Jt Money Quotes

The myth of true love is one of the greatest self-deceptions ever embraced by the female sex. It’s right up there with the ridiculous notion that money can’t buy happiness and size doesn’t matter.

A man with all the money in the world but a house filled with animosity, is far worse off than a man with a bare cupboard but a house filled with love.

Money and a profession may buy you freedom from attachments and the ability to choose your own path, but it can never buy you the deep relationships with God, your spouse, or your children.

So the charity gala was to raise money for wounded veterans. I was surprised it wasn’t for something more superficial, like Billionaires Without Trophy Wives or the Southern Selfish Jerk Fund.

I once pledged my life to a man who gave me a budget for an engagement ring. A very small budget. Then disapproved of each one I chose, until finally he suggested it would really make more sense to put the money toward the ailing carburetor that needed replacing in my car.

Women wouldn’t be afraid to leave their shitty marriages, because they’d be able to support themselves and their children alone. Women wouldn’t have to put up with all the crap they put up with from men, and compete against one another, and freak out about getting older, and deform themselves with Botox and fake tits and lip injections, because men have more money, and therefore more power, and ultimately more worth than women do. You’re the only loud, proud, unapologetic voice left telling women to stop being so fucking passive and take control of their lives. And

Within minutes, they pulled up to the address on record for Henry Anderson. It would be generous to call the domicile a house—it was little more than a shack, the roof sagging, the windows boarded with cardboard. They could see muffled bits of the Cumberland River beyond the property. The likes of Anderson wouldn’t be accepted in a neighborhood that had expectation. Anderson wasn’t living large. The money he was pulling in from the pornography obviously went toward something else, Taylor speculated. Drugs, perhaps. The house looked like it could double as a meth lab. Baldwin had gotten quiet as they pulled up. She put the car into park and raised an eyebrow at him. “This place is a dump,” he said. “Surely a criminal mastermind isn’t living in this hell. What’s he doing with his money?” “Funny, you read my thoughts. Let’s go see.

Yeah? You a man?” I send him a sour look. “Not the last time I checked.” “Then you don’t know what’s emasculating. Keep your money.

I break under the strain before he does. “I have your money.” He looks at my empty hands. “Do I have to dig around in your backyard for it, or are you gonna give it to me?

Oliver’s death is all her fault. If she’d not been so anxious to make her mark, not leaped at the chance of money and prestige, and stuck to the basics, none of this would have happened. Reaching for the stars has a price.

This hotel’s bar is Riley’s favorite of the whole tour. It screams old old old money. Gold rush money. It’s like being thrust back in time.

Thanks for sharing your opinion on the subject. That’s the last time you get to do it. Mention money to me again, and you know what you’ve got coming.” When I only stand there staring at him, he prompts, “Acknowledge that you know what you’ve got coming.” “Why?” “It’s called consent.” I say haughtily, “I don’t consent to a spanking over money.

There are only a few motivations to do bad things. Love. Money. Power.

The taxi driver thinks I’m a lunatic. I know because he shouts after me, “You lunatic!” as I claw my way out of his cab, flinging money over my shoulder and panting like a Labrador.

Make some easy money by spying on a Russian oligarch’s spoiled runaway wife.

She’s known as the Queen B. And not bee like the insect, or Jay-Z’s wife. The letter B, as in beyotch. She first made her money with a self-help book she wrote called Bitches Do Better, which became a number one New York Times bestseller when she was only twenty-one. Then she wrote half a dozen more Bitch books, started doing speaking engagements, and became a life coach for some über-swank clients. Teaching them her bitchy secrets for success, apparently.

Money itself isn’t good or bad. It’s what you do with it that matters.

How do you tell the stranger you married for his money that he’s becoming your center of gravity? That his magnetic field is so strong, the compass needle in your heart is swinging around to point to him as true north?

We put two and two together and decided they were milking Della of her money,” she said sadly.

I married a man who uses his powerful position to covertly sell weapons. I took a lover who kills people for money. And I suspected nothing of either of them. I might be the worst judge of character who ever lived.

I say faintly, “You’re just a ray of sunshine, aren’t you?” “Also, with only one kidney, you can never drink alcohol again.” I close my eyes and groan. “I think I’d rather be dead.” “Look on the bright side.” “There is no bright side!” “Think of all the money you’ll save. And you’ll never have another hangover.

Why didn’t you leave when I gave you the money?” “I was too busy being brain-fucked.” That’s what I wanted to say, but what I actually produce is something along the lines of the sound an elephant might make giving birth. It includes a lot of awkward grunts and trumpeting.