Corny Love Quotes

You're the love of my life. I don't care how corny that sounds. You're the start of it, and the end of it. And you're the best of it.

I just don't want you to feel that way, because I love you. I'm in love with you. Forever and ever, and all the corny things I can attach to that.

I like grit, I like love and death, I'm tired of irony. ... A lot of good fiction is sentimental. ... The novelist who refuses sentiment refuses the full spectrum of human behavior, and then he just dries up. ... I would rather give full vent to all human loves and disappointments, and take a chance on being corny, than die a smartass.

I love my mom so much. I don't care if that's corny to say. I think on my next birthday, I'm going to buy her a present. I think that should be a tradition. The kid gets gifts from everybody, and he buys one present for his mom since she was there, too. It think that would be nice.

Chapter 1. He adored New York City. He idolized it all out of proportion...no, make that: he - he romanticized it all out of proportion. Yeah. To him, no matter what the season was, this was still a town that existed in black and white and pulsated to the great tunes of George Gershwin.' Uh, no let me start this over. 'Chapter 1. He was too romantic about Manhattan, as he was about everything else. He thrived on the hustle bustle of the crowds and the traffic. To him, New York meant beautiful women and street-smart guys who seemed to know all the angles...'. Ah, corny, too corny for my taste. Can we ... can we try and make it more profound? 'Chapter 1. He adored New York City. For him, it was a metaphor for the decay of contemporary culture. The same lack of individual integrity that caused so many people to take the easy way out was rapidly turning the town of his dreams in...' No, that's going to be too preachy. I mean, you know, let's face it, I want to sell some books here. 'Chapter 1. He adored New York City, although to him it was a metaphor for the decay of contemporary culture. How hard it was to exist in a society desensitized by drugs, loud music, television, crime, garbage...' Too angry, I don't want to be angry. 'Chapter 1. He was as tough and romantic as the city he loved. Behind his black-rimmed glasses was the coiled sexual power of a jungle cat.' I love this. 'New York was his town, and it always would be.

Did you ever hear one of those corny, positive messages on someone's answering machine? 'Hi, it's a great day and I'm out enjoying it right now. I hope you are too. The thought for the day is share the love. Beep.' 'Uh, yeah, this is the VD clinic… speaking of being positive, your test is back. Stop sharing the love.

I want to be loved. Oh, it's SO CORNY, isn't it?! But I just want to be loved by a bloke that loves ME! I want to feel special, you know. I almost feel guilty for feeling it.

Its okay, Beth.I don't want my life to go back to the way it was before i met you.I thought i had it all,but really i was missing something. feel like a completely different person now.This might sound corny,but i feel like i've been asleep for a long time and you've just woken me up...

And I know I'm sarcastic and defensive and I make a joke out of everything and am highly resistant to anything that reeks of sentimental corniness, but I'm giving you my heart anyway because being with you feels like home, and I know you won't break it.

Do you need anything?" "I would say just you but that sounds way too corny.

I didn't come looking for you the day you uninvitedly appeared on my doorstep How did we go from nonchalant conversation me waiting for you to turn me off with corny jokes and mind dumbing conversation to love To love and mind blowing chemistry that I've yet to make sense of What are you here to teach me?

Each of us is aware he's a material being, subject to the laws of physiology and physics, and that the strength of all our emotions combined cannot counteract those laws. It can only hate them. The eternal belief of lovers and poets in the power of love which is more enduring that death, the finis vitae sed non amoris that has pursued us through the centuries is a lie. But this lie is not ridiculous, it's simply futile. To be a clock on the other hand, measuring the passage of time, one that is smashed and rebuilt over and again, one in whose mechanism despair and love are set in motion by the watchmaker along with the first movements of the cogs. To know one is a repeater of suffering felt ever more deeply as it becomes increasingly comical through a multiple repetitions. To replay human existence - fine. But to replay it in the way a drunk replays a corny tune pushing coins over and over into the jukebox?

I like you so much it might even be love.

The Christmas after Mom & Dad split up, they both went crazy buying us presents. Matt, Jonny, and I were showered with gifts at home and at Dads apartment. I thought that was great. I was all in favor of my love being paid for with presents. This year all I got was a diary and a secondhand watch. Okay, I know this is corny, but this really is what Christmas is all about.

Love is corny, when you get right down to it. It has two left feet. It trips over itself, because it is so large that it's awkward. It's sort of silly, done right. After all, how do you convey something that huge?

