Flo Quotes

In a sense we are all like a Flo Rida song: The more time you spend with us, the more you see how special we are. Social scientists refer to this as the Flo Rida Theory of Acquired Likability Through Repetition.

Love removes the world for you, and just as surely when it's going well as when it's going badly.

School sucks. I'm dropping out and becoming a truck stop waitress. I think i'll change my name to Flo and get a really bad perm. Flo the truck stop waitress with a bad perm doesn't need high school. She lives off the knowledge of life.

Everyone knows what falling in love is like but being in love is what people have lost. That intimacy to be in bed with somebody and just laugh and not hold anybody accountable for what they say.

Braininess is not attractive unless combined with some signs of elegance; class.

North is a powerful man, and you're still connected to him." Flo frowned. "Probably sexual memory, those Capricorns are insatiable. Well, you know. Sea Goat. And of course, you're a Fish. You'll end up back in bed with him." Andie slammed the car door. "You know what I'd like for Christmas, Flo? Boundaries. You can gift me early if you'd like.

Amy was looking around the sanctum in awe. "It's...beautiful!" The girl was modest and thoughtful. How bizarre. So rarely did Ian see these qualities in others–especially during the quest for the 39 Clues. Naturally, he had been taught to avoid these behaviors at all costs and never to consort with anyone who possessed them. They were distasteful–FLO, as Papa would say. For Losers Only. And Kabras never lost. Yet she fascinated him. Her joy in running up Alistair's tiny lawn, her awe at this piddling cubbyhole–it didn't seem possible to gain so much happiness from so little. This gave him a curious feeling he'd never quite experienced. Something like indigestion but quite a bit more pleasant. Ah well. Blame it on the ripped trousers, he thought. Humiliation softened the soul.

Days are precious, dinna lose them. Flo`ers will fade and so will ye... Come to me, ye fair young maidens. While young and fair ye still may be.

Flo especially took me in hand. When I felt I had to prove the existence of discrimination with statistics, for instance, she pulled me aside. 'If you're lying in the ditch with a truck on your ankle,' she said patiently, 'you don't send someone to the library to find out how much the truck weighs. You get it off!

In another life, I could have been you," she'd say. "Yeah, but then I wouldn't have been the same person in that life." "Yeah, that's right. Let's work on it.

It's interesting to speculate how it developed that in two of the most anti-feminist institutions, the church and the law court, the men are wearing the dresses.

Flo isn’t really a huge fan of social media. She doesn’t like how everyone pretends they have an amazing life or how they filter their faces a zillion times so they don’t even look human. It’s all false and fake

Kitty’s gone, Flo. Like Lilian. Believe me, there’s more chance of her coming back!’ I began to smile. ‘And if she does, you can go to her, and I won’t say a word. And if Kitty comes for me, you can do similar. And then, I suppose, we shall have our paradises - and will be able to wave to one another from our separate clouds. But till then - till then, Flo, can’t we go on kissing, and just be glad?

