Bailey Name Quotes

It won’t let me just use my own name as my username.” “Yeah, probably because about nine hundred Brendan Taggarts joined before you.” “So what should I use?” “CaptainCutie69,” Fox spat out. “IGotCrabs4U,” Deke supplied. “SlipperyWhenWet.” Brendan stared. “You’re all fired. Go home.

So, Beav, tell me about yourself." "I'm Blue." "Sweetheart, if I had your dubious taste in men, I wouldn't be too happy, either." "My name is Blue. Blue Bailey.

I get so breathless, when you call my name, I've often wondered, do you feel the same? There's a chemistry, energy, a synchronicity When we're all alone.

I'm taking you to lunch, sunshine." "Like hell you are, trail mix." "My name is Daniel.

Let me be clear, Ginger, since you insist on talking in circles. I want you underneath me in my bed. I want to be buried inside you so deep that I have to remind you of your own name. And I want those motherfuckers leering at you from the other side of the bar to smell me on you for a week afterward.

Hey, sunshine." "Daniel.: Good Lord, baby, Say my name again. I need you to say it in your sleep. When you touch yourself. To no one in particular. Just say it, say it, say it.

Women are protective. Nurturing. A boat is given the name of a woman in the hopes that she'll protect the crew. And hopefully put a good word in the other important woman in our lives, the ocean.

The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter, It isn't just one of your holiday games; You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES. First of all, there's the name that the family use daily, Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James, Such as Victor or Jonathan, or George or Bill Bailey - All of them sensible everyday names. There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter, Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames: Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter - But all of them sensible everyday names. But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's particular, A name that's peculiar, and more dignified, Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular, Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride? Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum, Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat, Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum - Names that never belong to more than one cat. But above and beyond there's still one name left over, And that is the name that you never will guess; The name that no human research can discover - But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess. When you notice a cat in profound meditation, The reason, I tell you, is always the same: His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name: His ineffable effable Effanineffable Deep and inscrutable singular Name.

Come back here.” “I don’t think I will.” “Half pint.” “I have a name.” “Come back here and tell it to me, then.

. "My name is Callum Tate and I’m going to take care of you, Harper Bailey." 

You know that girl who sat at lunch with us today, Brittani Monroe?” "Yep." "What do you think about her?" "She’s a slut with a stripper name.

The name given me by my mother was, "Frederick Augustus Washington Bailey." I, however, had dispensed with the two middle names long before I left Maryland so that I was generally known by the name of "Frederick Bailey.

I think that's the worst part. The thought that no one will remember me when I'm gone. Sure, my parents will. Fern will. But how does someone like me live? When it's all said and done, did I matter?" The silence in the old blue van was thick with empty platitudes and meaningless reassurances that begged to be uttered, but Fern loved Bailey too much to pat him on the head when he needed something more. "I'll add you to my list," Ambrose promised suddenly, his eyes holding Bailey's in the mirror. "When the time comes, I'll write your name across my heart with the others.

Who am I kidding? When I finally get inside you, I’m going to fuck you until your voice is hoarse from screaming my name.

Speaking of names and all-time favorite romances, Bailey told me you write under a pen name. I've been really curious about that." Fern groaned loudly. She shook her fist toward Bailey's house. "Curse your big mouth, Bailey Sheen" She looked at Ambrose with trepidation. "You are going to think I'm some stalker chick. That I'm totally obsessed. But you have to remember that I came up with this alter ego when I was sixteen and I was a bit obsessed. Okay, I'm still a bit obsessed." "With what?" Ambrose was confused. "With you," Fern's response was muffled as she buried her forehead in his chest, but Ambrose still heard her. He laughed and forced her chin up so he could see her face. "I still don't understand what that has to do with your pen name." Fern sighed. "It's Amber Rose." "Ambrose?" "Amber Rose," Fern corrected. "Amber Rose?" Ambrose sputtered. "Yes," Fern said in a very, very small voice. And Ambrose laughed for a very, very long time.

A bouquet of wonderful scents met my nose, and my heart leaped when I realized who I was smelling. 'Molly!' I heard someone call. I whipped my head around everywhere and there they were, the people I'd been smelling. Everyone I'd ever loved in my life, standing at the edge of the water, smiling and clapping. I saw Ethan and Hannah and Trent and CJ standing in front, along with Andi and Maya and Jakob and all the others. 'Bailey!' Ethan yelled waving. My names was Toby, and Buddy, and Molly and Max and Bailey and Ellie. I was a good dog, and this was my reward. Now I would get to be with the people I loved. I turned, whimpering with you, and swam toward those golden shores.

You calling me a tease, Abby? Look what you do. What you always do.” He reached into his fly and brought out his fisted erection. So big. “Six months of your sitting on my lap. Wiggling around and laughing, no idea I wanted to fuck you through a wall. Don’t you dare call me a tease. I’ve been teased. I’m so fucked up, I can’t hear your name without getting hard.

let everyone, everywhere know that where Your name is called upon, Your people can win battles they never should’ve won.

Nearly 30 years since his only tour of Australia, mention of Tavaré still occasions winces and groans. Despite its continental lilt, his name translates into Australian as a very British brand of obduracy, that Trevor Baileyesque quality of making every ditch a last one.

But as it turned out, the two had a great deal in common, for both Bailey and Thackeray (named for the famous novelist William Makepeace Thackeray, author of Vanity Fair) were devoted bibliophiles who believed that "a book a day kept the world at bay," as Thackeray was fond of saying. Bailey was the offspring of a generation of badgers who insisted that "Reader" was the most rewarding vocation to which a virtuous badger might be called and who gauged their week's anticipated pleasure by the height of their to-be-read pile. (Perhaps you know people like this. I do.)

They also told me how I got the name “My.” After Bailey learned definitely that I was his sister, he refused to call me Marguerite, but rather addressed me each time as “Mya Sister,” and in later more articulate years, after the need for brevity had shortened the appellation to “My,” it was elaborated into “Maya.

