Bubblegum Quotes

They should make bubblegum that tastes like mashed potatoes. You know, for lovers.

Writing a book is like sliding down a rainbow! Marketing it is like trudging through a field of chewed bubblegum on a hot, sticky day.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth; oh nevermind; you will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they have faded. But trust me, in 20 years you’ll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can’t grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked….You’re not as fat as you imagine. Don’t worry about the future; or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday. Do one thing everyday that scares you Sing Don’t be reckless with other people’s hearts, don’t put up with people who are reckless with yours. Floss Don’t waste your time on jealousy; sometimes you’re ahead, sometimes you’re behind…the race is long, and in the end, it’s only with yourself. Remember the compliments you receive, forget the insults; if you succeed in doing this, tell me how. Keep your old love letters, throw away your old bank statements. Stretch Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life…the most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives, some of the most interesting 40 year olds I know still don’t. Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees, you’ll miss them when they’re gone. Maybe you’ll marry, maybe you won’t, maybe you’ll have children,maybe you won’t, maybe you’ll divorce at 40, maybe you’ll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary…what ever you do, don’t congratulate yourself too much or berate yourself either – your choices are half chance, so are everybody else’s. Enjoy your body, use it every way you can…don’t be afraid of it, or what other people think of it, it’s the greatest instrument you’ll ever own.. Dance…even if you have nowhere to do it but in your own living room. Read the directions, even if you don’t follow them. Do NOT read beauty magazines, they will only make you feel ugly. Get to know your parents, you never know when they’ll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings; they are the best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future. Understand that friends come and go,but for the precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle because the older you get, the more you need the people you knew when you were young.

Bubble-gum angels swooped from top margins, or scraped their wings between teeming paragraphs. Maidens with golden hair dripped sea-blue tears into the books spine. Grape-colored whales spouted blood around a newspaper item (pasted in) listing arrivals to the endangered species list. Six hatchlings cried from shattered shells near an entry made on Easter. Cecilia had filled the pages with a profusion of colors and curlicues, Candyland ladders and striped shamrocks.

I came here to chew bubblegum and kick ass, and I'm all outta bubblegum.

She wasn't his girlfriend. She was his bubblegum girl--only fun until she lost her flavor.

You know, just because you think bubblegum pop on the radio represents all that is wrong with society, that doesn’t mean there’s not someone out there who needs that shitty pop song. Maybe that shitty pop song makes them feel good, about themselves and the world. And as long as that shitty pop song doesn’t infringe upon your rights to rock out to, I don’t know, Subway Sect, or Siouxsie and the Banshees, or whichever old-ass band it is you worship, then who cares?

If you can be quiet, you’re more than welcome to stay in my House of Silence. Bring your own bubblegum ice cream. 


Ah, yes, pink camo,” I murmur, gesturing my chin at her tank top and hoodie. “Because you never know when you’ll have to hide in a bubblegum factory.

It is possible to be a fan of reality TV, talent shows and bubblegum pop and still have a brain. You will also see that a great many people know perfectly well how silly and camp and trivial their fandom is. They do not check in their minds when they enter a fan site. Judgement is not necessarily fled to brutish beasts, and men have not quite lost their reason. Which is all a way of questioning whether pop-culture hero worship is really so psychically damaging, so erosive of cognitive faculties, so corrupting of the soul of mankind as we are so often told.

Designer clothes, bubblegum pop music, celebrity heartthrobs - I couldn't give a fat rat's hairy ass. Just give me my hotdog and Jane Austen, and I'm good.

America: Land of the free and home of the gun. We are not brave, we are cowards, or we would have done something, anything after Newtown. Instead we did Nothing.

Where else can bubble-gum hearts, the dream travellers, the serial killers, and the occasional guest-star from beyond the grave occupy the same space?

I love you more than applesauce, than peaches and a plum, than chocolate hearts and cherry tarts and berry bubblegum. I love you more than lemonade and seven-layer cakes, than lollipops and candy drops and thick vanilla shakes. I love you more than marzipan, than marmalade on toast, oh, I love pies of any size, but I love YOU the most.

...the real junk food is what Frank Lloyd Wright called light entertainment - bubblegum for the eye ...

Love doesn’t spend its time watering your plants. But it might bubblegum swank monkey mouth with you—twice.