Commala-come-come There’s a young man with a gun. Young man lost his honey When she took it on the run. Commala-come-one! She took it on the run! Left her baby lonely But he baby ain’t done. Commala-come-coo The wind’ll blow ya through. Ya gotta go where ka’s wind blows ya Cause there’s nothin else to do. Commala-come-two! Nothin else to do! Gotta go where ka’s wind blows ya Cause there’s nothin else to do. Commala-come-key Can you tell me what ya see? Is it ghosts or just the mirror That makes ya wanna flee? Commala-come-three! I beg ya, tell me! Is it ghosts or just your darker self That makes ya wanna flee? Commala-come-ko Whatcha doin at my do’? If ya doan tell me now, my friend I’ll lay ya on de flo’. Commala-come-fo’! I can lay ya low! The things I’ve do to such as you You never wanna know. Commala-gin-jive Ain’t it grand to be alive? To look out on Discordia When the Demon Moon arrives. Commala-come-five! Even when the shadows rise! To see the world and walk the world Makes ya glad to be alive. Commala-mox-nix! You’re in a nasty fix! To take a hand in traitor’s glove Is to grasp a sheaf of sticks! Commala-come-six! Nothing there but thorns and sticks! When your find your hand in traitor’s glove You’re in a nasty fix. Commala-loaf-leaven! They go to hell or up to heaven! The the guns are shot and the fires hot, You got to poke em in the oven. Commala-come-seven! Salt and yow’ for leaven! Heat em up and knock em down And poke em in the oven. Commala-ka-kate You’re in the hands of fate. No matter if it’s real or not, The hour groweth late. Commala-come-eight! The hour groweth late! No matter what shade ya cast You’re in the hands of fate. Commala-me-mine You have to walk the line. When you finally get the thing you need It makes you feel so fine. Commala-come-nine! It makes ya feel fine! But if you’d have the thing you need You have to walk the line. Commala-come-ken It’s the other one again. You may know her name and face But that don’t make her your friend. Commala-come-ten! She is not your friend! If you let her get too close She’ll cut you up again! Commala-come-call We hail the one who made us all, Who made the men and made the maids, Who made the great and small. Commala-come-call! He made us great and small! And yet how great the hand of fate That rules us one and all. Commala-come-ki, There’s a time to live and one to die. With your back against the final wall Ya gotta let the bullets fly. Commala-come-ki! Let the bullets fly! Don’t ‘ee mourn for me, my lads When it comes my day to die. Commala-come-kass! The child has come at last! Sing your song, O sing it well, The child has come to pass. Commala-come-kass, The worst has come to pass. The Tower trembles on its ground; The child has come at last. Commala-come-come, The battle’s now begun! And all the foes of men and rose Rise with the setting sun.

Names I am most commonly called by telemarketers: Simone, Slain, Siobhan, Flo, Stacey, Susan, Slater, Leanne, and Slow (Yes, my parents named me "Slow". That's because they hate me and made me sleep in the linen closet subsisting only on bath salts and Scope).

This guy bangs out Aunt Flo’.

You need to realise how gorgeous you are.' She laughs, but I’m not trying to be funny. ‘I mean it Flo, you really are. Somewhere under all that disbelief.

Crystal” I don’t think he’s my type “ Grandma Flo “Oh honey, He’s everyone’s type!

In the shadow of an armored tree, Flo slipped her hand into Skandar’s. And for a moment, he let himself believe they could win whatever fight was coming for them.

Seeing someone naked for the first time is incredible. Everyone's naked body looks slightly different, it's like unwrapping a lovely fleshy present. And nothing is better than looking down on a boner that you created. Pure joy.

...the world is tumbling with innocent-seeming objects ready to declare themselves, slippery and obliging.

Hey, Flo! It’s Lockwood!’ Silence. The figure straightened abruptly; I thought for a moment it was going to turn and run. But then the voice came again, faint, hostile and guarded. ‘You? What the bloody hell do you want?’ ‘Oh, that’s fine,’ Lockwood murmured. ‘She’s in a good mood.’ He cleared his throat, called out again. ‘Can you talk?’ The distant person considered; for a few seconds we heard nothing except the sloop and slosh of the river along the shore. ‘No. I’m busy! Go away.’ ‘I’ve brought liquorice!’ ‘What, you’re trying to bribe me now? Bring money!’ More silence; just the sucking of the water. Away in the haze a head was cocked to one side. ‘What kind of liquorice?

It takes years as a woman to unlearn what you have been taught to be sorry for. —AMY POEHLER

Handle the little things well; for they become the great things.

we can’t access our full potential when we’re living by someone else’s rules and not listening to the wisdom within.

Oh my God,” Flo whimpered. “The gun . . . the gun was loaded!

Flo once said she thought boys’ bums look like they’ve been shrunk in the wash, and I haven’t been able to un-see that since.

Flo hated how public an event affection inevitably became. Marrying in a church while scrutinized by dozens of people struck her as a barbaric custom.

Poor Flo,” I said. “Did she pull the trigger?” Nina asked. “I— I assume so. I don’t know. She was holding it.” “I thought you were.” “Me?

with Red farting exuberantly in celebration. Flo beamed at them all as Falcon came through the entrance,

Skandar was waiting for Flo.