The lions of hard rock, guys like Robert Plant, Roger Daltrey, Brian Johnson, Rob Halford, these monsters feel completely timeless, iconic, eternal. They simply shall not, will not, do not die. It's almost impossible to imagine a musical world without Robert Plant. No metal fan of any stripe can imagine a day when, say, Iron Maiden shuts it all down because Bruce Dickinson turned 85 and suddenly can't remember the lyrics to "Hallowed Be Thy Name." Metal revels in the raw energy and unchecked phantasmagorical ridiculousness of youth. It is all fire and testosterone and rebellious fantasy. It doesn't go well with reality. So it is for hard rock and a guy like Dio, an elfin titan with an undying love for lasers and sorcery, dragons and kings. The man wrote some terribly corny metal songs, but he sang every one with a ferocity and love and total honesty. He also wrote some of the finest hard rock melodies of all time, sang them with a precision and love unmatched by any hard rock singer since. It's a rare thing to give metal some heartfelt props. It is time. Raise your devil horns and salute.

I loved our mutual corny sense of humor. Underneath all his macho bravado, he was a dork. Just like me.

It could not have been easy for Mother, an only child, to grow up without a father and with a mother who was remote. Photos of her as a child show her extremely dressed up --Cornie's beautiful little doll. But a daughter, unlike a doll, grows up, and might fall in love with and marry someone her mother does not like; she becomes an individual with her own ideas.

It happened right then; he looked at me and it was the thing I’d been waiting for but didn’t know it. I don’t mean anything corny like I fell in love or even into a crush or anything like that. It was more a feeling like when I’d get picked first for volleyball or find one of those stupid school candygrams in my locker. It was knowing someone else thought about me for more than one second, maybe even about me when I wasn’t there.

But she used to tell me how the moment I was born, she knew she had found her light in the dark. That one lighthouse that, no matter what, was always up. Lighting up the night and signaling her way home. And as a kid, I thought that was either corny or very dramatic.

Ah, fairest maiden, thine beauty doth maketh mine loins stir, and mine cup runneth over.

I love my mom so much. I don't care if it's corny to say. I think on my next birthday I'm going to buy her a present. I think that should be the tradition.

Sunshine If it were possible to place you in my brain to let you roam around in and out my thought waves you would never have to ask why do you love me? This morning as you slept I wanted to kiss you awake say I love you till your brain smiled and nodded yes this woman does love me. Each day the list grows filled with the things that are you things that make my heart jump yet words would sound strange become corny in utterance. In the morning when I wake I don’t look out my window to see if the sun is shining. I turn to you instead.

I understood how strangers met and fell into bed, not how they met and fell in love. I wasn't sure what falling in love meant. The very notion seemed so corny, so arbitrary, so fragile.

I think I grew up that night. It might have been Patrick that lost his virginity, but it was me that lost my innocence. Laying in the dark,holding the guy I’d loved since I was twelve and being the friend, the rock he needed…without being corny or schmaltzy, I think I became a man.

I love my mom so much. I don’t care if that’s corny to say. I think on my next birthday, I’m going to buy her a present. I think that should be the tradition. The kid gets gifts from everybody, and he buys one present for his mom since she was there, too. I think that would be nice.

If your soulmate can't teach you a few things then what is the point of having one? I don't need someone to tell me I am right. I don't need someone to tell me I didn't screw up. I don't need someone to not push me to reach for my dreams. I don't need someone to not take an interest in making me better. I need a team mate, a best friend and someone that allows me enough room to have off days. I am allowed to be as silly, corny, upset at times, excited, scared and a million emotions, but still loved. I need someone that will be that way for me, also. I don't want perfection. I don't want to build my world around what other people think. I want to build it around positive experiences, spiritual growth, and adventure. That requires something deeper than just acting the way someone requires. It means finding someone imperfect that I have the ability to help and someone that sees my imperfectness and is willing to help me. If a soulmate is anything, it better be useful. Otherwise, it is simply a made up fantasy that has no place in God's plan for me.

Marlena and I were very different, but sometimes, when we were together, we could erase our separate histories just by talking, sharing a joke or a look. But in the kitchen with Mom, the kitchen that was always clean, where there was always something to eat, where the water flowed predictably from the tap and behind every cabinet door were dishes, only dishes, I saw how wrong I was to feel like Marlena and I had so much in common, and how lucky. Because here was the difference that mattered. My skinny mom with her Chardonnay smell and her forgetting to unplug the flat iron, with her corny jokes about broccoli farts and her teeth bared in anger and her cleaning gloves in the backseat of the car, my mom who refused to stop loving me, who made dumb mistakes and drank too much and was my twin in laughter, my mom who would never, ever, leave, who I trusted so profoundly that a world without her in it exceeded the limits of my imagination. That was the difference, and it was huge, and my never seeing it before is something that I still regret.

I like grit, I like love and death, I’m tired of irony. … A lot of good fiction is sentimental. … The novelist who refuses sentiment refuses the full spectrum of human behavior, and then he just dries up. … I would rather give full vent to all human loves and disappointments, and take a chance on being corny, than die a smartass.