I’d always admired The Beatles for starting out as a bubblegum pop group and then getting heavier and heavier as their albums went on, and here was me going in the opposite direction.

Mmmmm. Bubblegum and Sloane. Best combination,” he purrs.

Bubble-gum angels swooped from top margins, or scraped their wings between teeming paragraphs. Maidens with golden hair dripped sea-blue tears into the book's spine.

I have no idea what’s going on,” he said. “I’m not even sure if I’m here.” “Yes,” Ms. Bubblegum said sympathetically. “Sounds like quite the existential crisis. Perhaps consider having it somewhere else.

Three years later, a new girl sits cross-legged on your bed. She tastes like a different flavor of bubblegum than you are used to. She opens up a book that you had to read in high school, and a folded picture of us falls out of chapter three. Now there are two unfinished stories resting in her lap. Inevitably, she asks, and you tell her. You say: I dated her a while back. You don’t say: Sometimes, when I’m holding you, I imagine the smell of her vanilla perfume. You say: She was younger than me. You don’t say: The sixteen summers in her bones warmed the eighteen winters my skin had weathered. You say: It’s nothing now. You don’t say: But it was everything then.

Then, when we had done so, we put our hands upon the freezing cold monster, our monster. And this is what we felt: vertigo, an icicle through our strong hearts, our long-lost childhoods. Sunshine in a field and crickets and the sweet tealeaf stink of a new ball mitt and a rock glinting with mica and a chaw of bubblegum wrapping in sweet sweet tendrils down our throats and the warm breeze up our shorts and the low vibrato of lake loons and the sun and the sun and the warm sun and this is what we felt; the sun.

In her mind, Em was a deranged ballerina-child who smelled like bubblegum and only ate McDonald's Happy Meals.

I had a dream about you. You asked how long I’ve loved you, and I replied, “About 5,280 feet.” It was true. Ever since the car ran out of gas a mile back, and we were forced to walk, I’ve been thinking a lot about life, love, and how much I wish the first gas station we see has mashed-potato-flavored bubblegum.

And this was what we felt: vertigo, an icicle through our strong hearts, our long-lost childhoods. Sunshine in a field and crickets and the sweet tealeaf stink of a new ball mitt and a rock glinting with mica and a chaw of bubblegum wrapping its sweet tendrils down our throats and the warm breeze up our shorts and the low vibrato of lake loons and the sun and the sun and the warm sun and this is what we felt; the sun.

The Beatles were bubblegum cards and Help at the Saturday morning cinema and toy plastic guitars and singing 'Yellow Submarine' at the top of my voice in the back row of the coach on school trips. They belong to me, not to me and Laura, or me and Charlie, or me and Alison Ashworth, and though they'll make me feel something, they won't make me feel anything bad.

When I was little, my granny trained me to say, 'My colors are blush and bashful,' which was adorably cheesy and from Steel Magnolias, of course. Now my colors are more like fuchsia, sunset, and blush, but I've remained a clichéd pink girl for life." Cassie fingered a piece of linen best described as bubblegum pink. "I've avoided Pepto-Bismol at least, so that's a win, right?

I’m allergic to latex and it makes me break out in a rash so most condoms are out for me because the last thing any of us wants is a vagina rash. The alternative is the ones made of sheepskin, but it always creeps me out because does that mean Victor and I are having sex with a sheep? A dead sheep, actually. So it’s bestiality and necrophilia. And a three-way, I think. I actually mentioned that to Victor and he immediately booked a vasectomy, which is sweet because it’s nice that he cares about me. He claimed it was less his caring and more “I’d rather have my nuts cut off than have to listen to you talk about having three-ways with dead sheep.” But now I have all these leftover condoms. They make great water balloons though and I bet they’d be really good for championship bubblegum-blowing competitions. Really chewy sheep bubblegum. That might be cheating. I don’t know the rules about bubblegum contests.

Guns give Evil a means to expression.

Screw revenge, who wants pizza?

Just what I need. A bubblegum explosion in my life.

...and yes that was meant to be interpreted in a sarcastic bubblegum tone complete with clapping and jazz hands.

You don’t get it,” Neil said. “We’re here to kick ass and chew bubblegum, and we never actually found out what bubblegum was.

It was possible that Ms. Bubblegum was a hallucination conjured up by a previously undiagnosed illness.

