To get more liquids in my diet, I’ve started eating more soup and cereal. Anything that’s watered down, including my relationship.
True freedom is an empty cup, because it can be filled with anything. Freedom sounds great, until someone hands it to you, and then it just makes you thirsty.
I didn't do anything wrong. I swear.' He grunted. 'Like I've never heard that before. Funny, but I expected a little more originality from Moira's daughter.' 'Yeah, well, the dog ate my notebook with all my good excuses.
I love you" he said. I did not say anything. What could I say? If i said i love you too, i had perpetual punishment for being a liar.
If somebody asks if you tweeted your penis and your answer is anything other than "No," you tweeted your penis.
This is about me being ready to succeed. When I win in my mind, I truly win. Anything worthwhile deserves some time. I will do it this time! No excuses!
What's with the serum?" I don't know, but it sounds ominous. We better put a telepathic direction finder on Benway. The man's not to be trusted. Might do almost anything...Turn a massacre into a sex orgy..." Or a joke." Precisely. Arty type...No prin...
I was so attracted to him I could have peed myself right there on the spot, but I hadn't done anything like that in a while. I was older now, and harnessed my feelings in moments like these by opening and closing my fists very rapidly.
Boo: "Go talk to her." Callum: "About what?" Boo: "Anything." Callum: "You want me to walk up to her and say, 'Are you a ghost?'" Boo: "I do that." Callum: "I love it when you get it wrong.
Human beings are more or less formulas. Pun intended. We are not any one thing that is mathematically provable. We are more or less than we are anything. We are more or less kind, or more or less not. More or less selfish, happy, wise, lonely.
Douglas’s fridge was a stainless-steel masterpiece. I’m not that into appliances or anything, but this one was nice and probably cost more than my last apartment. I had the strange desire to hug it every time I came into the kitchen.
certain details, somewhat curtailed, live in my memory. But I don't see anything anymore: I can search the past in vain, I can only find these scraps of images and I am not sure what they represent, whether they are memories or just fiction.
Of course boredom may lead you to anything. It is boredom sets one sticking golden pins into people, but all that would not matter. What is bad (this is my comment again) is that I dare say people will be thankful for the gold pins then.
Maybe you didn’t need to know anything special to write a work of fiction. Maybe you didn’t need to delve into some kind of life question you knew you’d lived. Perhaps your subconscious would do the job for you, if only you dared to dream.
Don't wear anything under this. I want to be on that stage, looking down at you, and knowing that you're bare underneath. Knowing that I could walk up behind you if I wanted and within just a matter of seconds, be lodged deep inside you.
Perhaps they suspected that I thought less of them because I knew it. (I'm too aware of human frailty to have let that happen. If anything, I thought more of them for wanting to face up to what they had done and for trying to change.)
He kissed her. Without warning, without permission. Without even deciding to do it, but simply because he couldn't have done anything else. He needed that breath she was holding. It belonged to him, and he wanted it back.
If life has taught me anything, it’s that no matter what you should do, you should love. Even if you’re in the process of murdering someone, possibly a politician, your heart should be filled with love.
How can we ever understand what we are and where we belong in the universe if we haven't experienced anything outside of our own nation, culture, or history?
Among the beliefs I held about the world was that being beautiful should not matter to a woman, because it was one of those things that would go away--your beauty would go away, and there wouldn't be anything you could do to bring it back.
What we end up calling history is a kind of knife, slicing down through time. A few people are hard enough to bend its edge. But most won't even stand close to the blade. I'm one of those. We don't bend anything.
