Etch A Sketch Quotes

Gas Attendant: "Thata ain't no etch-a-sketch. Thats one doodle that can't be un-did home skillet.

But why is it still there? Why is it there at all?" I flipped my palm over several times, shook it, but the faint blue tattoo was still there. "You can see it, right? Like right now, you can see it?" "Yes. It hasn't faded." Seth leaned forward, catching my hand. "Stop shaking it like it's a damn Etch-A-Sketch. That doesn't make them disappear.

Oh. Wow.' 'What?' He held my hand up between us. 'Look.' I squinted at my hands. 'I don't see anything.' Sighing, he flipped my hand over, and my jaw hit the ground. A faint blue line marked the center of my palm with a smaller line through it. It would've looked like a cross, except the horizontal line was slanted. 'Oh. My. Gods.' I jerked my hand away, scrambling back. 'I have a rune on my hand. It's an Apollyon rune, isn't it.' Seth rested his hands on his knees. 'I think so. I have one like that.' 'But why is it still there? Why is it there at all?' I flipped my palm over several times, shook it, but the faint blue tattoo was still there. 'You can see it, right? Like right now, you can see it?' 'Yes. It hasn't faded.' Seth leaned forward, catching my hand. 'Stop shaking it like it's a damn Etch-A-Sketch. That doesn't make them disappear.

If I could only turn the etch-a-sketch of my life upside down.

....my brain works like an etch-a-sketch; even the slightest movement causes it to go completely blank.

She started coming to the meetings. We talked, mostly about you, and it sorta..." "Just happened," Tori finished, staring at the floor. "Unh-uh." Cara shook her head, trying to clear it like an Etch a Sketch. "A zit just happens. My best friend going after my ex doesn't just happen.

That's the beauty of the summer holidays. It's as if life is just a big Etch-a-Sketch, and once a year you get to shake it vigorously up and down and start again.

On the plane leaving Tokyo I’m sitting alone in back twisting the knobs on Etch-A-Sketch and Roger is next to me singing “Over the Rainbow” straight into my ear, things changing, falling apart, fading, another year, a few more moves, a hard person who doesn’t give a fuck, a boredom so monumental it humbles, arrangements so fleeting made by people you don’t even know that it requires you to lose any sense of reality you might have once acquired, expectations so unreasonable you become superstitious about ever matching them. Roger offers me a joint and I take a drag and stare out the window and I relax for a moment when the lights of Tokyo, which I never realized is an island, vanish from view but this feeling only lasts a moment because Roger is telling me that other lights in other cities, in other countries, on other planets, are coming into view soon.

how do I teach my mouth to shake out the reflection of your etch-a-sketch smile?

Making Final Fantasy X, anyway, look like an Etch A Sketch.

I shook my head back and forth as though I was a human etch-a-sketch, erasing the memory.

Besides, a new decade is a chance to find oneself at the beginning of things. Oh, life! What a sweet little Etch A Sketch of time you are!

When I check my phone to remember I exist and I shake it and shake it I shake myself, as if to clear the Etch A Sketch of my face. If I’m dead inside how would I know, how would a bulb check its own filament.

When he was creating this picture, Leonardo da Vinci encountered a serious problem: he had to depict Good - in the person of Jesus - and Evil - in the figure of Judas, the friend who resolves to betray him during the meal. He stopped work on the painting until he could find his ideal models. One day, when he was listening to a choir, he saw in one of the boys the perfect image of Christ. He invited him to his studio and made sketches and studies of his face. Three years went by. The Last Supper was almost complete, but Leonardo had still not found the perfect model for Judas. The cardinal responsible for the church started to put pressure on him to finish the mural. After many days spent vainly searching, the artist came across a prematurely aged youth, in rags and lying drunk in the gutter. With some difficulty, he persuaded his assistants to bring the fellow directly to the church, since there was no time left to make preliminary sketches. The beggar was taken there, not quite understanding what was going on. He was propped up by Leonardo's assistants, while Leonardo copied the lines of impiety, sin and egotism so clearly etched on his features. When he had finished, the beggar, who had sobered up slightly, opened his eyes and saw the picture before him. With a mixture of horror and sadness he said: 'I've seen that picture before!' 'When?' asked an astonished Leonardo. 'Three years ago, before I lost everything I had, at a time when I used to sing in a choir and my life was full of dreams. The artist asked me to pose as the model for the face of Jesus.

he shook his head as if his brain were an etch-a-sketch that could be cleared with a vigorous shake. Chairs

Hugh's veiled threat, circled in her mind. She shook her head as if she could erase the thought like shaking an Etch-a-Sketch dissolved whatever had been drawn there

It gets a little easier to breathe again and when I close my eyes, I don't see Jess's face on the backs of my lids, grainy like a drawing on an Etch-A-Sketch.