Maybe if you thought about them, people never really disappeared. It sounded so corny, but there was a scientific explanation for it, too. If you believed that thoughts were energy and energy is matter ( E = mc 2 ) and matter never disappears, then a person can never truly leave you unless you stop thinking about them. Everything you shared with a person is still there swirling around in the universe. Love, Cam had to admit, might be real. And love endures. Relationships endure. Because thoughts are energy, energy is matter, and matter never disappears.

The novel had metabolized recovery with so much rigor that it had already asked all my questions and weathered all my intellectual discomforts. It documented what Wallace called the “grudging move toward maybe acknowledging that this unromantic, unhip, clichéd A.A. thing — so unlikely and unpromising … this goofy slapdash anarchic system of low-rent gatherings and corny slogans and saccharine grins and hideous coffee” might actually offer hope, in its simplicity and its slogans, in its church-basement coffee and its effusion of anonymous and unqualified love.

the overriding thought in my mind is that I didn’t have the foresight to say goodbye or thank you to the people I love. That sounds corny, I know, but what’s wrong with corny? It has its place.

Plus there was Radar. That was love at first sight. For her as well as for me, maybe. If the idea strikes you as weird, or corny, or both, all I can say is deal with it. As I said to my father, she was a nice dog.

Is this love?' said the moon. 'You are not asking the right people,' said the stars. 'I have asked the sun, who burns,' said the moon. 'I have asked the clouds, who cover. I have asked the sky, who stays forever. I have asked the earth, who made me.' 'But have you asked the ocean, who loves you?' said the stars. 'Oh,' said the moon. And so the moon went down to the ocean and asked, 'Is this love?' And the ocean said, 'Yes.

Affirmations work for anyone striving for self-acceptance. Although I had for years been interested in therapeutic modes of healing and self-help, affirmations always seemed to me a bit corny. My sister, who was then working as a therapist in the field of chemical dependency, encouraged me to give affirmations a try to see if I would experience any concrete changes in my outlook. I wrote affirmations relevant to my daily life and began to repeat them in the morning as part of my daily meditations. At the top of my list was the declaration: "I'm breaking with old patterns and moving forward with my life." I not only found them to be a tremendous energy boost--a way to kick off the day by my accentuating the positive--I also found it useful to repeat them during the day if I felt particularly stressed or was falling into the abyss of negative thinking. Affirmations helped restore my emotional equilibrium.

Khalil is watching me. A smile tries to form on his lips, but he shakes his head. “Can’t believe you still love whiny-ass Drake.” I gape at him. “Leave my husband alone!” “Your corny husband. ‘Baby, you my everything, you all I ever wanted,

He did atrocious things, but it was him I wanted. Always, only him. Troy stopped when we were nose to nose. Toe to toe. I loved watching those eyes from up-close. They were so ocean blue, no wonder they made my head swim. “I love you, Red. I love you determined, tough, innocent, resilient…” His brows furrowed as he drank me in, stroking the curve of my face with his calloused fingertips. “I love you broken, insecure, scared, furious and pissed off…” He let a small smile loose. I actually felt it, even though it was on his lips. “I love every part of you, the good and the bad, the hopeless and the assertive. We don’t just love. We heal each other with every touch and complete each other with ever kiss. And fuck, I know it’s corny as hell, but that’s what I need. You’re what I need.” My eyes fluttered shut, a lone tear hanging from the tip of my eyelash. “We don’t have ordinary words between us. You always set my fucking brain on fire when you talk to me. We don’t even have ordinary moments of silence. I always feel like I’m playing with you or being played by you when you’re around. And I refuse to let you walk out on this, on us.” He cupped my cheeks and I locked his palms in place, tightening my grip. I never wanted him to let go. He dipped his head down, tilting his forehead against mine. I knew he was right. Knew that I’d already forgiven him. Probably before I even knew what he did, when we were still living together. Hell, probably on that dance floor, when I was nine. My capturer. My monster. My savior. “I’m an asshole, was an asshole, and have every intention of staying an asshole. It’s the makeup of my fucking DNA. But I want to be your asshole. To you, I can be good. Maybe even great. For you, I’ll stop the rain from falling and the thunder from cracking and the wind from fucking blowing. And yes, I sure as hell knew you’d come back. You came straight back into my arms, flew back to your nest, lovebird. Now why would you do that if you didn’t love the shit out of me?” My eyes roamed his face. His hands felt delicious on my skin. It was like he was pumping life into me with his fingertips. Like he made me whole before I even knew parts of me were missing.

I love my mom so much. I don’t care if that’s corny to say. I think on my next birthday, I’m going to buy her a present. I think that should be the tradition. The kid gets gifts from everybody, and he buys one present for his mom since she was there, too.

