Foul Mood Quotes

I prefer you like this, when you're in a foul mood, because you tell the truth.

You seem in an immensely foul mood for someone who just came twice.

All the demons of Hell formerly reigned as gods in previous cultures. No it's not fair, but one man's god is another man's devil. As each subsequent civilization became a dominant power, among its first acts was to depose and demonize whoever the previous culture had worshipped. The Jews attacked Belial, the god of the Babylonians. The Christians banished Pan and Loki anda Mars, the respective deities of the ancient Greeks and Celts and Romans. The Anglican British banned belief in the Australian aboriginal spirits known as the Mimi. Satan is depicted with cloven hooves because Pan had them, and he carries a pitchfork based on the trident carried by Neptune. As each deity was deposed, it was relegated to Hell. For gods so long accustomed to receiving tribute and loving attention, of course this status shift put them into a foul mood.

Ooh, Snowberry, you were right,” one of them said, wrinkling her nose like she smelled something foul. “She does reek of a dead pig in the summer. I don’t know how Mab can stand it.” Clenching my fists, I tried to keep my cool. I was so not in the mood for this now.God, it’s like high school all over again. Will it never end? These are ancient faeries, for Pete’s sake, and they’re acting like my high school pom squad.

There was another time when Mike was really foul mood and we had to make a pit stop so he could use a porta potty. Mike went to use the porta potty and we were waiting inside the RV. It was joe’s idea, but we all got out and started to rock the thing back and forth. We didn’t mean to, but we ended up tipping the porta potty over while Mike was in it! Then we attacked him with air freshener

Daily her tactics grew more sly and underhanded. Last night the audacious wench had picked the lock to his chamber! Because he'd had the foresight to barricade the door with a heavy armoire, she'd then gone to his door in the corridor and picked that lock. He'd been forced to escape out the window. Halfway down he'd slipped, crashed the last fifteen feet to the ground, and landed in a prickly bush. Since he'd not had time to don his trews, his manly parts had taken the brunt of his abrupt entry into the bush, putting him in a foul mood indeed. The wench sought to unman him before his long-anticipated wedding night.

...Our conversation with the supermarket manager had been about as helpful as a New Jersey road sign, and if you've ever been there, you know the signs don't tell you the exit you're coming up to, they only point out the exits you've just missed. It puts parents in very foul moods--and since you're probably there to visit relatives, their mood was pretty touch and go to begin with.

It wasn’t a foul mood, it was the privilege that age had bought her, to dispense with the lie of politeness.

To pass the time, I made valiant strides in my effort to read Ulysses, but feared I was losing the war. A hundred pages in, I was getting the sneaking suspicion that James Joyce might have been an asshole, and by Nebraska I was in a foul mood.

Beneath a toilet water of punctilio and restraint...a deep smell came off Kelly, a hint of a big foul cat, carnal as the meat on a butcher's block, and something else, some whiff of the icy rot and iodine in a piece of marine nerve left to bleach on the sand. With it all was that congregated odor of the wealthy, a mood within the nose of face powder, of perfumes which leave the turpentine of a witch's curse, the taste of pennies in the mouth, a whiff of the tomb. It was all of Deborah for me.

THERE FOR YOU When it all went down And the pain came through I get it now I was there for you Don’t ask me how I know it’s true I get it now I was there for you I make my plans Like I always do But when I look back I was there for you I walk the streets Like I used to do And I freeze with fear But I’m there for you I see my life In full review It was never me It was always you You sent me here You sent me there Breaking things I can’t repair Making objects Out of thoughts making more By thinking not Eating food And drinking wine A body that I thought was mine Dressed as Arab Dressed as Jew O mask of iron I was there for you Moods of glory Moods so foul The world comes through A bloody towel And death is old But it’s always new I freeze with fear And I’m there for you I see it clear I always knew It was never me I was there for you I was there for you My darling one And by your law It all was done Don’t ask me how I know it’s true I get it now I was there for you

