Chick Flick Quotes

The time for crying with your girlfriends about a broken heart is over chocolate ice cream and chick flicks—not stun guns and bulletproof vests.

Now I understand all those chick flicks I made fun of. 'Cause now I'm the sappy dork willing to risk it all for the girl. Estoy enamorado...I'm in love.

I’d like to extend a special thank you to my favorite sins: fairy tales and chick flicks.

I would have done anything for him. But these days, I don't want to do anything. I don't want to get drunk or go to a wild party or make out with random boys-not that I've ever wanted to. I don't want to watch chick flicks or eat ice cream or get a haircut or buy out half of the mall. I don't want cold, cruel revenge. I don't want to see him suffer when karma catches up with him and kick his ass. I don't even want to talk to him right now, simply because it would be awkward and pathetic and I wouldn't know what to say to him. Yes, there is self-control, preventing me from being stupid and acting like a desperate doofus in the manner most heartbroken people do. But there is also a weary numbness threatening to consume every inch of me: Isn't there a way for me to skip straight to the part where I'm fine again?

Wow, you must be in love if you are willing to sacrifice your manhood for the ultimate chick flick.

The Notebook? You own The Notebook?" Cam stared at me blankly. "What's wrong with that?" "Oh, nothing is wrong with that. It's just such a...uh, chick flick." "I'm confident enough in my masculinity and sexuality that I can say that Ryan Gosling is just dreamy in this movie." My jaw hit the floor. The blank expression slipped away and he started laughing. "I'm joking. I don't own The Notebook. Never watched it. Didn't bring any romance movies.

Things are the way they are, but everything has a reason. Kittens are cute because they're tiny fur-balls with smushed faces. Rainbows are pretty because they have every color in the world in them and they're made from refracted light. Chick flicks are sad because chicks sometimes just need a good cry. And assholes are always assholes for a reason.

It's chick flick disguised as a sword-and-sorcery picture. The only genre film with less balls is probably... freakin' Legend. Anyone who actually enjoys Ladyhawke is a bona fide USDA-choice pussy!

I turned to face Audrey, and everything I loved was right there in her eyes, the memories tangible: the schooldays and sleepovers, the cheap bottles of wine and sappy chick flicks. She was there for my mother’s drunken relapses, there to hold me until I fell asleep the first time the ex from Seattle hit me. It was all there, and my God, each memory was suddenly sacred and the sun rose and set upon it.

We’ll vote,” Maia said. “And I promise not to vote for a chick flick. They’re crap anyway. It’s always about two idiots who apparently don’t understand the art of communication.

Bryce groaned. “Do not pick some girly chick flick,” he said. “If you do, you best sleep with your eyes open. I don’t do Princess Diaries and all that crap,” Bryce said. -Bryce to Sophie

I cry and watch Pitch Perfect and sing along with the Barden Bellas. I don’t want to be a person who knows the name of a fictional a cappella group in a chick flick but that’s what love has done to me.

** The fall semester will offer such classes as Learning When to Shut Up, Asking for Directions, Chick Flicks 101 and The Art of Loading the Dishwasher (Lab Fee Extra)

I don’t care if Spielberg directed it. It’s a chick flick disguised as a sword-and-sorcery picture.

Apparently, I'm a senstive guy. You didn't notice that about me right away?" He moved closer, carefully, slowly encroaching on her space. "I cry at chick flicks and weddings.

We throw the word around so much that it is nearly meaningless. We've reduced the experience of 'being in love' to that which can be summarized in a pop-song or portrayed in a chick flick. Then we're angry and disillusioned when love disappoints. Here's a little secret: love always disappoints. It's the conscious choice to love someone or not to love someone, despite the disappointment, that makes it beautiful.

To lovers there. Most ladies the reason they are dumped and their relationship doesn't last is they made themselves to become a want than a need in a relationship.

Jessica: 'This is a chick flick. You're either trying too hard or gay.' Wade: 'One: I was brought up to be polite. That means to think of the other person first. I thought you would enjoy this movie. Two: Most of the other movies are abou tkillings, bombings, explosions, resulting fires, and have big body counts before the opening credits are run. I don't like those movies. If that makes me a girl, okay. Three: I do like movies about sports. Of any kind. I think that makes me less of a girl. But none are playing tonight. Four: The woman in this movie is hot. Let's cross gay off your list. Five: I gave up trying too hard awhile back. Didn't work for me.

Are you trying to find some sort of reason that I've become such an asshole? The reason is... I'm an asshole. There are some things in life that can't be explained. Period. Assholes are assholes. Rainbows are pretty. Kittens are cute. Chick flicks are sad. It's the way of things, no explanations.