There's something narcissistic in the phrase "collected poems." Who's collecting them? The poem. How hard is that? That's not a real collection. Now if he had made a collection of water fountains, or of oven mitts, that would be a collection. Or if he'd collected editions of Festus, the long mad poem written somewhere in the nineteenth century by a lost soul named Bailey--that would be an achievement. But collecting your own poems? What's so great about that? And mixing and mingling them in with some new? New and and Collected Poems? Oh, well! Good job. Nice going.

That’s the first time you’ve said my name.” He rubbed their lips together. “Whisper it again in my ear, then I’ll go.

He was one of the Four Horsemen. My parents had drilled their names into my brain repeatedly. Prescott Ellis. West Greer. Francis Beaufort. Drake Ackley.

Oh God,” she groaned. “We just named your penis. Honeymoon’s over.

My blood relatives are dead," Chen stated. "The Prominence Royal Army killed them. I'm the only one left. My given name is Qiao. I tell people my name is Chen, my surname, to honor the ones I lost.

Derek rubbed the pad of his thumb across her plump bottom lip, pleased when she inhaled sharply but didn’t pull away. “Let me be clear, Ginger, since you insist on talking in circles. I want you underneath me in my bed. I want to be buried inside you so deep that I have to remind you of your own name. And I want those motherfuckers leering at you from the other side of the bar to smell me on you for a week afterward.

Ginger used her trusty pink scissors to cut out the headline Is Your Vagina Angry? from a newly purchased women’s magazine, spread glue on the back, and pasted it over the picture of a nun looking thoughtful. She had a sick sense of humor. So sue her. She stepped back and admired the decoupage nightstand she’d been working on all day. Get Thee to a Nunnery, she’d named this particular one. After a few finishing touches, it would be ready for a coat of lacquer.

Whenever a new scholar came to out school, I used to confront him at recess with the following words: 'My name's Tom Bailey: what's your name?' If the name struck me favorably, I shook hands with the new pupil cordially; but if it didn't I would turn on my heel, for I was particular in this point. Such names as Higgins, Wiggins, and Spriggins were deadly afronts to my ear; while Lapgdon, Wallace, Blake, and the like, were passing words to my confidence and esteem.

The poet John Keats once wrote to a friend of his named Bailey: “I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart’s affection and the truth of Imagination—What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth—whether it existed before or not.

In the Lord's Prayer the believer, with the phrase "May thy name be made holy," calls for a demonstration of the holiness of God. That is, the worshiper is saying, "May God again demonstrate his holiness." This in turn expresses a willingness to participate in Isaiah's dramatic experience.

I wanted to try dainty Italian fare, and bought spicy Bologna sausage, pink papery hams, hard white bread, and chalky cheeses. I also bought the makings of a Mackeroni Pie I had seen made at an inn, and a new sort of green stuff named brockerly that proved a great deal tastier than cabbage.

Then she laughed out loud and hugged him tight with both arms. She smelled like pine trees and lichens and hot sand. How odd, thought Roger, that after all, this is what it took - not a flock of scarlet ibises or golden-crowned kinglets, but just the names of chicken, hovering in the air like the sulpher butterflies at the dump.

How many kittens did she have?” “Four, including Tod. We fed the kittens this special formula from the vet, since Juno didn’t have enough milk.” I sat beside Bailey on the rug, wishing I could trade places with my cat. “Tod almost died, so my sister named him after a grim reaper from one of her favorite books. I think she thought it would protect him.

The following high points are prominent in this brief homily. 1. Breaking into ethnic enclaves is unacceptable. Furthermore, loyalties to individuals is not an excuse for breaking the unity of the church. Their leaders are not adequate centers of primary loyalty. 2. No group in the church has the right to claim that they alone are loyal to Christ. 3. They are "called by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ" (1:2) and in that name they can find their unity (1:10). 4. Baptism and the cross also call them together. 5. The question is not "Who is my leader?" but rather, "Who died for us?" With the problem of this first essay stated boldly, Paul turns to the cross in the shadow of which their divisions can be eclipsed (1:17-2:2).

Just outside Dover we stopped at an inn and I snatched a taste of dainty fried fish named smelts, and some herrings served with their tails in their mouths. Afterwards, me and Mr Loveday went out to take a view of the ocean. The wind was blowing so strong it whistled through my teeth and the sea was horrible; a vast plain of water ceaselessly moiling like a simmering pot. At last my head cold had cleared enough to taste the sea on my tongue; it had a strange salted vegetable tang.

Mon frère, Claude,' urged Florence, leading me to a youth just like herself in broad shape and countenance. He talked rapidly with Florence, all the while tending a tiny copper saucepan. Then breaking off his talk, he reached for a teaspoon, and with all the worshipfulness of a priest at an altar, Claude tasted the shining stock, his face blank to all but his sense of taste. 'Quintessence,' whispered Florence, sniffing in awe at the rising steam. 'For many days the meat is reduced to create the soul of the sauce.' Then with measured care he reached for a lemon and squeezed in four steady drops. The name of the dish was souffle, as the French write it. I wrote the particulars down, as it was a most magical dish. Who would have guessed that egg whites fraught for a long while could make a dish rise like a cloud? Once it had risen in a hot oven, Claude dressed the souffle with a ring of honeyed quintessence. It quivered on a pretty porcelain plate like a gently steaming puffball.

That baking day was the third day Mrs G had shut herself away in the stillroom, dosing herself with medicinal waters. As I rolled the pastry I lived out a fancy I had nourished, since the first apple blossom pinked in May- the making of the perfect dish. Next day was All Hallows Eve, or Souling Night as we called it, and all our neighbors would gather for Old Ned's cider and Mrs Garland's Soul Cakes. After the stablemen acted out the Souling play, the unmarried maids would have a lark, guessing their husband's name from apple pairings thrown over their shoulders. So what better night, I thought, for Jem to announce our wedding? At the ripe age of twenty-two years, the uncertainties of maidenhood were soon to pass me by. Crimping my tarts, I passed into that forgetfulness that is a most delightful way of being. My fingers scattered flour and my elbows spun the rolling pin along the slab. Unrolling before my eyes were scenes of triumph: of me and Jem leading a cheery procession to the chapel, posies of flowers in my hand and pinned to Jem's blue jacket. In my head I turned over the makings of my Bride Cake that sat in secret in the larder- ah, wouldn't that be the richest, most hotly spiced delight? And all the bitter maidens who put it underneath their pillows would be sorrowing to think that Jem was finally taken, bound and married off to me.