We are coming here to kick ass and chew bubblegum, and we have no more bubblegum!

… she stepped into him, tipping her face upward until their mouths brushed. Her soft lips heated under his, encouraging him to press his tongue against their parted seam. She made a sound of acquiescence, of excitement. The deeper he slid, the more she made the noise. Almost a purr. Carefully, he reached up to hold her head in his palms, tilting her so he could explore. She tasted like grape bubblegum. Sweet, a little wicked. A lot sexy.

Invention idea: Broccoli-flavored bubblegum. You know, for kids who won't eat their vegetables. Plus, it will make a great leftover snack when you're by the lake feeding ducks and you find some stuck underneath the park bench you're sitting on.

just because you think bubblegum pop on the radio represents all that is wrong with society, that doesn’t mean there’s not someone out there who needs that shitty pop song. Maybe that shitty pop song makes them feel good, about themselves and the world. And

Sometimes impulsive is like a bright red warningsign that I'm afraid to go near. But other times it's bubblegum pink and cotton candy blue and bursting with confetti and fireworks and the nostalgic music they play when you step foot into Disneyland. Sometimes impulsive feels like magic. It feels good.

What You Should Know to be a Poet" all you can know about animals as persons. the names of trees and flowers and weeds. the names of stars and the movements of planets and the moon. your own six senses, with a watchful elegant mind. at least one kind of traditional magic: divination, astrology, the book of changes, the tarot; dreams. the illusory demons and the illusory shining gods. kiss the ass of the devil and eat sh*t; fuck his horny barbed cock, fuck the hag, and all the celestial angels and maidens perfum’d and golden- & then love the human: wives husbands and friends children’s games, comic books, bubble-gum, the weirdness of television and advertising. work long, dry hours of dull work swallowed and accepted and lived with and finally lovd. exhaustion, hunger, rest. the wild freedom of the dance, extasy silent solitary illumination, entasy real danger. gambles and the edge of death.

Dark myths and suburban legends roam like living things through the halls of Leeds High School, whispered in stairwells over bubblegum-tinted tongues ; scrawled on the wall of the secret room above the auditorium stage ; argued over in the shaded courtyard adjacent to the cafeteria, buoyed on grey-brown clouds of cigarette smoke. There’s the Weird House up on Tremens Terrace, haunted by a trio of cannibalistic fiends with a taste for wayward boys. And the coven of teachers, including Mr. Gauthier (Chemistry) and Miss Knell (English), who cavort with a charred-skin devil in the glass-walled natatorium after dark.

Las Vegas and the American Dream: two ideas intertwined like crossed fingers on a bloated corpse.

if there is an underlying bond of deep love, no matter how terrible the misunderstanding, the relationship survives.

I had too much fun was no one's last regret ever.

Branding is something designers think about a lot. You take something like a perfume or car tire, or butt-flavored bubblegum, and you ask questions about it that you shouldn't be able to ask. What kind of tuxedo would this car tire wear to the prom? What is this perfume's favorite movie? You try to end up in a place where you understand a product as if it is a person. The reverse of this, where people become brands, should be easy right? They're already people... End at the beginning. Except that really what you're doing when you brand is a process of simplification. You come to understand the essence of that fucking tire. And so branding a person also benefits dramatically from simplicity. People are complicated, but brands are simple.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth; oh never mind; you will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they have faded. But trust me, in 20 years you’ll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can’t grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You’re not as fat as you imagine. Don’t worry about the future; or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday. Do one thing everyday that scares you. Sing. Don’t be reckless with other people’s hearts, don’t put up with people who are reckless with yours. Floss. Don’t waste your time on jealousy; sometimes you’re ahead, sometimes you’re behind, the race is long, and in the end, it’s only with yourself. Remember the compliments you receive, forget the insults; if you succeed in doing this, and tell me how. Keep your old love letters; throw away your old bank statements. Stretch. Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life.

Some of the cottages have tiny courtyards surrounded by high stone walls. These walls are bright with flowers: valerian, feverfew, mallows, lace cap hydrangeas spring from the crevices in these stones and flourish in the salty air. If she looks across the river Evie can see Kingswear with its tier upon tier of houses stacked on the hill above the marina: narrow terraced houses the color of ice cream: mint, vanilla, bubblegum, coffee.

