Cozy Sweaters Quotes

She was knitting a sweater and enjoying the calm atmosphere of her living room when her chubby, beer-drinking, sports-watching husband woke from a nap on the couch screaming, “Touchdown!” At the moment her serenity had been broken, she unconsciously reacted by swinging around and plunging a knitting needle into her husband’s throat. While blood squirted from his throat and his shocked face produced gurgling sounds, she lifted from her chair and drove the other knitting needle into his beer-ballooned stomach over and over again. Blood and beer gushed out of his belly like a punctured fish tank. As her husband gurgled and deflated, she stared down at him with a beaming smile. She had found her new hobby—annihilating assholes. She had cut up her husband into nice little pieces and used him as fertilizer for her backyard garden. Never again did her cozy house get raped by blaring sounds of sports emanating from a television set. The TV went into the garbage and the living room was converted into a tea room.

Good friends are like cozy sweaters, they'll always be there to keep you warm when the rest of the world leaves you shivering.

Do not think of him with Blay. Do not think of him with Blay. Do not think of him— “I didn’t know you were a sherry man.” “Huh?" Qhuinn glanced down at what he’d poured himself. Fuck. In the midst of the self-lecture, he’d picked up the wrong bottle. “Oh, you know… I’m good with it.” To prove the point, he tossed back the hooch—and nearly choked as the sweetness hit his throat. He served himself another only so he didn’t look like the kind of idiot who wouldn’t know what he was dishing out into his own glass. Okay, gag. The second was worse than the first. From out of the corner of his eye, he watched Saxton settle in at the table, the brass lamp in front of him casting the most perfect glow over his face. Shiiiiiit, he looked like something out of a Ralph Lauren ad, with his buff-colored tweed jacket and his pointed pocket square and that button-down/sweater vest combo keeping his fucking liver cozy. Meanwhile, Qhuinn was sporting hospital scrubs, bare feet. And sherry.

Cozy was a fun night by a fireplace with marshmallows. Cozy was a grandmother knitting Christmas sweaters. Cozy was new puppies in a litter. Cozy was not what he had in mind to do in that tent with Tes.

A well-made turtleneck sweater will keep you warm, cozy, and protected from the cold. Your gums do the same thing for your teeth.

I loved every bit of this season—when the air turned crisp and you could pull all the warm sweaters out of the back of your closet. It felt like the equivalent of wrapping yourself up in a warm, cozy blanket with a cup of hot apple cider in your hands.

(…) met the owner of this cozy book-and-candle Apt. G, a tall, leggy, striking girl named Bea or maybe just the letter B or maybe the insect Bee, not sure, her long blond hair pulled in a ponytail, her no-doubt banging body effortlessly buried beneath a pile of tights and sweaters and scarves – she is a walking coat rack – and as we shook hands, Bea fixed me with the most alarming blue-eyed stare of my life, the kind of stare in which you think some potent subliminal message is being passed along (Run away with me or maybe just Run away), (…)

I am a writer who does not enjoy writing. I can find innumerable ways to avoid it. But, to rip off Dorothy Parker, nothing else—nothing—gives me the same thrill as having written. I’m the same way with knitting. The process is fine, mind you, and keeps my hands busy. But nothing else—nothing—gives me the rush that I get from finishing something. "The parallels between writing and knitting go even further. Like writing, knitting has a finite number of raw ingredients. There are twenty-six letters in the alphabet. Those letters can combine to give you David Foster Wallace or freshman composition papers. There are only two basic stitches: the knit and the purl. Those stitches can add up to a gorgeously complicated sweater or a pastel pink toilet paper cozy. The difference is in the mind that shapes them.