Perhaps the Hungarian humorist Ferencz Karinthy captures the spirit of the situation best in a tableau about a bored businessman who amuses himself by looking through high-powered binoculars from his office high in a skyscraper into neighbouring office rooms. On one occasion he spies a middle-aged executive chasing a comely secretary around his desk. As it happens the observers knows the building in which this drama is taking place and can even make out the name of the occupant from the plaque on his desk. He consults the telephone directory and gives the culprit, who is still trying to force his attentions on the secretary, a ring. When the culprit answers the telephone the observer announces himself as God Almighty and tells him to stop molesting the young woman in his employ. The culprit, thunderstruck and unable to account fo the observer's exact knowledge of what has been going on, fall son his knees in a paroxysm of fear and wonder and begs forgiveness. The observer roundly berates the culprit who swears he will do anything to make amends and promises never to sin again. Hereupon the observer informs the culprit that he can indeed make amends by lending him 100 pengo [dollars]. The answer, of course is a burst of profanity and the abrupt termination of the call. Karinthy then draws his moral: if you want to play God don't try to borrow money...

He had followed the creature through the mist at the top of the high, arched bridge and down the other side into a dark and tangled forest which bears a name so old and evil that it cannot be written.

Bailey handed Molly the pen and she had Molly Parmelia written when he halted her with a gentle touch to her back. “Don’t forget your new name.” “Oh, you’re right.” She bit her tongue and scripted out Garner with a flourish. “How’s that?” “Beautiful.” But he wasn’t looking at her penmanship. “So

His name might be Jonah, but it was the only biblical quality he possessed.

Ku Klux Klan” was chosen as the name, because it came from the Greek word kyklos, meaning circle of brothers.

With an impatient gesture, he flung away a little from the fireplace. “If you don’t stop ‘my lording’ me, woman, I will not be answerable for the consequences. We have surely moved too far for that.” Too far toward what? But Ottilia did not say it. She could feel her heart beating unnaturally fast. She strove for calm. “Very well, if you desire it. In private at least, I will address you by name, but you must excuse me if I keep to formality in the presence of others.” His dark gaze was upon her, its expression unfathomable. “Afraid of scandal, Tillie?” Ottilia’s breath stuck in her throat. Would there might be cause! She essayed a nonchalance she was far from feeling.

With an impatient gesture, he flung away a little from the fireplace. “If you don’t stop ‘my lording’ me, woman, I will not be answerable for the consequences. We have surely moved too far for that.” Too far toward what? But Ottilia did not say it. She could feel her heart beating unnaturally fast. She strove for calm. “Very well, if you desire it. In private at least, I will address you by name, but you must excuse me if I keep to formality in the presence of others.” His dark gaze was upon her, its expression unfathomable. “Afraid of scandal, Tillie?” Ottilia’s breath stuck in her throat. Would there might be cause! She essayed a nonchalance she was far from feeling. “It would scarcely be seemly, as your mother’s companion, to be seen to be upon terms of — of —” The word would not leave her tongue. Lord Francis supplied it. “Intimacy?” She let out a faint gasp. “I was going to say ‘friendship’.” “Were you indeed?” Ottilia felt her breathing to be quite as shallow as that of the dowager so recently. She controlled its passage as best she could, and firmly brought the subject to an end. “We are wandering from the point.” For a moment he did not answer. Then he withdrew his gaze from hers and threw himself down into the chair opposite.

I want to get attached, Tallulah,” he said on top of her mouth. “Nah, I’m already more than a little obsessed with you, aren’t I? You start babbling my name while I spoon-feed you orgasms, I will get attached. Happily. Just like I’ll happily knock out anyone else who tries. Be. Sure.

In a booth, Bailey sat next to Vaughn while frowning at her drink. “I need a man!” she declared when she saw me. Vaughn glanced at her and sighed. “I’ll do you, but no names.” Bailey didn’t get it, but I laughed while Cooper acted irritated. Aaron kissed the top of my head then walked over to get us drinks. “Why can’t I trap a man into a relationship like you bitches?” she asked with complete seriousness. “Your subtly turns men off,” Vaughn answered when I just smiled. “Bailey, maybe you could try being more obvious in your need to trap a man. Like wear a shirt with lots of exclamation marks.” “Shut up, fuckhead. You don’t have anyone either.” “I have plenty of anyones.” “Whores aren’t attractive.” Vaughn grinned. “You make it too easy sometimes, B.” Cooper frowned. “Don’t even think of saying what you’re thinking.” “What we’re all thinking.” Bailey frowned at me. “What the fuck are they talking about?” “It’s one of those things that only makes sense when you have ball toxins.” Bailey smiled and nodded. “That happens a lot around me. Want to dance?” “Not really.” “Because you might puke?” “Why would she puke?” Vaughn asked, shoving a pretzel in Bailey’s mouth. Cooper rolled his eyes. “Aaron can’t use a condom properly.” Returning just in time for his friend’s comment, Aaron sighed dramatically. “I just have powerful sperm.” “I was on the pill too,” I said, sticking my tongue at Cooper who grinned. “His mighty sperm didn’t care though.” “You idiots don’t get how the pill works,” Vaughn said before realizing he sounded like a chick about to discuss her period. “Well, congrats, Aaron. You are now officially whipped like a bitch. How does it feel?” Aaron answered by kissing me like we might fuck right there.

What are you looking to do?” Aaron asked as we walked into his workroom. “Nothing too complicated,” I said, displaying my wrist. “I want Bailey’s name on my wrist.” Aaron exhaled slowly. “Are you sure? The Johanssons don’t play when it comes having their women’s names on their wrists. It’s forever shit for them. That’s how I knew Cooper wasn’t fucking around with Farah.” “Bailey’s mine, but I can’t find a way to make her truly believe. When I try, it feels like just words. I know her name on my wrist is a word too, but maybe it’s one that she’ll know means forever.” “Fair enough. Just know once the Johansson boys see her name on your wrist, it’s like you’ve gotten on one knee and proposed. Trust me that Bailey and Jodi will be talking wedding dates behind your back. If you lose interest or cheat or break it off, it’s not going down softly. The shit will hit the fan.” “The only way Bailey gets rid of me is to put me in the ground.

