Dude Best Friend Quotes

Yes, Harry, your dad was my best friend, but Sirius Black was my everything

Uh-uh, dude. I tried it your way with the dating and the girls and the kissing and the drama, and man, I didn't like it. Plus, my best friend is a walking cautionary tale of what happens to you when romantic relationships don't involve marriage. Like you always say, kafir, everything ends in breakup, divorce, or death. I want to narrow my misery options to divorce or death - that's all.

Swallowing hard, I shuffle over to him. “Listen…I’m sorry I’ve been such a dick lately. I was…distracted.” “Distracted,” he echoes skeptically. I nod. He keeps staring at me. “My head’s on straight now. Honest.” Garrett peers past me, and although I can’t see Hannah’s face, whatever passes between them causes his broad shoulders to relax. Then he grins and slaps me on the arm. “Well, thank God. Because I was seriously considering promoting Tuck to the number one best friend slot.” “Are you kidding? Big mistake, G. He’s a terrible wingman. Have you seen his beard?” “I know, right?” And just like that, we’re good again. Seriously, chicks need to take a lesson from dudes when it comes to burying the hatchet. We know our shit.

Why don’t we have best-friend rules?” Mini asked Aru. “Because we defy rules, dude.

Dude, you guys are closer than most married couples I know. Or you were before you decided to go and fuck with it.

A loud, purposeful knock on the front door froze him in place with his fist over the fabric. “Hey, dude, it’s me. I brought you all four Bloodsport movies. Open up!” Jason’s voice filtered past the front door, and he and Violet flew apart like teenagers at a party raid. No way. This wasn’t happening. He had not just gotten cock-blocked by his best friend and partner, AKA the only living relative of the woman he’d very nearly stripped naked in his front hallway.

What rhymes with insensitive?” I tap my pen on the kitchen table, beyond frustrated with my current task. Who knew rhyming was so fucking difficult? Garrett, who’s dicing onions at the counter, glances over. “Sensitive,” he says helpfully. “Yes, G, I’ll be sure to rhyme insensitive with sensitive. Gold star for you.” On the other side of the kitchen, Tucker finishes loading the dishwasher and turns to frown at me. “What the hell are you doing over there, anyway? You’ve been scribbling on that notepad for the past hour.” “I’m writing a love poem,” I answer without thinking. Then I slam my lips together, realizing what I’ve done. Dead silence crashes over the kitchen. Garrett and Tucker exchange a look. An extremely long look. Then, perfectly synchronized, their heads shift in my direction, and they stare at me as if I’ve just escaped from a mental institution. I may as well have. There’s no other reason for why I’m voluntarily writing poetry right now. And that’s not even the craziest item on Grace’s list. That’s right. I said it. List. The little brat texted me not one, not two, but six tasks to complete before she agrees to a date. Or maybe gestures is a better way to phrase it... “I just have one question,” Garrett starts. “Really?” Tuck says. “Because I have many.” Sighing, I put my pen down. “Go ahead. Get it out of your systems.” Garrett crosses his arms. “This is for a chick, right? Because if you’re doing it for funsies, then that’s just plain weird.” “It’s for Grace,” I reply through clenched teeth. My best friend nods solemnly. Then he keels over. Asshole. I scowl as he clutches his side, his broad back shuddering with each bellowing laugh. And even while racked with laughter, he manages to pull his phone from his pocket and start typing. “What are you doing?” I demand. “Texting Wellsy. She needs to know this.” “I hate you.” I’m so busy glaring at Garrett that I don’t notice what Tucker’s up to until it’s too late. He snatches the notepad from the table, studies it, and hoots loudly. “Holy shit. G, he rhymed jackass with Cutlass.” “Cutlass?” Garrett wheezes. “Like the sword?” “The car,” I mutter. “I was comparing her lips to this cherry-red Cutlass I fixed up when I was a kid. Drawing on my own experience, that kind of thing.” Tucker shakes his head in exasperation. “You should have compared them to cherries, dumbass.” He’s right. I should have. I’m a terrible poet and I do know it. “Hey,” I say as inspiration strikes. “What if I steal the words to “Amazing Grace”? I can change it to…um…Terrific Grace.” “Yup,” Garrett cracks. “Pure gold right there. Terrific Grace.” I ponder the next line. “How sweet…” “Your ass,” Tucker supplies. Garrett snorts. “Brilliant minds at work. Terrific Grace, how sweet your ass.” He types on his phone again. “Jesus Christ, will you quit dictating this conversation to Hannah?” I grumble. “Bros before hos, dude.” “Call my girlfriend a ho one more time and you won’t have a bro.” Tucker chuckles. “Seriously, why are you writing poetry for this chick?” “Because I’m trying to win her back. This is one of her requirements.” That gets Garrett’s attention. He perks up, phone poised in hand as he asks, “What are the other ones?” “None of your fucking business.” “Golly gee, if you do half as good a job on those as you’re doing with this epic poem, then you’ll get her back in no time!” I give him the finger. “Sarcasm not appreciated.” Then I swipe the notepad from Tuck’s hand and head for the doorway. “PS? Next time either of you need to score points with your ladies? Don’t ask me for help. Jackasses.” Their wild laughter follows me all the way upstairs. I duck into my room and kick the door shut, then spend the next hour typing up the sorriest excuse for poetry on my laptop. Jesus. I’m putting more effort into this damn poem than for my actual classes.

