Ballsy Quotes

What? I took it because of the girls in the class. Anyway, I see a bit of a P and P dynamic going on between you and Payton." J.D. didn't think he wanted to know. Really. But he asked anyway. "P and P?" Tyler shot him a look, appalled. "Uh, hello--Pride and Prejudice?" His tone said only a cretin wouldn't know this. "Oh right, P and P," J.D. said. "You know, Tyler, you might want to pick up your balls--I think they just fell right off when you said that.

Oh right,P and P ,” J.D. said. “You know, Tyler, you might want to pick up your balls—I think they just fell right off when you said that.

How ballsy it was to just assume you know, with one glance, the things another person could live without. As if it was the same for everyone, that simple.

Kevin had grown up playing left-handed. Seeing him take on Andrew right-handed was ballsy enough, seeing him actually score was surreal.

It’s also quite possible she still detests me.” Tyler dismissed this with a wave. “You’re going to let a thing like that stop you?” “I was thinking intense despisement might be an obstacle in pursuing her, yes.” “No, see, that’s what makes it all the more interesting,” Tyler said. He adopted a grandly dramatic tone. “‘Does our fair Ms. Kendall truly loathe the arrogant Mr. Jameson as she so ardently proclaims, or is it all just a charade to cover more amorous feelings for a man she reluctantly admires?’” Up front, the cabdriver snorted loudly. He appeared to be enjoying the show. “Psych 101 again?” J.D. asked. Tyler shook his head. “Lit 305: Eighteenth-Century Women’s Fiction.” He caughtJ.D.’s look and quickly defended himself. “What? I took it because of the girls in the class. Anyway, I see a bit of a P and P dynamic going on between you and Payton.” J.D. didn’t think he wanted to know. Really. But he asked anyway. “P and P?” Tyler shot him a look, appalled. “Uh, hello—Pride and Prejudice?” His tone said only a cretin wouldn’t know this. “Oh right, P and P,” J.D. said. “You know, Tyler, you might want to pick up your balls—I think they just fell right off when you said that.” Up front, the cabdriver let out a good snicker.

The most honest, ballsy, don't give a shit person I've ever met, and she thought I would love her forever

Any self-defense class worth its salt will tell you that you don’t pull out a weapon unless you intend to use it. The same should apply to ballsy remarks.

If I were ballsier, sort of like that Arthur dude or Dylan with Samantha, I would make the first move. I'd sit across from him, say what's up, chat about writing, find out if he's into guys, call him pretty, pray he calls me pretty back, get his phone number, fall in love. But I'm not ballsy, so I don't.

I swallow a gasp. Oh man. Are these boys pulling twin switches on Sawyer’s girlfriend? That’s ballsy. And twisted. I pour my own bowl of cereal and lean against the counter to eat it. A few minutes later, Sebastian walks into the kitchen. As he passes the table, Sawyer murmurs, “Thanks, bro,” to his twin.

Perfection is not attainable. But if we chase perfection, we can catch excellence.

A girl should be sassy, classy, and ballsy with a touch of badassy.

A ballsy killer with the body of a goddess and the mouth of a sailor - in his eyes, that was perfection.

The few who are ballsy enough to actually live wind up in madhouses, tortured by actuality. We all wind up in the same place anyhow … food for unseeing worms.

Actually, if I were making wishes, it would be that I was ballsy enough to go right up and ask for a ride on his bike. Or a ride on something else.

Hard to miss you, babe. You were the only one wearing an Elmwood jersey in the Heston student section. Ballsy move. Red looks great on you.” I swipe my tongue across my lower lip. “Bet you’d look even better in blue and green.

it was a poor show from a former national champion, but it was also intensely humbling as kevin had grown up playing left-handed. seeing him take on andrew right-handed was ballsy enough, seeing him actually score was surreal. - narrator

Alexander turned slowly to appraise Maya. It had to be uncomfortable getting that treatment up close, but she didn’t seem to care. Maybe wolves were tougher than vampires – or at least more ballsy, you know, for a girl who only had metaphorical balls.

Aside from the possible scientific explanations for the death of ballsiness, there is an economic one, which I think may be the real cause: high rents. It's very hard to be a ballsy writer when you can't afford to live anywhere. It makes you absolutely nervous and insane and takes all yours guts away. I have to say this is the case for yours truly. If I could pay a 1954 rent of fifty-eight dollars a month, I might actually be a ballsy writer. But I'm so crippled by my enormous twenty-first century rent that I can barely get out of bed, let alone raise hell, which is what you need to do to qualify as a ballsy writer. You have to be a hell-raiser. You have to care about political things and you have to be able to afford booze, not to mention days lost to hangovers. But if you're worried all the time about having to go live with your parents as a thirty-seven-year-old, then to hell with hell. You only have one goal: to come up with the rent. You don't have time for political causes or all-night orgies.

