Compliments Funny Quotes

Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl. Men actually think this girl exists. Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend to be this girl. For a long time Cool Girl offended me. I used to see men – friends, coworkers, strangers – giddy over these awful pretender women, and I’d want to sit these men down and calmly say: You are not dating a woman, you are dating a woman who has watched too many movies written by socially awkward men who’d like to believe that this kind of woman exists and might kiss them. I’d want to grab the poor guy by his lapels or messenger bag and say: The bitch doesn’t really love chili dogs that much – no one loves chili dogs that much! And the Cool Girls are even more pathetic: They’re not even pretending to be the woman they want to be, they’re pretending to be the woman a man wants them to be. Oh, and if you’re not a Cool Girl, I beg you not to believe that your man doesn’t want the Cool Girl. It may be a slightly different version – maybe he’s a vegetarian, so Cool Girl loves seitan and is great with dogs; or maybe he’s a hipster artist, so Cool Girl is a tattooed, bespectacled nerd who loves comics. There are variations to the window dressing, but believe me, he wants Cool Girl, who is basically the girl who likes every fucking thing he likes and doesn’t ever complain. (How do you know you’re not Cool Girl? Because he says things like: “I like strong women.” If he says that to you, he will at some point fuck someone else. Because “I like strong women” is code for “I hate strong women.”)

See, when you mess something up, you learn for the next time. It's when people compliment you that you're in trouble. That means they expect you to keep it up.

I'm sure I look like a drowned cat." "You look fine. The wet look works for you." I scowled. "Now I know you're lying.

No one is like you, Alex." I grinned. "I'll take that as a compliment." "It is." He nudged me again, and my grin gew into another ludicrous smile- the kind Caleb gave Olivia when they weren't tearing each other's heads off. "You're incredibly intelligent, Alex. Funny and..." "Pretty?" "No, not pretty." "Cute?" "No." I frowned. "Well, then." Aiden's laugh sent shivers through me. "I was going to say 'stunning.' You're stunningly beautiful.

Have I told you how hideous you look tonight?' Cardan asks, leaning back in the elaborately carved chair, the warmth of his words turning the question in to something like a compliment. 'No,' I say, glad to be annoyed back in to the present. 'Tell me.' 'I cannot,' he says, then frowns.

You know, somebody actually complimented me on my driving today. They left a little note on the windscreen, it said 'Parking Fine.

There is probably no better or more reliable measure of whether a woman has spent time in ugly duckling status at some point or all throughout her life than her inability to digest a sincere compliment. Although it could be a matter of modesty, or could be attributed to shyness- although too many serious wounds are carelessly written off as "nothing but shyness"- more often a compliment is stuttered around about because it sets up an automatic and unpleasant dialogue in the woman's mind. If you say how lovely she is, or how beautiful her art is, or compliment anything else her soul took part in, inspired, or suffused, something in her mind says she is undeserving and you, the complimentor, are an idiot for thinking such a thing to begin with. Rather than understand that the beauty of her soul shines through when she is being herself, the woman changes the subject and effectively snatches nourishment away from the soul-self, which thrives on being acknowledged." "I must admit, I sometimes find it useful in my practice to delineate the various typologies of personality as cats and hens and ducks and swans and so forth. If warranted, I might ask my client to assume for a moment that she is a swan who does not realzie it. Assume also for a moment that she has been brought up by or is currently surrounded by ducks. There is nothing wrong with ducks, I assure them, or with swans. But ducks are ducks and swans are swans. Sometimes to make the point I have to move to other animal metaphors. I like to use mice. What if you were raised by the mice people? But what if you're, say, a swan. Swans and mice hate each other's food for the most part. They each think the other smells funny. They are not interested in spending time together, and if they did, one would be constantly harassing the other. But what if you, being a swan, had to pretend you were a mouse? What if you had to pretend to be gray and furry and tiny? What you had no long snaky tail to carry in the air on tail-carrying day? What if wherever you went you tried to walk like a mouse, but you waddled instead? What if you tried to talk like a mouse, but insteade out came a honk every time? Wouldn't you be the most miserable creature in the world? The answer is an inequivocal yes. So why, if this is all so and too true, do women keep trying to bend and fold themselves into shapes that are not theirs? I must say, from years of clinical observation of this problem, that most of the time it is not because of deep-seated masochism or a malignant dedication to self-destruction or anything of that nature. More often it is because the woman simply doesn't know any better. She is unmothered.

Oh," she said, in a very different way. "Well. Thanks for my part in the compliment. Naturally I'd love to be watched and controlled, but I think I may be washing my hair that day.

Miss Sumner, may I inquire as to why you're lounging on the floor?" Mrs. Watson asked. Miss Sumner uttered something which sounded very much like "it should be obvious" before she lifted her head. "You really must compliment your staff, Mrs. Watson. This floor is remarkably clean.

- You are exceedingly annoying. - Thank you. - It was not a compliment.

He asked what she was in for and complimented the find workmanship of her metal extremities, but she ignored him, making him briefly question if he'd been separated from the female population for so long that he could be losing his charm. But that seemed unlikely.

You are very clever," said the old man shyly. "I would like to eat your brains, one day." For some reason the books of etiquette that Daphne's grandmother had forced on her didn't quite deal with this. Of course, silly people would say to babies, "You're so sweet I could gobble you all up!" but that sort of nonsense seemed less funny when it was said by a man in war paint who owned more than one skull. Daphne, cursed with good manners, settled for "It's very kind of you to say so.

Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl. Men actually think this girl exists. Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend to be this girl. For a long time Cool Girl offended me. I used to see men — friends, coworkers, strangers — giddy over these awful pretender women, and I’d want to sit these men down and calmly say: You are not dating a woman, you are dating a woman who has watched too many movies written by socially awkward men who’d like to believe that this kind of woman exists and might kiss them.

Look at those legs,” Noah says. “Look at that bone structure. Look at those eyes, you could get fucking lost in them.” “You need Google Maps to find your way out of my eyes,” Gideon says, executing an elaborate turn before catwalking back.

She shows up everywhere, at any time, like she can guess what we’re going to do before we do it.” “The lady is good at what she does,” Liam confirmed. “Can you please not compliment the person trying to drag our asses back to camp?

Aren't men funny? When they want to pay you the greatest compliment in their power, they naively tell you that you have a masculine mind. There is one compliment, incidentally, that I shall never be paying him. I cannot honestly say that he has a quickness of perception almost feminine.