There is always a man eager to explain my mental illness to me. They all do it so confidently, motioning to their Hemingway and Bukowski bookshelf as they compare my depression to their late-night loneliness. There is always someone that rejected them that they equate their sadness to and a bottle of gin (or a song playing, or a movie) close by that they refer to as their cure. Somehow, every soft confession of my Crazy that I hand to them turns into them pulling out pieces of themselves to prove how it really is in my head. So many dudes I’ve dated have faces like doctors ready to institutionalize and love my crazy (but only on Friday nights.) They tell their friends about my impulsive decision making and how I “get them” more than anyone they’ve ever met but leave out my staring off in silence for hours and the self-inflicted bruises on my cheeks. None of them want to acknowledge a crazy they can’t cure. They want a crazy that fits well into a trope and gives them a chance to play Hero. And they always love a Crazy that provides them material to write about. Truth is they love me best as a cigarette cloud of impossibility, with my lipstick applied perfectly and my Crazy only being pulled out when their life needs a little spice. They don’t want me dirty, having not left my bed for days. Not diseased. Not real. So they invite me over when they’re going through writer’s block but don’t answer my calls during breakdowns. They tell me I look beautiful when I’m crying then stick their hands in-between my thighs. They mistake my silence for listening to them attentively and say my quiet mouth understands them like no one else has. These men love my good dead hollowness. Because it means less of a fighting personality for them to force out. And is so much easier to fill someone who has already given up with themselves.

Dude, fix your hair and try applying a little makeup tonight. You are a girl, right?" I swear to goodness, Mom gave birth to Crystal and not me. "You two suck at being my best friends.

I still miss him so much, dude,” he says, his voice breaking. “It’s been almost a year and I still just can’t—I’m sorry, man, you don’t wanna hear all this.” “Nah, it’s cool.” Now Jus’s eyes are moist. “I understand, man. I really do.” “He’s never gonna visit me at college or be my best man, you know?”... "He was my first real friend. I thought we’d grow old together and shit, you know?

the six of us are supposed to drive to the diner in Hastings for lunch. But the moment we enter the cavernous auditorium where the girls told us to meet them, my jaw drops and our plans change. “Holy shit—is that a red velvet chaise lounge?” The guys exchange a WTF look. “Um…sure?” Justin says. “Why—” I’m already sprinting toward the stage. The girls aren’t here yet, which means I have to act fast. “For fuck’s sake, get over here,” I call over my shoulder. Their footsteps echo behind me, and by the time they climb on the stage, I’ve already whipped my shirt off and am reaching for my belt buckle. I stop to fish my phone from my back pocket and toss it at Garrett, who catches it without missing a beat. “What is happening right now?” Justin bursts out. I drop trou, kick my jeans away, and dive onto the plush chair wearing nothing but my black boxer-briefs. “Quick. Take a picture.” Justin doesn’t stop shaking his head. Over and over again, and he’s blinking like an owl, as if he can’t fathom what he’s seeing. Garrett, on the other hand, knows better than to ask questions. Hell, he and Hannah spent two hours constructing origami hearts with me the other day. His lips twitch uncontrollably as he gets the phone in position. “Wait.” I pause in thought. “What do you think? Double guns, or double thumbs up?” “What is happening?” We both ignore Justin’s baffled exclamation. “Show me the thumbs up,” Garrett says. I give the camera a wolfish grin and stick up my thumbs. My best friend’s snort bounces off the auditorium walls. “Veto. Do the guns. Definitely the guns.” He takes two shots—one with flash, one without—and just like that, another romantic gesture is in the bag. As I hastily put my clothes back on, Justin rubs his temples with so much vigor it’s as if his brain has imploded. He gapes as I tug my jeans up to my hips. Gapes harder when I walk over to Garrett so I can study the pictures. I nod in approval. “Damn. I should go into modeling.” “You photograph really well,” Garrett agrees in a serious voice. “And dude, your package looks huge.” Fuck, it totally does. Justin drags both hands through his dark hair. “I swear on all that is holy—if one of you doesn’t tell me what the hell just went down here, I’m going to lose my shit.” I chuckle. “My girl wanted me to send her a boudoir shot of me on a red velvet chaise lounge, but you have no idea how hard it is to find a goddamn red velvet chaise lounge.” “You say this as if it’s an explanation. It is not.” Justin sighs like the weight of the world rests on his shoulders. “You hockey players are fucked up.” “Naah, we’re just not pussies like you and your football crowd,” Garrett says sweetly. “We own our sex appeal, dude.” “Sex appeal? That was the cheesiest thing I’ve ever—no, you know what? I’m not gonna engage,” Justin grumbles. “Let’s find the girls and grab some lunch