I’ve ruined things for you,” I said, eyes hot and tears threatening to fall. “I fucked up and now you’ll end up with a record. You’ll never have your dream because of me. I’m so sorry.” Wrapping me in his strong arms, Nick sighed. “I punched him and made the first move. It’s not your fault.” “You had to punch him. He was calling me names and you’re my man.” Nick smiled down at me. “Yeah, I couldn’t let him trash my girl.” “I should have just ignored him or been polite.” “I love you enough to know ignoring him and doing the polite shit was never happening. It’s not your way and I don’t want you to pretend. Maybe other people need that from you, but I love all of you even the crazy temperamental parts.” “I ruined your dream though.” “I’ll get a new dream.” My heart broke at how easily Nick accepted his lost dream. “You wanted that one so bad.” “I want you more.” “Maybe we can run. I have money. Let’s run and hide. You’re giving up your dream. I can give up my home, so we’ll be even.” Nick grinned then looked behind me. “This is my home now too and I’m not giving it up.” Turning to follow Nick’s gaze, I saw my parents approaching. Pop tossed his cigarette on the ground then laughed. “I always figured Sawyer would be the one to attack a cop,” he said as Mom smiled. “He called me a bitch and Nick punched him.” “Seems fair.” “Then he was going to arrest Nick, so I had to do something.” “I can see that,” Pop said, hugging me. “Did he rough you two up?” “No. Well, his face might have hurt Nick’s fist.” “I’m fine,” Nick said, giving me an amused look. “Pop,” I mumbled, panicking despite attempts to find the situation funny. “Dickhead is going to ruin Nick’s future as a teacher. You have to do something.” My pop grinned at Mom then shook his head. “All this drama is Coop’s problem now. I’m retired.” Frowning, I wanted Pop to wave his hand and fix things like he normally did. Instead, he expected me and my brothers to behave like adults. Had he never met us? “It’ll be fine,” Nick said, lacing his finger in the loop of my shorts and tugging back against him. “Darling can file charges if he wants, but he’ll put a target on himself too. It’s his choice.” My dad smiled and nodded while Mom threw a ball at the dogs. “Nick ain’t wrong. Dickhead might have a big mouth and show off, but he knows his place. He went to school with your brothers and understands what happens when the family feels threatened.” “Okay,” I said, still worried. “I can’t believe I lost my temper like that.” Mom and Pop laughed first then Nick started up. I just rolled my eyes.

Shirt" The back, the yoke, the yardage. Lapped seams, The nearly invisible stitches along the collar Turned in a sweatshop by Koreans or Malaysians Gossiping over tea and noodles on their break Or talking money or politics while one fitted This armpiece with its overseam to the band Of cuff I button at my wrist. The presser, the cutter, The wringer, the mangle. The needle, the union, The treadle, the bobbin. The code. The infamous blaze At the Triangle Factory in nineteen-eleven. One hundred and forty-six died in the flames On the ninth floor, no hydrants, no fire escapes— The witness in a building across the street Who watched how a young man helped a girl to step Up to the windowsill, then held her out Away from the masonry wall and let her drop. And then another. As if he were helping them up To enter a streetcar, and not eternity. A third before he dropped her put her arms Around his neck and kissed him. Then he held Her into space, and dropped her. Almost at once He stepped to the sill himself, his jacket flared And fluttered up from his shirt as he came down, Air filling up the legs of his gray trousers— Like Hart Crane’s Bedlamite, “shrill shirt ballooning.” Wonderful how the pattern matches perfectly Across the placket and over the twin bar-tacked Corners of both pockets, like a strict rhyme Or a major chord. Prints, plaids, checks, Houndstooth, Tattersall, Madras. The clan tartans Invented by mill-owners inspired by the hoax of Ossian, To control their savage Scottish workers, tamed By a fabricated heraldry: MacGregor, Bailey, MacMartin. The kilt, devised for workers To wear among the dusty clattering looms. Weavers, carders, spinners. The loader, The docker, the navvy. The planter, the picker, the sorter Sweating at her machine in a litter of cotton As slaves in calico headrags sweated in fields: George Herbert, your descendant is a Black Lady in South Carolina, her name is Irma And she inspected my shirt. Its color and fit And feel and its clean smell have satisfied Both her and me. We have culled its cost and quality Down to the buttons of simulated bone, The buttonholes, the sizing, the facing, the characters Printed in black on neckband and tail. The shape, The label, the labor, the color, the shade. The shirt.

Hey, Dylan,” I said, holding my orange ball. “You got rid of the Mohawk.” Lark and Raven’s stepbrother ran his hand over his bald head and sighed. “Yeah, I’d been thinking about going the business man route for a while. Kept going back and forth about cutting it. A few weeks ago, I got drunk at Lark’s place. The sisters were nice enough to shave my head while I was passed out.” Nearby, Raven laughed so hard she had trouble distracting Vaughn who was still trying to win the game. Dylan glared at her then shrugged. “Gonna let it grow out and play the average Joe shit.” “Good luck with that,” I said, glancing at the bathroom and hoping Bailey would appear. When she didn’t, I walked to an open lane and rolled the ball. It took out a single pin which was one more than I expected. A lane away Raven struggled to win against Vaughn. She bent over one direction. When her ass didn’t do it, she bent forward and adjusted her tits. A distracted Vaughn missed his strike with a single pin remaining. Before I could hear him complain and her celebrate, Cooper and Tucker appeared next to me. “I liked the way you handled that fucker,” Tucker said, arms crossed tightly. “You always know how to deal with these losers while looking like a Boy Scout. A good skill to have.” Ignoring them, I rolled the second ball and managed to take out three pins. A new record for me. “What’s with the silent shit?” Tucker asked. Sighing, I looked at them and frowned. “I want to be with Bailey. We just started dating, but here I am jumping through hoops for you two. You do this shit with every guy?” “Most are losers,” Cooper said. “Most never do the second date thing. They bang then hang. If they’re lucky, she never mentions it to us and we don’t kick anyone’s ass. You’re the first boyfriend type she’s had.” “Our family needs good people,” added Tucker. Cooper shifted his stance and shook his head at his brother. “He doesn’t want that life. Nick wants to be a teacher.” “Why?” “Who cares?” Cooper said. “It’s what he wants. Sounds like a nice safe life for our little sister, don’t you think?” Tucker’s expression froze and his dopey brain took awhile to put things together. By the time he figured it out, I’d rolled a gutter ball, Bailey returned, and Vaughn declared his wife a cheater. “It’s only fair!” Raven cried as Vaughn threw her over his shoulder and spun her around. “You’re a better bowler and I want to win. Cheating was the only card I could play.” “Making me think some fucker was looking at your ass was low, Raven.” “So is naming our first born son Maverick. You’re just looking for trouble with a name like that.” Vaughn lowered her to her feet then grinned. “My boys will be nothing but trouble. They’ll own this town and chase pretty girls like Scarlet and Lily.” “Hey, keep your pervy kid away from my daughter!” Tucker hollered, looking pissed. Cooper grabbed his brother and they wrestled onto the ground. By the end of pounding each other, they were both laughing.