This must have been the side that Sam slept on when he snuck in here, because I recognized his scent. How ballsy he had been to come here night after night, just to be with Grace. I imagined him lying right here, Grace next to him. I had seen them kiss before—the way that Sam’s hands pressed on Grace’s back when he thought no one would see and the way that the hardness of Grace’s face disappeared entirely when he did. It was easy to picture them lying together here, kissing, tangled. Sharing breath, lips pressed urgently against necks and shoulders and fingertips. I felt hungry suddenly, for something that I didn’t have and couldn’t name. It made me think of Cole’s hand on my collarbone and how his breath had been so hot in my mouth, and suddenly I was sure that I was going to call him or find him tomorrow if such a thing was possible.

this Buddhist saying that holding on to anger is like drinking poison and expecting someone else to die.

Taking acceptable risks is a key ingredient for success. If the path was easy, everyone would take it. Ballsy people, if they’re intelligent and learn from their mistakes, shape the world. The thing that few people get is that ballsy people aren’t any more certain than anyone else. They know they could fail, but also know that if they don’t take a shot, they can’t succeed either.

I really can't say which of the American classics you should read. In fact, I think about as much of the notion of "classic" as you do, but at least the literary critics who compile those lists have a good sense of humor. How else can you explain them adding Mark Twain's wonderful books to their lists, given his view that "a classic is something everybody wants to have read, but no one wants to read"? Unless it's some kind of disguised jibe, but they surely can't be that petty. Though I don't think that justice is the main argument against classics list. Or rather, in a way it's clearly a question of justice, but not against those who don't make it. No, the books I feel sorry for are the ones they add to these lists. Take Mark Twain again. Once, when Tom was young, he came to me complaining that he had to read Huckleberry Finn for junior high. Huckleberry Finn! Our critics and educators have got a lot to answer for when they manage to make young boys see stories about rebellion and adventure and ballsiness as a chore. Do you understand what I mean? The real crime of these lists isn't that they leave deserving books off them, but that they make people see fantastic literary adventures as obligations.

Being a pioneer can be damn lonely, too early, no money, tough, endless, stupid,” Samwer said. “And that healed us. Since then, we basically say, Fuck you. We don’t care whether you think we are not smart enough to invent something.

Time for an exercise, which I shall call 'Say It Out Loud With Miranda'. Please take a moment to sit back, breathe and intone: 'I am taking myself seriously as a woman.' Note your response. If you're reading this on the bus, or surreptitiously in the cinema, or in any other public scenario, then please note other people's responses. (If you are male, and teenaged, and reading this in a room with other teenage boys, then for your own safety I advise you not to participate.) The rest of you – what comes to mind when you say those words? Is it a fine lady scientist, a ballsy young anarchist with tights on her head or a feminist intellectual from the 1970s nose-down in Simone de Beauvoir? Or is it what I think my friend meant when she said 'woman' which is really 'aesthetic object'. Clothes-horse. Show pony. General beautiful piece of well-groomed stuff that's lovely to look at? I reckon, to my great dismay, that she did indeed mean the latter. And in saying that I don't take myself seriously in this regard her assessment of me is absolutely bang-on. If taking oneself seriously as a woman means committing to a like of grooming, pumicing, pruning and polishing one's exterior for the benefit of onlookers, then I may as well heave my unwieldy rucksack to the top of a bleak Scottish hill and make my home there under a stone, where I'll fashion shoes out of mud and clothes out of leaves.

Mason has to be the most distracted guy on the planet. Yesterday, he showed up wearing two different socks. And not just any socks, one was black and the other was bright yellow. Aside from the fact that I have never seen bright yellow socks in my life, I honestly wondered how distracted he would have to be to put a black sock and a yellow sock on and not notice they were different.

It truly is a team sport, and we have the best team in town. But it’s my relationship with Ilana that I cherish most. We have such a strong partnership and have learned how we work most efficiently: I need coffee, she needs tea. When we’re stressed, I pace around and use a weird neck massager I bought online that everyone makes fun of me for, and she knits. When we’re writing together she types, because she’s faster and better at grammar. We actually FaceTime when we’re not in the same city and are constantly texting each other ideas for jokes or observations to potentially use (I recently texted her from Asheville: girl with flip-flops tucked into one strap of tank top). Looking back now at over ten years of doing comedy and running a business with her I can see how our collaboration has expanded and contracted. But it’s the problem-solving aspect of this industry, the producing, the strategy, the realizing that we could put our heads together and figure out the best solution, that has made our relationship and friendship what it is. Because that spills into everything. We both have individual careers now, but those other projects have only been motivating and inspiring to each other and the show. We bring back what we’ve learned on the other sets, in the other negotiations, in the other writers’ rooms or press situations. I’m very lucky to have jumped into this with Ilana Rose Glazer, the ballsy, curly-haired, openhearted, nineteen-year-old girl that cracked me up that night at the corner of the bar at McManus. So many wonderful things have happened since we began working together, but there are a lot of confusing, life-altering things in there too, and it’s such a relief to have someone who completely understands the good and the bad.

