Freak Attitude Quotes

Never underestimate a bookworm

Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord, but sometimes it's hard not to get a jump on it yourself.

To take back your power in any given situation, focus on the things you can control. The thoughts you choose to think is usually the best place to start.

My most important parenting job is to teach my children how to deal with being human. There is really only one way to deal gracefully with being human, and that is: forgive yourself. It's not a once-and-for-all thing, self-forgiveness. It's more like a constant attitude. It's just being hopeful. It's refusing to hold your breath. It's loving yourself enough to offer yourself a million more tries. It's what we want our kids to do every day for their whole lives, right? We want them to embrace being human instead of fighting against it. We want them to offer themselves grace. Forgiveness and grace are like oxygen: we can't offer it to others unless we put our masks on first. We have to put our grace masks on and breathe in deep. We have to show them how it's done. We need to love ourselves if we want our kids to love themselves. We don't necessarily have to love them more; we have to love ourselves more. We have to be gentle with ourselves. We have to forgive ourselves and then...oh my goodness...find ourselves sort of awesome, actually, considering the freaking circumstances.

For the first few hundred years of American history, food preparation was generally approached in a no-nonsense manner. Even as late as twenty-five years ago, the general attitude was that “feeding your face” was all right, but to make too much fuss about it was somehow decadent. In the past two decades, of course, the trend has reversed itself so sharply that earlier misgivings about gastronomic excesses seem almost to have been justified. Now we have “foodies” and wine freaks who take the pleasures of the palate as seriously as if they were rites in a brand-new religion. Gourmet

Atiyoga: Fathomless Mind Basically speaking, neurosis is temporary and sanity is permanent. When we begin to take that attitude, we realize that our occasional freak-outs and panic and our feeling of being trapped are no longer applicable. In realizing that we are eternally free, eternally liberated, and eternally awake, we begin to experience vast mind.

When it passes us, the driver tips his cap our way, eying us as if he thinks we're up to no good-the kind of no good he might call the cops on. I wave to him and smile, wondering if I look as guilty as I feel. Better make this the quickest lesson in driving history. It's not like she needs to pass the state exam. If she can keep the car straight for ten seconds in a row, I've upheld my end of the deal. I turn off the ignition and look at her. "So, how are you and Toraf doing?" She cocks her head at me. "What does that have to do with driving?" Aside from delaying it? "Nothing," I say, shrugging. "Just wondering." She pulls down the visor and flips open the mirror. Using her index finger, she unsmudges the mascara Rachel put on her. "Not that it's your business, but we're fine. We were always fine." "He didn't seem to think so." She shoots me a look. "He can be oversensitive sometimes. I explained that to him." Oversensitive? No way. She's not getting off that easy. "He's a good kisser," I tell her, bracing myself. She turns in her seat, eyes narrowed to slits. "You might as well forget about that kiss, Emma. He's mine, and if you put your nasty Half-Breed lips on him again-" "Now who's being oversensitive?" I say, grinning. She does love him. "Switch places with me," she snarls. But I'm too happy for Toraf to return the animosity. Once she's in the driver's seat, her attitude changes. She bounces up and down like she's mattress shopping, getting so much air that she'd puncture the top if I hadn't put it down already. She reaches for the keys in the ignition. I grab her hand. "Nope. Buckle up first." It's almost cliché for her to roll her eyes now, but she does. When she's finished dramatizing the act of buckling her seat belt-complete with tugging on it to make sure it won't unclick-she turns to me in pouty expectation. I nod. She wrenches the key and the engine fires up. The distant look in her eyes makes me nervous. Or maybe it's the guilt swirling around in my stomach. Galen might not like this car, but it still feels like sacrilege to put the fate of a BMW in Rayna's novice hands. As she grips the gear stick so hard her knuckles turn white, I thank God this is an automatic. "D is for drive, right?" she says. "Yes. The right pedal is to go. The left pedal is to stop. You have to step on the left one to change into drive." "I know. I saw you do it." She mashes down on the brake, then throws us into drive. But we don't move. "Okay, now you'll want to step on the right pedal, which is the gas-" The tires start spinning-and so do we. Rayna stares at me wide-eyed and mouth ajar, which isn't a good thing since her hands are on the wheel. It occurs to me that she's screaming, but I can't hear her over my own screeching. The dust wall we've created whirls around us, blocking our view of the trees and the road and life as we knew it. "Take your foot off the right one!" I yell. We stop so hard my teeth feel rattled. "Are you trying to get us killed?" she howls, holding her hand to her cheek as if I've slapped her. Her eyes are wild and glassy; she just might cry. "Are you freaking kidding me? You're the one driving!

