Cute Celebration Quotes

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size But when I start to tell them, They think I'm telling lies. I say, It's in the reach of my arms The span of my hips, The stride of my step, The curl of my lips. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me.

Seriously, Taylor—do you know who I am?” he demanded. She smiled at this. “You celebrities actually say that? That’s cute.

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size But when I start to tell them, They think I'm telling lies. I say, It's in the reach of my arms The span of my hips, The stride of my step, The curl of my lips. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. I walk into a room Just as cool as you please, And to a man, The fellows stand or Fall down on their knees. Then they swarm around me, A hive of honey bees. I say, It's the fire in my eyes, And the flash of my teeth, The swing in my waist, And the joy in my feet. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. Men themselves have wondered What they see in me. They try so much But they can't touch My inner mystery. When I try to show them They say they still can't see. I say, It's in the arch of my back, The sun of my smile, The ride of my breasts, The grace of my style. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. Now you understand Just why my head's not bowed. I don't shout or jump about Or have to talk real loud. When you see me passing It ought to make you proud. I say, It's in the click of my heels, The bend of my hair, the palm of my hand, The need of my care, 'Cause I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me.

Why this candle? Why this cake? The day of my birth is not today. I was born when you said, 'Hey.

Also guys, it would be awesome if you could upvote the information I've added letting everyone know that some of these quotes are fake and aren't real or cool things to spread around. :) Thanks Hiddlestoners!! ^_^

Daughter A sprinkle of sparkle, A dazzle of sweet, A flutter of cute, From your head to your feet.

No matter how you feel about your extended family or family gatherings you will be attending. This is because now the ultimate reason for attending family gatherings is for your children to have the time of their lives with their cousins. Little kids love their cousins. I’m not being cute or exaggerating here. Cousins are like celebrities for little kids. If little kids had a People magazine, cousins would be on the cover. Cousins are the barometers of how fun a family get-together will be. “Are the cousins going to be there? Fun!

(I'm trying to improve my typing. notice I now leave a space after a comma, I'm very proud of myself!)

Listen to me, Madison. I can’t have you running away from me. I know you needed some time today to process and work through everything, but don’t push me away. I don’t like it. I want to be the one you run to, not the one you run from.

And since when does Hell have royalty? I thought they were all bureaucrats.” “Oh, sweetie,” he says, patronizing. “That’s cute.” “What’s cute?” “That you think celebrity children of powerful people aren’t royalty.” “Are you accusing me of being a Hilton?” I sputter. “Or a, a–” my head might explode, “Kardashian?” “The Hellish equivalent.

The greater the injury, the greater the fun.

Tito snored away on the other bed. Out there, all around them to the last fringes of occupancy, were Toobfreex at play in the video universe, the tropic isle, the Long Branch Saloon, the Starship Enterprise, Hawaiian crime fantasies, cute kids in make-believe living rooms with invisible audiences to laugh at everything they did, baseball highlights, Vietnam footage, helicopter gunships and firefights, and midnight jokes, and talking celebrities, and a slave girl in a bottle, and Arnold the pig, and here was Doc, on the natch, caught in a low-level bummer he couldn’t find a way out of, about how the Psychedelic Sixties, this little parenthesis of light, might close after all, and all be lost, taken back into darkness…

No, making you realize that your body size isn’t something shameful, but something to be celebrated. People come in all different shapes, and one is not better over another. But for the record, I love every curve and dip that graces your beautiful frame. You’re perfection in human form.

There are certain milestones in romance novels that are celebrated — the meet-cute, the first kiss, the declaration of love. One that's often overlooked, maybe because it's particular to historical fiction, is the first time they use their given names. Here's to all the 'Please call me....' scenes!

Mourn not the passing away of a life well-lived, but celebrate. Count the times your souls smiled together. Death is only the end of a chapter, Michael, and not the entire book. And so as this body makes a return to the soil, her spirit will watch over you and the cute little angel she left behind, and shall forever live in your heart.

Celebrate a hot sunny day with ice cream. Celebrate the rain with a cute umbrella. Life's worth a daily celebration.