You might jump in at this point and say: Hey. Guy. (It's Mark.) Okay, Mark. If the same day is repeating over and over again, if every morning it just goes back to the beginning automatically, with everything exactly the way it was, then you could basically do whatever you want, am I right? I mean, sure, you could go to the library, but you could go to the library naked and it wouldn't even matter, because it would all be erased the next day like a shaken Etch A Sketch. You could, I don't know, rob a bank or hop a freight train or tell everybody what you really think of them. You could do anything you wanted. Which was, yes, theoretically true. But honestly, in this heat, who has the energy? What I wanted was to sit on my ass somewhere air-conditioned and read books.

Because I live in south Florida I store cans of black beans and gallons of water in my closet in preparation for hurricane season. I throw a hurricane party in January. You’re my only guest. We play Marco Polo in bed. The sheets are wet like the roof caved in. There’s a million of me in you. You try to count me as I taste the sweat on the back of your neck. I call you Sexy Sexy, and we do everything twice. After, still sweating, we drink Crystal Light out of plastic water bottles. We discuss the pros and cons of vasectomies. It’s not invasive you say. I wrap the bedsheet around my waist. Minor surgery you say. You slur the word surgery, like it’s a garnish on a dish you just prepared. I eat your hair until you agree to no longer talk about vasectomies. We agree to have children someday, and that they will be beautiful even if they’re not. As I watch your eyes grow heavy like soggy clothes, I tell you When I grow up I’m going to be a famous writer. When I’m famous I’ll sign autographs on Etch-A-Sketches. I’ll write poems about writing other poems, so other poets will get me. You open your eyes long enough to tell me that when you grow up, you’re going to be a steamboat operator. Your pores can never be too clean you say. I say I like your pores just fine. I say Your pores are tops. I kiss you with my whole mouth, and you fall asleep next to my molars. In the morning, we eat french toast with powdered sugar. I wear the sugar like a mustache. You wear earmuffs and pretend we’re in a silent movie. I mouth Olive juice, but I really do love you. This is an awesome hurricane party you say, but it comes out as a yell because you can’t gauge your own volume with the earmuffs on. You yell I want to make something cute with you. I say Let me kiss the insides of your arms. You have no idea what I just said, but you like the way I smile.

I’m not a huge fan of poetry. I’ll accept the argument that it’s an art form - being an expression of the imagination - but by that broad definition, so are Etch-A-Sketch drawings and Magic Aqua Sand sculptures. I don’t think anyone really likes poetry, apart from the ones writing it, and they only really like their own.

I compared Obama to an Etch A Sketch. You could impose upon him whatever you wanted. He was your American dream. That was the beauty of the hope and change message emblazoned on his face. He was the promise of what America could be and become for everyone if the nation overcame its racism and cruelty. A scrawny kid born to a Muslim Kenyan father and a white mother, who grew up in Indonesia, ate biryani with his Pakistani roommate in college, and graduated from Harvard Law School, ended up being one of the most beloved politicians in the modern era and the most powerful man in the world. Maybe a Pakistani kid could become president? If America voted for Obama twice, then why not our kids? That was the power of Obama. He allowed the nation to imagine "What If?

Truth [10w] Tell the truth and its enemies will scatter like roaches. Inventory of a Lost Childhood 1. Lion King’s Simba missing an eye 2. Conan the Barbarian missing a sword 3. Transformer missing an arm/wing/machine gun 4. Scooby-Doo missing a head 5. Star Wars’ R2-D2 missing a gripping tool 6. Etch-a-Sketch missing a knob 7. Powell Peralta skateboard missing a wheel 8. Teenage Mutant Ninja turtle missing a nunchuk 9. Atari console missing a joystick 10. G.I. Joe missing in action

Haiku are meant to evoke an emotional response from the reader ... to light the spark that triggers creative rumination ... They act as literary manifestations ... visions of nature’s seasonal modulations ... They're emotionally tinged words, barely perceptible sensory flickers ... literary etchings of lucid visions transposed into the minds of its readers ... They're meant to act as sensory catalysts ... like the passing of a penciled baton laid out upon a piece of paper that a reader might grasp for in their mind's eye ... all of which prompts the reader to continue exploring the sensory experience elicited from the writers pen ... This is how the literary sketching of poets are intended to function ... as creative muses with which readers can draw from and viscerally apply to their own artistic idioms ... from that lucid space within their heads ... where their minds eye can spark their own creative visions" Bukusai Ashagawa

Rebecca's eyes were like faith,—"the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." Under her delicately etched brows they glowed like two stars, their dancing lights half hidden in lustrous darkness. Their glance was eager and full of interest, yet never satisfied; their steadfast gaze was brilliant and mysterious, and had the effect of looking directly through the obvious to something beyond, in the object, in the landscape, in you. They had never been accounted for, Rebecca's eyes. The school teacher and the minister at Temperance had tried and failed; the young artist who came for the summer to sketch the red barn, the ruined mill, and the bridge ended by giving up all these local beauties and devoting herself to the face of a child,—a small, plain face illuminated by a pair of eyes carrying such messages, such suggestions, such hints of sleeping power and insight, that one never tired of looking into their shining depths, nor of fancying that what one saw there was the reflection of one's own thought.

