Bb Quotes

So violent. You want to mug and tase everybody these days." "I do," Zuzana agreed. "I swear I hate more poeple every day. Everyone annoys me. If I'm like this now, what am I going to be like when I'm old?" "You'll be the mean old biddy who fires a BB gun at kids from her balcony." "Nah. BBs just rile 'em up. More like a crossbow. Or a bazooka.

The beautiful thing about learning is nobody can take it away from you.

To hell with Kira. What matters to me is L. L

The most intelligent people disguise the fact that they are intelligent. Wise men do not wear nametags. The more people talk about their own skills, the more desperate they are—their work should speak for itself.

Tell me, what are your intentions with my granddaughter. She’s never had a boyfriend, you know. Yes, ma’am. I am aware. And did you have anything to do with that? The corner of his mouth lifted in a half grin. I might have. Why? Because she’s mine.

I can't— You can and you will.Take me, baby.

Two weird people sitting weirdly explaining weird bits of deduction was, Misora worried, a scene of overwhelming weirdosity. (pg. 87, DEATHNOTE: Another Note, The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases)

You’re not going to change the world unless you hang with people who want to change the world too.

It's too much. No. It's not enough.

We all make assumptions every day. Some more important than others. Some more damaging than others. And things, very often, are not at all what they seem.

So, this is what a family is, I thought. Just a houseful of people who've all sucked on your tits. And have also been inside your vagina.

Oh, I almost forgot. In case that anyone besides big-headed Near or the deluded murderer is reading these notes, then I shall at least perform the basic courtesy of introducing myself, here at the end of the prologue, I am your narrator, your navigator, your storyteller. For anyone else but those two, my identity may be of no interest to you, but I am the world's runner-up, the best dresser that died like a dog, Mihael Keehl. I once called myself Mello and was addressed by that name, but that was a long time ago. Good memories and nightmares.

People can smile even when terrified.

There’s no need to be a prude about it. Everyone has orgasms and the ones who don’t…God bless their souls.

You only live but once, and when your died your done, so let the good times roll.

Looking at me like that will get you fucked, Monroe.

Wait! I'm not ready. Tough shit, Monroe. You had a year to get ready. Can we talk about this? I'm done talking. It's time to fuck.

I’m afraid for him because every day he has to fight the person he is, to be the person he wants to be.

I would paint this fucking town in red if I have to until I found her.

Kill the fucking act. You don't have anything I won't see, feel, and taste. Again...and again...and again.

I’m not afraid to die. I’m just unwilling.

I’m a hopeless fuck who is obsessed with a girl he still wants to hurt.

Don't do this. I have every intention of doing this. I have since the first time you looked at me with the same need that I felt every damn day.

I wish I could get Keiran to tell me about his past. I feel like it has everything to do with why he is this way. You ever think he might just have a really dominant personality?

I wanted them all equally, but I craved them for different reasons. Houston challenged me, Loren worshiped me, and Rich made me feel like I was worthy of redemption.

The century's greatest detective, advertised as solving every case imaginable. How great his burden must be, how much pain must he go through every single moment: past, present, and future... A burden so great it would leave you hunched over. A bitter taste in your mouth that would leave you longing for sweets. -M

I had my first cigarette when I was five,” he says, making rings of smoke. “With my mother.

He lifted his head and stared at me with a dark look in his eyes. You taste sweeter than you pretend to be.

No one touches you. Do you understand?” “Yes,” I whispered. I hated the eagerness apparent in my voice.

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Handcuffs. Freaking handcuffs. What are you doing with those? Handcuffing you. No, I mean why do you have them in the first place? I'm saving them for a rainy day. These are new actually. It's like a “thinking of you” gift because I was thinking of you when I bought them.

We all have idols. Play like anyone you care about but try to be yourself while you're doing so.

You were born among monsters,” she lifted my face when I hid in her shoulder, “but you were not meant to walk with them.

You don’t know me beyond my cock, Monroe. Don’t pretend otherwise.

People tend to fear what they don’t understand. And fear can far too easily become hatred.

I hated her with everything I had because it was the only emotion I had to give. I realized, even then, I was giving her everything. She was the bane of my existence, and at the very same, the reason I cared to exist.

She isn’t yours to protect.” “She’s my friend.” “And she is JUST mine.

Killing children or adults -- equally horrible.

I brought you here didn't I? Why so you can chain me up in your basement. Don't give me ideas, Monroe or you'll never make it out of here. The only reason I haven't chained you in my basement is because I know you'll be missed.

