Get Juices Flowing Quotes

It would work great actually, but to be honest Ynyr gets my juices flowing just by looking at me and his kisses….

It's difficult to get your creative juices flowing if you're always being practical, following rules, afraid to make mistakes, not looking into outside areas, or under the influence of any of the other mental locks.

If it crosses your mind that water running through hundreds of miles of open ditch in a desert will evaporate and end up full of concentrated salts and muck, then let me just tell you, that kind of negative thinking will never get you elected to public office in the state of Arizona. When this giant new tap turned on, developers drew up plans to roll pink stucco subdivisions across the desert in all directions. The rest of us were supposed to rejoice as the new flow rushed into our pipes, even as the city warned us this water was kind of special. They said it was okay to drink but don't put it in an aquarium because it would kill the fish. Drink it we did, then, filled our coffee makers too, and mixed our children's juice concentrate with fluid that would gag a guppy. Oh, America the Beautiful, where are our standards?

You will know what steps to take to move up in your life, what to do when conflict develops, and most important, how to get back on course when you feel yourself slipping. You will find your career advancing to the next level, you will get your most creative juices flowing, you will forever alter the way you raise your children and treat your spouse and give back to your community. And you will do all these things not because you feel you ought to, but because you choose, because you want to, because you're ready to push yourself to the limits of your abilities, to defy the naysayers and ultimately to feel that bone-deep of satisfaction that you lived life to its fullest.

Stories of absurd events in life get my creative juices flowing and have so far given birth to some of my best ideas.

Now,” Samite continued, “after Essel has just spent time warning you about generalities and how they often don’t apply, I’m going to use some. Because some generalities are true often enough that we have to worry about them. So here’s one: men will physically fight for status. Women, generally, are more clever. The why of it doesn’t matter: learned, innate, cultural, who cares? You see the chest-bumping, the name-calling, performing for their fellows, what they’re really doing is getting the juices flowing. That interval isn’t always long, but it’s long enough for men to trigger the battle juice. That’s the terror or excitation that leads people to fight or run. It can be useful in small doses or debilitating in large ones. Any of you have brothers, or boys you’ve fought with?” Six of the ten raised their hands. “Have you ever had a fight with them—verbal or physical—and then they leave and come back a little later, and they’re completely done fighting and you’re just fully getting into it? They look like they’ve been ambushed, because they’ve come completely off the mountain already, and you’ve just gotten to the top?” “Think of it like lovemaking,” Essel said. She was a bawdy one. “Breathe in a man’s ear and tell him to take his trousers off, and he’s ready to go before you draw your next breath. A woman’s body takes longer.” Some of the girls giggled nervously. “Men can switch on very, very fast. They also switch off from that battle readiness very, very fast. Sure, they’ll be left trembling, sometimes puking from it, but it’s on and then it’s off. Women don’t do that. We peak slower. Now, maybe there are exceptions, maybe. But as fighters, we tend to think that everyone reacts the way we do, because our own experience is all we have. In this case, it’s not true for us. Men will be ready to fight, then finished, within heartbeats. This is good and bad. “A man, deeply surprised, will have only his first instinctive response be as controlled and crisp as it is when he trains. Then that torrent of emotion is on him. We spend thousands of hours training that first instinctive response, and further, we train to control the torrent of emotion so that it raises us to a heightened level of awareness without making us stupid.” “So the positive, for us Archers: surprise me, and my first reaction will be the same as my male counterpart’s. I can still, of course, get terrified, or locked into a loop of indecision. But if I’m not, my second, third, and tenth moves will also be controlled. My hands will not shake. I will be able to make precision movements that a man cannot. But I won’t have the heightened strength or sensations until perhaps a minute later—often too late. “Where a man needs to train to control that rush, we need to train to make it closer. If we have to climb a mountain more slowly to get to the same height to get all the positives, we need to start climbing sooner. That is, when I go into a situation that I know may be hazardous, I need to prepare myself. I need to start climbing. The men may joke to break the tension. Let them. I don’t join in. Maybe they think I’m humorless because I don’t. Fine. That’s a trade I’m willing to make.” Teia and the rest of the girls walked away from training that day somewhat dazed, definitely overwhelmed. What Teia realized was that the women were deeply appealing because they were honest and powerful. And those two things were wed inextricably together. They said, I am the best in the world at what I do, and I cannot do everything. Those two statements, held together, gave them the security to face any challenge. If her own strengths couldn’t surmount an obstacle, her team’s strengths could—and she was unembarrassed about asking for help where she needed it because she knew that what she brought to the team would be equally valuable in some other situation.