Lorelai pulls me in closer and I feel her hair brush the side of my face. Huh, she smells like bubblegum and oranges. Wait. What the hell? Oh great! I’m actually sniffing her hair now. Yeah, that’s not super creepy at all! Time to dial back the crazy. It would be wrong to make a move, remember? The song ends and suddenly The Ronettes’ ‘Be My Baby’ starts to play. “Ah! I loooove thissss!” Lorelai declares as she grabs me and starts gyrating up and down. It’s wrong to make a move. It’s wrong to make a move. It’s wrong to make a move. Oh God …

Yeah, I got it. Thanks for your consideration," I said with all the sarcasm I could muster and ended the call. It was times like this that I longed for an old phone. I just didn't get the same satisfaction pressing the end-call button as I did when I slammed down a receiver.

Markers to look like a Book of Hours or a medieval Bible. Miniature designs crowded the pages. Bubblegum angels swooped from top margins, or scraped their wings between teeming paragraphs. Maidens with golden hair dripped sea-blue tears into the book's spine. Grape-colored whales spouted blood around a newspaper item (pasted in) listing arrivals to the endangered species list. Six hatchlings cried from shattered shells near an entry made on Easter. Cecilia had filled the pages with a profusion of colors and curlicues, Candyland ladders and striped shamrocks

We didn’t understand why Cecilia had killed herself the first time and we understood even less when she did it twice. Her diary, which the police inspected as part of the customary investigation, didn’t confirm the supposition of unrequited love. Dominic Palazzolo was mentioned only once in that tiny rice-paper journal illuminated with colored Magic Markers to look like a Book of Hours or a medieval Bible. Miniature designs crowded the pages. Bubblegum angels swooped from top margins, or scraped their wings between teeming paragraphs. Maidens with golden hair dripped sea-blue tears into the book’s spine.

We warily sipped ‘fresh’ buffalo milk in a Krishna temple. We travelled into the Himalayas until, at a height of two kilometres above sea level where we found ourselves surrounded by men as hard and tough as the mountains that bred them. We negotiated a price of 100 rupees for one of these men to carry our two heaviest bags the 15-minute walk to the hotel with nothing more than rope and a forehead strap. I paid him 300 rupees and his face lit up! We watched the morning mist clear to reveal views of the green Doon Valley and the distant white-capped Himalayan peaks. We rode an elephant up to the Amber Fort of Jaipur, and the next day we painted, washed and fed unpeeled bananas to another elephant, marvelling at her gentle nature as we placed the bananas on her huge bubble-gum coloured tongue.

I crave your gentle touch I crave your firm kiss And I’m happy we met You are what I want Exactly what I need Follow my lead I love your hazel eyes I love your sweet replies I love your cheerful highs Such a beautiful man Who has a simple plan To make me smile Bringing laughter To every ceiling tile Just follow my lead I love your hazel eyes I love your sweet replies You have a simple plan To make me smile Just follow my lead

I am very certain that I do not want to waste my time with the 'drains'. There are so many beautiful, positive and uplifting things in life. There is so much beauty, so much joy. Life is so short and so fleeting. It is entirely up to us to enjoy each moment. There will of course be moments when you feel sad, hopeless, and despondent and, as though, all is lost. When that happens, it is time to pick up the phone and call the best radiator you know.

No one can argue with that. Restaurant work is total hell. I’m not cut out for waitressing. I tried that when I was eighteen and worked in a dessert shop for all of about three weeks. That was my third job. I’m not the world’s greatest customer service person. I tend to get surly and when people ask me to get them things my initial reaction isn’t to smile and oblige. It’s to tell them to get off their ass and get it themselves. This quality, combined with my extreme clumsiness (it’s physically impossible for me to walk and carry a tray at the same time) rules out serving.

Mrs. Baker opened the classroom door, pulled the shades down on all the windows, turned the lights off, and then patrolled up and down the aisles. I bet she was rolling her eyes then. It doesn’t take very long when you are scrunched under your desk with your hands over your head breathing quietly and evenly to feel three things: That your spine is not meant to bend like this. That if you don’t stretch your legs out soon, they are going to spasm and you’ll lose all feeling and probably not be able to walk for a very long time. That you are going to throw up any minute, because you can see the wads of Bazooka bubblegum that Danny Hupfer has been sticking under his desk all year, which now look like little wasp nests hanging down. But we followed our government’s drill procedures precisely and stayed under our desks for eighteen minutes, until the wind would have whisked away the first waves of airborne radioactive particles, and the blast of burning air would have passed overhead, and the mushroom cloud would no longer be expanding, and every living thing would have been incinerated except for us because we were scrunched under our gummy desks with our hands over our heads, breathing quietly and evenly.

