Cute Christmas Quotes

I love snow for the same reason I love Christmas: It brings people together while time stands still. Cozy couples lazily meandered the streets and children trudged sleds and chased snowballs. No one seemed to be in a rush to experience anything other than the glory of the day, with each other, whenever and however it happened.

Why is a Christmas tree better than a man? Because it stays up, has cute balls, and looks good with the lights on!

We’re adults. I might be a little more of an adult if you’re counting years but I bet I have a lower IQ, so that puts us pretty much even.

Wow,” she said. “Do you realise how wonderful you sound?” “Yes, I do,” he said with a firm nod. “And I think I’m underappreciated.

Are you a witch?” I ask, reaching in and taking a bite of one. It’s like Monster Cake, the Sequel—freaking Christmas in my mouth. I already want more before I’ve even managed to chew.

You can all supply your own favorite, most nauseating examples of the commodification of love. Mine include the wedding industry, TV ads that feature cute young children or the giving of automobiles as Christmas presents, and the particularly grotesque equation of diamond jewelry with everlasting devotion. The message, in each case, is that if you love somebody you should buy stuff. A related phenomenon is the ongoing transformation, courtesy of Facebook, of the verb 'to like' from a state of mind to an action that you perform with your computer mouse: from a feeling to an assertion of consumer choice. And liking, in general, is commercial culture's substitution for loving.

If J.G. Ballard had been on Twitter, I doubt he'd have cat-posted. Wm. S. Burroughs, on the other hand, probably would have. He loved cats. I received Christmas cards from Burroughs. All were cute cat cards.

Your big scary husband is crying.

Come on.” He dropped a heavy hand on my back, between my shoulder blades, and my breath stalled. I was effectively silenced by his touch. Perhaps that was why he did it. Not many people would blame him and probably wished they wielded that kind of power over me.

However, I have to warn you, I kind of like that you find me irresistible.” “Did I say that?” he asked, a slight tint creeping up his stubbled cheeks. “I didn’t say that! I find you completely resistible.

How much longer can I be so fucking cute?

If what it takes for you this year to be present in this sacred, thin place, to feel the breath and presence of a Holy God, is to forgo the cookies and the cards and the rushing and the lists, then we’ll be all right with cookies from the store and a few less gifts. It would be a great loss for you to miss this season, the soul of it, because you’re too busy pushing and rushing. And it would be a great loss if the people in your life receive your perfectly wrapped gifts, but not your love or your full attention or your spirit. This is my prayer for us, that we would give and receive the most important gifts this season—the palpable presence of a Holy God, the kindness of well-chosen words, the generosity of spirit and soul. My prayer is that what you’ve lost, and what I’ve lost this year, will fade a little bit in the beauty of this season, that for a few moments at least, what is right and good and worth believing will outshine all the darkness, within us and around us. And I hope that someone who loves you gives you a really cute scarf. Merry Christmas.

We saw Uncle Jack every Christmas, and every Christmas he yelled across the street for Miss Maudie to come marry him. Miss Mauide would yell back, "Call a little louder, Jack Finch, and they'll hear you the post office, I haven't heard you yet!" Jem and I thought this a strange way to ask for a lady's hand in marriage, but then again Uncle Jack was rather strange.

Tell me he’s got a cute ass in Wranglers,” Gloria pleaded. “I’ve got a weakness for cowboys.” Abby grinned. “It’s not cute. His ass is magnificent.

Everything smelled like sex, and coffee, and Christmas, and I didn't want it to end.

Where the veil broke, you could see silvery clouds on which tall angels might stand. Not cute little Christmas angels, but high, stern angels in white robes, whose faces were sad and serious from being near God all day and hearing His decisions about the world.

Gingerbread had always been Helen’s favorite. And that made sense. After all, Christmas was Helen’s favorite time of year.

Long story. I backed my car into his truck.” “You met by accident. Oh yeah, that’s not cliché.” “I know. A regular Hollywood meet-cute. Right?” “Destiny, maybe,” Renee teased. “Is he good-looking?

His stomach growls, and it makes me giggle again, and he shushes me. I turn to look at him, and he's already looking at me, and with a knowing twinkle in his eyes, he lifts his finger to his lips and whispers, "No talking, I just want to be under the tree with you.