Max's scarred brow crinkled. He reached for the coffee mug on his desk. “Motive is tricky. See, what might be a good reason for me to kill someone might not be a good enough reason for you to kill someone." Swift stared at his hands loosely clasped around his ankle. “I wouldn't. Deliberately hurt anyone." "And my impulse is to hurt anyone who hurts you.” When Swift's gaze lifted to his, Max said, “See how that works?" He did, and while it wasn't intended as a compliment, it did warm his heart in a funny way. He managed to joke, “Why, I think that's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me.

You look like a hot tamale.” “That’s not really a compliment.

Now I really feel sorry for her. Your hand is as bad as Rob’s paddle,” Cassie shuddered. “Thank you.” “I didn’t mean it as a compliment!

What are you? The pregnant MacGyver?” “Best compliment I’ve had in a while.

Nikolai winked at her. "If I had anyone but Genya Safin in charge, I might be worried." Zoya rolled her eyes. "She doesn't need your flattery. She already thinks enough of herself." "Let him go on," said Genya. "David never gives me pretty compliments." "Don't I?" asked David. He patted his pocket absently. "I have the list of your good qualities you gave me somewhere." "You see what I endure?

Mr Moony presents his compliments to Professor Snape, and begs him to keep his abnormally large nose out of other people's business.' Snape froze. Harry stared, dumbstruck, at this message. But the map didn't stop there. More writing was appearing beneath the first. 'Mr Prongs agrees with Mr Moony, and would like to add that Professor Snape is an ugly git.' It would have been funny if the situation hadn't been so serious. And there was more... 'Mr Padfoot would like to register his astonishment that an idiot like that ever became a Professor.' Harry closed his eyes in horror. When he'd reopened them, the map had had its last word. 'Mr Wormtail bids Professor Snape good day, and advises him to wash his hair, the slimeball.

Agatha - You're somewhat odd. You know that, don't you? Felicia - I'll take that as a compliment. Agatha - It wasn't meant as such...

Murderous thieves make their home here." She failed to keep the tremor from her voice. "Absolutely," Jonas replied. "Dangerous animals too." "Without a doubt." She slanted a look toward him. "Perfect place for you." He repressed a snort. "Oh, such compliments, your highness. You're going to make me blush.

Why? As much fun as a hospital sounds, I'd rather spend the evening dancing with an amazing, smart, funny, interesting, beautiful girl who has the most incredible green eyes I've ever seen. Sophie, will you go to the dance with me?

We’re all given terrible trials sometimes, things that we think will break our spirit and kill us, and they make us stronger in the end. They seem like the cruelest blows, but in a funny way they’re like compliments from God.

I've always been uncomfortable with compliments, though I have a pathological need for them.

That night at the Brooklyn party, I was playing the girl who was in style, the girl a man like Nick wants: the Cool Girl. Men always say that as the defining compliment, don't they? She's a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she's hosting the world's biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot.

The point I’m trying to make is that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant, and all-around obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. I am dismissive of the virtuous, unaware of the beautiful, and uncomprehending in the face of the happy. So if I didn’t understand I was being asked to be the best man, it is because I never expected to be anybody’s best friend, and certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing. John, I am a ridiculous man, redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship. But as I am apparently your best friend, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of companion. Actually, now I can. Mary, when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable. John, you have endured war, and injury, and tragic loss — so sorry again about that last one. So know this: Today, you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved. In short, the two people who love you most in all this world. And I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will never let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that. Now, on to some funny stories about John...

You are the smartest of your year. The most cunning.' I gulp at the compliment, brushing it off. I was trained as a scribe, not a rider. 'You defended the smallest with ferocity. And strength of courage is more important than physical strength. Since you apparently need to know before we land.' My throat tightens from his words, emotion forming a knot I have to swallow past. Oh. Shit. I hadn't spoken those words. I'd thought them. He can read my thoughts. 'See? Smartest of your year.' So much for privacy. 'You'll never be alone again.' 'That sounds more like a threat than a comfort,' ...

I think my heart is defective," Jillian says. I have to force myself to smile Jan looks at me. I get the joke, but for some reason it just isn't funny right now. "I can fix that," Jeremy says, taking Jillian's headband from her. He pulls out the battery and looks at the wires that run from it. He twists one of them a little with his fingers and reinserts the battery. "You are so nerdy," Jillian says. I look over at her. It's not what she said, but how she said it. It almost sounded like a compliment. "Yay," Jillian says, when he flips the switch and both hearts stay lit. Jillian takes the headband from him and slips it on. She wobbles her head making them clack together. "Jeremy," she says, grinning at him. "You fixed my broken heart.

No one is ever prepared to accept compliments from strangers about their internal organs,

When in doubt, always compliment a woman's eyeliner application.

See, when you mess something up -- you learn for the next time. It's when people compliment you that you're in trouble. That means they expect you to keep it up.

Do you get a percentage for every soul you corrupt or is this just how you get your kicks?” I enquired. “Take it as a compliment. I only try to corrupt people I like.

You should stay and keep me company, so I don't get lonely.” “You don't seem like the type of guy who gets lonely.” “Is that a compliment or an insult?” Analia only shrugged.

Hey, sweetheart. All alone in this palace?" She arched a brow when she felt the hand on her bottom and turned her head slowly to stare at McNab. He went red, then white, then red again. "Christ! Lieutenant. Sir." "Your hand's on my ass, McNab. I don't think you want it to be there." He snatched it away as if scorched. "God. Man. Shit. Beg your pardon. I didn't recognize you. I mean..." He jammed the hand he sincerely hoped she'd allow him to keep in his pocket. "I didn't know it was you. I thought... You look..." Words failed him. "I believe Detective McNab is trying to compliment you, Eve." Roarke slipped up beside them and, because it was too much to resist, stared hard into McNab's panicked eyes. "Weren't you, Ian?" "Yeah. That is..." "And if I believed he'd realized it was your ass he was fondling, I'd just have to kill him. Right here." Roarke reached out and flicked at the strings of McNab's snazzy red tie. "Right now." "Oh, I'd have already taken care of that myself," Eve said dryly. "You look like you could use a drink,Detective." "Yes, sir. I could." "Roarke, why don't you take care of him? Mira just came in. I want to talk to her." "Delighted." Roarke draped an arm around McNab's shoulder and squeezed just a little harder than comfort allowed.

