Diva Sayings And Quotes

As Calvin helped him to the stairs, Dex braced himself. “So on a scale of one to diva, how pissed off is Sloane at me right now?” Calvin winced. “I’d say…. Mariah Carey pissed.

Tyra’s always standing up for herself and her “race” over perceived slights. For example, she’ll say, “You just pushed me because I’m black!” No, I pushed you because the train was coming right at you, you bulimic twit.

I'm saying it's totally oblivious to how people feel. Take the ocean, for instance. You can love it, but it doesn't love you back. It will suck you under and steal your breath and beauty can make you cry, or that the sound of the tide coming in at night is the best lullaby you ever heard.

As women of the western world, we see our sisters in other lands being raped, maimed and even executed simply for trying to exercise the most basic freedoms, such as taking a bus alone or wearing a bright red sweater. And when we look at our own world, we see that it too still lacks equality for the sexes. It's a terrible thing to go through one's entire lifetime not getting to do all the things we dream of doing just because others say we're not permitted to do them, and to know that they will hurt us if we try. But far, far worse than that is when there's not a thing or a person outside that's stopping us from living exactly as we wish, but we stop ourselves; internally we do not give ourselves permission, simply because we're too scared of what will happen if we dare.

The flamboyant diva in eye-catching costume was Queenie in drag. We have never been able to persuade him to undergo a transsex transformation. He says he prefers remaining a faggot.

Remember The Princess and the Pea? She could feel a single pea through dozens of mattresses, and that’s how everyone knew she was of noble blood, even though she’d arrived looking bedraggled and scruffy. It’s supposed to be an example of the saying “breeding will out”, meaning that you can always spot true royalty, even if that someone is dressed in rags. Am I the only one who thinks the moral of this story is all screwed up? You get caught in a storm and knock on a stranger’s door in the middle of the night to ask for shelter... then when they ask how you slept, you COMPLAIN that you were uncomfortable? Honey, that’s not being a Princess. That’s being a diva bitch.

wI don’t care what they say about Aretha. She can be hiding out in her house in Detroit for years. She can go decades without taking a plane or flying off to Europe. She can cancel half her gigs and infuriate every producer and promoter in the country. She can sing all kinds of jive-ass songs that are beneath her. She can go into her diva act and turn off the world. But on any given night, when that lady sits down at the piano and gets her body and soul all over some righteous song, she’ll scare the shit out of you. And you’ll know—you’ll swear—that she’s still the best fuckin’ singer this fucked-up country has ever produced.

I don’t care what they say about Aretha,” said Billy Preston. “She can be hiding out in her house in Detroit for years. She can go decades without taking a plane or flying off to Europe. She can cancel half her gigs and infuriate every producer and promoter in the country. She can sing all kinds of jive-ass songs that are beneath her. She can go into her diva act and turn off the world. But on any given night, when that lady sits down at the piano and gets her body and soul all over some righteous song, she’ll scare the shit out of you. And you’ll know—you’ll swear—that she’s still the best fuckin’ singer this fucked-up country has ever produced.

Something refused to come into focus in my thinking. Indistinctly, as though in a fog, shapes moved toward me and retreated just beyond cognition. But that getting a hold of things is the uncertainty. As the Tractatus says right at the beginning, “The world is everything that is the case.” It seemed as though the Mammy≈Divas® were just like Steve Jobs, trying to have reality bent to their own wills. Objectively, the iPhone was a muddle of mysticism and logic—breakable glass, non-ergonomic design, lousy battery life, lousy irreplaceable battery, lousy headphone jack, lousy virtual keyboard, lousy email, lousy memory, lousy lice, etc., etc, and an interface that you had to adapt to by pretending as an article of faith that no adaptation was required. The Mammy≈Divas® promised a seamless racial interface—eternal blackness ordered and majestic. They put a benign face on their lust for panoptic power. They promised to discipline and punish with pancakes.

