Juicy Love Quotes

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE .... enough money within her control to move out and rent a place of her own even if she never wants to or needs to... A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE .... something perfect to wear if the employer or date of her dreams wants to see her in an hour... A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ... a youth she's content to leave behind.... A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE .... a past juicy enough that she's looking forward to retelling it in her old age.... A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ..... a set of screwdrivers, a cordless drill, and a black lace bra... A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE .... one friend who always makes her laugh... and one who lets her cry... A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE .... a good piece of furniture not previously owned by anyone else in her family... A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE .... eight matching plates, wine glasses with stems, and a recipe for a meal that will make her guests feel honored... A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE .... a feeling of control over her destiny... EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... how to fall in love without losing herself.. EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... HOW TO QUIT A JOB, BREAK UP WITH A LOVER, AND CONFRONT A FRIEND WITHOUT RUINING THE FRIENDSHIP... EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... when to try harder... and WHEN TO WALK AWAY... EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... that she can't change the length of her calves, the width of her hips, or the nature of her parents.. EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... that her childhood may not have been perfect...but it's over... EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... what she would and wouldn't do for love or more... EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... how to live alone... even if she doesn't like it... EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... whom she can trust, whom she can't, and why she shouldn't take it personally... EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... where to go... be it to her best friend's kitchen table... or a charming inn in the woods... when her soul needs soothing... EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... what she can and can't accomplish in a day... a month...and a year...

Funeral Blues Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead, Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Read! When your baby is finally down for the night, pick up a juicy book like Eat, Pray, Love or Pride and Prejudice or my personal favorite, Understanding Sleep Disorders: Narcolepsy and Apnea; A Clinical Study. Taking some time to read each night really taught me how to feign narcolepsy when my husband asked me what my “plan” was for taking down the Christmas tree.

I get a total lady boner. My lady bits are way too happy. So happy it's crying juicy tears.

What's this new shampoo you're wearing?" "I stole it from Margot. It's juicy pear. Nice, right?" "It's all right, I guess. But can you go back to the one you used to wear? The coconut one? I love the smell of that one." A dreamy look crosses his face, like evening fog settling over a city.

We love men because they can never fake orgasms, even if they wanted to. Because they write poems, songs, and books in our honor. Because they never understand us, but they never give up. Because they can see beauty in women when women have long ceased to see any beauty in themselves. Because they come from little boys. Because they can churn out long, intricate, Machiavellian, or incredibly complex mathematics and physics equations, but they can be comparably clueless when it comes to women. Because they are incredible lovers and never rest until we’re happy. Because they elevate sports to religion. Because they’re never afraid of the dark. Because they don’t care how they look or if they age. Because they persevere in making and repairing things beyond their abilities, with the naïve self-assurance of the teenage boy who knew everything. Because they never wear or dream of wearing high heels. Because they’re always ready for sex. Because they’re like pomegranates: lots of inedible parts, but the juicy seeds are incredibly tasty and succulent and usually exceed your expectations. Because they’re afraid to go bald. Because you always know what they think and they always mean what they say. Because they love machines, tools, and implements with the same ferocity women love jewelry. Because they go to great lengths to hide, unsuccessfully, that they are frail and human. Because they either speak too much or not at all to that end. Because they always finish the food on their plate. Because they are brave in front of insects and mice. Because a well-spoken four-year old girl can reduce them to silence, and a beautiful 25-year old can reduce them to slobbering idiots. Because they want to be either omnivorous or ascetic, warriors or lovers, artists or generals, but nothing in-between. Because for them there’s no such thing as too much adrenaline. Because when all is said and done, they can’t live without us, no matter how hard they try. Because they’re truly as simple as they claim to be. Because they love extremes and when they go to extremes, we’re there to catch them. Because they are tender they when they cry, and how seldom they do it. Because what they lack in talk, they tend to make up for in action. Because they make excellent companions when driving through rough neighborhoods or walking past dark alleys. Because they really love their moms, and they remind us of our dads. Because they never care what their horoscope, their mother-in-law, nor the neighbors say. Because they don’t lie about their age, their weight, or their clothing size. Because they have an uncanny ability to look deeply into our eyes and connect with our heart, even when we don’t want them to. Because when we say “I love you” they ask for an explanation.

She felt so lost and lonely. One last chile in walnut sauce left on the platter after a fancy dinner couldn't feel any worse than she did. How many times had she eaten one of those treats, standing by herself in the kitchen, rather than let it be thrown away. When nobody eats the last chile on the plate, it's usually because none of them wants to look like a glutton, so even though they'd really like to devour it, they don't have the nerve to take it. It was as if they were rejecting that stuffed pepper, which contains every imaginable flavor; sweet as candied citron, juicy as pomegranate, with the bit of pepper and the subtlety of walnuts, that marvelous chile in the walnut sauce. Within it lies the secret of love, but it will never be penetrated, and all because it wouldn't feel proper.

Relationships fail not because we have stopped loving but primarily because we have stopped living seductively.

Now, before I extend this metaphor, let me make a distinction between career and creativity. Creativity is connected to your passion, that light inside you that drives you. That joy that comes when you do something you love. That small voice that tells you, “I like this. Do this again. You are good at it. Keep going.” That is the juicy stuff that lubricates our lives and helps us feel less alone in the world. Your creativity is not a bad boyfriend. It is a really warm older Hispanic lady who has a beautiful laugh and loves to hug. If you are even a little bit nice to her she will make you feel great and maybe cook you delicious food.

How easily such a thing can become a mania, how the most normal and sensible of women once this passion to be thin is upon them, can lose completely their sense of balance and proportion and spend years dealing with this madness.

I wanted to gouge out the eyes of every man staring at her like they were starved and she was a juicy steak, which was pretty much every man here—including Colton. If he didn’t put his tongue back in his mouth soon, I’d cut it out for him.

It does not mean you are not awesome, if no one ever appreciates your beauty. But I can see that, in your juicy eyes, funny smiles and innocent face. And I am telling you now; you are exceptionally beautiful and awesome.

Fuckface. A face that likes to do sex? Doosh nozl? Shit biscuit? Duck butter? Bananas. Like “crazy”? If I had to pick a fruit that is crazy, I’d pick pomegranates, with their juicy beads hiding in impossible recovecos, from which it takes an hour to free them. If that’s not bananas, I don’t know what

The evening vegetables looked so fresh and juicy, the tips of the greens bursting with life. Yeah, I’d love to have another baby. Maybe by the time I’m thirty-seven.

And sometimes people don’t know how to separate love from possessiveness.

When you aren’t lazy in your sensual embodiment you’ll make a great lover, and you’ll have a really juicy love life.

We believed Paris was the start of us. It's the kind of city that makes you think of beginnings, or even juicy middles. Paris is a book to savor, in whole or in part, at any time and in any season. At age ninety or at thirty-four, you can open any chapter and read from there.

I appreciate the fact that you have one redeeming quality, Jack, but that is all it is. Just a hint of redemption with six years of disappointment. No matter what you do,, it will never make up for what happened between us. I will never trust you. I will never again be comfortable around you. I will never look at you or think of you without considering the destruction you have train wrecked through my life. I wish you the very best in your future, because without you in my life I think I might finally have a future. And as angry as I am with what you have put me through, I am so very glad that we are now at this moment. This moment means I can move on the bigger and better things without you constantly weighing on my shoulders. I will never again turn a corner in New York terrified that I will run into you and even more terrified that I won't. I can go into any coffee shop I want. I can hope for love again. A love that will be more than anything you ever attempted to give me. Because the love I am looking for will be reciprocted one hundred and ten percent. There will never be another someone to distract our affections, because YOU will not be in the picture. *****So, as sad as this day is for me, as I am losing a part of myself with the loss of you, it is really just the beginning for me. It is like cutting off the spoiled part to get the juicy center. So, I would appreciate it this time, if you did not try and contact me. Because, as I'm sure you know, I deserve much better. I want everything this time around, and I deserve it!*****

Now tell me, briefly, what the word ‘homosexuality’ means to you, in your own words." "Love flowers pearl, of delighted arms. Warm and water. Melting of vanilla wafer in the pants. Pink petal roses trembling overdew on the lips, soft and juicy fruit. No teeth. No nasty spit. Lips chewing oysters without grimy sand or whiskers. Pastry. Gingerbread. Warm, sweet bread. Cinnamon toast poetry. Justice equality higher wages. Independent angel song. It means I can do what I want.