I turn sentences around. That’s my life. I write a sentence and then I turn it around. Then I look at it and I turn it around again. Then I have lunch. Then I come back in and write another sentence. Then I have tea and turn the new sentence around. Then I read the two sentences over and turn them both around. Then I lie down on my sofa and think. Then I get up and throw them out and start from the beginning. And if I knock off from this routine for as long as a day, I’m frantic with boredom and a sense of waste. Sundays I have breakfast late and read the papers with Hope. Then we go for a walk in the hills, and I'm haunted by the loss of all that good time. I wake up Sunday mornings and I'm nearly crazy at the prospect of all those unusable hours. I'm restless, I'm bad-tempered, but she's a human being too, you see, so I go. To avoid trouble she makes me leave my watch at home. The result is that I look at my wrist instead. We're walking, she's talking, then I look at my wrist - and that generally does it, if my foul mood hasn't already. She throws in the sponge and we come home. And at home what is there to distinguish Sunday from Thursday? I sit back down at my little Olivetti and start looking at sentences and turning them around. And I ask myself, Why is there no way but this for me to fill my hours?

Now it's dusk, bats swooping and rising along the lawn, against the sea. Would that she could join them-flap wings, fly blind, beat back her foul mood.

Shacket has been in a foul mood since leaving Cedar City. Mile by mile, the arid Mojave leaches out of him what little human kindness has not been drained away by the endless injustices he has suffered.

This was not the state of mind I was accustomed to, at the outset of an expedition. But one does not fight the battles he wishes to fight; he fights the battles that find him. I would do my best to ignore my foul mood and physical discomfort, and plunge ahead as I had planned.

The ground was uneven, treacherous with roots, but the pine needles were soft underfoot. For a moment, despite my foul mood, I felt it: the crisp northern Michigan delight. A slight chill to the air, even in August, something almost Russian. The indigo sky above the black bay. The smell of cedar and pine.

If I wished to see a mountain or other scenery under the most favorable auspices, I would go to it in foul weather, so as to be there when it cleared up; we are then in the most suitable mood, and nature is most fresh and inspiring. There is no serenity so fair as that which is just established in a tearful eye.

Thank you for the improvements you made... the lock and hinges... and the lion's-head knocker. I like it very much." Ethan's voice was soft. "Did you like the violets?" She hesitated before shaking her head. "No?" he asked, more softly still. "Why not?" "They reminded me that I might never see you again." "After tonight, you probably won't." "You say that every time we meet. However, you keep popping up like a jack-in-the-box, which has made me increasingly skeptical." Garrett paused before adding in an abashed tone, "And hopeful." His gaze caressed her face. "Garrett Gibson... as long as I'm on this earth, I'll want to be wherever you are." She couldn't help smiling ruefully. "You're the only one who does. I've been in a foul mood for the past two weeks. I've offended nearly everyone I know, and frightened off one or two of my patients." His voice was dark velvet. "You needed me there to sweeten your temper." Garrett couldn't bring herself to look at him as she admitted huskily, "Yes.

We are not in a foul humor, Belkin. We are in a corrupt-tempered mood. There is a difference, you know.

Chapter One. I love owning a dog. I love being owned by a dog. No matter how tough the day has been or how low my mood might be, being greeted at the door by a joyful, exuberant animal is one of life’s greatest pleasures. It’s hard to stay tired or grumpy or in a thoroughly foul mood in the face of those bright eyes, perky ears, lolling tongue, shivering body, and tail wagging hard enough to knock the knickknacks off side tables.

Four children, all blonde, stared at her with open fear as they cowered in the corner. A rope tied them to the bedpost like cattle, the sight sparking wrath that she fought to suppress. No scaring the kids more than they already were, she reminded herself. Her ‘resting bitch face’ was bad even without her being in a foul mood. Adding in how stabby she felt at the moment… She was sure she could make an adult piss themselves in fear if she tried.