From Bralloc’s mounted position he could see over the heads of most of his men, but the thickening darkness of evening coupled with the storm made it impossible to see more than a few yards. He jerked at the reins and swung his horse around, pushing into the crowd. The large grey charger was nearly as mean-spirited as her owner; she snorted and bucked her head, then nipped, stomped and shoved her way through, giving every indication that she was enjoying herself. His men drew to either side, and the crawling excitement in Bralloc’s belly became an angry swarm of insects. The scout – the ballsy woman whose name he could never remember - stood several paces away. Bralloc paid her no heed, however, and the mixture of nervousness, relief and fear on her face didn’t even register in his mind: his eyes were locked on the captive at her side. His lips twitched into a smile and he licked them, like a ghoul eyeing a fresh corpse. He forced himself to move slowly, deliberately – sucking each individual drop of marrow from the bones of his anticipation..." -From 'Feral

QUESTION: Are you suggesting that history is irrelevant, then, and the temporal span of humankind merely the recycling of tropes? ANSWER: Well, I think it’s two things. It’s always two things, unless it’s three. The first thing is moms and martyrs are the way we will think, just as when we dance we tend to tango. Jung suspected as much, you know, and every story could, I suppose, be seen as such a spyglass. Second, either there is or there isn’t, point-blank, and if there is not, and something besides lead backs our philosophies, then previously Truth flashed its temper like a fictitious schoolgirl showing her panties, then went all cowboy cool in the neonew, barely speaking, keeping mum, despite the fact we’s done forgot dear mammy, savoring the slow satisfying burn of a cigarette before the bonfire of a billion bodies, and still millions more wait their turn, we’re better at keeping our appointments, at any rate, skinny corpses stripped of teeth and hair and skin, difference plucked like daisies, for there is no difference; in ether words, to hear the Great Apes tell it, every plague is one for the pointless and every poppy’s got jack to do with Us. Hoohah! A particularly ballsy bit of business given the most recent nearing too close, we’re singing our rondel with a bellyful of gravy and sourmash, we’re at the highpocked end, and there’s no more to come, come the dawn. Though bear in mind we’ve no pret-a-porter poodle sniffing around here, nossir, we’re not afraid to say stay, still, we’ll stay right here, eating off the apple of your eye, carving the plump of your cheek caught in the family photo, the flash in the pan goes off and so does your head, or so Buttercup says, we’re stuck, that is to say, in the over-brought dawn of this new clearer Age, in which we play patsy to witness just this: everything is beauty-full, in its own way. . . .

A few days after that dinner, I catch up with my new friend Paul over coffee. He is telling me about a time when he cycled from the Netherlands to Spain – a many-months-long endeavour that he completed solo. I try to imagine myself in this scenario. ‘Were you lonely?’ I ask. Paul pauses, taken aback by the question. And this is the problem with Deep Talk. Not only do you have to be a bit vulnerable and a bit ballsy to ask the questions in the first place, but you’re also asking whoever you’re speaking with to be the same: open up, take your hand and embrace the depths. Paul furrows his brow. After a beat, he nods. ‘Yeah, I was,’ he says. ‘What did you do to combat it?’ ‘I wrote in my journal a lot,’ he tells me. ‘I went for walks. But I was still really lonely.’ He tells me that he’s good at talking to people but that in most of the places where he stopped along the way people were pretty guarded. When I play back this conversation in my head, I wonder how differently pre-sauna Jess would have handled it. Given that I don’t know Paul well, I would have probably asked about logistics, or how many miles he covered per day, or what kind of bike he rode. Maybe, at best, I’d have launched into a story about a bike seat I’d used in Beijing that was such a literal arse ache that I could barely walk for two weeks, followed by a monologue about the realities of life with thigh chaffing. I am so impressed by how open Paul is with me. He could have lied and told me, nah, he doesn’t get lonely, that he relished the time alone on the road, he was a lone wolf, a cowboy striking out into the sunset with nothing but his trusty metallic steed. One of the most vital parts of Deep Talk is that it has to be a two-way process – both parties have to be willing to share, to disclose, to be vulnerable. If you initiate it with someone but don’t give back, you’re likely just harassing innocent people to share extremely personal information. I realise I probably shouldn’t go around asking men about their loneliness and not share my own experience of it. Since we’re all in this together, I’ll tell you, too.