It’s clear we love the Dead Girl, enough to rehash and reproduce her story, to kill her again and again, but not enough to see a pattern. She is always singular, an anomaly, the juicy new mystery.

The problem is that the desire to change is fundamentally a form of aggression toward yourself. The other problem is that our hangups, unfortunately or fortunately, contain our wealth. Our neurosis and our wisdom are made out of the same material. If you throw out your neurosis, you also throw out your wisdom. Someone who is very angry also has a lot of energy; that energy is what’s so juicy about him or her. That’s the reason people love that person. The idea isn’t to try to get rid of your anger, but to make friends with it, to see it clearly with precision and honesty, and also to see it with gentleness. That means not judging yourself as a bad person, but also not bolstering yourself up by saying, “It’s good that I’m this way, it’s right that I’m this way. Other people are terrible, and I’m right to be so angry at them all the time.” The gentleness involves not repressing the anger but also not acting it out. It is something much softer and more openhearted than any of that. It involves learning how, once you have fully acknowledged the feeling of anger and the knowledge of who you are and what you do, to let it go. You can let go of the usual pitiful little story line that accompanies anger and begin to see clearly how you keep the whole thing going. So whether it’s anger or craving or jealousy or fear or depression—whatever it might be—the notion is not to try to get rid of it, but to make friends with it. That means getting to know it completely, with some kind of softness, and learning how, once you’ve experienced it fully, to let go. The

As the world turns toward winter and the nights grow long, people begin to wake in the dark. Lying in bed too long cramps the limbs, and dreams dreamt too long turn inward on themselves, grotesque as a Mandarin’s fingernails. By and large, the human body isn’t adapted for more than seven or eight hours’ sleep—but what happens when the nights are longer than that? What happens is the second sleep. You fall asleep from tiredness, soon after dark—but then wake again, rising toward the surface of your dreams like a trout coming up to feed. And should your sleeping partner also wake then—and people who have slept together for a good many years know at once when each other wakes—you have a small, private place to share, deep in the night. A place in which to rise, to stretch, to bring a juicy apple back to bed, to share slice by slice, fingers brushing lips. To have the luxury of conversation, uninterrupted by the business of the day. To make love slowly in the light of an autumn moon. And then, to lie close, and let a lover’s dreams caress your skin as you begin to sink once more beneath the waves of consciousness, blissful in the knowledge that dawn is far off—that’s second sleep.

You are funny like a kid and awesome like a princess Unseen like an angel, like the morning sunshine… Kindness like a river and highness like a mountain, In the middle of the Rheine, the cute face and sweet lips … (La la la la, La la , mmmm , mm …) Keep the lovely smile, in your juicy icy eyes Open the heaven for my eyes, forever angel voice Never angry never harsh, never mad never marsh Dear or darling, either diamond or dime, Overall the dream of the world

This here," he said playing with it, "is a stone, and will, after a certain time, perhaps turn into soil, and will turn from soil into a plant or animal or human being. In the past, I would have said: This stone is just a stone, it is worthless, it belongs to the world of the Maja; but because it might be able to become also a human being and a spirit in the cycle of transformations, therefore I also grant it importance. Thus, I would perhaps have thought in the past. But today I think: this stone is a stone, it is also animal, it is also god, it is also Buddha, I do not venerate and love it because it could turn into this or that, but rather because it is already and always everything— and it is this very fact, that it is a stone, that it appears to me now and today as a stone, this is why I love it and see worth and purpose in each of its veins and cavities, in the yellow, in the gray, in the hardness, in the sound it makes when I knock at it, in the dryness or wetness of its surface. There are stones which feel like oil or soap, and others like leaves, others like sand, and every one is special and prays the Om in its own way, each one is Brahman, but simultaneously and just as much it is a stone, is oily or juicy, and this is this very fact which I like and regard as wonderful and worthy of worship.

I adore my mother, but I fear for her. She seems helpless, caught in the vortex of my father's dark moods and unpredictable behavior. I try never to displease her. I love the scent of Juicy Fruit gum on her breath and the hint of Joy perfume on her neck, the crisp crinkle of her hair stiff with aerosol spray and the chipped pink polish on her nails.

Do not say that if he truly loves you he should always find you desirable even when he doesn't. I have told you before that love and desirability are not one and the same thing.

A beautiful life is not a place at which you arrive, but the experience you create moment by moment.

When you prioritize someone else's happiness over yours most of the time, that is not happiness.

The pith instruction is, whatever you do, don’t try to make the poisons go away. When you’re trying to make them go away, you’re losing your wealth along with your neurosis. The irony is that what we most want to avoid in our lives is crucial to awakening bodhichitta. These juicy emotional spots are where a warrior gains wisdom and compassion. Of course, we’ll want to get out of those spots far more often than we’ll want to stay. That’s why self-compassion and courage are vital. Without loving-kindness, staying with pain is just warfare.

But Marigold was enthralled by the way he said the words unwieldy. A fantasy flashed through her and in which he dictated an endless list of juicy-sounding words. Innocuous. Sousaphone. Crepuscular.

What was she thinking? He was her mechanic, not a piece of meat. Although, if he were a piece of meat, he’d be a big, juicy porterhouse, the naughtier side of her thought. -Gabby, Love in Greener Pastures

Yubbazubbies, you are yummy, you are succulent and sweet, you are splendidly delicious, quite delectable to eat, how I smack my lips with relish when you bump against my knees, then nuzzle up beside me, chirping, "Eat us if you please!" You are juicy, Yubbazubbies, you are tender, never tough, you are appetizing morsels, I can never get enough, you have captivating flavors and a tantalizing smell, a bit like candied apple, and a bit like caramel. Yubbazubbies, you are luscious, you are soft and smooth as silk, like a dish of chicken dumplings, or a glass of chocolate milk, even when I'm hardly hungry, I am sure to taste a few, and I'm never disappointed, Yubbazubbies, I love you.

Yeah, you like that? You like it when Big Papa gives you his hot and juicy wiener?” I pant, my hips hammering against her. Her fists yank my hair, pulling my head away from her neck so hard that I see stars. “Ow! What the fuck?” I complain as she gives me a dirty look. “You cannot say shit like that when we’re fucking. You Just can’t,” she warns me, letting out a low groan when I shift my hips and grind my pubic bone against her clit. “What’s wrong with a little dirty talk? I thought you’d like it.” “I like dirty talk. I LOVE dirty talk. What you’re doing is not dirty talk. It’s ‘weird as fuck’ talk. Repeat after me: I love fucking you, your pussy is so tight,” Ava demands. (Well, damn, that was hot. I kind of wish I had a vagina right now).

Come on, Lana,” Liv groans. “Stop keeping me in suspense. Get to the juicy stuff.” I fling my pillow at her. “Hey! This isn’t the latest soap opera we’re discussing. This is my life!” “Your life with the Kennedys,” she swoons, tossing the pillow back at me. “That sounds like a soap opera I’d watch.