Have you been keeping count this entire time?' I ask frowning. 'Yeah, dude,' he says turning the screen of his phone towards me. 'I downloaded a period tracker app.' I blurt out a laugh, covering my mouth. 'Oh my God.' 'Nothing funny about it.' He shrugs. 'This is scientific info.

You’re a cool dude.” “A cool dude, huh? That’s what you call your best friend, or a guy you’ve stuck in the friend zone, not someone you keep kissing. Are you trying to friend-zone me, Delia?” I roll over to face him and he peers down at me, one eyebrow raised. I reach up and smooth it down. “You look like you’re trying to smell what the Rock is cookin’ when you do that.

Steve Carver-the guy with the faux-surfer hair-and Amanda's best friend, Nicole,are chosen.Rashmi and I groan in a rare moment of camaraderie.Steve pumps a fist in the air.What a meathead. The selecting begins,and Amanda is chosen first. Of course. And then Steve's best friend.Of course. Rashmi elbows me. "bet you five euros I'm picked last." "I'll take that bet.Because it's totally me." Amanda turns in her seat toward me and lowers her voice. "That's a safe bet, Skunk Girl. Who'd want you on their team?" My jaw unhinges stupidly. "St. Clair!" Steve's voice startles me. It figures that St. Clair would be picked early. Everyone looks at him, but he's staring down Amanda. "Me," he says, in answer to her question. "I want Anna on my team,and you'd be lucky to have her." She flushes and quickly turns back around,but not before shooting me another dagger.What have I ever done to her? More names are called. More names that are NOT mine. St. Clair goes to get my attention,but I pretend I don't notice. I can't bear to look at him.I'm too humiliated. Soon the selection is down to me, Rashmi,and a skinny dude who, for whatever reason,is called Cheeseburger. Cheeseburger is always wearing this expresion of surprise, like someone's just called his name, and he can't figure out where the voice is coming from. "Rashmi," Nicole says without hestitation. My heart sinks.Now it's between me and someone named Cheeseburger. I focus my attention down on my desk, at the picture of me that Josh drew earlier today in history. I'm dressed like a medieval peasant (we're studying the Black Plague), and I have a fierce scowl and a dead rat dangling from one hand. Amanda whispers into Steve's ear. I feel her smirking at me,and my face burns. Steve clears his throat. "Cheeseburger.

She didn’t say a word, just threw her arms around me, hugging me like she thought she’d never see me again. I couldn’t breathe, but I didn’t care because this was one of the best hugs I’d ever had. I sank into her and held on for life, needing the emotional connection that only a female friend could give you. Dudes and sex were great and all, but if you’d never had a ride-or-die bestie, you were missing out on a connection that couldn’t be replicated. One we needed for survival.

Ten years later . . . “Dude, you look like shit,” Carson says, clapping me on the shoulder. “This is my best sweater, and it’s supposed to make me look devastatingly handsome.” “It’s olive green,” Carson says with a question in his raised eyebrow. “Leave me alone.” I rest my head on the counter. “It’s been ten years since my heart was broken and it still aches.” “Ten years?” Carson laughs. “It’s been ten fucking days.” Ten days later (That’s right, sorry about that) . . . “Iknow, but ten days has felt like ten years. And I thought wearing my green sweater to Friendsgiving would be a nice pick-me-up but you just peed all over that idea.” “Does anyone like this sweater besides you?” “I get a lot of once-overs whenever I wear it. I think it’s how the color brings out my delicate green eyes.” “Or it’s the cross-stitched mountain range on the front.” I glance at my sweater and then rub my fingers over the cross-stitch. “I used to pretend it was brail and it would read, ‘You’re handsome, always have been, always will be.’” “I don’t understand how we’re friends.” Carson shakes his head. “Running pole-to-pole suicides at Brentwood together formed an unbreakable bond.” “God, you’re right.” 