She paused on the pavement, and remembered that Diva had not yet expressed regret about the worsted, and that she still "popped" as much as ever. Thus Diva deserved a punishment of some sort, and happily, at that very moment she thought of a subject on which she might be able to make her uncomfortable. The street was full, and it would be pretty to call up to her, instead of ringing her bell, in order to save trouble to poor overworked Janet. (Diva only kept two servants, though of course poverty was no crime.) "Diva darling!" she cooed. Diva's head looked out like a cuckoo in a clock preparing to chime the hour. "Hullo!" she said. "Want me?" "May I pop up for a moment, dear?" said Miss Mapp. "That's to say if you're not very busy." "Pop away," said Diva. She was quite aware that Miss Mapp said "pop" in crude inverted commas, so to speak, for purposes of mockery, and so she said it herself more than ever. "I'll tell my maid to pop down and open the door.

You have to manifest it for yourself,” the blond diva says wisely. “I spent years believing against all odds that it would happen for me. I still wake up every morning knowing even better things will happen. If you believe it against all odds, it comes true. It’s the power of the universe.” Even though Polly, too, left religion behind, she still has her own system of faith that she carried with her. Can anyone survive without faith, however it is labeled? No matter how you live your life, it seems, you need faith to get by, to get ahead.

But why did she come back and take her card away?" asked Miss Mackintosh. "I told Florence that Miss Mapp had heard something dreadful about her. And how did she know that Lady Deal was coming here at all? The house was taken in my name." "That's just what we all long to find out," said Diva eagerly. "She said that somebody in London told her." "But who?" asked Miss Mackintosh. "Florence only settled to come at lunch time that day, and she told her butler to ring up Susie and say she would be arriving." Diva's eyes grew round and bright with inductive reasoning. "I believe we're on the right tack," she said. "Could she have received Lady Deal's butler's message, do you think? What's your number?" "Tilling 76," said Miss Mackintosh. Evie gave three ecstatic little squeaks. "Oh, that's it, that's it!" she said. "Elizabeth Mapp is Tilling 67. So careless of them, but all quite plain. And she did hear it from somebody in London. Quite true, and so dreadfully false and misleading, and so like her. Isn't it, Diva? Well, it does serve her right to be found out." Miss Mackintosh was evidently a true Tillingite. "How marvellous!" she said.

Miss Mackintosh waved her arms wildly. "Oh, please stop, and let me guess," she cried. "I shall go crazy with joy if I'm right. It was an old Peerage, and so she found that Lady Deal was Helena Herman--" "Whom she had seen ten years ago at a music hall as a male impersonator," cried Diva. "And didn't want to know her," interrupted Miss Mackintosh. "Yes, that's it, but that is not all. I hope you won't mind, but it's too rich. She saw you this morning coming out of your house in your bath-chair, and was quite sure that you were that Lady Deal." The three ladies rocked with laughter. Sometimes one recovered, and sometimes two, but they were re-infected by the third, and so they went on, solo and chorus, and duet and chorus, till exhaustion set in. "But there's still a mystery," said Diva at length, wiping her eyes. "Why did the Peerage say that Lady Deal was Helena Herman?" "Oh, that's the last Lady Deal," said Miss Mackintosh. "Helena Herman's Lord Deal died without children and Florence's Lord Deal, my Lady Deal, succeeded. Cousins." "If that isn't a lesson for Elizabeth Mapp," said Diva. "Better go to the expense of a new Peerage than make such a muddle. But what a long call we've made. We must go.

When I say we, I'm referring to society: copywriters, companies, and overall general opinion; I am in no way taking personal responsibility. We/they market to women like they are giant toddlers. This endless, pejorative, female-targeted infantilization of the English language when it's directed toward women: "Mama Bear needs her beauty rest!" "Rockstar gal gets her glam on!" "Work it, she-entrepreneur!" "Be a diva-licious ass-kicker in stilettos! The biggest, badass, boss-babe in herstory! The fiercest, she-matologist working in the blood lab!" This pervasive rhetoric is basically watered down, digestible empowerment designed to get a woman's money. It's the advertising equivalent of a "Live Laugh Love" sign.