Here, Kells. I brought you something,” he said unassumingly and held out three mangos. “Thanks. Um, dare I ask where you got them?” “Monkeys.” I stopped in mid-brush. “Monkeys? What do you mean monkeys?” “Well, monkeys don’t like tigers because tigers eat monkeys. So, when a tiger comes around, they jump up in the trees and pummel the tiger with fruit or feces. Lucky for me today they threw fruit.” I gulped. “Have you ever…eaten a monkey?” Ren grinned at me. “Well, a tiger does have to eat.” I dug a rubber band out of the backpack so I could braid my hair. “Ugh, that’s disgusting.” He laughed. “I didn’t really eat a monkey, Kells. I’m just teasing you. Monkeys are repellant. They taste like meaty tennis balls and they smell like feet.” He paused. “Now a nice juicy deer, that is delectable.” He smacked his lips together in an exaggerated way. “I don’t think I really need to hear about your hunting.” “Really? I quite enjoy hunting.” Ren froze into place. Then, almost imperceptibly, he lowered his body slowly to a crouch and balanced on the balls of his feet. He placed a hand in the grass in front of him and began to creep closer to me. He was tracking me, hunting me. His eyes locked on mine and pinned me to the spot where I was standing. He was preparing to spring. His lips were pulled back in a wide grin, which showed his brilliant white teeth. He looked…feral. He spoke in a silky, mesmerizing voice. “When you’re stalking your prey, you must freeze in place and hide, remaining that way for a long time. If you fail, your prey eludes you.” He closed the distance between us in a heartbeat. Even though I’d been watching him closely, I was startled at how fast he could move. My pulse started thumping wildly at my throat, which was where his lips now hovered as if he were going for my jugular. He brushed my hair back and moved up to my ear, whispering, “And you will go…hungry.” His words were hushed. His warm breath tickled my ear and made goose bumps fan out over my body. I turned my head slightly to look at him. His eyes had changed. They were a brighter blue than normal and were studying my face. His hand was still in my hair, and his eyes drifted down to my mouth. I suddenly had the distinct impression that this was what it felt like to be a deer. Ren was making my nervous. I blinked and swallowed dryly. His eyes darted back up to mine again. He must have sensed my apprehension because his expression changed. He removed his hand from my hair and relaxed his posture. “I’m sorry if I frightened you, Kelsey. It won’t happen again.” When he took a step back, I started breathing again. I said shakily, “Well, I don’t want to hear any more about hunting. It freaks me out. The least you could do is not tell me about it. Especially when I have to spend time with you outdoors, okay?” He laughed. “kells, we all have some animalistic tendencies. I loved hunting, even when I was young.” I shuddered. “Fine. Just keep your animalistic tendencies to yourself.” He leaned toward me again and pulled on a strand of my hair. “Now, Kells, there are some of my animalistic tendencies that you seem to like.” He started making a rumbling sound in his chest, and I realized that he was purring. “Stop that!” I sputtered. He laughed, walked over to the backpack, and picked up the fruit. “So, do you want any of this mango or not? I’ll wash it for you.” “Well, considering you carried it in your mouth all that way just for me. And taking into account the source of said fruit. Not really.” His shoulders fell, and I hurried to add, “But I guess I could eat some of the inside.” He looked up at me and smiled. “It’s not freeze-dried.” “Okay. I’ll try some.

We ate the berries ripe and juicy and hot from the sun, like Laura and Lizzie at the Goblin Market, For your sake I have braved the glen, and had to do with goblin merchant men. Eat me, drink me, love me. Hero, Wolf, make much of me. With clasping arms and cautioning lips, with tingling cheeks and fingertips, cooing all together.

What an understatement to call aura reading fun! As if it weren’t fascinating enough to plunge into the auric effects of the Beatles, Chanel No. 5, and your favorite flavor of ice cream, imagine what happens when you can read auras of your family and friends. Auras reveal juicy stuff about what is really going on with people in areas like love and communication.

Reorganizations represent opportunity to those who are unhappy with the state of the current organization. As mentioned above, the moment stakeholders hear that there is a reorg brewing, they start working the grapevine to steer the course of the reorg in their favor. When you combine this fact with people’s love of gossip, you’re guaranteed a big, juicy, drawn-out reorganization.

I was demolishing a lettuce leaf, my oval raspy-toothed mouth opening and closing like a flesh valve as I oozed along on my own self-generated glistening slime highway. The lovely green blur all around me, the lacework I was creating, the scent of chlorophyll, the juiciness—it was pure bliss. Live in the moment, humans are often told, but snails don’t need to be told. We’re in the moment all the time, and the moment is in us.

I love wine because it is one of the last true things. In a world digitized to distraction, a world where you can’t get out of your pajamas without your cell phone, wine remains utterly primary. Unrushed. The silent music of nature. For eight thousand years, vines clutching the earth have thrust themselves upward toward the sun and given us juicy berries, and ultimately wine. In every sip taken in the present, we drink in the past—

Don’t forget to grab some groceries too while you’re out then. I’d hate for us to go hungry. I wouldn’t mind some sausage, long and thick for me sink my teeth in. A nice juicy hunk of meat, the kind that you can slap between some toasted, yet soft in the middle buns. Ooh and some popsicles. I do so love to suck on them when I’m hot. And cream, lots of cream.” She managed not to grin as his eyes went slightly out of focus at her innuendos. Alejandro

A month from now, in early April, at the time when far away, outside the city, the water hyacinths would be covering every inch of bayou, lagoon, creek, and backwater with a spiritual-mauve to obscene-purple, violent, vulgar, fleshy, solid, throttling mass of bloom over the black water, and the first heartbreaking, misty green, like girlhood dreams, on the old cypresses would have settled down to be leaf and not a damned thing else, and the arm-thick, mud-colored, slime-slick mocassins would heave out of the swamp and try to cross the highway and your front tire hitting one would give a slight bump and make a sound like kerwhush and a tinny thump when he slapped heavily up against the underside of the fender, and the insects would come boiling out of the swamps and day and night the whole air would vibrate with them with a sound like an electric fan, and if it was night the owls back in the swamps would be whoo-ing and moaning like love and death and damnation, or one would sail out of the pitch dark into the rays of your headlights and plunge against the radiator to explode like a ripped feather bolster, and the fields would be deep in that rank, hairy or slick, juicy, sticky grass which the cattle gorge on and never get flesh over their ribs for that grass is in that black soil and no matter how far the roots could ever go, if the roots were God knows how deep, there would never be anything but that black, grease-clotted soil and no stone down there to put calcium into that grass—well, a month from now, in early April, when all those things would be happening beyond the suburbs, the husks of the old houses in the street where Anne Stanton and I were walking would, if it were evening, crack and spill out onto the stoops and into the street all that life which was now sealed up within.

His eyes seemed to drink in every line, every shade of her face. He softened his grip on her chin, then bracketed her throat lightly with his fingers. As she held her breath, he stroked his thumb and fingers down both sides of her neck. “No,” he said, his voice growing husky. “I prefer to have you as you were yesterday…soft…lovely…yielding…” The words themselves were a caress, and the way he looked at her mouth, as if it were a particularly juicy morsel, made shivers dance down her spine. She fought the traitorous sensations. “You can’t have me at all.” “Can’t I?” A knowing smile touched his lips. He lowered his head and she braced herself for another brutal kiss. Instead, he pressed his lips to the pulse on the side of her neck. His lips were warm and buttery soft, nothing like they’d been a few moments ago. She tried to sit still, to pretend he wasn’t heating up her blood and making her tremble like a needle on a compass. Whole surges of feeling were taking over her body. She couldn’t seem to stop them.

He carefully poured the juice into a bowl and rinsed the scallops to remove any sand caught between the tender white meat and the firmer coral-colored roe, wrapped around it like a socialite's fur stole. Mayur is the kind of cook (my kind), who thinks the chef should always have a drink in hand. He was making the scallops with champagne custard, so naturally the rest of the bottle would have to disappear before dinner. He poured a cup of champagne into a small pot and set it to reduce on the stove. Then he put a sugar cube in the bottom of a wide champagne coupe (Lalique, service for sixteen, direct from the attic on my mother's last visit). After a bit of a search, he found the crème de violette in one of his shopping bags and poured in just a dash. He topped it up with champagne and gave it a swift stir. "To dinner in Paris," he said, glass aloft. 'To the chef," I answered, dodging swiftly out of the way as he poured the reduced champagne over some egg yolks and began whisking like his life depended on it. "Do you have fish stock?" "Nope." "Chicken?" "Just cubes. Are you sure that will work?" "Sure. This is the Mr. Potato Head School of Cooking," he said. "Interchangeable parts. If you don't have something, think of what that ingredient does, and attach another one." I counted, in addition to the champagne, three other bottles of alcohol open in the kitchen. The boar, rubbed lovingly with a paste of cider vinegar, garlic, thyme, and rosemary, was marinating in olive oil and red wine. It was then to be seared, deglazed with hard cider, roasted with whole apples, and finished with Calvados and a bit of cream. Mayur had his nose in a small glass of the apple liqueur, inhaling like a fugitive breathing the air of the open road. As soon as we were all assembled at the table, Mayur put the raw scallops back in their shells, spooned over some custard, and put them ever so briefly under the broiler- no more than a minute or two. The custard formed a very thin skin with one or two peaks of caramel. It was, quite simply, heaven. The pork was presented neatly sliced, restaurant style, surrounded with the whole apples, baked to juicy, sagging perfection.