I’ve always said that toking up expands your mind and gets the creative juices flowing and Barack proved me right. After a few hours of simmering in our fumes and cracking up at a VHS of Barbarella, he turns to me and says, “What if we just fucking sent in some helicopters into Pakistan?” I said, “Without permission? That’s either the craziest thing I ever heard or the most genius.” Barack starts laughing and says “Crazy like a fox!” and orders the choppers in. And that’s how we killed bin Laden. Later that night we ordered a Pad Thai Pizza from this place called Big Billy’s, and that was just as awesome as it sounds. Yeah, Barack’s a pretty good guy.

LEADING LESSONS Free yourself to have bad ideas. Whenever I try to think of a brilliant new dance routine, it usually falls flat on its face. It’s crushed by the weight of my own expectations for brilliance. It’s much more fruitful to follow the advice of the songwriter who said, “When you write new songs, write for the trash can.” When I start choreographing a new dance, I don’t care how bad the idea is, and I allow myself to run with it. Challenge yourself to think of five awful, terrible, of-my-God-this-stinks ideas. They get the juices flowing. And when you have those five, at the very least you have creative momentum and, more often than not, some of those ideas have legs. Think about the one thing that’s original to you and no one else. What’s your unique voice? Find that voice and shout with it.

Even if you’re not as illiberal as Nietzsche, you might be worried if Nietzsche’s right that certain kinds of traditional moral values are incompatible with the existence of people like Beethoven. That’s the strong psychological [psycho-physiological] claim he makes – that you can’t really be a creative genius like Beethoven and take morality seriously. I think even good old democratic egalitarian liberals could worry a bit about that, if it were true. It’s a very striking and pessimistic challenge, because the liberal post-Enlightenment vision is that we can have our liberal democratic egalitarian ethos and everyone will be able to flourish. Nietzsche thinks there’s a profound tension between the values that traditional morality holds up and the conditions necessary for creative genius. [...] The illiberal attitudes and the elitism was really central to the way he looked at things. The suffering of mankind at large was not a significant ethical concern in his view, it was largely a matter of indifference – in fact it was to be welcomed because there’s nothing better than a good dose of suffering to get the creative juices flowing.

When was the last time you made something that someone wasn’t paying you for, and looking over your shoulder to make sure you got it right?” When I ask creatives this question, the answer that comes back all too often is, “I can’t remember.” It’s so easy for creativity to become a means to a very practical end—earning a paycheck and pleasing your client or manager. But that type of work only uses a small spectrum of your abilities. To truly excel, you must also continue to create for the most important audience of all: yourself. In her book The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron discusses a now well-known practice that she calls “morning pages.” She suggests writing three pages of free-flowing thought first thing in the morning as a way to explore latent ideas, break through the voice of the censor in your head, and get your creative juices flowing. While there is nothing immediately practical or efficient about the exercise, Cameron argues that it’s been the key to unlocking brilliant insights for the many people who have adopted it as a ritual. I’ve seen similar benefits of this kind of “Unnecessary Creation” in the lives of creative professionals across the board. From gardening to painting with watercolors to chipping away at the next great American novel on your weekends, something about engaging in the creative act on our own terms seems to unleash latent passions and insights. I believe Unnecessary Creation is essential for anyone who works with his or her mind.

alcohol somehow helps me verbalize my emotions. It takes away that wall that I put up, so I am very honest, and it gets my talkative juices flowing so I can speak freer and easier. It calms the storm in my head.