This is my friend Veronica,” I told him. “And this is Kaidan.” “Oh, I've heard all about you.” Veronica gave him a big smile. His brow elevated, but he didn't take the bait. Instead, he stared at me funny. “Nice wart.” Leaning forward without touching me, he flicked the wart from the tip of my nose. Veronica let out a loud cackle, proving she should be the one in my costume. “I told you it was stupid!” She gloated. With my pointer finger, I moved the paint around my nose to fill in the blank spot. When I finished, he was still watching me. “Your hair's grown a lot,” I said to him. “So has your bottom.” My eyes rounded and blood rushed to my face. Veronica hooted with hilarity, bending at the waist. Even Jay let out a loud snicker, the traitor. I wished Kaidan weren't so perceptive, but it was true. The feminine curves that had always eluded me were finally making an appearance. Stupid tight dress. “Dude, you can get away with anything,” said the pirate to the straight-faced ape. “I meant it as a compliment.” “That was awesome.” Veronica grabbed Jay by the hand. “Come on. Let's go find me a drink.” She winked at me as they ambled away. I gave my attention to the dry, trampled grass and scattered cans for a moment before working up the nerve to say something. “My dad gave me a cell phone.” And a car. And a ton of money. Kaidan set the ape head on the ground and pulled his phone from a fuzzy pocket, blowing off brown lint. Then he held his furry thumbs above the buttons and nodded at me. I started to give him my number, but his brow creased in frustration with the big, costumed hands. “Here,” I said, taking his phone. Saving my number for him gave me a thrill.

Probably more than any concrete vice or failing Amory despised his own personality - he loathed knowing that to-morrow and the thousand days after he would sell pompously at a compliment and sulk at an ill word like a third-rate musician or a first-class actor.

Brüks digested that. “Well, if it was supposed to be some kind of compliment, her delivery needs work. You’d think someone with all that brainpower would be able to cobble together a few social skills.” “Funny thing”—Moore’s voice was expressionless—“Sengupta couldn’t figure out how someone with all your interpersonal skills could be so shitty at math.

Stop teasing you two,” Suzy jumped in, “not all of Kathy’s ideas are wacky.” “Gee thanks. Was that supposed to be a compliment?

Jason summoned his golden lance. He brandished it over his head and yelled, “Giant!” Which sounded pretty good, and a lot more confident than Leo could’ve managed. He was thinking more along the lines of, “We are pathetic ants! Don’t kill us!” Enceladus stopped chanting at the flames. He turned toward them and grinned, revealing fangs like a saber-toothed tiger’s. “Well,” the giant rumbled. “What a nice surprise.” Leo didn’t like the sound of that. His hand closed on his windup gadget. He stepped sideways, edging his way toward the bulldozer. Coach Hedge shouted, “Let the movie star go, you big ugly cupcake! Or I’m gonna plant my hoof right up your—” “Coach,” Jason said. “Shut up.” Enceladus roared with laughter. “I’ve forgotten how funny satyrs are. When we rule the world, I think I’ll keep your kind around. You can entertain me while I eat all the other mortals.” “Is that a compliment?” Hedge frowned at Leo. “I don’t think that was a compliment.

So what are we watching, anyway?” “Fast six.” I realized the polite thing to do would have been to ask if he liked the Fast & Furious series, but if he didn’t, I couldn’t date him anyway. “And if I haven’t seen one through five?” “Then you’re basically un-American. Besides, what’s there to know? Fast cars, pretty girls, hot guys, stealin’ stuff in ways that could never happen… aaand you’re all caught up.” His beautifully chocolate brown eyes went skyward. “Let me guess, you’re a Rock fan?” “And Paul Walker, and Tyrese… the Asian guy, and a little Vin Diesel action doesn’t go amiss either. Any way you look, you win.” “I haven’t liked the Rock since SmackDown.” I pretended to clasp my hands in prayer and closed my eyes. “Let him keep his gay card, Lord, for he knows not what he says.” He grinned. “You’re lucky you’re fine.” “Am I?” I lifted my brows. A queen did need his compliments, after all.

“Sit with me,” Isaiah says. As I move to rest next to him, he stops me. “Not there. Here.” He motions to the spot between his legs. Awkwardly, I settle in front of him. Isaiah, the king of secure, waves off any distance between us as he gathers me into the safe shelter of his body. The blood pulses faster in my veins. I like being this close to him. Maybe a little too much. “You’re beautiful.” His breath tickles the skin behind my ear, and the small hairs stand on end with the joyous sensation. “You’re smart and funny. I love how your eyes shine when you laugh.” He glides his fingers against my skin causing an addictive tingling. “I love how you lace your fingers and brush your hair from your face when you’re nervous. I love how you offer yourself so completely to me—no fear. You’re loyal and strong.” “I’m not strong.” I cut him off. The panic attacks confirm that. Unable to be near him anymore, I attempt to untangle myself from him, but Isaiah becomes a solid wall around me and I jerk in his arms in protest. His tender hold tightens, and the words feel like poetry because of the deep, soothing way he speaks. “You’re wrong. I see you exactly as you are.”

I feel successful 3–4 days a month. The other days I feel like I’m barely accomplishing the minimum or that I’m a loser. I have imposter syndrome so even when I get compliments they are difficult to take and I just feel like I’m a bigger fraud than before. I feel the worst when I get so paralyzed by fear that I end up huddled in bed and fall further and further behind. To make myself feel more successful I spend real time with my daughter every day, even if it’s just huddling under a blanket and watching Doctor Who reruns on TV. I also try to remind myself that people like Dorothy Parker and Hunter S. Thompson struggled as well, and that this struggle might make me stronger, if it doesn’t first destroy me.

Brandoch Daha laughed, saying, “Prince, I so love thee, I could refuse thee nothing, were it shave half my beard and go in fustian till harvest-time, sleep in my clothes, and discourse pious nothings seven hours a day with my lady’s lapdog.

You're a shameless flirt.' 'Thank you.' He grins and goes back to carving. 'It wasn't a compliment.' 'Don't mind her, she's just sexually frustrated. Makes a girl crabby.' ... 'That has nothing to do with it.' Gods, could she have said that a little louder? 'And yet I don't hear you denying it.' She smiled sweetly at me. 'I'm sorry I don't make the cut,' Liam teases. 'But I'm sure Riorson would be fine with my reviewing a couple candidates, especially if it means you'll stop flipping him off in front of his entire wing.' 'And how exactly would you be reviewing candidates? What will you be scoring?' Rhiannon asks, one eyebrow raised above her wide grin. 'This I have to hear.' I manage a straight face for all of two seconds before laughing at how horrified he suddenly looks. 'Thanks for the offer, though. I'll make sure to run any potential liaisons by you.' 'I mean, you could watch,' Rhiannon continues, blinking innocently at him. 'Just to be sure she's fully covered. You know, so no one... sticks it to her.' 'Oh, are we telling dick jokes now?' Ridoc asks from Liam's side. 'Because my entire life has led up to this moment.' Even Sawyer laughs. 'Fuck me,' Liam mutters under his breath.

