99 Percent Mine Quotes

That’s because pizza is a precious natural resource. It can heal tiredness, bad mood, falling morale, and a fading will to live. Pizza realigns the heart chakras.

Every evil overlord needs a fluffy cat to stroke.

I’m your walking talking organ donor. I’d better make myself available.” “You’ve got one heart, you idiot.” “I know,” Jamie says. “I’m keeping it warm for you.” My idiot twin still loves me.

No one else is kissing you anymore," he tells me in a conversational hush, not breaking our contact. "Your mouth is mine." The thought is more than he can bear; now we're twisting each other's clothes and the kiss is like a conversation with no words -- louder and louder, talking over each other: Listen to me. No, you listen to me.

Quick, I'm having a winemergency.

Everything. If you were mine, I’d do everything.” Our gold bubble locks shut, and a little universe fills it. The possibilities are infinite. “I have a big imagination. Could you be more specific?” I put my hand on the side of his neck and stroke down to the hard bar of his collarbone. His skin is hot satin. His pulse nudges me. Mine, mine, mine. One thousand percent mine until the end of time. He looks like he agrees. “Everything you wanted or needed, I’d do it.” Amazing how he can keep it clean, but it feels so dirty. That’s the thing about good boys. “I want and need a lot.” A big white smile now. “No kidding. Well, I’m a hard worker.

Meet your new alpha, bitch.

I can never decide if Tom’s hair is the color of caramel fudge or chocolate. Either way, yum. The texture is like a romance novel that’s fallen into the bath, then dried: vaguely sexual crinkle waves with the occasional curled edge and dog-ear. I want to jam my hand in it and make a gentle fist.

Unpack the equipment,” Tom says in a bass tone I’ve never heard in my life. It’s the kind of voice that should be saying, On your knees. My joints loosen and my body replies, Okay.

Could you tell me why you did it?” I hear the floorboards under his feet creak. “Were you lonely? Mad? Trying to get back at me for something?” He hasn’t reached the conclusion that I want his body and his pleasure, more than I want water and food. “I’m not telling you a damn thing,” I reply, because I know that’s what will annoy him the most. “I’ll tell you one day, when we’re eighty years old.

He takes my mug from my hand and takes a slow sip. Every guy watches him do it. They understand what their boss is telling them. Speculation is now in expressions and I wire my jaw shut to stop it from dropping open.

There's still one solid-gold good man left out there. He's the high-tide mark in a world of inch-deep puddles.

I crank the shower and it spits and steams. Then I stand in the water and when I cry, the tears wash away. The perfect crime

He smells like birthday-candle wishes.

That important, impossible thing that you have nearly given up on ninety-nine times? Finish it. Whether it’s a success or a failure, no one can take your The End prize away from you. Finishing is the most important thing there is. It’s proof of how hard you tried.

The vintage St. Patty’s Day T-shirt he’s wearing, probably out of politeness, is stretched wafer thin, trying to cope. If it were a person, it would be an exhausted wraith, gasping, Please, help me. It fits like a dream.

I need your hands more than I’ve ever needed anything.

#1 Asshole mug,

I bet she put it in her bullet journal. Saturday, six P.M. A special gold star sticker indicating sexual intercourse completed.” Truly drifts half-asleep again, emitting the occasional cackle.

I just get crabby and irritated. Big surprise, I know I’m always like that. But I just need to feel someone else . . . It eases off the sharpness inside. It really is an actual thing. Skin hunger. I read a study about it.

A memory of last night drops through my body like a coin. Ripples spread through my stomach, shimmering down.

Mom’s kind of loving it. She calls them all Mr. Tuxedo.

He’s just reading what’s printed on my Underswears.

I can’t focus when you’re around,

The look he gives me makes me wonder if I’m in trouble. “I thought you were going out.” “I wanted to come back and say I’m sorry,” I tell him, and I put my arms around his waist and hug. “You shut the door in a way that made me sad, and I wanted to tell you that I’m going to do better.” “Do better at what? How’d I shut the door?” His other arm wraps around my shoulders. He crosses his feet behind my heels, and now his entire body is hugging me. Warm, soft, hard. I thought my mattress was heaven, but that’s before I laid myself on this person. How am I going to ever peel myself off? I inhale his birthday-candle pheromones. I want to know what his goddamn bones smell like. Let me start down in his DNA structure and work my way back out. I speak into his muscles. “You shut the door like you’ve just accepted that I don’t come back. I’m going to start being like you. Completely, one hundred percent honest.” I hover on the precipice and decide to try. “This is the best hug of my life.