He’s gay, he’s single, he owns his own business. He lives in a cute-as-hell cabin-type house. He’s sweet and funny, and Liv, I don’t think you understand. He even named his dog Chutney from Legally Blonde. And he has little shoes for her so she can walk in the snow.

Anyway, thanks to Bob, that Christmas, my mother bought my grandmother and myself both vibrators. Now, as unusual as a gift like this sounds, you have to admit that they are the ideal stocking stuffers. I mean, you can fit the vibrator into the long top part of the stocking and still be able to get another cute little gift in the toe. Well, I have to admit, I enjoyed mine but my grandmother refused to use hers. She was concerned that it would short-circuit her pacemaker. She said she'd gone this long without an orgasm, she might as well go the whole way. And that pacemaker, by the way, was later recalled.

She's selling CDs on the corner, fifty cents to any stoner, any homeboy with a boner. Sleet and worse - the weather's awful. Will she live? It's very doubtful. Life out here is never healthful. She puts a CD in her Sony. It's the about the pony and a pie with pepperoni and a mom with warm, clean hands who doesn't bring home guys from bands or make some sickening demands. The cold wind bites like icy snakes. She tries to move but merely shakes. Some thief leans down and simply takes. Her next CD's called Land Of Food. No one there can be tattooed or mumble things that might be crude and everything to eat is free, there's always a big Christmas tree and crystal bowls of potpourri. She's weak but still she play one more: She's on a beach with friends galore. They scamper down the sandy shore to watch the towering waves cascade and marvel at the cute mermaids who call to her and serenade. She can't resist. the water's fine. The rocks are like a kind of shrine. The foam goes down like scarlet wine. One cop stands up and says, "She's gone." The other shakes his head and yawns. It's barely 10:00, and life goes on.

He’d taken the dog home that night, just calling him the name of the product as a stopgap, even though I’d told my dad in no uncertain terms not to do this, in case the dog got attached to it. Which of course he did, so now we were stuck with it. And while my first instinct was to be mad about the fact that I hadn’t had a dog my whole childhood, and that my dad got one basically the second I was out of the house, I was just so won over by his cute face and high-pitched bark and whappy tail, it was impossible to be mad. The dog was so cute that with all the updates and pictures I was getting, it had taken all my self-control not to clean out my savings and book a flight home immediately to cuddle him. But my dad assured me that he would be there waiting for me when I came home for Christmas. And when I’d finally met him three days earlier, Zyrtec the dog had more than lived up to expectations.

I was certainly not the best mother. That goes without saying. I didn’t set out to be a bad mother, however. It just happened. As it was, being a bad mother was child’s play compared to being a good mother, which was an incessant struggle, a lose-lose situation 24 hours a day; long after the kids were in bed the torment of what I did or didn’t do during those hours we were trapped together would scourge my soul. Why did I allow Grace to make Mia cry? Why did I snap at Mia to stop just to silence the noise? Why did I sneak to a quiet place, whenever I could? Why did I rush the days—will them to hurry by—so I could be alone? Other mothers took their children to museums, the gardens, the beach. I kept mine indoors, as much as I could, so we wouldn’t cause a scene. I lie awake at night wondering: what if I never have a chance to make it up to Mia? What if I’m never able to show her the kind of mother I always longed to be? The kind who played endless hours of hide-and-seek, who gossiped side by side on their daughters’ beds about which boys in the junior high were cute. I always envisioned a friendship between my daughters and me. I imagined shopping together and sharing secrets, rather than the formal, obligatory relationship that now exists between myself and Grace and Mia. I list in my head all the things that I would tell Mia if I could. That I chose the name Mia for my great-grandmother, Amelia, vetoing James’s alternative: Abigail. That the Christmas she turned four, James stayed up until 3:00 a.m. assembling the dollhouse of her dreams. That even though her memories of her father are filled with nothing but malaise, there were split seconds of goodness: James teaching her how to swim, James helping her prepare for a fourth-grade spelling test. That I mourn each and every time I turned down an extra book before bed, desperate now for just five more minutes of laughing at Harry the Dirty Dog. That I go to the bookstore and purchase a copy after unsuccessfully ransacking the basement for the one that used to be hers. That I sit on the floor of her old bedroom and read it again and again and again. That I love her. That I’m sorry. Colin