Nothing celebrates life like picking off innocent digital ducks.

In the struggle for survival, the cutest win out at the expense of the less cute because they appeal more to celebrities and, through them, to a live television audience.

Though being involved with other people in a subculture interest group has many positive elements - shared interests, a feeling of sisterhood, and celebration of beauty - it can also lead to issues such as competition, misunderstanding, and ignorance. With disenchantment comes the feeling that the promise of happiness is being challenged and ultimately broken.

Leaning down, I kissed his cheek, and as I straightened, he turned wide amber eyes on me. “I see what you don’t.” I ran my hand up and down his arm. “You’re not selfish, even if you have moments of acting like it. We all do. You’re not evil, even if you were created by the greatest evil of them all. You’ve proven to me and yourself that you have free will, and you’ve made the right decisions time and time again.” As I dragged my hand up his arm, he shuddered. “You’ve accepted who and what I am from the beginning. You’ve never tried to change me or...or hide me. You’ve always trusted me, even when you probably shouldn’t have.” I laughed at that, thinking of the time he’d left me alone in the Palisades club with explicit instructions not to roam off. “You’ve...you’ve celebrated what I am, and very few can claim that. Like I’ve said before, you’re more than the latest Crown Prince. You’re Roth.” For a moment, he didn’t move or blink. Then wonderment filled his expression as he stared up at me, and finally, the tension eased out of his muscles. “And I’m yours.

What is your favorite day of the year? The summer solstice. June twenty-first. The longest day of the year. It was a cute answer. But on cooler reflection, it struck me that when you're asked your favorite day of the year, there's a certain hubris in giving any day in June as your answer. It suggests that the particulars of your life are so terrific, and your command over your station so secure, that all you could possibly hope for is additional daylight in which to celebrate your lot.

Holy mama llama. That’s Nathanial Stone. Nathanial Stone is sitting in my booth. Nathanial Stone is in the Finewhile Diner sitting in my booth. I’m supposed to wait on Nathanial Stone. I’m going to make a fool out of myself. I just know it. I can feel it coming. Crap.

It was only when I moved to America that I saw so many distraught people all over the place. It was so weird to me, like Wow, what’s wrong with everyone? That was the exact opposite attitude to the one where I grew up. Where I come from, we’re literally always looking for any reason to celebrate.

What was that? Valentine's Day? Her heart gave a little skip at the thought, she had never spent it in a romantic way before, usually the day meant sending and receiving cute Cupid cards and heart shaped sugar candies, but it was all in a platonic celebration of friendship. This time, it would not be like that, it would be ... special.

I adore these words, worship them actually, and yet I do not buy that part about ‘the last time in history.’ Because the narrator himself is having such a wondrous moment; because every American who comes to love this lovable, hateful place knows this wonder, too. Because screeching the brakes on my rental bike and watching a turtle that is who knows how old creep across the wilderness of palm fronds that juts against such a painfully cute subset of civilization, I know exactly why the painfully cute civilization wants to be here, build here, make their homes and babies at such a place. So what if they got it wrong? Is there anything more American than constructing some squeaky-clean city on a hill looking out across the terrible beauty of this land? While most of the rest of us have internalized these impulses, turned them into metaphors, at Celebration, Disney is attempting the real deal; like the Puritans and the pioneers, they’re carving out a new community. An eerie, xenophobic, nostalgic community I can’t wait to leave, but still.