I believe in yogurt because it’s creamy and a good use of milk that would otherwise go sour. Think about it: Where does all the sour milk go? That goes for people too. Not that we ferment, though I guess we do lactate, but everyone has skills and desires that go unused and unmet, and they sour. How can we make yogurt of these soured attributes? How do we make something delicious, how do we salvage them? I was like, dude, how in the world did you manage to bring human lactation into your oral report? If I ever said anything half that creative, half that unusual, my best friends would divorce my ass. How can a guy be so comfortable with being weird?

Alice's Cutie Code TM Version 2.1 - Colour Expansion Pack (aka Because this stuff won’t stop being confusing and my friends are mean edition) From Red to Green, with all the colours in between (wait, okay, that rhymes, but green to red makes more sense. Dang.) From Green to Red, with all the colours in between Friend Sampling Group: Fennie, Casey, Logan, Aisha and Jocelyn Green  Friends’ Reaction: Induces a minimum amount of warm and fuzzies. If you don’t say “aw”, you’re “dead inside”  My Reaction: Sort of agree with friends minus the “dead inside” but because that’s a really awful thing to say. Puppies are a good example. So is Walter Bishop. Green-Yellow  Friends’ Reaction: A noticeable step up from Green warm and fuzzies. Transitioning from cute to slightly attractive. Acceptable crush material. “Kissing.”  My Reaction: A good dance song. Inspirational nature photos. Stuff that makes me laugh. Pairing: Madison and Allen from splash Yellow  Friends’ Reaction: Something that makes you super happy but you don’t know why. “Really pretty, but not too pretty.” Acceptable dating material. People you’d want to “bang on sight.”  My Reaction: Love songs for sure! Cookies for some reason or a really good meal. Makes me feel like it’s possible to hold sunshine, I think. Character: Maxon from the selection series. Music: Carly Rae Jepsen Yellow-Orange  Friends’ Reaction: (When asked for non-sexual examples, no one had an answer. From an objective perspective, *pushes up glasses* this is the breaking point. Answers definitely skew toward romantic or sexual after this.)  My Reaction: Something that really gets me in my feels. Also art – oil paintings of landscapes in particular. (What is with me and scenery? Maybe I should take an art class) Character: Dean Winchester. Model: Liu Wren. Orange  Friends’ Reaction: “So pretty it makes you jealous. Or gay.”  “Definitely agree about the gay part. No homo, though. There’s just some really hot dudes out there.”(Feenie’s side-eye was so intense while the others were answering this part LOLOLOLOLOL.) A really good first date with someone you’d want to see again.  My Reaction: People I would consider very beautiful. A near-perfect season finale. I’ve also cried at this level, which was interesting. o Possible tie-in to romantic feels? Not sure yet. Orange-Red  Friends’ Reaction: “When lust and love collide.” “That Japanese saying ‘koi no yokan.’ It’s kind of like love at first sight but not really. You meet someone and you know you two have a future, like someday you’ll fall in love. Just not right now.” (<-- I like this answer best, yes.) “If I really, really like a girl and I’m interested in her as a person, guess. I’d be cool if she liked the same games as me so we could play together.”  My Reaction: Something that gives me chills or has that time-stopping factor. Lots of staring. An extremely well-decorated room. Singers who have really good voices and can hit and hold superb high notes, like Whitney Houston. Model: Jasmine Tooke. Paring: Abbie and Ichabod from Sleepy Hollow o Romantic thoughts? Someday my prince (or princess, because who am I kidding?) will come? Red (aka the most controversial code)  Friends’ Reaction: “Panty-dropping levels” (<-- wtf Casey???).  “Naked girls.” ”Ryan. And ripped dudes who like to cook topless.”  “K-pop and anime girls.” (<-- Dear. God. The whole table went silent after he said that. Jocelyn was SO UNCOMFORTABLE but tried to hide it OMG it was bad. Fennie literally tried to slap some sense into him.)  My Reaction: Uncontrollable staring. Urge to touch is strong, which I must fight because not everyone is cool with that. There may even be slack-jawed drooling involved. I think that’s what would happen. I’ve never seen or experienced anything that I would give Red to.