I can’t imagine anyone dumb enough to think they could ever take you on and win. Damn, boy. You are ripped!” Gaping even wider, he gave one more squeeze to Talyn’s massive biceps. Fain bristled at Chayden’s impressed tone. “He’s the same size I am.” Chayden finally quit molesting Talyn’s arm and snorted disdainfully at Fain. “Yeah, but he’s a lot scarier than you are, Hauk.” Talyn cracked a cocky grin that really didn’t help Fain’s foul mood, as Galene laughed. While

It is a good thing she is on our side, is it not?” Noah started, turning to confront the Demon who had appeared at his back with flawless silence and concealment. “Jacob! You just took ten years off my life,” Noah hissed. “Only ten? I must be losing my touch.” Jacob looked from Noah to the last place Legna had been standing. He nodded his head in her former direction. “What was that all about?” “I have no idea, but I am beginning to feel like I am the only one who does not know what the hell is happening in his own damn house.” “Sorry state of affairs, seeing as how you are King and all,” Jacob said, his lips twitching with amusement as Noah glared at him. “That is only my opinion, though. Perhaps I will ask my troublemaking wife for hers.” Noah had the grace to openly wince. “You heard that, hmm?” “And therefore . . .” Jacob prompted. “She heard it, too,” Noah concluded with comical pain. “Forgive me, Bella. I think I am just in a foul mood.” “She says she will forgive you as soon as she needs a babysitter.” “You know, I think you better go out there and enforce some of my laws before I begin to think of how many ways I can set your ass on fire,” the King said meanly, the glare of his gaze all business. “I would, but I am in need of Gideon. Where is he?” “How should I know?” Noah asked grumpily, moving to the fire and sinking down into the only thing in the room that wasn’t giving him grief: his favorite chair.

I’ll tell you something.” Parry dropped his voice to a whisper. “Her ladyship’s in a bit of a foul mood this morning.” “You mean sometimes she isn’t?” “Well, I’m not actually sure about that. I don’t know her, of course. But this morning she puts me in mind of my grandmother whenever she’s out to kill a hog for mussing her flower garden.” “I see. Thanks for the warning.” He downed the cider in a few swallows and combined the two pieces of melted cheese on toast to make a sandwich. “All right. Lead the way to this hog slaughter.

I’m clampin’ your nipples because right now I’m in a fuckin’ foul mood and I need you to get me out of it. If you don’t, we’re going to be having a long session and you’re not going to be able to get up or go anywhere for a week or so.” He bent his head and kissed her. “You won’t be able to ride on the Harley home and we’ll be stuck in this fuckin’ place forever. Either that or I’m going to pick a fight with someone and kill them with my bare hands and go to prison for the rest of my life. I won’t look good in prison clothes, babe.

she’s in way over her head, she still has to make dinner. It’s not sustainable, Elizabeth. She’s going to have a heart attack or a stroke, or at the very least be in a foul mood. And it’s all because she can’t procrastinate like her fourth grader or pretend to be doing something like her husband. She’s forced to be productive despite the fact that she’s in a potentially fatal time zone—the Afternoon Depression Zone.” “It’s classic neurogenic deprivation,” Elizabeth said, nodding. “The brain doesn’t get the rest it needs, resulting in a drop in executive function and accompanied by an increase in corticosterone levels.

Speaking of Vaughan, his claim in the Daily Telegraph last week that the story of a senior county pro being offered money to fix domestic matches was 'the tip of the iceberg' did not go down well with one former England captain contacted by the Top Spin. 'I played the game for almost 20 years,' he seethed, 'and I don't know a single player who has been offered money, either for information or to fix a game. To say it's the tip of the iceberg is absolute rubbish.' The fact that the player in question had just registered a mediocre Stableford score of 20 playing off a handicap of 14 had nothing to do, I was assured, with his foul mood.

Her great resentment was that she had had no education. When she was seventeen, she had announced that she was going to university—whereupon everyone had laughed at her. It turned out that you had to come from a good school, and pass examinations, before they would let you in. Maud had never been to school, and even though she could discuss politics with the great men of the land, a succession of governesses and tutors had completely failed to equip her to pass any sort of exam. She had cried and raged for days, and even now thinking about it could still put her in a foul mood. This was what made her a suffragette: she knew girls would never get a decent education until women had the vote.

