Fisher Girl Quotes

I never once cheated on you. I never even looked at another girl when we were together.” Conrad Fisher

I don’t want to be someone’s ‘girl who got away.’ I want to be someone’s ‘girl who’d I’d never let get away.

Can I be your favorite girl?” “You already are, Duchess.

I make you vulnerable because you love me. That’s the price you pay for love, baby girl.

Caleb is a pretty nice guy."..."Why would he marry a girl like you?

My god, he’s the one who gets the girls? What? Is he made of chocolate or something?

That was the exact moment my heart threaded with hers. It was as if someone reached down with a sewing needle and stitched my soul to hers. How could one woman be so sharp and so vulnerable at the same time? Whatever would happen to her would happen to me. Whatever pain she would feel, I would feel it too. I wanted it — that was the surprising part. Selfish, self centered Caleb Drake loved a girl so much he could already feel himself changing to accommodate her needs. I fell. Hard. For the rest of this life and probably the next. I wanted her — every last inch of her stubborn, combative, catty heart.

I remember a story of a girl in Paradise who ate an apple once. Some wise Sapient gave it to her. Because of it she saw things differently. What had seemed gold coins were dead leaves. Rich clothes were rags of cobweb. And she saw there was a wall around the world, with a locked gate.

That girl was the real me. Frightened. Worthless. A terrible friend. Terrible daughter. Well educated but so limited in ideas worth having. Beautiful yet repulsive… And finally honest.

...don’t break one girl’s heart because you’re trying to heal yourself of another one

I wasn’t different from most girls I knew. Well, except the fact I was exponentially better looking, but why beat a dead horse?

I looked at him now, the memory clear in my mind and gone from his. What would it be like to forget your favorite color? —or the girl that smashed up your heart? Airport blue haunted me. It became a brand to me, a trademark of our broken relationship, and my failure to move on. Airport fucking blue.

Okay", I breathed. "Then what will it take?" I was completely out of my element. Begging a girl to go on a date with me. This was fucked up." "Miss it." I stared into her cold, blue eyes and knew I'd just met the kind of girl books are written about.

When Conrad Fisher told a girl he loved her, he meant it. A girl could believe in that. A girl could maybe even bet her whole life on it.

What you'll have of me after I journey to that great Death Star in the sky is an extremely accomplished daughter, a few books, and a picture of a stern-looking girl wearing some kind of metal bikini lounging on a giant drooling squid, behind a newscaster informing you of the passing of Princess Leia after a long battle with her head.

The hairstyle that was chosen would impact how everyone—every filmgoing human—would envision me for the rest of my life. (And probably even beyond—it’s hard to imagine any TV obituary not using a photo of that cute little round-faced girl with goofy buns on either side of her inexperienced head.)

If you took everything I’d ever found hot in a girl and piled them into a corner, you’d get Cricket Hunt standing in a corner.

What would it be life to forget your favourite colour? Or the girl that smashed up your heart?

If a man introduces his male friend to his extraordinary new girlfriend, his friend will think—I want a girl like that. If a woman introduces her new boyfriend to her female friend, the friend will not think—I want a man like that, but rather, I want that very man.

I think you're the kind of man a girl can count on. You just can't let go of losing your family. You can't let yourself love because you think your heart can't handle it . . . that something bad will happen. But you're wrong. It's true . . . grief is the price for love. But hearts are made to mend. Christ can do wonders with a broken heart, if given all the pieces.

Of all the things that have happened tonight, that’s what affects me most. The way he so effortlessly drops his bags to catch her. I don’t have much reference since Neil was my one serious boyfriend, though I know he never would have dropped his bags to catch me lest something broke. That causes an ache deep in my chest. To know that there are guys willing to drop their shopping bags to catch their girl. And I want someone to love me that effortlessly.

Selfish, self-centered Caleb Drake loved a girl so much he could already feel himself changing to accommodate her needs. I fell. Hard. For the rest of this life and probably the next. I wanted her — every last inch of her stubborn, combative, catty heart.

Do I look like a commitment sort of girl to you?” “You look like trouble,” he grinned. “When I was growing up, my mother used to tell me to never trust a redhead.” I frowned. “There are only two reasons she’d say something like that.” Caleb raised his eyebrows. “And they are?” “Your father either slept with one, or she is one.” I buzzed under his crooked smile. It extended all the way to his eyes this time. “I like you,” he said. “That’s swell, Boy Scout. Real swell.