Tis a secret: none knows how it comes, how it goes. But the name of the secret is Love! Lewis Carroll, Sylvie and Bruno Concluded

We live in deeds, not years: in thoughts, not breaths; in feelings, not in figures on a dial. We should count time by heartthrobs. He most lives who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.' It's a quote by a man named David Bailey.

Two organisations spawned by Alice Bailey’s work, the Lucis Trust (formerly the Lucifer Trust) and the World Goodwill Organisation, are both staunch promoters of the United Nations. They are almost UN ‘groupies’, such is their devotion. It is interesting to see how the New Age has inherited ‘truths’ over the decades in the same way that conventional religion has done over the centuries. As the followers of Christianity have inherited the manipulated version of Jesus, so New Agers have inherited the Masters. There is too little checking of origins, too much acceptance of inherited belief, I think. Certainly there is with the Masters and Blavatsky’s Great White Brotherhood because she admitted in correspondence with her sister, that she had made up their names by using the nicknames of the Rosicrucians and Freemasons who were funding her. Yet today all over the world there are hundreds of thousands (at least) of New Age ‘channellers’ who claim to be communicating with these Masters and with the Archangel Michael who is an ancient deity of the Phoenicians. If the New Age isn’t careful, it will be Christianity revisited. It is already becoming so. I believe that the concept of Masters can be a means through which those who have rejected the status quo of religion and science can still have their minds controlled.

You’ve probably heard of the “butterfly effect.” This is a famous proposition of chaos theory, which says that when a butterfly flaps its wings in South America, it can set off a chain of events that ends up causing a typhoon in Southeast Asia. The truth is, you create your own butterfly effect, whether you know it or not, and you do it all the time. One of my favorite butterfly-effect stories is the film It’s a Wonderful Life. A small-town businessman named George Bailey reaches the edge of despair, and decides his life has no meaning and makes no difference. On the brink of suicide, he’s visited by an angel improbably named Clarence, who walks George through an experience of what the world would look like if he had never been born. (Which is exactly why we quoted a great line of Clarence’s for the epigraph of the last chapter, “The Ripple Effect.”) George gets quite an eyeful. And so would you, if you had a Clarence come along and take you on the same tour of your life. But outside Hollywood, there’s no Clarence to provide that clarity. It’s something we need to learn to see with our own eyes.

When I finally get inside you, I’m going to fuck you until your voice is hoarse from screaming my name.

Bailey—now divorced from Currie—continues to arrange and record music under the name International Observer. Currie upholsters furniture using the carcasses of animals who died naturally or were run over by unobservant drivers.

Large signs were painted on the outsides of the warehouses, which were named after the spices stored inside them. Cayenne Court; Cumin Wharf; the Cardamon Building; there was a warehouse for each variety. Centuries of spices had infused the brickwork of the buildings; the smell of spices, and the stink from the mud and slime on the banks of the the river was overpowering.

what kind of woman would wantonly marry and adopt such a name? Shittlehope.

In other words Yates had remembered the lesson of his first great master, Fitzgerald—namely, that people rarely say what they mean, and good dialogue is a matter of catching one’s characters “in the very act of giving themselves away.

Diablos: the name given to the igniting of, and ignited, farts. Trevor Hickey is the undisputed master of this arcane and perilous art. The stakes could not be higher. Get the timing even slightly wrong and there will be consequences far more serious than singed trousers; the word backdraught clamours unspoken at the back of every spectator’s mind. Total silence now as, with an almost imperceptible tremble (entirely artificial, ‘just part of the show’ as Trevor puts it) his hand brings the match between his legs and – foom! a sound like the fabric of the universe being ripped in two, counterpointed by its opposite, a collective intake of breath, as from Trevor’s bottom proceeds a magnificent plume of flame – jetting out it’s got to be nearly three feet, they tell each other afterwards, a cold and beautiful purple-blue enchantment that for an instant bathes the locker room in unearthly light. No one knows quite what Trevor Hickey’s diet is, or his exercise regime; if you ask him about it, he will simply say that he has a gift, and having witnessed it, you would be hard-pressed to argue, although why God should have given him this gift in particular is less easy to say. But then, strange talents abound in the fourteen-year-old confraternity. As well as Trevor Hickey, ‘The Duke of Diablos’, you have people like Rory ‘Pins’ Moran, who on one occasion had fifty-eight pins piercing the epidermis of his left hand; GP O’Sullivan, able to simulate the noises of cans opening, mobile phones bleeping, pneumatic doors, etc., at least as well as the guy in Police Academy; Henry Lafayette, who is double-jointed and famously escaped from a box of jockstraps after being locked inside it by Lionel. These boys’ abilities are regarded quite as highly by their peers as the more conventional athletic and sporting kinds, as is any claim to physical freakishness, such as waggling ears (Mitchell Gogan), unusually high mucous production (Hector ‘Hectoplasm’ O’Looney), notable ugliness (Damien Lawlor) and inexplicably slimy, greenish hair (Vince Bailey). Fame in the second year is a surprisingly broad church; among the two-hundred-plus boys, there is scarcely anyone who does not have some ability or idiosyncrasy or weird body condition for which he is celebrated. As with so many things at this particular point in their lives, though, that situation is changing by the day. School, with its endless emphasis on conformity, careers, the Future, may be partly to blame, but the key to the shift in attitudes is, without a doubt, girls. Until recently the opinion of girls was of little consequence; now – overnight, almost – it is paramount; and girls have quite different, some would go so far as to say deeply conservative, criteria with regard to what constitutes a gift. They do not care how many golf balls you can fit in your mouth; they are unmoved by third nipples; they do not, most of them, consider mastery of Diablos to be a feather in your cap – even when you explain to them how dangerous it is, even when you offer to teach them how to do it themselves, an offer you have never extended to any of your classmates, who would actually pay big money for this expertise, or you could even call it lore – wait, come back!