The priest and the Marquis spent many pleasant afternoons in the courtyard discussing whether the universe was a mindless machine or the creation of a loving God. The priest argued in terms of philosophy and metaphysics, but the Marquis was temperamentally an empiricist and argued always in terms of what the world was actually like. "Look at the smallpox," he would say. "Kills a few hundred thousand every month all over Europe. What kind of Benevolent Intelligence decided to give us that as a birthday present? Did He have constipation that day, to put him in a foul enough mood to perpetuate such a fiendish joke at our expense?

After a breakup, anger is an appropriate reaction. When something has been taken away, people feel angry. While feeling the anger is okay, acting on the anger is not. You can and should acknowledge your anger, own your anger, write about your anger, and talk about your anger. Eventually it will dissipate. What you should not do is act out or lash out in anger. That is not okay. If you try to repress your anger because you think that it is “unacceptable” or “bad” or “wrong,” it will manifest itself in other ways. Some people refuse to acknowledge anger, so they go through life taking it out on other people, irritated all the time, prone to bad moods, and generally being foul and bitter. These are all variations of unexpressed anger. If you have been going through life in an unexplained sour mood, you may have anger issues.

Right,” he said, “As you well know, humans are biologically programmed to sleep twice a day—a siesta in the afternoon, then eight hours of sleep at night.” She nodded. “Except most of us skip the siesta because our jobs demand it. And when I say most of us, I really just mean Americans. Mexico doesn’t have this problem, nor does France or Italy or any of those other countries that drink even more than we do at lunch. Still, the fact remains: human productivity naturally drops in the afternoon. In TV, this is referred to as the Afternoon Depression Zone. Too late to get anything meaningful done; too early to go home. Doesn’t matter if you’re a homemaker, a fourth grader, a bricklayer, a businessman—no one is immune. Between the hours of one thirty-one and four forty-four p.m., productive life as we know it ceases to exist. It’s a virtual death zone.” Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “And although I said it affects everyone,” he continued, “it’s an especially dangerous time for the homemaker. Because unlike a fourth grader who can put off her homework, or a businessman who can pretend to be listening, the homemaker must force herself to keep going. She has to get the kids down for a nap because if she doesn’t, the evening will be hell. She has to mop the floor because if she doesn’t, someone could slip on the spilled milk. She has to run to the store because if she doesn’t, there will be nothing to eat. By the way,” he said, pausing, “have you ever noticed how women always say they need to run to the store? Not walk, not go, not stop by. Run. That’s what I mean. The homemaker is operating at an insane level of hyperproductivity. And even though she’s in way over her head, she still has to make dinner. It’s not sustainable, Elizabeth. She’s going to have a heart attack or a stroke, or at the very least be in a foul mood. And it’s all because she can’t procrastinate like her fourth grader or pretend to be doing something like her husband. She’s forced to be productive despite the fact that she’s in a potentially fatal time zone—the Afternoon Depression Zone.” “It’s classic neurogenic deprivation,” Elizabeth said, nodding.

I prefer you like this, when you’re in a foul mood, because you tell the truth.

Chaol knew Celaena was in a foul mood without even having to speak to her. Actually, he hadn’t dared speak to her since before the ball had started, other than to position her outside on the patio, hidden in the shadows of a pillar.

For example, in answer to “I never do anything right,” you could write, “Forget that! I do some things right and some wrong, just like everyone else. I fouled up on my appointment, but let’s not blow this up out of proportion.

She was in a foul mood. Old age, one of her children told me. She said it was just the stress of trying to warn people who didn’t want to hear that bad times were coming. It wasn’t a foul mood, it was the privilege that age had bought her, to dispense with the lie of politeness.

There's too much day when you get up in the morning,' Moo Shoes whined. 'How do they do it? Citizens?' 'Suckers,' I said. 'You notice everyone is in a really foul mood in the morning? I don't recommend it.

Oh, that reminds me,” the professor continued, ignoring my misgivings. “Lydia is apparently in a foul mood. I’m told that she’s been all smiles at the palace.” All smiles? That meant danger—extreme danger. I ought to lock my doors and windows with care.