I can’t stay the way I am. I don’t remember what it’s like to be free. To be wide open without fear. I need something to break me. Just enough so that I have new pieces to work with—make them into something else. I don’t want to give anyone the right to treat me like a loser. I don’t want to be fat, I don’t want to live in the Bone, I don’t want to be without knowledge. I won’t be the girl who people laugh at. Not anymore. Good thing I memorized their license plate. Just in case.

This boy/girl dance is exhausting. It feels the same each time: flirt, sex, date, disappoint, break up. I'm made of glass not steel.

And as much as I may have joked about Star Wars over the years, I liked that I was in those films. Particularly as the only girl in an all-boy fantasy.

No one wants to carry someone when they’re heavy from life. I read a book about that once. A bunch of drivel about two people who kept coming back to each other. The lead male says that to the girl he keeps letting get away. I had to put the book down. No one wants to carry someone when they’re heavy from life. It’s a concept smart authors feed to their readers. It’s slow poison; you make them believe it’s real, and it keeps them coming back for more. Love is cocaine.

Either way, you wrote the book and now you’re complaining about the reviews I’m giving it,” I quipped. “Fair enough.” He held up his hands, “I’m going to start writing the sequel which will be considerably less narcissistic. Will you read it?” “Only if every other girl on campus hasn’t.

think that the right girl can wipe away the memories of the wrong girl.

Why would he marry a girl like you?

Sorry,” I said, realizing I was taking my frustrations out on her. “I’m still getting over Soph,” I said, referring to my old prep school friend. Sophie Price was the most beautiful girl you’d ever met. Seriously. Take it from someone who’s met Bar Refaeli in person. Soph was even more stunning. Especially since she’d had a personality makeover. I’d never regret anything as much as I would not making her fall in love with me. “You can’t make anyone fall, Spence. Either they do or they don’t.” “I said that out loud?” “Duh and it’s been two years, Spencer. You seriously need to get over her. She’s with that Ian guy anyway, right?” “Right.” “That hot South African guy named Ian,” she concluded. “Thanks.” “That hot saffy named Ian who gives his life to mutilated Ugandan orphans and worships the ground Sophie walks on.” I stopped and glared at her. “That’ll do, Bridge.

His voice was throaty and seductive. I knew he could get girls - maybe even me - into bed, just by using that voice.

I thought back to all the times I’d slept with a girl and not thought twice about it and my gut ached. If a girl doesn’t safeguard herself, who will? I’d always had the mentality that men will change when women change but I never thought about how safeguarding the girls around me was just as much my responsibility as it was theirs.

I stared into her cold, blue eyes and knew I'd just met the kind of girl books are written about. There was no one like her.

I was a lucky girl–without the self-esteem to feel it, or the wherewithal to enjoy what there was to enjoy of it and then let go.

Believe in God, but row for the shore.

Phryne looked at a large statue of St. Joseph, for whom she had always had an admiration. It can’t have been easy, managing a girl with an inexplicable pregnancy. But he had accepted the word of the Lord and not put her away. Later generations had not been so forgiving.

Girl, you are the epitome of spoiled. I can smell it in your expensive perfume, in the quality of your ridiculous clothing, in the bracelet wrapped ’round that delicate wrist.” He closed the gap between us and all the air sucked from the room. “You won’t last out here. You’ll stay blind to the environment that surrounds you. You’ll live in your clean, perfect bubble and return to your posh life come six months. You are....you. I know your kind. I’ve seen it all before. You will never wake up. Not really,” he explained away before backing up and leaving me to my room once again.

That’s easy to say until the person you love is happy with someone else. Girls always choose men, and men always choose the wrong girls. It’s an endless cycle.

I'm afraid." Olivia to Caleb "Afraid of what?" Caleb. "Of how vulnerable you make me." Olivia. "I make you vulnerable because you love me. That's the price you pay for love, baby girl." Caleb.

I think that the right girl can wipe away the memories of the wrong girl.” Wow. Okay. “Sure.” But I don’t think that. If that were true, there wouldn’t be so many humans pining for their long, lost love. We didn’t always want what was right. We wanted what we couldn’t have

I started toward the barn and was grateful that the wind was still. About halfway up the drive, my heart began to beat an irregular rhythm as I caught sight of Cricket coming toward me. My breath caught in my throat. This girl. This tiny little girl had such incredible power over me with her big, blue, round, sad eyes. Her unusual face, her unusually striking face. Her pert nose. The faint laugh lines around her eyes and mouth. And I didn’t know her, didn’t really even know if she and I were anything alike but that didn’t stop me from wishing we shared a future...even if she did belong to someone else.

I never did,' said the little girl, but in a less doubtful tone than she had ever used with that phrase so familiar to her. A dim notion was growing in her mind that the fact that she had never done a thing was no proof that she couldn't.

