Dab Dance Quotes

EVERYONE DABBING AND DOING COOL FORTNITE DANCES, LIKE THE FLOSS, HYPE, AND ORANGE JUSTICE!

The land grew and grew as she danced her thanks, from the dab of mud on Turtle’s back until the whole earth was made. Not by Skywoman alone, but from the alchemy of all the animals’ gifts coupled with her deep gratitude. Together they formed what we know today as Turtle Island, our home.

I understand, intellectually, that the death of a parent is a natural, acceptable part of life. Nobody would call the death of a very sick eighty-year-old woman a tragedy. There was soft weeping at her funeral and red watery eyes. No wrenching sobs. Now I think that I should have let myself sob. I should have wailed and beaten my chest and thrown myself over her coffin. I read a poem. A pretty, touching poem I thought she would have liked. I should have used my own words. I should have said: No one will ever love me as fiercely as my mother did. I should have said: You all think you’re at the funeral of a sweet little old lady, but you’re at the funeral of a girl called Clara, who had long blond hair in a heavy thick plait down to her waist, who fell in love with a shy man who worked on the railways, and they spent years and years trying to have a baby, and when Clara finally got pregnant, they danced around the living room but very slowly, so as not to hurt the baby, and the first two years of her little girl’s life were the happiest of Clara’s life, except then her husband died, and she had to bring up the little girl on her own, before there was a single mother’s pension, before the words “single mother” even existed. I should have told them about how when I was at school, if the day became unexpectedly cold, Mum would turn up in the school yard with a jacket for me. I should have told them that she hated broccoli with such a passion she couldn’t even look at it, and that she was in love with the main character on the English television series Judge John Deed. I should have told them that she loved to read and she was a terrible cook, because she’d try to cook and read her latest library book at the same time, and the dinner always got burned and the library book always got food spatters on it, and then she’d spend ages trying to dab them away with the wet corner of a tea towel. I should have told them that my mum thought of Jack as her own grandchild, and how she made him a special racing car quilt he adored. I should have talked and talked and grabbed both sides of the lectern and said: She was not just a little old lady. She was Clara. She was my mother. She was wonderful.

When Evie awakened alone in the large bed, the first thing she beheld was a scattering of pale pink splashes over the snowy white linens, as if someone had spilled blush-colored wine in bed. Blinking sleepily, she propped herself up on one elbow and touched one of the pink dabs with a single fingertip. It was a creamy pink rose petal, pulled free of a blossom and gently dropped to the sheet. Gazing around her, she discovered that rose petals had been sprinkled over her in a light rain. A smile curved her lips, and she lay back into the fragrant bed. The night of heady sensuality seemed to have been part of some prolonged erotic dream. She could hardly believe the things she had allowed Sebastian to do, the intimacies that she had never imagined were possible. And in the drowsy aftermath of their passion, he had cradled her against his chest and they had talked for what seemed to be hours. She had even told him the story of the night when she and Annabelle and the Bowman sisters had become friends, sitting in a row of chairs at a ball. "We made up a list of potential suitors and wrote it on our empty dance cards," Evie had told him. "Lord Westcliff was at the top of the list, of course. But you were at the bottom, because you were obviously not the marrying kind." Sebastian had laughed huskily, tangling his bare legs intimately with hers. "I was waiting for you to ask me." "You never spared me a glance," Evie had replied wryly. "You weren't the sort of man to dance with wallflowers." Sebastian had smoothed her hair, and was silent for a moment. "No, I wasn't," he had admitted. "I was a fool not to have noticed you. If I had bothered to spend just five minutes in your company, you'd never have escaped me." He had proceeded to seduce her as if she were still a virginal wallflower, coaxing her to let him make love to her by slow degrees, until he was finally sheathed in her trembling body.