Christ himself deliberately staked his whole claim to the credit of men upon his resurrection. When asked for a sign, he pointed to this sign as his single and sufficient credential.

When Christian pushes into the brick wall of the building catty-corner to the rear of BB&B—first left on the Dark Zone side—and disappears, I melt down in a fit of the giggles. I toss a rock at the spot where he vanished. It bounces off the brick and clatters to the cobblestone. I'm feeling twenty shades of Harry Potter's train station, especially when he pokes his head out of the wall and says impatiently, "Come on, lass. This is hardly my favorite place to be.

In the end, we are all bound by our choices.

Making her fear me was only half the battle. I needed to make her want me, too.

You know what, BB? We’ve got dark spots on our souls. We have to live with that. War is not about doing what’s right. War’s about surviving.” Verner aka ‘Jens’ in the novel 'The Informer' by Steen Langstrup

The cracks were there, but I was no longer afraid of them. Instead, they served as a reminder that love wasn’t meant to be a pristine affair. It was meant to be messy and meant to hurt, but it would always mend if it’s true.

I get to fuck you senseless. All night. For as long as I need to.” He stepped closer bending his head down until his breath fanned over my neck. “And you can’t tap out—no matter how good it feels.

Sometimes pissing off the people you love is how you do them the most good in the end.

I spent the last eleven years making your life hell. I’m ready to spend the rest of mine making it up to you. Spoiling you is just the start. Will you let me?

There were two types of people when it came to pain. Those who received it and those who gifted it. Let’s just say, I’ve become one generous motherfucker.

I might be a lot of things, Journal, but a whore is one of them.

Knight would carry my backpack and open my beers and light all my cigarettes, like a gentleman.

If you think I’m trying to scare you, then my seduction skills need serious work. Besides, I don’t need fear to control you anymore. My cock is pretty good at making you do what I want.

Mack winked. “The sex scenes are also really fucking hot.” Gavin dropped the book. Mack and Wilson laughed and high-fived. “I loved that one,” Wilson said. “At least a BB Four.” “Do I want to know what that means?” Gavin shuddered. “It’s our rating system for how much sex is in it,” Wilson said. “But what does BB stand for?” The whole table spoke at once. “Book Boner.

Naomi Misora, are you familiar with the murder investigation going in Los Angeles as we speak?" [...] "I am not so skilled that I can keep track of all the murder investigations happening in Los Angeles." "Oh? I am." He'd returned her sarcasm with a boast.

I used my arm to crush her against me, enjoying the harsh gasp that escaped her lips. A part of me relished the thought of hurting her even just a little. It’s how she affected me. She made me want to hurt her and protect her all at once.

A love of celibacy and a zeal for martyrdom does not bode well for the future of the sect." - regarding the Essenians

mirrors and scales lie. They whisper things to your soul that are untrue—about your beauty, about your worth.

And there lies the problem with our inherited human nature. We only bothered to take care of one another when it was too goddamn late.

How would I ever be able to fix my broken love when he was still afraid of the dark?

She now had a faraway look in her eyes, and I experienced the unfamiliar, yet intense need to hold her and protect her from the world, but most of all from me.

As for Monroe, I would stay away for now, but I had no intention of letting her go. She would have to be pried from my cold, lifeless fingers.

Sometimes I think I enjoy pain, physically and mentally. Sick right?

One man’s greed is another man’s tragedy.

The Blues? It's the mother of American music. That's what is is - the source.

I was as much her sexual prisoner as she was mine. Those would be the times I took her the hardest and unleashed my cruelty on her.

A broken love can still last forever so long as you carry the pieces close to your heart.

The problem with glass was that it shattered under pressure.

I will do everything in my power to make it work. You see, I have nothing to lose…but you do.” “Maybe you do, but you just don’t care,” I argued. “Then that makes me a very dangerous man.

May those who love us, love us, And those who don’t love us, may God turn their hearts, And if he doesn’t turn their hearts, may he turn their ankles, so we’ll know them by their limping.

Pain isn’t singular. We’re not alone, no matter how much it seems that way. Someone out there feels it too, and if we ever meet, we could bring our broken pieces together. We could bind them and form one heart.” He looked into her brown eyes. “We could be Bound.

So online, I’m Bookworm Babe, or BB for short. Despite what my sister says about romance novels (she views them with a high level of disdain), I’ve always loved them. There’s simply nothing that beats getting lost in another version of reality. The heady rush of passion when two would-be lovers meet, the swirl of emotions in a fledgling relationship—I’m addicted to that shit. I lose sleep over

My eyes shot open in surprise as Ken's strong arms clamped around my waist, as his face-rough, thanks to a dusting of evening stubble-came to rest against my neck, and as my toes dangled at least six inches above the pavement. For possibly the first time in my life, I felt grounded, and my feet weren't even touching the ground.