It seems a lost opportunity that Capra didn’t give George Bailey, or the Giannini-inspired idealistic bank president in his film American Madness, an Italian surname. The next time a great Italian-American filmmaker, one who established his career in San Francisco, would portray a member of the community, the character would be the fictional antihero Vito Corleone, whose name would penetrate the nation’s collective memory far deeper than that of A. P. Giannini.

You’re wearing a uniform with my name on it, belle. There is nothing hotter.

You did hear me say your name. The name I’ve been moaning every time I fuck my fist for the last ten years.

Bailey Brown,” I whispered to myself, the warmth in my cheeks growing as I said her name. Bailey Brown. Blondie. My girl. I liked the way it felt on my lips.

Hey, it’s no problem, blondie. That guy was a tool and way too close. I would have laid him out if you asked me to.” “Blondie?” Her voice perked up and she raised an eyebrow at me. “What?” Oh shit, I didn't mean to let that slip. “You called me blondie.” “Oh yeah, uhh…” “It’s Bailey.” “What?” She laughed as she slid a plate onto the end of the barbell and I had to try to keep my dick from giving me away. Hearing her laugh was like music to my ears. “My name is Bailey.” Her eyebrows were arched and she was still giving me that wide smile of hers that would cause any sane man to drop to his knees in front of her.

Bailey Brown,” I whispered to myself, the warmth in my cheeks growing as I said her name.  Bailey Brown. Blondie. My girl. I liked the way it felt on my lips.

won’t let me just use my own name as my username.” “Yeah, probably because about nine hundred Brendan Taggarts joined before you.” “So what should I use?” “CaptainCutie69,” Fox spat out. “IGotCrabs4U,” Deke supplied. “SlipperyWhenWet.

Two weeks was like, a million years. They wouldn’t even remember each other’s names by then. They’d pass each other on the street and vaguely recall a fish dinner and an oral-sex fest.

Women are protective. Nurturing. A boat is given the name of a woman in the hopes that she’ll protect the crew. And hopefully put a good word in with the other important woman in our lives, the ocean.

Yes, I decided. My name could be Fella. I could stay with this man. I could be his dog, do what he told me, go where he went. That was what I was supposed to do, wasn’t it? Stay with a person? I was pretty sure that was true. It felt right.

Ember smiled brightly. “Hello! We haven’t met before. My name is Ellen. I’m an antiques dealer around these parts?” Mrs. Bailey looked surprised, but gave a polite smile. “Oh, yes?” “Yes. I’m sorry to burst in on you like this, I know it’s early. But I heard from one of the women in the historical society--Yolanda? You know her, don’t you?--that you collect antique ice picks. Best collection in the county, she said.” Mrs. Bailey smiled, looking a little confused. Ember wasn’t sure if there was a Yolanda in the historical society, but evidently Mrs. Bailey wasn’t sure, either. “Of course,” said Mrs. Bailey. “I have some very special pieces. I didn’t realize the historical society knew about them. Would you like to see them? I keep them just in here.” She pointed back behind her, into the house. “That would be lovely,” Ember said eagerly. So Mrs. Bailey let Ember inside. Ember noticed with a bashful feeling that the large picture she had knocked had been replaced on the wall, but all the glass of the frame was missing. Probably it had taken a long time to clean up all those many pieces. “My name is Anna, by the way,” Mrs. Bailey was saying. “It’s nice to meet you, Ember. I’m always so pleased to know young people such as yourself who are interested in antiques.

Yer uncle said as how it looked a fine beast, and MacFarlane said 'twas a stubborn bastard, and in fact its name is Stubborn Bastard because they got so used to calling it that when it would no' let anyone ride it. Claimed he was thinkin' the beast a waste o' horseflesh and was considerin' killin' him when his daughter, yer lady wife, took an interest in him. He said she tamed it with a few soft words and an apple or two, and the next thing he knew it was following her around the bailey like a dog and letting her ride on him.

It won’t let me just use my own name as my username.” “Yeah, probably because about nine hundred Brendan Taggarts joined before you.” “So what should I use?” “CaptainCutie69,” Fox spat out. “IGotCrabs4U,” Deke supplied. “SlipperyWhenWet.” Brendan stared. “You’re all fired. Go home.

Been working on these recipes all week and I think this is the final menu.” Jamie leaned down and scanned the page, reading off the names Marcus had come up with. “Hangover Cure, Fight the Flu, Berry Boost, Post Workout Replenishment…Sex Machine?” “That one has pineapple in it.” Jamie gave him a blank look and Marcus’s jaw dropped. “It makes your spunk taste better. You didn’t know this? Do you have any idea how much pineapple I’ve been drinking for you, babe? Nice of you to notice my efforts.” “Where did you come across this science?” “The internet told me.” “Of course it did.” Jamie shook his head. “Doesn’t matter anyway. I don’t have tastebuds in the back of my throat, Diesel.” Marcus’s grin was so huge, it hurt his face. “Aww. You calling my cock huge? All’s forgiven.

Two of us sat side by side in my head, woven together, inseparable. She didn't even have a name; she was just She. Really, it was hard to say where She ended and I began. But food was not shared with her. She did not play tag and never required a seat. She was, by her very essence, nothing like these imaginary friends. She was just there. One was not proud of her, in the same way as one is not proud of a liver, and there was no need to show her off, nor tell anyone She existed.