other gentlemen had come out with him. One was a low-spirited gentleman of middle age, of a meagre habit, and a disconsolate face; who kept his hands continually in the pockets of his scanty pepper-and-salt trousers, very large and dog’s-eared from that custom; and was not particularly well brushed or washed. The other, a full-sized, sleek, well-conditioned gentleman, in a blue coat with bright buttons, and a white cravat. This gentleman had a very red face, as if an undue proportion of the blood in his body were squeezed up into his head; which perhaps accounted for his having also the appearance of being rather cold about the heart. He who had Toby’s meat upon the fork, called to the first one by the name of Filer; and they both drew near together. Mr. Filer being exceedingly short-sighted, was obliged to go so close to the remnant of Toby’s dinner before he could make out what it was, that Toby’s heart leaped up into his mouth. But Mr. Filer didn’t eat it. “This is a description of animal food, Alderman,” said Filer, making little punches in it, with a pencil-case, “commonly known to the labouring population of this country, by the name of tripe.” The Alderman laughed, and winked; for he was a merry fellow, Alderman Cute. Oh, and a sly fellow,

Look, Hell is taking over Richmond, and soon, Virginia, not long after, the U.S., and from there, maybe the world. So, get over it. Larry is not fake. He's a demon, plain and simple, but maybe you can't comprehend it. I know I couldn't at first. That means no more people checking out books, no more Christmas, cute fluffy kittens, no more anything good and right for humankind. Just demons, Hell, and the end of life as we know it.

That’ll be ten dollars.” His eyebrows went up. “That’s a lot of money for one piece of chocolate.” “It’s premium quality. Made from scratch in-house. I buy the beans myself, directly from Venezuela. But if you want to put it back, go right ahead.” “No, no, I’ll take it.” He pulled out his wallet and counted out a five and some ones. “For someone special?” she couldn’t resist asking, after placing the confection in a cute paper bag and tying the handles with some copper ribbon. “Susan, maybe? Sandra? Sonya?” “Savannah, actually.” She was such a fool for thinking, for even a second, that he’d selected it for her. “Here you go.” As she handed him the bag, she noticed him

OH OH NO!

Because he likes to hoe, hoe, hoe!

At the unexpected sight of Spence, Colbie startled hard. How was it that he was the one who needed glasses and yet she’d not seen him standing against the window? “No, I don’t kill a lot of people,” she said cautiously because she was wearing only a towelin front of a strange man. “But I’m happy to make an exception.” He laughed, a rough rumble that was more than a little contagious but she controlled herself because, hello, she was once again dripping wet before the man who seemed to make her knees forget to hold her up. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said and pushed off the wall to come close. She froze, but he held up his hands like, I come in peace, and crouched at her feet to scoop up the clothes she hadn’t realized she’d dropped. Leggings, a long forgiving tee, and the peach silk bra-and-panty set that hadn’t gotten so much as a blink from the TSA guy. But it got one out of Spence. He also swallowed hard as she snatched them back from him. “Hold on,” he said and caught her arm, pulling it toward him to look at her bleeding elbow. “Sit,” he said and gently pushed her down to a weight bench. He vanished into the bathroom and came back out with a first aid kit. It took him less than two minutes to clean and bandage the scrape. Then, easily balanced at her side on the balls of his feet, he did the same for both her knees, which she hadn’t noticed were also scraped up. “You must’ve hit the brick coping as you fell in the fountain,” he said and let his thumb slide over the skin just above one bandaged knee. She shivered, and not from the cold either. “Not going to kiss it better?” she heard herself ask before biting her tongue for running away with her good sense. She’d raised her younger twin brothers. Scrappy, roughhouse wild animals, the both of them, so there’d been plenty of injuries she’d kissed over the years. But no one had ever kissed hers. Not surprising, since most of her injuries tended to be on the inside, where they didn’t show. Still, she was horrified she’d said anything at all. “I didn’t mean—” She broke off, frozen like a deer in the headlights as Spence slowly lowered his head, brushing his lips over the Band-Aid on her elbow, then her knees. When he lifted his head, he pushed his glasses higher on his nose, those whiskey eyes warm and amused behind his lenses. “Better?” Shockingly better. Since she didn’t quite trust her voice at the moment, she gave a jerky nod and took her clothes back into the bathroom. She shut the door and then leaned against it, letting out a slow, deliberate breath. Holy cow, she was out of her league. He was somehow both cute and hot, and those glasses .