[...] Kevin had grown up playing left-handed. Seeing him take on Andrew right-handed was ballsy enough, seeing him actually score was surreal. Kevin kicked them off the court [...], but instead of following [...] he stayed behind with Andrew to keep practicing. Neil watched them over his shoulder. "I saw him first," Nicky said. "I thought you had Erik," Neil said. "I do, but Kevin's on the List," Nicky said. When Neil frowned, Nicky explained. "It's a list of celebrities we're allowed to have affairs with. Kevin is number three." Neil pretended to understand and changed the topic. "How does anyone lose against the Foxes with Andrew in your goal?" "He's good, right? [...] Coach bribed Andrew into saving our collective asses with some really nice booze." "Bribed?" Neil echoed. "Andrew's good," Nicky said again, "but it doesn't really matter to him if we win or lose. You want him to care, you gotta give him incentive." "He can't play like that and not care." "Now you sound like Kevin. You'll find out the hard way, same as Kevin did. Kevin gave Andrew a lot of grief this spring [...]. Up until then they were fighting like cats and dogs. Now look at them. They're practically trading friendship bracelets and I couldn't fit a crowbar between them if it'd save my life." "But why?" Neil asked. "Andrew hates Kevin's obsession with Exy." "The day they start making sense to you, let me know," Nicky said [...]. "I gave up trying to sort it all out weeks ago. [...] But as long as I'm doling out advice? Stop staring at Kevin so much. You're making me fear for your life over here." "What do you mean?" "Andrew is scary territorial of him. He punched me the first time I said I'd like to get Kevin too wasted to be straight." Nicky pointed at his face, presumably where Andrew had decked him. "So yeah, I'm going to crush on safer targets until Andrew gets bored of him. That means you, since Matt's taken and I don't hate myself enough to try Seth. Congrats." "Can you take the creepy down a level?" Aaron asked. "What?" Nikcy asked. "He said he doesn't swing, so obviously he needs a push." "I don't need a push," Neil said. "I'm fine on my own." "Seriously, how are you not bored of your hand by now?" "I'm done with this conversation," Neil said. "This and every future variation of it [...]." The stadium door slammed open as Andrew showed up at last. [...] "Kevin wants to know what's taking you so long. Did you get lost?" "Nicky's scheming to rape Neil," Aaron said. "There are a couple flaws in his plan he needs to work out first, but he'll get there sooner or later." [...] "Wow, Nicky," Andrew said. "You start early." "Can you really blame me?" Nicky glanced back at Neil as he said it. He only took his eyes off Andrew for a second, but that was long enough for Andrew to lunge at him. Andrew caught Nicky's jersey in one hand and threw him hard up against the wall. [...] "Hey, Nicky," Andrew said in stage-whisper German. "Don't touch him, you understand?" "You know I'd never hurt him. If he says yes-" "I said no." "Jesus, you're greedy," Nicky said. "You already have Kevin. Why does it-" He went silent, but it took Neil a moment to realize why. Andrew had a short knife pressed to Nicky's Jersey. [...] Neil was no stranger to violence. He'd heard every threat in the book, but never from a man who smiled as bright as Andrew did. Apathy, anger, madness, boredom: these motivators Neil knew and understood. But Andrew was grinning like he didn't have a knife point where it'd sleep perfectly between Nicky's ribs, and it wasn't because he was joking. Neil knew Andrew meant it. [...] "Hey, are we playing or what?" Neil asked. "Kevin's waiting." [...] Andrew let go of Nicky and spun away. [...] Nicky looked shaken as he stared after the twins, but when he realized Neil was watching him he rallied with a smile Neil didn't believe at all. "On second thought, you're not my type after all [...].

When I was a kid I adored Katharine Hepburn, especially when she played Jo, the ballsy sister in Little Women. All the kids in school started calling me “Jo.” I also loved Barbara Stanwyck, Ann Sheridan, Bette Davis, Claire Trevor—I didn’t know them but after seeing them in so many movies, I felt like I knew them. They weren’t feminists, they were just strong women, and I always admired anyone who had some guts. All those sweet, quiet, polite, ladylike little things just bored me to death. Back then there were so many wonderful women’s stories being filmed, and so many strong actresses. But by the time I started doing movies they were mostly making men’s stories. It has always saddened me that I never got to work with directors like George Cukor and William Wyler, directors who could really pull such marvelous performances from actresses." - Jane Russell

Aisle please. I never got over that damn Twilight Zone episode with the creature on the wing of the plane.” “Oh yeah, that was a freaky one. Thanks for the reminder, now I’m going to have to avoid looking out the window, too.

Thorn went completely stiff, while Devyl held his breath at something not even he had the bullocks to do. The use of his Leucious birthname was ballsy enough and as far as he dared take insulting the demon. After all, in life, there were some actions just not worth the gamble. Jumping from a cliff that overlooked a raging sea and sharp rocks. Eating glass. Throwing yourself into a raging inferno inside a volcano. Touching the Dark-Hunter Acheron on the back of his neck. Trespassing on the Chthonian Savitar’s island without his permission. Telling the demon Simi no when she didn’t want to hear it. And using Thorn’s summoning name. “Your lack of discretion is foolish,” Devyl warned her. “Were I you, I’d stop before I lose more ground and my head.

If Tombstone is shut down and grabbed by the cops before Randy can erase those traces, they will know he has logged on at the very moment that Tombstone was confiscated, and will put him in prison for tampering with evidence. He very much wishes that Douglas MacArthur Shaftoe could somehow be made aware of what a ballsy thing he is doing here. But then Doug has probably done all kinds of ballsy things of which Randy will never be aware, and Randy respects him anyway because of his bearing. Maybe the way to get that kind of bearing is to go around doing ballsy things in secret that somehow percolate up to the surface of your personality.