Jackson stood quietly as Alani came into the house. Unlike the other women, she didn’t wear a swimsuit. Shame. He’d love to see her in one. Everyone had duly celebrated Trace’s engagement, and Alani seemed taken with Priss—but then, who wouldn’t be? Priss was funny, smart, cute and—luckily for Trace—stacked. Unaware of Jackson, Alani stopped to look out the patio doors. She looked . . . wistful. Like maybe she wanted to take part, but couldn’t. In so many ways, despite being kidnapped by flesh peddlers, or maybe because of that, she was still an innocent. At just-barely twenty-three, she acted much older. Like a virgin spinster. Every night, in his dreams, they burned up the sheets. Here, in reality, she avoided him. She avoided involvement. But he’d get her over that. Somehow. Suddenly Priss came in, wet hair sleek down her back, rivulets of water trailing between her breasts. She spotted Jackson right off and, after smiling at Alani, asked them both, “Why aren’t you guys coming down to swim?” Alani jerked around to stare at Jackson with big eyes. His crooked smile told her that he had her in his sights. “I was just about to ask Alani that.” Priss laughed. “You’re still dressed.” “I can undress fast enough.” He looked at Alani. “What about you?” Her lips parted. “No, I . . . didn’t bring a suit.” “Pity. Maybe we could move up to the cove and skinny-dip in private?” Pointing a finger at him, Priss said, “Behave, you reprobate!” And then to Alani, “Beware of that one.” Still watching him, Alani nodded.

Out there, all around them to the last fringes of occupancy, were Toobfreex at play in the video universe, the tropic isle, the Long Branch Saloon, the Starship Enterprise, Hawaiian crime fantasies, cute kids in make-believe living rooms with invisible audiences to laugh at everything they did, baseball highlights, Vietnam footage, helicopter gunships and firefights, and midnight jokes, and talking celebrities, and a slave girl in a bottle, and Arnold the pig, and here was Doc, on the natch, caught in a low-level bummer he couldn’t find a way out of, about how the Psychedelic Sixties, this little parenthesis of light, might close after all, and all be lost, taken back into darkness . . . how a certain hand might reach terribly out of darkness and reclaim the time, easy as taking a joint from a doper and stubbing it out for good.

Tell me again why we’ve hated each other all these years?” “Because we’re both stubborn as mules?” he offers. I can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, I’d say that about covers it.” “I love you, Jemma. I’ll wait as long as it takes for you to feel the same. I’ll wait forever if I have to.” I suck in a breath. He doesn’t know. How would he? He’s said it to me, but I’ve never once said it back. “Trust me, you had me at ‘prettiest girl in all of Magnolia Branch,’ and then you sealed the deal with that whole ‘best shot’ thing.” “Wait…Are you saying…I mean--” “Shhh.” I put my finger against his lips. “Though you’re really cute when you’re stuttering like that.” “Hey, I don’t stutter.” “Neither do I. I love you, Ryder Marsden. See?” I rise up on tiptoe and press my lips against his. His arms encircle my waist, drawing me closer, till there’s no space whatsoever between our bodies, till I can’t tell where he ends and I begin. His mouth moves against mine, and he kisses me hungrily. Thoroughly. Expertly. And so very hotly. This kiss is somehow different from the ones that have come before it. It’s a promise that he is mine, that I am his. It’s an acceptance of our fate. It’s the ultimate acknowledgement of something that’s been there all along, just waiting for us to discover it. To enjoy it. To celebrate it. So we do.

How had she ended up like this, imprisoned in the role of harridan? Once upon a time, her brash manner had been a mere posture - a convenient and amusing way for an insecure teenage bride, newly arrived in America, to disguise her crippling shyness. People had actually enjoyed her vituperation back then, encouraged it and celebrated it. She had carved out a minor distinction for herself as a 'character': the cute little English girl with the chutzpah and the longshoreman's mouth. 'Get Audrey in here,' they used to cry whenever someone was being an ass. 'Audrey'll take him down a peg or two.' But somewhere along the way, when she hadn't been paying attention, her temper had ceased to be a beguiling party at that could be switched on and off at will. It had begun to express authentic resentments: boredom with motherhood, fury at her husband's philandering, despair at the pettiness of her domestic fate. She hadn't noticed the change at first. Like an old lady who persists in wearing the Jungle Red lipstick of her glory days, she had gone on for a long time, fondly believing that the stratagems of her youth were just as appealing as they had ever been. By the time she woke up and discovered that people had taken to making faces at her behind her back - that she was no longer a sexy young woman with a charmingly short fuse but a middle-aged termagant - it was too late. Her anger had become a part of her. It was a knotted thicket in her gut, too dense to be cut down and too deeply entrenched in the loamy soil of her disappointments to be uprooted.