I'll love you forever. Nothing can change how I feel about you. Nothing. I'd take a bullet for you, walk on hot coals. I'll watch chick flicks and hold your purse at the mall. When babies come I'll rub your feet, and when we are old and gray, I'll love you even more than I do now. But I can't stand here and say 'Do whatever makes you happy,' because happy is temporary. I want us to have more, Kate. I want us to have joy.

I'm getting creeped out. This it totally starting to sound like a horror flick, and everybody knows the hot chick dies first. Let's get out of here.

I’d pieced my heart back together and salvaged what little dignity I had left by jumping back in the saddle with a man safer than a Katherine Heigl chick flick. Unfortunately for me, old wounds can be a bitch the same way straying cowboys can be heartbreakers.” -Laneyism

If life is a movie most people would consider themselves the star of their own feature. Guys might imagine they're living some action adventure epic. Chicks maybe are in a rose-colored fantasy romance. And homosexuals are living la vida loca in a fabulous musical. Still others may take the indie approach and think of themselves as an anti-hero in a coming of age flick. Or a retro badass in an exploitation B movie. Or the cable man in a very steamy adult picture. Some people's lives are experimental student art films that don't make any sense. Some are screwball comedies. Others resemble a documentary, all serious and educational. A few lives achieve blockbuster status and are hailed as a tribute to the human spirit. Some gain a small following and enjoy cult status. And some never got off the ground due to insufficient funding. I don't know what my life is but I do know that I'm constantly squabbling with the director over creative control, throwing prima donna tantrums and pouting in my personal trailor when things don't go my way. Much of our lives is spent on marketing. Make-up, exercise, dieting, clothes, hair, money, charm, attitude, the strut, the pose, the Blue Steel look. We're like walking billboards advertising ourselves. A sneak peek of upcoming attractions. Meanwhile our actual production is in disarray--we're over budget, doing poorly at private test screenings and focus groups, creatively stagnant, morale low. So we're endlessly tinkering, touching up, editing, rewriting, tailoring ourselves to best suit a mass audience. There's like this studio executive in our heads telling us to cut certain things out, make it "lighter," give it a happy ending, and put some explosions in there too. Kids love explosions. And the uncompromising artist within protests: "But that's not life!" Thus the inner conflict of our movie life: To be a palatable crowd-pleaser catering to the mainstream... or something true to life no matter what they say?

Why couldn't Mr. Darcy, in the first half hour of the movie, simply walk up to Elizabeth and say, "Hey, I like you. Do you want to go out on a date? And, by the way, I'm filthy rich." I'll tell you why. Because that would defeat the purpose of a chick flick, which is to entertain women and torture men.

I look back on my life the way one watches a badly scripted action flick, sitting at the edge of the seat, bursting out, "No, no, don't open that door! The bad guy is in there and he'll grab you and put his hand over your mouth and tie you up and then you'll miss the train and everything will fall apart!" Except there is no bad guy in this tale. The person who jumped through the door and grabbed me and tied me up was, unfortunately, me. My double image, the evil skinny chick who hisses, Don't eat. I'm not going to let you eat. I'll let you go as soon as you're thin, I swear I will. Everything will be okay when you're thin.

But sometimes I think what the church needs most is to recover some of its weird. There’s no sense in sending her through the makeover montage of the chick flick when she’ll always be the strange, awkward girl who only gets invited to prom on a dare. In the ritual of baptism, our ancestors acted out the bizarre truth of the Christian identity: We are people who stand totally exposed before evil and death and declare them powerless against love. There’s nothing normal about that.

It looks like fallen petals, and it looks like rain. It looks like the sounds the birds make at dawn. It looks like the aisle of grocery stores when a song I love suddenly begins to play overhead, and I cannot help but dance a little dance. It looks like a sigh, a kiss, an unmade bed. It looks like Cheerios in a white bowl with a bit of silence on the side. It looks like a plain vanilla cupcake in white paper, a dance with the wind, pink toenails, warm socks. It looks like a fire against the cold of winter, and a deep lake cool against a summer sky. It looks like chick flicks, books that make you cry, and all the candles blown out on the first try.

He flushed. “Some people say I did.

It’s like he’s straight out of a chick flick or something.

He loved her and she loved him. It was like a chick flick cliché but she didn’t care. Life didn’t get much better than this.

Bottom line—chick flicks are laughingly unrealistic. Like, ‘Oh, these two are so different and hate each other so much, but—wait. Are they so different after all?

