Fifty Shames Of Earl Grey Quotes

I gaze into his gazing eyes gazingly like a gazelle gazing into another gazelle's gazing gaze.

I growl with frustration at my reflection in the mirror. My hair is fifty shades messed up. Why is it so kinky and out of control? I need to stop sleeping with it wet. As I brush my long brown hair, the girl in the mirror with the brown eyes too big for her head stares back at me. Wait... my eyes are blue! It dawns on me that I've been staring at a poster of Kristen Stewart for five minutes. My own hair is fine.

Here’s the aisle with tape.” “Thank you, Miss Steal,” he says. He picks up the most expensive brand, which runs $3.99 a roll. This guy is a total baller.

Are you ready for my love gun?” he says. Uh-oh. “What’s a love gun? Is that a sex toy?” “No,” he says. “I’m talking about my penis.” “Oh,” I say. “Then yes. Fire away

I spend the rest of the night doing schoolwork. After striking a match and lighting a candal, I sit down at my desk with my quill pen and parchment to write an essay for my ethics class on the legalities of fan fiction.

My god, Anna,” he says. “I almost lost you.” He has me in his powerful grip. I’ve never felt this safe before. “Never let go,” I say, looking into his beautiful gray eyes. “That could be problematic,” he says. “I’ll have to let you go at some point. What if I have to pee? What if you have to pee?” “I don’t care,” I say. “What if I have an important business meeting and I’m holding you and we’re both covered in urine?” I start to cry. “You’re right,” I say, turning my face away from his gaze. “Nothing lasts forever.

Take your finger out of your nose, Miss Steal.

I feel naked in my Tommy hoodie and Victoria's Secret sweatpants with PINK written across the ass. The sweatpants aren't pink though - they're gray. This always confuses me when I put them on, because shouldn't they say GRAY - on the backside? Maybe Victoria's secret is she's colorblind.

Air is like cable TV: you don't appreciate it until you don't have it.

I drink coffee sometimes, but Starbucks’ coffee tastes like burnt ass,” I say. “Actually, it tastes nothing like burnt ass, Anna.” “And how would you know what burnt ass tastes like?” He laughs. “That’s for me to know…and you to find out.” I’m not sure I want to find out, but whatever.

I walk through the glass doors and into the lobby, which is floor-to-ceiling glass and steel. This fascinates me to no end, because buildings back in Portland are made of grass and mud.

Mr. Long Fingers. Mr. Womb-Ticklers

Soon, we are as naked as the day we were born. Except, y'know, were not covered in blood and attached to our mothers by umbilical cords.

HOLY MOTHER EFFING SPARKLY VAMPIRES IS HE HOT

I'd do you." "I think you did once" I say. "Oh yeah.

An attractive blonde behind the receptionist's desk smiles at me as I walk in. I assume she’s the receptionist, because I can’t think of any other reason she would be sitting behind the receptionist’s desk. Unless maybe she’s filling in for the real receptionist, who could be on her lunch break. But then I remember: it’s almost two, and I doubt anyone takes their lunch breaks that late. So this must be the actual receptionist.

I stare at her blankly. We don't have elevators in Portland. "This is my first elevator ride. How do they work exactly?

News flash, Mr Grey: This isn’t 1950 or whatever. Your sexual tastes aren’t as shocking or as deviant as you think.

Walmart suddenly smells like a prosti-tot pageant.

I gaze into his gazing eyes gazingly like a gazelle gazing into another gazelle’s gazing gaze.

Are you hitting on me, Mr. Grey?” I tease, lightly drizzling balsamic vinaigrette on my spinach salad. He giggles. “I scream, you scream . . . we all scream for ice cream,” he says, licking a chocolate-and-vanilla-swirl ice cream cone.

Mr. Grey will see you in a few minutes. Would you like a refreshment while you wait? Coffee, soda, tea . . . ?” “Gravy,” I say.

The sweatpants aren’t pink, though—they’re gray. This always confuses me when I put them on, because shouldn’t they say GRAY—on the backside? Maybe Victoria’s secret is that she’s colorblind.

I GROWL WITH FRUSTRATION at my reflection in the mirror. My hair is fifty shades of messed up. Why is it so kinky and out of control? I need to stop sleeping with it wet. As I brush my long brown hair, the girl in the mirror with brown eyes too big for her head stares back at me. Wait . . . my eyes are blue! It dawns on me that I haven’t been looking into the mirror—I’ve been staring at a poster of Kristen Stewart for five minutes. My own hair is fine.

An attractive blonde behind the receptionist’s desk smiles at me as I walk in. I assume she’s the receptionist, because I can’t think of any other reason she would be sitting behind the receptionist’s desk. Unless maybe she’s filling in for the real receptionist, who could be on her lunch break. But then I remember: it’s almost two, and I doubt anyone takes their lunch breaks that late. So this must be the actual receptionist.

Kathleen is sprawled out on the living room couch watching 16 and Pregnant. This wouldn’t be so bad if she was my age and in school, but she’s old enough to be my mom. If they ever do a show called Washed Up at 38, I’m sure she’ll be the first cast.

No man is an island,” he says. “Islands are made of dirt and rocks and trees. I don’t know any people made of such things. Therefore, people are not islands.

I want to eat your balls.