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!

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

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.

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.

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?

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).

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.

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.

This guy bangs out Aunt Flo’.

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

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?

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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?

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

If you have time to shit you have time to text

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.

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.

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.

تداعبُ رائحه عطره المكان.. فتقف هى والشوقُ سلاحا ضد النسيان.. أما لك يا قلب لا تستكين ؟ أما يرهقك الحنين ؟ لك العجبُ يا قلبُ.. قد جُن بهوى رجل من ساحه الفرسانٍ.. عندما اسمعُ صهلَ جواده قادما .. أهبُ فزعةً وقد اعترتنى رعشةُ .. جعلت منى رماداً لنيرانِ .. أخمدتها ريحُ عاتيه .. ولكنى لا أعرف لماذا دوما اختبىء؟ أتوارى عن ناظريه .. أبعدُ عن نظرة عينيه .. التى لطالما اشتقت إليها .. وهنا يبدأ صرعُ قلبى مع هذا العقل البائس..

.. حين يأتى الليلُ بوشاحه الفضى .. الذى تراقصه نسائم الهواءِالهادىءِ .. هذا الهواء الذى يصل إِلَيّ .. مداعباً خصلات شعرى .. أنظرُ إليكى أيتها السماء .. وأهفو لريحٍ تحملنى بعيداً .. حيث أنتِ أيتها النجوم .. بينما واقعى هنا يفرض عليَّ البقاءَ

Aunt Flo's love is not a soft thing, I think, but something hard and unyielding, which can be good or bad.

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.

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

I don’t think I’ve had real fried chicken since I turned fifty and Flo dragged me in to have my cholesterol numbers checked,” Russel said. “We’ve only got so many years left, so I intend to enjoy them. If I can’t have eggs and hash and cheese once in a while, I may as well lie down and start decomposing.

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

Sophie, come here,' Mike said, and led her upstairs and into a large bedroom. A Greek rug covered the bed; a Mexican ceramic horse stood in front of the fireplace. On one of the bedside tables were piled paperback detective stories in their penny candy wrapper covers. 'Who reads those? You or Flo?' 'Me,' he replied, and he sighed and looked winsome. They're good for me. They ride roughshod over what I live with. Potent men. Palpitating women . . . a murderer's mind laid out like the contents of a child's pencil box.' 'You aren't reading the right ones.' 'The new ones are the old ones. That false complexity is just another kind of pencil box.

She understood it was her job to be whatever he needed—if he wanted to take his time, she was Slow-Mo Flo. If he wanted it fast, she was Quickie Chickie. He fucked her how and when he wanted to.

But then, everyone wears uniforms, Flo thinks. Even in school, and despite the official uniform, the type of bag you carry, your jacket or shoes define who you are. Rich or poor. Cool or uncool.

I happened to be wearing my big-girl panties (often referred to as Aunt Flo’s couture)

The 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.

Flo Owens: You liked him, didn't you Helen? Helen Potts: Yes, I did. I got so used to things as they were: Everything so prim, the geranium in the window, the smell of mama's medicines. And then he walked in, and it was different! He clomped through the place like he was still outdoors. There was a man in the place and it seemed good!

Car insurance,” said Serge. “Watch any channel on TV for any length of time, and every other commercial is a British lizard, an upwardly mobile caveman, a calcified chick named Flo, the anthropomorphic jerk named Mayhem who tricks you into accidents, the guy in a hard hat who hits cars with sledgehammers, the character who played the president in the show 24 saying, ‘That’s Allstate’s stand,’ ‘Nationwide is on your side,’ ‘Fifteen minutes could save you some shit.’ ” “I like Mayhem,” said Coleman. “He makes me not feel so bad about breaking stuff.” “And yet we’re still not manufacturing anything you can hold in your hands,” said Serge.

Flo kept reminding me that they gave us an opportunity to teach, though each one was also punishing to the soul.

The impact of the thinking machine will be a shock certainly of comparable order to that of the atomic bomb.” He

Indeed, Wiener was the first information-age forebear to consider information, not as a tangible good to be bought and sold, but as “content”—whether that content was an ephemeral commodity like the news, a body of scientific knowledge, or the living substance of everyday experience human beings extracted from the world around them. To

While not averse to commercial enterprise, he viewed the exploitation of information to the detriment of those human values as a threat to the wealth of nations, to their security, and to their very survival, and he called for the “unhampered exchange” of knowledge and information in every form.

The automatic factory could not fail to raise new social problems [as it] threatens to replace [human workers] completely by mechanical agencies. . . . On the other hand, it creates a new demand for the highly skillful professional man who can organize the order of operations.... If these changes . . . come upon us in a haphazard and ill-organized way, we may well be in for the greatest period of unemployment we have yet seen. It seemed . . . quite possible that we could avoid a catastrophe of this sort, but if so, it would only be by much thinking, and not by waiting supinely until the catastrophe is upon us.

Unlike a computer or a brain, Wiener observed, the channels of communication in society were formed, not from wires or neural nets, but from the exchange of information between individuals using language and nonverbal communication, from learning and group communication in families and larger social organizations, and from the exchange of knowledge and experience among people of different cultures. Drawing

Of all of these anti-homeostatic factors in society, the control of the means of communication is the most effective and most important.

It will end in praise, if you are not singing praises, it hasn't ended.

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.

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

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

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.

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

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!

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.

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?».

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.

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

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.

What is it about old people that means they feel the slightest draught from two rooms away?

In her speech, Kennedy insisted that all abortion laws be rescinded, declaring, "There is no need for any legislation on abortion just as there is no need for legislation on an appendectomy.

We were political in the sense that we never took any shit.

She boldly declared that "folks in Washington would rather kill people than feed them" and said that government programs privileged the wealthy while asking the poor and working class to tighten their belts.

He told me he loved me,’ she says, still out of breath. ‘Isn’t that good?’ I ask, confused. ‘It’s only good if you feel it back. If you don’t feel it back it’s just annoying.