Do you mean like when I went to the mall with you to do Christmas shopping and I said please and thank you when you bought me that hot chocolate?” asked Scott. “Yes,” said Mom. “Those were your special Christmas manners.” “What about when I said thank you to Billy yesterday at school when he gave me back my book,” said Scott. “Was that my special

She makes me needlepoints of Bible verses for Christmas.” Jillian shook her head. “She disposed of a dead guy?

After stepping out of bed, she got dressed, slipping on her new patchwork dress and enjoying the feel of the soft cotton against her cloth skin. She'd sewed it together out of fabric she'd found in the dumpster--- the remnants of old and discarded costumes--- and was pretty proud of how it had come out. Christmas clothing was cute and all, but Abigail had been right--- it was extremely itchy. Not to mention a little boring. No dress should be limited to just one pattern or color, she thought with a smile. Which was why her new shop's name was so perfect: Patterns and Potions by Sally.

Made my heart hurt thinking I’d been off angst-ing away in the woods while Rooster had sat his big-ass body down here and drawn flowers all over the driveway with his baby. Jesus, that was cute.

hear about Dracula’s

Marcie felt something on her hair and woke to look into Ian’s rich brown eyes. Dawn was barely lighting the cabin and he was running his big hand over her curls. “Morning,” she said sleepily. He didn’t say anything. He just lowered his lips to hers and touched them gently, sweetly. She felt the brush of his beard, the soft flesh of his lips and let her eyes drop closed. He moved over her mouth for a moment. She moaned and slipped an arm around his neck, holding him there. He pulled back just a little and whispered, “We’re snowed in, honey.” “Good.” “I was jealous of Bobby, you know,” Ian said, petting her hair back along her temple, moving it over her ear. “Be careful, Ian—you’re talking about ‘it.’” “I’m ready to tell you anything you want to know. We were all a little jealous of Bobby. He had something real special with you. You sent him panties.” Her cheeks warmed in spite of herself. Her eyes got very round. “He showed you?” Ian chuckled. “He showed everyone. Very skimpy panties. I think they were lime-green with black lace or something.” “I cannot believe he showed you!” “He was proud of them. He kept them tucked in his inside pocket like a good-luck charm.” “They were perfectly clean, I’ll have you know.” “Aw, that almost comes as a disappointment,” Ian said, chuckling. “They should have had your scent on them.” “They had Tide and Downy on them!” “And you sent him that picture—on the motorcycle.” She put her hands over her face. In muffled tones she muttered, “I’m mortified.” He pulled her hands away and lightly kissed her again. “So the night I almost froze to death was actually the second time you’ve seen me in my underwear.” “Technically, I’ve seen your underwear a ton of times. I came home a couple of times to see your cute little rump sticking out of the covers, not to mention all that underwear on my tub, drying out,” he said. “And I’d trade my life to see you in your underwear again.” Her eyes got round for a minute, but then she smiled slightly and a little laugh escaped her. “I’ve heard some interesting come-ons in my limited experience, but that’s a new one. Tell me, do I have to shoot you after you peek?” “What if I told you, you might have to shoot me to stop me? Would that scare you?” “You don’t scare me, Ian. I know you’d protect me from anything. Even yourself.” He

No woman had ever made him feel so protective, yet so protected at the same time. He shifted his gaze to her lips. He had to taste them, had to claim them for his own right then, or his heart was going to jump right out of his chest and die on the floor at the ends of her cute little toes.

He’s here again!” She looked up from the books she was shelving. “Who’s here?” “Hottie Dad and his cute little girl! Elise Chandler’s poor daughter. They just walked in.

Q: Why does Santa like to work in the garden? A: Because he likes to hoe, hoe, hoe!