You’re right: if there’s sentient life behind the border, it probably won’t share my goals. Unlike the people in this room, who all want exactly the same things in life as I do, and have precisely the same tastes in food, art, music, and sex. Unlike the people of Schur, and Cartan, and Zapata — who I came here in the hope of protecting, after losing my own home — who doubtless celebrate all the same festivals, delight in the same songs and stories, and gather every fortieth night to watch actors perform the same plays, in the same language, from the same undisputed canon, as the people I left behind. “If there’s sentient life behind the border, of course we couldn’t empathize with it. These creatures are unlikely to possess cute mammalian neonate faces, or anything else we might mistake for human features. None of us could have the imagination to get over such insurmountable barriers, or the wit to apply such difficult abstractions as the General Intelligence theorem — though since every twelve-year-old on my home world was required to master that result, it must be universally known on this side of the border. “You’re right: we should give up responsibility for making any difficult moral judgments, and surrender to the dictates of natural selection. Evolution cares so much about our happiness that no one who’s obeyed an inherited urge has ever suffered a moment’s regret for it. History is full of joyful case studies of people who followed their natural instincts at every opportunity — fucking whoever they could, stealing whatever they could, destroying anything that stood in their way — and the verdict is unanimous: any behavior that ever helped someone disseminate their genes is a recipe for unalloyed contentment, both for the practitioners, and for everyone around them.

Some people will stay in an abuse relationship because the person they are dating is rich, cute, beautiful, sexy, hot, or wearing label . They don’t care about their lives or their happiness. All they care about is how people see them & what their friends say, when they walk on the streets.

Wait, what's the chef's name?" she asked. "I think I read about him in ELLE." "Ooooh, ELLE," Elliott mocked. "He must be a big deal, then." "He is a big deal!" Emerald said, slapping him with the menu. "Or at least he's cute!" I wanted to yell Enough. I wanted to redo the whole night- the outfit from Emerald, seeing Kyle, my orders off the menu. "His name is Pascal Fox," I said quietly, way too quietly for normal conversation, and unintelligible in this loud restaurant. The open kitchen's steam and smoke masked Pascal a bit, but I still caught a glimpse. Even though he was getting a lot of media attention, he didn't look like a man who cared about photo shoots and celebrity. He looked like a serious chef with a lot on the line. He sprinted sideways through the narrow galley, threw something out. His chef's jacket was rolled to his elbows, revealing a mural of indecipherable tattoos.

I look around, hoping I can postpone the indignity of stuttering like a lunatic in front of the sexiest man alive – according to People magazine, twice – while giving him crazy eyes. Of course, everyone looks like they’re taken care of. Except for Mr. Sexypants, major Hollywood actor, Nathanial Stone, Sir.

I understand that comes with the territory, and that celebrities have a contract with the public: they get to be the target of jealousy and criticism, and sometimes admiration, in exchange for money and recognition. But I let that contract run out a while ago. It is not my job to be pretty, or cute, or anything that someone else wants me to be.

The Enlightenment emphasized ways of learning that weren’t subservient to human power hierarchies. Instead, Enlightenment thinking celebrates evidence-based scientific method and reasoning. The cultures of sciences and engineering used to embrace Enlightenment epistemology, but now they have been overridden by horribly regressive BUMMER epistemology. You probably know the word “meme” as meaning a BUMMER posting that can go viral. But originally, “meme” suggested a philosophy of thought and meaning. The term was coined by the evolutionary biologist Richard Dawkins. Dawkins proposed memes as units of culture that compete and are either passed along or not, according to a pseudo-Darwinian selection process. Thus some fashions, ideas, and habits take hold, while others become extinct. The concept of memes provides a way of framing everything non-nerds do—the whole of humanities, culture, arts, and politics—as similar instances of meme competition, mere subroutines of a higher-level algorithm that nerds can master. When the internet took of, Dawkins’s ideas were in vogue, because they flattered techies. There was a ubiquitous genre of internet appreciation from the very beginning in which someone would point out the viral spread of a meme and admire how cute that was. The genre exists to this day. Memes started out as a way of expressing solidarity with a philosophy I used to call cybernetic totalism that still underlies BUMMER. Memes might seem to amplify what you are saying, but that is always an illusion. You might launch an infectious meme about a political figure, and you might be making a great point, but in the larger picture, you are reinforcing the idea that virality is truth. Your point will be undone by whatever other point is more viral. That is by design. The architects of BUMMER were meme believers.