The common theory about Mom’s passing was that, after losing Carrie, Debbie Reynolds died of a broken heart. Take it from the son who was there, who knew her better than anyone else on earth—that’s simply not true. Debbie Reynolds willed herself right off this planet to personally see to it that Carrie would never be alone.

I'm going to marry that girl one day.

It's not possible to try too hard Elliott. Truth is, every girl deserves someone who tries hard.

As I remember, the worst result of a World War II block was a flood of Argentine Gin. Sensitive martini-boys and Gibson-girls still shudder....

I've never been to the ocean, never heard the waves lick the sand in that quiet shushing you read about in books. I've never been to the zoo, smelled the elephant piss, and heard the cries of the monkeys. I've never had frozen yogurt from one of those places where you pull on the handle and fill your own cup with whatever you like. I've never eaten dinner at a restaurant with napkins that you set on your lap and silverware that isn't plastic. I've never painted my nails like the other girls at school, in bright neons and decadent reds. I've never been more than ten miles from home. Ten miles. It's like I live in the forever ago, not where buses rumble and trains have racks. I've never had a birthday cake, though I've wanted one very much. I've never owned a bra that is new, and had to cut the tags off with the scissors from the kitchen drawer. I've never been loved in a way that makes me feel as if I was supposed to be born, if only to feel loved. I've never, I've never, I've never. And it's my own fault. The things that we never do because someone makes us fearful of them, or makes us believe we don't deserve them. I want to do all my nevers-- alone or with someone who matters. I don't care. I just want to live.

You know that's not true. We have something, Helena. In another life, it would have been a beautiful something." That hurts. God, does it. I've seen that life. He doesn't even know what he's talking about. In his mind, I'm just some possibility that could have been, but in my mind, he's the only possibility. I step close to him, close enough to see the stubble on his cheeks. I reach up to touch it, and it scrapes against the tender side of my hand. Kit closes his eyes. "There's a house uptown on Washington ; we live there together in that life," I say softly. "Everything is green, green, green in our backyard. We have two children, a boy and a girl. She looks like you," I say. "But she acts like me." I carees his cheek because I know it's the last time I'm going to get to do it. Kit's eyes are open and storming. I run my teeth across my bottom lip before I continue. "In the summer, we make love outside, against the big wooden table that still holds our dinner dishes. And we talk about all the places we want to make love." I lick the tears from my lip where they are pooling. Running in a straight line down my cheeks, a leaky faucet. "And we're so happy, Kit. It's like a dream every day." I reach up on my tiptoes and kiss him softly on the lips, letting him taste my tears. He's staring at me so hard I want to crack. "But, it's just a dream, isn't it?

If I ended up with this girl I was going to buy a new table. I'd had sex on it too many times for it to be relationship kosher.

One, guys love sex because they love the feeling. nothing more. two, girls love sex because it feels good as well but whether or not they want it, there's an emotional tie.

Girls clamored for Caleb's attention like chimps on crack. “He’s got the banana that every girl wants,

I swear to Go, if I see one of you girls anywhere near us, I'll have your prospective spouses whip you, fifties-style.

it’s hard to imagine any TV obituary not using a photo of that cute little round-faced girl with goofy buns on either side of her inexperienced head.) My

There’s no room for demons when you’re self-possessed

And between the earth and its creatures I made no distinction. I had a desire for a peasant-girl from Méséglise or Roussainville, for a fisher-girl from Balbec, just as I had a desire for Balbec and Méséglise.

Her mental list of items she’d need from her apartment was growing. There were things a girl just couldn’t live without, so Keegan would have to get them when he retrieved Muffin. “I need another purse. Can you get me my Prada knockoff? It’s in my closet on the shelf. Pink. It’s pink. I got it from a vendor in Manhattan. Jeez he was a tough negotiator, but it was worth the haggling. It’s soooo cute.” Keegan sighed, raspy and long. “Okay.” “Oh! And my nail polish. I have two new bottles in the bathroom under the sink in one of those cute organizer baskets, you know? Like the ones you get at Bed Bath and Beyond? God, I love those. Anyway, I need Retro Red and Winsome Wisteria.” Another sigh followed, and then a nod of consent. “My moisturizer. I never go anywhere, not even overnight, without my moisturizer. Not that I ever really go anywhere, but anyway I need it, or my skin will dehydrate and it could just be ugly. Top left side of my medicine cabinet.” “Er, okay.” “My shoes. I can’t be without shoes. Let’s see. I need my tennis shoes and my white sandals, because I don’t think there’s much hope for these, wouldn’t you say?” Marty looked up at him and saw impatience written all over his face. “And my laptop. I can’t check on my clients without my laptop, and they need me. Plus, there’s that no-good bitch Linda Fisher. I have to watch that she’s not stealing my accounts. Do you have all of that?” He gave her that stern look again. The one that made her insides skedaddle around even if it was meant in reproach. “I’m going too far, huh?” His smile was crooked. “Just a smidge.

