcohol will kill anything that’s alive and preserve anything that’s dead.”
“The first, indeed the only, requirement of a diet is that it should lose you weight without reducing your alcoholic intake by the smallest degree.
He sped past them on the narrow road, nearly colliding with a much smaller car and haphazardly swerving back into his own lane: Careless…reckless…possibly crazy…apparently intoxicated…“Haha, he must be more drunk than us!” As quickly as he passed, he was gone, the tail lights of the old Silvardo fading into the distance…“Where did he go!?” Neither was sure, but as it goes, everything is fine until you can prove different….But there, aproximately one mile from the foolish display of demonstration, the white truck sat smoking…It was then, they knew as they approached, it was more than probable that he was dead, but neither wanted to voice that… neither wanted to put their suspicions into truth: But he wasn’t gone, he was struggling: Broken legs, bleeding head, but ALIVE: No doubt the shots of Jaeger and the LIT’s consumed in pure haste, in the name of socialization, through fleeting feelings of immortality had numbed his body…The alcohol had allowed him to escape shock, to escape an premature fate: The other man, barely able to form proper words in his own language, let alone theirs, said, “Mi nombre es Camilo…Llama por favor, mi esposa…Mi Esposa, por favor…” And that was it, it was over…Nothing more fell from his lips as he sat trapped behind the cold, uncaring, hard steel of his own means of life, transportation, and career: The red and blue lights cast ominous shadows over the lifeless body of an innocent victim, while the catalyst, the reaper, groaned and fidgeted in his own smoking truck, “My leg, oh, I broke my leg…GET ME OUT…” And as she watched those lights, blue, red, blue, red, she came to the realization that it could have been them, tonight, tommorrow, yesterday…(I’m sorry. This is a true story to which I was unfortunate enough to play a part in tonight. If I join the Bent Rules Club tonight, so be it. R.I.P. Camilo…I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting you before the events of tonight, but I have no doubt, someone will miss you…Think before you drink and drive…I know that my sister and I will from this day on…)
Caleb slumped down in his easy chair with a bottle of gin in his left and a 40 page paper in his right; with one flick of his wrist he flung all 39.7 pages into the dying fire, and even though it was worthless, in those last fleeting seconds of the paper’s life it seemed to warm him, or was that the gin?
sounded like a lot more fun than it turned out to be.
“Don’t take with alcohol and avoid caffiene and spicey food.”
I always use my brother’s phone number for the “rewards card” when I buy large quantities of alcohol at the supermarket; if anyone ever subpoenas the records, I’m clean and he’s a double-duty lush.
I imagine being a baby was a lot like being piss-drunk, stumbling around, and minced words, stretches of time you have no recollection of, always building towards the mental sobriety of adulthood, only with sobriety comes the headaches, and the want to take care of those “younger” than you.
Sober Me says, “One drink is all you can afford,” Drunk Me says, “Sober Me has a credit card.”
The Wright Brothers may have discovered flight, but in the ‘70s, we discovered that the secret of flying is to put shag carpet on the ceiling, mix copious quantities of drugs and alcohol and then lie on your back on the floor.
Vern was surprised to learn that “social lubricant” generally referred to alcohol consumption, but it did explain the strange reaction he’d gotten when shaking hands after conditioning his palms with a liberal squirt of Astroglide.
Things started out well with a welcoming, "Hello, my name is _____ and I'm an alcoholic," but then took a surprising turn for the worse as Kevin realized that he'd been mishearing for all those years and the meeting was not a club of like-minded "Alcoholics Unanimous" as he had always thought.
Ralph found that an occasional hangover was an excellent way to stay humble.
Copyright @ 2005 - 2017
195 queries in 7.7032 seconds