There’s an art to severing ties with someone. Not everyone needs to be dumped the same. Some need a gentle hand, others to be tricked into thinking it was their idea, and some people need to be told to fuck right off afterward.

I know there’s an ongoing betting pool who can hold out the longest while fucking. Tank currently holds the record at almost three hours, and I’ve been hell-bent on breaking it—but it won’t happen today.

the same way my mother does. That constant sense of being judged, of disapproval, of guilt she triggers in me, he has that same effect on

Guilt for being happy. Guilt for having fun. Guilt for enjoying life. Guilt for being alive.

A few months prior, Axl had also come up with a great idea for “Patience,” seemingly out of nowhere, that had immediately become the story and melody of that song. The whistle part at the beginning was another ballsy and unusual move by Axl; the song just wouldn’t be the same without it. “Patience” quickly became one of my favorite GN’R songs to play live.

You’re fucking perfect.

Unless I’m sitting on your face, my weight is none of your business.

Don’t ever change. You’re fucking perfect just the way you are.

But we were still way short when I went to see Tom Deane at Bank of America. I presented my case; and—on the spot (!)—he loaned me the money on our (Alice’s and mine) personal signatures. Years later, I asked him how he had been so ballsy. “It’s simple,” he replied. “Rexall was on Pronto’s leases, and I figured they wouldn’t let you go bankrupt.

hours of watching the Ballsy Boys.

That shit is seriously contagious.” Heart’s casual remark about calling HIV shit doesn’t sit well with me, but I know that’s me being sensitive. He doesn’t mean anything by it. Even though he’s aware how many people died of it, he doesn’t know their stories, their names. Not like I do.

If you ever use a word like ‘playtime’ around me ever again, I’ll rearrange your face.

She’s either Australian or South African. I often get their accents confused.

I’m like a kid in a candy store. I don’t know which goodie to sample first.

You can have skills in abundance, drive by the bucket load, and more knowledge than you know what to do with, but without passion, you’ll never reach the pinnacle of success.

Standing up, she strolls over to him, a little unsteady on her feet, extending her small, perfectly manicured hand toward him. She's ballsy, I’ll give her that. This five-foot-nothing girl just strolled up to fucking Satan to shake his hand.

She's Ballsy, I'll give her that. This five-foot-nothing girl just strolled up to fucking Satan to shake his hand.

remember a ballsy woman who invented her life from scratch. No man, no help, no problem.

remember a ballsy woman who invented her life from scratch.

So that started this thing, and Paddy never really thought about it much until the guitar. He wanted that guitar so bad, and he went to Ed and made a case to Ed but Ed told him to fuh—go away. How’d you do it?” “At first, I tried logic. I came at him head-on, and he blew me off. Because I was a woman he was mannerly enough, but it was clear he had no interest in selling the guitar. So I started calling him a few times a week. Then I sent him Sweet Hollow Ranch CDs. He got mad at me at first. And then I drove down there and showed up at his house.” “You did what? Christ! I told you not to go down there alone. He could have been insane or a serial killer or something. Paddy is going to kill me.” “Hush. You didn’t tell me that until after I’d already gone down there. So technically, once you told me not to, I didn’t. But anyway. I showed up, and I followed him around pretty much all day until he finally agreed to listen to one track if I’d leave him alone. So I played him ‘Be There.’ And I said, ‘Don’t you think your guitar would make magic with this man playing it?’” “You’re ballsy, Nats. Jeez.” “Pfft. Why do men say that? Balls? If you kick them or bump them or they get cold or too warm, you guys go down for the count. I say I have vagina. Way tougher than balls. Though it does hurt to get kicked there.” He sputtered and then laughed and laughed. “We need to think of another term, though. Vagina up? No. I’ll think about it and get back to you.

Belial said, “My children. My minions. No, the Nephilim are not gone from the land. They are still here. And they will rise up.” The unholy Nephilim had been purged from the land, first by the Flood, and finally through the holy wars of Canaan by Joshua ben Nun and King David. There was only one thing Belial could mean by their return. Belial changed the subject. “Yahweh has protected his chosen seedline of Messiah through all the ages. I must say however, that I am not impressed with his choice of a final vessel. You have neither the constitution nor the military skills of your namesake, Joshua.” Joshua was Hebrew for Jesus. “Now there was a ballsy warrior. I hated that godlicker and his tail-wagging dog, Caleb. “But you, you are but a simple carpenter. Pshaw! I fail to see how you will fulfill his conquest. The only thing you have going for you is the Covering. Apparently, the heavenly principalities and powers cannot touch you.” Belial paused. The bodiless demonic horde faded back into the howling desert rocks. A subtle smirk grew on Belial’s lips.