More than anything, we have lost the cultural customs and traditions that bring extended families together, linking adults and children in caring relationships, that give the adult friends of parents a place in their children's lives. It is the role of culture to cultivate connections between the dependent and the dependable and to prevent attachment voids from occurring. Among the many reasons that culture is failing us, two bear mentioning. The first is the jarringly rapid rate of change in twentieth-century industrial societies. It requires time to develop customs and traditions that serve attachment needs, hundreds of years to create a working culture that serves a particular social and geographical environment. Our society has been changing much too rapidly for culture to evolve accordingly. There is now more change in a decade than previously in a century. When circumstances change more quickly than our culture can adapt to, customs and traditions disintegrate. It is not surprising that today's culture is failing its traditional function of supporting adult-child attachments. Part of the rapid change has been the electronic transmission of culture, allowing commercially blended and packaged culture to be broadcast into our homes and into the very minds of our children. Instant culture has replaced what used to be passed down through custom and tradition and from one generation to another. “Almost every day I find myself fighting the bubble-gum culture my children are exposed to,” said a frustrated father interviewed for this book. Not only is the content often alien to the culture of the parents but the process of transmission has taken grandparents out of the loop and made them seem sadly out of touch. Games, too, have become electronic. They have always been an instrument of culture to connect people to people, especially children to adults. Now games have become a solitary activity, watched in parallel on television sports-casts or engaged in in isolation on the computer. The most significant change in recent times has been the technology of communication — first the phone and then the Internet through e-mail and instant messaging. We are enamored of communication technology without being aware that one of its primary functions is to facilitate attachments. We have unwittingly put it into the hands of children who, of course, are using it to connect with their peers. Because of their strong attachment needs, the contact is highly addictive, often becoming a major preoccupation. Our culture has not been able to evolve the customs and traditions to contain this development, and so again we are all left to our own devices. This wonderful new technology would be a powerfully positive instrument if used to facilitate child-adult connections — as it does, for example, when it enables easy communication between students living away from home, and their parents. Left unchecked, it promotes peer orientation.

Everybody’s Free (To Wear Sunscreen)” Ladies and Gentlemen of the class of '99: Wear sunscreen. If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now. Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth; oh never mind; you will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded. But trust me, in 20 years you’ll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can’t grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine. Don’t worry about the future; or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4:00 pm on some idle Tuesday. Do one thing everyday that scares you. Sing. Don’t be reckless with other people’s hearts; don’t put up with people who are reckless with yours. Floss. Don’t waste your time on jealousy; sometimes you’re ahead; sometimes you’re behind; the race is long, and in the end it’s only with yourself. Remember compliments you receive; forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how. Keep your old love letters; throw away your old bank statements. Stretch. Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you wanna do with your life; the most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives; some of the most interesting 40 year olds I know still don’t. Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees; you’ll miss them when they’re gone. Maybe you’ll marry -- maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll have children -- maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll divorce at 40 -- maybe you’ll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don’t congratulate yourself too much or berate yourself either -- your choices are half chance; so are everybody else’s. Enjoy your body; use it every way you can. Don’t be afraid of it, or what other people think of it. It’s the greatest instrument you’ll ever own. Dance. even if you have nowhere to do it but in your own living room. Read the directions, even if you don’t follow them. Do not read beauty magazines; they will only make you feel ugly. Get to know your parents; you never know when they’ll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings; they're your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future. Understand that friends come and go, but for the precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography, in lifestyle, because the older you get the more you need the people you knew when you were young. Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft. Travel. Accept certain inalienable truths: prices will rise; politicians will philander; you too will get old, and when you do you’ll fantasize that when you were young prices were reasonable, politicians were noble, and children respected their elders. Respect your elders. Don’t expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund; maybe you'll have a wealthy spouse; but you never know when either one might run out. Don’t mess too much with your hair, or by the time you're 40, it will look 85. Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia: dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts, and recycling it for more than it’s worth. But trust me on the sunscreen. Baz Luhrmannk, William Shakespeare's Romeo & Juliet (1996)

Grammar perfect books are for Ivy Leaguers in Ivory Towers. My book is a sandcastle built on the beach of usefullness.