This Compost" Something startles me where I thought I was safest, I withdraw from the still woods I loved, I will not go now on the pastures to walk, I will not strip the clothes from my body to meet my lover the sea, I will not touch my flesh to the earth as to other flesh to renew me. O how can it be that the ground itself does not sicken? How can you be alive you growths of spring? How can you furnish health you blood of herbs, roots, orchards, grain? Are they not continually putting distemper'd corpses within you? Is not every continent work'd over and over with sour dead? Where have you disposed of their carcasses? Those drunkards and gluttons of so many generations? Where have you drawn off all the foul liquid and meat? I do not see any of it upon you to-day, or perhaps I am deceiv'd, I will run a furrow with my plough, I will press my spade through the sod and turn it up underneath, I am sure I shall expose some of the foul meat. 2 Behold this compost! behold it well! Perhaps every mite has once form'd part of a sick person—yet behold! The grass of spring covers the prairies, The bean bursts noiselessly through the mould in the garden, The delicate spear of the onion pierces upward, The apple-buds cluster together on the apple-branches, The resurrection of the wheat appears with pale visage out of its graves, The tinge awakes over the willow-tree and the mulberry-tree, The he-birds carol mornings and evenings while the she-birds sit on their nests, The young of poultry break through the hatch'd eggs, The new-born of animals appear, the calf is dropt from the cow, the colt from the mare, Out of its little hill faithfully rise the potato's dark green leaves, Out of its hill rises the yellow maize-stalk, the lilacs bloom in the dooryards, The summer growth is innocent and disdainful above all those strata of sour dead. What chemistry! That the winds are really not infectious, That this is no cheat, this transparent green-wash of the sea which is so amorous after me, That it is safe to allow it to lick my naked body all over with its tongues, That it will not endanger me with the fevers that have deposited themselves in it, That all is clean forever and forever, That the cool drink from the well tastes so good, That blackberries are so flavorous and juicy, That the fruits of the apple-orchard and the orange-orchard, that melons, grapes, peaches, plums, will none of them poison me, That when I recline on the grass I do not catch any disease, Though probably every spear of grass rises out of what was once a catching disease. Now I am terrified at the Earth, it is that calm and patient, It grows such sweet things out of such corruptions, It turns harmless and stainless on its axis, with such endless successions of diseas'd corpses, It distills such exquisite winds out of such infused fetor, It renews with such unwitting looks its prodigal, annual, sumptuous crops, It gives such divine materials to men, and accepts such leavings from them at last.

This here,” he said playing with it, “is a stone, and will, after a certain time, perhaps turn into soil, and will turn from soil into a plant or animal or human being. In the past, I would have said: This stone is just a stone, it is worthless, it belongs to the world of the Maja; but because it might be able to become also a human being and a spirit in the cycle of transformations, therefore I also grant it importance. Thus, I would perhaps have thought in the past. But today I think: this stone is a stone, it is also animal, it is also god, it is also Buddha, I do not venerate and love it because it could turn into this or that, but rather because it is already and always everything — and it is this very fact, that it is a stone, that it appears to me now and today as a stone, this is why I love it and see worth and purpose in each of its veins and cavities, in the yellow, in the gray, in the hardness, in the sound it makes when I knock at it, in the dryness or wetness of its surface. There are stones which feel like oil or soap, and others like leaves, others like sand, and every one is special and prays the Om in its own way, each one is Brahman, but simultaneously and just as much it is a stone, is oily or juicy, and this is this very fact which I like and regard as wonderful and worthy of worship. — But let me speak no more of this. The words are not good for the secret meaning, everything always becomes a bit different, as soon as it is put into words, gets distorted a bit, a bit silly — yes, and this is also very good, and I like it a lot, I also very much agree with this, that this what is one man's treasure and wisdom always sounds like foolishness to another person.

You know those statistics people are always spouting off, about teenage boys thinking about sex every seven seconds? Is that really true?” “Nope. And I just want to point out that you’re the one who keeps bringing up sex. I think teenage girls might be more obsessed than boys.” “Maybe,” I say, and his eyes widen, all excited. Hastily I add, “I mean, I’m definitely curious about it. It’s definitely a thought. But I don’t see myself doing it anytime soon. With anybody. Including you.” I can tell Peter is embarrassed, the way he rushes to say, “Okay, okay, I got it. Let’s just change the subject.” Under his breath he mutters, “I didn’t even want to talk about it in the first place.” It’s sweet that he’s embarrassed. I didn’t think he would be, with all his experience. I tug on his sweater sleeve. “At some point, when I’m ready, if I’m ready, I’ll let you know.” And then I pull him toward me and press my lips against his softly. His mouth opens, and so does mine, and I think, I could kiss this boy for hours. Mid-kiss, he says, “Wait, so we’re never having sex? Like ever?” “I didn’t say never. But not now. I mean, not until I’m really, really sure. Okay?” He lets out a laugh. “Sure. You’re the one driving this bus. You have been from the start. I’m still catching up.” He snuggles closer and sniffs my hair. “What’s this new shampoo you’re wearing?” “I stole it from Margot. It’s juicy pear. Nice, right?” “It’s all right, I guess. But can you go back to the one you used to wear? The coconut one? I love the smell of that one.” A dreamy look crosses his face, like evening fog settling over a city. “If I feel like it,” I say, which makes him pout. I’m already thinking I should buy a bottle of the coconut hair mask, too, but I like to keep him on his toes. Like he said, “I’m the one driving this bus. Peter pulls me against him so he’s curved around my back like shelter. I let my head rest on his shoulder, rest my arms on his kneecaps. This is nice. This is cozy. Just me and him, just for a while, apart from the rest of the world.

DXN Code Strike :- That essay, in actuality, was written by a doofus but striving for DXN Code Strike Muscle does not have to burden an individual. Start with a beautiful DXN Code Strike Muscle is that it demands more from DXN Code Strike Muscle. As I mentioned, this is just a guess but that is the circumstances if you have poor DXN Code Strike Muscle. Persons will remember I was so in love with my new DXN Code Strike Review last December. Many DXN Code Strike Muscle websites have forums where you can discover info. You can't chase both using this and this practice at the same time. This is juicy and whatever their self-felt motives, I gather they're off-target bordering on using this. This is a just cause. These are my magic secrets in connection with this.

Right now I should be making fish ten different ways or experimenting with rutabagas and turnips, but they'll just have to wait. I've melted butter- real honest-to-God butter- in the skillet, stirred in brown sugar to caramelize. Fresh, juicy pineapple rings- not from a can- encircle not maraschino cherries but lovely candied cherries from Nob Hill Grocers. When the fruit has browned slightly, I pour the sweet, dense batter over it, slide the pan into the oven, set the timer, and peel, dice, and brine the potatoes for tonight. I've glazed the precooked ham so it can just heat in Benny's oven.

So, judges, what was your favorite dish?" The producer stepped back so the cameras could pan over the long table. Tarquin answered. "A crisp almond tart." Sophia's heart began to pound. "Smooth lemony custard. Light as air." She clenched the edge of her worktable. "Only one person chose the boysenberries as an ingredient today. They were ripe, juicy, bursting with flavor. But somewhat difficult to wrestle with in terms of tartness. This contestant made a truly inspired syrup, infused with basil... and lemon thyme, I think." Jonathan shrugged. "I can't wait to find out how this syrup was created." Sophia started to sway. The blogger smiled. "I love lemon. It's bright. It's sunny. But I don't have a big sweet tooth. This dish was not too sweet. It was lovely." "And best of all," Tarquin interrupted, "a little surprise under the tart. Hidden. Using the organic bittersweet chocolate we provided. Well played." "And the flowers!" Jenny sighed. "This plate captures the very essence of summer. Sprinkled with flower petals.

Entertaining Possibilities "Why sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast." - The Queen of Hearts, Alice in Wonderland riding bareback on a triceratops through green galaxies while you ride beside me on your favorite mastodon running a finger over those I love and like a highlighter pen turning them neon noting them forever so I can return to them easily when I need them thinking something good can come of "ethnic cleansing" swimming in an ocean deep and wet enough to fill the eternity of love between these two sheets walking into the vowels of a word like open and becoming it locking away Pandora's box putting evil back in its place for good and swallowing the key lighting myself with a single match then watching me melt warm and liquid over your body cooling gently in the shape of you sitting flat in round anticipation I will be page 233 in the book that you have just opened and I will chew on each delicious moment of every turn as you move page by page closer to me stowing away in your pillowcase and sailing your dreams so that when you are sent to walk the plank I can catch you together we can be the mutiny on any bounty letting my best ideas ripen beside yours on the vine then stomping it all juicy between toes yours and mine aging then bottling it all till the sun falls and we uncork our store one by one and drink forever in the twilight planting a memory watering the spot watching it grow tall, tender, familiar, then putting my ear to its blossom and hearing my grandmother's voice tell me again that I can be both the gift and the giver

Isa, we both love jazz, late-night takeout, trashy comedies, and big juicy hamburgers. But that’s the little stuff. We also love each other. And that’s the big stuff. You deserve to be happy. You deserve to have the family you’ve always longed for. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to be a family, make a family for you and with you. I love you, Isa. I swear to you if you give me the chance, I will die sixty or seventy years from now, still making you happy. Isabela Petrovich, will you be my wife?