How long have you lived here?” I asked. “Six years. Came for Christmas one year, fell in love. I’m basically a Hallmark heroine, except my true love is the town instead of a Christmas tree farmer or a cute handyman. Though,

Recipe 19: Honeydukes Chocolate Frogs Ah, the legendary Honeydukes! Honestly, that store is enough to drive a person with a sweet tooth absolutely bonkers! Honeydukes is like a Muggle candy store on steroids! Anyway, I made these chocolate frogs as an experimental Christmas present for my little nephew. He went crazy when he saw them and actually asked if I would take him to Honeydukes the next time I went there, the cute thing! Here’s the recipe and a few variations that you could make! Serving Sizes: 8 Duration: 1 hour List of Ingredients: For the Shell 1 big bar milk chocolate or 1 cup chocolate chips For the Filling Use anything from fruit to hazelnuts to peanut butter. If you are feeling particularly tricky, which is pretty much my constant mood, get some popping candy and make a sort of hybrid cross between a Chocolate Frog and a Fizzing Whizzbee. You will also need chocolate frog molds to get that froggy shape. These are easily available on Amazon. WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW Preparation: 1. First, melt the chocolate in your microwave at 30 seconds, till the chocolate is melted and smooth. Use a big bowl, you’ll soon see why. 2. Stir the chocolate until it is slightly cooler but still runny. 3. Fill a piping bag with the melted chocolate, this makes the entire process less messy! 4. Take your frog molds and lightly spray them with cooking spray to make the demolding easier. 5. Pipe chocolate around the mold and in the centre. Don’t worry about quantities but ensure that the surface of the frog is completely covered. 6. After you’ve filled all the molds in the tray, flip the tray over the bowl of melted chocolate to get rid of the excess chocolate inside each frog. 7. Place the mold inside the freezer for about 10-15 minutes and allow the chocolate to harden slightly. 8. In the meantime, choose your fillings. I usually use nuts and peanut butter as one option and popping candy as another. I make an assortment so that when someone bites into the frog, they get a pleasant fizzy surprise! If you intend to use peanut butter or something runny, use a piping bag or a small squeezy bottle to fill your frogs. 9. Next, get the mold out of the freezer and carefully fill with the desired filling. 10. Top the filling with more melted chocolate and smoothen out so that the mold is completely even and covered. 11. Return to the freezer for another 30-35 mins. 12. When the chocolate has hardened, remove from the molds and store in the refrigerator. So perfect for boxing up as gifts and so easy to make that you can probably go into the business of making Chocolate Frogs professionally!

Lights twinkled and a cute little Christmas tree decorated with acorns, red buffalo plaid, and tiny wooden squirrels stood near the front door.

Robyn Hartford, would you like to spend these first snow moments with me?" "I am spending them with you." "Not like this." He takes a step back and extends his palm my way. "Share this first snow dance with me." Isn't he romantic? "I'll have to warn you that I'm not a good dancer." "Liar," he whispers, inching closer. "I've heard you blast the music almost every morning and watched you dance with Milo while cleaning the house." I gasp and sign rapidly. "You've been spying on me?" Era rolls his eyes. "It's called admiring the view." My smile is wider than Texas when I place my hand in his palm and allow him to spin me around in the snow.

all the shop windows glowed with cheerful displays, some of them rather more well done than others. Alice thought the hardware shop with its Nativity scene comprised entirely of power tools was a little odd, whether one believed in such things or not. Although the tiny electric drill in the manger was admittedly quite cute, somehow. Possibly due to the googly eyes on the handle.

couldn’t understand how anyone would look at this man, who was not only cute but also good natured, and think he wasn’t worth the effort of protecting. Of supporting. Were the people around him just selfish or blind? And could I smack them? I wanted to smack them.

What is it about avocados that is so goddam cute?! I mean, essentially they are just a knobbly green not-very-attractive-looking piece of fruit. But when you add eyes and cut them in half so that their stones look like podgy bellies, then they are instantly ADORBS. 5.45

You aren't ugly," he said. He stopped and turned to look at me. His eyes flicked from my nose to my mouth down to my chest and back up. "You're cute," he said, taking my hands. "And I'm sorry.

And Christmas movies couldn’t be that hard to make, right? They were almost like porn.

Once all the gifts were opened, Dad would hold a big garbage bag open and we would get rid of the wrappings, ribbons, bows and packaging. We would then

The difference between a Christmas tree and a man is that a Christmas tree will stay up for 1 extra month, has cute balls and looks good with the lights on.