I am here to chew bubblegum and kick ass. And I'm all out of bubblegum.

Did you boys say something? My new headphones are mostly soundproof and also I was ignoring you.

My ball sack is like a bubblegum bubble, only with slightly less bubblegum flavor, and a little more fun to chew on. Just ask your grandma.

Her shoes were so pink that if she stepped in bubblegum, nobody would be able to see. And my shoes were so brown that if I stepped in shit, you wouldn’t be able to tell that I had just trampled on the collected works of Allen Ginsberg.

No Finn, ya ding-dong! -Princess Bubblegum

liked the idea of using pop bubblegum music, rock ’n’ roll for 14-year-olds. That’s what I grew up with as a teen in the ‘70s. And I thought it’s a great ironic counterpoint to the roughness and rudeness and disturbing nature of the film to have this ‘What’s wrong with this picture?’ music playing along with it.

The last thing he saw was the flesh on their faces turning black and their ballooning eyes popping from their sockets like enormous wads of veined bubblegum. In minutes, the sky became as black as the devil’s soul, and the blood-red ball of the blazing sun exploded in a sonic boom, obliterating every trace that anything had ever been there at all.

I developed moods that felt like they could be stretched forever like a piece of dirty bubblegum.

There was scant precedent for the prickly kind of pop the Pixies played, and their sound is recognizable on the slightest whiff. It’s a series of opposing forces that fit together incongruously but exquisitely: a bouncy yet firm bassline (Deal called it “boingy-boingysproingy”) joined to a demented choir of punky guitars; Thompson’s harsh primal scream beside Deal’s coy and smoky harmonies; explosive, grating riffs in songs crafted from prime bubblegum. Behind it all is Thompson’s song-writing, playful but also insular, inscrutable.

It's time to kick ass and chew bubblegum! We made it to Hollywood, time to give these aliens the golden boot!" - Angel from the Thousand Years War

And if things go on as they are, in a few months the men will have cut all the trees down and that will be the end of the bubblegum tree - forever'. Nobody said anything. Billy thought that he had never heard such a sad story before. Surely somebody could do something before the bubblegum trees before it was too late.

I was on a roll, and that was never a good thing. I tended to let my mouth write checks my behind couldn't cash when I let that happen,

Which is why every Bridgewater employee, including Dalio, has a digital "baseball card"--a summary that lists key personality stats the same way a bubblegum card shows a player's batting average and RBI totals. Each employee's baseball card is visible to every other employee--a way for people

A smell of strawberries on her breath, so enticing I could crawl into her mouth. Bubblegum visible through her clicky-clacky cheerleader teeth, no braces like Clondine, a mouthful of colourful metal.

Kelly and I saw a future (otherwise known as the sixth grade) in which we would remain invisible and unchanged while around us other girls suddenly bloomed. In Kelly's version, the girls burst, blousy peonies after the first hot summer night. In mine, after seven days and seven nights of rain, these girls became dandelions while we remained green clumps of crabgrass. Kelly and I knew what we needed. Lips that looked pink, wet, and just licked. Sally Campbell's lips had started to look that way at the beginning of fifth grade. Sally was pretty, and pretty girls were always ahead of the rest of us. Sally's lips and also her mouth smelled of strawberry bubblegum. Kelly and I were jealous of both the shine and the scent. In order to make us feel better, I told Kelly that the word "Sally" tasted of pumpkins, without the brown sugar or the cinnamon. Just a squash. Sally, nonetheless, set the example for us. Lips that could be seen from across the classroom we understood were desirable, and gloss for them has to be our first acquisition. Kelly begged her mother, Beth Anne, and then resorted to a promise of future weight loss for a shade of pink called Flamingo Paradise, which Beth Anne picked out for her. Beth Anne, at the time, didn't pay attention to Kelly. Beth Anne completely ignored the fact that her only daughter had asked her for lip gloss, strawberry-bubblegum-flavored. Flamingo Paradise was lipstick, the kind that my grandmother Iris wore. It went on creamy but soon became cracked and dry. The only flavor it gave to our lips was something that also belonged to Iris: talcum powder mixed with a crushed vanilla cream wafer.