Getaway Girl!” shouts a photographer, lifting his camera. “Over here!” “You’re going to have to come up with another name for her!” Elijah calls back. “I’m never letting her get away again.

My dad was seventeen; my mom was sixteen. The first time he ever saw her, she was wading into the lake. He said that was the moment he started believing in magic. That’s where the middle name Wade comes from.

The man who enters by the gate is the shepherd of his sheep. The watchman opens the gate for him, and the sheep listen to his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he has brought out all his own, he goes on ahead of them, and his sheep follow him because they know his voice. But they will never follow a stranger; in fact, they will run away from him because they do not recognize a stranger’s voice.

Dear God, we know You hear us and care about us,” Elizabeth began. “Help us solve this mystery about Marshall Gonzalez. Most of all, keep us all safe as we work on it, especially Bailey and Alex. Give us wisdom and insight and help us to honor You in everything we do. Be with Gonzo, wherever he is, and keep him safe, too. In Jesus’ name, amen.” “Amen!” the other five girls said in unison.

What in the name of Oprah Winfrey’s pajamas is going on here?

Why in the name of all three Jonas Brothers is there a Ferrari out front?

I really look forward to. Mostly because there’s day drinking involved and when Virginia gets tipsy, she tells us stories about Elijah as a child. Turns out he had an imaginary friend named Albert. A zebra. And Virginia used to overhear Elijah asking Albert if he thought his butt looked big.

Hi. I’m Bailey. Can you tell me your name?” “I’m Mac,” he responds. “I’m a Macaw,” he continues. “I’m a hottie,” he crows. O M G! Mac is now preening his head back and forth and ruffling his feathers. He’s stunning and he’s right, he is a hottie! “Who are you?” Mac asks. “My name is Bailey and I live in the apartment upstairs now. You are a very smart bird, Mac,” I answer and praise him. “I is amazing,” he replies mangling the English language a bit. I start chuckling because he’s just too much. I want to hug him and then run away with him under my arm. I’ve never even considered stealing something before but Mac, I would gladly steal. That thought is reconsidered when he continues talking. “Big bazoongas, Bailey.” “Uh, what did you say?” I ask, certain I misunderstood. “Big bazoongas!” he screeches. I think a parrot just embarrassed me! Oh my god

What’s your type, Bailey?” “Well, let’s see. I like them tall, hot, muscled. A great ass is a must. A little scruff is great but I don’t like full on beards much. Not a suit wearing person. Not clean cut but a little rough. Someone who knows who he is and what he is about.” “Hate to shatter your illusions, babe, but you just described me. Hah! Let’s go to bed and good luck trying to keep your mitts off my goodies!” I laugh at her. “Oh my god! You are as full of yourself as Mac!” “Doesn’t mean it’s not true. Name someone who matches your description. Who is your perfect man?” “Jax Teller from Sons of Anarchy. That’s my type,” she grins at me. The little wench is just trying to get a rise out of me. It’s working, too. “Jax looks just like me except I have more muscle and shave my head. Everyone says that so we’re back to where we started. Am I going to get fondled in my sleep tonight?” I tease her. “You wish, biker boy! Just keep to your side of the bed or you might end up getting junk punched[…]

My name is Layla Bailey, and this is my biome.” I cut to the footage of my house, turning up the audio so that I can be heard explaining my habitat. I added today’s men in plastic suits to the very end, and I narrate over it. “These people and CPS are the apex predators of my ecosystem, and I am an endangered species. The last of my kind. But the Sierra Club doesn’t make posters out of kids like me.” I add three screenshots near the end. The first is the only picture of my mom I could find, in profile and wreathed in smoke. “This is my mother, Darlene Thompson. She was born in captivity and released into the wild without any skills to care for herself. She is missing. If you see her, do not attempt to approach her, but please contact animal control.” The second is of Andy. “This is Andrew Fisher Bailey, my little brother. He was taken into captivity two days ago by people he had never seen before. I don’t know his whereabouts, but I hope he’s safe. If you see him, remember he is friendly but skittish. He is better off in captivity than in the wild.” The last one is my most recent report card, accessed on the school website by inputting the username and password I created for my mom last year. “This is me, Layla Louise Bailey. I was born in the wild and cannot be domesticated. However, I’m not yet fully capable of caring for myself, either. I have no money and not enough skills. What I have is a 4.0 and really low standards. I’ll do chores. I’ll be quiet. If you’ve got a garage or a laundry room I could sleep in, I am mostly housebroken. I just want to finish school, adopt my little brother, and go to college.

So, when can we ride them?” Tara grinned at me. “Let’s give them a rest for today,” I laughed. “Alright,” Tara pouted. “What are their names?” Bailey asked. “We figured you could name them since I named Winchester,” Paige said with a smile. “How about Buttercup?” Tara smiled. “That’s the most cliché horse name ever,” Anna laughed at the platinum blonde.

My blood relatives are dead," Chen stated. "The Prominence Royal Army killed them. I'm the only one left. My given name is Qiao. I tell people my name is Chen, my surname, to honor the ones I lost.

Fred Bailey, a young black runaway, changed his last name to Douglass in honor of Scott’s epic poem The Lady of the Lake. The hero of the epic was Lord James of Douglas, who was willing to give up his life to avert a bloody civil war between highlanders and lowlanders. Bailey’s black benefactor, Nathan Johnson of New Bedford, Massachusetts, suggested adding an extra s for good measure. Bailey would now be known as Frederick Douglass.

My blood relatives are dead," Chen stated. "The Prominence Royal Army killed them. I'm the only one left. My given name is Qiao. I tell people my name is Chen, my surname, to honor the ones i've lost.

Lucifer is our King in Hell, though you may know him by other names like the first fallen, the devil, Satan, and the one true unholy King of Hell among others. He prefers to be called Lucifer.

Lily seems to have spelt her name with her tongue which, to me, is a sign of academic progress.

