Karaoke With Friends Quotes

She, too, is one of Regin’s friends. They’re poker buddies, sisters of the Wii, and Mari is a vaunted member of the karaoke contingent. Regin has long acted as the witches’ designated driver.” “BFF?” Lachlain asked, brows drawn. “Sisters of the what?” Emma supplied, “Best friend forever and a video game.” Lachlain muttered to Emma, “Your relatives are just no’ right.

I always used to love singing. The first song I knew all the words to was ‘Girl of My Best Friend’ by Elvis. My dad introduced me to his music, and when I got given a karaoke machine by my granddad, my cousin and I recorded a load of Elvis tracks. I wish I still had them so I could have a listen.

...We recognize that smile when we see it in the mirror, or on the faces of our friends, at weddings, anniversaries, christenings, or ordinary afternoons. It's the smile of a man realizing he is no longer a kid, and although he has no idea how it happened, he's pretty sure it would make a cool story if he ever gets a spare minute to piece it all together.

I can say now that fear has no place in my daily life. I'm confident that I can handle whatever comes my way, just like the Carolyn Harris I was at fourteen--the karaoke loving captain of the Science Olympiad team, the steadfast friend, the girl who dreamed big...the Girl Most Likely to Succeed.

One night in Austin, I went out to karaoke with friends, and I was so loaded I jumped onstage and wrestled the microphone from some poor guy in the middle of “Little Red Corvette.” When I went to get a drink afterward, the bartender said, “I’m sorry, you’ve been cut off.” Cut off? Why? For nailing that fucking Prince song? There

The bar’s proprietor, McAfee wrote to his friends, was partial to “shatteringly bad Mexican karaoke music, to which voices beyond description add a disharmony that reaches diabolic proportions

For my friend Fong,” he says, and begins singing John Denver. If you didn’t know it already, now you do: old dudes from rural Taiwan are comfortable with their karaoke and when they do karaoke for some reason they love no one like they love John Denver. Maybe it’s the dream of the open highway. The romantic myth of the West. A reminder that these funny little Orientals have actually been Americans longer than you have. Know something about this country that you haven’t yet figured out. If you don’t believe it, go down to your local karaoke bar on a busy night. Wait until the third hour, when the drunk frat boys and gastropub waitresses with headshots are all done with Backstreet Boys and Alicia Keys and locate the slightly older Asian businessman standing patiently in line for his turn, his face warmly rouged on Crown or Japanese lager, and when he steps up and starts slaying “Country Roads,” try not to laugh, or wink knowingly or clap a little too hard, because by the time he gets to “West Virginia, mountain mama,” you’re going to be singing along, and by the time he’s done, you might understand why a seventy-seven-year-old guy from a tiny island in the Taiwan Strait who’s been in a foreign country for two-thirds of his life can nail a song, note perfect, about wanting to go home.

When most people sing karaoke, they think of themselves as contestants on American Idol, and they sing and perform their hearts out. But I really think people should be thinking of themselves more as temporary DJs for the party. It’s kind of a responsibility. It’s up to you to sing a kick-ass upbeat song that sets the mood for your friends to have fun, drink, and pick up girls and guys.

There’s our homecoming picture. Last Halloween, when I dressed up as Mulan and Peter wore a dragon costume. There’s a receipt from Tart and Tangy. One of his notes to me, from before. If you make Josh’s dumb white-chocolate cranberry cookies and not my fruitcake ones, it’s over. Pictures of us from Senior Week. Prom. Dried rose petals from my corsage. The Sixteen Candles picture. There are some things I didn’t include, like the ticket stub from our first real date, the note he wrote me that said, I like you in blue. Those things are tucked away in my hatbox. I’ll never let those go. But the really special thing I’ve included is my letter, the one I wrote to him so long ago, the one that brought us together. I wanted to keep it, but something felt right about Peter having it. One day all of this will be proof, proof that we were here, proof that we loved each other. It’s the guarantee that no matter what happens to us in the future, this time was ours. When he gets to that page, Peter stops. “I thought you wanted to keep this,” he said. “I wanted to, but then I felt like you should have it. Just promise you’ll keep it forever.” He turns the page. It’s a picture from when we took my grandma to karaoke. I sang “You’re So Vain” and dedicated it to Peter. Peter got up and sang “Style” by Taylor Swift. Then he dueted “Unchained Melody” with my grandma, and after, she made us both promise to take a Korean language class at UVA. She and Peter took a ton of selfies together that night. She made one her home screen on her phone. Her friends at her apartment complex said he looked like a movie star. I made the mistake of telling Peter, and he crowed about it for days after. He stays on that page for a while. When he doesn’t say anything, I say, helpfully, “It’s something to remember us by.” He snaps the book shut. “Thanks,” he says, flashing me a quick smile. “This is awesome.

