Badass Game Quotes

Now that number was gone, covered up by the jet-black image of a chess piece. Neil's knowledge of chess was hazy at best, but he knew for sure that wasn't a king. "You did it," Neil said, too stunned to manage anything else. "Let Riko be King," Kevin said, with the exaggerated enunciation of the thoroughly sloshed. "Most coveted, most protected. He'll sacrifice every piece he has to protect his throne. Whatever. Me?" Kevin gestured again, meaning to indicate himself but too drunk to get his hand higher than his waist. "I'm going to be the deadliest piece on the board." "Queen," Andrew said somewhere behind Neil.

I don't want to make her [Maggie] a target again," I said. Michael sighed patiently. "Harry," he said, as if speaking to a rather slow child,"I'm not sure if you noticed this. But things did not turn out well for the last monster who raised his hand against your child. Or any of his friends. Or associates. Or anyone who worked for him. Or for most of the people he knew.

Making a big fat deal out of anything is absurd. It makes much more sense to go after life with a sense of, “Why not?” instead of a furrowed brow. One of the best things I ever did was make my motto “I just wanna see what I can get away with.” It takes all the pressure off, puts the punk rock attitude in, and reminds me that life is but a game.

They focused a large amount of their wrath on people trying to add dialogue about feminism and diversity in gaming, condemning them as “Social Justice Warriors.” (That label was always so weird to me, because how is that an insult? “Social Justice Warrior” actually sounds pretty badass.)

We found out the ERC was going to cut us from the Class I ranks if we didn't stop losing. Coach asked Andrew for a miracle, and Andrew gave us one. He made Coach come up with a number between one and five, and that's how many points he let the other team get before he shut them out. It was probably the most badass thing I've ever seen.

One of the best things I ever did was make my motto “I just wanna see what I can get away with.” It takes all the pressure off, puts the punk rock attitude in, and reminds me that life is but a game.

I've had some good times, had some bad. Took some lumps. Scored some points. Half-way through life, at 43, I still say, 'go for broke.' No government, no FBI, no judge, no jailer is ever gonna make me say 'uncle.' Now, as then, let the game continue. I bet my stake on freedom's call; I'll play these cards with no regrets.

It’s about respecting yourself, instead of catering to your insecure need to be liked. This is incredibly powerful, because when you love yourself enough to stand in your truth no matter what the cost, everyone benefits. You start attracting the kinds of things, people, and opportunities, that are in alignment with who you truly are, which is way more fun than hanging out with a bunch of irritating energy suckers. And by declining to participate in other people’s drama, (i.e. refusing to rip people to shreds, to complain about how unfair the world is, etc.) you not only raise your own frequency, but you offer the drama queens the chance to rise up too, instead of everyone continuing to play a low, lame game.     Never apologize for who you are. It lets the whole world down.

This is incredibly powerful, because when you love yourself enough to stand in your truth no matter what the cost, everyone benefits. You start attracting the kinds of things, people, and opportunities, that are in alignment with who you truly are, which is way more fun than hanging out with a bunch of irritating energy suckers. And by declining to participate in other people’s drama, (i.e. refusing to rip people to shreds, to complain about how unfair the world is, etc.) you not only raise your own frequency, but you offer the drama queens the chance to rise up too, instead of everyone continuing to play a low, lame game.

The avatar she’d designed to conquer the game of life wouldn’t stop to hug her nemesis. Badass Simone would pulverize the competition. Find his biggest weakness and exploit it in a tactical strike.

Ah well. He’d beaten her twice sind then: once on their honeymoon, though he still suspected her of throwing the game, and once on the day she lost the baby. And two out of eight hundred and six wasn’t too bad, against such an opponent.

When Einstein calls you the most significant and creative woman in the history of mathematics, you can probably call it a day and go home. Unless you're Emmy Noether, whose pursuit of game-changing innovation in the field of numbers was, in a word, tenacious.

Moments later, the curtain rattled open and Daisy strode out, a vision of hotness in head-to-toe body-skimming leather. She'd taken out her ponytail and her hair lay loose and wild around her shoulders. "I'm badass," she whispered, staring at herself in the mirror. "Look at me." He was looking. And he was wanting---wanting with a ferocity that took his breath away. "Hamish! Quit gawking at my girl." He had a decision to make. But right now, all he knew was that he had to follow his heart, and his heart was strutting in front of the mirror, wrapped head-to-toe in black leather.