Come on, spirit boy,’ Bobby said, punching him on the arm. ‘Time to break the news to Flo that the Island’s a ticking time bomb.’ Flo

What’s the greatest lesson a woman should learn? That since day one, she’s already had everything she needs within herself. It’s the world that convinced her she did not. —RUPI KAUR

Girls are taught to view their bodies as unending projects to work on, whereas boys from a young age are taught to view their bodies as tools to master the environment. —GLORIA STEINEM

I also thought suddenly of the wisdom of my speaking partner, the late generous, outrageous, matchless Flo Kennedy. She found value in conflict, no matter what. “The purpose of ass-kicking is not that your ass gets kicked at the right time or for the right reason,” she often explained. “It’s to keep your ass sensitive. ” Remembering her words made me laugh out loud.

And to “Florrie” Evans, whom I met while mudlarking on the River Thames in the summer of 2019...thank you for teaching me how to spot real delftware. Follow her on Instagram: @flo_finds.

.. عرفتُ من مقلتيها .. أنها هى رفيقه دربُ هذا القلب .. عرفتُ ممن تغارُ زهرة الجورى .. من صمتها .. سمعت ما تسرده لى من حكايات .. من نظرتها الخجوله التى تحمرُ لها وجنتاها .. عرفتُ ولطالما عرفت .. أنها هى حبيبتى

women have a second biological clock, and it is equally as valuable as the 24-hour clock. The 28-day clock can be measured; it is predictable; and it demands the same respect, attention, and priority as the 24-hour clock.

«Mi sei mancato anche tu,» replicai, riuscendo a parlare nonostante la gola stretta per la commozione. «Ti amo, Jay.» Jay mi rivolse un sorriso luminoso, poi mi allacciò le mani dietro al collo, e vi nascose il viso contro, mentre si stringeva a me. Flo abbaiò in tono impaziente, stanca di aspettare che ci baciassimo prima di avere l’attenzione di Jay. Lui rise e si accucciò per accarezzare il mio cane. Quello, in quel momento, era tutto ciò che potessi volere per Natale.

It's not a cat!' Flo insisted. 'It's a horrible stripy- thing - and it's got fangs, and... and...' 'She calls it Henry,' she said, as though this was calling the Prince of Darkness Fred. 'She says her sister left it to her in her. In her will!

Our minister was as confused as we were. "And now Flo," he would say to me, "you stand here' "He's Flo, I'm Billie," I would say. "Oh, all right, then, you stand here, Bill," he would say to Flo, and Flo would correct him. "I'm Flo, she's Bill - I mean Billie." But he married us and I am quite sure it was legal.

In our co-lecturing days, Flo Kennedy and I were sitting in the back of a taxi on the way to the Boston airport, discussing Flo’s book Abortion Rap. The driver, an old Irish woman, the only such cabbie I’ve ever seen, turned to us at a traffic light and said the immortal words, “Honey, if men could get pregnant, abortion would be a sacrament!” Would she have wanted to own her words in public? I don’t know, but I so wish we had asked her name. When Flo and I told this taxi story at speeches, the driver’s sentence spread on T-shirts, political buttons, clinic walls, and protest banners from Washington to Vatican Square, from Ireland to Nigeria. By 2012, almost forty years after that taxi ride, the driver’s words were on a banner outside the Republican National Convention in Tampa, when the party nominated Mitt Romney for president of the United States on a platform that included criminalizing abortion. Neither Flo nor the taxi driver could have lived to see him lose—and yet they were there.

Until Perry was five, the team of “Tex & Flo” continued to work the rodeo circuit. As a way of life, it wasn’t “any gallon of ice cream,” Perry once recalled: “Six of us riding in an old truck, sleeping in it, too, sometimes, living off mush and Hershey kisses and condensed milk. Hawks Brand condensed milk it was called, which is what weakened my kidneys—the sugar content—which is why I was always wetting the bed.” Yet it was not an unhappy existence, especially for a little boy proud of his parents, admiring of their showmanship and courage—a happier life, certainly, than what replaced it. For Tex and Flo, both forced by ailments to retire from their occupation, settled near Reno, Nevada.

It was, after all, the book, the one that brought her and Flo together, the one that said, printed there on the page, things Clara had once believed were her private thoughts alone. It was the book that Clara so often thought that truly, truly, she could have written herself. She could have had it sewn to her palm and still be unencumbered by it.

