Accidentally Amy Quotes

We see them as they cannot, will not, see each other--we see his heart in the way he looks at her; we see her soul calling out for his every touch. It would be so easy if they could only see inside each other as we can. And yet, there is beauty in the way they find each other: slowly, in a fragile dance of sidelong glances and accidental touches. To see them come together, souls binding without knowing each other as we do, without being certain of what the other's heart holds, is to learn something new... Faith.

I wanted to deny him, but that's the terrible power of a diary: it not only calls forth the person you used to be but rubs your nose in him, reminding you that not all change is evolutionary. More often than not, you didn't learn from your mistakes. You didn't get wiser, but simply older, growing from the twenty-five-year-old who got stoned and accidentally peed on his friend Katherine's kitten to the thirty-five-year-old who got drunk and peed in the sandbox at his old elementary school. "The sandbox!" my sister Amy said at the time. "Don't you realize that children have to pee in there?

You told me ‘bout your past, thinking your future was me - the lyric came at him out of nowhere.

Employee handbook, thou art a beotch.

Use the same tired cry-laughing smiley for everything like a total wank?” “Is that a wank thing to do?” “Absolutely it is.

You are so fucking pretty that I have a hard time not staring. Obsessively. Every second that I’m with you.

Where’s my breastplate? I need it. Last time someone figured out I have boobs I accidentally murdered him.

Finding this memory is like accidentally discovering a hidden piece of my heart again, the happiness I could not show anyone, the sorrow I later could not tell anyone.

But Iz?” he said, his voice quiet and deep. “Yeah?” She shook out her fingers at her sides. “The way you kissed Tom Colicchio,” he said, his dark eyes hot on her, “Was fucking sinful.

But then you left so mad at me.” Ari took Gwen’s hand and turned it over, pressing small kisses down the side of her thumb toward her wrist. “It didn’t stick. I crashed on your planet and accidentally married you.

I'm Facetimeing YOU tonight at 6:01 and I expected a detailed visual tour of your ass.

Hi, it's Amy from Starbucks.

It was the colors that had initially attracted her, the vibrant blue of the Bunsen flame and the dusty red of copper and the deep violet of permanganate. It was the logic of balanced equations, the certainty that when element A mixed with element B, compound C would appear. It was like predicting the future; it was like magic. Most of all, it was being: of having to be so careful with the hydrochloric acid, of accidentally burning herself while lighting a match, of discovering.

But she needed ice on the roads. She needed her accident to look as accidental as possible. And she just didn’t think she was capable of waiting another three months. Julia, however, knows none of this. She looks down at what remains of her best friend, and she thinks of all the times Liz was quiet and not really there. The times when she was the Liz everyone else knows, all snark and insanity, and the moments when she was the one that stared at invisible things and hadn’t truly smiled in a long time.

You fantasize about the elevator?” Izzy leaned forward on her elbows. “Ohmigod, I do, too. All the time.”   His eyes dipped down to her mouth as he said, “About you hitting the stop button?”   She ran her tongue over her bottom lip. “That’s where it starts.”   “Tell me where it finishes, Shay,” he said, quietly and calmly. No one around them would ever guess that he was asking her to share a sexual fantasy.  No one who’d ever known her would guess that she would.   “With my hands on the wall,” she said, stuck somewhere between embarrassment and total arousal. “And with you behind me, most of the time.”   He raised his eyebrows like he was amused, but his jaw was rigid. “Most of the time.”   “It varies, y’know?”   “Yeah, I fucking do know,” he said, and Izzy's stomach dipped.   “So tell me, Chest,” she said, intimidated and totally turned on by his hot eyes. “Where it finishes for you.”   She didn’t know what she’d been expecting – Blake wasn’t the kind of guy to back down from a challenge so of course he'd answer – but it wasn’t, “Your back against the elevator wall, your legs wrapped around my waist, and my name on your tongue.

In fourth grade, I had a talk with the school psychologist about all the things that actively terrified me . . . After our session, he handed my mom a list of all my fears . . . Highest (and most memorable) on the list was the specific fear that I'd accidentally churn myself into butter. This was inspired by a creepy antique children's book called Little Black Sambo, which is one of those stories from the simpler, more racist times of yore when people wrote frightening, insulting tales to help children fall asleep at night. It was highly popular back in the day and has since been rightly banned or taken out of circulation. But my mom had a copy lying around. It's about a boy who goes on an adventure and ends up getting chased by tigers, who circle and circle around a tree so fast that they churn themselves into a pool of butter, which the boy then takes home for his mother to use to make pancakes. Like ya do. Anyway, I was always riddled with fear that I'd somehow be transformed into melted butter, which now doesn't really sound like that much of a bummer. It sounds more like how I'd like to spend my last twenty-four hours on this earth.

A French newspaper accidentally ran a picture of Amy and me from the Katie Couric sketch thinking it was a picture of Couric and Palin. Although I think that had less to do with the “power of satire” and more to do with the fact that to the French, we are all indistinguishable fat dough balls.