Give Me The Simple Life" I don't believe in frettin' and grievin' Why mess around with strife' I never was cut out to step and strut out Give me the simple life Some find it pleasant dining on pheasant Those things roll off my knife Just serve me tomatoes and mashed potatoes Give me the simple life A cottage small if all I'm after Not one that's spacious and wide A house that rings with joy and laughter And the ones you love inside Some like the high road, I like the low road Free from the care and strife Sounds corny and seedy, but yes, indeed Give me the simple life

I didn’t until I was older and she was diagnosed and the possibility of her leaving us became real. But she used to tell me how the moment I was born, she knew she had found her light in the dark. That one lighthouse that, no matter what, was always up. Lighting up the night and signaling her way home. And as a kid, I thought that was either corny or very dramatic.” A low and humorless chuckle left him. My heart broke all over again for him, hurting and begging me to turn around and give him any comfort I could. But I stayed put. “You must miss her so much.” “I do, every day. When she passed and my nights got a little darker, I started to understand what she’d meant.” That was a loss I hoped I wouldn’t experience in a long time. “But what your dad said—about you having this fire inside, that lightness and life, and how it dulled for a period of time …” He paused, and I swore I heard him swallow. “It just …” He trailed off, as if he was scared of his next words. And Aaron never feared speaking his mind. Aaron was never scared. “You are all that, Catalina. You are light. And passion. Your laughter alone can lift my mood and effortlessly turn my day around in a matter of seconds. Even when it’s not aimed at me. You … can light up entire rooms, Catalina. You hold that kind of power. And it’s because of all the different things that make you who you are. Each and every one of them, even the ones that drive me crazy in ways you can’t imagine. You should never forget that.

I don’t want to sound cliché or corny or anything, but Black men and women have always been pitted against each other.We’ve been made to believe so many lies about each other, and that’s why I think our loving each other, whether it’s expressed through friendship or marriage or both, is a revolutionary act. It means that we’re able to see and accept the truth in each other, and in ourselves.

What I can make people do . . . it’s not what they want to do. It may sound corny, but I want people to like me for me, not because I can force them to or because of who my mom is or who I am in the Family. You know?” He raised his green gaze to my blue one. “That’s one of the things I like about you, Lila. You don’t care about any of that.” “Just one of the things?” I teased, trying to make him laugh a little, just so he’d forget his guilt and grief, if only for a few moments. “Just one.” His voice took on a low, husky note. “I could list all the others, if you want.” My gaze locked with his and my soulsight kicked in, showing me all of his emotions. And I felt them, too—more intensely than I ever had before. His heart still ached with that soul-crushing guilt, and it always would. But that hot spark I’d seen inside him that first day at the Razzle Dazzle had finally ignited into a roaring fire, burning as hot and bright as my own emotions were right now. Devon hesitated, then leaned in, just a little. My breath caught in my throat. He inched forward a little more. I wet my lips. He came even closer, so close that his warm breath brushed my cheek and his scent flooded my nose, that sharp, fresh tang of pine. Clean and crisp, just like he was, inside and out. I sighed. Suddenly, my hands itched to touch him, to trace my fingers over the sharp planes of his face, and then slide them lower, over all of his warm, delicious muscles . . . “Lila,” he whispered. I shivered, loving the sound of my name on his lips—lips that were heartbreakingly close to mine—

And you?' 'Ah. I'm coping.' He said it simply, but it caused something in my heart to crack a little. 'It's not for ever,' I said, as we stopped. 'I know.' 'And we're going to do loads of fun stuff while you're here.' 'What have you got planned?' 'Um, basically it's You Getting Naked. Followed by supper. Followed by more You Getting Naked. Maybe a walk around Central Park, some corny tourist stuff, like the Staten Island ferry and Times Square, and some shopping in the East Village and some really good food with added You Getting Naked.' He grinned. 'Do I get You Getting Naked too?' 'Oh, yes, it's a two-for-one deal.' I leant my head against him. 'Seriously, though, I'd love you to come and see where I work. Maybe meet Nathan and Ashok and all the people I go on about. Mr and Mrs Gopnik will be out of town so you probably won't meet them but you'll at least get an idea of it all in your head.

Now in his nineties, Spock is writing a book on spirituality. But his understanding of spirituality is a far cry from that of institutionalized religions: Spirituality, unfortunately, is not a stylish word. It’s not a word that gets used. That’s because we’re such an unspiritual country that we think of it as somewhat corny to talk about spirituality. “What is that?” people say. Spirituality, to me, means the nonmaterial things. I don’t want to give the idea that it’s something mystical; I want it to apply to ordinary people’s ordinary lives: things like love, and helpfulness, and tolerance, and enjoyment of the arts or even creativity in the arts. I think that creativity in the arts is very special. It takes a high degree and a high type of spirituality to want to express things in terms of literature or poetry, plays, architecture, gardens, creating beauty any way. And if you can’t create beauty, at least it’s good to appreciate beauty and get some enjoyment and inspiration out of it. So it’s just things that aren’t totally materialistic. And that would include religion.