You have heard that it was said, “An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.” But I say to you, do not resist an evil person; but whoever slaps you on your right cheek, turn the other to him also.[42] The passage for our consideration is one of Jesus’ great elaborations found in Matthew and especially in the sermon on the mount whereby Jesus says, “You have heard that it was said…but I say to you.” It is best to understand these teachings of Jesus as elaborations of the Old Testament. This maintains the cohesion of the Old Testament and the New Testament since both Testaments are God’s inspired Word. We shouldn’t understand these teachings of Jesus to be changing God’s revealed Word, as if the New Testament abrogates the Old Testament since God cannot change or contradict Himself. Rather, the Old Testament is congruent with the New Testament but that the New Testament sheds greater light on what we know to be true. When Jesus is using these examples, if He is overriding anything, it isn’t the Old Testament He is overriding but the contemporary understanding of that Old Testament passage. Therefore, when Jesus says “You have heard that it was said, 'An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth,'” He is quoting the Old Testament. With the words “But I say to you,” He is not reversing the Old Testament or abrogating its teaching, rather He is expounding upon it by exposing the common erroneous teaching in Jesus’ day. Understanding the foil Jesus is refuting is key to rightly understanding how Jesus’s words apply to us. What are passages like “an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth” actually teaching? These passages are given by God to promote fairness and justice for transgressors from their governing authorities. They are words written as civic law for society, namely ancient Israel, in dealing with wrongdoers.

Silly Me Preparation and Instructions: These are delightful interactions with a child that alter the normal sequence of events or offer the element of surprise. The following is but a brief list of possibilities. The type of silly interaction you create is limited only by your imagination. Be playful; see how many different silly interaction games you can create. The Game: Start with the following ideas and make up more. Put the child’s shoes on the wrong feet. Put the child’s shoe (or sock) on the child’s hand; then try to put it on the child’s elbow. Push the child’s nose (belly button, or another body part) and make a silly noise. Comb the child’s knee as if this were the natural and correct way to comb hair. Blow raspberries on the child’s hand, stomach, or other places. Name the noises by saying, “There is an elephant in your hand. See! Right there!” Then blow another raspberry. Blow three “elephant calls” and ask the child, “How many elephants did you hear?” Sometimes the raspberries sound more like ducks quacking. Use your imagination!

Held in My Arms Preparation and Instructions: This activity is both an interaction and a song. Sing the song to the tune of “Rock-a-Bye Baby.” The Game: While holding your child in your arms, sing the following song: Rock-a-bye baby Held in my arms. Having you near me, I see your charms. When things seem scary, I’ll hold you tight, And whisper, “I love you” all through the night. Variations: Make up different verses. Substitute your child’s name for the word “baby.” Sometimes the song can be serious, and sometimes it can be silly. Have your child help you find rhyming words.

Bailey Mitchell! Get your ass down here right now! I need to change your last name!” Reece said.

Am I really following this young woman, who is definitely married, probably to someone named Carter or Preston,

And I think I'll forever be undone by the sounds she made while I kissed her neck and explored, learning what she liked, what made her back arch, what made her whimper, what made her say my name like that. My name has never, ever sounded so good.

I’m a jealous man, Madelyn,” he whispers in my ear. “So you’ll be wearing my name tonight, or nobody’s.

In one life she was a travel vlogger who had 1,750,000 YouTube subscribers and almost as many people following her on Instagram, and her most popular video was one where she fell off a gondola in Venice. She also had one about Rome called 'A Roma Therapy'. In one life she was a single parent to a baby that literally wouldn't sleep. In one life she ran the showbiz column in a tabloid newspaper and did stories about Ryan Bailey's relationships. In one life she was the picture editor at the National Geographic. In one life she was a successful eco-architect who lived a carbon-neutral existence in a self-designed bungalow that harvested rain-water and ran on solar power. In one life she was an aid worker in Bostwana. In one life a cat-sitter. In one life a volunteer in a homeless shelter. In one life she was sleeping on her only friend's sofa. In one life she taught music in Montreal. In one life she spent all day arguing with people she didn't know on Twitter and ended a fair proportion of her tweets by saying 'Do better' while secretly realising she was telling herself to do that. In one life she had no social media accounts. In one life she'd never drunk alcohol. In one life she was a chess champion and currently visiting Ukraine for a tournament. In one life she was married to a minor Royal and hated every minute. In one life her Facebook and Instagram only contained quotes from Rumi and Lao Tzu. In one life she was on to her third husband and already bored. In one life she was a vegan power-lifter. In one life she was travelling around South Corsican coast, and they talked quantum mechanics and got drunk together at a beachside bar until Hugo slipped away, out of that life, and mid-sentence, so Nora was left talking to a blank Hugo who was trying to remember her name. In some lives Nora attracted a lot of attention. In some lives she attracted none. In some lives she was rich. In some lives she was poor. In some lives she was healthy. In some lives she couldn't climb the stairs without getting out of breath. In some lives she was in a relationship, in others she was solo, in many she was somewhere in between. In some lives she was a mother, but in most she wasn't. She had been a rock star, an Olympics, a music teacher, a primary school teacher, a professor, a CEO, a PA, a chef, a glaciologist, a climatologist, an acrobat, a tree-planter, an audit manager, a hair-dresser, a professional dog walker, an office clerk, a software developer, a receptionist, a hotel cleaner, a politician, a lawyer, a shoplifter, the head of an ocean protection charity, a shop worker (again), a waitress, a first-line supervisor, a glass-blower and a thousand other things. She'd had horrendous commutes in cars, on buses, in trains, on ferries, on bike, on foot. She'd had emails and emails and emails. She'd had a fifty-three-year-old boss with halitosis touch her leg under a table and text her a photo of his penis. She'd had colleagues who lied about her, and colleagues who loved her, and (mainly) colleagues who were entirely indifferent. In many lives she chose not to work and in some she didn't choose not to work but still couldn't find any. In some lives she smashed through the glass ceiling and in some she just polished it. She had been excessively over- and under-qualified. She had slept brilliantly and terribly. In some lives she was on anti-depressants and in others she didn't even take ibuprofen for a headache. In some lives she was a physically healthy hypochondriac and in some a seriously ill hypochondriac and in most she wasn't a hypochondriac at all. There was a life where she had chronic fatigue, a life where she had cancer, a life where she'd suffered a herniated disc and broken her ribs in a car accident.