He has the kind of density that makes me constantly guess to myself how much he’d weigh. Does muscle weigh more than fat? He’s a ton. He’s six-six, and I watched him get this tall, but it’s a surprise every time I see him. It’s the body you see on first responders. Think big-ass firemen kicking in doors, ready to save you. “How do you cope with a skeleton that big?” I ask, and he looks down at himself, mystified. “I mean, how do you coordinate all four limbs and actually ambulate around the place?” My eyes are back on his shoulders, following the round lines down, the flat sections, the dips and shadowed lines, the creases on the cotton. I can see his belt, which doesn’t know how lucky it is to be strapped around that, and a lush half inch of black underwear waistband, and my cheeks are burning and I can hear my heart and— “Eyes up, DB.” He’s busted me. Not that I was very subtle. “Me and my skeleton getaround just fine.

Guess what percentage of total material flow through this system is still in product or use 6 months after their sale in North America. Fifty percent? Twenty? NO. One percent. One! In other words . . . 99 percent of the stuff we run through this system is trashed within 6 months.

In my room, I scrub my eyes with makeup wipes and change into leggings and old band T-shirt. I'll let my teeth decay tonight.

You think I'm a Bertha?" "Definitely.

No one thinks about who takes the photos. They just click and add that dildo to their cart.

No one else is kissing you anymore,” he tells me in a conversational hush, not breaking our contact. “Your mouth is mine.

Making Tom proud? It’s like snorting a rainbow.

Are you okay?” I want to grab him by the shoulders and check for physical damage. I’ll crack open his chest to check how bad his heart looks. “Me?” He thinks for a second. “Everyone just asks if she’s okay.” “Yeah, because she’s just lost you . Are you okay? Do I need to go and beat the shit out of her?” I notice one of the cabinets above me is ajar. For something to do, I put a hand up to close it. When my fingers hook into the tiny handle, the web-thin hinge breaks. Now I’m standing here with a broken door in my hand. I lean it against my leg and try to look cool, but I’m practically auditioning for SmackDown. Unwillingly, he laughs. I am going to beat Megan with this door until she realizes what a fuckup she’s made. He knows exactly what I’m thinking. “You’re always so vicious, DB.

Sunday night is my personal weekly Halloween. I walk along slowly and drag my fingertips along the bars of chocolate. Goddamn, you sexy little squares. Dark, milk, white, I do not discriminate. I eat it all. Those fluorescent sour candies that only obnoxious little boys like. I suck candy apples clean. If an envelope seal is sweet, I’ll lick it twice. Growing up, I was that kid who would easily get lured into a van with the promise of a lollipop. Sometimes, I let the retail seduction last for twenty minutes, ignoring Marco and feeling up the merchandise, but I’m so tired of male voices. “Five bags of marshmallows,” Marco says in a resigned tone. “Wine. And a can of cat food.” “Cat food is low carb.” He makes no move to scan anything, so I scan each item myself and unroll a few notes from my tips. “Your job involves selling things. Sell them. Change, please.” “I just don’t know why you do this to yourself.” Marco looks at the register with a moral dilemma in his eyes. “Every week you come and do this.” He hesitates and looks over his shoulder where his sugar book sits under a layer of dust. He knows not to try to slip it into my bag with my purchases. “I don’t know why you care, dude. Just serve me. I don’t need your help.” He’s not entirely wrong about my being an addict. I would lick a line of icing sugar off this counter right now if no one were around. I would walk into a cane plantation and bite right in... “Give me my change or I swear to God …” I squeeze my eyes shut and try to tamp down my temper. “Just treat me like any other customer.” He gives me a few coins’ change and bags my sweet, spongy drugs.

