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I’m only saying what you won’t. He’s a hunk, admit it. A tall, dark, exotic hunk who wants to bed you, and you must be a fucking nun, because it’s been three weeks since you met him and you’re going to have to remove the cobwebs from your vagina with forceps soon, they’re growing into intelligent life form— ↗
But the examinations are the chief bugbears of my college life. Although I have faced them many times and cast them down and made them bite the dust, yet they rise again and menace me with pale looks, until like Bob Acres I feel my courage oozing out at my finger ends. The days before these ordeals take place are spent in cramming your mind with mystic formula and indigestible dates—unpalatable diets, until you wish that books and science and you were buried in the depths of the sea. At last the dreaded hour arrives, and you are a favoured being indeed if you feel prepared, and are able at the right time to call to your standard thoughts that will aid you in that supreme effort. It happens too often that your trumpet call is unheeded. It is most perplexing and exasperating that just at the moment when you need your memory and a nice sense of discrimination, these faculties take to themselves wings and fly away. The facts you have garnered with such infinite trouble invariably fail you at a pinch. ↗
Staring at my smoldering hot date, her husband stands tall for the first time in a decade, adjusting his toupee while flashing a horrid green toothy grin that looks more like a Steven Hawkins muscle spasm. In his hands, a frightened beer bottle is choked with the steel grip of a sexually repressed Preacher. ↗
Willow: I don't actually date a whole lot... lately. Buffy: Why not? Willow: Well, when I'm with a boy I like, it's hard for me to say anything cool, or -or witty, or at all. I can usually make a few vowel sounds, and then I have to go away. Buffy: It's not that bad! Willow: No, it is. I think boys are more interested in a girl who can talk. Buffy: You really haven't been dating lately. Buffy: Well, my philosophy, do you wanna hear my philosophy? Willow: Yeah, I do! Buffy: Life is short. Willow: Life is short! Buffy: Not original, I'll grant you, but it's true. You know? Why waste time being all shy and worrying about some guy, and if he's gonna laugh at you. Seize the moment, 'cause tomorrow you might be dead. Willow: Oh, that's nice! ↗
There's a lid for every pot. If you don't get out much, they'll have a wreck in yard. NOTHING will keep your soulmate from you. You have EVERY hope for love. ↗
#finding-forever-love #kathryn-alice #law-of-attraction #love #manifest-your-soulmate
All over Atlanta that fall, in the blue twilights, girls came clicking home from their jobs in their clunky heels and miniskirts and opened their apartment windows to the winesap air, and got out ice cubes, and put on Petula Clark singing 'Downtown', and sat down to wait. Soon the young men would come, drifting out of their bachelor apartments in Bermuda shorts and Topsiders, carrying beers and gin and tonics, looking for a refill and a a date and the keeping of promises that hung in the bronze air like fruit on the eve of ripeness. ↗
I wanted to puke, and from the intense paint stench that was assaulting my nasal passages. Sage wanted Gaberot, Not Tucker, not Joe, but Gabe. It was all too gross to contemplate. So of course my brain couldn't stop contemplating it. Sage and Gabe-rot sitting in the tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G! We worked in silence for a few minutes while I fumed. How could she grill me about Gabe when she was already dating Mr.Perfect? If only Daniel were here to hear all of this instead of sitting back at SDH oblivious. "So are you and Gabe, like close?" Sage asked. Ugh! "Very close," I said, tilting my head to one side,"Incestuous,actually. He's a fabulous kisser. ↗
This magnificent poem [Exodus 15:1-21] has been much analyzed, dissected, scanned, and compared with an array of supposed precedent and counterpart works. It has been variously attributed and dated, and forced into a wide variety of forms and Sitze im Leben. There have been attempts to determine some parts of it as early and some parts as late, and to describe therefrom an evolution of both its form and its content. None of these attempts has been entirely successful. The best of them have amounted to no more than helpful suggestions, while the worst of them have been fiction bordering fantasy. ↗