Cassie,” I growl at the young brunette. “How’s the sobriety?” Alex brought the submissive to us. She’s an addict that he councils at Transcend. I don’t want to be mean to her right now, especially since my best friend brought her here, but I’m furious and she’s an outlet. She can’t strike back. “Ninety days sober,” she says with pride. “That’s awesome,” I say enthusiastically and smile at her. “I love how we have to give fuck ups a medal when they behave. I would think it should go to those who never fuck up. What’s the incentive to behave if all you have to do is get shit-faced and steal shit for years and then ninety days on the straight-and-narrow we have to pat you on the back for being a good girl,” I say in a saccharine voice. She gazes at me with huge, glassy brown eyes. I can see the tears forming. Cassie worries her full bottom lip between her teeth and tries not to blink. “But hey, what do I know. It just seems like the system is flawed. The good little boys and girls just don’t get the recognition that a crack-whore thief gets,” I shrug. Cassie blinks and the surface of her tears breaks and they finally slide down her cheeks in shame. “But go you!” I shout sarcastically. I give her a thumbs up and walk down the hall. “Cold… that was just cold, dude,” Alex chuckles at me. That was so bad that I have to laugh or I’d puke. I shake my head as my belly contracts from laughter. “Score on my newest asshattery?” I ask my partner in crime. If I didn’t have him I’d scream. I’ll owe Master Marcus forever. He stripped me bare until Font was naked in the impact room at Brownstone I trained in. Alex walked in and shook my hand- instant best friend. “Ah…” He taps his chin in thought and the bastard tucks his black hair behind his ear. I growl at him because he did it on purpose. He knows how much I miss the feel of my hair swinging at my jawline. Alex arches a perfect brow above his aqua eye and smirks. He runs his hands through his hair and groans in pleasure. “8.5. It was a decent attempt, but you pulled your hit. You’re too soft. I bet you were scared you’d make her relapse.” “Yeah,” I say bashfully. “Not happening, bud. I’m just that fucking good. I better go do some damage control. Don’t hurt any more subs. Pick on the big bastards. They may bite back, but their egos are delicate.

Shakespeare: The hell is all empty. Devils are all here. He: SINCE 1992, Creating a chaos in people's mind. I am the devil. I am the evil behind. I drive sports car on high streets. I don't play cricket on low streets. I am a real big baller. I have my father's million dollars. I speak English and i speak to only few. I don't make strangers friends. I only have best friends. I have sleeping partners, dude, personally and professionally. I hunt girls. They say I am a Starboy. Still wonder why people love me? Anyone out there who knows me? Me (On behalf of all who refuse to crawl on your lavish hall): Hi, Rich Guy of earth. I know who You are. I know what you do. I don't just speak English but now I speak for all. I play cricket on streets. I play soccer on fields. I don't feel low when you smoke high. Because I know you're already low. You're the villain of heaven. Well, i am the hero of hell. You make best friends. I make strange friends. Starboy? You are just a Mumma's boy. Sleeping Partners, why would you take sleeping pills? You are no more than 'Mr In Vain'. But I am the one who's in everyone's vein. You are SINCE 1992, I have SINS 1992. F*** you.

Dude, are you really getting your boxers in a twist because I’m not rhapsodizing about your cupcakes?” His boxers were not in a twist. “My cupcakes are stellar. We use the best and freshest ingredients and the best recipes. It’s the only way to run a bakery.” Critic nudged her friend with an elbow. “Yep, totally in a twist.” She tapped her chin, those lush lips pursing, then nodded as though coming to a decision. “I was wrong.” She was admitting it? Maybe his day was finally looking up. “You’re a boxer briefs kind of guy,” she continued, spreading her arms wide in a whatcha-gonna-do move. “Practicality rules. Functionality meets comfort all the way for you, I bet.

Never earnestly ask for their opinions on literally anything you enjoy. Have you ever been watching, like, the most incredible show of your life? The kind of show where you’re saying to yourself, “I can’t believe they made this show that’s fuckin’ perfect for me, I love it so much, how did I get so lucky.” You call your best friend about it, and you text your crush about it so they start watching it and give you an excuse to keep talking to them, and for a time you make this show your entire personality because that’s how exhilarated you feel about it, and then a kid walks by the television and glances at it for a millisecond, then goes, “Ew, what are you watching? Haha, dude, it looks like it suckssssss,” and you suddenly feel like you just took a shotgun blast to the chest? Yeah, me neither.

