Dallas Green Quotes

As she read over Eve's shoulder, Mavis let out a low whistle. "Not the Roarke! The incredibly wealthy, fabulous to look at, sexily mysterious Roarke who owns approximately twenty-eight percent of the world, and its satellites?" All Eve felt was irritation. "He's the only one I know." "You know him." Mavis rolled her green shadowed eyes. "Dallas, I've underestimated you unforgivably. Tell me everything. How, when, why? Did you sleep with him? Tell me you slept with him, then give me every tiny detail." "We've had a secret, passionate affair for the last three years, during which time I bore him a son who's being raised on the far side of the moon by Buddhist monks.

Dallas is small enough: Highland Park is like living in a retirement home when it comes to knowing what everyone is doing.

At the time, I thought if Stan Davis wanted to live on Green Valley Road, or in the Hundred-Acre Wood, that was his right as an American

Così era diventata un'anima inquieta. Spaventata dalla sua inerzia, l'aveva trasformata in moto perpetuo.

There have been extensive human rights violations by American psychiatrists over the last 70 years. These doctors were pad by the American taxpayer through CIA and military contracts. It is past time for these abuses to stop, it is past time for a reckoning, and it is past time for individual doctors to be held accountable. The Manchurian Candidate Programs are of much more than "historical" interest. ARTICHOKE, BLUEBIRD, MKULTRA and MKSEARCH are precursors of mind control programs that are operational in the twenty first century. Human rights violations by psychiatrists must be ongoing in programs like COPPER GREEN, the interrogation program at Abu Ghraib prison in Iraq. Such programs must be carried out within CIA units like Task Force 121 (The Dallas Morning News, December 1, 2004, p. 1A). Information pointing to ongoing human rights violations by psychiatrists is available in publications like The New Yorker (see article by Seymour M. Hersh, May 24, 2004). Yes the indifference, silence, denial, and disinformation of organized medicine and psychiatry continue. One purpose of The CIA Doctors: Human Rights Violations By American Psychiatrists is to break that silence.

At three in the morning Main Street was so quiet that Dallas could hear the street light change from red to green a block away. There was nothing sadder and lonelier in the world, he decided, especially when you were all alone when it happened.

La rabbia è solo un diversivo dalla morsa della disperazione, dalla nitida consapevolezza che l'hai uccisa tu, che le hai rubato la vita e il futuro. Non te la cavi incazzandoti. […] io non mi illudevo. La colpa sarebbe stata sempre e solo nostra, senza sconti, senza perdono.

Fu colpito," cioè Bolìvar, "dalla sconvolgente rivelazione che la folle ricorsa fra i suoi sogni e le avversità in quel momento stava toccando il traguardo. Il resto era buio. 'Maledizione' sospirò, 'come farò a uscire da questo labirinto?'" […] "E' questo il mistero, no? Cos'è il labirinto, vivere o morire? Da dove vorrebbe fuggire, Bolìvar, dall'esistenza o dalla sua fine?

although the mission seemed doomed to fail, the four angels might succeed. He prayed also for Dallas Garner, the baby whose life hung in the balance. And for a generation who might never find redemption otherwise. FOUR EMPTY CHAIRS faced each other at the center of the adjacent room. Jag took the lead as they entered the space and shut the door behind them. Windows lined the walls, flooding the place with light and peace. When they were seated, Jag studied his peers. “Are you surprised?” Beck leaned back. Rays of sunshine streamed through the windows and flashed in his green eyes. He breathed deep, clearly bewildered. “Shocked.” “It’s true, we know the humans better.” Ember ran her hand over her long, golden-red hair. Concern knit itself into her expression. “But if they suspect us, it could alter their choices. We must be so very discreet.” Jag nodded. “Discretion will be key.” He planted his elbows on his knees, leaning closer to the others.

Perché lei, lei era stata il mio Grande Forse, mi aveva fatto vedere che valeva la pena di lasciarmi alle spalle la mia vita da ragazzino per dei forse più adulti, e ora se n'era andata, e con lei la mia fiducia nei forse. […] Potevo anche provare a fingere che non mi importasse più, ma sarebbe sempre stata una bugia. Non puoi diventarmi così necessaria e poi morire, Alaska, perché ora io non sono più quello di prima, irrimediabilmente e mi dispiace di averti lasciato andare via, sì, ma è stata una scelta tua. Mi hai lasciato senza un forse, prigioniero del tuo maledetto labirinto. E ora non so nemmeno se hai scelto tu di evadere per la via più dritta e veloce, se mi hai lasciato così di proposito. Quindi non ho mai saputo chi eri in realtà, vero? Non posso ricordarlo, perché non l'ho mai saputo. […] E mi resi conto che conoscerla veramente era diventata una necessità, perché dovevo avere più cose da ricordare. Prima che si mettesse in moto la spietata macchina che avrebbe cancellato dalla mia memoria i come e i perché della sua vita e della sua morte, avevo bisogno di capirli. Come. Perché. Quando. Dove. Cosa.

He and Kushner had hit upon the plan after seeing Mark Cuban, the billionaire owner of the Dallas Mavericks and an outspoken Clinton partisan, seated in the front row during the first debate on September 26. Trump personally approved the idea, understanding that it would create an indelible moment of TV drama: the candidates’ family members were to enter the debate hall at the same time and shake hands, which would put Bill Clinton face-to-face with his accusers.