Michael Fertik took me for dinner and talked to me about the criticism people often level at him, that ‘any change of search results is manipulating truth and chilling free speech’. He drank some wine. ‘But there is a chilling of behaviour that goes along with a virtual lynching. There is a life modification.’ ‘I know,’ I said. ‘For a year Lindsey Stone had felt too plagued to even go to karaoke.’ And karaoke is something you do alone in a room with your friends. ‘And that’s not an unusual reaction,’ Michael said. ‘People change their phone numbers. They don’t leave the house. They go into therapy. They have signs of PTSD. It’s like the Stasi. We’re creating a culture where people feel constantly surveilled, where people are afraid to be themselves.

They’re waiting for us in the… room,” Cora sniffs, pulling back to glance at me through red-rimmed eyes. She swipes at the tears along her cheekbone. “Mandy’s at work. She said it was too hard to be here. Mom and Dad are going to wait out here, but… did you want to come in with me? To say goodbye?” “Of course.” I don’t hesitate. We rescued this dog together, and I’ll be damned if I’m not with Cora when Blizzard takes her last breath. Goddamn. Cora gives a tight nod, then alerts one of the staff that we’re ready to go in. I follow her, a solemn silence settling between us. It’s a quiet, peaceful room, adorned with electronic candles and soft music. Blizzard is lying very still on a dog bed in the center of the floor, her fluffy chest heaving ever so slowly with each breath. I feel my emotions get stuck in my throat when I lay eyes on the dog that has felt like my own for the last ten years. I’d dog-sit her when the Lawsons took family vacations. I’d take her to the dog park with Mandy and Cora, watching her chase tennis balls and make new friends. Blizzard always greeted me first when I’d walk through the front door with Mandy, collapsing onto my feet and rolling over for belly rubs. She always sat beside me at the dinner table, waiting for the snack I’d inevitably offer her, and she always wagged her tail in adoration as I sang karaoke in the Lawson’s living room.

It was here on a rather hot evening in 2007 that Tom Meyers and I, good friends for many years, drank a bit of wine, opened up my new laptop, plugged in a karaoke microphone, and started recording a podcast on a whim.

She remembers the last perfect evening before everything happened, perfect even though she didn’t know everything was about to change. Karaoke night. A bunch of kids from choir cheering each other on. When it was her turn, Hallelujah belted out “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” She went for every melodramatic note, closing her eyes and beating her chest. She got the whole group to sing along. She remembers Jonah taking the stage next. When he sang the opening lines to Garth Brooks’s “Friends in Low Places,” the room went nuts. He put on a cowboy drawl and sent the low notes reverberating through the wooden floorboards. She remembers him tipping an imaginary Stetson at her when he was done. In a week, Hallelujah would get caught making out with Luke Willis. He would humiliate her and start spreading lies about her. She would become someone quiet and sad and resentful. But right then, performance-flushed and surrounded by friends, she couldn’t stop smiling.

i have always been a little bit weird a little too fat a target for bullies and you can’t play with us have you ever overheard your best friend call you just a school friend or been told you can’t play a game cause you’re too big so instead of talking to friends you talk to yourself and your stuffed animals write on whatever you can find dance in your room sing karaoke make magic by yourself poor sweet baby you that little girl just wanted to be included to feel loved to be a part of something

AT KARAOKE, Hanbin’s friends join us and things get fun real fast. They are both yoohaksaeng—rich kids who studied in America for high school and college. I like yoohaksaeng because they tend to be more experimental with sexual positions because they’ve watched a lot of American porn.