Chicks appreciate a nice cock shot. Trust me.” Hollis presses his lips together like he’s trying not to laugh. “Uh-huh. Sure.” I flick my ash on the grass and take another drag. “Just out of curiosity, what constitutes a ‘nice cock shot’? I mean, is it the lighting? The pose?” I’m being sarcastic, but Dean responds in a solemn voice. “Well, the trick is, you’ve gotta keep the balls out of it.” That gets a loud hoot out of Tucker, who chokes mid-sip on his beer. “Seriously,” Dean insists. “Balls aren’t photogenic. Women don’t want to see them.” Hollis’s laughter spills over, his breaths coming out in white puffs that float away in the night air. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this, man. It’s kinda sad.” I laugh too. “Wait, is that what you do when you’re in your room with the door locked? Take photos of your cock?” “Oh, come on, like I’m the only one who’s ever taken a dick pic.” “You’re the only one,” Hollis and I say in unison. “Bullshit. You guys are liars.” Dean suddenly realizes that Tucker hadn’t voiced a denial, and wastes no time pouncing on our teammate’s silence. “Ha. I knew it!

Confession time: I doubt I would ever have picked up one of Marjorie’s books, had I not met her in person. The reason is they’re categorized as Romances, which is where they are shelved in bookstores. Though I have no justification for avoiding it, the romance section is an area in bookstores I seldom wander into. Her novels also have traditional-looking romance book covers, which are occasionally a bit off-putting to us mighty manly men. Then again, who knows? I don’t carry many biases where good storytelling is concerned. I’m willing to find it anywhere, as too many of my friends will attest, when I try to drag them to wonderful movies that they aren’t eager to go to, simply because they fall under the chick-flick rubric. So, in any case, I’m glad I did meet Marjorie Liu in person, because it would have been a shame to miss out on the work of an author this talented due to whatever degree of cultural prejudices I might still possess. I trust you who read this won’t make the same mistake.

But sometimes I think what the church needs most is to recover some of its weird. There’s no sense in sending her through the makeover montage of the chick flick when she’ll always be the strange, awkward girl who only gets invited to prom on a dare. In

There was this movie that I would watch with her all the time, some stupid chick flick, and it had this opening line that would always make her catch her breath. 'I remember it hurt. Looking at her hurt', and I now realize that it was true. Every day I looked at her, it hurt. Hurt so much, because she was dying, and I couldn't help her.

The rain is colder than I expect—which is ridiculous, since it’s March. My cheeks are freezing by the time we go two blocks, my hair has a sodden weight on my shoulder. My glasses are so wet I need to shove them in a pocket. I threw Mom’s pullover windbreaker over my sweatshirt before leaving the house, thinking it would be waterproof, but I am so wrong. By the time I make the final turn for the church, I wonder if I’m stupid for being out here. It’s pouring so hard that a haze has formed around the streetlight, and I can barely see anything through the darkness. My sneakers squish in the grass. I get to the spot where we sat for the last two nights. And of course he’s not there. I sigh. Only a complete moron would go meet in the rain. Then Texy woofs and bounces on her front paws. I turn, and it’s like I’m in a chick flick. His shadowed figure lopes across the grass. Okay, maybe the dark and rain make it more like a horror movie than a romantic comedy, BUT STILL. He draws to a stop in front of me. He had the sense to wear a heavy, waterproof coat over his hoodie, but the hood is soaked and rain drips down his cheeks. “Hey,” he says, his voice a little loud over the rain. I’m blushing. I tell my cheeks to knock it off. “Hey.” “I wasn’t sure you’d show up, but I didn’t have a way to text you …” “I had the same thought process.

If at 1st you don't succeed, stretch out on your La-Z-Boy with a six-pack and a porn flick. Y' still won't succeed, but you sure as hell won't give a shift.

It’s magic. It’s perfect. It’s hands-down the sexiest moment of my entire life. And then my stomach gurgles loudly. Zach pulls away, smiling. “Was that you, or a truck passing somewhere?

As a crack crime fighting, balls to the wall, kick-ass team they were the shit – as two people talking about their lives and, God help them feelings, not so much. Still, she was Gina Lopez and her partner needed her so she squared her shoulders and promised herself an extra half hour training in the ring at the gym later that night to off-set the nauseating chick flick moment she could feel approaching.