It’s bizarre how you can think someone is the coolest person ever, then you get a glimpse of their reality and realise they are actually quite tragic.

To dare it; to get away with it, to enter on preposterous adventures in your own, but newly named, skin.

When we are separate from our knowing and from those we love and choose to live apart from the love of all peoples, we begin to die, that is to live without life, without joy.

Learning to survive, no matter with what cravenness and caution, what shocks and forebodings, is not the same as being miserable. It is too interesting.

[He's] a rat. A first-class double-A-battery-run rat.

If you have time to shit you have time to text

I guess we'll just sit around here and casually die, then.

In what ambient light seeps here, from the night-lights of the two bedrooms, the murk of the lower floor transforms Flo’s detritus into ominously indistinct humps and heads and silhouettes. Everything appears marginally animated. The dark energy of night suggests myriad presences. Flo’s enigmatic past crowds her, watching her every footfall through the vicarage.

The world of the future will be an ever more demanding struggle against the limitations of our intelligence, not a comfortable hammock in which we can lie down to be waited upon by our robot slaves.

For him, information was not merely discrete or continuous, not strictly linear or even circular, not matter or energy, but something altogether new, extended in space and time—and very often alive. In

Can Flo come? She has so many clothes I really want her to get rid of.' I laugh. Flo's clothes are so funny. She buys one top and wears it every time we go out for six months, then buys another one and does the same. And the kinds of things she buys for school are boring. She gets things that look as close to school uniform as possible because she finds having to wear our own clothes every day so hard.

to be. It’s a myth, a legend, a fairy tale.’ But Skandar wasn’t going to be deterred that easily. After all, unicorns had been fairy tales on the Mainland until not too long ago – and now he was riding one. He started to open his mouth, but Flo interrupted him. ‘Maybe nothing will happen,’ she said hopefully. ‘Maybe the Weaver didn’t kill the wild unicorn and it was all an accident, and none of the scarier stuff

IN THE FLO MANIFESTO I acknowledge my cycle has four distinct hormonal patterns. Each of these phases requires different nourishment and self-care. Supporting each phase is the key to optimizing my health. Syncing with each phase allows me to tap into creativity to optimize work, motherhood, and relationships on my own terms. Living according to my biological rhythmic timing restores my sovereignty and makes me more free.

There are those who sail through a ‘visit from Auntie Flo’, enduring little more than a twinge in the abdomen. And then there are people like me, who firmly believe their uterus is re-enacting the Battle of the Somme. Allow me to paint a picture for you. It’s fucking ugly. Your body bloats, your tits hurt and you sweat uncontrollably. Your crevices start to feel like a swamp and your head is pounding all the time. You feel like you have a cold – shivering, aching, nauseous – and have the hair-trigger emotions of someone who has not slept for days. But we’re not done yet. The intense cramping across your lower abdomen feels like the worst diarrhoea you’ve ever had – in fact, you’ll also get diarrhoea, to help with the crying fits. As your internal organs contract and tear themselves to blooded bits so you can lay an egg, blasts of searing pain rip through you. You bleed so much that all ‘intimate feminine hygiene products’ fail you – it’s like trying to control a lava flow with an oven mitt. You worry people can smell your period. You are terrified to sit on anything or stand up for a week in case you’ve bled through. And as you’re sitting, a crying, sweaty, wobbly, spotty, smelly mess, some bastard asks ‘Time of the month, love?’ And then you have to eat his head.

I used to feel like this all the time and it didn’t bother me, but it’s different now. (…) …and besides, I want to test them. I have been the third wheel in this friendship for around ten years. They have no idea who I really am. It’s the exact opposite to my friendship with Flo. All these years I’ve passed off their lack of interest in me as an innocent vacancy, but it’s now feeling more like selfishness. I don’t belong here.

You know, he was very honest about it. He said, ‘What you do not use, you lose. These computers have so much potential, but they will ruin people’s brains.’ He said, ‘Swami, you will live to see it in the next century. I will not be here.

Well, people who acknowledge their faults aren't so angry about them. Oh to be selfish, eh?' ‘I think life would be easier if I was selfish.’ ‘No, it wouldn’t. Not really. Those people aren’t happy, they’ll be on their death beds with little more than a life time of guilt and regret to think about. People like us die with a clear conscience, Flo. That’s the best way to be. If you admit to where you go wrong at least you stand a chance of making it better.’ I still wish I was selfish.