But any reading of bubble-gum wrappers from above 200 miles is marvelous, of course, and a definite kudo for science and technology.

Don’t wish it was easier, wish you were better. Don’t wish for less problems, wish for more skills.” Don’t wish for someone to hold your hand like you’re a four-year-old skipping rope and chewing bubblegum. Wish to build discipline of long-term investing, like an adult. Others have done it and you can too.

A chill worked its way through Natalie, and she rubbed her arms. They headed to the beach cruisers, and Natalie unlocked the lime-green bike she rode to yoga the morning after they’d arrived. Lauren got on the bubblegum-pink bike Ashley had ridden.

Ninety eight percent of the time, my husband is sweet. Really sweet. Not the sticky-sweet like cheap candy-chocolates that adhere stubbornly to every crevice in your mouth, but genuine sweet like a Godiva chocolate whose taste lingers long after you have finished relishing it.

sometimes, when things do not go the way you want them to, when someone does not behave the way you expected them to or when someone unexpectedly turns up where they are not supposed to, it might momentarily shake you. But it always helps when you look at it from the other person's point of view.

We have learnt that it is best to be like the duck that goes with the flow. To float along the river effortlessly, enjoying the gentle flow of the water and to treat barbs and insults thrown at you, like the water that falls on a duck's back.

Abigail entered the room, leaving the door open behind her, and sat down at the foot of Amy's bed. “I don't like this,” she said with a sigh. “You don't like what?” “Aunty Becca is here,” explained the girl. Amy shrugged. “Yeah? So, what? You love it when Becca comes to visit. She's a lot of fun.” Abigail tugged at her bubblegum-colored pajama top and shook her head. “No, it's not good. The man with the doggie-face doesn't like her being here.” She looked up at her sister narrowly. “At least, that's what Frankie says. He says that, if auntie Becca is here, we may not be able to play anymore.

Sweet Tooth   Chocolate tresses cascade down your back, Thick honey and cinnamon reside in your eyes, Strawberry ice cream flavors your lips, And you speak with mint bubblegum replies, You give every piece of your apple pie heart, And heal with your macaroon touch, A caramel kindness fills your soul, And you wonder why I crave you so much. – L.H. @lhoferpoetry

Why is it that assholes like your dance teacher and your fucking art teacher, Mr. Pierre, and whoever the fuck Robbie was, are always salivating like dogs over your tiny self-decorated body and you never have a clue? What I’d like to know, Bronwyn, is what the fuck goes on in that bubblegum pink brain of yours?

Namely, English spelling is hideous in large part because it represents what English was like before the Great Vowel Shift happened. That neatly demonstrates that vowels really are as liquid as I am presenting, and that what happens to them can neither be said to “ruin” the language nor be dismissed as bubblegum static, since no one wishes we could go back to talking the way Chaucer did. Here’s what I mean. Why would any sane person write mate and pronounce it “mayt”? We’re used to being taught that this is a “long” a and that the “silent” e is our clue to that. But clearly no one would design a system this way. If people in France and Spain and seemingly everywhere else on earth were writing the “ay” sound as e, what was the sense of instead bringing in an a and signaling that it, instead of e, is pronounced “ay,” and by putting a “silent” e at the end of the word? Why e? Or why use any sound at all as standing for absence instead of, duh, not writing anything there? While understanding that customs differ across the ages, we can be quite sure no writerly caste decided on such nonsense as a writing system. Sure, some eccentric medieval scribe could have arbitrarily decided on such a system, but why on earth would it have been accepted across England? When something makes that little sense, usually it was created amid conditions now past in which they did make sense. And indeed, time was that mate was actually pronounced the way one would expect: MAH-tay. The final -ay, unaccented, wore off over time just as the -ther in brother has worn off among men saluting each other such that guys of a certain demographic call each other “bruh” and one might call one’s sister “sis”—that’s easy. “Mahtay” became “maht.” But why don’t we just say “maht” today? Because likely the vowel moved, and this one did.

But I wasn’t there to ask questions. I was there to chew bubblegum and kick butt.

It always seemed crazy to me that the act of posing in front of bubblegum pink walls and boomeranging into marshmallow-filled bathtubs was a legitimate twenty-first century career. But I had watched regular people build small empires, frame by frame, avocado toast by avocado toast.