There’s this part in Spanglish, one of Adam Sandler’s chick flicks. He and his kids’ nanny share dinner at his restaurant. It’s just one meal, a few hours. The narrator, the nanny’s daughter, says, “My mother has often referred to that evening at the restaurant as the conversation of her life.” I’m pretty sure I rolled my eyes when I heard it and said, ‘That was some conversation.’ But now, with her, standing at the edge of goodbye, all I can think is . . . that was some conversation.

In the comedy department, I have the latest Vince Vaughn and Will Ferrell movies. For action, I have a James Bond flick and another where a bunch of shit blows up. And I have The Notebook.” I whipped around, almost dropping the silverware. “The Notebook? You own The Notebook?” Cam stared at me blankly. “What’s wrong with that?” “Oh, nothing is wrong with that. Its just such a… uh, chick flick.” “I’m confident enough in my masculinity and sexuality that I can say that Ryan Gosling is just dreamy in this movie.” My jaw hit the floor.

One day I saw that The Notebook was out on DVD so I bought it. I will fully admit to enjoying a good chick flick every now and again. I didn’t really think Brandi would stay home to watch with me, so I scooped up Colston in my lap and turned it on. I knew it was sad and I prepared myself for what I thought was the sad part. I had my wall up in front of my emotions and knew this movie wasn’t going to get me. So the sad part came and I didn’t tear up, and I think, I’ve beaten Nicholas Sparks in this battle, and I relaxed. Then out of nowhere the movie hit me with another sad part. I was not expecting that. I thought to myself, Oh no, I am going to ugly cry. I sat Colston down in his bouncy chair and walked out of the room. I thought he was too young to see his father crying.

Pet him.” He thrusts the thing at me. I jump back. It’s a rat. The hairless tail flicks around like a snake. “When my winning personality fails me and tech toys don’t tantalize, I find small furry rodents to be reliable chick magnets.” My eyes raise to his face. He’s so weird. So . . . His tender smile at the rat is kind of sweet. “Rattus norvegicus.” The boy releases the rat onto his shoulder. The tail wraps around his neck and I wince, like there’s a rope around mine. “Commonly known as the brown rat or fancy rat. Not because he’s decked out in finery, but it seems some people fancy rats.” He shoots that wide-open grin at me.

When I watch a movie or read a book, be it a melodrama or horror, I always hate the female character... Well, most of the time I do. Why? Because she is always dumb. I shit you not. For example in this one chick-flick movie, "Serendipity", Sara tells that Jonathan guy that she won't give him her number because if they are meant to meet again, they will. Seriously? Romantic movie my ass, there's not anything romantic in letting go of someone when you can grab them with both of your hands. That is not romantic, THAT is stupid. In another movie the girl storms out, never hearing the guy out, just like in that one book I've been reading recently, "Tangled". Now this is an issue with most of the books and chick-flicks. Like why? Why won't you stop a minute, take a deep breath, count to ten and listen to the guy. Only after that, for God's sake, say ‘fuck you’ then ‘Namaste’ and then walk away while swaying your hips like there is no tomorrow? Let them know what they will be missing for the rest of their lives. In some other movies I hate the main female character because of the scriptwriters. The girl somehow always appears in front of the guy out of nowhere. Like he can be walking down the street and then boom! ABRACADABRA! The main girl bumps into him in NYC out of all places. They make it seem like whatever they do their steps always bring them back to each other. Dumb, I know.

Thanks,” I say, taking a delicious sip, then look at him sideways. “You’re not trying to get me drunk, are you? Because spoiler alert: you don’t need to if you want to get lucky.” Zach laughs. “Good to know. Hungry?

The sun starts to sink lower over the ocean, and Zach somehow magics up a fire from driftwood and kindling. And then he brings out the marshmallows. Not a bag of mass-produced, uniform white cylinders of sugar. But two not-quite-square, hand-made, artisanal marshmallows. I look up at him. “Are you kidding me right now?” The right side of his mouth kicks up in a smirk that says I gave him exactly the reaction he was looking for. “Nope,” he says. “I asked the baker and she made these special for us. After all, I did promise you.” He grabs a forked stick and roasts them for us. When they’re perfectly golden brown and sagging off the stick, he slides it onto a graham cracker, and adds a square of chocolate. I put the entire thing in my mouth. “Ohmigod!” I murmur. “This is amazing!” “Transcendent?” he teases. “Absolutely.” I agree, licking some of the sugar off my fingers. He grabs my wrist and the next thing I know, he’s licking the sugar off my fingers. Oh God, and now I’m thinking of last night and what else he licked. As I watch, his eyes get intense; he’s thinking the same. “We can’t have sex on the beach,” I say breathlessly. “Too sandy.” “You have a one-track mind, don’t you?” he teases. “I only brought you here for the sunset.” Aaaand now I feel like an idiot. “Right,” I cough, blushing. “Well, thank you.” “But …” He adds, his mouth curving into that sexy smile that kills me. “That doesn’t mean we can’t … kiss.” His hand comes up to push a stray lock of hair behind my ear. I nod because resistance is futile. The best I can do is make light of it so he can’t see the emotion coursing through me. “I’m pretty sure it’s the law that when you drink wine and eat artisanal marshmallows on the beach, you have to kiss.” I wave vaguely toward where we left the car. “I saw it on the sign by the parking lot.” “Well, if it’s a law,” he grins. A second later, his lips find mine. He tastes like wine and sugar, and pure Zach. I sigh in pleasure. This picnic, the marshmallows—everything—just might be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me. But that perfect sunset? We totally miss it. After all, there are better things to do.