What I have been doing lately from my WIP "In Hiding" is available on my website. *Strong language warning* Wayne sat in the hygienic emergency room trying to ignore the bitch of a headache that began radiating at the back of his skull. His worn jeans, a blood-stained t-shirt, and his makeshift bandage sat on a nearby chair. The hysteria created by his appearance in the small hospital ward had died down. A local cop greeted him as soon as he was escorted to the examination room. The conversation was brief, once he revealed he was a bail enforcer the topic changed from investigation to shooting the bull. The experienced officer shook his hand before leaving then joked he hoped this would be their only encounter. The ER doc was a woman about his age. Already the years of long hours, rotating shifts and the rarity of a personal life showed on her face. Her eyelids were pink-rimmed, her complexion sallow; all were earmarks of the effect of long-term exhaustion. Wayne knew it all too well as he rubbed his knuckle against his own grainy eyes. Despite this, she attended to him with an upbeat demeanor and even slid in some ribbing at his expense. He was defenseless, once the adrenaline dropped off Wayne felt drained. He accepted her volleys without a response. All he mustered was a smile and occasional nod as she stitched him up. Across the room, his cell toned, after the brief display of the number a woman’s image filled the screen. Under his breath, he mumbled, “Shit.” He intends for his exclamation to remain ignored, having caught it the doctor glanced his direction with a smile. Without invitation, she retrieved his phone handing it to him without comment. Wayne noted the raised eyebrow she failed to hide. The phone toned again as he glanced at the flat image on the device. The woman’s likeness was smiling brightly, her blue eyes dancing. Just looking at her eased the pain in his head. He swiped the screen and connected the call as the doctor finished taping his injury. Using his free uninjured arm, he held the phone away from him slightly, utilizing the speaker option. “Hey Baby.” “What the hell, Wayne!” Her voice filled the small area, in his peripheral vision he saw the doc smirk. Turning his head, he addressed the caller. “Babe, I was getting ready to call.” The excuse sounded lame, even to him. “Why the hell do I have to hear about this secondhand?” Wayne placed the phone to his chest, loudly he exclaimed; “F***!” The ER doc touched his arm, “I will give you privacy.” Wayne gave her a grateful nod. With a snatch, she grabbed the corner of the thin curtain suspended from the ceiling and pulled it close. Alone again, he refocused on the call. The woman on the other end had continued in her tirade without him. When he rejoined the call mid-rant, she was issuing him a heartfelt ass-chewing. “...bullshit Wayne that I have to hear about this from my cousin. We’ve talked about this!” “Honey...” She interrupts him before he can explain himself. “So what the hell happened?” Wisely he waited for silence to indicate it was his turn to speak. “Lou, Honey first I am sorry. You know I never meant to upset you. I am alright; it is just a flesh wound.” As he speaks, a sharp pain radiates across his side. Gritting his teeth, Wayne vows to continue without having the radiating pain affect his voice. “I didn’t want you to worry Honey; you know calling Cooper first is just business.” Silence. The woman miles away grits her teeth as she angrily brushes away her tears. Seated at the simple dining table, she takes a napkin from the center and dabs at her eyes. Mentally she reminds herself of her promise that she was done crying over this man. She takes an unsteady breath as she returns her attention to the call. “Lou, you still there?” There is something in his voice, the tender desperation he allows only her to see. Furrowing her brow she closes her eyes, an errant tear coursed down her cheek.

How many dicks does a man have to suck to get a penguin dab around here?

curricular: they occur outside his playing remit. This is Lingard of the social media meme, the dab-dance

She returned to the floor, and a tray appeared beside her with a sandwich, glass of milk, and some cubes of cantaloupe. She didn't know who brought it in, but she picked up a piece of the cantaloupe and examined it. The color matched some of the roses in the lady's garden, exactly what she needed for the flowers she'd drawn behind her butterfly. Yellow, white, and a dab of red- she combined them on the plate until a soft peach colored her palette. Walter thought she should grow up, like the lady wanted Oliver to do, but grown-ups didn't spend their nights dancing in gardens. Or painting. "I will stay a girl forever," she whispered, changing the lyrics from 'Peter Pan.' "And be banished if I don't." She began to paint her butterfly. "I'll never grow up," she chanted as she worked. It wasn't until the first rays of dawn spilled across her paper that she began to feel sleepy. Her floor was covered with pictures and papers, but where others might see a mess, she saw a new world. There were flowers and trees and butterflies she'd brought to life with her hands. And her heart. A lot of people thought she wasn't good at anything, but it wasn't true. She was good at making things.