Survival and persistence, sung defiantly in the high notes of the diva, are no small feats in a world that wishes fervently for one's nonexistence and/or silent complicity in one's own exploitation. The narcissistic self-regard implied in the negative definition of the diva is a radical insistence on self-love when no one else loves you, when you are not, according to social norms, worthy of being loved at all, but only of being desired in a way that uses you up or consumes you. To say that diva citizenship cannot change the world is to accept a meaning of "the world" that aligns it only with the privileged. An investigation of the real function of diva citizenship has to start by asking who these acts are for, and whether the very fact of having something for herself can change a person, who might then go on to change the world just by surviving in it for one more day.

The Comte de Chagny was right; no gala performance ever equalled this one. All the great composers of the day had conducted their own works in turns. Faure and Krauss had sung; and on that evening, Christine Daaé had revealed her true self, for the first time, to the astonished and and enthusiastic audience. Gounod had conducted the Funeral March of a Marionette; Reyer, his beautiful overture to Siguar; Saint Saëns, the Danse Macabre and a Rêverie Orientale, Massenet, an unpublished Hungarian march; Guiraud, his Carnaval; Delibes, the Valse lente from Sylvia and the Pizzicati from Coppelia. Mlle. Krauss had sung the bolero in the Vespri Siciliani; and Mlle. Denise Bloch the drinking song in Lucrezia Borgia. But the real triumph was reserved for Christine Daaé, who had begun by singing a few passages from Romeo and Juliet. It was the first time that the young artist sang in this work of Gounod, which had not been transferred to the Opera and which was revived at the the old Theatre Lyrique by Mme. Carvalho. Those who heard her say that her voice, in these passages, was seraphic; but this was nothing to the superhuman notes that she gave forth in the prison scene and the final trio in Faust, which she sang in the place of La Carlotta, who was ill. No one had ever heard or seen anything like it. Daaé revealed a new Margarita that night, a Margarita of a splendor, a radiance hitherto unsuspected. The whole house went mad, rising to it its feet, shouting, cheering, clapping, while Christine sobbed and fainted in the arms of her fellow-singers and had to be carried to her dressing-room. A few subscribers, however, protested. Why had so great a treasure been kept from them all that time? Till then, Christine Daaé had played a good Siebel to Carlotta's rather too splendidly material Margarita. And it had needed Carlotta's incomprehensible and inexcusable absence from this gala night for the little Daaé, at a moment's warning, to show all that she could do in a part of the programme reserved for the Spanish diva! Well, what the subscribers wanted to know was, why had Debienne and Poligny applied to Daaé, when Carlotta was taken ill? Did they know of her hidden genius? And, if they knew of it, why had they kept it hidden? And why had she kept it hidden? Oddly enough, she was not known to have a professor of singing at that moment. She had often said she meant to practice alone for the future. The whole thing was a mystery.

if you’re big and bold enough to do it, then surely you’re big and bold enough to say it.

we concern ourselves with what others think we will look like. The things we do, the things we say, even the decisions we make somehow are always influenced by what other people will think.

It’s never too late to say that you are sorry.

The Bible says that when two or more gather in His name, touch and agree—

way. A true friend isn't the one that agrees with everything you say or do. A true friend is someone that has your back even when you're wrong, but when you're wrong, you're wrong.