I thought I'd go home and reread Sue Grafton. It's been a while since I last read the one about the topless dancer who gets poison injected into one of her implants." "'D' Is For Cup." "Right. Bern, you know what I wish? I wish she didn't have to stop at twenty-six. When the alphabet's used up, what happens to Kinsey?" "Are you kidding? She goes straight into doublé letters. 'AA' Is For drunks, 'BB' Is For Gun, 'CC' Is For Rider. There was a whole list in Publishers Weekly a few months back. 'PP' Is For Golden Showers, 'ZZ' Is For Topp- I can't remember them all, but it looks as though she can go on forever." "Bern, that's wonderful news." "You'll be reading about Kinsey fifty years from now," I told her. "'AAA' Is for Motorists, 'MMM' Is for Scotch Tape. You'll never have to stop.

So, this is how it all ends, I thought. Bludgeoned to death by a skinhead’s penis in my ex-boyfriend’s childhood bedroom. And I never even got to meet Billy Idol.

In the end, what hurt the most was he got to be the one to leave and I was left holding the shattered pieces.

I spent my whole life afraid of you. You were the monster under the bed and the devil who stole my soul.

So are you saying it wasn’t my cock that filled your pussy with come? It wasn’t my seed that grew inside you? It wasn’t me you saw each time you looked in her eyes?

Fuck that. I’d stop her heart with my bare hands before I allowed her give it to anyone else.

I didn’t like anyone seeing what was mine unless his name was Houston Morrow or Loren James.

This is not a date. I didn’t agree to that.” “Then call it a pregame to fucking. Feel better?

Live your life with this principle: be good even if you do not receive good, not because for other’s sake but because Allah loves those who do good.

I liked to be in my head where I felt at home amongst my own chaos.

You messed up when you let me near you. You messed up when you let me touch you. But you fucked up when you let me have you.

Fuck' em all and survive anyway.

I stared straight ahead like a gangsta, never acknowledging the cast of Hannah Montana sitting next to me, and fantasized that they were staring at me out of the corners of their eyes thinking, Who is that woman with The Suit? Is she playing with his hair? Oh my God, she’s such a badass. He looks like some rich business executive, but Rocker Chick has her arm around him like he’s her fucking bitch. I’ll bet she has tattoos. And rides a motorcycle. And keeps a pair of brass knuckles in her vagina.

I realize you haven’t been owned by me for a while. Believe me, baby. I know it’s been a while—too fucking long, but this shit right here,” I bit her lip and looked deep into her eyes, “will get you into a lot of fucking trouble. Quit acting up.

You are perfect, Punk. You’re too fucking perfect. You shouldn’t be here with me. You shouldn’t be talking about having kids with me. You should be finding a nice, normal guy who will give you nice, normal kids.

There is nothing in the entire American Psychological Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual that describes my shit. I have three degrees in psychology, and I still don’t know what’s wrong with me, other than the fact that I’m a bad psychologist, obviously.

He came around to open my door and held out his hand to me. The gesture said more than what the eye could see. He could have easily lifted me out of the car without me being able to do anything to stop him but instead he was asking for my consent. To accept what was about the happen.

If music serves to convey feelings through the interaction of physical gestures and sound, the musician needs his brain state to match the emotional state he is trying to express. Although the studies haven't been performed yet, I'm willing to bet that when B.B. King is playing the blues and when he is feeling the blues, the neural signatures are very similar. (Of course there will be differences, too, and part of the scientific hurdle will be subtracting out the processes involved in issuing motor commands and listening to music, versus just sitting on a chair, head in hands, and feeling down.) And as listeners, there is every reason to believe that some of our brain states will match those of the musicians we are listening to.

You just hang in there, boy, hang in with that apprenticeship of yours, do you hear me? You are lucky they would even take someone like you. You’re a child of the slums. A ragtag. On top of that, you’re a whining piece of shit. Nobody will ever do anything for you. Do you understand what I’m saying? They’ll let you starve to death, no problem. Nobody is going to cry on your grave.” Poul-Erik’s Mother The Informer by Steen Langstrup

Have you had another motherfucker around my kid?” The audible hitch in her breath and the guilt that flashed in her eyes did nothing to stop my growing rage. “What do you mean?” she stammered. “You bitch.” I released her neck and took a step back. “Who is he?” “Who is who?” she screamed. “There’s no one!” “That’s not what your eyes just said.” “So now you’re a fucking mind reader?” “No. I’m your fucking mind reader. Shelly, don’t play with me,” I warned. “You have no right to question my love life.” Love? Was she in love? Fuck that. I’d stop her heart with my bare hands before I allowed her give it to anyone

In the age of social media, you weren’t angry or grieving unless you posted about it online. Our instincts dictated we run to strangers on the internet the moment we experience pain, to tell the world how deeply gutted we are over the loss of our loved ones—as if the multitude of absentminded apologies and offers of prayers would actually mend the rip.