Kevin chuckled and walked over to his bike. He put up the kickstand and grabbed the handles. It was time to head home. “Nya.” Blink. “Nya?” “Nya.” Blink. Blink. Kevin looked at the wall near the distribution building—and nearly squealed upon spotting the small, cute, adorably furry animal sitting on its haunches. A black cat with big yellow eyes stared at him. Its tail swayed behind it, moving left, then right. It opened its mouth, releasing another one of those utterly endearing, if unusual, “nya” sounds. This cat reminds me of the one that I took home with me when I was in elementary school. It even nyas. How cool is that? “Kitty!” Like a child who’d just seen a new toy on Christmas Day, Kevin dropped his bike and went over to the cat, whose large incandescent orbs had yet to leave his face. He reached the feline in record time, and his hand was quick to descend upon its head. The cat didn’t seem to mind. Indeed, it reveled in the attention, purring as he gently scratched behind its left ear, which twitched with minute movements.

Maraming Namamatay sa Maling Koala What is cute sometimes Can prove deadly Like Jose Mari Chan's Overheard Nonstop Christmas Medley

When I was around 7/8 years old, my mother used to tell me that the difference between a Christmas tree and a man is that a Christmas tree will stay up for 1 extra month, has cute balls and looks good with the lights on.

I may be an elf,” I said with a smile that never failed to charm people, “but I'm not a stupid elf. I've got a college degree and everything.” “In what?” the little girl asked. “Dumb elfery?” I tried not to snort, but even I admit that was funny. “No, actually the courses in dumb elfery were full so I had to take the ones in cute elfery instead.” I pulled back and did a little spin, making sure the bells on my hat and shoes jingled. “So, did I deserve that degree or what? I graduated with honors and everything.” Emma did a circle with her finger, motioning for me to turn around again. I did and when I turned back, she was tapping her chin. “I think you should probably ask for your money back.

Alles, was ich zu Weihnachten möchte, ist einen Kuss von dir - All I want for Christmas is a kiss from you

I was reaching my hand over the person in front of me to shake hands with Obama when a random guy barreled into me from behind. I turned to look at what had happened, and in the meantime, I felt a hand on my hand. I turned back around, saw Barack Obama was holding my hand, and immediately recoiled. About halfway into this maneuver, I realized what I was doing so I tried to recover by grabbing his pointer finger and shaking it. Like an infant. But not in a cute way! ‘Merry Christmas, Mr. President!’ I exclaimed, red-faced. ‘Yes,’ he replied, staring at my hand shaking his finger.

In Romania, there is only one reason to own a pig: Christmas meat. In June, small pink loaves nuzzle up to nurse from fat sows. In August, the piglets frisk about on green grass, root for hidden treasures, and bask their plump sides in the sun. In October, they lumber up to feed troughs, grunting and shoving, their cuteness mostly a memory. In December, they die.

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.

What do you get if you deep fry Santa Claus? A: Crisp Cringle!

not allow anyone else to enter. The kitchen was off limits to everyone in the household except for the three women. “Mine is ready to be put in the oven,” said Grandmother. “You are so quick,” said Aunt Andrea. “Are you sure you put all the proper ingredients in yours?” “Oh,” said Grandmother. “I am positive. I have been making gingerbread houses for many, many years.” Mom and Aunt Andrea could not argue with Grandmother on that point and they both knew they were going to have to step it up a bit to win against her. “What are you doing with the honey?” Aunt Andrea asked Mom. “Don’t you worry about that,” said Mom. “It is my special ingredient.” “I see,” said Aunt Andrea, taking the honey away from Mom when she was finished with it. “Well it is no longer a secret ingredient.

was little, his uncle would always buy him frog stuff every Christmas—because “every boy should have some sort of collection.” He whimsically told me this after I had insisted we only talk about schoolwork. The rule had made him playfully go on and on about his frog collection—since he was dissecting a frog in his biology class—a subject I wasn’t even tutoring him in: Biology. When I had given him a wary look about it, he had said playfully, “What? It’s schoolwork talk—frogs. I’m just trying to let you get to know me, while staying on school-talk.” Then he went on to talk about his first kiss, since his auto class was teaching about heat-combustion. He smiles at my frog humidifier now, seeming rather delighted. “You had acted like you weren’t listening.” True, I’d acted like that. But his cute little stories had been adorable—and his first

God, she’s . . . she’s . . . fuck, she’s cute.