ceremony rehearsal, and one of the groomsmen dared to suggest that Evan might want to take a small sedative before the real wedding, which, as you can imagine, did not go over well. Oh, and Francois threatened to quit halfway through the final menu tasting.” Harmony cringed. “Yikes.” “I think if Francois would have quit, I would have too.” I sighed. “I believe it. I’ve never seen you use the coffee table as an ottoman before.” I smiled and wiggled my toes. “I don’t know why not.” “Well, as you explained to me, this here is an authentic Jason Partillo design,” Harmony replied, a lilt in her voice as she gently needled me with her elbow. I laughed softly. “Are you trying to say that those of us who live in diva houses shouldn’t throw shoes?” She barked a laugh. “No. This Evan guy sounds like he left diva in the dust a long time ago and plowed straight into narcissistic jerk land.” “Can’t argue with that.” I closed my eyes, my head leaning against the back of the sofa. “Two days and then it’s over and they won’t be my problem anymore. I have fifteen weddings between now and June. That’s going to feel like a walk in the park compared to this nonsense.” “And in the meantime, you get the rest of the night off to spend with me and your bestie!” Harmony said. “Assuming I can stay awake, that is,” I replied, peeling my eyes open. “I should have left room in the schedule for a pre-dinner nap.” Harmony laughed and sprang off the sofa to continue getting ready. “Do you think I should wear my black tights with the red sweater dress, or can I get away with jeans? Is the place we’re going fancy fancy or fancy-ish?” I smiled at my sister’s nervous musings. She wasn’t one to ask for my fashion advice, mostly because I preferred my clothes hole-free and didn’t own anything with spikes or studs on it. While she could dress up when the situation warranted, Harmony tended toward a certain grunge-chic aesthetic with colorful streaks in her otherwise bleached-blonde hair, four piercings in each ear, and a penchant for artfully torn clothing and bomber jackets. And she’d recently added a small crystal stud to her nose. “It’s fancy-adjacent,” I told her. “Go with the leggings and dress.” Harmony nodded, even as her teeth worked nervously at her lower lip. I smiled. “She’s going to love you, Harmony. Stop stressing.” Holly Boldt, my good friend and fellow witch, was coming into the Seattle Haven to speak at a potion making conference, and we’d made plans

I guess it felt … nice having someone like that, someone wealthy, wanting me like that. He made me feel…” She shrugs. I remember the feeling I always had, walking arm-in-arm with Nick at school. “Valuable,” I say, brushing on the base eye shadow. “He made you feel valuable.” She nods. “Yeah. I guess that’s it.” I say, “I think that you are way too valuable for Arnold Mikloshevsky and his clammy hands.” She nods. “I know you’re right. But sometimes it’s hard to believe that. It’s so hard to find someone who loves you for yourself, and not just because you’re pretty or act the way they want you to act.” I think of Sean. I have that with him. Yes, he’s a friend, but he’s a good friend. “Are you okay?” I say. She nods. “I think I’m getting better.” She takes out a different lipstick and holds it near my face, then recaps it. “Oh, Caitlin, he really was a toady little man, wasn’t he? Every time he kissed me, I’d think, Valerie McCourt, has it really come to this?” I giggle, then stop myself. “He kept looking at my boobs.” “Mine too—and he had some boobs of his own, let me tell you!

People think I cannot sing and cook, and now imagine that I cannot believe in women’s suffrage and at the same time know anything about the kitchen. I am an ardent suffragette and yet I think it would be hard to find a woman more interested in her home than I am… Anyone who knows the world knows that the woman’s way to obtain her end is not by violence. I, for instance, employ my butler. Yet my butler has more to say about the taxes I pay than I have. That does not seem to me to be right. I hope that in time a way will he found to change this injustice, but it won’t be via the militant suffragette.

