Jawbreaker Quotes

When a hurricane damaged my father's house, my brother rushed over with a gas grill, three coolers of beer, and an enormous Fuck-It Bucket - a plastic pail filled with jawbreakers and bite-size candy bars. ("When shit brings you down, just say 'fuck it,' and eat yourself some motherfucking candy.")

If teachers and grammar school editors find my jawbreaker sentences shatter their mushmilk teeth, let them eat stale cake dunked in weak tea of their own ungodly manufacture.

For it is a mad world and it will get madder if we allow the minorities, be they dwarf or giant, orangutan or dolphin, nuclear-head or water conservationalist, pro-computerologist or Neo-Luddite, simpleton or sage, to interfere with aesthetics. The real world is the playing ground for each and every group, to make or unmake laws. But the tip of the nose of my book or stories or poems is where their rights end and my territorial imperatives begin, run and rule. If Mormons do not like my plays, let them write their own. If the Irish hate my Dublin stories, let them rent typewriters. If teachers and grammar school editors find my jawbreaker sentences shatter their mushmilk teeth, let them eat stale cake dunked in weak tea of their own ungodly manufacture. If the Chicano intellectuals wish to re-cut my "Wonderful Ice Cream Suit" so it shapes "Zoot," may the belt unravel and the pants fall.

He’s right and I’m pissed. I’m mad because I’m no longer a Jawbreaker. I’m more of a Gummy Bear or a friggin’ Laffy Taffy.

But some of us cannot forget and will never forgive. We keep our axes sharp, ready to grind. We hold pleas for mercy between our teeth like jawbreakers.

They took turns looking deep, deep into the universe: Saturn like a knee that had been dipped in iodine, Neptune like a peach covered in mold, Jupiter like a half sucked jawbreaker, Mercury like a large shooter marble, galaxies like crushed candy, galaxies like the suds from a bubble bath blown off the palm of your hand.

Most people font like holding on to anger. They feel it crushing and consuming them, so they let it go. They try to forget the ways they’ve been wronged. But some of us cannot forget and will never forgive. We keep our axes sharp, ready to grind. We hold pleas for mercy between our teeth like jawbreakers. They say a grudge is a heavy thing to carry. Good thing we’re extra strong.

Unfortunately, there’s still a market for rubbish. I picked up a recently written fantasy book at the weekend, and one character said of another: “He will grow wroth.” Oh, my God. And the phrase was in a page of similar jaw-breaking, mock-archaic narrative. Belike, i’faith … this is the language we use to turn high fantasy into third-rate romantic literature. “Yonder lies the palace of my fodder, the king.” That’s not fantasy—that’s just Tolkien reheated until the magic boils away.

Maybe he used to like me, but I doubt he does anymore, now that I’ve insulted his bird fetish.” Peter smiled.   “He’s not going to stop liking you over one little argument.   I don’t think he’s the type to just fall for someone and then hate them the next day.   We don’t live in that kind of world anymore, anyway.” “What do you mean?”   “Well, when there were thousands of possible mates to choose from, it was like being a huge candy store with a billion types of sugary things to choose from.   You could sample one of everything and not worry about whether you’d like it much or whatever, because there was always another jar of candy nearby.   But now, there’s no candy store.   There’s a single jawbreaker that you found in the gutter.   And there are no more jawbreaker factories.   No more candy stores.   No more refined sugar.   That one jawbreaker you found could be the only one you’ll ever have again.   You aren’t going to just eat it and say goodbye.” His analogy wasn’t perfect but I saw where he was going with it.   “So I’m like a jawbreaker.   A dirty one you find in the gutter.” “Yeah.   And he likes that candy.   It’s his favorite.   So he doesn’t care that it has smelly feet.” I scowled at him.   “How do you know he likes jawbreakers so much?” “I just know.   I can tell a good match when I see one.   He needs someone spunky and tough, someone different than other girls.   That’s you.” I smiled, liking how Peter had described me.   “But what if he just decides to eat it real quick and then move on?   I mean, there are other jawbreakers out there.   They’re just more rare.” “That’s not how he is.   He’s methodical.   A thinking person.   He’s not rash. And he knows his odds of finding a jawbreaker of this flavor?   Are pretty slim.” “I’ve seen him do some stupid, rash things … like going after the candy at the Cracker Barrel.” “That was all a very carefully-crafted way of making sure he had a good grip on his jawbreaker.   He wants to keep the candy happy.   Keep it sweet.” I rolled my eyes.   “Ugh.   Your analogy is making me want to eye gouge you right now.