A fleet of restored vintage trolleys ran from the West Village to Downtown. They had adorable names like Rosie, Betty, Petunia, and the Green Dragon. They dinged cheerfully down the green median of a cobblestone path. Griffin took a few shots of Megan and Josh in front of the Green Dragon before we all climbed aboard. As we looped around the neighborhood, I looked out the window and felt the breeze on my face. The West Village was a great cross section of urban Dallas life. Yuppies, families, and empty nesters commingled on the streets. Most days a breeze blew down the corridor, making it bearable, even enjoyable, to sit outside the cafés year-round. A dog-friendly café with an adjoining dog park was down the block, and a parade of pups dripped down the street, tails wagging, sopping wet from doggie pools. A couple on roller skates did tricks for pedestrians before they skated away, hand in hand. It felt vibrant and magical. Homey.

Saturday, my thirty-sixth birthday, passed in a fog. Sundays would have normally found me attending church services, but I spent my first Sunday in Dallas, sitting on the edge of a bed in a nondescript motel room, in a daze — with a .45, not a Bible, by my side.

But she didn’t leave. Instead, she dropped to her knees and began undoing my belt. I leaned on the edge of the sink, powerless to stop her. My fingers curled around the counter. “I’m going to bleed all over my floor.” A last-ditch effort to stop her. She pulled out my heavy, engorged cock. Her fingers circled it all the way without touching. I loved how tiny she was compared to me. How unlikely a pair we were. How people must’ve wondered how I fit into her. The delicious answer, by the way, was barely. “It’ll compliment all the green I splashed on your ceiling.” She wrapped her lips around my cock, taking it inch by inch. Her warmth engulfed it. I shuddered when she flattened her tongue against my shaft. I dropped my head back and groaned. Dallas was a great dick-sucker. She had the stamina, since her jaw worked out all day from eating. Andshe was enthusiastic. I could tell she loved going down on me. I’d had my dick sucked by enough women who only did it to warm my bed. They’d blink up at me, examining me through their lashes with what they thought were seductive grins, suckling gently, stroking my dick up and down like it was a cello. Not Shortbread. Shortbread loved it all—the sucking, the spitting, the kissing, the way my cock hit the back of her throat when I grabbed her hair and fucked her face. She loved gagging on it and often tried to take me all the way to the root. In fact, this seemed to be the only aspect in Dallas’s life in which she was not lazy. Tilting my chin down, I watched as she sucked me off. Crimson drops ran down her glossy hair, trailing along her forehead. Seeing her tainted with my blood did something to me. Gave me a sense of ownership I normally did not allow myself to contemplate. Perhaps it was the blood loss, but I didn’t want to finish like this. Coming in her mouth wouldn’t cut it. Lacing her long brown hair in my fist, I tugged her away from my cock. She pulled back, blinking at me expectantly.(Chapter 55)

So bright the flames burned in our hearts that we found each other in the dark

Such success had been impossible to envision in 1960, but the Cowboys had become more competitive. They had opened the season with their first-ever win, beating the Steelers in Dallas, 27–24, on a last-second field goal by their new kicker, Allen Green, before a crowd of 23,500.

In the past few years, the floodgates had opened. Folks had sold their homes in Richardson, Plano, Arlington, Fort Worth, and Dallas, packing up and moving to Plainfield until the population grew at the pace of rabbits on Viagra. The green was slowly swallowed up by concrete, the trees replaced by walls and roofs, glass and steel.

Bring a large pot of salted water to a rolling boil over high heat. Add the green beans and cook until crisp-tender, about 3 minutes. Drain the beans in a colander, then rinse under cold running water until cool to the touch to stop the cooking process and set

It's not really necessary: a ten-year-old son in St. Mark's and a seven-year-old daughter in Lamplighter, three bedrooms and three baths at one end of Beverly Drive, her station wagon, his Toronado.

So she was still single. She wondered sometimes if Blake was being deprived of male companionship solely because of her attitudes. It bothered her, but she didn’t want to change. “Snow is awesome,” he sighed, using a word that he used to denote only the best things in his life. Cherry pie was awesome. So was baseball, if the Atlanta Braves were playing, and football if the Dallas Cowboys were. She smiled at his dark head, so like her own. He had her slender build, too, but he had his father’s green eyes. Bob had been a handsome man. Handsome and far too brave for his own good. Dead at twenty-seven, she sighed, and for what? She folded her arms across her chest, cozy in the oversize red flannel shirt that she wore over well-broken-in jeans. “It’s freezing, that’s what it is,” she informed her offspring. “And it isn’t awesome; it’s irritating. Apparently, the electric generator goes out every other day, and the only man who can fix it stays drunk.” “That cowboy seems to know how,” Blake said hesitantly. Maggie agreed reluctantly. “I know. Things were running great until our foreman asked for time off to spend Christmas with his wife’s family in Pennsylvania. That leaves me in charge, and what do I know about running a ranch?” she moaned. “I grew up on a small farm, but I don’t know beans about how to manage this kind of place, and the men realize it. I suppose they don’t have any confidence in working for a secretary, even just temporarily.” “Well, there’s always Mr. Hollister,” Blake said with pursed lips and a wicked grin. She glared at him. “Mr. Hollister hates me. He hates you, too, in fact, but you don’t seem to let that stand in the way of your admiration for the man.” She threw up her hands, off on her favorite subject again. “For heaven’s sake, he’s a cross between a bear and a moose! He never comes off his mountain except when he wants to cuss somebody out or raise hell!” “He’s lonely,” Blake pointed out. “He lives all by himself. It’s hard going, I’ll bet, and he has to eat his own cooking.” He sat up enthusiastically, his thick hair over his brow. “Grandpa said he once knew a man who quit working for Mr. Hollister just because the cook got sick and Mr. Hollister had to feed the men.” Maggie glanced at her son with a wicked gleam in her eyes. “He probably fed them some of his

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