I laugh and pull out the PB&J donut I got for myself, eager to dig in. The sweet raspberry filling oozes out down my chin and I have to lick it to keep it from dripping onto my shirt. Then the donut is plucked from my hand. “Hey, I’m—” is as far as I get before Zach is kissing me. Or, more accurately, tasting me. Maybe even devouring me. “You had …” he says in between kisses to the corner of my mouth. “… some …” Lick. “… jam …” Kiss. “… right …” Lick. “… here.” Oh God. This man. Could he be any sexier? And then he’s kissing me in earnest, the experience all the sweeter thanks to the donuts. And how good he is at kissing. He pulls me down onto the couch with him and we’re nearly horizontal. Which is so not a bad thing. His fingers twine in my hair and I sigh with happiness.

It’s all coming back to me now: last night, Phil Constavia and I had dinner in San Diego’s Glass Lamp District just before rushing into Horton Plaza to catch a chick-flick.

near-deserted parking lot, both buildings looking freshly painted and hopeful for a marina in which there were no yachts. The biggest boat moored at the dock looked to be a forty-footer. Most of the others looked to be lobster boats, aged and constructed of wood. A few of the newer ones were fiberglass. The nicest of those was about thirty-five feet long, the hull painted blue, the wheelhouse painted white, the deck a honey teak. She paid attention to it because her husband stood on it, bathed in their headlights. Caleb exited the car fast. He pointed back at her, told Brian his wife was not taking things well. Rachel was happy to note Caleb limped even as he speed-walked to the boat. She, on the other hand, moved slowly, her eyes on Brian. His gaze barely left hers except for the occasional flicks in the direction of Caleb. If she’d known she’d end up killing him, would she have boarded the boat? She could turn around and go to the police. My husband is an impostor, she’d say. She imagined some smarmy desk sergeant replying, “Aren’t we all, ma’am?” Yes, she was certain, it was a crime to impersonate someone and a crime to keep two wives, but were those serious crimes? In the end, wouldn’t Brian just take a plea and it would all go away? She’d be left the laughingstock never-was, the failed print reporter who’d become a pill-addicted broadcast reporter who’d become a punch line and then a shut-in and who would keep the local comics stocked with weeks of fresh material once it was discovered that Meltdown Media Chick had married a con man with another wife and another life. She followed Caleb up the ramp to the boat. He stepped aboard. When she went to do the same, Brian offered his hand. She stared at it until he dropped it. He noticed the gun she carried. “Should I show you mine? So I feel safer?” “Be my guest.” She stepped aboard. As she did, Brian caught her by the wrist and stripped the gun from her hand in the same motion. He pulled his own gun, a .38 snub-nosed revolver, from under the flaps of his shirt and then laid them both on a table by the