I think he likes you.” I watched Paci join the others, noticing that he was still glancing at me occasionally, and watching other guys who were looking over at Peter and me.   “Really?” “Yeah.   He keeps watching you.   Once he heard Bodo wasn’t your boyfriend, he was all over that.” I sighed.   “Shit.” “Yeah.   Exactly.   You’d better not go around advertising you’re single.   There’s not a hell of a lot of available jawbreakers if you know what I mean.” My mind raced with the implications.   It was stupid of me not to have been thinking about all this stuff before.   I guess I was so wrapped up in finding food to eat, a place to live, and companions who wouldn’t eat me, I hadn’t much considered the other human needs, other than on the most basic level.   God, I hope there are no rapists in this group.   The last thing I wanted to do was kill a guy in the swamp.

She'd make a game of it where she'd relax all the little bits of her body, starting with her fingers and toes and working in toward the center. She had to make herself limp and draw the hurt and want into a tight core inside, each time adding another layer to that core, so that if somebody came along and cut her open, they'd find inside a shining, perfect pearl, hard as any Willy Wonka jawbreaker.

We tend to chew life into pieces to make it easier for us to swallow, but the challenge is to know that life is a jawbreaker and to be fair to the things we experience, you have to gulp. Especially people.

They took turns looking deep, deep into the universe: Saturn like a knee that had been dipped in iodine, Neptune like a peach covered in mold, Jupiter like a half-sucked jawbreaker, Mercury like a large shooter marble, galaxies like crushed candy, galaxies like the suds from a bubble bath blown off the palm of your hand.

5-4-10 Tuesday 8:00 A.M. Made a large batch of chili and spaghetti to freeze yesterday. And some walnut fudge! Relieved the electricity is still on. It’s another beautiful sunny day with fluffy white clouds drifting by. The last cloud bank looked like a dog with nursing pups. I open the window and let in some fresh air filled with the scent of apple and plum blossoms and flowering lilacs. Feels like it’s close to 70 degrees. There’s a boy on a skate board being pulled along by his St. Bernard, who keeps turning around to see if his young friend is still on board. I’m thinking of a scene still vividly displayed in my memory. I was nine years old. I cut through the country club on my way home from school and followed a narrow stream, sucking on a jawbreaker from Ben Franklins, and I had some cherry and strawberry pixie straws, and banana and vanilla taffy inside my coat pocket. The temperature was in the fifties so it almost felt like spring. There were still large patches of snow on the fairways in the shadows and the ground was soggy from the melt off. Enthralled with the multi-layers of ice, thin sheets and tiny ice sickles gleaming under the afternoon sun, dripping, streaming into the pristine water below, running over the ribbons of green grass, forming miniature rapids and gently flowing rippling waves and all the reflections of a crystal cathedral, merging with the hidden world of a child. Seemingly endless natural sculptures. Then the hollow percussion sounds of the ice thudding, crackling under my feet, breaking off little ice flows carried away into a snow-covered cavern and out the other side of the tunnel. And I followed it all the way to bridge under Maple Road as if I didn't have a care in the world.

I'm living in a horror movie, all right. Only the horror doesn't have anything to do with necrophilia or black masses or crosses hung upside down, or with vampires who can't swim or zombies who work in sugar cane fields and can't stop shambling off cliffs when some guy with a jawbreaker accent says so, No, this is real life. It was running out all around him. the footprints of assassins and neo-fascists and government officials with secret closets full of tutus, private armies training in ships named after the wives of oilmen, of drunken presidents in bed with the mob and the cartels that slice up the world and stick FOR SALE signs on the pieces; while the real kings of earth lie moldering in their graves, their brains stolen away in the night and their bullet wounds altered to match storybook plots that would be laughed out of any preschool classroom. And all this while the billions sweat and grow old like the living dead, their lifeblood sucked dry by the takers of souls who need our labor to feed a hunger for power without end. The undead? What a cheapjack explanation for so much misery. There is more than enough to account for it all without falling back on the unnameable. It's already here. The trick is to see it and not flinch- there's no future in denial. It's as simple, and as enormous, as that. The truth, however bleak, was almost comforting.

