Lauren Movie Quotes

Oh, don't be silly - EVERYONE wants this. Everyone wants to be *us*.

If you want me, just whistle. You know how to whistle, don't you, Steve? You just put your lips together and blow." (as Marie 'Slim' Browning in To Have and Have Not)

An eight-hour flight, and there’s no movie,” I say to myself, glaring at the screenless seat back in front of me. “Maybe they’re hoping your life flashing in front of your eyes will be distraction enough.

I remember I once saw this old movie...; in it the main character was talking about how sad it is that the last time you have sex you don't know it's the last time. Since I've never even had a first time, I'm not exactly an expert, but I'm guessing it's like that for most things in life--the last kiss, the last laugh, the last cup of coffee, the last sunset, the last time you jump through a sprinkler or eat an ice-cream cone, or stick your tongue out to catch a snowflake. You just don't know. But I think that's a good thing, really, because if you did know it would be almost impossible to let go. When you do know, it's like being asked to step off the edge of a cliff: all you want to do is get down on your hands and knees and kiss the solid ground, smell it, hold on to it.

He smiles, but it’s not a smile I’ve ever seen before. It’s a dangerous smile; he’s a movie villain, the seductive one, the one who robs you but fucks you real good first.

Knowing that the voice wouldn’t scream to be heard, they made sure that the world stayed loud with music and movies and 24/7 news and incessant online chatter. If they couldn’t silence the whisper, they’d bombard people with other voices. Infinite choices.

Old movies are black-and-white; they’ve got good guys and bad guys. The thing was, I didn’t want to live in the past anymore. It was time for my life to go full color.

I, a woman, find wearing high heels agreeable only on the very rare occasion that (1) I will be ferried between destinations upon a palanquin or (2) I am going to a cocktail party and, at five feet two, don't want to spend the evening discussing the latest movies with somebody's nipples.

To quote a movie my girlfriend has made me watch at least five times, “When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.

Liam stares at me like I asked if I could have his first-born child. “Everyone knows the books are better than the movies or TV shows.” “Says who?” “Says everyone who reads books!

I make jewelry. I drink caramel machiattos. I wear Hello Kitty to bed. Of course I love romantic comedies,' I said with a smile as we neared my house. But I didn’t just love them. I wanted to live within them. I wanted a love like in the movies.

Here was a short-term kind of girl begging for a long-term relationship from a long-term kind of guy who wanted a fling. It was movie-worthy.

It was movie-worthy. It was laughable. It was … incredibly painful.

Fifty years on, we’re still watching her movies and talking about her. That’s not a dumb woman – trust me!

It feels like I’m an actor in an Italian movie from the ’60s, saying the placeholder lines into the camera, waiting for the real ones that come later.

She had never seen snow before, except in TV shows and movies. It had looked to her like the stars were flaking out of the sky. It had looked like thousands of fireflies in the moonlight; like breathlessness, like time stopping, like the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

I pride myself on being steady and unruffled even with my friends, and so I'm trying to get myself together, but goddamn, it is hard. They're making a movie out of my childhood ideas.

Everyone knows the books are better than the movies or TV shows.” “Says who?” “Says everyone who reads books!” I feel some sense of relief as Liam and I fall into our usual casualness.

I had a lot of memories of Will from the summer he’d lived with us while working for Dad: sitting on the couch with him and Jensen while we watched a movie, passing him in the hallway at night wearing nothing more than a towel around his hips, inhaling dinner at the kitchen table after a long day at the lab. But only from the evil influence of dark magic could I have forgotten about the tattoos.

Stephen had a girlfriend named Libby Tittles, or something unfortunate like that, and Korie had this on-again-off-again thing with her junior high boyfriend. But anyone who’s ever seen a movie, or watched TV, or just had basic awareness of human interaction saw exactly where Korie and Stephen were heading: Humpville.