Afterward, Hunter is ensconced in a $1,100 a night Balinese-style Airbnb in the Hollywood Hills, but he resents having to share it with “my sober living companion 24/7.” He complains to Jim that the companion is a “complete moron” and an “idiot fat Jewish kid who insisted he had a right to enter the bathroom while I was on the toilet.” Hunter is in such a foul mood that even his long-suffering uncle is fed up with him: “Text/email your father your plans. I’m sick of getting kicked in the teeth. I’m out.

When we’re feeling fundamentally lost, afflicted by purposelessness, foul moods, and bad jobs, anything that stimulates the brain’s pleasure centers can become an addiction. Some of the most common, aside from the dynamic duo of drugs and alcohol, are gambling, sex, intense relationship drama, shopping, binge eating, and staring at the internet day and night without pausing to sleep, eat, or pee.

Sorry. I’ve been in a foul mood since you left. I’m no better than a jealous kit.

Be kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving each other, just as God in Christ also has forgiven you.” You have that verse on your mind and in your heart as you encounter a coworker who is in a foul mood and very rude to you. Wanting to honor the Lord, you extend kindness to that person and discover his or her terrible attitude is due to difficulties he or she is carrying by him- or herself.

The flight from Berlin is another awkward Lebedev family flight from hell. The private jet that my brothers own will never be big enough to accommodate our dysfunctional mess. Osip is already waiting for us at whatever mansion he’s decided to buy, so at least that’s one brother I haven’t had to worry about. My older brother, Konstantin, has more than made up for his absence, though. He’s been in a foul mood since we left, and we’re all giving him as wide of a berth as we can while also being stuck on the same goddamn plane.

There wasn’t enough iced coffee in the world to fix my foul fucking mood this morning.

No matter how foul my mood, Story Hour always helps.

An infinitesimal lapse that has just succeeded in ruining the possibility of perfection forever? I spent at least half an hour in a foul mood. And then suddenly I wondered: but why did I want so desperately for her to catch up? Why does it feel so rotten when the movement is not in synch? It’s not very hard to come up with an answer: all those things that pass before us, which we miss by a hair and which are botched for eternity . . . All the words we should have said, gestures we should have made, the fleeting moments of kairos that were there one day and that we did not know how to grasp and that were buried forever in the void . . . Failure, by a hair’s breadth

His stare shifted to the Prada-wearing prick whose fingers were caressing her wrist. Hudson was already in a foul mood, and the more Mr. Touchy got feely, the more he wanted to cut the guy’s hand off with a butter knife. Slowly. Painfully. Hudson’s body warmed and he grounded his weight to keep from hurdling over the tables to do just that. Christ, he was acting like a jealous boyfriend.

was nothing compared to the danger of falling from the wagon on the steep mountain roads. Papà was in a foul mood again. Mamma said Papà had been angry since before I was born, and that was eight years ago. “Why is Papà so angry?” I asked Mamma. “Papà used

What is the matter with people?” Sam fumed. “I said we needed a hundred kids and we get thirteen? Fifteen, maybe?” “They’re just kids,” Astrid said. “We’re all just kids. We’re all going to be very hungry kids.” “They’re used to being told what to do by their parents or teachers. You need to be more direct. As in, Hey, kid, get to work. Now.” She thought for a moment then added, “Or else.” “Or else what?” Sam asked. “Or else…I don’t know. We’re not going to let anyone starve. If we can help it. I don’t know the ‘or else.’ All I know is you can’t expect kids to just automatically behave the right way. I mean, when I was little my mom would give me a gold star when I was good and take away a privilege when I wasn’t.” “What am I supposed to do? Tell three hundred kids spread out in seventy or eighty different homes that they can’t watch DVDs? Confiscate iPods?” “It’s not easy playing daddy to three hundred kids,” Astrid admitted. “I’m not anyone’s daddy,” Sam practically snarled. Another sleepless night, in a long string of them, had left him in a foul mood. “I’m supposed to be the mayor, not the father.” “These kids don’t know the difference,” Astrid pointed out. “They need parents. So they look to you. And Mother Mary. Me, even, to some extent.