A 2 liter soda bottle is my best friend.

Ethan slumped on the bench in the change room, ignoring the ribald behavior around him after yet another foregone win. A hard slap on the rear of his head roused him and he whirled, his lip curled back as he growled menacingly. “Don’t you dare show me your teeth,” Javier warned with a dark look. He ran his hand through hair, already tousled and sweaty from the match. “What the fuck happened out there? I passed you the perfect shot, and instead of grabbing it and scoring, you crashed into the g**damn arena glass. What are you, a rookie? Been watching too many Bugs Bunny cartoons?” Heat burned Ethan’s cheeks in remembrance of his mishap before dejection— along with a large dose of disbelief— quickly set back in. “I missed. It happens and besides, it’s not like we needed the point to win.” “Of course we didn’t,” Javier replied with a scoffing snort. “But it’s the point of it. What the hell distracted you so much? And, why do you look like your best friend died, which, I might add, is an impossibility given I’m standing right beside you.” Javier grinned. “I think I found my mate,” Ethan muttered. A true beauty with light skin, a perfect oval face framed by long, brown hair and the most perfect set of rosebud lips. Javier’s face expressed shock, then glee. “Congrats, dude.” Javier slapped him hard on the back, and while the blow might have killed a human or a smaller species, it didn’t even budge Ethan. “I know you’ve been pining to settle down with someone of the fairer sex. You must be ecstatic.” “Not really.” Although he should have been. Finding one’s mate was a one in a zillion chance given how shifters were scattered across the globe. Most never even came close to finding the one fate deemed their perfect match. His friend’s jovial grin subsided. “What’s wrong? Was she, like, butt ugly? Humongous? Old? Surely she can’t be that bad?” “No, she appears perfect. Or did.” Ethan groaned as banged his head off the locker door. “I am so screwed.” A frown creased Javier’s face. “I don’t get it. I thought you wanted to find the one, you sick bastard. Settle down and pop out cubs.” Ethan looked up in time to see Javier’s mock shudder. “Me, I prefer to share my love among as many women as possible.” Javier mimed slapping an ass then humping it with a leering grin. Ethan didn’t smile at Javier’s attempt at humor even if it happened to be the truth. Javier certainly enjoyed variety where the other sex was concerned. Heck, on many an occasion he’d shared with Ethan. Tag team sessions where they both scored. Best friends who did just about everything together. Blowing out a long sigh, Ethan answered him. “I do want to find my mate, actually, I’m pretty sure I already have, but I don’t think I made a great impression. She’s the one they took out on the stretcher after the ball I missed hit her in the face.” Javier winced. “Ouch. Sucks to be you, my friend. Don’t worry, though. I’m sure she’ll forgive you in, like, fifty years.” Ethan groaned and dropped his head back into his hands. Now that I’ve found her, how do I discover who she is so I can beg her forgiveness? And even worse, how the hell do I act the part of suitor? Raised in the Alaskan wilds by a father who wasn’t all there after the death of Ethan’s mother, his education in social niceties was sadly lacking. He tended to speak with his fists more often than not. Lucky for him, when it came to women, he didn’t usually have to do a thing. Females tended to approach him for sex so they could brag afterward that they’d ridden the Kodiak and survived. Not that Ethan would ever hurt a female, even if his idea of flirty conversation usually consisted of “Suck me harder” and “Bend over.” If I add “darling” on the end, will she count it as sweet talk?

Michael Gambon, the British actor best known in the States for Dennis Potter’s The Singing Detective (and later for playing professor Albus Dumbledore in the final six Harry Potter movies), was a contender for the role of the Big Lebowski. Joel had met him in New York, Ethan said, “Yeah, he’s … a good actor and we have a mutual friend and he’s supposed to be perfectly pleasant to work with …” “But?” “But …” Gambon was British. The idea didn’t seem … right, not for a real Pasadena guy.

dude.  I know Cherish got some kind of feelings for me and fucking her friend wouldn’t be a good look at all. Now here I was  at her best friend’s house with my dick in her mouth. 