Quand y'en a marre, y'a Malabar.

Marceline the Vampire Queen: "Marceline to Bubblegum. Come in Bubblegum. You there? "...No? " Well, good. Cause I got some things to say to you and I don't want you to hear them. "I'm complicated, alright? "You should know that by now. "Okay, so I'm not stupid. I know our lives are moving us in different directions, okay? I get that. I get that nothing lasts forever, believe me. "But that doesn't mean I have to like it. "It's just--the way you act like nothing's wrong, it makes me SO mad. You know that, right? It makes me feel like I'm the only one who remembers how our friendship USED to be, who sees how it's changing. It feels like a betrayal. It feels lousy, Bonnie. And familiar. "This isn't my first rodeo. "And I know that you've got your hands full with your new kingdom, okay? I get that you're busy, and I want you to be busy. You're doing something so ambitious, so crazy ... "I know you can do it. You're gonna be the one who changes the world, Bonnie. I've seen it in you. "But there's gotta be a balance there, you know? A way where we can stay friends, a way where I don't feel so hurt all the time. And it's not all you--I know I've been major cheesed because of this and that's not fun for anyone. "... I'll be a better friend, too. "Listen, I'm gonna come by tomorrow, help you build those Candy Kingdom retaining walls. Maybe we can punch some ooze monsters while we're at it, right? I'd like that. Right in the buns, yo. "You've been my best friend for so long, and we're not gonna lose that. We'll figure this out, Bubblegum. "Huh. 'Princess Bubblegum.' You know, it actually DOES sound kinda cool. "My friend the princess. "I think I could get used to that. "Over and out.

The Town and Country Market was just a half mile from Bee's home. I used to walk there as a girl, with my sister or my cousins, or sometimes all by myself, picking purple clover flowers along the way until I had a big round bunch, which, when pressed up to your nose, smelled exactly of honey. Before the walk, we'd always beg the adults for twenty-five cents and return with pockets full of pink Bazooka bubble gum. If summer had a flavor, it was pink bubble gum.

He watches the amber, iridescent light of the streetlamp above him as it shines down upon the old, grey sidewalk. Pinkish, brown bubble-gum circles decorate the grey slate. The rain falls incessantly down and the glow around the streetlight grows larger and larger. Rivulets run down the slight incline toward the deep, dark throat of the city. All the pain, suffering, and sins are being washed into the cesspool down under. For a while, the city will have a clean gleaming look to it, until the persistent stench of humankind smother and taint it again.

Jade is unconventional. The entire time I thought I was mentoring her to be more assertive and independent, I finally realized that she was all of those things all along. She does it in her own way. It’s like…sweet dominance. She holds her own, demands what she wants, and isn’t afraid to put herself first, all while looking like a bubblegum princess. It’s hot as fuck.

...the William and McGeorge Bundy Memorial Tweed Salami for creative cloudy thinking...

He had liquor in about any color you could ask for, except the one I liked best, standard whiskey brown. I told him no thanks. He poured himself three fingers of emerald green and added equal portions of lemon yellow, sky blue, and sunset orange. I half expected him to stir it with a' Crayola.

I suspect since my last thought before falling asleep was about Mac’s comment that princes don’t sleep at all, I end up dreaming about her, which makes me paranoid Barrons might catch wind of it in the dreaming, and somehow black-magic his way into my subconscious and kill me—he’s a prickly, territorial bastard. If anyone can pull off such a stunt, it’s him. Mac is sexy in ways I can’t put into words. A fascinating darkness lurks beneath all that bubblegum pinkness she exudes that makes a man wonder just how flat-out ferocious and kinked she is in bed. Like I said, duality is my poison.

I don’t want bubblegum for the mind.

Bec messaged me earlier in the week to ‘suggest’ I borrow Annie’s bubblegum-coloured Scanlan Theodore dress, but because I’m not a size six and because wearing pink makes me look like I’m cosplaying Jigglypuff,

It's time to kick ass and chew bubblegum, and I'm all out of gum.

I’ll exhale hot breath into my palm before touching you, because I have cold hands, and also because your hands smell like bubblegum.

I refuse to dispense chewable advice for free. I’m not a bubblegum machine. No, my fees are 25 cents higher.

I created a new marketing slogan for Teaching Snapping Turtles: "Read this. You're not gonna like it.