Can I ask you a question?” he asks as we complete our first loop on the train. “Okay,” I say, warily, not sure what to expect from him at this point. I mean, he arranged a date that I had no idea about. The possibilities here are endless. “You’re writing this big love story,” he says, his arm casually slung over my shoulder. “What do you think love is?” I can’t help the laugh that escapes. “What?” he asks. “That’s not a question, that’s thequestion,” I say, shaking my head at him. “Okay,” he starts again. “Can I ask you the question?” I look at him for a minute, trying to think if I’m ready to answer this question considering all the things that are happening right now. “Do you know who my favourite fictional character is?” I ask him instead. He shakes his head. “Mr. Darcy,” I answer. “He’s every girl’s favourite character,” Travis says. “And there is a reason why,” I say. “Mr. Darcy was a self-important man. He met Elizabeth Bennet and immediately dismissed her because she didn’t fit into the life that he was comfortable with. Once he got to know her, he discovered that what he should have wanted and what he actually wanted were two completely different things.” “That’s every chick flick I’ve ever watched,” Travis says as he we pass the bumper cars again. “Yes, but here’s the kicker. Hechanges. Not because Elizabeth wants him to, or tells him to. He changes because he wants to be a different person, a better person. Someone who is worthy of her. And in order to do that he has to act in a selfless way with absolutely no hope of reward,” I say, and I know my voice has taken on a slightly dreamy tone. “That’s what I think love is. Loving someone who makes you want to be a better person.” As we make the final turn and the train comes to a stop, Travis still hasn’t said anything. I lightly laugh. “At least I hope that’s what love is. I dart my eyes in Travis’s direction, expecting him to be a little uncomfortable with my declaration, but his face is soft and he seems pleased with my answer. As we stand in line waiting to get on the Merry-Go-Round I turn to him. “So, who is your favourite fictional couple?” I ask. Travis seems to think about it, scrunching up his mouth with the effort. “Mickey and Minnie,” he nods decisively. “As in Mouse?” I laugh. “They like each other, they’re nice to each other, and they always look like they’re having a fun time,” he says, shrugging at his explanation. And the more I think about it, it’s actually a pretty good choice. I mean, obviously it isn’t Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, but it has some worth.

The week wasn’t even over and on top of Sam and Emma getting dumped slash divorced, Zoey remembered Ben the janitor freshly divorcing his spouse and Christopher Grave breaking it off for the billionth time with none other than Anthony Bush, her first adult crush. Those two were probably going to go on and off like the Grand Slam anyway. The world was soon coming to a broken-hearted zombie apocalypse with the not-so-better halves roaming the Earth in search of the one meant to put an end to the misery, sales of self-help books going high, therapists’ agendas fully booked, and chick flicks gone out of the shelves of video rental stores—if there were any left post Netflix.

She leaned up and kissed me. Her mouth tasted like lipstick, blood, and gunpowder. It was also the softest thing that I’d ever felt, and in spite of the pain I felt my mouth opening so that my tongue could flick out to taste hers. The heat came off her face like a furnace. Our tongues moved around each other’s, swirling and dueling. Finally she broke the kiss. It was like surfacing after a long, intoxicating dive through a sea of Red Bull. “What was that for?”I managed. “I am beginning to like you, Perry.”I shivered out a breath. “You’ve got a kooky way of showing it.”“Have you ever felt more alive?”“Once or twice, yes.”Gobi was still looking at me, lips half parted, eyes searching the depths of whatever was inside me. She looked lost and young and totally uncontrolled, a reflection of how I felt now, in a place that I’d never been before, somewhere that nobody would ever think to look for me. I had the sudden, ridiculous, absolutely compelling vision of chucking everything—school, music, my family and friends—and running away with her, away from the rest of the world. I figured we’d last about a week. “Are you all right?”she asked. “My head hurts.”“Is the lipstick,”she smiled. “There is a mind-control drug in it. You are now completely under my power ... By dawn you will be mine.”“Just promise me you won’t hurt my family.”She went serious. “Families get hurt, Perry. There are no guarantees this side of the grave.”“You’re a real bitch, you know that?”“I never denied it.”I swung at her. She caught my fist. “Too slow.”I let myself tilt forward just enough for our foreheads to touch, then reached for her neck and put my fingers on the scar, tracing the thin curve of raised tissue. “What happened there?”Her gaze shifted away. “A painful memory.”“Like what, getting your throat cut and coming back from the grave?”Gobi straightened up. The mood didn’t just break—it shattered into a million sharp and spiky pieces that lay all over the sidewalk like dragon’s teeth. Then she shuddered and fell still. “Gobi?”She leaned forward again, and I caught her. For a moment we just stood there together in front of the dive bar, and when I felt her legs starting to give way, I lowered her back down the front steps.

You don’t understand,” he said. “But your real problem is, I do,” Shelby said. “You didn’t realize how much she meant to you until she was gone.” Luke drained his coffee cup. He put it on the table. “When you have time, Sean, you should take a little course from Shelby. She’s seen every chick flick ever filmed. She knows things about this you and I have never thought of.” Sean swallowed. Looking down he said, “Real quick, from a girl’s point of view, what do I do next?” “Not what you think,” Shelby replied. “You better not do what you did before. Whatever it was that made you arrogantly think she’d never be able to leave you? Not that. You better do whatever it was you did that worked for her, that made her think she wanted a life with you. If you can even remember that far back. Because, brother, I think maybe you’re too late. And if you’re too late, you’re going to have to accept that and respect her space. If you turn crazy and give her trouble, I’m not on your side anymore.” When

I remember when all you ever talked about was finding a guy and getting married. You'd hog the TV, watching those sappy chick flicks --" "Then I grew up and learned why they always end the movie after the guy and girl get together. That's when everything falls apart.