Will you be traveling there again? To Istanbul and Arabia and the places where they follow the Koran?" "I hope so," he said, laying aside the golden book very carefully. "The air is so hot there, warm and fragrant, the sky so blue, and the food tastes like nothing here. They have olives and dates and soft cheeses. I think you would like it, my Séraphine. You could dress in pink and gold and mahogany and lounge on silken pillows, listening to strange music. I'd buy you a little monkey with a vest and a hat to make you laugh and I'd sit and watch you and feed you juicy grapes." She smiled sadly and drew off her stays. "And how would we get there, Val?" "I'd hire a ship," he said taking a sip of his red wine. "No, I'd buy a ship- one of our very own. It'll have blue sails and a flag with a rooster on it. We'll take your mongrel and Mehmed and all his cats and set sail with fifty strong men. During the day we'll sit on deck and watch for mermaids and monsters in the waves, and at night we'll stare at the stars and then I'll make love to you until dawn." "And after far Arabia?" she whispered as she drew off her chemise and stood nude save for her stockings and shoes. "What then?" His smile faded and he looked very grave as she took off her shoes and stockings. "Why, Séraphine, then we would journey on to Egypt or India or China or indeed wherever else you please. Or even come round about here, back to foggy, bustling London, where, if nothing else, the pies and sausages are quite good, if that was what you wished. Just as long as I were with you and you with me, my sweet Séraphine.

this.  There has never been a political organization as powerful or as fearsome as the Democrat National Committee.  Yes, there have been tyrants and despots.  There have been Huns and kings and Caesars, but there has never before been a religion-party that could command armies and navies, buy up priests and popes, and reign with blood and horror on the earth for so long.  The oath and covenant to be robed with the priesthood in this organization requires a commitment of the soul.  You cannot leave.  You cannot even die to avoid your obligation.  In return, you will be provided a charm of favor.  The laws of men will not be able to hold you.  The bounty of all nations will be yours for the taking.  The innocent and hard-working people of the world are your sheep to be shorn or slaughtered by your command.  In place of joy you will be provided seemingly endless pleasure.  In place of serenity, you will be driven by the dogs of greed who never tire and never stop.  In place of love, you will receive virgins and children for sex.  In place of salvation, you will receive a long life of power and more wealth than a hundred men could spend in a hundred lifetimes. For some, the cost of this religion-party is too great.  For others, the lure is too great, and life is too short to be wasted trying to earn one’s way to wealth.  Besides, that type of wealth can be stripped away with a single lawsuit by someone who wants it more than the person who earned it.  The promise of eternal life is a shiny and sweet smelling counterfeit of exaltation.  Who wants to eat cold rice, when one can have a tender and juicy steak with the finest wines?  Who wants to heal the sick or feed five thousand when one can have his or her name put on the wing of a hospital or command the harvest of a nation?

Move on to who? It ain’t nobody but you for me. You got something you want to get off ya chest? Because da way I see it, we already wasted months not fucking with each other. I fucked up and you fucked up too. But fuck it. Everything on the table and shit good with our families. Take a nigga back, shut da fuck up, and let a real nigga give you real love.” Rodney hit his blunt, and Juicy’s eyes got big. “Rodney!” she yelled, wondering what had got into him. “If it ain’t yes daddy, I ain’t trying to hear the shit to be real with you.” “Oh, you trying to make this pussy wet?

Séb and I explored the beautiful neighborhood of l'Île Saint-Louis, eating savory crêpes made of buckwheat and filled with creamy goat cheese, crunchy arugula, and juicy tomatoes at one of the cafés, me doing my best to savor the textures. Lunch was followed by the famed Berthillon sorbets and ice creams, the latter of which we ate on the banks of the Seine, Séb drooling over the richness of the flavors. Considering they had over seventy parfums, we'd both found it hard to settle on one. Séb, the adventurer, took café au whisky with another scoop of tiramisu. I'd ended up taking abricot and framboise, always loving how apricot mixed with raspberries, and wanting something cool on this scorcher of a day.

One of the herbals I brought home from the library had a fascinating chapter on herbs and their connection to desire. For Elizabethans, a bundle of rosemary helped arrange an assignation, and an apple suggested libidinous intent. I picture Adlai's reaction to a sprig of rosemary left on his counter, or a juicy Fuji. Better yet, a "Florida butterfly" orchid from the swamp, since the same herbal had an entire page on the sensual properties of the orchid. It called the flower female----"open and inviting"----the root, male----"tuberous and reaching"----and the entire plant "hot and moist in operation.

Don’t forget to grab some groceries too while you’re out then. I’d hate for us to go hungry. I wouldn’t mind some sausage, long and thick for me sink my teeth in. A nice juicy hunk of meat, the kind that you can slap between some toasted, yet soft in the middle buns. Ooh and some popsicles. I do so love to suck on them when I’m hot. And cream, lots of cream.” She managed not to grin as his eyes went slightly out of focus at her innuendos.

Imagine that you have a big juicy golden yellow mango. You’re just about to bite into it when a thought of its origin crosses your mind. Some wonderful farmer, many years ago planted a seed. Like rearing a tiny baby, the farmer tended to his mango saplings with love and care. He used the right kind of soil, a large quantity of water, the best of fertilizers and perfect sunlight. His joy knew no bounds as he watched the seed transform first into a tender green sapling and then into a tree. He protected it like his own baby. A few years later, the tree started flowering and bore small raw mangoes. With the passage of time, the mangoes turned ripe and golden. Then, with gentle wrinkled hands the farmer plucked the mangoes, laid them softly over the basket and carried them to town. From the village to the town, from the farmer to the shopkeeper, traversing through unknown destinations over thousands of miles the mango finally reached your super-store. The love and the labour of so many individuals along with total support from the eco-system have all come together to give birth to this lovely mango. You spotted it the next day, paid for it and now it rests in your hands. As you sink your teeth and bite the mango, you realize that you are lucky to taste the loveliest and juiciest of mangoes. Just like the mango, everything in life is a culmination of the efforts, love and contribution of many people. Can you ever put a price on the many elements which have gone into the divine creation of the mango? You have taken it so much for granted that you don’t realize how expensive it will be to produce even a single mango. And you got it so cheap. How much will you cherish when you bite a mango and know that its worth is hundreds of thousand rupees. And this is the same with everything that we buy or use. Next time when you get dressed, wear your watch, grab your mobile phone or travel by car, realize that their essential value is worth a million dollars. Not only will you be able to enjoy all those to the fullest, but also you will stop complaining about the high cost.

Secrets make up the backbone of a small town. Secrets, gossip, and lies. No one cops up to it. Sweet-looking old biddies talk shit about their friends, but follow it up with a “bless her heart” and everyone pretends it's all right. It doesn’t matter if you try and dress it up with a pretty bow; gossip is gossip is gossip, and I loved every juicy piece I could get.

all right,” said Bianca. “But, one hears things, you know. Mum says―wait, you might fancy blokes? Drugged up for two days and I miss all the juicy bits. Did the Quin introduce you to the joys of the love that dare not speak its name?

