Grumpy Cat Quotes

Instead, I have the alien version of Grumpy Cat, and he just roped and tied me like a calf at a rodeo. Asshole.

Darius didn't have any trouble finding the Street Cats building. It was a cozy-looking square brick building with big front windows crowded with cat stuff. I made a mental note to pick up a little something for Nala from their gift shop. My cat was grumpy enough without her thinking that I'd been cheating on her (translation: I would smell like a zillion other cats) and hadn't even brought her a present.

She is in particular interested in the Ennui predator. She very much likes its demeanor and coloring in the images. She understand she may not get that particular one, but perhaps one that resembles it? A young one?” The Ennui predator. “Where did she find these images?” “On your planet’s holonet,” Nuan Ara said helpfully. We didn’t have holonet. We had internet… Oh. “So, the esteemed grandmother would like a kitten that looks like Grumpy Cat?” I picked up my laptop, typed in the image search for Grumpy Cat, and showed him the picture. “Yes!” “I will see what I can do.

I tried looking on the brighter side of life, it hurt my eyes.

In one hallway, the floor gleaming parquet and the ceiling festooned with golden cherubs, there was a boy in a grumpy cat mask and biker boots, not involved in any sexual activity, legs crossed and leaning against the wall. As a bevy of faeries passed the boy, giggling and groping, the boy scooted away. Alec remembered being younger, and how overwhelming large groups of people had seemed. He came over and leaned against the wall beside the boy. He saw the boy texting, PARTIES WERE INVENTED TO ANNOY ME. THEY FEATURE MY LEAST FAVORITE THING: PEOPLE, ALL INTENT ON MY LEAST FAVORITE ACTIVITY: SOCIAL INTERACTION. “I don’t really like parties either,” Alec said sympathetically. “No hablo italiano,” the boy mumbled without looking up. “Er,” said Alec. “This conversation is happening in English.” “No hablo ingles,” he said without missing a beat. “Oh, come on. Really?” “Worth a shot,” said the boy. Alec considered going away. The boy wrote another text to a contact he had saved as RF. Alec could not help but notice that the conversation was entirely one-sided, the boy sending text after text with no response. The last text read VENICE SMELLS LIKE A TOILET. AS A NEW YORKER, I DO NOT SAY THIS LIGHTLY. The weird coincidence emboldened Alec to try again. “I get shy when there are strangers too,” Alec told the kid. “I’m not shy,” the boy sneered. “I just hate everyone around me and everything that is happening.” “Well.” Alec shrugged. “Those feel like similar things sometimes.” The boy lifted his curly head, pushing the grumpy cat mask off his face, and froze. Alec froze too, at the twin shock of fangs and familiarity. This was a vampire, and Alec knew him. “Raphael?” he asked. “Raphael Santiago?” He wondered what the second-in-command of the New York clan was doing here. Downworlders might be flooding in from all over the world, but Raphael had never struck Alec as a party animal. Of course, he was not exactly coming off as a party animal now. “Oh no, it’s you,” said Raphael. “The twelve-year-old idiot.” Alec was not keen on vampires. They were, after all, people who had died. Alec had seen too much death to want reminders of it. He understood that they were immortal, but there was no need to show off about it. “We just fought a war together. I was with you in the graveyard when Simon came back as a vampire. You’ve seen me multiple times since I was twelve.” “The thought of you at twelve haunts me,” Raphael said darkly. “Okay,” Alec said, humoring him. “So have you seen a guy called Mori Shu anywhere around here?” “I am trying not to make eye contact with anyone here,” said Raphael. “And I’m not a snitch for Shadowhunters. Or a fan of talking to people, of any kind, in any place.” Alec rolled his eyes.

I've been told that my belly is soft as a fluffy cloud. No one can resist my magical belly. Not even grumpy humans.

I took a step forward. Henry caught my elbow. "No bloodshed," he said. "No blackmail. No obstruction of justice." "You drive a hard bargain," I told him. "What are your thoughts on extortion?" Without waiting for an answer, I headed for Bancroft's car. Henry and Asher followed on my heels. "The cat is dancing in the catnip," Asher reported back to Vivvie. "Grumpy lion is grumpy." "Did you just refer to me as a grumpy lion?" Henry asked Asher. "Absolutely not," Asher promised. Then he took the phone off speaker and lowered his voice. "Suspicious lion is suspicious," he stage whispered to Vivvie.

Life's book by Stephen King haunted by our darkest fears!

You hungry, Grumpy Cat? I've probably got some canned food in here somewhere.