Flo designed a tapestry chair for Heydon Hall and hassocks for Norwich Cathedral. When in the early 1970s an appeal was made for volunteer workers to create hassocks for the Chapel of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire, in St Paul’s Cathedral, Flo responded. Her heart sank somewhat when the complicated patterns arrived, but never turning down a challenge, Flo set about creating her hassock, and then volunteered for another . The service of dedication was held in the Cathedral on 22nd November 1972.

But Flo was already slipping off her blue jacket, her boots, her socks, then lifting her T-shirt over her head. ‘Has she lost the plot?’ Bobby whispered to Skandar. ‘It’s April!’ ‘Umm, Flo,’ Mitchell said, ‘what exactly…?’ Flo stood on the river’s edge in a bright blue swimming costume, Blade shining at her side. She looked amused at the expressions on her quartet’s faces. She put a hand on her hip, and – in a perfect imitation of Bobby – said, ‘Are you honestly telling me that you came to the Water Trial without swimwear? Amateurs.

Claudia Roden, and Paula Wolfert (Mediterranean), Diana Kennedy and Maricel Presilla (Mexico), Andy Ricker and David Thompson (Thailand), Andrea Nguyen and Charles Phan (Vietnam). For general cooking: James Beard, April Bloomfield, Marion Cunningham, Suzanne Goin, Edna Lewis, Deborah Madison, Cal Peternell, David Tanis, Alice Waters, The Canal House, and The Joy of Cooking. For inspiring writing about food and cooking: Tamar Adler, Elizabeth David, MFK Fisher, Patience Gray, Jane Grigson, and Nigel Slater. For baking: Josey Baker, Flo Braker, Dorie Greenspan, David Lebovitz, Alice Medrich, Elisabeth Prueitt, Claire Ptak, Chad Robertson, and Lindsey Shere.

We tell each other everything. You take the rap for bad things I do, we have this amazing time together and then all day in classes you ignore me like I don't exist. And I have to watch you and Sally together, and you licking her arse and not telling her about me. And when she says something mean to me you just stand there. I don't even answer back like I used to, I take it and you just stand there and let her speak to me the way she does. What about the fact that I am your best friend now? How do you think that feels, Flo? It feels HORRIBLE, that is how it feels. HORRIBLE.' I leave her standing in the rain. I deliberately go slowly so she can catch me up, but she doesn’t. I get all the way home and she never comes after me.

Procuring the house in Ballister was a desperate bid for respect, for recognition, the ultimate gesture (or sacrifice, as it turned out) that would prove him a worthy successor to the Flo and Walter Prices of the world. To my mind, the Culver was Norm’s way home, the only way he knew. It was an ever-evolving means to an ever-evolving end that eventually ended him. Who or what led Norm down that thorny path—devotion, economic pressures, family cynicism, Beth’s insatiable appetite—has been a topic of endless debate. You can believe what you want to believe. Personally, I don’t think any rational argument under the sun would have deterred Beth’s “messiah” from his mission. If the Ballister acquisition was Norm’s cross, as everyone seems to think it was, then it was Norm who chose to bear that cross. And pride that nailed him to it.

... she just had time to reflect that of all the many ways in which she had anticipated her final moments, crashing airborne into a pack of flying wolves seemed least likely... Meanwhile the pack of flying wolves had noticed something unusual. 'What's that boss?' Said one of them, who was near the front. But their leader, Skoll, was too intent on opening his jaws wide enough to swallow the sun to hear. 'Looks like a flying pink poodle,' the wolf went on, and this time Skoll did hear. 'A flying pink poodle?' He said, with vast contempt. 'Give me a break Garm." 'No boss, look,' Garm protested. 'It is a flying pink poodle...' 'I told you what would happen if you didn't take your altitude tablets.' But by now the other wolves were joining in... Skoll heaved a sigh of absolute exasperation. 'First of all,' he said, 'poodles can't fly. And they ain't pink. I-oh.' For now that he had turned he could see Flo, careening erratically towards them upside down with her eyes firmly shut... He had become, over the millennia, almost jaded to novelty. But now he was genuinely astonished. 'Wow," he said.