Okay", I breathed. "Then what will it take?" I was completely out of my element. Begging a girl to go on a date with me. This was fucked up." "Miss it." I stared into her cold, blue eyes and knew I'd just met the kind of girl books are written about.

What I’ve come to realize I that I don’t like action for action’s sake. Mindless explosions, super close ups of combat and gore, and unnecessary effects make me zone out incredibly fast. What I do love is a fight that is well choreographed and in which I actually care about the outcome. And hopefully not riddled with cliches. Even more so, I have had a long, deep-seated appreciation for watching chicks kick ass. Watching some lone-wolf-type hero beat the crap out of the bad guys is okay, but watching a BAMF femme do it is 10000% times better.

See that girl just ahead of us? With that headband?” “Yeah?” “She’s Debbie Reynolds’s daughter.” There was a slight pause before she added, “She thinks she’s so great.” Wow, right? Uncanny how she so perfectly nailed me straight out of the box. I just thought I was incredible.

California during the 1940s had Hollywood and the bright lights of Los Angeles, but on the other coast was Florida, land of sunshine and glamour, Miami and Miami Beach. If you weren't already near California's Pacific Coast you headed for Florida during the winter. One of the things which made Miami such a mix of glitter and sunshine was the plethora of movie stars who flocked there to play, rubbing shoulders with tycoons and gangsters. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference between the latter two. Miami and everything that surrounded it hadn't happened by accident. Carl Fisher had set out to make Miami Beach a playground destination during the 1930s and had succeeded far beyond his dreams. The promenade behind the Roney Plaza Hotel was a block-long lovers' lane of palm trees and promise that began rather than ended in the blue waters of the Atlantic. Florida was more than simply Miami and Miami Beach, however. When George Merrick opened the Biltmore Hotel in Coral Gables papers across the country couldn't wait to gush about the growing aura of Florida. They tore down Collins Bridge in the Gables and replaced it with the beautiful Venetian Causeway. You could plop down a fiver if you had one and take your best girl — or the girl you wanted to score with — for a gondola ride there before the depression, or so I'd been told. You see, I'd never actually been to Florida before the war, much less Miami. I was a newspaper reporter from Chicago before the war and had never even seen the ocean until I was flying over the Pacific for the Air Corp. There wasn't much time for admiring the waves when Japanese Zeroes were trying to shoot you out of the sky and bury you at the bottom of that deep blue sea. It was because of my friend Pete that I knew so much about Miami. Florida was his home, so when we both got leave in '42 I followed him to the warm waters of Miami to see what all the fuss was about. It would be easy to say that I skipped Chicago for Miami after the war ended because Pete and I were such good pals and I'd had such a great time there on leave. But in truth I decided to stay on in Miami because of Veronica Lake. I'd better explain that. Veronica Lake never knew she was the reason I came back with Pete to Miami after the war. But she had been there in '42 while Pete and I were enjoying the sand, sun, and the sweet kisses of more than a few love-starved girls desperate to remember what it felt like to have a man's arm around them — not to mention a few other sensations. Lake had been there promoting war bonds on Florida's first radio station, WQAM. It was a big outdoor event and Pete and I were among those listening with relish to Lake's sultry voice as she urged everyone to pitch-in for our boys overseas. We were in those dark early days of the war at the time, and the outcome was very much in question. Lake's appearance at the event was a morale booster for civilians and servicemen alike. She was standing behind a microphone that sat on a table draped in the American flag. I'd never seen a Hollywood star up-close and though I liked the movies as much as any other guy, I had always attributed most of what I saw on-screen to smoke and mirrors. I doubted I'd be impressed seeing a star off-screen. A girl was a girl, after all, and there were loads of real dolls in Miami, as I'd already discovered. Boy, was I wrong." - Where Flamingos Fly

What you’ll have of me after I journey to that great Death Star in the sky is an extremely accomplished daughter, a few books, and a picture of a stern-looking girl wearing some kind of metal bikini lounging on a giant drooling squid, behind a newscaster informing you of the passing of Princess Leia after a long battle with her head.

