Entitled Brat Quotes

Sisyphus was an entitled brat! The hero of his own story. We, however, are much worse. We are nothing but supporting characters in an endless novel, not essential, not consequential. just there for the sake of it.

Ten days later, speaking on Kara Swisher’s Recode Decode podcast, the influential venture capitalist Bill Gurley voiced concern about a bubble.6 Gurley had attended an investor conference in Las Vegas where he heard five of eight unicorns talk about “trillions” in their presentations. “We have done something in the ecosystem to encourage this type of outlandish promotion, where you need to use words like ‘trillion,’” Gurley said. “And I think it’s dangerous. When we act like we have the right to disrupt everything or eat every industry, we look like entitled brats,” he continued.

The next time I sneak out,” she seethed, “if I catch you following me like some overprotective nursemaid, I will—” “You’ll what?” He stepped up close enough to share breath with her, his fangs flashing. In the light of the lantern, she could clearly see his eyes—and he could see hers as she silently said, I don’t know what I’ll do, you bastard, but I’ll make your life a living hell for it. He snarled, and the sound stroked down her skin as she read the unspoken words in his eyes. Stop being stubborn. Is this some attempt to cling to your independence? And so what if it is? She shot back. Just—let me do these things on my own. “I can’t promise that,” she said. She punched him in the bicep—hurting herself more than him. “Just because you’re older and stronger doesn’t mean you’re entitled to order me around.” “It’s exactly because of those things that I can do whatever I please.” For a moment, alone in that warehouse with nothing but the crates keeping them company, she allowed herself to take in his face, those green eyes, the strong jaw. Immortal. Unyielding. Blooded with power. “Brute.” “Brat.

I gave you everything you needed. But not everything you wanted. I didn't want you to grow up to be an entitled brat. A lot of kids, their parents get them everything and the kids do a new kind of math: I want equals I get.

You're calling me shallow? So you know so much about this, huh? Which restaurants have you worked in?" He held his hands out. "Where are your scars?" I stiffened. I shouldn't have to pour out any of my pain for him to take me seriously. "I don't have to have worked in a restaurant to know what makes cooking really good," I snapped. He folded his arms like a sulky fourteen-year-old. "Then educate me." That clearly wasn't an invitation, but screw it. I stood up and planted my hands on the table. "Caring. I don't mean for the details. I mean caring for the person who's going to eat it. Giving them a little piece of what you love the most." I jabbed my finger at my plate. "All of these dishes, they're just about showing off." He rubbed his forearm hard, his face stony. "But I won Fire on High. I'm kind of a big deal, in case you didn't know. I think it's OK for me to show off." I held up a finger. "You won one competition," I said slowly, contempt sneaking into my voice. "This year. Can you name the person who won two years ago? Three? Unless you take this seriously, your book will gather dust in a remainder pile somewhere, a historical record of a leprechaun in a stupid bandanna who was famous for a hot second." The stone in his expression crumbled away. Bright green eyes flashed, hands clenched. His mouth opened and closed, and finally he hissed, "Who the fuck are you to tell me that? You're nobody. You can't even get your own name on a book. Who gives a shit what you think?" My voice shot high with anger. "I'm the woman who has to clean up your mess, you entitled, arrogant brat." It was quiet. Not the silence of people eating delicious food. It was post-atomic-bomb explosion quiet.

Meet Logan Jackson, smug, self-entitled, proud, arrogant, trust-fund brat.

There is no difference between a barking dog with golden platter and barking activist with a silver spoon.

I’d like to make a joke about how kids getting things they didn’t expect but want is a CHRISTMAS MIRACLE. But that would be too CRASS. Miracles are supposed to be about serious stuff like cures for cancer or orphaned twins finding each other. Not entitled BRATS getting yet more CRAP they don’t need.