Ac Funny Quotes

I picked up the mop and started washing again as Rob struggled to his feet, red faced. John laughed, and Much covered a smile. "You lot think this is funny?" I asked. "I'll unman you too if you wish it." They jumped back, and Rob grunted. "You haven't unmanned me, and I resent the implication of it." "It were a warning blow," I told him, shoving the mop 'cross the floor. "Next time I'll try harder.

Much were bent over in laughter. I pushed him, and he rolled to the floor without my intended insult. “Come off it!” I stamped my foot. “What’s so funny?” John asked, coming over in the middle of eating an apple. He tossed me an apple and I threw it at Much. He only laughed harder. “K-k-kissed Scar!” he hooted. “Someone kissed you?” John asked, turning to me. He didn’t look like it were too funny. “Who is he?” This made Much laugh more. “None of your business, John Little,” I told him. He stepped closer to me with a flat face that, if I could ape it, I’d never be kissed by a stupid girl when I didn’t want to be. “Who, Scar?” “Jenny Percy!” Much roared. John’s face broke open, like a smile could split a black mood. “Wait till Rob hears this.

There's a funny thing about light and darkness--like hope, you can never blot out either one completely. They always exist, side by side, bright light making shadows darker, darkness making the light more beautiful, a tempting siren call. I can't hate the dark parts of myself. They are the things that showed me how special and rare the bright flames of trust, loyalty, friendship, and love were. My darkness showed me how to love Rob. But now I choose light and fire and love. No I choose freedom.

As chemists, we must rename [our] scheme and insert the symbols Ba, La, Ce in place of Ra, Ac, Th. As nuclear chemists closely associated with physics, we cannot yet convince ourselves to make this leap, which contradicts all previous experience in nuclear physics.

He looks at me funny, and I pull my head back up, staring at the ceiling. He had good dreams, because of me. He said I was special. And he’s right—it’s not just about being ourselves, about being who we can’t be out in the rest of the world. It’s about being who we want to be.

Rea­sons Why I Loved Be­ing With Jen I love what a good friend you are. You’re re­ally en­gaged with the lives of the peo­ple you love. You or­ga­nize lovely ex­pe­ri­ences for them. You make an ef­fort with them, you’re pa­tient with them, even when they’re side­tracked by their chil­dren and can’t pri­or­i­tize you in the way you pri­or­i­tize them. You’ve got a gen­er­ous heart and it ex­tends to peo­ple you’ve never even met, whereas I think that ev­ery­one is out to get me. I used to say you were naive, but re­ally I was jeal­ous that you al­ways thought the best of peo­ple. You are a bit too anx­ious about be­ing seen to be a good per­son and you def­i­nitely go a bit over­board with your left-wing pol­i­tics to prove a point to ev­ery­one. But I know you re­ally do care. I know you’d sign pe­ti­tions and help peo­ple in need and vol­un­teer at the home­less shel­ter at Christ­mas even if no one knew about it. And that’s more than can be said for a lot of us. I love how quickly you read books and how ab­sorbed you get in a good story. I love watch­ing you lie on the sofa read­ing one from cover-to-cover. It’s like I’m in the room with you but you’re in a whole other gal­axy. I love that you’re al­ways try­ing to im­prove your­self. Whether it’s running marathons or set­ting your­self chal­lenges on an app to learn French or the fact you go to ther­apy ev­ery week. You work hard to be­come a bet­ter ver­sion of your­self. I think I prob­a­bly didn’t make my ad­mi­ra­tion for this known and in­stead it came off as ir­ri­ta­tion, which I don’t re­ally feel at all. I love how ded­i­cated you are to your fam­ily, even when they’re an­noy­ing you. Your loy­alty to them wound me up some­times, but it’s only be­cause I wish I came from a big fam­ily. I love that you al­ways know what to say in con­ver­sa­tion. You ask the right ques­tions and you know ex­actly when to talk and when to lis­ten. Ev­ery­one loves talk­ing to you be­cause you make ev­ery­one feel im­por­tant. I love your style. I know you think I prob­a­bly never no­ticed what you were wear­ing or how you did your hair, but I loved see­ing how you get ready, sit­ting in front of the full-length mir­ror in our bed­room while you did your make-up, even though there was a mir­ror on the dress­ing ta­ble. I love that you’re mad enough to swim in the English sea in No­vem­ber and that you’d pick up spi­ders in the bath with your bare hands. You’re brave in a way that I’m not. I love how free you are. You’re a very free per­son, and I never gave you the sat­is­fac­tion of say­ing it, which I should have done. No one knows it about you be­cause of your bor­ing, high-pres­sure job and your stuffy up­bring­ing, but I know what an ad­ven­turer you are un­der­neath all that. I love that you got drunk at Jack­son’s chris­ten­ing and you al­ways wanted to have one more drink at the pub and you never com­plained about get­ting up early to go to work with a hang­over. Other than Avi, you are the per­son I’ve had the most fun with in my life. And even though I gave you a hard time for al­ways try­ing to for al­ways try­ing to im­press your dad, I ac­tu­ally found it very adorable be­cause it made me see the child in you and the teenager in you, and if I could time-travel to any­where in his­tory, I swear, Jen, the only place I’d want to go is to the house where you grew up and hug you and tell you how beau­ti­ful and clever and funny you are. That you are spec­tac­u­lar even with­out all your sports trophies and mu­sic cer­tifi­cates and in­cred­i­ble grades and Ox­ford ac­cep­tance. I’m sorry that I loved you so much more than I liked my­self, that must have been a lot to carry. I’m sorry I didn’t take care of you the way you took care of me. And I’m sorry I didn’t take care of my­self, ei­ther. I need to work on it. I’m pleased that our break-up taught me that. I’m sorry I went so mental. I love you. I always will. I'm glad we met.