What do you want to do tonight?” she asked. I shrugged, running my fingers up through the soft tangle of her hair. “This. Be married. Maybe put on a movie. Order some dinner. Go to bed and fuck for a while.” “Can I switch up the order of that a little?” she asked, fingers sliding just under the waistband of my boxers.

best Hitchcock films not made by Hitchcock. Here we go: Le Boucher, the early Claude Chabrol that Hitch, according to lore, wished he’d directed. Dark Passage, with Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall—a San Francisco valentine, all velveteen with fog, and antecedent to any movie in which a character goes under the knife to disguise himself. Niagara, starring Marilyn Monroe; Charade, starring Audrey Hepburn; Sudden Fear!, starring Joan Crawford’s eyebrows. Wait Until Dark: Hepburn again, a blind woman stranded in her basement apartment. I’d go berserk in a basement apartment.

Double Indemnity, Gaslight, Saboteur, The Big Clock . . . We lived in monochrome those nights. For me, it was a chance to revisit old friends; for Ed, it was an opportunity to make new ones. And we’d make lists. The Thin Man franchise, ranked from best (the original) to worst (Song of the Thin Man). Top movies from the bumper crop of 1944. Joseph Cotten’s finest moments. I can do lists on my own, of course. For instance: best Hitchcock films not made by Hitchcock. Here we go: Le Boucher, the early Claude Chabrol that Hitch, according to lore, wished he’d directed. Dark Passage, with Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall—a San Francisco valentine, all velveteen with fog, and antecedent to any movie in which a character goes under the knife to disguise himself. Niagara, starring Marilyn Monroe; Charade, starring Audrey Hepburn; Sudden Fear!, starring Joan Crawford’s eyebrows. Wait Until Dark: Hepburn again, a blind woman stranded in her basement apartment. I’d go berserk in a basement apartment.

Lilies used to be a movie theatre, before. Students went there a lot; every spring they had a Humphrey Bogart festival, with Lauren Bacall or Katherine Hepburn, women on their own, making up their minds. They wore blouses with buttons down the front that suggested the possibilities of the word 'undone'. These women could not be undone; or not. They seemed to be able to choose.

A movie," Oliver repeats, and when I look back at him, I see him watching me with his mysterious, warm blue eyes. He licks his lips and I Have to look away. Oliver is both my former husband and my current crush, but it will forever remain unrequited: our marriage was never really a marriage. It was that-thing-we-did-in-Vegas.

Maybe when you die time folds in on you, and you bounce around inside this little bubble forever. Like the after-death equivalent of the movie Groundhog Day.

Movies now have to involve capes and powers or over-the-top visuals to be a hit. Is it too much to ask to watch regular people try to figure out life?

but why else would he watch my favorite movies? All seventeen versions of them?

It’s a Wonderful Life movie.

It’s true that the world is overrun with terrorists. It’s true that the mother no longer goes to movies in theaters, and she scans for the exits in restaurants. Deeper, worse, the death everywhere, the surgical strikes, the eyes in the sky. Aleppo in the beautiful before, the ravaged after. She puts these thoughts away. If she could, she’d spend the entire day in bed.

We all like to believe that we'd be brave. We'd be the hero in the movie, the one who sacrifices himself to save others, the one who does the right thing when the world around him is wrong. In the movie the right choice is clear. And we leave the theater feeling good about ourselves because we can say, Me, I'd do the right thing. No one says, Me, I'd be the coward. Me, I'd rat out my neighbor to save myself. But that's what people do, mostly

Jena said, "They need to keep their relationship out of our business," and went back to work. Which bizarrely made me defensive of Aunt Lauren and Uncle P all of a sudden, as my aunt and uncle, not the director/writer-producer of the movie I'm working on, and I wanted to yell: "This is why they’re good! Because they’re so friggin passionate! And bring it all to work! Lighten up, people! Let them have their emotions! That’s what makes artists! That’s what makes GREAT artists!!!" But I didn't because I was also pissed.