American History from Rutgers University and was awarded a Fulbright Fellowship to Brazil. He lives in Columbia County, NY, with his wife and two children, who have perfected the art of reimagining every remote control as an iPhone and every Etch-a-Sketch as an iPad. An avid distance runner, Noah has completed four marathons. He actively

I started to realize how little I knew about myself or why I did the things I did (and still do). I didn't like not knowing who I was, so I decided to develop a friendly curiosity about myself. I watched myself for about nine months without judgment or self manipulation. I wasn't an ascetic, but I was intent on discovering my true self. My guiding principles at that time were unflinching honesty and acceptance. I thought that if I could garner enough self-knowledge, I could inch myself to happiness and whatever else it was I wanted in life, like a prisoner carving his way out of a concrete wall with a makeshift pick. At the end of nine months I had to to come to a few conclusions. First, I didn't really have a self at all. I was like an Etch A Sketch, constantly shaking myself up and starting over. And somewhere, somehow, in the last few years, I had come to believe certain things about myself that weren't really true. For instance, because I often am very charming and outwardly good-natured, I thought that I must be a warmhearted person. Pretending to conform to societal expectations had become so easy that I forgot I was pretending.

Harper Shaw was a single snack-getting-stuck-in-a-vending-machine away from an anxiety attack. But hey, that was what happened when you decided nothing in your life sparked joy. You wiped your slate clean like an Etch A Sketch and started over.

You probably shouldn’t tell people that you became an architect because you wanted to play God by turning skyscrapers into your own personal ant farm and that you’re just one bad day away from shaking it like an Etch-A-Sketch.” Asa smiled. “I keep my thinking thoughts to myself.” “Your what?” “Noah says, ‘Those are thinking thoughts, not speaking thoughts.’ But you asked why I do what I do, and I told you I wouldn’t lie to you.” Asa looked so proud of himself for not lying about secretly being a nihilistic anarchist that Zane almost felt guilty for saying, “You’re batshit crazy.

I took out Riptide. With the tip of the blade, I etched a message on the sidewalk: Went to Gramercy. That was another trick I’d only learned in the last month. One day when I was bored, sitting on a sidewalk while my mom shopped for clothes for her first author signing, I discovered that Riptide could sketch glowing lines on asphalt that no regular mortals could see. The markings lasted about three hours before fading away—less if it rained. It made me wonder why I’d never seen Celestial bronze graffiti around from other demigods. Maybe they’d never gotten bored enough to try it. Or maybe their weapons didn’t have a side hustle as writing utensils.

Darling turns her black eyes my way, fury etched into the space between her brow. “Sorry, Darling.” I hold up my hands to show my innocence. “I don’t doubt you. But seeing a slip of a girl like you take out the Dark One is practically a comedy sketch.

Oh, then Etch A Sketch it right out of your head.” Chelle

No way was he touching that subject, and dammit, now the image was burned into his brain. Unfortunately, it wasn’t like an Etch A Sketch—no shaking his head up and down to get rid of that image.

In Logo, the child controls a little turtle on-screen, issuing it commands to make it move around. The turtle draws a line wherever it goes, so it’s kind of like using a computerized Etch A Sketch. To draw a square, a child would tell the turtle to go forward thirty steps, turn right ninety degrees, then do the same thing three more times. Children quickly got the hang of it, using Logo to write programs that would draw all manner of things, like houses or cars. They’d laboriously write one instruction for each step of the picture, almost the way you’d set up the dots for a connect-the-dots drawing. To draw a bird, they’d connect two quarter circles together.

dealing with our past is not making it blank like a shaken Etch A Sketch®, erasing all traces of history and its influences. Rather, it is demanding that the past maintain its rank, refusing to allow it to promote itself and take authority over our present and our future.

Self-awareness is inevitably erratic, a work in progress, an etch-a-sketch that shifts with the slightest shimmer of movement. Doing the best we can is the best we can do.

When I was a kid, every Christmas I would spend hours making my mom a present. One year, I wrapped her present up and put it under the tree. On Christmas Day, I handed it to her and she shook it and said, “Ooh, what is it?” (RICH LOOKS DEFLATED AND SAYS) “A picture of The Last Supper on an Etch A Sketch”’.

she is willing to try anything that affords you the opportunity to shake up the Etch A Sketch of everything you suppose is true, a chance to question all your secret opinions: that this thing is good, that one is bad; that this person is better, that one is worse.

it’s like giving a horse an etch-a-sketch.

After writing so bitterly about the clothes of my youth, I must now be just, and admit that they had one great advantage over the clothes we wear nowadays. We had Pockets. What lovely hoards I kept in them: always pencils and india-rubbers and as mall sketch-book and a very large pocket-knife; beside string, nails, horse-chestnuts, lumps of sugar, bits of bread-and-butter, a pair of scissors, and many other useful objects. Sometimes even a handkerchief. For a year or two I also carried about a small book of Rembrandt’s etchings, for purposes of worship. Why mayn’t we have Pockets? Who forbids it? We have got Woman’s Suffrage, but why must we still always be inferior to Men?