I thought you were interesting. Why did you do what it said?” “I…” I can’t think up a fake answer quickly enough. “I’m a straight guy, you know. So if a girl talks to me or whatever, I’ll do exactly what she says.” Wait, now: make it a compliment. “Especially if it’s a pretty girl.” I smile.

They’re important but we’re ignoring a lot of other parts that are probably just as compliment-worthy and sexy because we’re too busy complimenting firm pecs and thin waists and untarnished souls. Branch out a little, is all I’m saying. It couldn’t hurt. I bet your small intestines are adorable.

They watched me, too closely to be casual. Tamlin straightened a bit and said, 'You look... better than before.' Was that a compliment? I could have sworn Lucien gave Tamlin an encouraging nod. 'And your hair is... clean.' Perhaps it was my raging hunger making me hallucinate the piss-poor attempt at flattery.

That night at the Brooklyn party, I was playing the girl who was in style, the girl a man like Nick wants: the Cool Girl. Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl. Men actually think this girl exists. Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend to be this girl. For a long time Cool Girl offended me. I used to see men—friends, coworkers, strangers—giddy over these awful pretender women, and I’d want to sit these men down and calmly say: You are not dating a woman, you are dating a woman who has watched too many movies written by socially awkward men who’d like to believe that this kind of woman exists and might kiss them. I’d want to grab the poor guy by his lapels or messenger bag and say: The bitch doesn’t really love chili dogs that much—no one loves chili dogs that much! And the Cool Girls are even more pathetic: They’re not even pretending to be the woman they want to be, they’re pretending to be the woman a man wants them to be. Oh, and if you’re not a Cool Girl, I beg you not to believe that your man doesn’t want the Cool Girl. It may be a slightly different version—maybe he’s a vegetarian, so Cool Girl loves seitan and is great with dogs; or maybe he’s a hipster artist, so Cool Girl is a tattooed, bespectacled nerd who loves comics. There are variations to the window dressing, but believe me, he wants Cool Girl, who is basically the girl who likes every fucking thing he likes and doesn’t ever complain. (How do you know you’re not Cool Girl? Because he says things like: “I like strong women.” If he says that to you, he will at some point fuck someone else. Because “I like strong women” is code for “I hate strong women.”) I waited patiently—years—for the pendulum to swing the other way, for men to start reading Jane Austen, learn how to knit, pretend to love cosmos, organize scrapbook parties, and make out with each other while we leer. And then we’d say, Yeah, he’s a Cool Guy. But it never happened. Instead, women across the nation colluded in our degradation! Pretty soon Cool Girl became the standard girl. Men believed she existed—she wasn’t just a dreamgirl one in a million. Every girl was supposed to be this girl, and if you weren’t, then there was something wrong with you. But it’s tempting to be Cool Girl. For someone like me, who likes to win, it’s tempting to want to be the girl every guy wants. When I met Nick, I knew immediately that was what he wanted, and for him, I guess I was willing to try. I will accept my portion of blame. The thing is, I was crazy about him at first. I found him perversely exotic, a good ole Missouri boy. He was so damn nice to be around. He teased things out in me that I didn’t know existed: a lightness, a humor, an ease. It was as if he hollowed me out and filled me with feathers. He helped me be Cool

Even in the warm faelight of the foyer, the gown glittered and gleamed like a fresh-cut jewel. We had taken my gown from Starfall and refashioned it, adding sheer silk panels to the back shoulders, the glittering material like woven starlight as it flowed behind me in lieu of a veil or cape. If Rhysand was Night Triumphant, I was the star that only glowed thanks to his darkness, the light only visible because of him. I scowled up the stairs. That is, if he bothered to show up on time. My hair, Nuala had swept into an ornate, elegant arc across my head, and in front of it... I caught Cassian glancing at me for the third time in less than a minute and demanded, 'What?' His lips twitched at the corners. 'You just look so...' 'Here we go,' Mor muttered from where she picked at her red-tinted nails against the stair banister. Rings glinted at every knuckle, on every finger; stacks of bracelets tinkled against each other on either wrist. 'Official,' Cassian said with an incredulous look in her direction. He waved a Siphon-topped hand to me. 'Fancy.' 'Over five hundred years old,' Mor said, shaking her head sadly, 'a skilled warrior and general, famous throughout territories, and complementing ladies is still something he finds next to impossible. Remind me why we bring you on diplomatic meetings?' Azriel, wreathed in shadows by the front door, chuckled quietly. Cassian shot him a glare. 'I don't see you spouting poetry, brother.' Azriel crossed his arms, still smiling faintly. 'I don't need to resort to it.

She thought she’d focus on the compliment, rather than the terrifying glimpse she’d been given into her flatmate’s soul. She found herself particularly worried by Marjorie’s willingness to do all that, the slicing and the bleeding and the murdering, for only a percentage of the advantages she envied. There was something in this compromise that made it seem more real than Barbara wanted it to be.

Hermione made purple and gold streamers erupt from the end of her wand and drape themselves artistically over the trees and bushes. “Nice,” said Ron, as with one final flourish of her wand, Hermione turned the leaves on the crabapple tree to gold. “You’ve really got an eye for that sort of thing.” “Thank you, Ron!” said Hermione, looking both pleased and a little confused. Harry turned away, smiling to himself. He had a funny notion that he would find a chapter on compliments when he found time to peruse his copy of Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches; he caught Ginny’s eye and grinned at her before remembering his promise to Ron and hurriedly striking up a conversation with Monsieur Delacour. “Out of the way, out of the way!” sang Mrs. Weasley, coming through the gate with what appeared to be a giant, beach-ball-sized Snitch floating in front of her. Seconds later Harry realized that it was his birthday cake, which Mrs. Weasley was suspending with her wand, rather than risk carrying it over the uneven ground. When the cake had finally landed in the middle of the table, Harry said, “That looks amazing, Mrs. Weasley.” “Oh, it’s nothing, dear,” she said fondly. Over her shoulder, Ron gave Harry the thumbs-up and mouthed, Good one.