You should know I’m not going to save this as a memento,” she said, waving the handkerchief defiantly in his face. . “What?” "You know, like in the movies when the gentleman hands the distraught lady a handkerchief and he finds out at the end of the movie that she’s saved it for like decades as a keepsake?” "What movie is that? It sounds awful.

Some gifted people have all five and some less. Every gifted person tends to lead with one. As I read this list for the first time I was struck by the similarities between Dabrowski’s overexcitabilities and the traits of Sensitive Intuitives. Read the list for yourself and see what you identify with: Psychomotor This manifests as a strong pull toward movement. People with this overexcitability tend to talk rapidly and/or move nervously when they become interested or passionate about something. They have a lot of physical energy and may run their hands through their hair, snap their fingers, pace back and forth, or display other signs of physical agitation when concentrating or thinking something out. They come across as physically intense and can move in an impatient, jerky manner when excited. Other people might find them overwhelming and they’re routinely diagnosed as ADHD. Sensual This overexcitability comes in the form of an extreme sensitivity to sounds, smells, bright lights, textures and temperature. Perfume and scented soaps and lotions are bothersome to people with this overexcitability, and they might also have aversive reactions to strong food smells and cleaning products. For me personally, if I’m watching a movie in which a strobe light effect is used, I’m done. I have to shut my eyes or I’ll come down with a headache after only a few seconds. Loud, jarring or intrusive sounds also short circuit my wiring. Intellectual This is an incessant thirst for knowledge. People with this overexcitability can’t ever learn enough. They zoom in on a few topics of interest and drink up every bit of information on those topics they can find. Their only real goal is learning for learning’s sake. They’re not trying to learn something to make money or get any other external reward. They just happened to have discovered the history of the Ming Dynasty or Einstein’s Theory of Relativity and now it’s all they can think about. People with this overexcitability have intellectual interests that are passionate and wide-ranging and they study many areas simultaneously. Imaginative INFJ and INFP writers, this is you. This is ALL you. Making up stories, creating imaginary friends, believing in Santa Claus way past the ordinary age, becoming attached to fairies, elves, monsters and unicorns, these are the trademarks of the gifted child with imaginative overexcitability. These individuals appear dreamy, scattered, lost in their own worlds, and constantly have their heads in the clouds. They also routinely blend fiction with reality. They are practically the definition of the Sensitive Intuitive writer at work. Emotional Gifted individuals with emotional overexcitability are highly empathetic (and empathic, I might add), compassionate, and can become deeply attached to people, animals, and even inanimate objects, in a short period of time. They also have intense emotional reactions to things and might not be able to stomach horror movies or violence on the evening news. They have most likely been told throughout their life that they’re “too sensitive” or that they’re “overreacting” when in truth, they are expressing exactly how they feel to the most accurate degree.

In the front room, a two-story flutter, love notes from the German Frau’s first marriage barely tethered to a structure so it shifted in the wind, one tiny home movie projected on each. A sculpture of marriage, marriage come alive. Lancelot felt tears start to his eyes. It was so exactly right. The Germans saw the gleam, and both of them--like budgerigars on their perch--sidled up and hugged Lancelot around the waist.

Though stories and movies tell us otherwise, love is not a fire. Sure, it flares up, and yes, it can have passions that don’t get talked about a lot within the walls of a church. But there are also tough times, and low times, and sad times. Love is about walking through the fires together, withstanding the rain together, breathing in the present together, and creating a foundation for the future together. And that takes hard work.