More of a movie guy myself.” Then he added nonchalantly, “The two kinds of action movies.” “Two kinds?” “Yeah, the Bruce Willis kind, and the chick flick kind.” “How are chick flicks action movies?” He looked a little embarrassed. “Well, you watch one with your wife, and that night you get some…” “Ah. Action.” A sly smile and a nod.

Romance primes her body for the bedroom. But for men, it may have the opposite effect. (Dylan & Sara/Stocksy) Turns out, there may be a scientific reason why movies based on Nicholas Sparks novels are called “chick flicks.” Watching romantic movies revs women’s sex drives — but it also dampens men’s desire to hit the sheets, according to a new study in the journal Archives of Sexual Behavior. In the world of sex research, there’s a theory about sexual desire called the “incentive motivation model.” That’s a technical way of saying arousal starts with a rewarding stimuli (for example, seeing your partner naked), which automatically leads to a boost in below-the-belt blood flow. Once you realize your body is responding, your mind joins the arousal process, which only heightens your physical response, compelling you to seek sex. As simple as that sounds, the first step — the sexual stimuli that kicks off the whole arousal process — can vary dramatically between men and women. Take porn, for example. “In a lot of research, when women watch porn movies, their body reacts — they’re genitally aroused — but they don’t feel anything,” lead study author Marieke Dewitte, an assistant professor of clinical psychological science at Maastricht University, told Yahoo Health. However, “we know that if you let women watch porn that is more female-oriented, embedded in a story, they respond with more sexual arousal.

sometimes I think what the church needs most is to recover some of its weird. There’s no sense in sending her through the makeover montage of the chick flick when she’ll always be the strange, awkward girl who only gets invited to prom on a dare.

But sometimes I think what the church needs most is to recover some of its weird. There’s no sense in sending her through the makeover montage of the chick flick when she’ll always be the strange, awkward girl who only gets invited to prom on a dare.

So, I’m a Leo,” she began. “I like long walks on the beach, chick flicks, and I have a five-year plan.” She saw Carla and Ruby share a confused look. “Do you have a five-year plan, Nathan? I can’t date a guy without a five-year plan.” “Are you high?” he asked.

Not only did I rise above my drooling-hunchback-in-the-dungeon status, but I also made our meeting seem like a chance encounter, one of the most powerful aphrodisiacs known to man. Thanks to chick flicks, the concept of true love being orchestrated by the rough, construction worker hands of fate is an easy sell.

It doesn't even take sixty seconds before my body gets warm, my toes curl, and I erupt into one of the quickest orgasms I've ever had. I wonder what the female equivalent of a two-pump chump would be. I guess you could say I'm a two-flick chick!

This burger? Totally uncomplicated. Doesn’t want to change me. Needs nothing from me. Is never passive-aggressive. Doesn’t talk in code. It’s just here for me, no matter what. It’s just meat, cheese, and bread. The perfect relationship.

Let me tell you about my favorite day of the month, properly dubbed my A.D.I.B. (stands for All Day In Bed). On that designated day, I will buy candy, chocolates and order any fast food meal of my choosing. I will then spend the rest of my A.D.I.B. in my pajamas on the couch, watching a movie marathon. I’ll watch the corniest chick flicks, the most romantic of dramas, and the cheesiest comedies. I will also pour myself a relaxing hot bubble bath with aromatherapy beads while reading a magazine. That entire day, I am off the grid and completely unplugged!

And I owe you an apology, too.

Real life is better,” I assure him. “So much better.

lanterns are strung between the buildings, and under them is a cute bistro table set for two, with white linens and a vase of roses. What the hell? Then a three-piece mariachi band steps from the shadows and starts to play. I look around wildly. Am I on some kind of YouTube prank show? What is Zoey doing? Then I realize, the song they’re playing is weirdly familiar. Pretty Woman. It can’t be … My heart stops. I almost don’t want to hope, but when I turn around, there he is. Zach. And he’s got a smile on his face.