Dinner? Oooh. I do so love a man who likes to eat.” She winked. He fought a blush. Him. A blush. What the hell? “Shouldn’t you return to your friends?” Before he did something crazy like invite her back to his place for dessert. “They can wait while I have dinner with my Pookie. I mean, I wouldn’t want to be rude on our first date.” “This is not a date.” “And yet, there’s you, me, and food!” She clapped as she exclaimed the last word, probably because the server arrived bearing a massive platter laden with a ridiculously large steak and all the fixings. Before he’d finished saying thank you to Claude for being so prompt with his meal, she’d sawed off a piece of his porterhouse and popped it in her mouth. As she chewed, eyes closed, she made happy noises. Noises that should not be allowed in public. Noise she should make only while he touched her. Noises that made him snap, “Do you mind? This is my supper.” “Sorry, Pookie. That was so rude of me. Here, have a bite.” The next piece of steak she cut she offered on the tines of her fork, a fork that had touched her lips. Refuse. We don’t share. We— He devoured it, the bite an absolute delight. Juicy, a slight hint of salt and garlic, butter-soft to chew. His turn to sigh. “Damn, that’s good.” “Make that noise again,” she growled. He glanced at her and noticed she stared at his mouth, avidly. Hungrily… It was both flattering and disturbing. He needed to stop this. Right now. “If you don’t mind, I would prefer to eat alone.” “Alone?” “Yes, alone. While I am complimented by your interest in me, I’m afraid you’re mistaken about everything else. We are not on a date. We are not mates. We are nothing. Zilch. Nada.” No point in sugarcoating it. Best to lay it all out now before she got any further with this crazy idea they belonged together. But we do belong to her. Leo ignored his inner feline as he waited for her outburst. Women never took rejection well. Either they resorted to tears and wailing, or they resorted to screaming and ranting. But honesty was best. However, Meena didn’t react as expected. Her lips stretched into a full grin, her eyes sparkled, and she leaned forward— pressing her breasts together, causing her neckline to droop and give him a peek at the shadowy valley they created. “Resistance is futile. But cute. Think of me later when you’re masturbating, I know I’ll be thinking of you.” With a last stolen bite of his dinner, she popped up from her seat and sashayed to the bar. Don’t look. Don’t look. Pfft. He was a cat. Of course he looked, and admired the hypnotic swish of her ass.

First, he snared Meena’s hand and strutted with her to the lineup of long tables covered with platters of food. They’d arrived early enough to get some choice pickings. Times two. The folks handling the barbecue made sure to pile his plate with a few burgers, the patties thick and juicy. Leo found a seat, a pair of chairs actually, but having a spare one available didn’t stop him from yanking Meena onto his lap, the ominous groan of the chair be damned. It seemed he wasn’t the only one to hear the threat of the unhappy seat. “Pookie, we’re going to end up on the ground. We’re too big to both sit in this chair. I’ll just sit in the one beside it.” “Fuck the chair. You’re staying on my lap.” “But why?” “Because I like it.” He loved it when he managed to surprise her. The shape of her mouth so evocative. Before she could ask another stupid question, he stuffed a roasted potato bite in her mouth. She nipped his finger in the process then smiled. “Yummy. Again.” He gave her a crisp cherry tomato. The purse of her lips before she sucked it in mesmerized. There was no more question after that of not sharing the seat. They fed each other, and if the occasional passerby who chuckled or snickered happened to trip over his size-fifteen feet, not his fault. A man needed to sometimes stretch his long legs. -Meena & Leo

Writing stories is like making love. --from Creating Juicy Tales

The five cells are silky-white within, and are filled with a mass of firm, cream-coloured pulp, containing about three seeds each. This pulp is the eatable part, and its consistence and flavour are indescribable. A rich custard highly flavoured with almonds gives the best general idea of it, but there are occasional wafts of flavour that call to mind cream-cheese, onion-sauce, sherry-wine, and other incongruous dishes. Then there is a rich glutinous smoothness in the pulp which nothing else possesses, but which adds to its delicacy. It is neither acid nor sweet nor juicy; yet it wants neither of these qualities, for it is in itself perfect. It produces no nausea or other bad effect, and the more you eat of it the less you feel inclined to stop. In fact, to eat Durians is a new sensation worth a voyage to the East to experience.

But somehow, the fact that I was placed into this loveless familial entity made me a man who knew exactly what love was when I finally got even just a small taste of it. Like that perfect, juicy bite from a fruit that’s ready for the picking when all you’ve ever known was the sourness of an unripe peach. Living without love made me ripe for it.

Longing to please every part of their enticing bodies, I went to town sucking and suckling their engorged ‘lollipops,’ which were pointing at my face. Each mouthful was as yummy as the next. We took turns wrapping our lips and mouths on each other’s length, savoring every drop of our oozing liquid while warm aqua rained down our dripping heads. None of us wanted these intoxicating simulations to end as we rotated in front of each other, savoring the human ‘bratwurst’ delicacies offered us. Leaning against the shower wall, I gave myself to my angels; tilting my longing sex towards their engorged organs as they mounted their faun with passionate devotions. Before long they were sowing their juicy seeds within my sweet offering. I wanted them, I needed them and I loved them; I was eager to reward my heroes with love and gratitude for their unwavering grace.

I waited until I was five months pregnant to tell my mother that I was having a baby. "I'm calling with some news," I said. "God, what?" she responded, sounding hopeful for something juicy and terrible. She could be counted on to be sober and in good spirits until late afternoon, and I timed my calls accordingly but always braced myself. The death of her parents and of her brother, my uncle Mike, who had been gone for almost five years now, and the sale of the land had left her in a raw and scattered state that I still hoped she would recover from, eventually. She seemed to want to talk only about tragedies and bad news and would complain to me that my sister never called her and that nobody ever told her anything, or included her in any of their lives. I cut her off as she began to tell me something I did not want to hear. "I'm calling with good news," I said, starting again as though she might not recognize it as such. "What?" she said, her tone urgent, almost desperate. "I'm going to have a baby," I told her. She let out an exhale, then, sounding exhausted from the three seconds of suspense and relived but not happy, she said, "Well, it's nice to hear some good news, because I've been following this massacre? In Arizona? With the congresswoman who was shot in the head by that lunatic? It's just god-awful." I forced myself to give her a few details calmly, including the due date, then got off the phone as quickly as I could. She sent me an email the next day that said, simply, "I don't have any advice for you. Everything is different now than when I had you. I hope that you'll let me see my grandchild sometime. Your sister won't let me see her kids." I spent that whole day in bed, with a hand on my stomach, terrified.

Harper kissed Brandon last night.” Mom was leaning over the table like she was sharing some seriously juicy gossip. “Well it’s about damn time!” Bree said faking a little exasperation. I looked at her stunned, “How can you even say that? It’s only been two months Bree.” Her face fell to a sympathetic smile, “I know, but you’re only holding back because you’re afraid of letting go of Chase’s memory. Tell me friend, has anything changed in your heart? If Brandon asked you right now to marry him, what would you say?” Yes. I didn’t even have to think about that or answer it for that matter, “But Bree –” “Allowing yourself to be with Brandon isn’t a bad thing. It’s also not discarding what you had with Chase, and it’s what he would want for you. We all do.” That’s exactly what Mom had been saying, I looked between the three of them, my eyes narrowing. “Have you guys been talking about this? Why am I just finding this all out?” “Because you needed the time to heal enough to the point where you would know if you wanted to be with Brandon or not. We didn’t want to push you either way by saying it was okay too early.” Mom said simply. “Sweetie, honestly, if you want to be with him you should. Don’t let anything stop you from loving him and letting him love you and your baby.” “But

that light inside you that drives you. That joy that comes when you do something you love. That small voice that tells you, “I like this. Do this again. You are good at it. Keep going.” That is the juicy stuff that lubricates our lives and helps us feel less alone in the world. Your creativity is not a bad boyfriend. It is a really warm older Hispanic lady who has a beautiful laugh and loves to hug. If you are even a little bit nice to her she will make you feel great and maybe cook you delicious food. Career

Moses watched over the flocks with loving care. He led the young animals to pasture first, that they might have the tender, juicy grass for their food; the somewhat older animals he led forth next, and allowed them to graze off the herbs suitable for them; and finally came the vigorous ones that had attained their full growth, and to them he gave the hard grass that was left, which the others could not eat, but which afforded good food for them. Then spake God, "He that understandeth how to pasture sheep, providing for each what is good for it, he shall pasture My people.

You want a man who will desire you, perhaps even way more that he claims to love you.

Creativity is connected to your passion, that light inside you that drives you. That joy that comes when you do something you love. That small voice that tells you, “I like this. Do this again. You are good at it. Keep going.” That is the juicy stuff that lubricates our lives and helps us feel less alone in the world.

I’d pulled my unruly blond hair out of its usual ponytail for the occasion, loaded on some makeup to play up my teal eyes, and poured myself into a little black skirt, short enough to show off my legs while not offending Lafitte’s nineteenth-century sensibilities. It must have worked, because the pirate was giving me that head-to-toe appraisal guys do on instinct, like they’re assessing a juicy slab of beef and deciding whether they want it rare, medium, or well-done. “You really are lovely, Drusilla.” The timbre of Lafitte’s voice shivered down my spine, and I fought the urge to check out the biceps underneath that linen shirt. Holy crap. This was just wrong. I should not be absorbing his lust.