What did she say?" Lauren breathed. "She told me to check the oil," Nick replied imperturbably. Despite his outward attitude of total indifference, Lauren couldn't believe that as a younger man he'd been so vulnerable. Surely having his own mother treat him as if he didn't exist must have hurt him terribly. "Is that all she said?" she asked tightly. Unaware that Lauren was not sharing his ironic humor in the story,he said, "No-I think she asked me to check the air in her tires too." Lauren had kept her voice neutral, but inwardly she felt ill. Tears stung her eyes, and she turned her face up to the purpling sky to hide them,pretending to watch the lacy clouds drifting over the moon. "Lauren?" His voice sounded curt. "Hmmmm?" she asked,staring steadfastly at the moon. Leaning forward,he caught her chin and turned her face toward his. He looked at her brimming eyes in stunned disbelief. "You're crying!" he said incredulously. Lauren waved a dismissing hand at him. "Don't pay any attention to that-I cry at movies too.

He turned over the application, and Lauren watched him scanning it, his gaze nearing the bottom where she had listed her job preferences. She knew the exact instant he spotted what she had written. "What the...!" he said, astonished, and then he burst out laughing. "Weatherby and I are going to have to be careful. Which of our jobs do you want most?" "Neither," Lauren said shortly. "I did that because on my way to the interview at Sinco,I decided I didn't want to work there after all." "So you purposely flunked your tests,is that it?" "That's it." "Lauren..." he began in a soft seductive voice that instantly put her on guard. "I've had the dubious pleasure of reading through your file," she clarified, at his stunned look. "I know all about Bebe Leonardos and the French movie star.I even saw the picture of you that was taken with Ericka Moran the day after you sent me away because a "business aquaintance' was coming to see you." "And," he concluded evenly, "you were hurt." "I was disgusted," Lauren shot back, refusing to admit to any of the anguish she'd felt.

Le Boucher, the early Claude Chabrol that Hitch, according to lore, wished he’d directed. Dark Passage, with Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall—a San Francisco valentine, all velveteen with fog, and antecedent to any movie in which a character goes under the knife to disguise himself. Niagara, starring Marilyn Monroe; Charade, starring Audrey Hepburn; Sudden Fear!, starring Joan Crawford’s eyebrows. Wait Until Dark: Hepburn again, a blind woman stranded in her basement apartment. I’d go berserk in a basement apartment. Now, movies that postdate Hitch: The Vanishing, with its sucker-punch finale. Frantic, Polanski’s ode to the master. Side Effects, which begins as a Big Pharma screed before slithering like an eel into another genre altogether. Okay. Popular film misquotes. “Play it again, Sam”: Casablanca, allegedly, except neither Bogie nor Bergman ever said it. “He’s alive”: Frankenstein doesn’t gender his monster; cruelly, it’s just “It’s alive.” “Elementary, my dear Watson” does crop up in the first Holmes film of the talkie era, but appears nowhere in the Conan Doyle canon.

Does this popcorn taste burnt to you?" Miles asked, chewing loudly. "Don't eat that," Roland said, plucking the popcorn from Miles's palm. "Arriane got it out of the trash after Luce set the dorm room kitchen on fire." Miles began spitting frantically, leaning over the edge of Roland's wings. "It was my way of connecting with Luce." Arriane shrugged. "But here, if you must, have some Milk Duds." "Is it weird that we're watching the two of them like a movie?" Shelby asked. "We should imagine them like a novel, or a poem, or a song. Sometimes I feel oppressed by how reductive the filmic medium is." "Hey. Roland didn't have to fly you out here, Nephilim. So don't act smart, just watch. Look." Arriane clapped. "He's totally staring at her hair. I bet he goes home and sketches it tonight. How cuuute!" "Arriane, you got way too good at being a teenager," Roland said. "How long are we going to watch for? I mean, don't you think they've earned a little privacy?" "He's right," Arriane said. "We have other things on our celestial plates. Like..." Her smirk faded when she couldn't seem to think of anything.