When the students were in a foul mood, the Jewish population tried as much as possible to avoid any contacts with non-Jews. Our students would cut some of the classes for a time, until the atmosphere of danger would somehow subside. However, the uncertainty, the anguish of people, living in a society, where any small provocation or imagined slight could provoke an outburst of physical attacks at any time - that way of life on the brink was a permanent state of affairs.

Buffalo chips!” Amy grumbled. “Fine way to spend the mornin’, gatherin’ pooh for fires. Why us?” “Because we aren’t so old we get crinks in our backs or so young we’ll get lost.” Loretta bent over, picked up a dried pie, and stowed it in her gunnysack. Since their ordeal at the Bartletts’ last night, Amy hadn’t once smiled. Loretta couldn’t help being concerned. “You never complained in Hunter’s village.” “That was different. You expect to do things like gathering Buffalo pooh when you live with Indians.” She sighed. “It’s flat as a flapjack out here. Who could get lost? We’ve walked a mile and can still see our buckboard.” “There’s one high spot over yonder.” “Only one. A body could walk for miles and use it for a landmark.” Loretta found another pie. In the hopes of teasing a smile out of Amy, she grinned and waved the chip under the child’s nose. “Wanna rub a little in our hair?” “Lands, no!” No smile. Poor Amy didn’t have much to be lighthearted about these days. Keeping up the banter, Loretta said, “That’s what you told me once, remember? That Comanche women rubbed dung in their hair.” “Maybe they do.” Clearly determined to stay in a foul mood, Amy frowned and picked up a pie, adding it to her bag. “Probably in winter. We ain’t never been around ’em then.

He’d been in a bad mood, which had only been worsened by the fact that he was rather renowned for his good humor, which meant that everyone had felt compelled to comment on his foul disposition. There was nothing worse for a bad mood than being subjected to constant queries of, “Why are you in such a bad mood?

There was something rather satisfying about a foul mood, so Michael decided to indulge his completely.

As I stalk down the damp stone corridor in a perfectly foul mood, still unlaid and raging with testosterone, fully aware that I probably just made a deal with some kind of devil or someone controlled by some kind of devil, Ryodan appears around the corner, stalking toward me, and I’m beyond offended because my perimeter alarms didn’t go off, and I specifically warded against the Nine. He looks furious, which for him means a muscle twitches beneath his eye. He’s the bloody reason I have another of my problems: Thanks to him, Uncle Dageus is immortal and a beast while his wife is mortal and not a beast, which really crapped in all the Keltar Wheaties. We Keltar druids bond for life and beyond. Which means, for both my aunt and uncle, the “beyond” part is going to be—figuratively, at least—a long and lonely hell.

I know you love to read and detest the rain,” she continued, watching his hands with fascination. “I know you can make a discarded fence post into a work of art with nothing more than a sharp knife. I know you treat your men like family, and they speak of you like a god. I know you’d rather be surrounded by cows than people. I know your mood goes positively foul whenever you’ve had too little sleep or gone too long without eating.” She paused. Swallowed a sudden lump.

Richard was in a foul mood. When Tynan asked him if he wanted a defense, he yelled “No!” and cursed the judge, calling him a motherfucker. He told him that he thought the whole trial was “a scheme, a joke,” and that he wouldn’t take part in it. He said that he would put up a fight not to come to court. “They’ll have to bind me and fucking drag me in the courtroom. I won’t go.” Tynan said that could be arranged. He quickly saw the futility of trying to reason with Richard and ordered the proceedings back into court, after Daniel and Ray asked for a little time to talk with their client. In open court, a motion to drop the sodomy charges in the Sophie Dickman matter got under way. Clark argued that according to Ms. Dickman, Richard was humping her tailbone, “and tailbone does not equal anus, which does not equal sodomy.” Halpin said, “In fact, as the court knows, penetration is not located in the definition of either rape or sodomy in the penal code of this state.” Clark and Halpin argued as Judge Tynan listened and then ruled the charges would remain. Court was recessed until 1:30, when Daniel and Ray Clark had to let the court know if there was going to be any defense or not. As Richard was being led from the courtroom, he turned and faced the press, an angry snarl on his face. He said, “Media: sensation-seeking parasites,” and was led from the court. The press was taken aback for a few beats, then hurried to phone in this latest defiance of Richard Ramirez.