The cleaning lady is green despite her blue eyes we love her beauty to death. we sniff unwashed since the beginning of the world lusting to know. and from too much knowledge we forgot that the intersection between giving and receiving the spring mist an empty sack gurgling not even French perfume makes it go away. we’re more organic exophthalmic eyes. muddy balloons. if we don’t want she chooses from what we have. what’s better more syrupy we keep searching our memories perhaps there’s a leftover slice of bread a good deed by mistake, a sprig of onion wide as a rope. we search through everything we have at least a sprinkle of kind words. an offering she wants us to stop for a moment to change our meaning. to make us at least leaves the kitchens of growing upward. what she puts us through what she doesn’t put us through. all that’s left is a baby the size of a baguette. who hopes and hopes. we’ve started thinning out and one who passed through the no. 9 mental hospital he says he’s a national security agent we that he’s a security guard. he isn’t sick he’s always right. a metal cup or maybe a jar that expands threateningly we don’t even curse him behind his back. not because of fear we think more positively when he’s around. it took us too long to understand that No, the nervous tic, with a question mark at the end of a sentence, is actually Yes. emotions jumped out of him like strings. he told us he wouldn’t have left that manelist diva. should’ve seen how he compared her to the woman he never had. he about smashed his phone. it wasn’t our fault he was the only man without a woman. (in english by Diana Manole)

The Word says that God will never give you more than you can bear. Never.

Baddygirl 2 [Intro] Flawless bitches say “Hey, what’s up M.I.A.?” It’s for the women and of course Beyoncé [Hook] Baddygirl baddygirl, bad-a-bad-a-bad-a-baddygirl Goodygirl goodygirl, good-a-good-a-good-a-goodygirl [Verse 1] Baddygirl goody girl, yea more than butts and titties girl Bust out some shots then we clever and we pretty girl Study at uni and we work at every city girl We be the women with the kiddie gettin’ money girl [Hook] [Bridge] Baddygirl baddygirl, baddygirl baddygirl Baddygirl baddygirl, baddygirl baddygirl Baddygirl Baddygirl Baddygirl Baddygirl Baddy baddy baddy baddy Baddygirl baddygirl [Verse 2] I woke up like this, I went to bed like this We do everything just like this Pretty and witty we're more than just a slutty girl On a committee for Haiti or political We do it boss, big and heavy like a fatty girl Necessity, unity in every girl My surfboard bitches ride waves love all day Man I can hear everything you say My surfboard bitches ride waves love all day Men and women are 50/50 [Intro] [Hook] [Beyoncé sample] Na-na-na, diva is a female version of a hustla, of a hustla, of a, of a hustla... Na-na-na, diva is a female version of a hustla, of a hustla, of a, of a hustla... Stop the track, lemme state facts I told you, gimme a minute and I'll be right back Fifty million 'round the world and they say that I couldn't get it I done got so sick and filthy with Benjis, I can't spend it How you gon' be talkin' shit? You act like I just got up in it Been the number one diva in this game for a minute! I know you read the paper - the one that they call the Queen Every radio 'round the world know me cause that's where I be (first!)

I am the ultimate Diva. At least that's what they tell me...I've heard it more times than I can count. Sheryl Lee Ralph is a true Diva. And to them, I say, "Thank you.

You aren’t allowed to say it but your wedding is perilously close to a licence to let out the selfish little diva inside all of us. It says to girls – you won’t matter any more, not after this, so for today you get to matter the most.

The man is completely addictive. If I were in a cheesy teenage vampire movie, you might even say he was my own personal brand of heroin.

They say that smell is the most powerful of the senses for evoking childhood memories.

Say what you want about mumus, these bitches are comfortable.

I don’t know about you . . . but I didn’t wait this long and come this far to give up and settle for “okay.” Or even for “good.” Just “good” or “okay” is not going to cut it for me when it comes to the person I spend the rest of my life with. And I’m not going to apologize for that. I think that past the age of about thirty, single women with standards are too often labeled as too picky, too high maintenance, too hard to please, or a diva—all because we happen to know what we want and we’re not going to settle for less. Well . . . I say, no more. We have to stand up and own our right to jack our standards to Jesus and be vigilant about who and what we allow into our lives. Especially as it relates to who we invite to share our lives.