Why should not old men be mad? Some have known a likely lad That had a sound fly-fisher's wrist Turn to a drunken journalist; A girl that knew all Dante once Live to bear children to a dunce; A Helen of social welfare dream, Climb on a wagonette to scream. Some think it a matter of course that chance Should starve good men and bad advance, That if their neighbours figured plain, As though upon a lighted screen, No single story would they find Of an unbroken happy mind, A finish worthy of the start. Young men know nothing of this sort, Observant old men know it well; And when they know what old books tell And that no better can be had, Know why an old man should be mad.

The wall between the men’s and women’s rooms was built like a fortress, and solid bars covered the windows—they’d been put there by the proprietors to protect the girls’ honour. Instead they’d served as a death sentence. Isn’t that always the way, Mrs. Fisher had thought, man’s fears causing him to do things that lead to far greater sins.

...this doesn't change our friendship." I smile tightly. "Of course it doesn't. Because he's not mine. If he were, you wouldn't be okay with me." "That's not true," she says. "I want him to be happy." "That's easy to say until the person you love is happy with someone else. Girls always choose men, and men always choose the wrong girls. It's an endless cycle.

To meet in Paris a fisher-girl from Balbec or a peasant-girl from Méséglise would have been like receiving the present of a shell which I had never seen upon the beach, or of a fern which I had never found among the woods, would have stripped from the pleasure which she was about to give me all those other pleasures in the thick of which my imagination had enwrapped her.

Sheila and Hugh Resting in arms Testing your charms Repeating a ritualized “I love you” Sharing a fight Or a kiss in the night Shrugging when friends ask “What’s new?” After the wedding Her hips started spreading His hair line began to recede They remained together Out of habit now And not out of any great need He’ll show up from work Showing signs of strain While her day was spent cleaning Letting the soap operas wash her brain . . . He reads the evening paper She calls him in to eat They share their meal silently She’s bored, he’s just beat Then they climb the stairs Multiplying the monotony With each step they take The hours spent sleeping They find more satisfying Than those spent awake He removes his work clothes She puts on her curlers and cream Hoping the sheets will protect them From the demon of daily routine Then he clicks off the lamp And the darkness holds no noise For in the dark you can be anyone Housewives will be girls And businessmen boys . . . “I love you, Sheila” I love you, Hugh” But she’s deciding on dishes And his thoughts are all askew And the sheets supply refuge For this perpetual pair Neither really knowing anymore Why the other one is there

You forgot the straws,” I told him. He ripped the plastic off of the Twizzler box and bit the ends off of two Twizzlers. Then he put them in the cup. He grinned broadly. He looked so proud of himself. I’d forgotten all about our Twizzler straws. We used to do it all the time. We sipped out of the straws at the same time, like in a 1950s Coke commercial—heads bent, foreheads almost touching. I wondered if people thought we were on a date. Jeremiah looked at me, and he smiled in this familiar way, and suddenly I had this crazy thought. I thought, Jeremiah Fisher wants to kiss me. Which, was crazy. This was Jeremiah. He’d never looked at me like that, and as for me, Conrad was the one I liked, even when he was moody and inaccessible the way he was now. It had always been Conrad. I’d never seriously considered Jeremiah, not with Conrad standing there. And of course Jeremiah had never looked at me that way before either. I was his pal. His movie-watching partner, the girl he shared a bathroom with, shared secrets with. I wasn’t the girl he kissed.

In July of 2012, an 18 year old with the last name Stoudemire, was pulled over by a deputy. The young woman was asked to roll down her window, and after several tries, she eventually managed to get the window down. She then began to explain that it was a new car, and there was a bad blind spot. The officer immediately noticed that the young woman smelled like alcohol, and the girl soon admitted to drinking "just a little bit."   The officer then asked for her license, which she quickly handed over. Too bad she had also handed over her fake ID, for the state of South Carolina, which had a real photo and name, but a fake date of birth. She then refused to take a field sobriety test, and during the transport to jail, she began to plead with the officer to not take her fake ID away, since it took her a long time to save up for it. She even offered the officer $15, in a (rather pathetic) attempt to get the officer to let her keep her fake ID.