I arched a brow. “Something funny?” Her mouth formed a tight line. “Nope.” I approached her. “You sure?” Her gaze flicked to mine, then away. “Uh-huh.” “Okay, then.” I turned and headed over to grab the last of our things. “It’s just . . .” Eilish began and then trailed off. “Yes?” She shook her head and finally let her giggles flow free. I couldn’t help smiling, too, even though I wasn’t entirely sure an inconvenient hard-on warranted so much laughter. It was infectious all the same. She gestured to the retreating group of tourists. “I studied German at school, so I can pick out certain words. One of the women commented about you to her friend.” I smirked. “Oh yeah? What did she say?” She dabbed the wetness from the corners of her eyes. “Something along the lines of a bratwurst big enough to feed an army.” My smirk died. “I wish I hadn’t asked.” “Really? I thought men enjoyed compliments about that . . . particular area.” “They do. But armies are generally made up of a bunch of blokes.” I arched a brow meaningfully. A loud burst of laughter escaped her, and she clamped her hand over mouth. God, she was too fucking adorable. She sucked in a breath, finally calming down from her fit of giggles. “You’re too much, Bryan Leech.” “That’s what the German ladies think anyway,” I deadpanned, my smirk returning. Eilish burst into laughter all over again.

any. Make sure your drink doesn’t get spiked. Don’t drink too much to make yourself vulnerable. Make sure you don’t get an unlicensed cab. Don’t let yourself get picked in the wrong way. Look at this woman in the papers who has had more than three boyfriends – the slut. A guy grabbing your arse in the club is a compliment. A guy telling you you’re ugly is actually him saying he likes you. Do you know how many men are falsely accused of rape? Isn’t it disgusting? Don’t ever lie about something so terrible. We won’t believe you anyway. Go to a festival and see no women onstage, but try to have fun, when it’s not safe to be near the front. You’re so basic to put a flower in your hair. Go to the cinema and see men grow, and women help them grow while wearing next to no clothes and then getting raped and dying. Give it an Oscar. Fuck like a porn star. Make me a sandwich. Stop being difficult. Shut up. Put up. Use this anti-ageing cream. Nobody wants to fuck you any more, Karen. Oh, come on, it’s only a joke.

My Fellow Non-American Blacks: In America, You Are Black, Baby Dear Non-American Black, when you make the choice to come to America, you become black. Stop arguing. Stop saying I’m Jamaican or I’m Ghanaian. America doesn’t care. So what if you weren’t “black” in your country? You’re in America now. We all have our moments of initiation into the Society of Former Negroes. Mine was in a class in undergrad when I was asked to give the black perspective, only I had no idea what that was. So I just made something up. And admit it—you say “I’m not black” only because you know black is at the bottom of America’s race ladder. And you want none of that. Don’t deny now. What if being black had all the privileges of being white? Would you still say “Don’t call me black, I’m from Trinidad”? I didn’t think so. So you’re black, baby. And here’s the deal with becoming black: You must show that you are offended when such words as “watermelon” or “tar baby” are used in jokes, even if you don’t know what the hell is being talked about—and since you are a Non-American Black, the chances are that you won’t know. (In undergrad a white classmate asks if I like watermelon, I say yes, and another classmate says, Oh my God that is so racist, and I’m confused. “Wait, how?”) You must nod back when a black person nods at you in a heavily white area. It is called the black nod. It is a way for black people to say “You are not alone, I am here too.” In describing black women you admire, always use the word “STRONG” because that is what black women are supposed to be in America. If you are a woman, please do not speak your mind as you are used to doing in your country. Because in America, strong-minded black women are SCARY. And if you are a man, be hyper-mellow, never get too excited, or somebody will worry that you’re about to pull a gun. When you watch television and hear that a “racist slur” was used, you must immediately become offended. Even though you are thinking “But why won’t they tell me exactly what was said?” Even though you would like to be able to decide for yourself how offended to be, or whether to be offended at all, you must nevertheless be very offended. When a crime is reported, pray that it was not committed by a black person, and if it turns out to have been committed by a black person, stay well away from the crime area for weeks, or you might be stopped for fitting the profile. If a black cashier gives poor service to the non-black person in front of you, compliment that person’s shoes or something, to make up for the bad service, because you’re just as guilty for the cashier’s crimes. If you are in an Ivy League college and a Young Republican tells you that you got in only because of Affirmative Action, do not whip out your perfect grades from high school. Instead, gently point out that the biggest beneficiaries of Affirmative Action are white women. If you go to eat in a restaurant, please tip generously. Otherwise the next black person who comes in will get awful service, because waiters groan when they get a black table. You see, black people have a gene that makes them not tip, so please overpower that gene. If you’re telling a non-black person about something racist that happened to you, make sure you are not bitter. Don’t complain. Be forgiving. If possible, make it funny. Most of all, do not be angry. Black people are not supposed to be angry about racism. Otherwise you get no sympathy. This applies only for white liberals, by the way. Don’t even bother telling a white conservative about anything racist that happened to you. Because the conservative will tell you that YOU are the real racist and your mouth will hang open in confusion.

It’s funny how our desires often tend to circle around the whims and fancies of others rather than the self. One school of thought has a convincing explanation that this is because we live in a society that makes us want to be pleasing to others more than the self--a rather selfless trait, so to think. But then there is this other theory which eventually concludes that we do all of this to please no one but the self...because praise and compliments are what the devil thrives on, and we are in no significant way any different.

We’re all given terrible trials sometimes, things that we think will break our spirit and kill us, and they make us stronger in the end. They seem like the cruelest blows, but in a funny way they’re like compliments from God. I know that must sound crazy to you, but that’s what they are. If He didn’t love you and believe in you, He wouldn’t give you challenges like this. They’re opportunities for grace. You’ll be stronger from this. I know it. This is God’s way of telling you that He loves you and believes in you. It’s a compliment from Him to you. Does that make any sense?

What’s that?” “I’ll tell you after you guess what I am.” I kept a straight face. “Rumpelstiltskin?” He rolled his eyes. “Be serious.” “Werewolf? No, that might have explained the superhuman strength if I didn’t know about the runes. Vampire crossed my mind, but you don’t sparkle.” His eyebrows shot up. “Sparkle?” “Yeah, like Edward. He’s superhot and perfect.” Torin scowled. “You have seen vampires?” “Of course. On the screen, in my dreams. What are you doing?” “Climbing your tree.” I swallowed. “Why?” “I like getting close and personal when talking to a beautiful woman.” My cheeks grew warm, and I looked behind me. “Who?” “You, Freckles.” He stopped at one of the top, sturdy branches, leaned against it, and studied me. “You should see yourself through my eyes, Raine Cooper. Gorgeous, fascinating, stubborn, funny, but I wouldn’t have you anyway.” Oh, wow. No guy had ever complimented me with such conviction. My cheeks shot past warm to hot, which meant my face was red as beets. “You’re kidding, right?” “No, I’m not. Don’t you think you’re beautiful?” “I meant does that old line really work anymore. I like getting close and personal when talking to a beautiful woman,” I repeated, imitating his deep voice and wiggling my brow.

Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl.

I decided the reason why Luccas rushed off was he was allergic to the food that they had brought out. Not paying compliments to the decorations, I poked at the squid with a fork making sure it was dead. Yuck, it reminded me of squid shaped spaghetti. My mind imagined it struggling to break free from my fork. Its legs flopped back and forth, to the sides almost as if it danced. Then to eat it while it squirmed after every bite; chomp, chomp, chomp. On the other hand, you could also eat it raw, but I suppose that was where the squirming comes in. Hmm. . . Any who... Before we get off topic, I finally ate it. Yes, even with the gross images in mind.

the Cool Girl. Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl.

It’s actually entertaining.” “You say that like you’re surprised.” He looked like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming eighteen-wheeler, and I realized I’d really put him on the spot. What could he say to that? Based on our numerous conversations, I was under the impression communication wasn’t your strong suit? “Never mind,” I said, taking the steam kettle off the stove and filling it with water. I was a British-breakfast-tea-in-the-morning girl, and I made it using a real teapot and everything. “I’m not fishing for compliments.” Okay, I was a little. “I just…I just didn’t expect it to be so funny,” Jason said. “You wanted a serious column about hot dogs?

What does a freelance researcher do?” “Researches things.” He winks at me and helps lift my bike onto a cobblestone walkway. “It’s not an interesting or particularly sexy job. Nobody wants to date a perpetual studier, but I bet there’s an army of guys crawling over each other to get to you.” More like crawling away. “You’re ridiculous. Who’d ever want to date me?” “Someone like you? There’d be a line at your door as soon as work got out.” “Oh, would you be in the line?” Sarcasm. Not a real question. I don’t care if he responds—heat burns my toes, ears, and everything in-between—well, maybe I care a little. Jack pauses and gazes into me. “Yeah … I’m in the line … and I’m better than all the other guys so you should really pick me. I’m funny. I’m strong, like, I could sweep you off your feet and run without breaking a sweat. I can also blow milk through my nose, but only if I’m drunk and the milk is warm.

Professor Severus Snape, master of this school, commands you to yield the information you conceal!" Snape said, hitting the map with his wand. As though an invisible hand were writing upon it, words appeared on the surface of the map. "Mr. Moony presents his compliments to Professor Snape, and begs him to keep his abnormally large nose out of other people's business." Snape froze. Harry stared, dumbstruck, at the message. But the map didn't stop there. More writing was appearing beneath the first. "Mr. Prongs agrees with Mr. Moony, and would like to add that Professor Snape is an ugly git." It would have been very funny if the situation hadn't been so serious. And there was more... "Mr. Padfoot would like to register his astonishment that an idiot like that ever became a professor." Harry closed his eyes in horror. When he'd opened them, the map had had its last word. "Mr. Wormtail bids Professor Snape good day, and advises him to wash his hair, the slimeball." (286 & 287)

She looked down instead. Long enough to notice that the duke wore a signet ring, and that his hand was long and elegant and scrupulously groomed but sported emphatic veins, as though he'd used his hands to do difficult masculine things his entire life. Dark, crisp hair curled on his wrist, and that hair seemed almost embarrassingly intimate, because if she wanted to right now she could touch it. His finger looked very brown against her own white hand, which she normally took such care to keep from the sun. His hand could cover hers completely if he wanted, shelter it, vanquish it, comfort her or render her terrifyingly defenseless. Funny how the spot where the duke's finger touched her was suddenly the locus of the universe for three people. "Your hand is unconscionably soft, Miss Eversea," he murmured. 'Oh.' And then he took his fingers away. Her eyes widened. She couldn't lift her head just yet. The shock of the stealthy compliment spread slowly through her, the way sherry did when bolted quickly.

the Cool Girl. Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl. Men actually think this girl exists. Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend to be this girl. For a long time Cool Girl offended me. I used to see men – friends, coworkers, strangers – giddy over these awful pretender women, and I’d want to sit these men down and calmly say: You are not dating a woman, you are dating a woman who has watched too many movies written by socially awkward men who’d like to believe that this kind of woman exists and might kiss them. I’d want to grab the poor guy by his lapels or messenger bag and say: The bitch doesn’t really love chili dogs that much – no one loves chili dogs that much! And the Cool Girls are even more pathetic: They’re not even pretending to be the woman they want to be, they’re pretending to be the woman a man wants them to be. Oh, and if you’re not a Cool Girl, I beg you not to believe that your man doesn’t want the Cool Girl. It may be a slightly different version – maybe he’s a vegetarian, so Cool Girl loves seitan and is great with dogs; or maybe he’s a hipster artist, so Cool Girl is a tattooed, bespectacled nerd who loves comics. There are variations to the window dressing, but believe me, he wants Cool Girl, who is basically the girl who likes every fucking thing he likes and doesn’t ever complain. (How do you know you’re not Cool Girl? Because he says things like: ‘I like strong women.’ If he says that to you, he will at some point fuck someone else. Because ‘I like strong women’ is code for ‘I hate strong women.’)

New Rule: Democrats must get in touch with their inner asshole. I refer to the case of Van Jones, the man the Obama administration hired to find jobs for Americans in the new green industries. Seems like a smart thing to do in a recession, but Van Jones got fired because he got caught on tape saying Republicans are assholes. And they call it news! Now, I know I'm supposed to be all reinjected with yes-we-can-fever after the big health-care speech, and it was a great speech--when Black Elvis gets jiggy with his teleprompter, there is none better. But here's the thing: Muhammad Ali also had a way with words, but it helped enormously that he could also punch guys in the face. It bothers me that Obama didn't say a word in defense of Jones and basically fired him when Glenn Beck told him to. Just like dropped "end-of-life counseling" from health-care reform because Sarah Palin said it meant "death panels" on her Facebook page. Crazy morons make up things for Obama to do, and he does it. Same thing with the speech to schools this week, where the president attempted merely to tell children to work hard and wash their hands, and Cracker Nation reacted as if he was trying to hire the Black Panthers to hand out grenades in homeroom. Of course, the White House immediately capitulated. "No students will be forced to view the speech" a White House spokesperson assured a panicked nation. Isn't that like admitting that the president might be doing something unseemly? What a bunch of cowards. If the White House had any balls, they'd say, "He's giving a speech on the importance of staying in school, and if you jackasses don't show it to every damn kid, we're cutting off your federal education funding tomorrow." The Democrats just never learn: Americans don't really care which side of an issue you're on as long as you don't act like pussies When Van Jones called the Republicans assholes, he was paying them a compliment. He was talking about how they can get things done even when they're in the minority, as opposed to the Democrats , who can't seem to get anything done even when they control both houses of Congress, the presidency, and Bruce Springsteen. I love Obama's civility, his desire to work with his enemies; it's positively Christlike. In college, he was probably the guy at the dorm parties who made sure the stoners shared their pot with the jocks. But we don't need that guy now. We need an asshole. Mr. President, there are some people who are never going to like you. That's why they voted for the old guy and Carrie's mom. You're not going to win them over. Stand up for the seventy percent of Americans who aren't crazy. And speaking of that seventy percent, when are we going to actually show up in all this? Tomorrow Glenn Beck's army of zombie retirees descending on Washington. It's the Million Moron March, although they won't get a million, of course, because many will be confused and drive to Washington state--but they will make news. Because people who take to the streets always do. They're at the town hall screaming at the congressman; we're on the couch screaming at the TV. Especially in this age of Twitters and blogs and Snuggies, it's a statement to just leave the house. But leave the house we must, because this is our last best shot for a long time to get the sort of serious health-care reform that would make the United States the envy of several African nations.