Dad went back to the front, taking Jovie with him, and Kye cornered me. Backing me up until my ass bumped into one of the workshop tables. “You have no sense of personal space, do you?” Not that I minded. Especially when he trapped me there, planting soft kisses against my throat and shoulder. “We could try for a workshop-table-baby.” His laughter rumbled in his chest, making my toes curl. “How about it?” It took an extreme amount of willpower to not let his kisses distract me. “First, we’re not trying for any kind of baby while Dad’s here.” He grunted, twisting the ends of my hair around his fingers. “We could come back after hours.” My brows hiked into my hairline. “Why would we come all the way back into town when we have a perfectly comfortable bed. And kitchen. And living room. And the armchair that we still have yet to christen.” We shared a wicked smirk before I gave him a quick, chaste kiss and whispered, “I don’t want a chisel poking my ass while you fuck me. Not sexy.” “Armchair baby it is,” he sighed, like he was accepting the next best option. “Should I at least buy you a drink first? Soften you up a bit?” “Hmmm,” I hummed, reaching up to tap his chin with my index finger. “Well, if you insist. How about hot cocoa?” He shook his head, laughter dancing in his eyes, and I had to keep myself from getting swept away by his gaze. “I know just the place.” Kye donned his coat and slid his hand into mine. We made our way to The Bowl, ordered our drinks, and met at the windows where, almost exactly one year ago, I’d dabbed whipped cream off his nose. I reached up now to do the same after he took his first sip, because he still didn’t have the skills to drink The Bowl’s monstrosity properly. “I’m starting to think you do it on purpose,” I accused, balling up the napkin. I’d never openly admit it was one of my favorite things. “Holly?” “Yes?” “Shut up and forking kiss me.” And I did. I forking kissed the big, Krampus-looking, kindhearted, funny, foul-mouthed, available all-months-of-the-year alien. It just happened to be another one of my favorite things.

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.

Our Skirt (by Kathy Boudin) You were forty-five and I was fourteen when you gave me the skirt. ¨It's from Paris!¨ you said as if that would impress me who at best had mixed feelings about skirts. But I was drawn by that summer cotton with splashes of black and white--like paint dabbed by an eager artist. I borrowed your skirt and it moved like waves as I danced at a ninth grade party. Wearing it date after date including my first dinner with a college man. I never was much for buying new clothes, once I liked something it stayed with me for years. I remember the day I tried ironing your skirt, so wide it seemed to go on and on like a western sky. Then I smelled the burning and, crushed, saw that I had left a red-brown scorch on that painting. But you, Mother, you understood because ironing was not your thing either. And over the years your skirt became my skirt until I left it and other parts of home with you. Now you are eighty and I almost fifty. We sit across from each other in the prison visiting room. Your soft gray-thin hair twirls into style. I follow the lines on your face, paths lit by your eyes until my gaze comes to rest on the black and white on the years that our skirt has endured.

The land grew and grew as she danced her thanks, from the dab of mud on Turtle’s back until the whole earth was made. Not by Skywoman alone, but from the alchemy of all the animals’ gifts coupled with her deep gratitude.

Eggbeater Fun—Give your child an eggbeater to whip up soapsuds or mix up a bowl of birdseed, or of uncooked beans and rice. Marble Painting—Line a tray or cookie sheet with paper. Put a few dabs of finger paint in the center of the paper. Provide a marble to roll through the paint to make a design. Great wrapping paper! Ribbon Dancing—Attach ribbons, streamers, or scarves to the ends of a dowel. Holding the dowel with both hands, the child swirls the ribbons overhead, from side to side, and up and down. (No dowel? Give him a ribbon for each hand.) This activity also improves visual-motor coordination. Two-Sided Activities—Encourage the child to jump rope, swim, bike, hike, row, paddle, and do morning calisthenics.

Carmella twisted a damp tissue around and around in her lap. Every now and then, she dabbed at her nose. “I can’t hardly stand to face the day anymore,” she said. “I couldn’t even go to work today.” “How come?” Toby said. I gave him a nudge with my knee. We sat squeezed together between piles of junk on Carmella’s couch. The window shades were drawn. Tiny sparkles of dust danced in a narrow beam of sunlight that slanted across the dark room. Carmella shook her head. “Gertie says she hasn’t got that kind of money, but I know she does.” “Why won’t she give it to you?” I said. “’Cause she’s selfish, that’s why.” I watched a fly land on a greasy pizza box on