Bartender 101? Find the alpha. “Girl Scouts again? Fuck off.” The bald one looks back at the street, checking he has the right house. The young guy grins. The old one purses his lips. There he is. “I’m just fucking with you. I’m Darcy. Tom’s nude right now, but he’ll be right with you.” “I’m not nude,” Tom snaps in irritation, striding into the room.

Patty is a shiny shorthaired black and tan Chihuahua, with a big apple dome head. She’s got a judgmental narrowing to her eyes. I don’t take it personally anymore, but sheesh, this dog looks at you like you’re a steaming turd. It’s just her face. She remembers me. What an honor to be stamped permanently in her tiny walnut brain. I pick her up and kiss her cheeks.

He gives me a few coins’ change and bags my sweet, spongy drugs. “You just remind me of how I used to be. So addicted. When you’re ready to quit, borrow the book from me. I haven’t had sugar in nearly eight months. I just sweeten my coffee with some powdered agave …” I’m already walking out. No sugar? Why is life just about giving things up? What have I even got left that I enjoy? The heavy-sigh feeling inside me gets worse. Sadder. I pause at the door.

Forgiveness is difficult,” she said, making me feel small-hearted and brittle. “You don’t have to trust Adam again, not right away, but it does mean you have to accept what’s happened and start to take steps away from the infidelity.” So once again, the burden is on me. Planning the wedding, though it was a genuine joy, was on me. Once we figured out why we couldn’t get pregnant, the burden was on me, too, with those horrible shots that made me so hormonal I had to go into the bathroom at work and cry, and everyone knew and was so nice, which made me cry more. All Adam had to do was switch to wearing boxers and have more sex. The pregnancy—me again. I’m the one with a four-inch scar and a pooch of skin. The house decorating, painting, hiring people to overhaul the plumbing and electric… me. His mother’s birthday—also mine to remember. Holidays, vacations, weekend plans, all mine. And while I would never call my girls a burden, the huge responsibility of raising them is 99 percent mine. And now the future of our marriage is on me. I have to forgive him. I have to accept his apology. I have to get past this. That first night, I lay stiffly next to him. He gave me a meaningful basset-hound look and said, “Thank you, Rachel,” and it was all I could do not to flip him off.

And as I caught Louie with an “oomph” that knocked half the wind out of me, I accepted that I’d go through everything with Christy all over again if I had a homecoming like this from my boy. “I missed you, Buttercup,” Louie practically screamed into my ear as his arms went around my neck and he hugged the little bit of breath I had left right out of me. “I missed you. I missed you. I missed you.” “I missed you too, poo-poo face,” I said kissing his cheeks. “Oh my God, what have you been doing? Are you planning on hibernating for winter? You weigh like ten pounds more than you did before I left.” Just like when he was a baby, Louie reeled back, smacked his hands—which I was 99 percent sure were dirty—on my cheeks, and jiggled them as he leaned close enough to touch the tip of his nose to mine. “Grandma gave me a lot of pizza and chicken nuggets.

Michael’s shoulder bumped mine in a casual yet—I was 99 percent sure—purposeful way.

Language itself could be interpreted as one of those enigmatic creatures or ‘products’ of [Jordenian] ‘e-v-o-l-u-t-i-o-n.’ One of many examples is the transition from ‘Old English’ to ‘Middle English’ towards the present variations of English, spoken and written. If Old and Middle English literature ‘represent/s’ [grammatically ‘undecided’] a potential linguistic ‘challenge’ to some or many modern readers in Haluxinor, it would follow that the English this particular auteur thinks, speaks, and writes in might, arguably, have been incomprehensible to bibliophiles in the early ‘medieval’ e-r-a-s of [terrestrial] civilization. It would probably require a ‘time-traveling’ aparato/maquina of some ‘species’ [pseizbergslunk ‘sci-fi’ emphases mine] to ‘hark back’ to the ‘aeons’ of Bede and Chaucer, respectively, to be (+/-) 99.9 percent certain, but I am relatively confident that it is not an entirely inaccurate… speculation.” Emperor Baron Francis Cosmicus [The Dromernaut Odyssey Anno Domini 3193]

I need air. I need sky and stars and cold; I need to sit on the rings of Saturn dangling my boots into the black universe to be alone.

Just go and unpick your mistake and keep on sewing.