If Grumpy Cat could bring herself to actually support something, it should be a no-brainer for mere humans.

I've been told that my belly is soft as a fluffy cloud. No one can resist my magical belly. Not even grumpy humans.

I like to gather up Lady Cat-ryn in my arms on Elliot’s grumpy days and drop her from a height over my head onto his stomach.

King Torin’s voice was smooth as silk, and a faint glint of amusement flickered in his eyes. “As you wish. Clearly, you have your whole life together beautifully.” His gaze swept down my body again, taking in the grumpy cat sweatshirt. “I wouldn’t want to ruin it.

I always imagined J.K. Rowling putting quill to a paper in a remote castle overlooking a spacious Scottish estate. Currently as I write this I am in my Star Wars/Marvel themed guest room,dressed in my Grumpy cat pajamas, and looking at dozens of half empty Diet Coke cans scattered across my desk.

I hate morning people. And mornings, and people.

No one ever tries to hug you when you're a cactus. How did they get so lucky?

You bought that monster?” said Ron, his mouth hanging open. “He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?” said Hermione, glowing. That was a matter of opinion, thought Harry. The cat’s ginger fur was thick and fluffy, but it was definitely a bit bowlegged and its face looked grumpy and oddly squashed, as though it had run headlong into a brick wall. Now that Scabbers was out of sight, however, the cat was purring contentedly in Hermione’s arms.

A honey pie, lovingly made. The tiny sugar bee, still perched on the edge of the flaky crust, mocked me. That little bee nibbling on her honey pie. A pulse of sheer heat lit up my sex, licked down my thighs, tweaked my nipples. I shoved another messy bite into my mouth, relishing the taste, wanting...him. This was his work, made with his hands, his skill, his mind. My grumpy man with the ability to create sweetness in the most unexpected of ways. Somehow, at the back of my mind, I'd known from the start. From the way he'd all but ordered me to try his brest. How he'd watched me eat it with that strange intent look upon his face. Pride. That was what it was. He was proud of his work. I ate up my honey pie without pause, devouring it until it was nothing more than a sticky paste on my fingers, buttery crumble on my lips. Moaning, I licked my skin clean like a cat might. I swore I felt claws prickling, aching to come out. Because he had known, and I hadn't. Was it a joke to him? What had he said? The chef was temperamental. Oh, how he must have laughed on the inside at that. With a growl, I washed my hands and headed for the door, half of me more turned on than I'd ever been in my life, the other half ready to tear into the most irritating man I'd ever met.

We already have eight hundred million people living in hunger—and population is growing by eighty million a year. Over a billion people are in poverty—and present industrial strategies are making them poorer, not richer. The percentage of old people will double by 2050—and already there aren’t enough young people to care for them. Cancer rates are projected to increase by seventy percent in the next fifteen years. Within two decades our oceans will contain more microplastics than fish. Fossil fuels will run out before the end of the century. Do you have an answer to those problems? Because I do. Robot farmers will increase food production twentyfold. Robot carers will give our seniors a dignified old age. Robot divers will clear up the mess humans have made of our seas. And so on, and so on—but every single step has to be costed and paid for by the profits of the last.” He paused for breath, then went on, “My vision is a society where autonomous, intelligent bots are as commonplace as computers are now. Think about that—how different our world could be. A world where disease, hunger, manufacturing, design, are all taken care of by AI. That’s the revolution we’re shooting for. The shopbots get us to the next level, that’s all. And you know what? This is not some binary choice between idealism or realism, because for some of us idealism is just long-range realism. This shit has to happen. And you need to ask yourself, do you want to be part of that change? Or do you want to stand on the sidelines and bitch about the details?” We had all heard this speech, or some version of it, either in our job interviews, or at company events, or in passionate late-night tirades. And on every single one of us it had had a deep and transformative effect. Most of us had come to Silicon Valley back in those heady days when it seemed a new generation finally had the tools and the intelligence to change the world. The hippies had tried and failed; the yuppies and bankers had had their turn. Now it was down to us techies. We were fired up, we were zealous, we felt the nobility of our calling…only to discover that the general public, and our backers along with them, were more interested in 140 characters, fitness trackers, and Grumpy Cat videos. The greatest, most powerful deep-learning computers in humanity’s existence were inside Google and Facebook—and all humanity had to show for it were adwords, sponsored links, and teenagers hooked on sending one another pictures of their genitals.