What It’s Like to Be a Six I’m always imagining and planning for the worst. I often don’t trust people who are in authority. People say I am loyal, understanding, funny and compassionate. Most of my friends don’t have as much anxiety as I do. I act quickly in a crisis, but when things settle down I fall apart. When my partner and I are doing really well in our relationship I find myself wondering what will happen to spoil it. Being sure I’ve made the right decision is almost impossible. I’m aware that fear has dictated many of my choices in life. I don’t like to find myself in unpredictable situations. I find it hard to stop thinking about the things I’m worried about. I’m generally not comfortable with extremes. I usually have so much to do it’s hard for me to finish tasks. I’m most comfortable when I’m around people who are pretty much like me. People tell me I can be overly pessimistic. I am slow to start, and once I do get started I find myself continuing to think about what could go wrong. I don’t trust people who give me too many compliments. It helps me to have things in some kind of order. I like to be told I am good at my job, but I get very nervous when my boss wants to add to my responsibilities. I have to know people for a long time before I can really trust them. I am skeptical of things that are new and unknown.

You're a killer, Keeley.You'd tease a man to death." He didn't mean it as a compliment, but to her it was a revelation. "I've never tried it before. Now one's ever attracted me enough.You do,and I dont even know why." When she dropped her hand,he took her wrist. It surprised him to feel the gallop of her pulse there, when her eyes, her voice had been so cool, so steady. "Then you're a quick learner." "I'd like to think so.If I come to you, you'd be the first." "The first what?" Temper wanted to stir, especially when she laughed. THen his mind cleared and the meaning flashed through like a thunderbolt. His hand tightened on her wrist, then dropped it as though she had turned to fire. "That scared you enough to shut you up," she observed. "I'm surprised anything could render you speechless." "I've..." But he couldn't think. "No,don't fumble around for words. You'll spoil your image." She couldn't think just why his dazed expression struck her as so funny,or why the shock in his eyes was endearing somehow. "We'll just say that,under these circumstances, we both have a lot to consider.And now,I'm way behind in my work, and have to get ready for my afternoon class." She walked away,as easily, as casually, Brian thought numbly, as she might have if they'd just finished discussing the proper treatment for windgalls. She left him reeling. he'd gone and fallen in love with the gentry,and the gentry was his boss's daughter. And his boss's daughter was innocent. He'd have to be mad to lay a hand on her after this. He began to wish Betty had just kicked him in the head and gotten it all over with.

Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl. Men actually think this girl exists. Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend to be this girl. For a long time Cool Girl offended me. I used to see men – friends, coworkers, strangers – giddy over these awful pretender women, and I’d want to sit these men down and calmly say: You are not dating a woman, you are dating a woman who has watched too many movies written by socially awkward men who’d like to believe that this kind of woman exists and might kiss them. I’d want to grab the poor guy by his lapels or messenger bag and say: The bitch doesn’t really love chili dogs that much – no one loves chili dogs that much! And the Cool Girls are even more pathetic: They’re not even pretending to be the woman they want to be, they’re pretending to be the woman a man wants them to be. Oh, and if you’re not a Cool Girl, I beg you not to believe that your man doesn’t want the Cool Girl. It may be a slightly different version – maybe he’s a vegetarian, so Cool Girl loves seitan and is great with dogs; or maybe he’s a hipster artist, so Cool Girl is a tattooed, bespectacled nerd who loves comics. There are variations to the window dressing, but believe me, he wants Cool Girl, who is basically the girl who likes every fucking thing he likes and doesn’t ever complain. (How do you know you’re not Cool Girl? Because he says things like: “I like strong women.” If he says that to you, he will at some point fuck someone else. Because “I like strong women” is code for “I hate strong women.

Funny is when people go around speaking bad of you in attempt to purposely disrepute you, and you are like,''thank you, for that which you utter is merely or equals to a compliment, if only you that one thing i did you will break and fall like the walls of Jerico''.

Funny is when people go around speaking bad of you in attempt to purposely disrepute you, and you are like,''thank you, for that which you utter is merely or equals to a compliment, if only you knew that one worse thing i did! you will break and fall like the walls of Jericho''.” —

I don’t care who knows, babe. It sucks not being able to be near you like I want to just ’cause Dre or Nicky might be watching. You hafta know I wanna kiss you, like, all the damn time.” “Why?” Jesse wasn’t fishing for compliments. He really didn’t understand. “You actually mean that?” Jesse nodded his head miserably. Shane lifted his chin. “Because you’re smart, and funny, and I can’t even hear a single note you sing without getting all turned on…and, well, because I’m falling for you. Like, hard.” Shane’s forehead wrinkled, his eyes went puppy-dog droopy. “Don’t you feel the same way about me?” Shane’s sudden insecurity was sweet and sad and so very endearing. “Of course I do. But you’re Shane. I’m just…” A nerd. Ugly, squishy, pale, and too damn blind to get rid of these dumb ass glasses. “There is no ‘just’ anything. Jess, you’re my boyfriend. Right?

It’s funny, isn’t it?” she later remarked, “all the compliments and nice things in the world can be said to you but if you didn’t hear them as a child—or even thought you didn’t hear them—then you just never believe them.

I liked Alan immediately. He was funny, smart and witty—three traits that make it easy to comically play off someone else. Playing opposite someone as gifted as Alan made it easier for me to become Mike Seaver. Alan was always extremely generous with his compliments about fellow cast members. Once in an interview he said, “Successful family shows need someone with that magic—the look that has the chance to take the country by storm. Michael J. Fox did that. Kirk seemed to have that. I thought, This is a good rocket to hitch my star to.