Gabrielle, my dear, my sweet, my flower, I, the King of Romance, have come for you!” The person who had appeared was wearing a white tuxedo that was different from everyone else’s plaid pants and blazer combination. He had bright blond hair that was slicked back. His eyes were blue. Gabrielle had seen him numerous times already, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember his name. The blond man walked up the stairs toward her, his hand extended in a grand gesture. “My love, you are the only one whose beauty can captivate me so. Please, allow me, the King of Love, the sweep you off your feet!” The blond knelt before Gabrielle and took her hand in his. He stared into her eyes. Why was he staring into her eyes so hard? It looked like he was trying to drill holes through her with his gaze. Creepy. Gabrielle responded to this man the same way she had done every time he appeared. “Who are you again?” The reaction around the room was instant. The whole class burst out laughing. Ryoko and Serah were the worst perpetrators, bent over the table and howling with laughter as they were, but even Kazekiri was snickering into her hand while trying to look stern. Gabrielle just smiled. She didn’t really know what was so funny. “W-why is it that you can never remember my name?” The blond cried out. “I’m Jameson de Truante, the most handsome man in this entire school. I am so handsome that people often call me the King of Good Looks.” “Hmm…” Gabrielle crossed her arms. That’s right. This boy was Jasmine’s older brother, wasn’t he? She remembered now. However… “I’m sorry, but you’re nowhere near as handsome as Alex.” “Hurk!” Jameson jerked backwards as though he’d been shot through the heart with something, though all this did was cause him to lose his balance. With a loud squawk that reminded her of an Angelisian parocetian (a lizard found on Angelisia that sounded like a parrot), he rolled down the stairs, bounced along the floor, and hit the stage with a harsh thud. And there he lay, insensate to the world around him. “Oh! That was rich!” Ryoko continued to laugh. “He keeps… keeps making passes at you… and you… you can’t even remember his name!! Bwa-ha-ha-ha!” “Serves the jerk right,” Serah added. Kazekiri sighed. “I normally would not approve of such behavior, but Jameson has always been a problem child, so I will let this slide once.” “Um, thank you?” Gabrielle said, not quite sure if she should be grateful or not. “Don’t worry,” Selene said upon seeing her confused look. “You might not understand right now, but you did a very good thing.” “Oh.” Gabrielle paused, and then beamed brightly at her friend. “Okay!” Class eventually settled down, though Jameson remained lying on the floor. Students chatted about this and that. Gabrielle engaged in her own conversation with her friends, discussing the possibility of going to sing karaoke this weekend. Of course, she invited Kazekiri to come as well, to which the young woman replied that she would think about it. Gabrielle hoped that meant she would come. It wasn’t long before the students were forced to settle down as their teacher came in and barked at them. Their homeroom teacher, a stern-looking man with neatly combed gray hair named Mr. Sanchez, took one look at Jameson, sighed, and then said, “Does anyone want to explain why Mr. Truante is lying unconscious on the floor?

Kristen never came home last night. Fuck, I shouldn’t have let her run off. I was just so shocked. It felt like she’d handed me a bomb and it detonated in my face, pelting me with emotional shrapnel. My ears had literally started to ring after what she’d said, and she’d bolted and jumped into the car of some girl she’d met during trivia, and she was gone in an instant. It happened so fast. I’d stayed up, waiting for her in her living room. Calling her cell phone, sending her text messages, begging her to come home and talk to me. She sent me a text around midnight saying only that she was okay, she wasn’t coming back, and to please walk the dog. Everything was finally clear. It all made sense. It was so obvious to me now I wondered how I couldn’t have known. The severe cramps, the spotting. Her history of anemia. The long periods. The walls she put between us. And all the fucked-up things I’ve said to her. That I wouldn’t adopt. That I wanted a huge family. That I’d left Celeste because she didn’t want children. Karaoke night suddenly looked totally different to me, the weeks after it where she’d gone cold—I’d told her that if Tyler didn’t want kids, she shouldn’t be with him. That the kid thing was too important. I’d actually told her that shit. I’d been talking Kristen out of dating me almost daily since the day I met her. Fuck, if only I’d known. I’d had all night to think about what it meant, and it didn’t change anything. I loved her. I couldn’t not be with her. That’s what it kept coming back to. I couldn’t walk away from her—I wasn’t even capable of it. The situation was fucked up and star-crossed, and I didn’t give a shit. She was the woman I loved, so we’d just have to deal with it.

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And while we’re at it, you may have guessed that I also love Ambien; NyQuil (none of this melatonin shit); wine; tequila; piña coladas; margaritas (vodka is for people who want to punish themselves); CBD gummies (I’m solely there for the gummy); a rogue pill a friend has left over after a surgery; half-and-half with a splash of coffee, two Splenda, and three pumps of peppermint; candy; Cinnabon; Wetzel’s Pretzels; Annie’s Pretzels; furry slippers and fuzzy robes; trashy magazines; garbage television; unconfirmed gossip; spas; lasers; luxury; healers of all stripes; extravagant gifts; surprise parties; choreographed dances with friends at any age; karaoke; musicals; Christmas decorations that include a “table tree;” naps; joining gyms I will never go to; hiring trainers I pay up front and then never go to; starting radical diets I never follow through on . . . I overspend, I overeat, I overdo.

She also told me about the night one of her astrophysics friends went to a bar trivia contest where the final question was "What does Kelvin measure?" The winning answer was "heat," but her friend explained that Kelvin measures temperature, not heat, since heat is energy and is measured in energy units like joules or ergs. The astronomer refused to back down, until the battle had to be settled with a chug-off. These astro people are hard-core.