You seem a bit quiet, bro,” Eugene remarked in a low voice. “Not that you’re what I’d describe as chatty, but normally you’d have accidentally insulted someone by now. Something wrong?” He was tempted to snap, but Eugene was a teammate, too. Seiji cleared his throat. “Nicholas is angry with me. I’m not sure why. Do you know why? I know you two socialize frequently.” Eugene paused. “I don’t think Nicholas is angry with you.” “No, he is,” said Seiji. “He told me to go away.” “He probably just meant that you could go practice in the salle if you’re hating the midnight feast, dude,” said Eugene. “Your face went all grumpy cat when we broke out the marshmallows.” Seiji opened his mouth to protest that Nicholas never cared when Seiji made faces, and never told him to go away, but Eugene continued. “I think there’s something else going on.” Seiji gave Eugene his full attention. “What?” Eugene turned his protein shake in his hands for another moment. “We went to town Saturday, and some Kings Row guys there were awful to him. It’s been bothering me all weekend, actually. They acted like they were so far above Nicholas. They made it seem like he was going to shoplift! Which he wasn’t!” Eugene added hastily, as though Seiji might imagine Nicholas would. The burner’s blue flame hissed. Harvard was talking about how delicious the pasta sauce smelled. Their captain was very good at making conversation. Seiji frowned. “Why would people from our school represent Nicholas as a common thief?” “Right? It sucks!” said Eugene. “You might know them? They were the first two guys to wash out of fencing tryouts. They think they’re so much better than Nicholas.” “They think they’re better than Nicholas?” Seiji asked sharply. “But they can’t fence at all!

You can dismiss my concern as the ramblings of an old, grumpy cat—” “Surely not!” Alderheart muttered under his breath.

So the dungeon is just a grumpy old lady cat?

I slipped into my favorite pair of jeans and an old T-shirt, then pulled on my running shoes. Did I ever run? No, don’t be silly. But it made me feel like I could if I had to,

Dear Me, Talk about getting the wind knocked out of your sails when your best friend tells you you’re turning into a grumpy hermit. She told me that at breakfast today, and I was in denial until I talked to Chase, that little fucker. I made myself happy by soaking his ass five times before lunch. I did some soul searching, and I don’t think I’m depressed, but I do think I’m becoming too comfortable with being by myself. I’m really beginning to enjoy the company of cats more than people, and that’s probably not a good thing. Sprout and Ginger are so cute right now. Ginger’s cleaning Sprout’s head, and he’s smiling. Sometimes he’ll…yeah, I really need to get out more. I think life would be simpler if people acted more like cats. Like if someone is prattling on about something I don’t care about and I pop them in the forehead, they’d understand to walk away just like a cat does. A simple hiss conveys so much. I will attempt to gradually release myself back into a social environment. Me

Writing fairies can get grumpy in a new house,” Johari said. “Like cats. Mine pissed on the pillows every night for a week after I moved up to New York.

There's soooo much to learn about a cat’s behavior and it’s super easy. You just need to spend time with your cat, and learn all their little quirks and moods. What does it mean when my cat: Rubs its face on me: They are saying, ‘Hello, I like you!” Cat experts also call this ‘bunting,’ where they release pheromones from their heads showing that they ‘own’ you. Too cute! Meows over and over and over: Your cat is either worried, lonely, but most likely - hungry! Why was the cat so grumpy? He was in a bad meowed

There are a couple of ticks I couldn’t pull out,” he told her when he had finished. “I should hope you didn’t even try, you idiot!” snapped Yellowfang. “I don’t want any tick heads embedded in my rear, thank you very much. Ask Spottedleaf for a little mouse bile to rub on them. A splash of that in their breathing holes and they’ll soon loosen their grip.” “I’ll get some now!” Firepaw offered. He was glad of a chance to get away from the grumpy cat for

the only cloud to darken the brightness of their arrival came in the form of one Caroline Bingley. The woman’s grumpy expression reminded Elizabeth of a wet cat, and she wondered why Miss Bingley even bothered to come at all.

Dina had meant to get a black cat when she'd gone to the cat shelter a few years ago; she loved the way they looked like little pockets of midnight. But then she'd heard a grumpy yowling coming from a small cage near her feet. "That one's just come in, the vet reckons it's a feral one. No microchip," the man who worked there had said. Dina had crouched down and locked eyes with the cat, who was mostly black but with a golden crescent shape on top of her head and a creamy white belly. Heebie, who hadn't even had a name then, had bumped Dina's outstretched knuckle with her head, and Dina had felt the warmth of the cat's cheek and known instantly that she had found her familiar.

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