There are certain milestones in romance novels that are celebrated There are certain milestones in romance novels that are celebrated — the meet-cute, the first kiss, the declaration of love. One that's often overlooked, maybe because it's particular to historical fiction, is the first time they use their given names. Here's to all the "Please call me...." scenes! — Regina Jennings the meet-cute, the first kiss, the declaration of love. One that's often overlooked, maybe because it's particular to historical fiction, is the first time they use their given names. Here's to all the "Please call me...." scenes!

There are certain milestones in romance novels that are celebrated — the meet-cute, the first kiss, the declaration of love. One that's often overlooked, maybe because it's particular to historical fiction, is the first time they use their given names. Here's to all the "Please call me...." scenes!

Puppies!” she exclaimed. “Oh, they’re so cute and fluffy!” Ember slowly turned around to look at Nautilus, growling. “Is this some kind of sick joke?” Nautilus was trembling, his eyes covered by his webbed paws. Ember wasn’t finished. “From the way you were screeching, I thought Queen Tempest was pulling your fur off,” he snapped. “What in the world is wrong with you?” Nautilus was too panicked to speak. He could hardly breathe. Aurora lowered herself to match the pups’ adorable height. “Hi, little ones,” she began. “Are your parents somewhere around here? Can you take us to them, please?” They remained silent. Then, in unison, they smiled. They had biggest, sharpest fangs she had ever seen. The pups lunged! Aurora and Ember were dragged to the ground. Aurora shrieked as one gnawed her leg. She hurriedly shook him away. There was no time to celebrate. Another pup poked her in the eye, laughing sadistically. “Gah!” Ember exclaimed, as he was buried under puppy fluff. Aurora quickly suffered the same fate. The light of the sun was snatched from her. This is an adorable nightmare! she thought. What is wrong with these little monsters? Ow! Did someone just bite my tail? The grown wolves were soon pinned by the village pups. Their faces were pressed into the ground. Aurora spat out a mouthful of sand. Yuck! “Can we eat them?” asked the pup squashing Ember’s face.

Sera, whoever and however you are, I celebrate. I will always support you, no matter what.

I'll never forget the day I met Rudy (aka Rudolf Nureyev). He was at the St Peter's Theatre for a rehearsal with the Ballet of Nancy on the same stage I would dance with the Young Ballet of Sao Paulo some years later. I saw him leaving the place in the backdoor wearing his Black outfit boots and Bohemian hat. People surrounded him to get his autograph. My sister pulled me out so we wouldn't be massacred by the crowd. He did a very Russian move step-step and stop before a hole (such a cute role) in the sidewalk. Took the limousine and passed right in front of where my sister and I stood. He took a glance at me and had a gentle expression like saying, "yep you stood up from that crowd. I see you..." Lovely soul. I have this image in my heart ever since. What I didn't know then and could never imagine it was that just a few months later I would be dancing with the Ballet of São Paulo in the same Theatre he performed his Apollo. He did send his charisma towards me!

want to join us in celebrating the birth of Kit’s daughter?” “Kit?” She barked a laugh. “Catherine Warner, your assistant, Elliot.” Realization finally dawned, and my stomach plummeted like a stone in the sea. “Catherine had her baby?” I asked for the sake of clarification, even though the truth was pretty damn clear. “But…that isn’t possible. She isn’t due for a week.” Davida chuckled, and so did a few of the assistants behind her. When I scanned their faces, they had all suddenly become really fucking serious with other things to look at, like the ceiling and walls. “That’s only an estimated date,” Davida explained slowly, like I was an imbecile. “The baby is definitely here. I was there when she came into the world.” Raymond waved his cigar around. “As was I.” There were many, many questions on the tip of my tongue, most having to do with why the hell Davida and Raymond had been at the birth. “She had the baby?” That was all I’d managed to shove from my brain, confirming Davida’s assessment. I really was an imbecile. “She did. Our Kit was a goddess.” Davida waved her cigar around. “The little bugger came out plump and cute.

