Jennifer Aniston Quotes

Once you figure out who you are and what you love about yourself, I think it all kind of falls into place.

Really try to follow what it is that you want to do and what your heart is telling you to do.

The greater your capacity to love, the greater your capacity to feel the pain.

Bonnie and her mum are both members of Amnesty International," said Abigail. "Of course they are," murmured Madeline. This must be how Jennifer Aniston feels, thought Madeline, whenever she hears about Angelina and Brad adopting another orphan or two.

Jennifer Aniston and Her New Man'" I read the words aloud uncertainly. "What new man? Why would she need a new man?" "Oh yes." Nicole follows my gaze, unconcerned. "You know she split up from Brad Pitt?" "Jennifer and Brad split?" I stare up at her, aghast. "You can't be serious! They can't have done!" "He went off with Angelina Jolie. They've got a daughter." "No!" I wail. "But Jen and Brad were so perfect together! They looked so good and they had that lovely wedding picture and everything...." "They're divorced now." Nicole shrugs, like it's no big deal. I can't get over this. Jennifer and Brad divorced. The world is a different place.

There are no regrets in life, just lessons.

The best smell in the world is that man that you love.

It's impossible to satisfy everyone, and I suggest we all stop trying.

I always say, "Don't make plans, make options.

I've learned that you can get through things that hurt. Nothing will kill you. Nothing. People are unbelievable. we have such resilience.

He’s the guy you wish Jennifer Aniston would be with just to get back at Brad.

You can either be angry or be a martyr, or you can say, 'You’ve got lemons? Let’s make lemonade.

I will not let myself down like that -- I also know what feels good and it doesn't feel good to harbor anger and resentment ... We do have tools to work through stuff. Everybody does.

Forgetting gives us the pleasurable heartache of blurry photographs and unfinished stories, a tango that laments the sorrows of our scarce memory while acknowledging that some things are better glimpsed dimly.

Then, as we grow older and enter middle age, something else begins to change. Our energy level drops. Our identity solidifies. We know who we are and we accept ourselves, including some of the parts we aren’t thrilled about. And, in a strange way, this is liberating. We no longer need to give a fuck about everything. Life is just what it is. We accept it, warts and all. We realize that we’re never going to cure cancer or go to the moon or feel Jennifer Aniston’s tits. And that’s okay. Life goes on. We now reserve our ever-dwindling fucks for the most truly fuck-worthy parts of our lives: our families, our best friends, our golf swing.

We remember almost nothing. The idea that we remember a great deal of the subtleties and details of our experiences, as if we are playing back a movie, is nothing more than an illusion, a construct of the brain. And this is perhaps the greatest secret in the study of memory: the astounding truth that, starting from very little information, the brain generates a reality and a past that make us who we are, despite the fact that this past, this collection of memories, is extremely slippery; despite the fact that the mere act of bringing a memory to our consciousness inevitably changes it; despite the fact that what underlies my awareness of a unique, immutable “self” that makes me who I am is constantly changing.

Marcelina loved that miniscule, precise moment when the needle entered her face. It was silver; it was pure. It was the violence that healed, the violation that brought perfection. There was no pain, never any pain, only a sense of the most delicate of penetrations, like a mosquito exquisitely sipping blood, a precision piece of human technology slipping between the gross tissues and cells of her flesh. She could see the needle out of the corner of her eye; in the foreshortened reality of the ultra-close-up it was like the stem of a steel flower. The latex-gloved hand that held the syringe was as vast as the creating hand of God: Marcelina had watched it swim across her field of vision, seeking its spot, so close, so thrillingly, dangerously close to her naked eyeball. And then the gentle stab. Always she closed her eyes as the fingers applied pressure to the plunger. She wanted to feel the poison entering her flesh, imagine it whipping the bloated, slack, lazy cells into panic, the washes of immune response chemicals as they realized they were under toxic attack; the blessed inflammation, the swelling of the wrinkled, lined skin into smoothness, tightness, beauty, youth. Marcelina Hoffman was well on her way to becoming a Botox junkie. Such a simple treat; the beauty salon was on the same block as Canal Quatro. Marcelina had pioneered the lunch-hour face lift to such an extent that Lisandra had appropriated it as the premise for an entire series. Whore. But the joy began in the lobby with Luesa the receptionist in her high-collared white dress saying “Good afternoon, Senhora Hoffman,” and the smell of the beautiful chemicals and the scented candles, the lightness and smell of the beautiful chemicals and the scented candles, the lightness and brightness of the frosted glass panels and the bare wood floor and the cream-on-white cotton wall hangings, the New Age music that she scorned anywhere else (Tropicalismo hippy-shit) but here told her, “you’re wonderful, you’re special, you’re robed in light, the universe loves you, all you have to do is reach out your hand and take anything you desire.” Eyes closed, lying flat on the reclining chair, she felt her work-weary crow’s-feet smoothed away, the young, energizing tautness of her skin. Two years before she had been to New York on the Real Sex in the City production and had been struck by how the ianqui women styled themselves out of personal empowerment and not, as a carioca would have done, because it was her duty before a scrutinizing, judgmental city. An alien creed: thousand-dollar shoes but no pedicure. But she had brought back one mantra among her shopping bags, an enlightenment she had stolen from a Jennifer Aniston cosmetics ad. She whispered it to herself now, in the warm, jasmine-and vetiver-scented sanctuary as the botulin toxins diffused through her skin. Because I’m worth it.