I missed you,” he murmurs, and finds my lips for a kiss.

he’s

obviously excited, but I’m having trouble catching that excitement, because what was supposed to be a cool way to treat clients and help them with all their needs now feels like a money grab. I push my papers across the desk toward her. “I think you’ll see that with my plans—” “No, Gemma,” Serena says, interrupting me. “This isn’t what I wanted. I just don’t understand,” she adds, frowning. “I thought you wanted this job.” “I did! I do!” I take a breath. “I … just think I misunderstood the vision of the program.” Serena sighs and nods. “Why don’t you take the weekend and rethink your pitch? Add in some projections for commissions. Oh, and also I want you to strategize on some corporate partnerships.

She wasn't manipulating me, not really. No, Gemma was upfront from the start about wanting to make me over for work. I’m the one who happily signed up to all the buffing and puffing and wax. And sure, she didn’t tell me about the contest, but would that have really changed anything? If she’d told me from the start, what would my reaction have been? Amusement, probably. I would have had a good laugh about it, and then helped her figure out a way to beat that bitch Arielle into the dirt. So why do I feel so shitty, when all the pieces add up to make sense? Because of Lisa. I let out a sigh.

Daisy kept having visions flash into her head of Hunter being killed while she watched the chick flick.  It was a recipe for bad dreams.

why

like

Maybe women wouldn’t be forced to act like such bitches around you if you weren’t a complete asshole!” I add. “But worse than that: you’re not even funny!” “Fuck you!” the guy looks furious, and takes a step towards me. “You want to say that again?” “Any time you like!” I yell back, before Zach grabs my arm. “That’s enough,” he says, dragging me towards the door. “What are you doing?” I protest, as he hustles me outside. “Saving your ass.” “I don’t need saving!” I protest, riled up. “I could take that guy in a fight!” “Exactly.” Zach grins. “And then he’d press charges, and you’d get carted to jail. He’s not worth a felony assault charge, is he?

shorts, he reached for her. “Did you find something you want to watch?” he asked, guiding her head to his chest. “Yep.” She flipped to the movie channel and chose what could only be called a chick flick. “For real?” “You can pick the next one,” she said, giggling at his distress. “I’ll make sure there’s

She wanted to fight. I’m from North Jersey, we don’t back down from a fight.” Lola sounded serious and I had to take a moment to control myself. They were going to meet in the school parking lot after dark. It was like a bad chick flick. “Well, they’re gone. I just wanted to let you know.” I really would prefer to stay out of this. “Did she threaten you or break any of our stuff? Do you want to call the police on her?” Lola asked, showing some concern. “No, she just got in my face when I wouldn’t let her search the room for you. Everything is fine. We definitely don’t need to call the police,” I assured her. “Okay. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Sorry you got dragged into this.” With that, Lola hung up the phone. I shook my head in disbelief.

Seven years later Lisa’s number is still in my phone under her daughter’s name. And Lisa is still my first phone call. No matter what. Sprained ankles, lice, a new writing project, family drama, or that new chick flick. I call Lisa. Now, sure, there have been many, many other attempts with other women who’ve been too busy or too overwhelmed or whatever other “too” might be taking up space in their lives that left no real room to connect. And that’s okay. Because it only takes one. It only takes one friend to fill us up and pull us out of our phobias about being “new.” One friend will kryptonite-proof you against that paranoia that you don’t belong. One friend will insulate you with the delicious sense of familiarity in a completely unfamiliar group. Lisa was my one over and over and over again for those seven years, and it was hard thinking about doing it again without her. But because I remembered how it started, I had a head start on knowing how to start over. Back to basics. The shortest distance between strangers is often a shared honest story.

A single man in possession of a good fortune—” “Should buy more flashy cars?” “No.” “Doesn’t have to watch chick flicks?

For with her, there isn’t eternal support, kind words, sweet notes, meaningful kisses, gentle reminders, someone to think about during chick flicks, a well of intensely personal advice, a loving ear or a willing heart. She will try to convince you that by jumping in your ride and heading out tonight riding solo is YOLO, but know that the ice cream, Ambien, and Netflix cocktails can’t drown the innate desire of a human to care about and be cared about on a plane that is higher than platonic friendship. Ah yes, what she offers pales in comparison to what she never can give

Honey, you look straight out of a check flick," he remarked. Again, I blinked. Then, again, I asked, "Sorry?" "cute outfit. Glass of wine. Sexy , messy hair. Cute house that looks out of a magazine. Not a lick of makeup and you look prettier than any woman I've seen for over a year. Gabbin on the phone like you look this good, in a place that looks this good every day when that shit's impossible." He paused before he concluded, "Chick flick." Did he say sexy, messy hair? And that I looked prettier than any woman he'd seen for over a year?