Don’t let your definition of success, failure or self-worth be anything other than your position with Him. And if you do this, you become unbreakable, because your handhold is unbreakable. You become unconquerable because your supporter can never be conquered. And you will never become empty because your source of fulfillment is unending and never diminishes.”8

Headlining also meant a higher caliber of groupie—as in, they had enough self-respect to hide their track marks and cutting scars on the insides of their thighs, like ladies. These bitches were bold, too. Entitled even. Opening act groupies were bottom-feeders. Skittish. Easily scared off by a ninety-five-pound nineteen-year-old with a platinum-blonde pixie haircut and one hell of a stink eye. Headliner groupies, on the other hand, were scrappers. They were working on their retirement plans, goddamn it, and they weren’t going to let a little thing like me (or a condom) get between them and eighteen years of rock star–sized child-support checks.

I have nothing to do with him,” L said. “To be completely accurate, I do not even know B. He is simply someone I am aware of. But none of this affects my judgment. Certainly, I was interested in this case, and began to investigate it because I knew who the killer was. But that did not alter the way I investigated it, or the manner in which my investigation proceeded. Naomi Misora, I cannot overlook evil. I cannot forgive it. It does not matter if I know the person who commits evil or not. I am only interested in justice.” “Only... in justice…” Misora gasped. “Then... nothing else matters?” “I wouldn’t say that, but it is not a priority.” “You won’t forgive any evil, no matter what the evil is?” “I wouldn’t say that, but it is not a priority.” “But...” Like a thirteen-year-old victim. “There are people who justice cannot save.” Like a thirteen-year old criminal. “And there are people who evil can save.” “There are. But even so,” L said, his tone not changing at all, as if gently admonishing Naomi Misora. “Justice has more power than anything else.” “Power? By power... you mean strength?” “No. I mean kindness.” He said it so easily.

The Prophet ﷺ said, “The most beloved people to Allah are those who are most beneficial to the people. The most beloved deed to Allah is to make a Muslim happy, or to remove one of his troubles, or to forgive his debt, or to feed his hunger. That I walk with a brother regarding a need is more beloved to me than that I seclude myself in this mosque in Medina for a month. Whoever swallows his anger, then Allah will conceal his faults. Whoever suppresses his rage, even though he could fulfill his anger if he wished, then Allah will secure his heart on the Day of Resurrection. Whoever walks with his brother regarding a need until he secures it for him, then Allah the Exalted will make his footing firm across the bridge on the day when the footings are shaken.”19

When I was a kid, summers were the most glorious time of life. Because my parents believed in hands-off, free-range parenting, I’d usually be out the door before ten and wouldn’t return until dinner. There were no cell phones to keep track of me and whenever my mom called a neighbor to ask where I was, the neighbor was often just as clueless as to her own child’s whereabouts. In fact, there was only one rule as far as I could tell: I had to be home at half past five, since my parents liked to eat dinner as a family. I can’t remember exactly how I used to spend those days. I have recollections in snapshot form: building forts or playing king of the hill on the high part of the jungle gym or chasing after a soccer ball while attempting to score. I remember playing in the woods, too. Back then, our home was surrounded by undeveloped land, and my friends and I would have dirt-clod wars or play capture the flag; when we got BB guns, we could spend hours shooting cans and occasionally shooting at each other. I spent hours exploring on my bicycle, and whole weeks would pass where I’d wake every morning with nothing scheduled at all. Of course, there were kids in the neighborhood who didn’t lead that sort of carefree existence. They would head off to camp or participate in summer leagues for various sports, but back then, kids like that were the minority. These days, kids are scheduled from morning to night because parents have demanded it, and London has been no exception. But how did it happen? And why? What changed the outlook of parents in my generation? Peer pressure? Living vicariously through a child’s success? Résumé building for college? Or was it simply fear that if their kids were allowed to discover the world on their own, nothing good would come of it? I don’t know. I am, however, of the opinion that something has been lost in the process: the simple joy of waking in the morning and having nothing whatsoever to do.