Pont Saint Benezet.” “What happened to it?” Luce asked. Daniel glanced over his shoulder. “Remember how quiet Annabelle got when I mentioned we were coming here? She inspired the boy who built that bridge in the Middle Ages in the time when the popes lived here and not in Rome. He noticed her flying across the Rhone one day when she didn’t think anyone could see her. He built the bridge to follow her to the other side.” “When did it collapse?” “Slowly, over time, one arch would fall into the river. Then another. Arriane says the boy-his name was Benezet-had a vision for angels, but not for architecture. Annabelle loved him. She stayed in Avignon as his muse until he died. He never married, kept apart from the rest of Avignon society. The town thought he was crazy.” Luce tried not to compare her relationship with Daniel to what Annabelle had had with Benezet, but it was hard not to. What kind of relationship could an angel and a mortal really have? Once all this was over, if they beat Lucifer…then what? Would she and Daniel go back to Georgia and be like any other couple, going out for ice cream on Fridays after a movie? Or would the whole town think she was crazy, like Benezet? Was it all just hopeless? What would become of them in the end? Would their love vanish like a medieval bridge’s arches? The idea of sharing a normal life with an angel was what was crazy. She sensed that in every moment Daniel flew her through the sky. And yet she loved him more each day.

I'm trying to stitch these scenes from a life together, I am trying to master the art of cinematic collage, but I find the material has become amorphous. I can no longer tell what is true apart from what I want to be tru anymore. It's like a movie I watched when I was high. The images shimmer somewhere in the mirky depths, I know I have watched this film before, but I can't pull up anything I would trust as real, true detail, because everything has been embellished by these years of grief, guilt and remorse. The celluloid has tarnished, it wasn't ever deemed to be worth much, it wasn't stored properly, so now the writer can't even decipher the director's name on the film can. I can no longer separate what happened on screen from the stoner wisecracks I made whilst watching it.

The story we are told of women is not this one. The story of women is the story of love, of foundering into another. A slight deviation: longing to founder and being unable to. Being left alone in the foundering, and taking things into one's own hands: rat poison, the wheels of a Russian train. Even the smoother and gentler story is still just a modified version of the above. In the demotic, in the key of bougie, it's the promise of love in old age for all the good girls of the world. Hilarious ancient bodies at bath time, husband's palsied hands soaping wife's withered dugs, erection popping out of the bubbles like a pink periscope. I see you! There would be long, hobbledy walks under the plane trees, stories told by a single sideways glance, one word sufficing. Anthill, he'd say; Martini! she'd say; and the thick swim of the old joke would return to them. The laughter, the beautiful reverberations. Then the bleary toddling on to an early-bird dinner, snoozing through a movie hand in hand. Their bodies like knobby sticks wrapped in vellum. One laying the other on the deathbed, feeding the overdose, dying the day after, all heart gone out of the world with the beloved breath. Oh, companionship. Oh, romance. Oh, completion. Forgive her if she believed this would be the way it would go. She had been led to this conclusion by forces greater than she. Conquers all! All you need is! Is a many-splendored thing! Surrender to! Like corn rammed down goose necks, this shit they'd swallowed since they were barely old enough to dress themselves in tulle. The way the old story goes, woman needs an other to complete her circuits, to flick her to fullest blazing.

You’d think people like her don’t exist outside of high school movies, but they do. She’s actually gotten better with age. Like vinegar.

We cross a bridge, and all of us girls gasp in unison and crane our necks to the right-hand window of the car, pushing each other to get a sight of Florence by night--the dark velvety river lit up with glittering lights; narrow bridges farther down, the famous one with all the houses on it clustered tight together; a cathedral dome, terra-cotta and white, rising above the marble buildings, illuminated with soft spotlights, exactly like-- “Oh, it’s like a movie!” Paige exclaims in delight. “A Room with a View,” Kendra agrees. “I love that movie.” I do too; I think the bit where Julian Sands goes up to Helena Bonham Carter in the cornfield and kisses her is one of the most romantic scenes I’ve ever seen. I’m just about to agree, when Luca says, “Oh, yes. Italy is very romantic,” so dryly that the words die on my lips. His accent’s light, his English seems very good. “Lots of corruption, lots of bribes. Very romantic.” “Well, he’s a load of fun, isn’t he?” Paige says in my ear.