The next bit is the fairy tale. There’s a day in April when it’s raining. The river is running fast. The girl whose father had died, whose mother raised her in the crooked house by the river, who grew up with that broken part inside where your father has died and which if you’re a girl and your father was Spencer Tracy you can’t fix or unhurt, that girl who yet found in herself some kind of forbearance and strength and was not bitter, whose name was Mary MacCarroll and who was beautiful without truly knowing it and had her mother and father’s dancing and pride in her, that girl walked the riverbank in the April rain. And standing at that place in Shaughnessy’s called Fisher’s Step, where the ground sort of raises a little and sticks out over the Shannon, right there, the place which in The Salmon in Ireland Abraham Swain says salmon pass daily and though it’s treacherous he calls a blessed little spot, right there, looking like a man who had been away a long time and had come back with what in Absalom, Absalom! (Book 1,666, Penguin Classics, London) William Faulkner calls diffident and tentative amazement, as if he’d been through some solitary furnace experience, and come out the other side, standing right there, suntanned face, pale-blue eyes that look like they are peering through smoke, lips pressed together, aged twenty-nine but looking older, back in Ireland less than two weeks, the ocean-motion still in his legs but strangely the river now lending him a river repose, standing right there, was Virgil Swain.

I felt like the luckiest girl in the world the first time I fell in love with him, and it feels like a dream that I’ve been able to do it a second time. How many people get a second chance at love with the only person they’ve ever held in their heart?

I was ensconced in self-love. I had taken advantage of a girl looking for someone to trust and I used her predicament for my own personal gain.

That causes an ache deep in my chest. To know that there are guys willing to drop their shopping bags to catch their girl. And I want someone to love me that effortlessly.

And when disloyal, seed-sowing scum buckets slept with other girls, why did women look inward to find fault in themselves?

She attributed this to having got drunk for the first time at the age of fifteen at a dormy feast on cheap sweet sherry; the memory of that hangover would have caused a girl with less courage to swear off alcohol for life.

Sarah had come into service here at Queen Street following the death of her parents, the local minister finding this position for her as he was an old friend of Dr. Simpson. Her premature departure from the parish school had no doubt been a relief to her schoolmaster, who was becoming increasingly wearied by her arguments regarding her exclusion from subject deemed suited only to boys, such as Classics and mathematics. He was convinced that her grasp of reading, writing, and arithmetic was sufficient for a girl of her station, insisting that knitting and sewing would be of more use to her and would open up the possibility of industrial work in the future. As though a factory job or work in a mill should be the culmination of all her ambition. If one was capable of carrying out a task or learning a body of knowledge, then why should it matter whether one be male or female? Her fury at this injustice had cooled little since.

The girl you think is the perfect girl for you is never the perfect girl for you. One of these days, a girl is going to come along, and you won’t even see her comin.’ And she’ll rock your world.” Fisher said this like it was a done deal. “Oh yeah?” Finn already wanted to leave. But he wouldn’t. He would stick around until Fish was ready to go. And who knew when that would be. “Yeah! And I guarantee she won’t be your type. And you’re going to strategize, and think, and make lists. And it’s not gonna add up.” “That’s not your own theory, Fish. It’s chemistry. Opposites attract.” “Yeah. But it’s more than that. You can have opposites that don’t attract. It has to be just the right kind of opposite. And you won’t know what you’ve got . . .” “Til it’s gone?

A weight lands on me, and a strong doubt that I will not be able to fully commit to the ideas of this strange religion out here in the cold north. I look at the girl’s pale skin flushed slightly across her high cheekbones and wonder if she, perhaps, is Katherine Redford and the article we read was wrong. Maybe her ruse is an old woman but she is, in fact, a young girl. There is something more comforting in that idea, to be healed by a child uninterested in fame or money. A girl as young as her would not seek to inveigle or exploit hopeless people such as us, but an adult might.

Was it me? Was I too cold? Too inexperienced? Not pretty enough? Not good enough in bed? And when disloyal, seed-sowing scum buckets slept with other girls, why did women look inward to find fault in themselves?

I think that the right girl can wipe away the memories of the wrong girl.

Caleb Drake doesn’t go to girls, girls go to Caleb Drake. He just stepped out of his box to talk to you and you blew him off!

What qualifies a shepherd boy to kill a giant? What qualifies a village girl to give birth to a Saviour? What qualifies a fishermen to become a fisher of men? God doesn't call the qualified. He qualifies the called. It's not about who we are. It's about who He is.

I'm not more of a girl than you are, Joe!" "That's right! You're a motherfucker

I’ve only ever loved two boys—both of them with the last name Fisher. Conrad was first, and I loved him in a way that you can really only do the first time around. It’s the kind of love that doesn’t know better and doesn’t want to—it’s dizzy and foolish and fierce. That kind of love is really a one-time-only thing. And then there was Jeremiah. When I looked at Jeremiah, I saw past, present, and future. He didn’t just know the girl I used to be. He knew the right-now me, and he loved me anyway. My two great loves. I think I always knew I would be Belly Fisher one day. I just didn’t know it was going to happen like this.

Both men refer to Carly Fisher as a girl—a small thing, maybe, but it shows an innate lack of respect for females in the workplace.