Michaels pushed up into Judge’s groin, seeking out his harness. “It’s a little after four,” he rasped. Judge gave Michaels what he sought. Both of them moaning at the sensation of their erections grinding together. He needed to get up and take watch. Michaels gripped his waist and pulled on him harder. What the hell, they had a little time. No one was doing anything at four in the morning. Judge leaned in and went for Michaels’ neck with his mouth, still not able to kiss those luscious lips. He licked across that lump in the center of his throat with the flat of his tongue, tasting the cleanness. “You taste so good,” he moaned, pushing his erection into the hard thigh he was straddling. “Then take a real taste,” Michaels dared. Did Michaels really want to kiss him? Judge was seriously considering it. He hadn’t kissed anyone in years; maybe he wasn’t even good at it anymore. He braced himself on his forearms, hovering over Michaels’ face, his lips so close. Michaels grinned at him and brought a hand up to press down on his shoulder. Pressing and pressing until Judge finally got the hint. “A real taste.” Michaels smirked. Asshole. He wasn’t talking about a kiss at all. He wanted Judge’s mouth further down. Judge quirked his eyebrow at the ballsy request. “Suck it, Judge. It’ll taste good. I promise you.” Michaels flirted, tucking one arm behind his head while the other grazed back and forth over his own nipples. Sexy

You’re ballsy, Nats. Jeez.” “Pfft. Why do men say that? Balls? If you kick them or bump them or they get cold or too warm, you guys go down for the count. I say I have vagina. Way tougher than balls. Though it does hurt to get kicked there.

No doubt the High King of Highhandedness was behind my extreme home makeover. He was the only man I knew ballsy enough to invade my space—and totally redecorate it—without asking permission first.

There, in the “Early Days” section, is a photo the company sent to customers who purchased the flower deal. All fifteen Groupon employees, with Mason front and center, are standing behind a white poster board sporting a message inked in black marker: “We’re sorry!! —your friends [at] Groupon.” “The response we got back was, ‘Holy shit, there’s actually real people at that company,

After they get burned a few times by inept advisers, their bullshit detectors get better.

You should avoid being drawn into things, and especially into other people's business. ... If you're tough, and ballsy, and well... not as wimpish and idiotic as everyone else... shouldn't you offer people support? Don't you have kind of a moral obligation?

And Daisy? I know you’re scared, but you are a brave, ballsy woman. You can handle anything. Remember that old John Wayne quote? Something along the lines of courage is being scared to death, but saddling up anyway.

I just know there’s nothing ballsy or brave about living your whole life behind walls. The real good shit doesn’t start until those bricks come down and you invite someone in. If you’re not scared shitless, you’re doin’ it wrong.

Being one of the guys meant I could not go on being the woman I’d become expert at being among men. It was a version of myself I’d first tasted way back when I was a child of eleven and I’d felt that prickly rush of power when grown men would turn their heads to look at me or whistle or say Hey pretty baby just loudly enough that I could hear. The one I’d banked on all through high school, starving myself thin, playing cute and dumb so I’d be popular and loved. The one I’d fostered all through my young adult years while trying on different costumes—earth girl, punk girl, cowgirl, riot girl, ballsy girl. The one for whom behind every hot pair of boots or sexy little skirt or flourish of the hair there was a trapdoor that led to the least true version of me. Now there was only one version. On the PCT I had no choice but to inhabit it entirely, to show my grubby face to the whole wide world.O

When men lie on their backs, their balls fall in front of their butthole, causing a vapor lock. With one hole blocked, the remaining one must double its production. Digestive fumes, beer gas, and even weed gas are vented out of their mouths. Hence the snoring.

Men these days want it all: a pretty face, large breasts, and a bootylicious ass on a petite frame. Even the drastic advancements in mankind haven’t clued them in on the fact that the likelihood of a woman having both a booty and a tiny waist is virtually impossible.

Eliana stepped into her room and turned to face him. Anticipation usurped amusement’s place as Dagon stared down at her, waiting for her nightly hug. Perhaps tonight he would linger and— “Greetings, Eliana,” CC said in her serene voice. Blinking, she glanced over her shoulder, then up at the ceiling. “Hi, CC.” Dagon hid his amusement at her tendency to look up whenever she addressed the computer. “You have one communication awaiting your attention,” CC announced. Eliana looked at Dagon. “Is that like a phone message?” He considered his translator’s definition of PHONE. “Yes.” “Did YOU send it?” “No.” “Who did?” A good question. Who on this ship believed they knew Eliana well enough to message her privately? His brows drew down. “I don’t know.” “Maybe Anat has reconsidered giving me flight lessons.” He stared at her. After Dagon, Anat was the most experienced and highest-ranked fighter pilot on the ship. Dagon knew that most of the men stationed on the RANASURA thought their commander grim and foreboding. But Dagon appeared downright ebullient when compared to Anat. “You asked Anat to give you flight lessons?” To borrow one of Eliana’s Earth terms: that had been ballsy. “Yes.” She wrinkled her nose. “But he said no. The other pilots warned me he’d refuse, but I figured I’d give it a try anyway.” He tried to hold back his next question but failed. “Why didn’t you ask me?” Her brow furrowed. “You mean ask your permission? Was I supposed to do that first?” “No. Why didn’t you ask ME to give you flight lessons?” He understood her fierce drive to learn everything she possibly could that might aid her in the future but inwardly balked at the image of Eliana and Anat crowded together in a flight simulator. “Oh. Because you’re . . . you know.” She motioned to his uniform. “The commander. You run the ship. You have more important things to do.” She nibbled her lower lip. “Aaaaand I didn’t want to wear out my welcome.” Confused, he glanced down at the deck. “Why are you looking at my boots?” she asked. “According to my translator, WEAR OUT MY WELCOME means eroding through frequent use the surface of a mat with the word WELCOME printed on it that Earthlings place outside their doors.” She grinned. “Your translator got it wrong. Wear out my welcome means . . .” She shrugged. “I don’t know. Make a nuisance of myself, I guess. I’ve already insinuated myself into a significant portion of your day, Dagon.” Her smile dimmed a bit as uncertainty crept into her features. “I didn’t want you to get tired of having me around all the time.” So while he had sought any and every excuse to spend MORE time with her, she had worried he might want LESS? He took a step closer to her. “I believe the likelihood of that is nonexistent.” Her eyes dilated as his shadow fell over her. “Really?” she asked softly. “Really.