She recognized Steven’s voice when he said, “Throw that guy out on his big furry—” Sarah turned off the radio. Frank smiled. “Man, it feels good to be loved. Must be that article I wrote about those guys mistaking an elk for a Sasquatch. You know, I bet they could still get their story published. The supermarket tabloids would jump on a juicy tidbit like that.

Ooh conflict, the heart of any juicy story.

end, Jimmy ate some cabbage, a tomato, a red pepper, and a yellow pepper, and for dessert, he ate a lovely, juicy pear. “Jimmy, you're finally yourself again," his oldest brother shouted and ran over to hug him. Jimmy’s middle brother hugged him, too. "How are you feeling now?" he asked.

If you know Paris, or if it's just your fantasy destination, "Who Needs Paris" will take you there. Told through the eyes of Kate, a confident, driven, sexually curious young woman, I gobbled up every juicy experience she has while finding herself I loved this book!" --Robin Schiff, executive producer "Emily in Paris," screenwriter, "Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion.

It is, without a doubt, the most delicious orange I've ever eaten. Notes of raspberry give it a tartness and complexity that leave the classic supermarket navel orange in the dust. "It's sunshine. It's bittersweet. It's perfect. My god," I say, gasping. "I think I just fell in love. I'm going to have a civil partnership with an orange." Leo, who has been fairly quiet for the last half hour, leans forward onto his elbows. "They're not for everyone," he says, taking a segment. "Very fleshy, delicately juicy, and not obscenely sweet." "Fleshy?" Luca says, tipping his glass toward us, playing with his mustache. "Delicately juicy?" I say, raising an eyebrow. I expect Leo to feel embarrassed, but instead he shoots Luca a cheeky grin, eyes buzzing with mischief. "Seriously, Olive," Luca says. "For me, the orange is so special to Sicily. We juice it, we ice it, we bake it, we zest it. It's an aperitif, a pasta dish, a dessert. It's the color of sunset on the outside, and a bleeding heart inside.

But still I hold on everyday, Hoping that; One day, You'll stay back..! To flush my lips carmine white, With berry yield in the fields..! That'll ripen red; The day, Of the union of our souls..! And, the thrist being, Calmly and sedately, Dissolving in juicy petals..!

If God intended for us to draw near to him by consistently denying ourselves the goodness with which he has endowed this world, the we certainly wouldn't have verses like "Taste and see that the Lord is good (Psalm 34:8). Jesus would never gave transformed water into the tastiest wine at the wedding. Set would be a clinical act of reproduction instead of a pleasurable and unifying act of intimacy inside marriage. A God who intended us to ignore our most basic needs and desires would never have dreamt up over 2,000 species of jellyfish to dazzle us or painted the sunset with the most delicate hues of peach against backdrops of vivid tangerine. We serve a God who created giraffes with their spindly necks, puzzle-piece-patterned bodies, and ludicrously long tongues and called it good. We serve a God who granted newborn babies the most delicious-smelling heads and dreamed up the idea of juicy, sun-warmed strawberries. We serve a God who rejoices over us with singing (Zephaniah 3:17) and thought that the world was incomplete without the contribution of musical geniuses like Handel, Mozart, and Beethoven. We do not serve a curmudgeonly or stingy God but a lavish and loving God, one who delights to give us good gifts, starting with his very presence.

Sunny sweet morning. Butterfly flies with colorful wings. The melodious chirping of the dove bird. Asian pigeonwings (Clitoria ternatea) staring steadily. The intoxicating scent of wild white sandalwood. With the gentle touch of Catkin, the life of eighteen year old girl is exhilarating. Close conversation of the swan couple in the clear water lake. The charming freshness of living aloe vera. White cotton clouds blend into the bluey of the Autumn sky. The nectarine taste of the juicy kernel (core) of cane fruit. Fascinated by the extraordinary beauty of nature. Who doesn’t like it? However, sometimes nature is reckless or indifferent. The appearance of the storm at the moment. A warning signal! Surrounded by pitch black darkness. Dusty, stormy cold wind. The brutal rampage of the storm. The terrible power of ferocious thunderbolt. The spleen was surprised. Chases the fear of death. Infinite love for life. Nevertheless, man is helpless to nature. A strong desire to live. Pray to creator with a humble heart. Forgive, protect. Oh great Lord— give peace. Only you are our protector. The controller of this universe. Nature is calm. This is an eternal example of the immeasurable power of the great creator. In this carrying lifetime man is busy like in their own way. When the color of the sky changes— no one knows. Similarly, when the change happens in human mind— he himself does not know.

Indweller (He who resides in the heart and knows all the things of the mind and controls everything.) ————————————————————————— Sunny sweet morning. Butterfly flies with colorful wings. The melodious chirping of the dove bird. Asian pigeonwings (Clitoria ternatea) staring steadily. The intoxicating scent of wild white sandalwood. With the gentle touch of Catkin, the life of eighteen year old girl is exhilarating. Close conversation of the swan couple in the clear water lake. The charming freshness of living aloe vera. White cotton clouds blend into the bluey of the Autumn sky. The nectarine taste of the juicy kernel (core) of cane fruit. Fascinated by the extraordinary beauty of nature. Who doesn’t like it? However, sometimes nature is reckless or indifferent. The appearance of the storm at the moment. A warning signal! Surrounded by pitch black darkness. Dusty, stormy cold wind. The brutal rampage of the storm. The terrible power of ferocious thunderbolt. The spleen was startled. Chases the fear of death. Infinite love for life. Nevertheless, man is helpless to nature. A strong desire to live. Pray to creator with a humble heart. Forgive, protect. Oh great Lord— give peace. Only you are our protector. The controller of this universe. Nature is calm. This is an eternal example of the immeasurable power of the great creator. In this carrying lifetime man is busy like in their own way. When the color of the sky changes— no one knows. Similarly, when the change happens in human mind— he himself does not know.

He's made her a chicken Florentine crepe. The crepe itself is thin and crisp, a beautiful golden-brown blanket around its savory filling. The rotisserie chicken is mixed in with bits of juicy mushrooms, chopped up spinach, and a very healthy helping of Italian blend cheese. Eden can smell the roasted garlic and the hint of nutmeg he threw in. The first bite is like taking a bite out of heaven. She almost inhales the whole damn thing. It's rich, it's buttery, it's perfect.

During the rescue, I want so badly to tell everyone that I could burst. But the story of how Sisman fell in love with Sylvia, maintained a secret relationship with her, promised to get her discharged, and then participated in her decapitation is just too juicy for a summary. I decide to save it for afternoon tea.

Johnny Carson once said that you should never use a big word when a dirty little one would do. I adore language: the sexy sway of lyricism, the clever shuffle of satire. I love ballistic verse and juicy metaphor, and fucking hell do I love expletives. Everyone knows that dropping the F-bomb brings a point home like no other.

I suppose my unwavering devotion and love for my girlfriends motivated me to delve deeper into the realm of psychopathy and uncover the truth of what I experienced and managed to survive. And remember. Speelwalking. I can see myself wandering around on Barcelona streets, aware of danger but still unaware how large their web was and is. Infinite. Growing. Like Space. I feel compelled to share it with others. Timothy. Cannot. Timothy is dead. Age 16. In the Cagmayer house on the Prairie. What can I do? I tried my best and even more than I could. Devoted. Hoping in her return home. It seems that the three people I met in three consecutive years were all psychopaths from broken families, from psychopath parents. Perhaps nazi grandparents. Most likely. Fascist. Criminals. Juicy or not. This is the 21 ST century. “United colors.” “Of Benetton.” All the colors and all the “fasc-ion.” The mafia of short and evil people wasn’t only international as I thought. It is global. I only sensed it yet before. I survived a pandemic of Evil Eyes in Spain, in Europe. So far. On this planet.