She couldn’t look, and yet the image was already seared into her mind. Mina’s face wasn’t the pleasant visage that Ten remembered. Because they’d blinded her. Those big, dark, beseeching eyes were gone, instead replaced with angry, red scars and folded flesh. It was horrific how the ruined skin was set in slightly, speaking of something missing there, and how crimson veins of angry skin spread up onto her forehead and down onto her cheeks. “Who else would have?” Mina asked softly, more resigned than anything else, but Ten couldn’t be resigned. Not even remotely. Her mind was rushing in a thousand different directions, and all of them were awful. Had they held her down while pressing a burning poker to her beautiful eyes? Stuffed a cotton cloth in her mouth as she screamed? Ten vomited again, feeling like she couldn’t breathe. “Why?” she gasped, her head spinning enough that she might fall over right then and there. “You already know why.” Mina’s hands stretched out, feeling for her. Ten practically collapsed onto the dais, letting her friend cup her face. “I don’t understand. I don’t understand. I don’t understand,” she chanted over and over again, eyes squeezed shut. But then that just reminded her that Mina would never see again, so she opened her eyes, only to find herself face to ruined face with the girl. Snot was dripping from her nose and tears were starting to fall from Ten’s eyes. She felt like she was locked in the worst nightmare she’d ever had, but she couldn’t wake up. “How could they do this to you?” “Oh, Ten, your heart is so pure.” Mina leaned in, resting her forehead against Ten’s. “You know the reason.” “No, I don’t. I really don’t.” But then Mina’s lips were near her ear, whispering words that made Ten’s entire body run cold. “No savage can ever see the Light.

Stephen sat down on it, and then Peter was lifted up and leant his head back somewhere against the middle button of Stephen's waistcoat, just where his heart was noisiest, and he could feel the hard outline of Stephen's enormous silver watch that his family had had, so Stephen said, for a hundred years. Now was the blissful time, the perfect moment. The rest of the world was busied with life—the window showed the dull and then suddenly shining flakes of snow, the lights and the limitless sea—the room showed the sanded floor, the crowd of fishermen drinking, their feet moving already to the tune of the fiddle, the fisher girls with their coloured shawls, the great, swinging smoky lamp, the huge fire, Dicky the fool, Mother Figgis, fat Sam the host, old Frosted Moses … the gay romantic world—and these two in their corner, and Peter so happy that no beatings in the world could terrify.

They say that love is a battlefield, but I wasn’t a warrior. I was a soft romantic; my armor was a firm ass and a full face of makeup. Silly armor for a silly girl.

Jeremiah, though—he was my friend. He was nice to me. He was the kind of boy who still hugged his mother, still wanted to hold her hand even when he was technically too old for it. He wasn’t embarrassed either. Jeremiah Fisher was too busy having fun to ever be embarrassed. I bet Jeremiah was more popular than Conrad at school. I bet the girls liked him better.

When he came back, he had a large soda and a pack of Twizzlers. I reached for the soda to take a sip, but there were no straws. “You forgot the straws,” I told him. He ripped the plastic off of the Twizzler box and bit the ends off of two Twizzlers. Then he put them in the cup. He grinned broadly. He looked so proud of himself. I’d forgotten all about our Twizzler straws. We used to do it all the time. We sipped out of the straws at the same time, like in a 1950s Coke commercial—heads bent, foreheads almost touching. I wondered if people thought we were on a date. Jeremiah looked at me, and he smiled in this familiar way, and suddenly I had this crazy thought. I thought, Jeremiah Fisher wants to kiss me. Which, was crazy. This was Jeremiah. He’d never looked at me like that, and as for me, Conrad was the one I liked, even when he was moody and inaccessible the way he was now. It had always been Conrad. I’d never seriously considered Jeremiah, not with Conrad standing there. And of course Jeremiah had never looked at me that way before either. I was his pal. His movie-watching partner, the girl he shared a bathroom with, shared secrets with. I wasn’t the girl he kissed.

The Magic Gang was led by the famous magician Jasper Maskelyne and for details of his war years I am indebted to a fascinating book called The War Magician by David Fisher (Cassell).

No. She'd already canceled and rescheduled this lunch three times. She had to go. "Oh, well, maybe I'll learn something," she thought philosophically as she handed her keys to the valet. She imagined herself smoking serenely on a pipe and gazing off to sea and saying, "Well, yeah, sure, he was an asshole, but he wasn't your typical asshole. I really learned something that day at the Hamburger Hamlet. [...] "You're not blond," Al Hawkins said, fixing her with his intense glare. "No, I never was," said Suzanne. "Well, you've never been blond in any of your films, but..." Al Shrugged. "I know a lot of girls who, after a while, just... go blond." "Spontaneously?" asked Suzanne. "No, they decide to do it after... Oh, I see. A joke." Al smiled. "Shall we order?