I’m still eleven years old and still a scrawny dude. As much as I want to say being a ninja bulked me up a bunch, it hasn’t, but that’s a good thing since a beefy ninja would be weird looking. Buchanan School has been good to me. I was the new kid at the start of the year, but nobody really gave me gruff about it. Cool kids and sports stars fill the hallways between classes, and I do my best to stay off everyone’s radar. I’m what some people might call a “comic book nerd,” but I prefer the term “aficionado,” which means I’m more of an expert in comics and less of a nerd. It’s a term I learned from my cousin, Zoe. She’s the coolest cousin in the world, but don’t tell her I said that. I’ve become better friends with Brayden, the werewolf hunter, but I wouldn’t say we’re “best friends.” We’ve hung out a couple times outside of school to watch bad horror movies and make fun of them. Trust me when I say it’s a lot more fun than it sounds. Zoe came over once and even she laughed a couple times. About

It’s important to have friends, but your wife must be your best friend. It’s good to have a career, but your wife must be more central to you than your career. And there is nothing wrong with having a hobby, but your wife must be more important to you than your hobby.

Dude, you don’t want me. You want me and Garrett.” Alarm flits through me. “If you’re implying I want to have a threesome with you and my best friend, then I can assure you, I don’t.

There was a Filipina woman named Gina, who was super cute and a professor of microbiology. Barry had heard of her. She was apparently Layla’s best friend. Her fiancé, Jimmy, was the dean of the engineering school. There was this other guy, Judah, who taught in the Jewish studies program and, incredibly enough, shared Barry’s love of watches. He wore a very under-the-radar vintage Longines with a coveted 13ZN movement, the dial patinated beyond legibility, real Watch Idiot Savant stuff. He had brought two guys from the Jewish studies program faculty with him, both small dudes dressed in overly hot sweaters, whose names Barry kept forgetting. This Judah was as tall as Barry and had some of the same swagger Barry used to have when he was at Princeton, only his came more naturally. He called Barry “a real New York macher,” Yiddish for a guy who gets things done, which totally charmed Barry. His father had used that term with great awe. This guy had friend moves up the ass.

If you picked mostly Cs: JOSHUA is your Bad Boyz Best Friend Forever!!! He is incredibly loyal and selfless and will go to the ends of the earth to ensure that he’s the BFF who has your back for LIFE! Joshua is super intelligent and ambitious and can intuitively spot your vulnerabilities to know when you really need his help and when you want a little space to yourself for that needed alone time. Although this BFF tends to be generally quiet and unassuming, you’d be surprised to know how passionate Joshua is about his friendships, social issues, and how he stays true to his beliefs and can bravely stand up for what’s right. He is a natural born leader and can astutely talk about all kinds of unusual topics. (Yeah, we said “astutely.” Your vocabulary will definitely grow with this guy around!) Like you, Joshua enjoys fun adventures and the summer months along with all their cool activities. He can’t wait to spend quality time with you, his new BFF. This dude is charming, crazy handsome, and really talented, and he has a great personality. He can hang out with the rich and famous and still make time for the important things in his life, like being the best Bad Boyz BFF EVER!

The affection the aquarists felt for the octopus appeared to be mutual. For the hours that they swam together, though the massive octopus could have easily escaped them, the Dude chose instead to keep his human friends by his side. Only when their tanks ran low on air did the divers reluctantly bid the Dude--"the best giant Pacific octopus in the world," wrote one--goodbye.

mean, yeah, we catch the occasional kid selling black market candy out of their backpack or someone giving face tattoos in the bathroom with a marker, but it’s never anything really BAD. Just a bunch’a shenanigans and never anything we can’t handle. Well, except for that one time… But other than the rare mini-dumpster fire, being a Hall Monitor is totally awesome! Well, MOST of it is. Look, I’m not gonna lie – there IS one major downside to it – when you’re a Hall Monitor, nobody’s exactly lining up to be friends with you. They’re forever thinking you’re gonna bust them or something, even when you’re NOT in uniform. Some kids just have trust issues, I guess. But don’t worry about me because it’s not like I have ZERO friends. There’s another dude on the force named Chad Schulte, who I consider my BEST friend even though we never kick it OUTSIDE of school together. I think me and Chad hit it off so well

It's all kinds of stupidly amazing," she adds. "Tell me you don't want to just get in there and rub yourself all over him like a cat?" I smack her shoulder. "Dude, ew, okay? He's like a brother to me!" She snorts back a laugh. "Like a step-brother? Becausr that's not technically incest.

He had me gripped tight and I wriggled to get loose. He pulled me closer and then we were dancing. Reckless movement, liquored laughter, sequined disco. One of those inscrutable moments where a relationship became certifiable. Acquaintances became friends, friends became besties. Here was where Jay and Zario became Jay and Zario, his fingers into me, my steps moving his.