What has put you in such a foul mood?' Castor asked. 'Were you watching Evangeline again?' 'I'm not here because of her,' Jacks snapped. 'Well, you're certainly snippy about her.' Jacks glared. 'And you're in a disturbingly good mood for someone who just slaughtered an entire family.

When we’re feeling fundamentally lost, afflicted by purposelessness, foul moods, and bad jobs, anything that stimulates the brain’s pleasure centers can become an addiction.

I grow impatient, tired and still aching from the noli frenzy. I don't want to be around others. I want to grab Maeve and pull her away from anyone that tries to talk to her. I want to carry her back to her bedroom and run my muzzle all over her skin. I want to do all kinds of filthy things that aren't part of our agreement, which tells me the noli is still lingering in my system. It puts me in a foul mood.

I'm showered and now wearing the dress Caro brought over---a peacock-blue chiffon number from this season's Madeleine Bouchard collection. Again, it's like it's made for me---a perfect fit. When I enter the kitchen, Charles is still in a foul mood, barking out orders to the staff. "Charles," I say. "Can you tone down the anger in your voice? We're all working together. Aren't we?" "We are," says Charles, looking up and taking in my presence. His hands fly to his heart. "Whoa, ooh-la-la. You look amazing. That shade of blue really brings out the color in your eyes.

His books - his good books - lined two walls. None of the volumes were worth much. He was a book owner rather than a collector. He was a hoarder. That was the truth of the matter. His books added something to his existence - a sort of atmosphere. No, it was more than that. They were a barrier of sorts. They were like a concrete foundation on a house; they kept the structure of his life up out of the dirt. They kept the termites out of the sill and kept the whole place from shaking to bits when the earth quaked. Looking at them was satisfactory, even when he was in a foul mood.

Frúa Helga was in a foul mood. “Don’t pull on it so. Stretching it will make my cut uneven.” She waved her scissors at Edda and another thrall woman Signy hadn’t seen before. The two of them held down the corners of a length

Well?” Chef Broussard asked as Jake Valentine entered the kitchen the next morning. Mrs. Pennywhistle and Chef Rupert, who were standing by the long table, looked at him expectantly. “I told you it was a bad idea,” Jake said, glaring at the three of them. Sitting on a tall stool, he grabbed a warm croissant from a platter of pastries, and shoved half of it into his mouth. “It didn’t work?” the housekeeper asked gingerly. Jake shook his head, swallowing the croissant and gesturing for a cup of tea. Mrs. Pennywhistle poured a cup, dropped in a lump of sugar, and gave it to him. “From what I could tell,” Jake growled, “Rutledge spent the night on the settee. I’ve never seen him in such a foul mood. He nearly took my head off when I brought him the managers’ reports.” “Oh, dear,” Mrs. Pennywhistle murmured. Broussard shook his head in disbelief. “What is the matter with you British?” “He’s not British, he was born in America,” Jake snapped. “Oh, yes,” Broussard said, recalling the indelicate fact. “Americans and romance. It’s like watching a bird try to fly with one wing.

I am almost thirty, never been in love, at least not enough to stay in love through the foul moods, the oppressive silences, the subjugation, the acquiescence, the petty fights, the nagging questions, all the other complications that tend to get factored into a relationship once it stews in time, simmering to a boil.

In terms of cards, it turned out to be Sam who took them for everything they were worth, and by the time the clock hands pointed to five, Rolfe had shifted into a foul mood. Unfortunately for him, that mood wasn’t about to improve. Sam gave Celaena a nod, and she tripped a passing pirate, who spilled his drink on an already belligerent man, who in turn tried to punch him in the face but hit the man next to him instead. By luck, at that moment, a trick card fell out of a man’s sleeve, a prostitute slapped a pirate wench, and the tavern exploded into a brawl.