1) Nem akarom, hogy a kedvenc hírességeim emberibbek legyenek. A művészetnek olyan színtérnek kell lennie, ahol újraalkothatod és felülmúlhatod önmagad. Nem akarom, hogy egy csomó hétköznapi alak mászkáljon benne a vízdíjról meg a mitesszerekről nyafogva. Azt akarom, hogy David Bowie tegyen úgy, mintha őrült lenne, és az űrből jött volna. 2) A 21. században szükségtelen „emberibbé tenni” akármelyik nőt, aki bármely területen sikert ért el. Ez alól pedig egyáltalán nincs kivétel. Még Margaret Thatcher sem. Hosszadalmasan, lassan, százezer év alatt vánszorogtunk ki a patriarchizmusból. Még mindig vannak olyan helyek a világon, ahol a nők nem érinthetnek ételt, amikor menstruálnak, vagy kiközösítik őket, amiért nem sikerült fiút szülniük. A jó úton haladó Amerikában vagy Európában is még mindig olyan sajnálatosan alulprezentáltak mindenben – a tudományokban, a politikában, a művészetekben, az üzleti életben, az űrutazásban –, hogy ha bármelyik nőnek sikerül olyan személyiséget konstruálnia, amellyel elboldogul a világban, és akár egy töredéket elérnie mindannak, amit a férfiak garantáltnak tekintenek, minden erőmmel azt akarom, hogy képes legyen fenntartani ezt a homlokzatot. Hadd tartsa meg ezt az arcát. Hadd tűnjön egy kicsit fékezhetetlennek és távolinak. Hadd legyen titokzatos vagy sejtelmes, vagy akár kimondottan rémisztően sebezhetetlen, ha úgy tetszik neki. Amikor a világot elárasztják a Thatcher-arcú amazon illuminátusok, akik atomfegyverekkel és szexuális zsarolással manipulálják a világot, akkor majd tényleg közbe kell lépnünk, hogy „humanizáljuk” őket. Addig azonban, míg Jennifer Aniston csak egy újabb könnyed romantikus vígjátékkal áll elő, nem hiszem, hogy szét kell szednünk félelmetes vasálarcát azzal, hogy megkérdezzük, mikor menstruált utoljára.

What matters is not how much we remember, but how we remember. As I see it, intelligence is closely related to creativity, to noticing something new, to making unexpected connections between disparate facts. Isaac Newton’s genius consisted of realizing that what makes an apple fall from a tree is the same force that keeps the moon in its orbit around the earth: gravity. Centuries later, in his general theory of relativity, Albert Einstein uncovered another astounding relationship when he noted that the effect of the force of gravity is indistinguishable from the acceleration of a spaceship in outer space or the tug we feel in an elevator when it starts to move. Attempting to memorize facts by rote does nothing more than distract our attention from what really matters, the deeper understanding required to establish meaning and notice connections—that which constitutes the basis of intelligence. The method of loci does nothing to help us understand the things we memorize; it is just a formula for memorization that, in fact, competes against comprehension. As we saw in the previous chapter, Shereshevskii was able to memorize a list effortlessly using the method of loci, but was incapable of grasping its content enough to pick out the liquids from the list or, on another occasion, to realize that he had memorized a sequence of consecutive numbers. Using the method of loci to store these lists left Shereshevskii no room to make any of the categorizations that we perform unconsciously (person, animal, liquid, etc.) or to find basic patterns in a list of numbers. To be creative and intelligent, we must go beyond merely remembering and undertake completely different processes: we must assimilate concepts and derive meaning. Focusing on memorization techniques limits our ability to understand, classify, contextualize, and associate. Like memorization, these processes also help to secure memories, but in a more useful and elaborate way; these are precisely the processes that should be developed and encouraged by the educational system.

I am going to ask her why, when I requested face-slimming, feathery layers à la Jennifer Aniston, she adorned me with a Lego head helmet à la no one since the 1960s.

During this period, I served many celebrities, including Jennifer Aniston, Vince Vaughn, Gary Oldman, Leonardo DiCaprio, Juliette Lewis, Rob Lowe, Colin Farrell, Tom Selleck, David Spade, Thomas Haden Church, Sharon Osbourne, Brad Pitt, John Malkovich, Tara Reid, Toby Maguire and Diane Keaton. You know all of them, so no explanation needed. The hardest thing about serving such famous Hollywood icons, at least for the first time, is trying not to stare at them. It’s so otherworldly to see someone like Selleck, who’s not just huge -he’s bigger than life- and who you´ve watched on big screen and small for years… they are, invariably, taller or shorter than you’d imagined. And the women are either spectacularly beautiful or very ordinary without screen makeup. But you can’t stare. It’s verbatim by ownership. Brad Pitt was cool and very humble. He had a few Pyramid beers with a producer friend, and then took off on his motorcycle down Sunset Boulevard, heading West towards the Palisades. Am I saying that he was driving drunk? No. He was there for two hours and had two beers, so he wasn’t breaking the law. At least not with my assistance. He had been there many times before, I just hadn’t been the one serving him. I remember when he came in during his filming of Troy. He had long hair and a cast on his leg. Ironically, he had torn his Achilles’ tendon while playing Achilles in the epic film.