The first thing he taught me was how to make love. 　　Before you laugh, know that I’d always hated that phrase. It sounded so corny, so old. Hippies made love. People my mom’s age, though I preferred to believe I was an immaculate conception. 　　People my age hooked up, fucked, had sex. We didn’t attach frilly ideas of oneness and eternity to a basic biological act. Most of us were from single-parent homes. Those who weren’t wished they were when their parents screamed and beat the shit out of each other. We grew up sexualized, from toddler beauty pageants to the constant reminder that adults were waiting to lure us into vans with candy. The invention of MMS gave us a platform for the distribution of amateur porn. 　　That’s a lot of conditioning to break through.

I was visiting Marcus and his wife when a friend asked if she could talk to me alone. Teresa was the spouse of a Team member who’d served with Chris. We hadn’t spent a lot of time together, but we’d always had a connection. “I have something I want to give you,” she said. “I don’t know if it’s going to seem corny to you or what, but I kind of want to do it for me.” She pressed a medal into my hand. I looked at it--it was the medal she’d received for completing the Boston Marathon. “You and Chris kept me going,” she explained. “It was almost eerie how, when my legs were tired and I wanted to quit, Randy Travis’s song came on the iPod. It was the one he played at the memorial. My iPod was on random shuffle but it was always at just the right moment. I would hear that song and it would spur me on.” Maybe Chris was somehow behind that. People have told me of other inspirational incidents; each one, from simple to grand, has touched me with its beauty.

As soon as I was immersed in my work, cutting up the kabocha squash for the winter butternut squash soup, dicing the carrots to braise in orange juice, and starting another giant vat of chicken stock, I allowed the aromas and natural muscle rhythms of the kitchen to sweep me up in what I loved. I calmed down and experienced--- as corny as it might sound--- the joy of cooking. I was in love with food, obsessed with it. Food wasn't just fuel; it could heal a broken heart, it could entertain, it could bring you home. Magic happened when a perfectly balanced dish came together. A beautiful symphony of flavors. Salty, sweet, acidic, crunchy, colorful, soft, hard, warm, cold. It should take you on a journey. Once I had an Italian dish called Genovese, consisting of braised rabbit over thick noodles with a carrot and pea sauce. It was so beautiful, earthy, clever, and delicious, and it warmed you from the inside. It was what I liked to call a "circle of life plate.

Want to tell me what’s the matter?” he asked. She took a good while to answer. They drove north on 75, the office buildings and stores that lined the freeway whipping past. “You know how there are some people in your life that build you up?” she asked. “And some people that drain you?” “Yes.” “Several of my family members drain me. I wish it wasn’t so, but it is.” “Anything I can do?” “No. Thank you, though.” “Would fast food make it better?” “Goodness, no.” But she shot him a tiny smile. “You sure? There goes Whataburger.” The smile grew. “I could take you horseback riding.” “Possibly one of the only things more stressful than dealing with my family.” “I could tell you a corny joke.” “Hmm.” “I could prank call your family.” She chuckled. “What helps is having you around. That’s enough.” He hadn’t known, before her, that tenderness could hurt. But it did. The sweetness of her words burned him. She shifted to face him. “Thank you for coming with me tonight. I know it wasn’t exactly your type of thing.” “What do you mean? I love the Crescendo Hotel.” “The Crescent.” “Oh. Right.

So many people come up to me and said “Nick, I don’t have a purpose, I don’t know what to do in my life.” Let me ask you one thing, if you went through your life full of pain, full of tears, and at the end of your life, you actually save somebody’s life, is your life worth living? Is the pain worth someone’s life? If you could actually save somebody? Can you imagine? If you actually saw somebody nearly get run over by a car and you dive and get them out of the way of the car? For instance – an example, would that be worth living? You’ve saved somebody’s life, I don’t know. What about this? Let’s say you have a problem in your life. And you want to give up now. Imagine if someone 10 years older who’s gone through the exact same thing that you have – actually got through it and came to you and said, “you know what, I know how it feels. I’ve been there! I’ve been going through what you’re going through now. But I’m still here. Would that not encourage you? Could that possibly save your life? Yes. Is that not a purpose worth living for? And that’s why I believe in you because that is the greatest purpose! It’s to love! Honest! It sounds corny - whatever you want to say, I don’t care! I love people because there is freedom and power in loving people.

I replayed the moment I first saw him at the picnic throughout our years together. As corny as it may sound, from the first glance we shared near the cake stand at the picnic, the two of us remained connected like the icing on one of those made from scratch cakes...

I have been tied up, my apologies, Abigail Miller.” He chuckled deeply at his corny joke and I would have rolled my eyes, but considering he just took an epic fall, I let him have this one.