Chloe pushes the elevator call button while Sandra covers the formal introductions. If Gabe thinks it’s weird that I was calling his name across the lobby when I’ve not technically been introduced to him, he doesn’t show it, likely because he’s a little distracted with Sandra. “So you came alone?” I ask as the four of us step onto the next elevator. Sandra and Chloe shoot me simultaneous looks of ire, clearly unimpressed with my segue from introductions to fact-finding. Gabe glances in my direction, then back at Sandra. “I did.” I nod to Chloe with a discreet tilt of my head and widen my eyes, as if to say, See, I was right. Chloe tilts her head back and shrugs. She knows I’m right, but it’ll kill her to admit it. I hope Gabe and Sandra have a big wedding so I can bring Chloe as my plus one. “See you later!” I call out as we all step off the elevator on the second floor, grabbing Chloe’s arm in the process. “I’m going to find Sawyer so I can introduce him to Chloe,” I explain, and then I make a run for it. I imagine it’s much the same way a mother feels when she drops her child at kindergarten for the first time. I stop the moment I find a hiding place so I can peek back and make sure Sandra’s stayed put where I left her, with Gabe. “He’s totally into her. You see it, right?” “Yeah, fine. He’s into her,” Chloe admits, begrudgingly. “They’re so cute they’re going to need a couple nickname. Sabra! Sabra’s perfect. Coined it!” I do a little raise-the-roof motion with my hands to celebrate my brilliance. “Sabra is a brand of hummus.” Oh. Maybe not so brilliant then. I drop my hands and frown.

Sometimes you’re sad, you listen to sad music, you relate to the lyrics, you sulk, and that is alright. Just remember, everything will be fine at the end of the day. Sometimes you’re happy, you write happy positive posts, re-blog cute stuff, you laugh at everything, you feel like celebrating everything, and that’s okay. We have our moments, we’ve all had those days where we feel sad and we have no idea why. You’re entitled to feel what you want to feel at the moment. Don’t let them tell you you have no right to be sad. Don’t let them tell you not to celebrate the small things you have accomplished.

Radiohead! Thom (we called him “Thom-with-an-H”) was cute, but it was the guitarist Jonny Greenwood we were really hot for. He was skinny and pale, with brown hair hanging in his eyes, long fingers, and terrible posture. We sat onstage and screamed every time he looked at us, which wasn’t too often (I think he was afraid).

If he was going to be staring at my breasts, at least it could have been with a little fanfare to celebrate them. A cute little ruffle trim or a V where the dress dips.

learn your history, honor your traditions, but also keep your eyes and ears open for what maybe needs a little updating and zhuzhing up. And appreciate your uniqueness. We all don’t need to look like the same brand of white—we have to have diversity in this world, even if the media doesn’t celebrate it.

Oh, I never believe any celebrity gossip unless it comes from Hoda Kotb herself.

There are a lot of people I would like to thank, but first, I would like to thank all of my ancestors who came before me for allowing me to live their wildest dreams. I carry each and every one of you with me in all walks of my life, thank you for guiding me and for allowing me to be celebrated.

We would not deem some children cute if their parents were not rich or famous.

Aww.” Scott looked back and forth between them. “Look at you two, with your cute little matching sketchbooks and your burning hatred of mankind.

Shea shook her head, her green eyes dancing. "You're a very bad man, Jacques." "I keep telling you that, but you persist in thinking I am cute and cuddly.

It turns out, though, that the Planned Parenthood greeting card is quite appropriate for the time of year when Christians celebrate the incarnation. We ought to be reminded that Jesus is not born into a gauzy, snowy winter wonderland of sweetly singing angels and cute reindeer nuzzling one another at the side of his manger. He is born into a war zone. And at the very rumor of his coming, Herod—the Planned Parenthood of his day—vows to see him dead, right along with thousands of his brothers.