You know those statistics people are always spouting off, about teenage boys thinking about sex every seven seconds? Is that really true?” “Nope. And I just want to point out that you’re the one who keeps bringing up sex. I think teenage girls might be more obsessed than boys.” “Maybe,” I say, and his eyes widen, all excited. Hastily I add, “I mean, I’m definitely curious about it. It’s definitely a thought. But I don’t see myself doing it anytime soon. With anybody. Including you.” I can tell Peter is embarrassed, the way he rushes to say, “Okay, okay, I got it. Let’s just change the subject.” Under his breath he mutters, “I didn’t even want to talk about it in the first place.” It’s sweet that he’s embarrassed. I didn’t think he would be, with all his experience. I tug on his sweater sleeve. “At some point, when I’m ready, if I’m ready, I’ll let you know.” And then I pull him toward me and press my lips against his softly. His mouth opens, and so does mine, and I think, I could kiss this boy for hours. Mid-kiss, he says, “Wait, so we’re never having sex? Like ever?” “I didn’t say never. But not now. I mean, not until I’m really, really sure. Okay?” He lets out a laugh. “Sure. You’re the one driving this bus. You have been from the start. I’m still catching up.” He snuggles closer and sniffs my hair. “What’s this new shampoo you’re wearing?” “I stole it from Margot. It’s juicy pear. Nice, right?” “It’s all right, I guess. But can you go back to the one you used to wear? The coconut one? I love the smell of that one.” A dreamy look crosses his face, like evening fog settling over a city. “If I feel like it,” I say, which makes him pout. I’m already thinking I should buy a bottle of the coconut hair mask, too, but I like to keep him on his toes. Like he said, “I’m the one driving this bus. Peter pulls me against him so he’s curved around my back like shelter. I let my head rest on his shoulder, rest my arms on his kneecaps. This is nice. This is cozy. Just me and him, just for a while, apart from the rest of the world.

We need to leave as soon as possible." "Okay," Luce said. "I have to go home, then, pack, get my passport..." Her mind whirled in a hundred directions as she started making a mental to-do list. Her parents would be at the mall for at least another couple of hours, enough time for her to dash in and get her things together... "Oh, cute." Annabelle laughed, flitting over to them, her feet inches off the ground. Her wings were muscular and dark silver like a thundercloud, protruding through the invisible slits in her hot-pink T-shirt. "Sorry to butt in but...you've never traveled with an angel before, have you?" Sure she had. The feeling of Daniel's wings soaring her body through the air was as natural as anything. Maybe her flights had been brief, but they'd been unforgettable. They were when Luce felt closest to him: his arms threaded around her waist, his heart beating close to hers, his white wings protecting them, making Luce feel unconditionally and impossibly loved. She had flown with Daniel dozens of times in dreams, but only three times in her waking hours: once over the hidden lake behind Sword & Cross, another time along the coast at Shoreline, and down from the clouds to the cabin just the previous night. "I guess we've never flown that far together," she said at last. "Just getting to first base seems to be a problem for you two," Cam couldn't resist saying. Daniel ignored him. "Under normal circumstances, I think you'd enjoy the trip." His expression turned stormy. "But we don't have room for normal for the next nine days." Luce felt his hands on the backs of her shoulders, gathering her hair and lifting it off her neck. He kissed her along the neckline of her sweater as he wrapped his arms around her waist. Luce closed her eyes. She knew what was coming next. The most beautiful sound there was-that elegant whoosh of the love of her life letting out his driven-snow-white wings. The world on the other side of Luce's eyelids darkened slightly under the shadow of his wings, and warmth welled in her heart. When she opened her eyes, there they were, as magnificent as ever. She leaned back a little, cozying into the wall of Daniel's chest as he pivoted toward the window. "This is only a temporary separation," Daniel announced to the others. "Good luck and wingspeed.

Felt it: A wool sweater can be felted down to fit a smaller size or to make another useful item. My girlfriend Rachelle taught me that the forearm can be cut to make an extra-small dog sweater (the cuff serves as the sweater collar; simply cut two holes underneath for the legs). It keeps our Chihuahua cozy in the winter.

It was a truly remarkable fall, with bright yellows, crisp oranges, and rusty reds speckling the streets, and the smells of pumpkin and spice lingering in the air. It was cozy—a time for knit sweaters and stolen slippers and long books read by the fire.