Get clear on the amount of money you’re going to make, the specifics of what the money’s for, and how freaking awesome it feels to make it. Decide, with unshakable commitment, that you are making this money. Get a plan together to make the money you desire to make, chunk the plan back into bite-sized pieces, and focus yer ass off on one goal at a time. Hold an image in your mind of the life you’re creating and all the money that’s flowing toward you with eager excitement, hardcore faith, and deep gratitude. Do your best wherever you’re at. If, while building your greeting card empire, you’ve taken a job scraping gum off the bottom of tables at a bowling alley, instead of being pissed off about having a job that you don’t exactly love (what you focus on you create more of), find the silver lining, be the best damn gum scraper that table has ever worked with, and have an attitude of gratitude.

if he could take Elizabeth Brice to orgasm just once—just freaking once!—her indifferent attitude toward him would instantly morph into extreme love.

everybody say's that blue eyed is a freak, but i say that my blue is unique!

You can’t tell the size of a man’s penis by his attitude,” Rina said, shaking her head and smiling. “No freaking way.” “I disagree. There are a few men who just have it. You just know they’re packing, right?” “Name one.” Delilah raised a brow and crossed her arms over her chest as if the whole conversation was absurd. Which it was, but I loved every second of it. “Hugh Reynolds. My God, have you seen the hands on that man? I’ll bet women tear at that long hair when they’re in the throes of passion with that sexy god.

My name is Sammy Baker. I’m twelve, and I never freak out or lose my cool or go berserk. I’m probably the quietest, nicest, most law-abiding, rule-following, do-good kid at Grover Cleveland Middle School. Ask anyone. Even Miss Flake, my teacher, says I am the least trouble of any of her students. She says that’s her highest compliment. Miss Flake says she would give me a gold star for attitude

Never was the two cultures stand-off more apparent than here. In Gunn’s poem, a new neighbour (an outsider) wants them evicted because of their detrimental effect on property prices. She might well have been an academic: in more than thirty years in the humanities side of universities, the attitude towards those skills which I encountered was mainly one of ignorant, patronizing condescension. Just occasionally a student from the science side would dismantle a car in a campus car park only to be moved on by the authorities, as were Gunn’s auto freaks. Among the younger academics, disdain for this culture verged on contempt because of its supposedly obsolete ‘masculinist’ values. Those same academics were also the ones quick to brand any intense friendship between the men of this ‘masculinist’ culture as repressed homosexuality. In truth, sometimes it might have been, and yet sometimes it almost certainly wasn’t: some of the most loyal and selfless friendships I’ve ever known were between working-class young men who, insofar as anyone can ever be sure of these things, really were straight.

I wouldn't consider myself a control freak, but I've had my moments. I've seen trouble coming and fought, fumed, and frazzled myself trying to control circumstances and situations. One of the most impossible things to control is something walking around on two legs called a human being. I've manipulated and thrown temper tantrums trying to get another person to behave the way that seemed best to me. After all, doesn't someone need to control the bad behaviors of others? But after fifty-one years of life on this planet, including thirty years of marriage, I've concluded that the only thing I can control is my attitude. Everything else is fantasy. I've tried to control my kids. I've tried to control my churches. I've tried to control my dog, Gavin. I've even tried to control Tina (not a good idea). A sure sign of when I'm trying to control things, people, or circumstances is that I get frustrated, develop a bad attitude, and usually end up angry.

He is attracted to me but thinks he’s not worthy. Understandable. She was pretty freaking awesome. She forgave him his awe. “I told you before, I won’t tolerate you denigrating yourself. It is unseemly in a dragon. And I think we should address the fact that your attitude indicates you believe the world revolves around you. Not anymore it doesn’t.” She tilted her chin and angled her nose in the air as her mother had taught her. “I am the center of the universe. More specifically, your universe.

NBC would broadcast these public-service announcements. The Cosby kids would say things like, "Don't do drugs, because you've got a lot to live for." And I used to think, Well, okay--it's easy to say that, but some people are sitting at home and aren't from a rich family and might have no future. And here's a kid actor making shitloads of money, and he's telling everyone they have a lot to live for? It's hypocrisy on the grandest scale. Seeing something like that was always a motivation for me to create something more realistic. That was one of the things I dealt with in the "I'm with the Band" episode [of Freaks and Geeks], where Nick auditions to become a drummer. Lindsay tells Nick, "You've got to follow your dreams! You can be anything you want to be!" When I wrote that episode, it was my way of saying, "Actually, no. That's nonsense. You might have that attitude, but that's not the way the world works.

It was as if two contrary worlds of light and shadow had settled into the house, juxtaposed without nuances in Manichean precision. To pass from one to the other, you had to change your attitude completely. The eye that gleamed in the light suddenly appeared dull in the shadows, unable to see a complete image. And the beings and objects in the house oscillated constantly between zones of light and shadow, like planets spinning around some capricious sun. The house itself looked like a plastic-surgery patient suddenly abandoned on the operating table because of a bomb scare: one eye squinting, the other normal, the face half smooth, half wrinkled, one lip sensuously full, the other shrunken with age. Frozen in ugliness. Unfinished in beauty. A freak.