The way to get started is to quit talking and begin doing.” —Walt Disney “Do what you can, where you are, with what you have.” —Teddy Roosevelt “There are no regrets in life. Just lessons.” —Jennifer Aniston

We realize that we’re never going to cure cancer or go to the moon or feel Jennifer Aniston’s tits. And that’s okay. Life goes on.

We realize that we’re never going to cure cancer or go to the moon or feel Jennifer Aniston’s tits.

Maturity is what happens when one learns to only give a fuck about what’s truly fuckworthy. Then, as we grow older and enter middle age, something else begins to change. Our energy level drops. Our identity solidifies. We know who we are. And, in a strange way, this is liberating. We no longer need to give a fuck about everything. Life is just what it is. We realize that we’re never going to cure cancer or go to the moon or feel Jennifer Aniston’s tits.

A verse in a letter addressed to Titus illustrates this perfectly. Angered by some of the false teachings emerging from the island of Crete in the Mediterranean, which Titus is busy trying to fix, the apostle Paul declared, “One of Crete’s own prophets has said it: ‘Cretans are always liars, evil brutes, lazy gluttons.’ This saying is true” (Titus 1:12–13). Believe it or not, I’ve never once heard a sermon preached on this passage. And yet, if these words are truly the inerrant and unchanging words of God intended as universal commands for all people in all places at all times, and if the culture and context are irrelevant to the “plain meaning of the text,” then apparently Christians need to do a better job of mobilizing against the Cretan people. Perhaps we need to construct some “God Hates Cretans” signs, or lobby the government to deport Cretan immigrants, or boycott all movies starring Jennifer Aniston, whose father, I hear, is a lazy, evil, gluttonous Cretan. I’m being facetious of course, but my point is, we dishonor the intent and purpose of the Epistles when we assume they were written in a vacuum for the purpose of filling our desk calendars with inspirational quotes or our theology papers with proof texts. (For the record, Paul told Titus to find among the Cretans leaders who were “blameless,” “hospitable,” “self-controlled,” and “disciplined,” so obviously he didn’t apply the stereotype to all from the island.) The Epistles were never intended to be applied as law.

And, in a strange way, this is liberating. We no longer need to give a fuck about everything. Life is just what it is. We accept it, warts and all. We realize that we’re never going to cure cancer or go to the moon or feel Jennifer Aniston’s tits. And that’s okay. Life goes on.

And, in a strange way, this is liberating. We no longer need to give a fuck about everything. Life is just what it is. We accept it, warts and all. We realize that we’re never going to cure cancer or go to the moon or feel Jennifer Aniston’s tits. And that’s okay. Life goes on. We now reserve our ever-dwindling fucks for the most truly fuck-worthy parts of our lives: our families, our best friends, our golf swing. And, to our astonishment, this is enough. This simplification actually makes us really fucking happy on a consistent basis. And we start to think, Maybe that crazy alcoholic Bukowski was onto something. Don’t try.

A fehérnemű mellett a szerelem is a nő dolga. A nők arra valók, hogy beléjük szeressenek. Amikor a nőket sújtó nagy tragédiákról beszélünk, miután a háborúkat és a sebesüléseket letárgyaltuk, az érint meg bennünket leginkább, ha valakit nem szeretnek, így nem is akarnak. Igaz, hogy I. Erzsébet lefektette a Brit Birodalom alapjait, de soha nem mehetett férjhez – szegény, sápadt, púderezett királynő. Jennifer Aniston gyönyörű, sikeres milliomos, Los Angeles-i, óceánparti házában él, és sosem kell náthásan sorban állnia a postán, hogy visszaküldjön egy pár csizmát a Topshopnak – a harmincas éveit teljesen leírták mint azt az évtizedet, amelyben sem Brad Pittet, aztán John Mayert sem sikerült megtartania. Diana hercegnő – milyen szerencsétlen! Cheryl Cole – magányos! Hilary Swank és Reese Witherspoon – hiába kapták meg az Oscart, a férjük elhagyta őket! A nyelv pontosan felfedi, mit gondolunk az egyedülálló nőkről – mindent elárul az „agglegény” és a „vénlány” közti különbség. Az agglegények méltóságteljesek. A vénlányoknak viszont bele kell húzniuk, mégpedig gyorsan. A piaci kereset elárulja a nő értékét: ha egyedülálló, bizonyára nem kell senkinek – akármennyi ideig is tart ez az állapot –, tehát kevésbé kívánatos.

But subtitles made all the sitcoms look like French movies, so I kept waiting for Jennifer Aniston to smoke or commit incest.

I would say I couldn't be in a relationship without equality, generosity, integrity, spirit, kindness and humor. And awesomeness!