Burning books. Like the Christians. Like the Nazis. Like the Communists. Burning knowledge. Eliminating. History. Rewriting. No life under such circumstances. “F…g (bad) people.(sex)” “Making friends” out of our enemies. Danger. Chaos. Life. Death. Life in Spain. Pain or Death. “Suffering or Boredom.” “Love or Power.” Dead born ideas. Stillborn. Unborn. Unholy. Unjust. Unpredictable. Juicy. Unforgiving. Crimes. Like Space. Like Nature. Somehow, they are right, in their own means. But. Barbarians. Their crimes are unforgivable. Therefor, their ideology cannot be considered: Excuse. It is Black Magic. It is considerably, overwhelmingly: Nazi. Instead. Evil. Being a Nazi (predator, psychopath, criminal, murderer, thief…) cannot be your defense speech. Sorry. “Sorry we are “Natural beings” being nazis. We were only “testing” Tomas. Hunting.” Criminals respect no laws, no person, no holy, no god, no life. They respect only the Evil Eye. “Performing.” Acts. Inhumane methods. Inhumane. Reptilian people. Sacrifice. Blood. Vultures. Nazis. And I have to respect their “Human” “Rights.” Imagine. Not telling you their exact names or how they tattoos exactly look like. I cannot defend you from precisely these specific people, vultures, hyenas. But they are part of a bigger thing, so keep your eyes open. The World: Upside. Down.

I showed her the Mobb Deep song “Shook Ones Part II” in the first days or weeks when we got together. Now, all of a sudden, she was excited, showing me a video of some pool party where the crowd was puzzled when the DJ played a little childlike tune with very few notes and sounds. Until they recognized the sampled song being played with the original piano tune of Herbie Hancock underneath, called “Jessica”, she was acting like she was teaching me something or something I didn't know beforehand. She was acting like she was smarter than me, or as if I didn't know anything about music, hip hop, or rap. It was very odd. Who could have shown her that track, that video, and Herbie Hancock? I wondered. So, I played the next song myself - Bob Marley's “Forever Loving Jah”. Then, she played Jonathan Richmann's “Something about Mary”. So, I played the song “Jah is One” from Mosh Ben Ari and certain members of Shotei Hanevua to see her reaction to Israeli reggae music. So she played Notorious BIG and the Junior Mafia’s song: “Get money.” She was singing the chorus shaking her boot. Then I played Tupac Shakur's “Hit 'Em Up.” She played Notorious BIG’s song “Juicy.” So I played his song called “Somebody Gotta Die.” She then played the Moldy Peaches, „We are not those kids, sitting on the couch” So I played Mad Child's “Night Vision” to see if she knew it.

A God who intended us to ignore our most basic needs and desires would never have dreamt up over 2,000 species of jellyfish to dazzle us or painted the sunset with the most delicate hues of peach against backdrops of vivid tangerine. We serve a God who created giraffes with their spindly necks, puzzle-piece-patterned bodies, and ludicrously long tongues and called it good. We serve a God who granted newborn babies the most delicious-smelling heads and dreamed up the idea of juicy, sun-warmed strawberries. We serve a God who rejoices over us with singing (Zephaniah 3:17) and thought that the world was incomplete without the contributions of musical geniuses like Handel, Mozart, and Beethoven. We do not serve a curmudgeonly or stingy God but a lavish and loving God, one who delights to give us good gifts, starting with his very presence.

DON’T EAT THE SEEDS Allison had told Brady not to eat the seeds of the orange... but did he listen to her? No. "I'm telling you, Brady." She told him as he crunched and swallowed the seeds down with the rest of the juicy inside of the orange fruits, "You keep eating the seeds, and one day an orange tree will grow out of you." "As if!" Brady said back with a harsh laugh. Allison looked at him warily... she did not want to see that boy turn into a tree. The two of them were only ten, Allison new to the street. The other kids heeded her warning, Brady was just being stupid. "Where do you think that orange you're eating came from, Brady?" Allison told him as he gobbled down another slice. "From a foolish kid just like you who is now a tree." "No!" Brady yelled back defiantly and Judy only rolled her eyes, giving up. It wasn't until that night that Brady heard a rumble in his stomach. He ran to the bathroom to puke but all that shot out of his mouth was leaves. "HUH?!" He coughed, baffled. He was turning into a tree! He needed Allison's help. He ran out of his house to Allison's down the street... feeling branches shooting from his fingers and causing him agonising grief. As he ran towards Allison's house, he saw her just swinging on a tire on a tree in the front. Smiling to herself in the night. "Allison!" He beckoned. She blinked up, grinning at him as he fell before her and begged. "You were right! You were r-right! Help me! I don't want to be a tree!" "It's your own fault..." Allison just told him straight out. He looked at her astonished at that reply. She got off the wheel and waved for him to follow as she continued. "But I know how to fix it. Follow me." He ran after her, coughing out leaves the whole time till he saw the orange tree in the back where he had snuck an orange one time. He saw a dug up pit and he found it so hard as he felt roots coming out of his toes. "Over here." Allison said, waving him to the pit and he ran over. Suddenly she pushed him into the hole and he looked at her shocked, zap running down his cheeks in replacement of tears. "Why'd you do that?!" "Bad little children deserve a grave like yours." He looked at her in horror but it was too late. The roots from his toes suddenly clawed out of his shoes and dug into the ground. He felt his body tear apart as the tree shot out into the air and spread its leaves and fruit. Allison grinned, picking up a stick from the ground. She waved it around her and in a second turned back into her adult form. A witch. The next day her in her ten year old disguise, called the children of the street over to taste the new fruit of the tree she had in her backyard. As the kids broke open the oranges, they saw it was red inside and urked at the sight. "It's blood!" they screamed and she reassured them. "No. Just blood oranges. A kind of fruit. Try it and see." They tasted it warily, but loved the taste and grinned with red juice all over their teeth. "Mmm! Delicious!" Blood oranges. Now you know the truth.

Does love even have a sex? I doubt it. If you are lucky enough to love, who cares what decorative flesh your lover sports? The divine delta, that juicy fig, the powerful phallus, that scepter of state- each is only an aspect of Aphrodite, after all. We are all hermaphrodites at heart- aren't we? The delta is as soft as Aphrodite, the phallus stiff as Ares' spear. And no one wears anything for long but a coat of dust. Only the songs of passion linger

[…] Miffed at their holiday, Mrs. Langevin sent Paul and Marie’s love letters to a scurrilous newspaper, which published all the juicy bits. A humiliated Langevin ended up fighting pistol duels to salvage Curie’s honor, though no one was shot. The only casualty resulted when Mrs. Langevin KO’d Paul with a chair.

I was praying if anything went down, this bitch knew how to fight like a man since she loved acting like one.

Put them in the egg-cups, Dick. There they are – just under your nose.’ Dick picked an egg up from the plate on which Anne had placed them. It was so hot that he dropped it with a yell, and it broke its shell. Yolk flowed out of it. ‘DICK! You saw me take it out of boiling water!’ said Anne. ‘Now I’ve got to do another. It’s a pity old Timmy isn’t here. He’d soon have licked that broken egg up from the floor and saved me clearing up the mess.’ ‘We’ll eat our breakfast sitting on the steps of your caravan, Anne,’ said Julian. ‘The sun’s so lovely.’ So they all sat there, eating boiled eggs, well-buttered bread with chunky, home-made marmalade afterwards, and then juicy apples. The sun shone

It was an instant orgasm in my mouth, I fucking kid you not. It was sweet with just the right amount of tart, crispy, and juicy, like a Honey Crisp apple and a pear had a love child, and it was currently dancing a very sexy mambo in my mouth.

Astrid, I love you dearly, and I’m insanely happy that you’re getting your flirt on, but having Garrett brush your hand while you were both reaching for the salt isn’t so juicy. Come back to me when there’s a smooch.

The lost nobility of the artwork and of its natural spirit stems from the immoderate love of the people for anecdotes and juicy details.

The skills she has chosen to hone are presentation and charm! Having traveled around the world experiencing so many cultures... she's learned that, at times, it's necessary to change up a dish's presentation... so that, for example, those not accustomed to cuisine such as Japanese... ... will still recognize its deliciousness by its presentation. "There." "Wooow! In a matter of seconds, that entire juicy tenderloin roast... ... has been transformed into a lovely, giant peony blossom! How beautiful! The gleam of the meat is like dew on petals... ... boosting the attractiveness of the dish two- no, threefold!" It's a refined expression of Megumi Tadokoro's hospitality. Her dishes will shine in the spotlight of this year's BLUE, I'm sure.

The irony is that what we most want to avoid in our lives is crucial to awakening bodhichitta. These juicy emotional spots are where a warrior gains wisdom and compassion. Of course, we’ll want to get out of those spots far more often than we’ll want to stay. That’s why self-compassion and courage are vital. Without loving-kindness, staying with pain is just warfare.