Gay porn is rapidly growing in popularity, as women are discovering it. They tend to find it way more attractive than straight porn. Duh. If I were a straight woman, I’d prefer watching two men to a man and a woman. I mean, tits are really not that interesting if you’re not attracted to women.

After her diagnosis, she was determined to keep working, but that only lasted about six months before she had to admit she wasn’t able to do her job anymore. Even with the symptoms coming and going, there was no way to know when she would have a bad day, and she couldn’t stand to have to call in so often on such short notice. She was devastated when she had to quit, and she’s never quite bounced back emotionally.

Dogs are the best. Hey, that’s another way Shaggy reminds me of Brewer. They’re both hyper little psychos sometimes, but secretly, they love to just chill on the couch and be lazy all day.

We're playing night golf?" He shook his head and killed the engine. "No. But one of my old patients owns this course, and there's something I want to show you down by the lake." "Let me guess. It's balls." He laughed again, reinforcing he was doing the right thing. If she could make him feel like this when sadness clouded him, she was definitely a keeper. "You'll get to see mine, along with my number one driver, later if you're lucky.

Don’t know how to explain it. I just know there’s nothing ballsy or brave about living your whole life behind walls. The real good shit doesn’t start until those bricks come down and you invite someone in. If you’re not scared shitless, you’re doin’ it wrong.

That was some ballsy fighting, my nakey friend.” Mav rolls his eyes. “Really? You’re going there?” “What? I’m one of the guys, right? If my bro wants to rock out with his cock out, I don’t judge.” “Please stop,” Mav says, shaking his head. “Hang out with his wang out?” “You’re a freak, Storme.” “No need to get testis, Mav. Just breakin’ River’s balls.” River chuckles. “Okay, Jess. Get it out of your system.

Fishtail …” began Ballsy, apparently searching for words, “that was incredibly stupid.” “Thank you, sir,” she replied, hearing the awe in his voice.

I’m not kidding. What I had before compared to what I have now?” He shook his head. “It doesn’t even compare.” “How?” “Don’t know how to explain it. I just know there’s nothing ballsy or brave about living your whole life behind walls. The real good shit doesn’t start until those bricks come down and you invite someone in. If you’re not scared shitless, you’re doin’ it wrong.

Oh sure. You can laugh,” Eliana grumbled as she took it. “You have Kayla.” He winced. “Not yet, I don’t. There’s a goodly chance I’m going to bungle things with her. Badly.” He gestured to the vampires on the ground around them. “She doesn’t even know about this aspect of my life. And I don’t know how to tell her. What woman wouldn’t flee from a man who claims he hunts and kills vampires for a living?” “A strong one,” she retorted, the words a little muffled as she wiped her face clean. “And Kayla is ballsy. I knew it as soon as I met her.” He smiled. “She is. Strong women are so hot.

Her lips turned up in a wry smile. “I’m not that innocent.” He smiled. “And not so sweet? At least not to the soldier you threatened to shoot.” She laughed. “Apparently outright terror can make me ballsy.” Familiar with the Earth term, he laughed.

They’re squatting in the cabin,” I said. “Using it as a base of operations. We should still get in there if we can. Not just to search for phones or radios, but to get food. Without it, we won’t be in any shape to run or fight back if we’re caught.” Daniel looked at me. “Yes, I know, it’s a ballsy move,” I said. He smiled. “All right. Let’s check it out.

You’re ballsy, Nats. Jeez.” “Pfft. Why do men say that? Balls? If you kick them or bump them or they get cold or too warm, you guys go down for the count. I say I have vagina. Way tougher than balls. Though it does hurt to get kicked there.” He sputtered and then laughed and laughed. “We need to think of another term, though. Vagina up? No. I’ll think about it and get back to you. So did he agree, then? To sell you the guitar, I mean?

