On, I don't think I'm a genius!' cried Josie, growing calm and sober as she listened to the melodious voice and looked into the expressive face that filled her with confidence, so strong, sincere and kindly was it. 'I only want to find out if I have ...
Jay: I dunno dude, that Caitlin chick's nice, but I've seen that Veronica girl doing shit for you all the time. I saw her rubbing your back, fucking comes and brings you food. Didn't I see her change your tire once? Dante Hicks: Hey-hey, you know, I ...
Sgt. Pete Karelsen: I'm getting sick and tired watching you being a stooge for Holmes. Sergeant Milton Warden: You won't see it much longer. I'm getting sick and tired of it myself. I'm through, Pete. Any day now. And I mean it. Sgt. Pete Karelsen: [...
The world is a giant eye, staring back at the stars. When it tires, it closes its lids--just as I am doing now--and gives way to dreams, which is why the night is so much more mysterious than the day.
Did anyone care for poor Cinderella until her fairy godmother took her in hand? Did anyone look beyond the ragged clothes and sooty face? Did anyone see the unshed tears and the poor, tired face? Obviously not. Appearances matter.
When I first arrived in London, I so quickly tired of being surrounded by so many people that it was only with great difficulty that I refrained from seizing the next unfortunate who crossed my path and committing violent acts upon their person.
I was tired of this silly joking about my 'speaking countenance'. I could keep a secret as well as anyone. Poirot had always persisted in the humiliating belief that I am a transparent character and that anyone can read what is passing in my mind.
There are three kinds of fighters: the aggressive fighter who charges in blindly trying to get the upper hand, the defensive fighter who blocks and evades until his opponent is tired, and then the most dangerous type of fighter, the one who waits for...
If you’re tired of taking one step forward and two steps back, just turn around. That way you’ll be going forward in reverse.
Despite being tired, I couldn’t sleep. Sometimes having a functioning penis can be a real drag (especially if it always dangles along the ground as I walk).
So, yeah, insane people give me hope. Courage to go on being sane and alive, always with the cure at hand, should I ever tire and need it: madness.
But luck withered by conservative, tired, riskless living can be plumped up again--after all, it was only a bit thirsty for something to do.
He tried to disguise how tired and ill he was, how depressing the thought of death was to him and how he spent his days and nights thinking up schemes of living beyond what the prognosis said. His hope, if not his heart, would find a way.
As I walked inside, she turned around and headed for the end of the bed. Then she paused and turned to face me. She was wearing her Orchard Hill basketball T-shirt and sweatpants and she looked tired, but beautiful.
In the old days, trouble was kept in the family, which is still the best place for it, not that there's ever a best place for trouble. Why stir everything up again after that many years, with all concerned tucked, like tired children, so neatly into ...
His grip slackened. His last breath rustled her hair. She felt his soul release its hold on the strands of the spiderweb that connected them, and it was like falling asleep in a monster's lair--frightened of the dark, but too tired to keep going.
I’m so tired I could drink a cup of coffee as deep as the Grand Canyon. But I couldn’t take the first sip, because I’m too afraid of heights to get close to the lip.
I like my cakes nude, like I like wearing coats made of icing. I sweat hot coffee, so I wear cream deodorant. If you’re tired, you should lick my armpits.
But I want to give in to it sometimes, only because I'm tired and the feeling that I've had for a while-that something is haunting me down-becomes all consuming and I'm frightened that one morning there will be not enough to keep me going.
Look, are we almost there? Or are you just taking me in circles in order to molest me? I’m tired, I’m pissed, and I really kind of hate you, so could you just take me to my quarters and poof away somewhere?
Harold had become, over the past week, a connoisseur of silences. He was an expert at differentiating the particulars; was this a Tranquil Silence, marked by slow sighs and peaceful smiles? Or was it a Tired Silence, marked by ornery chair shifting? ...