I smirked. “Careful, Aussie, that almost sounded like a compliment.” I reached to take the knife, but Matthias caught my wrist, reeled back his arm, and stabbed the blade into my hand. I screamed. The Aussie laughed. Okay, it was only a prick. On my finger. But his serial-killer plunge and deranged look of delight got my heart pumping.

Birdie, he likes you. Why wouldn’t he? You’re beautiful, you’re funny, you’re sweet.” “You have the best hair,” Murphy added. Leeda nodded in agreement. “You pick a mean peach. You know how to do all this farm stuff that makes you look cool. You’re a steel magnolia.

Funny things, humans...Just when you think they're all a bunch of morons, a smart one shows up and proves you wrong. ...I do believe that was a compliment. From a demon. Go figure. Yup. Just when you think we're all a bunch of morons... One shows up and makes you fall in love with him.

You're as brave as any guard on the Rise.' Taking that as a huge compliment, I smiled. 'Well, thank you.' 'And just as foolish as any new recruit.' My smile turned upside down. 'I take back my thank you.

Cauldron boil me,' Lucien whistled as I came down the stairs. 'She looks positively Fae.

Sasha, oblivious to Jason’s internal freak-out, smirked. “Last night, good for you?” “Stop fishing for compliments.” Sasha shook his head. “This is why you not have boyfriend. Not romantic at all.

It’s not you,” she said quickly. “I just don’t do relationships.” He stared at her. “Why . . .” “I do hookups,” she clarified. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious about what you’d be like. You’re hot, but more importantly, you’re funny, and sweet, and . . . I don’t know. There’s something real about you.” It was, perhaps, the best compliment he’d ever received. “But short term is all I’ve got to offer,” she finished. “If you’re not interested, that’s fine. No harm, no foul.” She leaned forward. “But if you are interested, let’s skip the drink and just go to your room.” His mouth went dry. She was sincere. And hot. Holy crow, she was hot. He should say no. “Come up to my room,” he said instead.

- …Marin sits indoors and has ideas, but does not understand the nuances involved in actual trade. I've been doing this for twenty years! For too long - he sighs. - One must tread carefully, and yet she crashes like an elephant. - I see – Nella says, though she has no idea what an elephant is. It sounds like an elegant flower, but Johannes didn’t seem to be paying his sister a compliment.

You dance funny,’ she said. I didn’t think this was a compliment.

Just me tonight. Vanni’s gone up to Oregon with Paul for a few days, and I don’t rate much time with Tom while he’s on Brenda’s dance card.” “Oregon?” Jack said with a lift of his brow. “You don’t say? What do you suppose they’ll find to do in Oregon?” Walt smiled at him. “Funny.” Jack chuckled. “Sounds like maybe some things got sorted out. This mean we won’t be seeing too much of that nice Dr. Michaels around here?” “I think maybe that nice Dr. Michaels hanging around lit a fire under Paul,” Walt said. “Good man, Haggerty. If a little slow.” Jack laughed. “Don’t go too hard on him, General. I think Vanessa scared him to death. She’s awful pretty. Wicked smart, too.” Walt appreciated the compliment and smiled. “Hell, sometimes she scares me.” “I’ll

Jersey cows,” Eva explained after Jac complimented the luxurious taste. “The butter and cream here are better than anywhere in the world.” “Not that we’re prejudiced,” Theo teased.

ant a successful party? Remember to laugh! Don't take yourself too seriously-especially when it's party time. Tell jokes, share funny stories that highlight your own embarrassing moments. Celebrate fun memories. One of our favorite family parties is getting out the old photo albums and making fun of ourselves. Guests love it too if you have them bring some pictures of their own to add to the fun. now when to say "no" to good things and "yes" for the best. Everything I didn't do yesterday Added to everything I haven't done today Plus everything I won't do tomorrow-completely exhausts me! AUTHOR UNKNOWN ne of the best compliments you can give a friend is to say, "You're such a kind person!" And what exactly is a kind person? • Kindness is an attitude of the heart. • A kind person goes out of her way to be nice to someone else. All through Scripture we're shown God's character, and it's one of kindness. So why not lighten someone's load today and bring him or her joy? • Offer to help lighten someone's load. • Open the door for someone. • Even a bright smile conveys kindness.

You have beautiful hair. It's like spun moonlight. Stunning.' 'I think I will cut it all off.' Ash chuckled. 'You would, wouldn't you?

You always did remind me of one of the multi-aspect goddesses from Earth’s mythology. Bethany Anne raised a still-perfect eyebrow. Is that supposed to be a joke about my personality? No, TOM protested. It was a remark on the faces you have chosen to wear. The mother, which is your own, the witch, Baba Yaga, and this would be the crone. Bethany Anne hissed away the pain of dropping the mask. Pity. I would have laughed at the crazy lady joke. TOM sniffed. You sucked at being a vampire, is that funny enough for you? Try to give a human a compliment. Sheesh!

Follow someone you like and start interacting. And be genuine. I never give a compliment I don’t mean. And my best tip: Be helpful and give freely. It’s funny how generous people become when you are generous first.

Every time I look at you, I see a gift I'm not worthy of.' My breath caught as my heart swelled. It wasn't new- him saying things like that. What was new was me believing him. 'You are worthy,' I told him. 'Most of the time.' He cracked a grin. 'I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me.

Complimenting engineers only inflated their egos, encouraging self-satisfaction and laziness.

You look... lovely,' he said, and my stomach dipped in the most pleasant way possible. He turned to Tawny. 'As do you.' Tawny smiled. 'Thank you.' He glanced at Vikter. 'You, as well.' Vikter snorted, and I smiled, while Tawny giggled. 'You do look exceptionally handsome tonight, ' she said, an I swore Vikter's cheeks deepened in colour as I turned back to the dais.

You're so incredibly beautiful when you're angry.' I refused to be flattered by that somewhat weird compliment. 'And you're so incredibly disturbed.' 'Been called worse.' 'I'm sure you have.

Then you should get changed,' he said, turning away. 'I'll get jealous if anyone else sees how pretty your legs are.

I hate when you offer someone a sincere compliment on their mustache and suddenly she’s not your friend anymore.

Is it an actual question? "You sure do have your hands full, don't you?" I don't even know if it's meant to be an insult or a light-hearted observation or even a compliment, something very American-esque about how incredible I must be at multitasking if for no other reason than because I have clearly had unprotected sex at least four times.

Huh, yeah,' Johnny says. 'My mom was always complimenting me, and look how I turned out.