THE THING THAT ENTRANCED ME about Chicago in the Gilded Age was the city’s willingness to take on the impossible in the name of civic honor, a concept so removed from the modern psyche that two wise readers of early drafts of this book wondered why Chicago was so avid to win the world’s fair in the first place. The juxtaposition of pride and unfathomed evil struck me as offering powerful insights into the nature of men and their ambitions. The more I read about the fair, the more entranced I became. That George Ferris would attempt to build something so big and novel—and that he would succeed on his first try—seems, in this day of liability lawsuits, almost beyond comprehension. A rich seam of information exists about the fair and about Daniel Burnham in the beautifully run archives of the Chicago Historical Society and the Ryerson and Burnham libraries of the Art Institute of Chicago. I acquired a nice base of information from the University of Washington’s Suzallo Library, one of the finest and most efficient libraries I have encountered. I also visited the Library of Congress in Washington, where I spent a good many happy hours immersed in the papers of Frederick Law Olmsted, though my happiness was at times strained by trying to decipher Olmsted’s execrable handwriting. I read—and mined—dozens of books about Burnham, Chicago, the exposition, and the late Victorian era. Several proved consistently valuable: Thomas Hines’s Burnham of Chicago (1974); Laura Wood Roper’s FLO: A Biography of Frederick Law Olmsted (1973); and Witold Rybczynski’s A Clearing in the Distance (1999). One book in particular, City of the Century by Donald L. Miller (1996), became an invaluable companion in my journey through old Chicago. I found four guidebooks to be especially useful: Alice Sinkevitch’s AIA Guide to Chicago (1993); Matt Hucke and Ursula Bielski’s Graveyards of Chicago (1999); John Flinn’s Official Guide to the World’s Columbian Exposition (1893); and Rand, McNally & Co.’ s Handbook to the World’s Columbian Exposition (1893). Hucke and Bielski’s guide led me to pay a visit to Graceland Cemetery, an utterly charming haven where, paradoxically, history comes alive.

Stand By You Volume 1 is free ! Only on Amazon April 21-25

Flo Kennedy once said, “Freedom is like taking a bath. You got to keep doing it every day.” In other words, it’s not just what you say or what you purport to believe. It’s something you have to constantly reinforce with your actions.

Some of the houses are still empty, are you looking for someone?’ ‘No. We’re coming to live here,’ Flo informed her. ‘It’s not bad here. The houses are great. We come from off Scottie Road and me mam wasn’t happy at first but she’s got used to it now. She says she still misses Paddy’s Market and she always goes into town to do the Christmas food shopping in St John’s Market.’ ‘Where are the nearest shops?’ Dee asked. ‘There’s some at the end of this road but most of them are in

Our culture forces us to keep pushing, pushing, pushing. We overstretch ourselves, our expectations, our bodies, and our time.

A mark from Flo’s blow fades upon one cheek. Exhausted enough to cry, she grinds her teeth and slides a sleeping mask over her eyes.

Girls are taught to view their bodies as unending projects to work on, whereas boys from a young age are taught to view their bodies as tools to master the environment.

school last month.’ Rayne hunched her shoulders. ‘If you must know, Mam’s got me practising on plants in the garden.’ Yesterday she’d breathed a pruning Spell over a hydrangea. Half the words had landed on its leaves like they were supposed to, the rest had ended up over the well. She’d spent the next hour fishing out the bucket, so Mam could breathe a mending Spell over it. But she wasn’t going to tell Tom. He’d only scoff. Closer to the hall, Rayne began to recognize people in the queue. Ron and Edge the cutler’s apprentices were at the back, laughing and hugging sacks of metal tools. Old Flo was bundled in a floral shawl, bent over her stick, coughing. At the top of the steps, by the double doors, a group of women rocked and shushed crying babies. Mam ran lightly up the steps and waved a greeting. Rayne loitered at the bottom. Tom shook his head. ‘Most of them don’t need whatever it is they’ve come for. Ron and Edge are just lazy, they could sharpen those tools themselves.’ ‘Mam doesn’t judge, she helps everyone.’ ‘Not me,’ said Tom, tapping his pocket. He turned away and disappeared in the crowd. Rayne plodded up the steps, conscious everyone in the queue was staring at her. For the first time in her life she wished more people felt the same as Tom about Spells. Inside the hall, voices burbled around the rafters as people queued patiently to see their Spell Breather. Mam took the