Mel was fascinated by the way they talked about their women with lusty smiles and glittering eyes. No jokes about the old ball and chain here. Rather, they sounded as though they couldn’t wait to get home to them. “How’s Patti doing?” someone asked Josh. He curved his hands over his flat belly to indicate a pregnant tummy and grinning boastfully, said, “She’s ripe as a tomato. I can hardly keep my hands off her.” “If she’s ripe as a tomato, I bet you get slapped down like crazy,” Zeke laughed. “I got another one on Christa.” “No way! I thought she said you were through!” “She said that two kids ago—but I snuck one more by her. She’s cooking number four. What can I say—that girl’s been lightin’ my fire since high school. You should see her, man. She’s lit up like a beacon. Nobody cooks ’em like Christa. Whew.” “Hey, buddy, congratulations, man! But I don’t think you know when to quit.” “I don’t. It’s like I can’t quit. But Christa says she’s all done with me. She said after this one, snip snip.” “I think I can go one more,” Corny said. “Got my girls. I feel a boy coming on.” No one could better appreciate this kind of enthusiasm for pregnant women than a midwife. Mel was loving it. Loving them. “Yeah, I’ve heard that a lot,” Jack said. “Eight nieces later, no one got their boy. My brothers-in-law have run through all their chances, I think.” “Maybe you’re packin’ a boy, Jack.” “I don’t even kid myself about that,” he laughed. Jack

Evans was the same nasty ass black cop who had stopped me from beating her ass the last couple times we had it out in the streets. Each time he broke us up, he would ask for some ass and I would shoot his lil corny, black ass down. Apparently he’d given her the same proposition but her nasty ass agreed to it. Damn shame.

Corny, yes, but there you go. Purity. That was what hit you when you get lost looking at your own child—a purity that could be derived only from true, unconditional love. He loved Ryan so damned much.

Do you need anything?” I asked. With a little moan, he swung his legs off the couch, making room for me. “I would say just you but that sounds way too corny.” “I like corny,” I said, as I sat on the couch beside him.

Brennan, you are so corny Monsanto is trying to patent you and I love it.

Like Don Corleone, I don’t judge a man for how he makes his living. What I judge a man for is something else: Not the desire to have an audience, to make money, all that sort of thing, but the abject, craven, humiliating need to be loved by strangers. I mean the emptiness that a certain kind of man or woman tries to fill with adulation, characteristic of the man who cannot stand in front of a crowd without being possessed to deliver corny prepackaged applause lines, who will kiss the collective ass of the mob—and any mob will do—because that mob ass simply must be kissed.

And then I just melted, some piece of me inside just melted at the sight of her, and I heard myself say aloud, “I love you every single day. Every single day.” This sounds so corny, cooing words of love to a dog like that, but even as I heard myself speak, I was aware that there was something miraculous about it, something miraculous and profoundly healing about the fact that I love this animal and find joy and solace in her presence 365 days a year, without exception. I have never felt that unwavering in my affection, never really felt safe enough to allow it. My human relationships have characteristically been about withholding—keeping parts of me shut down, or held back, or under wraps, protected against disappointment or vulnerability. My relationship with Lucille is about giving, an unrestrained, fearless, expressive kind of giving that’s brand new to me and it makes me feel human, it makes me feel whole.

It is the real stories of heroes like Washington and Nathan Hale and others that help us to properly feel the power of the ideas behind them. We must feel the horror of tyranny and must love the noble idea of liberty. We must love America. We cannot reduce things to the intellectual. In the end we must feel those ideas and see them embodied in heroes and stories. By deciding that every potential hero is too flawed to celebrate and venerate, or that such stories are somehow corny, we have done a grave disservice to several generations and to the country.

He’s fine. Every time any of us are late you imagine we’re dead. You are no longer allowed to imagine anyone is dead.” “I’m not imagining he’s dead,” I whisper, but I’m totally imagining him bleeding to death on the snowy forest floor. Crows circle above him. A pixie arrow juts out of his beautiful chest. It’s the same thing I imagined about Devyn last week when he forgot to check in. “You are such a liar-liar pants-on-fire.” Is kisses my cheek in her sweet friend way. “But I love you.” “I just worry about people,” I whisper back. “If I’m not the one out there I feel so helpless.” Coach Walsh notices we’re talking. “Girls, pay attention. And no kissing.” Everyone starts snickering. I let go of Issie’s goose-bump covered arm. My face gets hot, which means I’m in insane blush mode. Nick thinks insane blush mode is cute. I bend down and check on my ankle bracelet that Nick gave me. It’s gold and thin-chained. A tiny dolphin dangles off of it. The dolphin reminds me of Charleston because they swim right off the Battery. Next to it dangles a heart, which just reminds me of love—corny but true. I’m so afraid of losing the anklet, but I can’t take it off. I adore it that much.

As corny as it sounds, that whole White Knight thing is based on an instinctive male response. A man needs to be needed. He wants a mate who needs and appreciates his skills, his….strength. His… courage.