Does this mean I think you should stubbornly refuse to give any guy a chance who doesn’t look like Channing Tatum? Or that you should dismiss every guy who’s a little shorter than you had hoped or blonder than you had visualized or older or younger than you had planned? No. There certainly should and needs to be flexibility and openness to the idea that the person you choose to spend your life with might not fit some preconceived mold or check every single box you have for him. There does have to be a willingness to compromise when it comes to the fine print. But the big things—Is he loyal and honest and kind? Does he have goals and dreams and ambition? Does he do what he says he’ll do and follow through and keep commitments and show up for you? and so on and so forth—those are areas in which you have a right to stand tall and firm on your standards and not back down. Because here’s the thing: yes, singleness can be a little lonely. It can be a little sad. It can be difficult and awkward, and let’s be real: it just plain sucks at times. But nothing . . . and I mean nothing . . . is lonelier or sadder or more challenging than waking up one morning to find yourself trapped in a relationship with someone who is wrong for you, simply because you compromised your standards to avoid winding up alone. (Or because you chose him simply because he has hair.) It’s time to tell the world that, yes, we are single; yes, we have standards; and, no . . . we won’t apologize for it. Because high standards don’t signify a diva. They signify a woman who knows what she’s worth.

Because then these fools, these one-GCSE merchants, these casualties with half a fucking thought to rub together, they suddenly think that the fact that a few hundred thousand of the Great British Public (yeah, those animals) enjoy their ditties and respond on some primitive level to their doggerel, means that they have something of value to say about anything from the FTSE to the Middle East peace process. So, the next time you see some Mercury Music Prize/Brit Award/Grammy-nominated diva up there giving it the whole ‘I am a strong independent woman with interesting ideas’ bit, remember this – it is only because of the tiniest quirk of fate, a deranged quiver of serendipity, the most unlikely of miracles, that her big speeches are not climaxing with the words: ‘I’m sorry, sir, this checkout is closing,’ or ‘Anal is an extra twenty quid, mate.

The first example Marton gave of a diva customer is what he called a "sarcastic know-it-all in One -Alpha", on a flight to St Petersburg/ Leningrad (LED). The passenger said: "Oh dear, British Airways aren't doing very well today are you?" when he did not get his first choice of meal, and landing cards hadn't been loaded. Applying a dose of travel industry professional perspective, Marton said he replied with: "Well, I make that just two things that have 'gone wrong' out of a possible thousand, so I'd say we're doing pretty well today actually!

I would talk with them until I understood the goals and then I would say, “If I achieve the goals, do you really care how I get it done?” Freedom in how to achieve the goals improves the efficiency and the results.

Destiny. According to my mom, whenever disaster strikes, you can put the blame right where it belongs: on that old Madam of Mischief. She likes to say that whatever happens was 'Meant To Be', that 'It All Works Out For The Best', and even worse, 'One Of These Days You'll Look Back On This And Laugh'. So far, I'm not convinced.

I love you, Maude Laurent. I’ve loved you since the moment you poured that cup of coffee all over me and berated me in French and I haven’t stopped since. I could say that I love your smile, your laugh, and your sunny disposition. But the truth is I love you more when you frown, when you glare, when you’re mad as hell like you are right now. Love is too feeble a word to express how I feel. I love and need you in my life and I’d rather you be angry with me everyday until the day I die than to not have you by my side.” Maude

BUT IT’S OKAY BECAUSE I ALREADY GOT A NEW CLASS JUST FOR THIS FLOOR, AND IT IS GREAT. Carl: What did you get? Donut: I’LL TELL YOU BUT ONLY IF YOU PROMISE NOT TO GET MAD. KATIA SAYS YOU’RE GOING TO BE MAD. Carl: Donut. What did you pick? Donut: I’M A BARD! ISN’T IT GREAT! IT’S NOT A NECROBARD LIKE THEY OFFERED ME BEFORE, BUT IT’S BETTER. I’M A LEGENDARY DIVA. THAT’S WHAT THE CLASS IS CALLED. LEGENDARY DIVA. I SING! Carl: You sing.