C A N Í B A L Aleteo del pájaro contra la nada donde el desierto es una flo r una flor que odia al hombre

Serpiente que se enrosca al ponerse el día Rezando en vano, como el silencio a las llamas O h salamanquesa, flo r de la locura Ruina delgada del papel Flor de lo inm undo, gusano del papel Porque la nada corroe el ser como un gusano Sartre lo dijo Pistola hecha de nada, cadáveres en el alma A lquim ia del papel sobre la piel en llamas, floreciendo Rosa única del papel Á guila de la luz que cae y florece sobre el papel Á guila de la hiel Que sólo sabe lo que vale el hombre.

La honra del espanto y la serenidad del desastre La melancolía destrozada y el sentimiento sin sentim iento Y el terror de escupir en el desierto ... Una lágrim a sin lágrimas Una vela para el m uerto Una vela para el terror De no tener ya nada en que pensar ... ¿Dónde estoy yo, honrando el desierto Como la sombra de un hombre bebiendo su cerveza En el azul del espanto y la flo r de la deshonra? ¿Quién ha venido hoy a contemplar el muñeco Azul que escarba en el espanto ... El terror de una lágrim a en el cielo sin lágrimas Donde brotan las alas del insecto Que sobrevuela el abismo gritándole a los espectros «¿Quién anduvo entre la violeta la violeta?».

La sonrisa de un m uerto en vida puede sólo amenazar al m undo pálida rosa de un m oribundo flo r de la m uerte y flo r de lo inm undo gusano que mis manos acarician contra el m undo: sal del desespero y atroz claquear de la m andíbula de la muerte, de la m andíbula caníbal de la muerte.

After the church, everybody went to the reception. The reception is a big, giant room where you sit at tables. And you listen to loud music. And you eat food and cake. And then wait till you hear this! The bridesmaids’ table was the longest table in the whole entire place! I runned right to the end of that hugie thing. And guess what? There was a teensy card with my name printed on it! “Here! Here! I am sitting here!” I hollered to Mother. Just then, I saw Aunt Flo. She was coming over with Bo. “Uh-oh,” I said very nervous. Then I quick hided behind Mother’s skirt. But Aunt Flo didn’t even look mad!

O h tú, alucinación perfecta m asturbatoriamente mueves el cadáver de m i falo, el cadáver de m i alma que al oído me dice: «no eres un hombre» eres menos que un cadáver y menos que la sombra erección sobre el vacío y sobre el cadáver de la nada oh tú flo r que cortejas un cadáver.

Do you eat nonorganic foods? Do you eat meat that isn’t antibiotic-free and hormone-free, or do you eat farmed fish? Do you drink water from plastic bottles? Do you use chemical-laden household cleaning products and detergents? Do you use drugstore cosmetics and skincare products?

We're El and Flo and we got that ebb and flow!

And her red Nine West stilettoes, which were rubbing against her sore toes and surely cleaving a layer of skin, could not compare to the Christian Louboutin pumps with their signature red soles reflecting on the polished floor. Hannah had felt chic when Flo picked her up. Now, she felt inferior amid all the glamour.

Think back to when you were a child—flying high on the swings, skipping down the street, and racing on your bike with your hair flying behind you. You barely thought about your body except to use it to help you do whatever you liked.

Women were viewed as sick and given diagnoses like hysteria—derived from the Greek word hysterika, meaning “uterus”—the alleged cause of our madness.

Natalie gave him a smile and lifted the mug to her lips. The tea was just right. ‘Who’s the FLO on this?’ Murray asked, referring to the family liaison officer who’d be with the officer breaking the news to Ava’s parents. ‘Tanya Granger. I told her we’d go over later to talk to them. Give them a chance for the news to sink in first.’ Natalie brushed to one side the printed articles they’d retrieved from the Internet, and spoke again. ‘DI Howard Franks led the original investigation. He had to retire from the force soon afterwards on account of his wife’s health. She’s sadly passed away since. He’ll be in any minute to take us through it. Has to drop off his daughters at school first.’ On cue, the ex-detective arrived, dressed in jeans, a sweatshirt and a light-coloured bomber jacket.