Seattle. I’ve never seen a city so overrun with runaways, drug addicts, and bums. Pike Place Market: they’re everywhere. Pioneer Square: teeming with them. The flagship Nordstrom: have to step over them on your way in. The first Starbucks: one of them hogging the milk counter because he’s sprinkling free cinnamon on his head. Oh, and they all have pit bulls, many of them wearing handwritten signs with witticisms such as I BET YOU A DOLLAR YOU’LL READ THIS SIGN. Why does every beggar have a pit bull? Really, you don’t know? It’s because they’re badasses, and don’t you forget it. I was downtown early one morning and I noticed the streets were full of people pulling wheelie suitcases. And I thought, Wow, here’s a city full of go-getters. Then I realized, no, these are all homeless bums who have spent the night in doorways and are packing up before they get kicked out. Seattle is the only city where you step in shit and you pray, Please God, let this be dog shit. Anytime you express consternation as to how the U.S. city with more millionaires per capita than any other would allow itself to be overtaken by bums, the same reply always comes back. “Seattle is a compassionate city.” A guy named the Tuba Man, a beloved institution who’d play his tuba at Mariners games, was brutally murdered by a street gang near the Gates Foundation. The response? Not to crack down on gangs or anything. That wouldn’t be compassionate. Instead, the people in the neighborhood redoubled their efforts to “get to the root of gang violence.” They arranged a “Race for the Root,” to raise money for this dunderheaded effort. Of course, the “Race for the Root” was a triathlon, because God forbid you should ask one of these athletic do-gooders to partake in only one sport per Sunday.

I gather you play chess, he’d said, and she’d given him a look, later he’d ralised it was fair warning; yes, she played chess. The had a mignificent coral and ivory set, worth a thousand acres of good arable land. He’d made soft opening, the way you do when you’re playing a girl, and suddenly he found himself staring defeat in the facs - he’d never los a game except three times, to Senza.

When it comes to our emotional pain, however, we’re apparently way more game for seeing just how much torture we can endure, wallowing in our guilt, shame, resentment, and self-loathing, sometimes for entire lifetimes. We prolong our misery by holding on to our ill feelings by badmouthing our mother in-laws, fantasizing about pantsing our loudmouth, incompetent bosses in front of the whole office, unloading fault on other people, and rolling around in our minds the many reasons why our enemies are wrong and the many reasons why we’re right.

I'd spent my whole career dealing with badasses taking care of my nine-month-old boy should be a lark.

But Gale? Gale is a warrior. He's a rebel. He's a badass. He's a knight.

Anxiety cannot be outrun, and we don’t even need to, as explained. You are your safe spot. The world is your backyard. All the rest is trivial and just a mind game.

I’ll tell you how I stay motivated. I named my anxiety. No seriously. His name is Fred and he’s a fucking pain in the ass. I hate him. He’s annoying, mean, pushy, rude, and he constantly smells like cabbage. Now, I’m not one for real interpersonal violence (unless it’s in the octagon), but when I wake up and I’m in one of my periods of progress, I say to myself, “You’re goin’ down, Fred.” I also love video games, so I make a game out of it. Exposure is like gaining experience, leveling up my character. Getting better at deep breathing is like improving my fireball skill. Learning a new coping skill is similar to stumbling upon some epic imbued weapon. You should see my character at this point… much more badass than my actual outward appearance.

Probably because with his jet black hair and intense jungle green eyes, our Avalon Academy training outfits made him look even more badass than he already was.

Also, they seemed a bit Hunger Game-ish which only made me feel that much more like a badass.

I won’t sit here with my legs tangled together and take orders like a good little soldier.” My voice was surprisingly calm. “I’m not my father, and I sure don’t intend to comfortably fit into the tidy, screwed-up box you created for me. You want me to stay away from Brock? You do the same with other women. You mess around with me, and me only.” Where did that come from? I wasn’t entirely sure, but I liked extra-feisty Sparrow. Knew she might be the death of me, but still rooted for her. She was the crazy underdog who wasn’t afraid of biting the ass of its owner. “Are you offering me what I think you’re offering?” He tipped his chin down. “Because I won’t be gentle.” “I don’t want you to be gentle.” I walked across the kitchen to fix myself some breakfast, my tone bored. “I want you to be badass, and cut the jealous tantrums. You act like a chick.” As I opened the fridge and shoved my head in, in search of something interesting to eat, I smiled to myself. I’d learned Troy, knew that he would take the bait. The harder I fought back every time he messed with me, the more he liked me. I bet if I set his penthouse on fire, he would laugh like it was all a big, fat joke. “Hell, wifey, I’m game. Let’s play.” And with that, I knew there would be no more mistresses in the immediate future. For the first time since we got together, I’d won. And victory never felt so sweet.

Success is not an end-of-the-road game. It’s a never-ending-road game.

She didn’t know what had caused the difference, but even Gino was on board. They were clearly guarding the couple rather than guarding the compound against her. “Don’t get him in trouble with Nonny,” Rubin advised. “Cut through the bullshit,” Gino added. “You aren’t going to turn him down, because someone has to look after the lug. I don’t know what you know about him that we don’t, but it sounds like you’re meant for each other. Just get over there to Nonny before she decides to quit cooking for us.” Bellisia shook her head, a little bit stunned. The big, badass GhostWalkers were afraid of an eighty-year-old woman—or more precisely, their stomachs were.

I don’t care how big a loser you may or may not perceive yourself to be right now, the fact that you’re literate, have the luxury of time to read this book and the money to buy it puts you way ahead of the game.