I love you, Tippy. I don't mean it to sound corny or kidlike, and I'm not asking you to love me. I just want you to know it, that's all.

The menu: legendary deep-fried Turkeyzilla, gravy, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, and green beans. The theme: dysfunction. “So,” Elysia said to Lex’s parents with her ever-friendly grin, “how are you?” “How do you think they are?” Ferbus whispered. She kicked him under the table. “I mean—um—what do you do? For a living?” Lex’s mother, who hadn’t said much, continued to stare down the table at the sea of black hoodies while picking at her potatoes. Lex’s father cleared his throat. “I’m a contractor,” he said. “And she’s a teacher.” “Omigod! I wanted to be a teacher!” Elysia turned to Mrs. Bartleby. “Do you love it?” “Hmm?” She snapped back to attention and smiled vacantly at Elysia. “Oh, yes. I do. The kids are a nice distraction.” “From what?” Pip asked. Bang smacked her forehead. Lex squeezed Driggs’s hand even tighter, causing him to choke on his stuffing. He coughed and hacked until the offending morsel flew out of his mouth, landing in Sofi’s glass of water. “Ewww!” she squealed. “Drink around it,” Pandora scolded. “So! I hear New York City is lovely this time of year.” Well, it looks nice, I guess,” Mr. Bartleby said. “But shoveling out the driveway is a pain in the neck. The girls used to help, but now . . .” Sensing the impending awkwardness, Corpp jumped in. “Well, Lex has been a wonderful addition to our community. She’s smart, friendly, a joy to be around—” “And don’t you worry about the boyfriend,” Ferbus said, pointing to Driggs. “I keep him in line.” Mrs. Bartleby’s eyes widened, looking at Lex and then Driggs. “You have a—” she sputtered. “He’s your—” Ferbus went white. “They didn’t know?” “Oops!” said Uncle Mort in a theatrical voice, getting up from the table. “Almost forgot the biscuits!” “Let me help you with those,” Lex said through clenched teeth, following him to the counter. A series of pained hugs and greetings had ensued when her parents arrived—but the rest of the guests showed up so soon thereafter that Lex hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to them, much to her relief. Still, she hadn’t stopped seething. “What were you thinking?” Uncle Mort gave her a reproachful look. “I was thinking that your parents were probably going to feel more lonely and depressed this Thanksgiving than they’ve ever felt in their lives, and that maybe we could help alleviate some of that by hosting a dinner featuring the one and only daughter they have left.” “A dinner of horrors? You know my track record with family gatherings!” He ignored her. “Here we are!” he said, turning back to the table with a giant platter. “Biscuits aplenty!” Lex grunted and took her seat. “I’m not sure how much longer I can do this,” she whispered to Driggs. “Me neither,” he replied. “I think my hand is broken in three places.” “Sorry.” “And your dad seems to be shooting me some sort of a death stare.” Lex glanced at her father. “That’s bad.” “Think he brought the shotgun?” “It’s entirely possible.” “All I’m saying,” Ferbus went on, trying to redeem himself and failing, “is that we all look out for one another here.” Mr. Bartleby looked at him. Ferbus began to sweat. “Because, you know. We all need somebody. Uh, to lean on.” “Stop talking,” Bang signed. Elysia gave Lex’s parents a sympathetic grin. “I think what my idiot partner is trying to say—through the magic of corny song lyrics, for some reason—is that you don’t need to worry about Lex. She’s like a sister to me.” She realized her poor choice of words as a pained look came to Mrs. Bartleby’s face. “Or an especially close cousin.” She shut her mouth and stared at her potatoes. “Frig.” Lex was now crushing Driggs’s hand into a fine paste. Other than the folding chairs creaking and Pip obliviously scraping the last bits of food off his plate, the table was silent. “Good beans!” Pip threw in.

He loves to text-flirt, all throughout the day. I think I’m finally getting the hang of it. I found out that I can actually be sassy if I try.” “Kind of like how you can be funny if you try?” Lauren inquired dryly. Sam’s corny attempts at humor were a well-known, long-running joke in their group of friends.

Kennedy, he gushed, was “graceful, gay, funny, witty, teasing and teasable, forgiving, hungry, incapable of being corny, restless, interesting, interested, exuberant, blunt, profane, and loving.

Human, human, human. Make ourselves see what we pretend to know. Remind ourselves that we are an animal united as a species existing on this tender blue speck in space, the only planet that we know of containing life. Bathe in the corny sentimental miracle of that. Define ourselves by the freakish luck of not only being alive, but being aware of that. That we are here, right now, on the most beautiful planet we’ll ever know. A planet where we can breathe and live and fall in love and eat peanut butter on toast and say hello to dogs and dance to music and read Bonjour Tristesse and binge-watch TV dramas and notice the sunlight accentuated by hard shadow on a building and feel the wind and the rain on our tender skin and look after each other and lose ourselves in daydreams and night dreams and dissolve into the sweet mystery of ourselves. A day where we are, essentially, precisely as human as one another.