Tate, I’m sure you’re aware that this is an equal opportunity workplace. I have a unique set of skills—” “Ha!” I laugh. “Okay, Liam Neeson. Good to know I can call you if I get taken.

I dance. I jerk my butt back, clench my fists and push them forward, then reverse the action, so my hands are behind me and my pelvic thrusts. I keep going, simulating what I hope is nothing at all like what I really look like having sex.

Oh sorry, I didn’t realize they didn’t give you the whole script. They try to keep these big horror movies confidential. Anyway, we’re faxing the pages to you now. It’s only two scenes, but she’s a very memorable character, like I said. Congratulations. The director found you very wholesome, exactly the sort of all-American girl next door whose death would inspire a man to kill. His words.

Cami and I both agree it would be nice for them to have a movie about someone from Colombia.

Everyone knows the books are better than the movies or TV shows.” “Says who?” “Says everyone who reads books!

Well, that’s sort of the problem,” I say, glancing down at my feet. “I’m really good at talking. Not so good at the other thing.” “What other thing?” He looks half-confused, half-annoyed. “Kissing. Jesus, keep up, Beefcake.” He frowns. “You’ve never kissed a guy before?” “Of course I have,” I snap. “I’ve kissed plenty of guys.” Well, not plenty. But enough. “So, what’s the problem?” he asks. “I just … it’s never like it is in the movies.” Michael makes a strangled noise and turns toward my nightstand, opening the drawer. “What are you doing?” I ask. “Looking for a gun,” he mutters.

You know that friend who’s always planning something, and gets a little too enthusiastic? That would probably be me. I love birthday parties because there’s cake, any excuse to wear a costume, and movies that I can’t guess the end to. I’m looking for someone who lives to laugh, who wants the wild, chaotic mess that comes with falling in love, and someone who could sit on the cliffs at Hendry’s Beach and listen to the crashing surf until the sun has slipped into the ocean.

Love isn’t about the mushy feelings someone gives you. Screw the butterflies. Movies promote unrealistic endings where the guy gets the girl, no matter the drama and obstacles in their way. Love is dangerous and lethal. It’s about sacrifices and a willingness to protect the people you care for at all costs.

Leaning forward on my knees, I create a little artwork above his lolling head. My fingers swirl along as I write, and I keep having to dip my finger in to add more paint. Above his head is a message, dripping downward in an eerie pattern. It looks like something out of a horror movie or some shit, but instead of something cryptic like REDRUM, it says “Kiddie didler.” “It’s spelled diddler, dumbass.

Unfortunately, I knew exactly what I was suffering from. LIPID (Last Idiot Person I Dated) syndrome: a largely undiagnosed but pervasive disease that afflicts single women. My roommates and I had come up with the term in college, to explain the baffling phenomenon of nostalgia for one’s most recent ex. No matter how absolutely awful that person had been at the time, after a few weeks, the relationship would take on a rosy tint, and wistful little phrases would begin to creep into conversation, like, “I know he cheated on me with three people at the same time, but he was such a fabulous dancer,” or “All right, so he was a raging alcoholic, but when he was sober he did such sweet things! Remember those flowers he bought for me that one time?” Inexplicable, but inevitable. A few weeks of singledom render even the most inexcusable ex charming in retrospect. Hence, LIPID syndrome. As everyone knows, lipids are fats, and fats are bad for you, and therefore ex-boyfriends must be avoided at all costs. This is what comes of having a bio major as a roommate for four years. The one sure way to fight off LIPID syndrome was to distract oneself. True, the only foolproof cure is a new relationship, thus knocking the LIPID back down the dating chain into harmless obscurity, but there are other, temporary diversions. Reading a novel, watching a movie, or delving into the private lives of historical characters. With an anticipatory

I grit my teeth and smile for the camera, already rehearsing rational explanations in my head. 'Oh, that. We were just rehearsing a scene for the movie, Dad. No, we don't actually kiss in the movie, but the director wanted to see what it would look like if we did... Yes, he does play my uncle, but the screenwriter was toying with an incest storyline'... CRAP.

