Leopard Fashion Quotes

Why is it that everyone else can look like they’re part of a zombie hunting party, but I still have to worry about fashion?” He won’t stop snickering. “You look like a leopard-spotted Shar-Pei.” I think those are the little pug-like dogs drowning in massive folds of skin. “You’re scarring me, you know. It could haunt me for the rest of my life to be called a wrinkly little dog at the tender age of seventeen.” “Yup. A sensitive girl. That just defines you, Penryn.

Nonfiction at its best is like fashioning a cabinet. It can never be a sculpture. It can be elegant and very beautiful, but it can never be sculpture. Captive to facts - or predetermined form - it cannot fly.

It also must be hard to have a wife like Mrs. Indianapolis. She’s in the fashion industry. She’s not a model or designer, but she is a buyer—not for a retail outlet, but for her four closets, whose combined square footage is probably comparable to Rhode Island. If an article of clothing is leopard print or neon colored, Mrs. Indianapolis either owns it, or soon will.

A silver hairbrush, old and surely precious, with a little leopard's head for London stamped near the bristles. A white dress, small and pretty, the sort of old-fashioned dress Cassandra had never seen, let alone owned- the girls at school would laugh if she wore such a thing. A bundle of papers tied together with a pale blue ribbon. Cassandra let the bow slip loose between her fingertips and brushed the ends aside to see what lay beneath. A picture, a black-and-white sketch. The most beautiful woman Cassandra had ever seen, standing beneath a garden arch. No, not an arch, a leafy doorway, the entrance to a tunnel of trees. A maze, she thought suddenly. The strange word came into her mind fully formed. Scores of little black lines combined like magic to form the picture, and Cassandra wondered what it would feel like to create such a thing. The image was oddly familiar and at first she couldn't think how that could be. Then she realized- the woman looked like someone from a children's book. Like an illustration from an olden-days fairy tale, the maiden who turns into a princess when the handsome prince sees beyond her ratty clothing.

Leopard girl gave a decisive nod and dug out her walkie talkie. “Shadows, we’re pulling out. Disengage in combat and prepare to leave,” she said before frowning at Esmeralda, the sphinx, and Madeline as the blonde popped back up on her feet after pushing the blindfold out of her eyes. “How will you notify your companions that we are leaving the premises?” “The old fashioned way,” Madeline said before turning on her heels and shouting at the top of her lungs, “HEY GUYS! WE’RE LEAVING!” she said as Frank and Frey took down a pair of goblins. Leopard girl did not groan, but her face went completely blank. (Madeline has that effect on most people.)

Lambs are on a constant, unrealistic, irrational, and unnatural quest for perfection. They seek to have bodies with no blemishes or disease; that do not age; that have perfect eyes, noses, and lips all in the right places; that are thin like fashion models’ or muscular like athletes’; that are tall, lacking warts, extra fingers, pimples, scars; that always smell fresh like flowers; etc. There are no Lamb cultures where people do not strive for this inferior thing called perfection, no matter their definition of it. We Leopard folk are nothing like this. We embrace those things that make us unique or odd. For only in these things can we locate and then develop our most individual abilities. Even you, free agent, have an ability given to you by the omnipotent, distracted Supreme Creator.

Wow," she whispered. The clothes definitely looked like something she would wear. Scoop-neck tops and slinky skirts, hipster flare jeans and a leopard camisole. Even the shoes were perfect. Mary Janes with thick, chunky soles, bungee sneakers, and boots. She slipped off her leather jacket, tore off the tag on a fuzzy hooded sweater, and pulled it over her head. She liked the way the sleeves came down to the tips of her fingers. Automatically she poked her thumbs through the weave and smiled.