Clearly that is all based all your foul mood.

Yeah, that Christmas.” “That was such a horrible Christmas for me. I was in such a foul mood. If I said anything mean or stupid, I’m sorry. I was embarrassed, I was mad, I was confused about what I wanted to do with my life, and well, I didn’t have the best Christmas that year. I ended up leaving Christmas Day because I was over it. Taran took me to the airport. Why, what did I say?” I glance out the windshield, feeling all that pain come back. Because I remember looking for her the next day, despite everything she’d said, hoping to find her, talk to her, have her get my mind off the pain I was feeling, but she wasn’t there. She had left. “Cole,” she presses. I try to release her hand, but she doesn’t let me. “Please tell me.” I let out a sigh and just go for it. “That Christmas Eve, when you talked to me on the porch, you said that you hated the town.

Because unlike a fourth grader who can put off her homework, or a businessman who can pretend to be listening, the homemaker must force herself to keep going. She has to get the kids down for a nap because if she doesn’t, the evening will be hell. She has to mop the floor because if she doesn’t, someone could slip on the spilled milk. She has to run to the store because if she doesn’t, there will be nothing to eat. By the way,” he said, pausing, “have you ever noticed how women always say they need to run to the store? Not walk, not go, not stop by. Run. That’s what I mean. The homemaker is operating at an insane level of hyperproductivity. And even though she’s in way over her head, she still has to make dinner. It’s not sustainable, Elizabeth. She’s going to have a heart attack or a stroke, or at the very least be in a foul mood. And it’s all because she can’t procrastinate like her fourth grader or pretend to be doing something like her husband. She’s forced to be productive despite the fact that she’s in a potentially fatal time zone—the Afternoon Depression Zone.” “It’s classic neurogenic deprivation,” Elizabeth said, nodding. “The brain doesn’t get the rest it needs, resulting in a drop in executive function and accompanied by an increase in corticosterone levels.

I’m in a foul mood, and the only thing that’s going to keep me from being a massive asshole to everyone I come in contact with lies between Coraline’s thighs.

Her eyes open and she scowls at me. “Seriously? Who peed in your cornflakes? You’re in a foul mood.

She poked her head out the door, but upon looking in the other direction, she found Shin standing there. Lena stiffened immediately. Shin was rooted in place with his eyes widened slightly upon seeing Lena wearing nothing but the Cicada. The purplish-silver quasi-nerve fibers formed a pseudo-brain that coated her body. And since it was skintight, it showed off her curves in a way that left little to the imagination. On top of that, certain parts of her body that had nothing to support them jiggled and swayed with her every move. And Shin was looking right at her. What followed was a long, long, awkward silence. "I heard Vika supplied you with something called the Cicada back in the United Kingdom," Shin said, breaking that silence. He had a cold, murderous gaze in his eyes. As if he was holding back a seething, bubbling rage rising within him. "I did think it was strange I didn't get any information about it... I can see why no one answered when I asked, and Lerche kept apologizing to me when we were in the Revich Base." Yes, it did make sense. Lena didn't want to wear this thing and didn't feel inclined to explain what it was, either. "When I asked Marcel, he ran away, saying he didn't want to die yet... Guess I should have taken matters into my own hands and questioned him right then and there." "Y-your own hands...? Weren't you two together in the special officer academy? You shouldn't torment him..." "Don't change the subject, Lena. This isn't about Marcel." Oh. I think Shin might be really angry. He drew close to her, so close that their noses were almost touching, which startled her and prompted her to lean back. A thought crossed Lena's mind as she frantically sought refuge from reality. It was the first time she'd seen him in such an openly foul mood. It was new, and it made her slightly happy. "No, er, I wasn't trying to particularly hide it, but...i-it is helpful. But it's just a little... It's... very…embarrassing." She heaved a single breath, as if letting out some kind of internal pressure. Shin silently turned around. "Understood. I'll go kill Vika and toss his body overboard." "Shin..?! Wh-what are you saying?!" "I left my pistol in the hangar, but I can make do with a sharpened shovel. The priest told me he used those to kill enemy soldiers in his youth.