They cleared swiftly, dramatically, like a stage set or a movie; we went from black to stunning blue, the day emerging at once wet and crisp, the trees dripping jewels, the flowers drunk on drinking, their heads lolling with dizzy delight, rivulets etched into our earth, showing us which way the rain ran, downhill, of course, heading, all water, straight for our yet-to-be-pond.

Hey, Julia. What would you say about coming to New York for the weekend? I have a new set of ropes I’ve been meaning to use, and a restaurant I want to try, and a big king-size bed you’d look spectacular tied up to. Oh, and there’s also a new heist movie coming out this weekend that we could see.” She laughed once. “Let me get this straight. I’m being invited to the Big Apple for dinner, a movie and a little bondage?” “Yes, that would be correct.

What do you want to do tonight." "This. Be married. Maybe put on a movie. Order some dinner. Go to bed and f awhile.

It was like a movie.

You’re the first person I talked to after my life went from Disney Channel Original Movie to Chernobyl Diaries.

Benny sits next to me on the porch swing, and we rock back and forth in aware silence. I can barely make out the shape of the house next door through the trees but can see the smoke curling from the chimney, the glow of their outdoor Christmas lights through the branches. The branches. I look up warily. Across the yard, I think I spot the snow-covered branch that cracked me on the head, and I point at it, growling, “You will not get me tomorrow, you fucker.” Benny goes still. “Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?” “It won’t matter.” He studies me. “Why not?” “Because this is the fourth time I’ve been in this day, and no matter what I try to do differently, I keep coming back.” “Like Groundhog Day?” “Is that a movie?” He scrubs a hand down his face. “God, you’re young. I still think it’s one of the weirdest traditions, believing spring is determined by a groundhog’s shadow. Spring starts on the same day every year where I’m from.” I must be staring at him in bewilderment, because he nods. “Yes, Maelyn, Groundhog Day is a movie.” “Then yes. No matter what I do, I keep getting clobbered and waking up on the plane.

Here tit is. Enjoy. “It is better to light a candle than curse the darkness.” ~Eleanor Roosevelt. I’ve always been drawn to the eccentric, the eerie, the unbelievable. I’m a lover of books and beaches, movies and mayhem. If you want to know more, just ask! . . . An Eleanor Roosevelt quote? Is Millie a lesbian? Not that I know of, but now I’m questioning everything. ...Oh, and “tits.” Everyone notice she typed tits again? Classic Millie. Loves tits. Maybe she is a lesbian. Focus.

What is one thing you can do to smile and feel good, even when you are sad (exercise, walk in nature, read, watch a funny movie, play a game, paint, bake, dance to music, volunteer, or even daydream)?

Lana continues, unaware of the shift in my mood. “When I questioned her about it, she told me she would rather not have a daddy at all. It was the first warning sign that I actually listened to. Because my girl is a romantic through and through, ever since she watched her first Dreamland princess movie. She even wrote letters to Santa asking for a daddy, only to be disappointed when her search under the tree came up empty.” A laugh explodes out of me, followed by relief.

Everyone knows the books are better than the movies or TV shows.

1) A “Ladies Who Lunch Party” thrown at the country club. Waiters carried hors d’oeuvres around, kneeling on the ground so that the little girls could reach them. The lunch was nicer than Jane’s wedding shower, possibly nicer than her wedding. 2) A “Movie Premiere Party” where the entire theater was rented out and the kids were allowed as much popcorn and candy as they wanted while watching a double feature of Moana and Monsters, Inc. (Lauren threw up in her bed that night.) 3) A “Camping Party” where each child received a sleeping bag personalized with her name and the backyard was set up with mini pink tents and paper lanterns. Someone was hired to grill the hot dogs and make the s’mores. 4) A “Spa Party” at the Four Seasons downtown where the girls got facials and fluffy pink robes and slippers. (Because what first grader wouldn’t appreciate getting rid of clogged pores?)