No. She'd already canceled and rescheduled this lunch three times. She had to go. "Oh, well, maybe I'll learn something," she thought philosophically as she handed her keys to the valet. She imagined herself smoking serenely on a pipe and gazing off to sea and saying, "Well, yeah, sure, he was an asshole, but he wasn't your typical asshole. I really learned something that day at the Hamburger Hamlet. [...] "You're not blond," Al Hawkins said, fixing her with his intense glare. "No, I never was," said Suzanne. "Well, you've never been blond in any of your films, but..." Al Shrugged. "I know a lot of girls who, after a while, just... go blond." "Spontaneously?" asked Suzanne. "No, they decide to do it after... Oh, I see. A joke." Al smiled. "Shall we order?” [...] She wondered if she was in the midst of an anecdote that, for reasons of proximity, she was not yet able to perceive.

There have been other girls. But they weren't her.

… I like something to suddenly appear that didn’t seem to be there. I like to be surprised in the area of flesh. I don’t necessarily like to be surprised in the area of brain, although I must say this girl did interest me that way. At one point she said something like that I should fuck bimbos and have the cigarette with her, which was a funny line. She says some very funny stuff.

Then she heaved over a strange round object, like a big basket made of rushes with a tarred overcoat of—canvas, perhaps? Hugh had never seen such a thing before and said so. ‘’Tis a curragh,’ Mr. O’Malley told him. ‘Other boats use a dinghy but they have to haul it and that’s a drag on a boat. Good sticks they’ve got here, they call them manuka, for making of a true Irish boat. Me and my daughter made it ourselves; it’s just the same as a very big cray pot, so it is. Good manila line here and there’s me corks. Over you go now, my girl, and God be between you and harm.’ Gráinne lowered herself down into the little boat, which bobbed like a duck, and began paddling towards a buoy. When she reached it, she hooked the marker onto a line which the old man began hauling.

Lourd playing Leia in a flashback sequence in Star Wars The Force Awakens,used to be a rumor believed half heartedly by many not too long ago. Until she confirmed that portraying Leia in a flashback sequence was not the case. Why would she play Leia (in or not in a flashback sequence) in the first place? Is she identical to her mother? You decide that for yourself. I think Lourd is a good actress but not the Leia kind of girl. She seems to think that because she is Fisher's daughter, she can be hired. And there is a high chance that she will in Rogue One or some other Star Wars spin-off, But only because she is Fisher's daughter. If she wasn't the offspring of Fisher/Lourd, then she would probably not even care about getting hired to play Princess Leia unless she was asked. It is quite obvious that Lourd only wants to follow in her Mother's footsteps. She admires her Mother, (Fisher) and that is why she desires to play Princess Leia. Because she is Fisher's daughter she probably will be hired. But probably only for Rogue One or Star Wars Rebels. She only can stay young for a while. She is now 23 years old wich is about the same age as Fisher when she was filming for Star Wars Episode VII: Return of the Jedi. Lourd does not have much time left. But Disney seems to like her so she has a slight chance. Considering her father's being a casting agent, Lourd has an even greater chance of fulfilling her dream. But Disney could put more thought into her age and her looks. Does she look and sound like Fisher? I'll leave that to you." -Anne Onamuss

got out of the car first, her face solemn and sad. Then the girl got out. Carrie had to force herself to look at her. She was so young. Her eyes were swollen with crying. Her face was red and blotchy. Carrie recognized that kind of misery and despair; she felt it when her father died. Without thinking, she opened

Girls always choose men, and men always choose the wrong girls. It’s an endless cycle.

The murmur of the brook, the voice of the village folk, the songs of the boatmen, the crying of the birds and rustle of trees mingled and were one with the trembling of her heart. They became one vast wave of sound which beat upon her restless soul. This murmur and movement of Nature were the dumb girl's language; that speech of the dark eyes, which the long lashes shaded, was the language of the world about her. From the trees, where the cicalas chirped, to the quiet stars there was nothing but signs and gestures, weeping and sighing. And in the deep mid-noon, when the boatmen and fisher-folk had gone to their dinner, when the villagers slept and birds were still, when the ferry-boats were idle, when the great busy world paused in its toil and became suddenly a lonely, awful giant, then beneath the vast impressive heavens there were only dumb Nature and a dumb girl, sitting very silent,—one under the spreading sunlight, the other where a small tree cast its shadow.