Love is corny, when you get right down to it. It has two left feet. It trips over itself, because it is so large that it's awkward. It's sort of silly, done right.

Yes, and I’ve never truly been in love like this before. Like I depend on him to bring joy to my life. I never depended on anyone before, as I’ve always been so independent, but we connected on a deeper level at Harrogate. A level so deep I think only a few people would understand. In a time where I was so lost, he was a lifeline, my safety net . . . my hero. And I know that sounds corny, but it’s true. I feel like he opened my eyes to a whole new world. He showed me that I didn’t have to walk through this life alone, and then . . . and then he just left me out to dry. He abandoned me when I needed him the most. I—” My tears fall once again. “I don’t know how to handle that.

feel like I'm going to throw up, but that has more to do with this hangover I'm battling right now. But my feelings for marrying you? They haven’t changed since I asked, Gia. I loved you from the night I met you at that campus party. You were dancing with some cornball—what is it with you and cornball ass niggas—but anyway, I saw you dancing and you lit up the room. My pops would say that about my mother all the time, and I didn’t understand it until I saw you. I knew you would be my wife long before I asked you.” I dabbed at the tears pooling in my eyes. “Are you just saying this so I’ll marry you?” I replied thickly. “That was my attempt at making a joke to lighten the situation.” “The fact that you had to explain your joke explains why you always attract cornballs—you're one too.” “I am not!” “Yes, you are, but I love your corny ass. And I'mma love our corny little kids too. I love you so much that I'm willing to spend the rest of my life living in a house with a wife and kids explaining all their jokes to me,” Hasani went on over my laughs. “On a serious note: Gia, it doesn’t matter if you get all the way to the altar and change your mind when asked if you want to be my wife. I wouldn’t be mad. I want you to be as excited about forever as I am, you hear me? But don’t wait until we sign the marriage license and shit; I might have to fight you.

Indeed, this is the sort of show critics love to ghoul out on. It’s so romantic, so twice-told, so … yes: so corny. That’s the worst insult possible in a rock culture. The American Gone With the Wind, still in the Layton production but wholly recast with Lesley Ann Warren and Pernell Roberts in the leads, was to have opened in Los Angeles, toured for the better part of a year, then hit Broadway. But the California showing did not go over, and after San Francisco the show folded. We are losing important history here. Harold Rome’s career typifies the evolution of theatre music in the Golden Age, from hi-ho ditties to the dramatic sophistication of the “musical scene.” An invention of twenties operetta but not popularized till Rodgers and Hammerstein, the musical scene is what gives modern shows their depth and point. Isolated song spots are mostly gone; now the music breathes with the story.

I’m fucking sure,” I pant against his mouth when we're finally forced to come up for air. “This is gonna come out sounding stupid and fucking corny, but my world begins and ends with you. I see you, the real you. The you kept hidden from everyone else. I know who you are, baby. And despite the shit we went through and all the shit we still have to overcome, I’m undeniably in love with you.

The truth is, Lang,” Angel whispered, “your brother hangs the stars in my goddamn sky. It sounds stupid and maybe corny, but when he’s around me, it’s like the night’s full of light. So yeah, I love him. I love him pretty hard.

Well then share it with the world, and if they don’t love it, who cares, as long as you’re having a good time. We all make mistakes in life, so if your voice goes off key once in a while, then so be it. You’ll still wake up tomorrow and the world will still be spinning. I’m so sorry, that was ultra-corny.” “Yeah

You keep sweet-talking me like that and I’ll have to develop frostbite on other parts of my body.” “Baby, I’ll be your personal heating pad.” He stopped walking and laughed. “Damn, that was corny.

Essential advice for the gardener: grow peas of mind, lettuce be thankful, squash selfishness, turnip to help thy neighbour and always make thyme for loved ones.’ Corny but very apt, I thought.

And he’ll do something utterly corny like write you love notes on Post-its and you’ll be a smitten kitten in your house with a picket fence and pet poodles.” “Say the words smitten kitten to me again and I’ll call the police.

And he’ll do something utterly corny like write you love notes on Post-its and you’ll be a smitten kitten in your house with a picket fence and pet poodles.” “Say the words smitten kitten to me again and I’ll call the police.” “I would, but they have handcuffs and I know you like that.

7. The Force of Love. We at SoulBoom headquarters are all about the biggest possible L-O-V-E. (Warning: this is going to get all sorts of corny.) Everything boils down to love. We mean everything. Light is love. Friends are love. Trees and birds and the ocean are love. Language is love. Time is love. Laughter is love. The type of love that is a beautiful and hilarious series of high fives with the universe. We believe in love as a universal law like gravity and that our love for everyone should radiate out like sunlight. Rumi said it best: “Love is the bridge between you and everything.