Goosebumps #11: The Currency Exchange For Monsters: Monsters Have Currency Exchanges, I Guess
The monster in the poem “dwelt in the moor-fens, the marsh and the fastness”--and guess what, that’s exactly where my monster dwelt.
Fennel: The least soluble kid in her grade. A boss baby who doesn’t care about boys or cornbread.
Your constant, unprovoked deductive reasoning is making the other guests uncomfortable. There is no mystery, Holmes. Just mimosas.
The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in 3,362 pounds of pure American muscle, must be intolerably stupid.
But after all my sacrifice, my masterpiece sold only sixty-three copies, fifty of which I pawned my furniture to buy.
It's a dog park, not Jurassic Park. Find somewhere else for your infernal Dogasaurus rex to run amok.
Did you grow up in a modest house, or the suburbs, or a brownstone, or a symbolically dilapidated mansion?
- “I feel stupid and contagious.” - "Masks are stupid it's not even that contagious."
I also can’t seem to remember anything after the second act, which my therapist says is my brain’s way of protecting itself.
The grocer is like heaven, everyone exalts it, but no one wants to go there now.
It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Class had started, but half the students wouldn’t show up until 13:10.