#ski

Oh, how I regret not having worn a bikini for the entire year I was twenty-six. If anyone young is reading this, go, right this minute, put on a bikini, and don't take it off until you're thirty-four. ↗

— Nora Ephron

#humorous #skinny #humor

There's nothing unusual about love. ↗

— Charles Bukowski

#hot-water-music #love

My name is Skippito Friskito. (clap-clap) I fear not a single bandito. (clap-clap) My manners are mellow, I'm sweet like the Jell-o, I get the job done, yes indeed-o. (clap-clap) ↗

— Judy Schachner

#humor #mexican #siamese-cats #skippyjon-jones #humor

I have a message for your daughter,” said Cale. “I am bound to her with cables that not even God can break. One day, if there is a soft breeze on her cheek, it may be my breath; one night, if the cool wind plays with her hair, it may be my shadow passing by.” And with this terrible threat he faced forward and the procession started once more. In less than a minute they were gone. In her shady room Arbell Swan-Neck stood white and cold as alabaster. ↗

— Paul Hoffman

#arbell #bound #break #breath #breeze

Empty-page staring again tonight. It's maddening. I suppose people who don't write (like the Connollies) imagine anything that can be though can be expressed. Well, I don't know. I can't do it. It's this sort of thing that makes me belittle the whole business: what's the good of a 'talent' if you can't do it when you want to? What should we think of a woodcarver who couldn't woodcarver? or a pianist who couldn't play the piano? Bah, likewise grrr. ↗

— Philip Larkin

#skill #business

I thought I was dreaming. It was the most amazing moment of my entire life. Not only is Bill the love of my life, but he's also my best friend. I couldn't believe my dream guy was asking me to marry him! ↗

— Giuliana Rancic

#amazing #asking #believe #best #best friend

Death and burial were a public spectacle. Shakespeare may have seen for himself the gravediggers at St Ann's, Soho, playing skittles with skulls and bones. ↗

— Catharine Arnold

#shakespeare #skittles #skulls #death

to ask them to legalize pot is something like asking them to put butter on the handcuffs before they place them on you, something else is hurting you - that's why you need pot or whiskey, or whips and rubber suits, or screaming music turned so fucking loud you can't think, or madhouses or mechanical cunts or 162 baseball games in a season. or vietnam or israel or the fear of spiders. your love washing her yellow false teeth in the sink before you screw. ↗

— Charles Bukowski

#dirty-realism #drugs #legalization #legalize #pot

Blackadder was fifty-four and had come to editing Ash out of pique. He was the son and grandson of Scottish schoolmasters. His grandfather recited poetry on firelight evenings: Marmion, Childe Harold, Ragnarok. His father sent him to Downing College in Cambridge to study under F. R. Leavis. Leavis did to Blackadder what he did to serious students; he showed him the terrible, the magnificent importance and urgency of English literature and simultaneously deprived him of any confidence in his own capacity to contribute to, or change it. The young Blackadder wrote poems, imagined Dr Leavis’s comments on them, and burned them. ↗

— A.S. Byatt

#craft #literature #poetry #self-confidence #skill

She couldn’t get any farther away inside from her skin. She couldn’t get away. ↗

— Cynthia Voigt

#girl #incest #rape #skin #teen