The notion that the public accepts or rejects anything in modern art is merely romantic fiction. The game is completed and the trophies distributed long before the public knows what has happened.
She got me to crack open the window to my soul, and I really don't want to slam it down on her fingers just yet.
That's just it. What if I can't protect you? I'll be outnumbered, outgunned. What if I can't get you out of there?
So you're saying your kissing me back was just a pity thing? Because it sure didn't feel that way to me.
Ugh! She cursed her lack of attention to the [mythology] reading. Who could have known that would be the important class?
Wasn't it what her father always warned her about? Don't jump off a bridge because a cute guy tells you to?
Doesn't matter how pretty you are. What's important is how pretty you feel. No one feels pretty when they hear "no" often enough.
…she was so exhausted and tired, so overwhelmed, that she needed a Red Bull, to calm down and fall asleep.
He was a lawyer and he knew that it would be best to trust his journalist friend, but not to tell his own lawyer
My unhappiness precluded all else; unhappiness is a kind of narcissism, in which nothing that does not resonate with your unhappiness can interest you.
You say good-bye, and you think you'll be free. But I'll be awaiting you, in your final destiny.
LIfe is just a game of chance, a dance with fate if you let it be so. Or you could chose to play by your rules to win.
The author refers to a player's affected nonchalance and comments he is, "too young to realize you are what you pretend to be.
Looks like it’s game time,” Shame said. “Beautiful day for some ass kicking, don’t you think?
You played it with great seriousness. And it is not such an uncommon game. Do you know Ibsen's poem --
Love is fickle and fleeting," Tsukiko continues. "It is rarely a solid foundation for decisions to be made upon, in any game.
His lips are against my ear and I feel the warmth of his body surrounding me, caging me in, comforting me.
Life gives us choices. You either grab on with both hands and just go for it, or you sit on the sidelines.
My upstairs brain and my downstairs brain engaged in a game of risk and it was downstairs’ turn to roll the dice.
How to Commit the Perfect Murder" was an old game in heaven. I always chose the icicle: the weapon melts away.
The way to Braden's heart is through his dick. It's just wrapped up in latex and usually between some girl's legs.