Yes, you are. That shit written all over your face. You been trying to get some of this dick for months now, so don’t act scared now,” Jah said, kissing my lips one final time. Jah grabbed my hands and interlocked them with his as he held them up above my head. I looked at him, scared for my life as I watched him slowly try to work his dick inside of me. It hurt so badly, causing a lone tear to fall from my eyes that Jah quickly kissed away. To keep my mind off of the pain, Jah brought his lips to mine and I whimpered against them, still feeling the pain. “Hmmm, Jahh,” I cried against his lips as he worked his pelvis into my body. Jah began to make slow, circular grinds that were beginning to feel good now. I was no longer crying as I hungrily kissed him. “It feel better now, baby?” Jah asked me. The way he called me baby caused a flow of juices to come out of my body. I didn’t even think that I could get any wetter for him than I already was. I nodded my head yes because I couldn’t find the words to answer him right away. Jah removed his hands from over my head and brought his hands to my knees, spreading my legs as far as they could go, stroking me deeper. “It’s so wet and tight, baby,” Jah grunted as he made love to my body. The look on his face was as if he were in heaven and he had never experienced a feeling so good before. When he pulled my legs up, putting them behind my head, I started moaning like crazy because I could feel all of the pressure now. “Ohh Jahh. Ohh Jahhh,” I moaned repeatedly as tears of pleasure seeped out of my eyes. “I swear I will kill over this pussy, Antonia. You’re mine now! You understand that?” Jah asked me, sinking his hips deeper into me. “Ohhh,” I screamed as he continued to work me. “Answer my question, Antonia!” Jah said, slapping me hard on my thigh. “Yes, I understand” I moaned. “Godddd, I’m cumming,

ANTI-INFLAMMATORY TURMERIC TONIC Try this anti-inflammatory turmeric tonic, using a recipe created by chef Sarah Sugden. You’ll need: 6​pieces of fresh turmeric root, each piece roughly an inch long 3​pieces of fresh ginger root Juice from 2​lemons or oranges 2​tablespoons of manuka or raw honey 3​pinches of ground black pepper Wash or scrub away any dirt on the turmeric and ginger roots, but keep the skin on both. Place all the ingredients in a high-speed blender and blend until smooth. Strain through a nut-milk bag or fine sieve. You can have it straight up as a powerful shot or prepare a warming tea by adding three-quarters of a tablespoon to a mug of boiled water. For a refreshing and hydrating tonic, you can add it to sparkling water, ice and fresh mint leaves. For a metabolic boost, add a pinch of cayenne, while a pinch of cinnamon will improve blood flow and circulation

As you can probably guess, Wild Man likes sex. He likes a lot of sex. Doesn’t matter where we are, what we’re doing, or the time of day. If he becomes randy, he pounces. Take yesterday for instance, while we were out picking berries. I was down on my knees trying to reach a nice juicy patch of plump blackberries. Of course, I was naked—he still refuses to give me clothes, the bastard—so my wiggling bare ass was up in the air. The next thing I knew, big hands were gripping my hips and pulling me back, angling me where he wanted me. I knew what was coming, and I opened my mouth to tell him I wasn’t ready—seriously, who would be while picking berries and getting poked by thorns—but my protest died on a cry of sharp pain. No preparation. He just went for it as usual. And I was as dry as Sister Mary. So the sudden intrusion wasn’t comfortable in the slightest, and I couldn’t imagine it was much better for him. Did he care, though? Nope. He just kept going, banging me as hard as he could. Thankfully—or not thankfully, depending on how you look at it—it didn’t take long to get my juices flowing. That’s what happens when you’re unbelievably attracted to the man who’s holding you captive. Your body gives your mind a big fuck you, along with the middle finger, and takes what it wants, even begging for more or to go faster, harder. Another time, we were walking back from taking a bath. I was admiring a patch of pretty flowers and telling Wild Man a funny story about Rika. I was laughing and having a surprisingly good time, when my hips were suddenly caught in his hard grip. I was shoved over a large boulder, my breasts pressed against the abrasive surface. Then he mounted me from behind and fucked me silly. That time, I was wet. He had just fucked me in the water, and I still had part of him leaking out of me.

she spat a single word. A long, guttural, twisting word that evoked frozen Germanic winters. The trigger to the spell she’d been weaving for days. The toxic miasma above our heads exploded with a peal of thunder and her spite-fueled power crashed down on Cesar, one man alone in a torrent of death. The paper cut on his bicep ripped open, as if someone had taken pliers to his skin and given it one brutal, wrenching tug. Blood gushed from the wound as he screamed, flowing faster than it should have, and even faster by the second. He collapsed to his knees, shrieking, and a scarlet torrent blasted from the wound like the spray from a fire hose and splashed across the arcade wall. His skin turned ashen and taut, his fingers and toes curling, crumpling. Bones cracked as his limbs folded in on themselves and the flesh on his skull stretched taut like a mummified corpse. Jennifer’s death curse slowly crushed his body like a juice box, squeezing every drop of blood from every last ragged vein. What collapsed to the floor when the spell was done, gray and bloodless and small as a child, didn’t look human anymore. “That’s what you get for fuckin’ with a witch,” Jennifer said. “My momma taught me that trick.