What's wrong?" "What makes you think something's wrong?" "Oh, I don't know. Maybe that you're frowning so hard that you're going to get wrinkles if you don't stop." Leaning closer, Zane reached out and ran one finger between her brows. There he went again, confusing her with his little touches. "Remember that summer you were a junior in college?" "I guess." "You were dating one of the waitresses." Missy used the word 'dating' as a euphemism for what Zane had really been doing with the girl. He smiled. "Yeah, I remember now." "I saw you get into your car with her one night. My Mom had asked me to run out to our car to get her sweater because the AC in the dining room was so cold and we were sitting right under the vent. Anyway, sitting in the car with you, reminded me of that time." Except Zane hadn't been able to keep his hands off the waitress. He'd been pawing at her during the walk to the car and hadn't stopped once they sat inside. Missy was sure they didn't make it much farther than the driveway that led to the stables, before he pulled over to have sex with her. Yet, with Missy, he was more concerned about making sure her coat was buttoned up tight and her seat belt fastened. "I'd completely forgotten about her. Funny, I can't even remember her name.

Mrs. Panabaker is ten years older than God and probably smarter. She stops into the offices every other Thursday to tell my dad what she didn't like about his sermon the previous Sunday. She makes fudge-covered marshmallows at Christmas time and force feeds them to anyone too slow to escape. I've never seen her out of a suit dress and floral scarf, and on Sundays she always wears a matching hat. Last week was a salmon-colored number, and her hat was draped in fake fruit. I wanted to try to eat one of the grapes just to see what she'd do, but I value my life.

And even though I gave you a hard time for al­ways try­ing to for al­ways try­ing to im­press your dad, I ac­tu­ally found it very adorable be­cause it made me see the child in you and the teenager in you, and if I could time-travel to any­where in his­tory, I swear, Jen, the only place I’d want to go is to the house where you grew up and hug you and tell you how beau­ti­ful and clever and funny you are. That you are spec­tac­u­lar even with­out all your sports trophies and mu­sic cer­tifi­cates and in­cred­i­ble grades and Ox­ford ac­cep­tance. [...] I love you. I always will. I'm glad we met.

Up until then, I had always been frightened of the world, always on edge and afraid the things outside might hurt me in the slightest of ways. "A pussy," as Travis would call it.

As Tom and I boarded a bus to Bangkok, I swallowed a couple of knock-off Valium pills I’d bought earlier at a local pharmacy to numb the agony of the long ride ahead. I was blasted out of my mind in the front seats, high up on the double-decker bus, forgetting to breathe at times, lost in the hazy depths of my mind. Tom yelled at me to get my shit together, and I tried to keep myself busy by playing games and challenging myself to hold my breath as long as possible. It felt like the Valium made time stand still, and I held my breath for what seemed like an eternity. But even that got old after a while, and the hours dragged on like an endless fever dream. Then there I was, back in Bangkok again, wondering why the hell I kept coming back.

Harry and I were now tubing side-by-side, and I could smell him—and he smelled bad. “Hey, so you guys brought your own booze, aye?” he said. “That’s clever. Wanna know a trick I use to score free beers?” For some reason, Harry always seemed to be low on cash, even though there were rumors going round that he was born into a wealthy family of British aristocrats. “Sure,” I said. With a mischievous grin, he then told me his secret plan. “You know, mate, when I’ve got just a bit of beer left in my glass, I give it a little rub with my fingers—running these two,” he said, holding up his index and middle fingers, “right through my butt crack. Then I walk up to the bartender, hold the glass under their nose, and say, ‘Apologies, but my beer seems to have an odd smell.’” “My god, Harry…” “Works like a charm—they always give me a fresh one on the house,” he said, giving me the most awkward wink in human history.

Once, we ordered a banana shake. It took a while before three little guys sprang into action, while a fourth, who was their supervisor, kept a close eye on them. One grabbed ice from the freezer, another sliced the banana with great care, and it was up to the third one to toss it all into the blender. Then they just stood there, watching with great anticipation as the blender worked. And that was just the beginning of the show. Then all three of them lined up and strolled over to our table to deliver our shake, followed by the supervisor, who appeared to be a real shit-sniffer. They stood there for a while, shy and indecisive. Then the supervisor yelled something at them. Startled, they awakened from their confusion and the ritual continued. Each of them had their own designated task. One placed the coaster, another balanced the tray, and the third delivered the shake with delicate precision. Then they looked at us with strange smiles—like one day they’d kill us all.