But I mean two wrongs don’t make a right, Kyla.” “You’re right about that Flo, but my wrong felt good. Fuck what’s right.

Florence, I’m Nina,” I said. ​“Please call me Flo,” she said. “I like it better. It matches my purpose perfectly; I love to flow where the universe sends me.” ​“What’s going on, Flo?” I asked. ​Flo flapped her wings, bathing us in fresh air. "I find it fascinating that we who are creatures of nature are dealing with you, a creature of supernature." ​“True, but we all share the same universe,” I told Flo. ​Flo nodded. "That is why I am here. You will soon be faced with somebody or something trying to blame nature or supernature for a problem. But it will most likely be neither of them." ​“Most likely?” I asked. ​Ruby spoke up, “The universe is very big. Random events can occur to change things.” ​Flo nodded. “Yes, there are many set courses an event can take...more of them point towards this being not what it seems. But there is always a slight chance that it can be what it seems.” ​“Could this be more confusing?” Frank asked. “I hope not because I am already really confused.” ​Flo patted Frank on the head again. “It is confusing. Let me explain more. We can not say that we are entirely certain that what will happen will happen and that it won't be a natural or supernatural cause. After all, that would take all the fun out of your investigations. We are just saying, look carefully and suspect what you wouldn't normally suspect." ​“So we should expect the unexpected,” Ruby said. ​“Yes, dear Ruby,” Flo said.

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I’m so excited I do an involuntary star jump.

He loves me, and I won’t ever let him go or do anything to change that.” “And here I was about to tell you to make a run for it. It’s your funeral, girly. Enjoy the honeymoon. Well, after Auntie Flo makes her departure.

Well, nigga you better hide them shits, cause if I go down, yo’ ass going with me. I’ll be an ole ‘He put bodies in the trunk. He got a case in the flo of his basement wit’ drugs and money in it. He got a secret compartment in his car with guns in it’ Snitchin’ ass auntie tonight!” She snapped her neck in my direction.

Flo, a Columbia Law School graduate and known for being foul-mouthed and unorthodox, expressed herself with no filter, writing, “I think we should all be kicking ass fairly regularly, and one of my favorite targets is the media.

It was a miracle; it was a mistake. It was what she had dreamed of; it was not what she wanted.

In a personal sense, it kinda fucking sucks when people e-mail you and say: 'I hope that you die in a tour bus accident, because the new album is gay.

m’a interrogée à maintes reprises sur ces brefs passages, étant donné qu’ils proviennent d’une voix narrative tout à fait différente de celle du reste des livres dans cette série sur les sœurs Aldridge. Les lecteurs curieux veulent avant tout en savoir plus sur les derniers instants de la vie de Flo Aldridge. Qui était-elle ? Qu’est-ce qui l’a

I bloody well know she was dying,’ Walter corrected gruffly. ‘She told me. Cancer,’ he added succinctly. ‘And how did she take it?’ Hillary asked, then added quickly, ‘I mean, I know it must have been a shock. I’m sure she was angry, and upset, but generally speaking — did it make her very depressed, or was she more inclined to be scared or introspective? I’m sorry to be asking a question like this, especially over the telephone, but it might be important.’ Over the wire, Walter Keane sighed heavily. ‘Well, it rocked her a bit, of course,’ he agreed. ‘And she had a bit of a weep, like, when she told me. But Flo was never really one to let things get on top of her. She read up on this remission thing, where terminally ill people suddenly get better for a little while. Amazing thing that, not even the doctors know why. She often said she might go in for a bit of that, like. As if, by the power of positive thinking, she could make it happen.’ Walter

The only reason anything's wrong is because someone says it is.

Jeg kunne ikke leve opp til Flo Kennedys mor som var rengjøringshjelp og av gammel slaveslekt. En dag ble hun beskyldt for å ha stjålet, med det resultat at hun tok det våte bindet fram fra skrittet og slengte det i ansiktet på Fruen.