How many of us can recognize a human face? Even with a mask on or when they try to disguise themselves?” “We all can, we all can!” came unanimous squawking from the trees. He continued. “Our children’s children know to heed the warnings of an enemy. And how many humans can recognize an individual crow?” His eyes were hypnotic and shiny. I thought of how once, after I’d gone to stretch my wings around the neighborhood, I returned to catch Big Jim squawking at a college crow with a white streak on her wing, agitatedly beckoning her from our Green Mountain sugar maple. He called her Shit Turd, yelling for her to hurry up and sit on his shoulder because he was late for beer pong. She was molting, half my size, and had a sebaceous cyst the size of a jawbreaker sticking out of her breast. It had been a serious blow to the old self-esteem.

it had all been stored in suspension. But he couldn’t help thinking that if anything could last unchanged for two thousand years, it had to be a Jawbreaker.

I,” said Stink, “am getting the World’s Biggest Jawbreaker.” He held it up for Judy to see. “It changes colors and flavors as you go.” “Rare! It looks like an earth. Or a giant emu egg or something.” “Or something,” said Stink. “Stink, I don’t think you want to eat that.

Terrible,” said Stink. “I had one of those terrible, horrible, no good, very bad, just-like-that-kids’-book yuck days.” “What’s wrong?” asked Mom, coming into the room. “Stink hit his friend Webster

He said he liked women who looked like they ate candy. Lollipops, jawbreakers. He liked women who were a little wrecked-looking, skinny, meth-cheeked, and healthy in the unhealthy sense, like they could survive the holocaust because of their white trash genes.

What goes ninety-nine clunk?

Imagine you are about to bite into an apple. Imagine never having bitten into an apple before. The fruit at your lips is an unknown thing. It might burst like a tomato! Yield like a peach! Snap like a carrot! You have no idea about its insides: what colour or texture. You have no reason to suspect it will be cloud-white, bloodless, foamy, crisp. An apple, could be like an orange: segmented, oozy. An apple could be salty and jaw-breaking like a rock. This is what it was like for me, the first time I heard Chopin play the piano.

Unfortunately, there’s still a market for rubbish. I picked up a recently written fantasy book at the weekend, and one character said of another: ‘He will grow wroth.’ Oh, my God. And the phrase was in a page of similar jaw-breaking, mock-archaic narrative. Belike, i’faith . . . this is the language we use to turn high fantasy into third-rate romantic literature. ‘Yonder lies the palace of my fodder, the king.’ That’s not fantasy – that’s just Tolkien reheated until the magic boils away.

Somehow, because of how much warmer my father was on the whole, I think I metabolized it to mean that men can ruin you in wonderful ways, like lurid, bright jawbreakers with beautiful rainbow specks.

but

Shrynn’s

I’m grounded for having feelings. Whenever Mom’s angry, she takes away everything I love the most.

I know they’re about to start fighting because that’s, like, their favorite hobby these days.

Treacle looked interested. "I used to think like that too--get caught up in the endless cycle of crushing despair and existential dread. Now I'm starting to see it a little like this jawbreaker. Terrible on the outside. But if you get a little deeper? Still terrible. But below that? Terrible. But eventually you get to a point where it isn't terrible. At least I think so. I haven't made it that far yet. Point is, it can't be all bad. Probably. Unless it is. Oh no...I'm starting to feel the existential dread coming on again. We're all doomed, aren't we, Inga?

But some of us cannot forget and will never forgive. We keep our axes sharp, ready to grind. We hold pleas for mercy between our teeth like jawbreakers. They say a grudge is a heavy thing to carry. Good thing we’re extra strong.

If Mormons do not like my plays, let them write their own. If the Irish hate my Dublin stories, let them rent typewriters. If teachers and grammar school editors find my jawbreaker sentences shatter their mushmilk teeth, let them eat stale cake dunked in weak tea of their own ungodly manufacture.

By making the most of who you are, you give the world the greatest possible gift: you!

You are awesome. I know that for sure and I haven’t even met you yet. You are awesome. Not because of how you look, or what you can do. Not because of what you know, who you know, or even what is possible for you. You are awesome because you made it. You’re here. You exist.

Changing your words can change your world.

We might not have as much money as we want to give, but we have as much love as we can think of ways to give it out: sweet words, considerate gestures, clicking Send, hitting Like, or sometimes even just staying quiet. When kind words are directed at someone who needs them, they can change the world.

She had been reading sociology and was full of terms like anomy, other-directedness, acculturation, and similar jawbreakers, which she got off with athletic ease.

Webster (the friend, not the dictionary). He wrote a letter to his other best friend, Elizabeth, who liked to be called Sophie of the Elves. He even wrote a letter to his teacher, telling her how great he was at writing letters.