Great, thank you, bro hugs all around. But I have a huge problem.

Doug has probably done all kinds of ballsy things of which Randy will never be aware, and Randy respects him anyway because of his bearing. Maybe the way to get that kind of bearing is to go around doing ballsy things in secret that somehow percolate up to the surface of your personality.

If the way is diffrent the end is diffrent. Becaws the end aint nothing only part of the way its jus that part of the way where you come to a stop. The end cud be any part of the way its in every step of the way thats why you bes go ballsy.

Once elderly patients become sedentary, their independence decreases rapidly, and even if they did live independently before, they often have to be admitted to a nursing home after.

He's clearly not suited to the public rigors of this role. Encouraging the delusions of a mentally ill---" Johnny had finally reached his limit. "That's it." Releasing Rosie, he walked to the door and pulled it open. "Your Highness. Lancier. Get out." Sylvie couldn't repress an instinctive snort at the look on the duchess's face. Every affronted, outraged GIF in history had just come to life in this room. If the Prince of Wales never had a child, it was possible that the Duchess of Albany could one day become Queen Consort. At the very least, she would hopefully much sooner become Johnny's mother-in-law. He did not give one single shit. "Out," he said again, his entire demeanor brooking no opposition. The duchess was the most stereotypical type of bully. When faced with a dose of her own medicine, she retreated. With a malevolent glare at the offspring who'd foisted this man on her.

Once. He…” God, why does it still hurt so fucking much? You’d think that after twenty-six years, I’d be able to talk about him without tearing up. “He got sick and passed away. But that was years ago.

I prefer the term RACK—risk-aware consensual kink—but I think we’re referring to the same thing. If we’re gonna show kink, especially where there’s any kind of power imbalance, we have to show it right. I want to create high-quality videos that show how beautiful kink can be, but that also demonstrate how to do it consensually.

I thought sex was the most uncomfortable thing two people could experience together, but I clearly underestimated my own ability to create unpleasant situations.

I'd've loved more songs, because if you don't put on a radio station there isn't very much songs in GTA IV. He can jump out from the automobile when it halts, in case you enter into a terrible enough mishap while Chop is driving along with you and go house. Incidentally an enlargement for the first was situated in London. So, in case you want to try Freefall then you certainly must complete 'Meat company'. Some sites accept this-but many the others refuse. Each sport in the set offers some thing new to gamers. and gun you down additionally if other armed citizens see you perpetrate a crime they could get ballsy and try to destroy you on-the-spot also. The Hollywood aspect had proceeded, you were always being hassled by perople such as principal character's brother, Roman, to really go and do a little mundane task like drinking till you fell over, enjoying darts or bowling. Later on, he determines to see a location called Downtown. Most of the big websites remark continuously about how terrific the cut-scenes are. The overall game's storyline is centered around Nike Bellic, a former soldier from Eastern Europe, who concerns america to get the "American desire". When Chop is on you, he assaults anyone that reveals aggression towards Franklin, and might even eliminate them. The gameplay is continually open world permitting player to decide on assignments packaged with activity-experience, third-person shooting, stealth, racing and sometimes roleplaying. Next, look at the Caligula Palace. I don't accept being of any Leather encounter character even. In V, players reach jump in and out of the lives of each one of the three figures so that you can feel the storyline from other points of view. As an issue of fact, you actually have to be cautious about everybody in Grand Theft Auto just around they must be careful for you and also your murderous manners. In the event you held turning them down, they got irritated. And this stops the scene and you're in the sport. I presume cut scenes may be pleasant benefit for completing a larger part of a sport. http://hh.vom

With the sounds of Rock and Roll and Sherry’s intoxicating laugh moving you though every memory—you’re sure to be captivated by this one-­‐of-­‐a--kind, episodic memoir. Even Rock and Roll has Fairy Tales: The Flight of the Shiny Happy Sherry Fairy” by Sherry Carroll is a coming of age memoir that the features love, humor, Rock and Roll, and a woman in love with life. This woman is ballsy, and takes no-­‐prisoners when it comes to love and life. Sherry Fairy’s dreams have the unique ability to carry her to places that the average person wouldn't imagine—living vicariously through her life of mayhem, music, and madness is completely energizing and fun. It seems that the music, wind, and passion carry her to places that birth terrific stories for a memoir. And in this biographical account, you won’t have to “just wonder” about the things that happen when a big-­‐time rock star and a small town girl meet. Leaving you with the idea that dreams, no matter how ridiculous, are worth pursuing. Sherry is ridiculously,fun,smart,and sassy.Her memoir,overall,is funny,fast-­‐paced and episodic.

You brought her here? Ballsy.” I rolled my eyes. “Hardly. They gave me no choice.” “They?” asked Jager, chuckling to himself. “I should have known Nikole was behind this.” He smiled, with a hint of pride. “Don’t you start encouraging her now,” I warned. “Brother, that woman doesn’t need any encouragement from me or anyone else.