Stephen!” Meridith hobbled forward and embraced her fiancé. “What are you doing here?” “I missed you.” He pecked her on the lips, but his embrace felt stilted. Then she remembered Jake. She pulled away and cleared her throat. “Stephen, this is Jake, the contractor I hired. Jake, this is my fiancé, Stephen.” Jake extended his hand. The grasp seemed more like a challenge than a handshake. Or maybe it was her imagination. “Nice to meet you,” Stephen said. “Same.” Jake’s voice seemed deep after Stephen’s. “I’ll turn in now,” he said to Meridith. “You’ll be all right with your ankle?” “Yeah, thanks.” Her laugh wobbled. “Good night.” She’d never gotten around to telling Stephen that Jake was staying there, and now she wished she had. Boy, did she ever. Stephen would have questions. She wasn’t blind to the way it must look, a cozy family returning from a day at the festival. Not to mention the way she’d been curled into Jake’s arms as he’d helped her up the walk. The screen door slapped into place, leaving them alone. Meridith huddled into her thin sweater. “I can’t believe you’re here.” “He’s staying here?” Stephen’s voice had an edge she hadn’t heard before. “It was a trade. I couldn’t afford the repairs, remember? Jake offered to trade for room and board.” “I’ll bet he did.” “Stephen.

I didn’t have a specific place where my Perfect Day would occur. I just knew it would be somewhere that it got cold. I wanted to be wearing a cozy sweater and warm jacket. It didn’t need to be freezing, but I imagined the weather would be chilly enough to make my cheeks red. I’d be in a small town. The kind of town where people knew you. Where you’d walk past a store and the owner would pop their head out the door trying to lure you inside to see the latest jewelry they got in stock, or to try a new recipe they were testing. At some point, I’d get a hot chocolate with lots of marshmallows, using the heat from the cup to keep my hands warm. I’d walk down a street lined with twinkly lights and garlands draped between lampposts. Everyone I walked past would say hello. When it got just cold enough, that’s when I’d walk past the bookshop. It would smell like cider inside and sure enough, there would be a little beverage cart near the door with cups and a cheery sign that would read help yourself. I’d switch out my hot chocolate for a cider and wander around the store. It would be large but full of books and leather chairs and maybe even a cat lounging on some shelves. Every book I wanted to buy would be in stock and I’d find a few more that I hadn’t even known I wanted. But the thing that made it the Perfect Day would be that when I went to check out, the salesperson would recognize me. It’s you, they’d say, and then point to a shelf where my book was prominently displayed. Would you mind signing some copies? they’d ask. We’re big fans of your work. That, I think, would truly be the Perfect Day.

Your core values should feel ease-filled, a natural extension of your soul’s essence and innermost expression. They should feel like home—a sigh of relief, a breath of fresh air. They should feel as snug as a cozy sweater, the perfect fit.

There is nothing better than fall, the way in which the earth seems to hug us, cocooning us in its cozy grip. Fall is the season for reading. Fall is the season for pumpkin-spiced drinks. Fall is the season for sweaters. Fall is my definition of peace, the utter epitome of relaxation.

I loved every bit of this season—when the air turned crisp and you could pull all the warm sweaters out of the back of your closet. It felt like the equivalent of wrapping yourself up in a warm, cozy blanket with a cup of hot apple cider in your hands. 

key in her sweater-covered hand.

As the song continued, a picture formed in his mind of all of Them combining into One: Eastwood, the Enforcer God; Oprah, the Counselor God; Marion Cunningham, the Mother God . . . They melded into a single new form. The children’s song ended, and the voice began to speak. I love you just the way you are, Ethan. You’re very special to Me. Through you, I shine the light of My love on all the world. You are My perfect creation. Just the way you are. And then, in Ethan’s mind, this most wonderful God took off His formal suitcoat and slipped out of His stiff shoes. In a cozy sweater and sneakers, He sang His song of perfect love, telling all His children—every single one of them—that it was a beautiful day in His neighborhood.

What if Caleb and I are like a nice, cozy sweater. A favorite sweater. The one you cannot wait to pull out as soon as the weather turns. The one that you’ve worn through your highest highs and your lowest lows. Comfortable. Dependable. But one day, you notice a broken stitch and tug on the thread a little too hard. Then, you keep tugging and tugging trying to find the end of the loose thread. But instead, the whole thing falls apart and you’re left wearing nothing—your tits out to the wind—with a pile of yarn at your feet.” “Then, I guess, you’d pick up the yarn and knit another sweater.