Quotes by Bo Burnham

Well, man, you know what they say.No, I dont. I dont know what they say. I dont even know who they are. Who is this they? They seem pretty smug. They seem to think they know shit. Fuck them.

Read this to yourself. Read it silently.Dont move your lips. Dont make a sound. Listen to yourself. Listen without hearing anything.What a wonderfully weird thing, huh? NOW MAKE THIS PART LOUD! SCREAM IT IN YOUR MIND! DROWN EVERYTHING OUT.Now, hear a whisper. A tiny whisper. Now, read this next line in your best crotchety- old man voice:Hello there, sonny. Does your town have a post office?Awesome! Who was that? Whose voice was that? It sure wasnt yours! How do you do that?How?! It mustve been magic.

HangedI hung myself today. Hanged? Whatever,the point is I hanged myself today and I’m stillhanging.I feel fine. Just bored. I keep hoping thatsomeone will come home and cut me downbut then I keep remembering that if I knewsomeone like that I wouldn’t be up here. Bitironic, right? Or is that not ironic? I readsomewhere that, like, anything funny is,in some way, ironic. But I don’t know if itsfunny or not. I don’t think my brain owns“funny”, you know?I feel taller. I like that.I’ve never been away from my shadow forthis long. It had always clung to my feet,parting momentarily for a quick dive intothe swimming pool. But never for fivehours. I like it. There’s three feet of spacebetween my two and the floor.I wanted something this morning. I may bestuck. But at least I’m three feet closer to it.

Sully suffers from a stutter,simple syllables will clutter,stalling speeches up on beacheslike a sunken sailboat rudder.Sully strains to say his phrases,sickened by the sounds he raises,strings of thoughts come out in knots,he solves his sentences like mazes.At night, he writes his thoughts insteadand sighs as they steadily rush from his head.

I put a chameleon on a red dildo... He blushed

MmmmmmI like that thing you do with your tongue. What do you call it? Speaking? Yeah, I dig it

9 likes Like Facebook_icon“Read this to yourself. Read it silently.Dont move your lips. Dont make a sound. Listen to yourself. Listen without hearing anything.What a wonderfully weird thing, huh? NOW MAKE THIS PART LOUD! SCREAM IT IN YOUR MIND! DROWN EVERYTHING OUT.Now, hear a whisper. A tiny whisper. Now, read this next line in your best crotchety- old man voice:Hello there, sonny. Does your town have a post office?Awesome! Who was that? Whose voice was that? It sure wasnt yours! How do you do that?How?! It mustve been magic.

Cup of JoeTheres nothing like a cup of joe,when the mornings grey and grim and slow,when the streets collide with the world outside,when litter lies where lilies grow.Just drink that smoking cup of blackand feel your feelings surging back.Plus, spill a drop and a coffee shopwill sprout up from a sidewalk crack!

I love you just the way you arebut you dont see you like I do.You shouldnt try so hard to be perfect.Trust me, perfect should try to be you.

Forever and an InstantForever and an instant met up one day,had a short but lovely talk,then each went on its way.

In high school, I worked eight hours a day just so I could get into the college of my dreams and say that I got in - and I never went.

I was definitely not the kid that just wanted to be famous for no reason whatsoever and then happened to find comedy. Fame and all that stuff have always been slightly terrifying to me, and it makes me very anxious.

The problem for us, as viewers, is that we want famous people who are passionate about the things theyre famous for, because that makes them worthy of the attention. But I think many of those famous people just want to be famous.

I remember being superyoung, like nine or ten years old, and thinking, Man, I wonder what famous people eat for breakfast. They must have some special kind of cereal! My mind was so warped by the idea of fame.

I think it would collapse my heart if I was super famous. I dont have the nerve for it, Im too anxious. I dont know how youre not obsessed with how people perceive you, because theyre real people, you know? You can convince yourself that they dont really know you, and thats true, but how can it not hurt your feelings?

At once I feel that comedy is this amazing sort of transcendent thing, and Im also open to the fact that maybe its just an evolutionary hiccup, something that upright apes do in their free time.

Theres a certain line between jokes and music and poetry thats a bit blurred in my mind.

“I put a chameleon on a red dildo... He blushed”