Jesus. I could feel him pressing against me, but who the fuck knew Garrett was packing this monster cock? I’ve been with several men who have been blessed with an above-average dick, but Garrett’s? I’m pretty sure I accidentally whimper in need. “Holy shit.

Gahhhh.

Izzy: Can I eat pizza in your new bed? Blake: Of course NOT.

But you never shut up.

Why won’t you look at me?

They were Amy and Dan Cahill’s parents, people who had died in an accidental fire years ago. Or maybe not so accidental.

You can either love your blood and do your best to get along with one another, or you can fight and bicker. I don’t want to be no bickerer.

the knowledge that we’d never be friends hit me. We were sisters, but we would never be anything else. We were too different, unable to understand one another.

Because the fact that he’d nearly attacked and killed me had wounded him in a way I would never understand. That was the honest-to-goodness shocking truth. I didn’t have to live in fear that I would accidentally kill Axel. But one night a month that thought consumed him. When the reality almost occurred, it must’ve broken him.

For a moment I found the courage To ask you for what I needed.

They’re never a means to an end. They’re the kind of orgasms you write poetry about.

logged into - ugh - LinkedIn.

But you do up here.

The last thing he was looking for was a relationship. He and Skye had just called off their engagement three weeks ago,

On the other hand, there are those men and women we all know (celebrities or regular people) who only post amazing shots of their abs or photos where they look accidentally gorgeous, known as #humblebrags (RIP @twittels, who coined that perfect term). No, and pass to those people. I don’t even want to know someone who isn’t barely hanging on by a thread.

you’re going to become a cat lady living all alone in a book-filled apartment” is such a weird insult, like when a witch tries to curse you and accidentally gives you the life of your dreams. oh nooo not the cats and the books, however will I manage” ​— ​BOZE HERRINGTON

So after they called for Amy three times, and no one came for the drink, I, um, I might’ve told the barista I was Amy.

You’re a damn hero, Mr. Chest. Now say my name.” He started laughing while gasping, still face down, and groaned Izzy! at the top of his lungs. She smiled and nodded. “That’s right, baby. You say it.

Chocolate chip cookies have always held a special place for me. But then again, what honorable American doesn't have a special softness for these classic baked goods that were the result of an accident? An accident! Imagine if Ruth Wakefield, owner of the Toll House Inn in Whitman, Massachusetts, circa 1930, had never knocked the Nestlé chocolate bar into her industrial mixer, as folklore has her doing? Would someone else eventually have had the brilliant idea of adding rich chocolate chunks to smooth and creamy dough? Or would the chocolate chip cookie never have existed? I shudder to think not.

You'll feel better after you eat something." "Do you think so?"  He tried to smile.  "I am not so sure about that.  Besides, I rather suspect that feeding myself is going to be the supreme test of what remains of my abilities."  He felt for, and found, his spoon.  "You will not assist me, though.  I will not allow it." "I wouldn't dream of it." "Good." Amy knew that his pride would be better served if she kept silent.  Still, she cringed when he tentatively explored the tray's contents tray with his fingertips, accidentally plunging one of them into the still-hot broth and, jerking back, nearly upsetting the mug with his wrist. "Don't look," he said gruffly.  "I am about to make a complete fool of myself." "As long as you eat something, I don't care what you make of yourself." "Oh, I'll eat all right, if it bloody well kills me." "It won't."  She grinned.  "Besides, I'm a good cook." "Then I shall determine to do your efforts justice, Miss Leighton." "Amy." He smiled tightly.  "Amy." And with that, he lowered his spoon.  Hit the side of the bowl and nearly overturned it.  Tried again and this time, found his target.  He raised the dripping spoon, then paused and looked in her direction.  His eyes were so clear, his gaze so direct, that for a moment, Amy thought he could see her. "You're watching me." "Yes.  I want to see that you eat it, just as you promised." "The only thing you'll see is me making a damned mess," he said irately. "Maybe.  But you'll get it right eventually, I just know you will." He shook his head, dismissing her faith in him, and brought the spoon to his mouth.  It tipped slightly, and broth trickled down his chin and onto his shirtfront.  A very tight, very strained, very determined smile gripped one corner of his mouth, and Amy knew then that he was not a man to give up on something once he put his mind to it.  He tried again.  Spilled more stew.  Swore roundly.  And got it right the third time. Amy's

you’re going to become a cat lady living all alone in a book-filled apartment” is such a weird insult, like when a witch tries to curse you and accidentally gives you the life of your dreams. oh nooo not the cats and the books, however will I manage

Some time ago, I committed a quote by Amy Carmichael to memory: “If the praise of man elates me and his blame depresses me; if I cannot rest under misunderstanding without defending myself; if I love to be loved more than to love . . . then I know nothing of Calvary love.”1