Nowadays films and television are what I like to call "Microwave Media". I like mine in the oven, giving the production time to simmer; get the juices flowing, and cooked to perfection. And that takes time. Slow, precious, tempered time. A script is a film's recipe. It's just a piece of paper to the novice cook, but even a recipe needs time to be perfected before it's given to the masses.

Warm-Up: The Silly Cow Exercise To get your team’s creative juices flowing, it can be helpful to start an ideation session with a warm-up such as the Silly Cow exercise.

To help get your creative juices flowing, you might look online at lists of the "best taglines ever." Their branding ideas are genius and may be just the catalyst you need to activate your awesome!

Food on television makes one think about eating and gets one’s gastric juices flowing, triggering the release of insulin, lowering one’s blood sugar, and stimulating food cravings. It’s gastronomic pornography.

i'm still waiting for someone to kick in the groove wake us up get the juices flowing and you know the shit gets more stale a little more square every day and we're diggin our own grave jumpin in head first and still we cry out for leaders to take us away start the groove over but the tunes are the same doesn't really matter where you start.

This cunt is wet because of me. It’s exactly my depravity, my wrongness that gets these sweet juices flowing. You like me bossing your sweet ass around, don’t you?

She was okay,” I say. Ryot roars. “You’re such a goddamn liar.” I shrug. “I mean, yeah, she had a nice eyeball.” Ryot throws a towel at me from his locker, still laughing. “Fuck you. A nice eyeball. Just one of her eyeballs is nice?” “If I hit the ball tonight, it’s because of her right eyeball. Really got my juices flowing,” I deadpan. “You’re such a shithead.” “Nah, if I hit the ball tonight, it’s for one reason and one reason alone—because I worked my ass off in the cages today.” Ryot rolls his eyes. “Always so fucking serious. Why don’t you romanticize your story a bit? Think about the media coverage you could get.” Ryot steals my bat, holds it up to his mouth like a microphone, and then clears his throat. “Walker Rockwell, you went three for four today with a homerun and three RBIs. What can you attribute to your success today?” He turns his hat around and scratches his jaw. Is that supposed to be me? “Her name is Kate, and her right eyeball enticed me so much, I found myself inspired to find my bat again. Shout-out to Kate Chapman and her spherical sense receptor for vision.” He winks and then shoots a gun at the “camera.” “Now that’s a story.” I stare at him blankly. Blink. Shake my head. “You need fucking help.” I turn toward my locker, where I start mentally preparing for the game.

Yeah, impress her with your carpentry skills. Judging by some of the books she reads, she likes big, strong, guys—men who do honest work to build their muscles. She’s horny as hell when she comes to bed some nights. I’m thinking you could offer to mend some fencing, finish my deck, or something. Watching you work would get her juices flowing.” “Is this your way of tricking me into doing your yard work?” Connor snickered and raised his beer. “Strange way to go about it, bud.

In a traditional Anishinaabe economy, the land is the source of all goods and services, which are distributed in a kind of gift exchange: one life is given in support of another. The focus is on supporting the good of the people, not only an individual. Receiving a gift from the land is coupled to attached responsibilities of sharing, respect, reciprocity, and gratitude—of which you will be reminded. This kind of gratitude is so much more than a polite “thank you.” Not an automatic ritual of “manners,” but a recognition of indebtedness that can stop you in your tracks—it brings you the realization that your life is nurtured from the body of Mother Earth. With my fingers sticky with berry juice, I’m reminded that my life is contingent upon the lives of others, without whom, I simply would not exist. Water is life, food is life, soil is life—and they become our lives through the paired miracles of photosynthesis and respiration. All that we need to live flows through the land. It is not an empty metaphor that we call her Mother Earth. Food in our mouths is the thread that connects us in a relationship simultaneously spiritual and physical, as our bodies get fed and our spirits nourished by a sense of belonging, which is the most vital of foods. I have no claim to these berries, and yet here they are in my bucket, a gift.