Whatever. I’m going to class.” “No, Harriet! You mustn’t flee the premises! Mr. Elton will soon admire thee!” She’s been poking fun at my Austen obsession since she read Emma in English.  I roll my eyes, not bothering to look back at her as I speed walk to Geometry. “Dude, spoiler alert. She doesn’t end up with Elton.

But here's what I've learned after spending time in maybe four VIP areas in the history of my time on this planet: they make me want to die. They are not special. I am not special because I am in them. The VIP section is just an area with free snacks (maybe) and a security dude who did not see his night playing out like this. The best VIP section is always your or your friend's car with the Hamilton soundtrack playing as you eat McDonald's.

Mack Jefferson, my best—and only—friend, reads to me from his Braille edition of The Outsiders. I’m spread out on the floor of my bedroom with my dog, Bubbles, running my hand through her soft belly fur and wondering if we have any pudding cups in the pantry. Also wondering if Mack will notice if I slip out for a few minutes. Probably. I’ve tried in the past. “Elle, are you even listening?” he asks. “Of course. Always. I love this book.” “Lies. All lies.” Mack uses a ridiculous accent like he’s a vampire from Transylvania, when actually he’s a black, blind twelve-year-old kid from North Carolina. “Just keep reading.” I pull Bubbles into my lap. “Dude, I finished the chapter.” “Oh, good.” That means our language arts homework is done. Mack’s a good student. I’m a student. “Do you want to—” A loud knock interrupts me. Bubbles jumps up, barks once, and then hides under my bed.

It was a car racing movie, my brother’s favorite kind of movie, and one of the characters picked up a sledgehammer, using it to destroy the hood of his friend’s car. The boys groaned. Hugo even covered his mouth and sat up. I rolled my eyes. Boys. “Dude,” my brother said. Wes exhaled. “You don’t do that to your bro’s car.

This entire time, I thought you were looking at me all longing-like. But you were looking at us.” She laughs again. “And all those things you listed right now, they’re things Garrett and I do together. Dude, you don’t want me. You want me and Garrett.” Alarm flits through me. “If you’re implying I want to have a threesome with you and my best friend, then I can assure you, I don’t.

She’s a demon,” Amber pressed quietly. “She’s, like, literally from Hell.” At that, he scowled deeply. “Maybe you should point that out to Alex. He might not have noticed. While you’re at it, you can ask him if he ever noticed that his three best friends are a black dude, a country hick and a Jew. Or that those two chicks he met in his photography class are both dykes. Maybe he’ll realize that’s more important than how people actually treat him.

He reaches his hand out and says, “I’m Atlas, but this big lug calls me Max. I’m his best friend and his holly jolly sidekick. Don’t think we ever officially met.” “Atlas, it’s so nice to meet you.” Storee shakes his hand. “I’m Storee, and apparently a thorn in the big lug’s side. Not sure how that happened, but it seems over time he developed a strong distaste for little ol’ me.” “A strong distaste?” Max asks as Bob Krampus dribbles on about the tradition of the Christmas Kringle, acting like it dates back to the 1800s for the people who have gathered around, when in reality, we haven’t even reached a decade. “How could he have developed a strong distaste? I didn’t even know he tasted you, unless . . . dude, did you not tell me something?” “I never once tasted her,” I say, the words feeling really stupid as they fly out of my mouth. “What a loss,” Storee says. “He could have had a real feast.” “Jesus,” I mutter. “We are in public.” “And if you were in private, would this conversation be different?” Max asks, a little waggle of his brows.

Every day since TUB (The Ultimate Betrayal) had been a disaster. He had English with Anika, who never failed to shoot him a forced smile. Then chemistry with Mason, where they were lab partners. Gael refused to talk to either of them. In the past week, he’d barely exchanged words with anyone. Things were even awkward with Danny. Even though he was Gael’s best friend besides Mason, the dude was gaga for Jenna, and Jenna had long been Anika’s BFF. As such, this had become the unspoken rule among them: Jenna was Team Anika, Danny was Team Jenna, and by the transitive property, Danny couldn’t be on Gael’s side. Gael hadn’t ever thought to make friends outside of their little group. He hadn’t hedged his bets, if you will. He’d put all his eggs in one basket. And those eggs had decided to hook up with each other behind his back.

However, Remus was more than just a werewolf with reading problems and a gargantuan crush on his best friend. Above all things, he was a marauder; and nothing was impossible to a marauder.