He can test me on any movies or TV programmes – from horror, to science fiction, to anime. I’m a very cultured dork

Sometimes, in the movie theater or the supermarket, I look around at people who I suppose live their lives without a chemical crutch, and they amaze me.

We should get back,” Paige is saying. “I don’t want to.” Kendra sighs miserably. “You’ll see Lu--er, him tomorrow!” Paige says. “You can sneak out into the garden again! Just wait till ten, like last night. I’ll get us all watching a movie like the last time--no one had any idea you weren’t reading in bed. Come on, we should get back.” “I wish I could be like you,” Kendra says as they go out onto the terrace. “You just don’t feel things like I do.” “That’s me. Easy, breezy, beautiful CoverGirl. Deep as a puddle of water,” Paige says lightly as their voices fade away. “‘You don’t feel things like I do’?” Kelly hisses, hauling herself to her feet. “That Kendra’s beyond arrogant. Ow, I’ve got a cramp in my foot…” “She’s lucky it’s practically impossible to offend Paige,” I say ironically. “Paige was kind of messing with her there.

And then Paige suggests that they all watch a movie or two in the rec room, and Violet says that she’ll probably go back to the art studio and keep working on her sketches, and Paige exchanges a glance with Kendra that clearly tells Kendra to keep an eye out for Violet in the studio when she sneaks out to see Luigi, and Violet really wants to say that as far as she’s concerned, Kendra and Luigi could be lying on the main lawn snogging each other’s faces off and she, Violet, would just step over them and keep going, because she couldn’t care less about the mess that anyone else is making of their lives right now.

my champagne glass. As I hunt, a hand brushes my arm. I startle, turn, and look into midnight-blue eyes that pierce me. Like in a movie, or a book. Okay, I’ll admit, I’m a certified romantic. I grew up on a steady diet of romantic-comedy

Hell yeah, we’re supposed to like the Beast. In fact, I didn’t understand my reaction to the Beast as a little girl—the tingle he provoked on my skin and between my legs. But now, looking back, I understand that movie was my first foray into porn.

For a few months, the political catastrophe seemed so dire that one's music and movie preferences were no longer considered the ultimate markers of one's moral fitness to fight fascism. Which became, incredibly, a buzzword. Though we could always 'do more' or 'do better', there was a sense that our embarrassment of privileges could be set aside to focus on the task at hand. Though what that task was, I wasn't really sure.

Those are the Tricksters,” Greg said. “They're brothers. They made the black market.” They looked like old-fashioned movie stars; all smoothed-back hair & artistic stubble. Their hair was completely white - a shockingly bright white. But there was something unnatural about their disproportionate handsomeness. It felt artificial, like a neon poisonous frog. The urge to flee gripped the back of Harriet’s neck, seizing up her muscles. They couldn’t notice her, her hindbrain was telling her body. She had to hide.

You tore my underwear? I've never had that happen before. I thought that was a thing in movies.

I'm disappointed this isn't like the movies.

It's hard not to jump to conclusions about it all, but why else would he watch my favorite movies? All seventeen versions of them?

I thought these kind of things only happened in movies.

I finally think back to the movie I was watching last night. Wild Child. Suddenly, the solution appears clearly in my brain.

This is one hell of a date." "Please. We haven't even gotten to that portion of the evening yet." "Just want you let you know you're setting an unattainable bar for future men. I'll never accept movie theatre dates after this." "That's because you're more of a drive-in type of girl anyway.

Have you heard of Formula 1?” I can’t believe I’m asking someone this question. This is most definitely a first for me. “Kind of? Is that the one where they drive around in circles like the movie Cars?