Lite Smile Quotes

He smiled at me with full dimple and started peeling his clothes off. God he was so gorgeous. I could watch him all day long - naked.

Her Deep Sea Eyes…！ Where i Love to Die 。。。 She…. Is like a lite ray, From the skies..! Looks like a fairy, From the paradise..! When she moves her feet, Moon walks side by side..! Flower blossoms, On her pink smiles..! Evening falls, When she closes her eyes..! Her awakening, Makes the sun rise..!!! Her scent full breaths, Make the fragrance live..! Her deep sea eyes, Where i love to die..! She...! Is like a lite ray, From the skies..! Looks like a fairy, From the paradise..! 。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。

Our world is full of men and women who do not like powerful women. We have been so conditioned to think of power as male that a powerful woman is an aberration. And so she is policed. We ask of powerful women: Is she humble? Does she smile? Is she grateful enough? Does she have a domestic side? Questions we do not ask of powerful men, which shows that our discomfort is not with power itself, but with women. We judge powerful women more harshly than we judge powerful men. And Feminism Lite enables this.

I'm violently in love with you. I bleed for you." His voice caught. "Before you I was lost. Before you life was gray." "And now?" "Color." He gripped my chin, "Brown eyes, chocolate hair, smile like sunshine." His lips met mine for a soft kiss, "You're the one sacrificing when you're with me. You have to understand that when I look at us, it's like this." "Like what?" I looked around the bedroom. "What do you mean?" "This." He motioned between us. "You're always on higher ground, you're the savior, pulling me out of the dark abyss. You're the lifeline.

But here is a sad truth: Our world is full of men and women who do not like powerful women. We have been so conditioned to think of power as male that a powerful woman is an aberration. And so she is policed. We ask of powerful women: Is she humble? Does she smile? Is she grateful enough? Does she have a domestic side? Questions we do not ask of powerful men, which shows that our discomfort is not with power itself, but with women. We judge powerful women more harshly than we judge powerful men. And Feminism Lite enables this.

So Dad was a tedious, well-connected workaholic. But the other thing you need to understand is that Mom was a living wet dream. A former Guess model and Miller Lite girl, she was tall, curvy and gorgeous. At thirty-eight, she had somehow managed to remain ageless and maintained her killer body. She’s five-foot-nine with never-ending legs, generous breasts and full hips that scoop dramatically into her slim waist. People who say Barbie’s proportions are unrealistic obviously never met my stepmother. Her face is pretty too, with long eyelashes, sculpted cheekbones and big, blue eyes that tease and smile at the same time. Her long brown hair rests on her shoulders in thick, tousled layers like in one of those Pantene Pro-V commercials. One memory seared in to my brain from my early teenage years is of Mom parading around the house one evening in nothing but her heels and underwear. I was sitting on the couch in the living room watching TV when a flurry of long limbs and blow-dried hair burst in front of the screen. “Teddy-bear. Do you know where Silvia left the dry cleaning? I’m running late for dinner with the Blackwells and I can’t find my red cocktail dress.” Mom stood before me in matching off-white, La Perla bra and panties and Manolo Blahnik stilettos. Some subtle gold hoop earrings hung from her ears and a tiny bit of mascara on her eye lashes highlighted her sparkling, blue eyes. Aside from the missing dress, she was otherwise ready to go. “I think she left them hanging on the chair next to the other sofa,” I said, trying my best not to gape at Mom’s perfect body. Mom trotted across the room, her heels tocking on the hard wood floor. I watched her slim, sexy back as she lifted the dry cleaning onto the sofa and then bent over to sort through the garments. My eyes followed her long mane of brown hair down to her heart-shaped ass. Her panties stretched tightly across each cheek as she bent further down. “Found it!” She cried, springing back upright, causing her 35Cs to bounce up and down from the sudden motion. They were thrusting proudly off her ribcage and bulging out over the fabric of the balconette bra like two titanic eggs. Her supple skin pushed out over the silk edges. And then she was gone as quickly as she had arrived, her long legs striding back down the hallway.

The throbbing of the music murky yellow light revealing swaying bodies moving to the beat. Shadowy outlines of tall men the waving hair of the woman. Happy smiles and a heart beating with excitement. Fedoras, suspenders and tattoos.Swing music, pounding base. Laughing with friends. Walking down well lite city streets, feeling humanity all around. ~Swing Dancing

I can't forget your smile That thing that makes your face lite up It's a 100 watt light to the world

Your name is Brighton Jussier. Your friends sometimes call you Bri. Tink calls you Lite Bright,” he said, those beautiful eyes searching mine. “I call you my sunshine. Do you know why? It’s because I saw you smile once, and it was like the sun finally rising after centuries of nothing but night.

When we feel disconnected and undernourished, we can often fall into the trap of distancing ourselves further by hating on the nearest person living “lite” in one form or another (pretending, avoiding, sending wink emoticons). I do it myself. I know a lot of us do as we grapple with the fragmentation going on around us. But I now use my judgy rage as a trigger to get me to come in closer. It goes like this: I feel the hot rage and judgment. Then I stop and I look at the people. I might see their pain, their lostness straight away. Sometimes I imagine them as a little child of seven so I can best see their vulnerability. My anger subsides and I feel compassion in its place. I try to look into their eyes if they allow me. I make sure I’m smiling when I do. I do this at train stations, when I’m bustling down streets; I do it when I’m confronted by others who don’t share my political values or scientific views, a situation that is increasingly causing division among us all. The technique never fails to connect me into our shared humanity. I soften. They soften. Next, and for extra sturdy effect, I say to myself, “I get you.

For the next two hours, he would toy with her, giving her a chance to repent. Whether she did or not made no difference. He fingered the knife in his pocket. The blade was sharp and tonight she would feel it. Her time would run out an hour before sunrise. As with the others, he would weigh down her body with a cement block. Barely alive, she would struggle against death as they all had. The water would fill her lungs. The last thing she would see on this earth would be his eyes, the eyes of her murderer. How long would it take before her family, her friends reported her missing? A day, possibly two? Surely no longer. Then the search would begin. He would watch the news reports, recording them all on his DVR. In a week or two, some tourist or jogger would spot a floater in the Potomac. All evidence washed away, she would be just another woman executed by the D.C. Killer. He would add her disc to his collection. He whiled away the time thinking about his first kill. She had lounged in her bath, thinking she was alone. When he entered the bathroom, she smiled. The expression on his face made her smile falter. He came at her, grasping her by the shoulders. He pushed her down, holding her struggling body under. Her eyes wide with terror, she tried to plead with her murderer, to ask her husband “Why?” He sank her body in the Potomac, the first victim of the D.C. Killer. The door opened. Shannon Miller stood in the breach, surveying the parking lot. Nervous, she started to go back inside, then changed her mind. She peered toward him, her eyes straining to penetrate the mist and gloom. He was a shadow, invisible to her. Seeing no threat, she stepped out, locked the door and hurried across the deserted lot to her car, a red Toyota with more rust than red. The tap-tap of her high heels pulsated on the cracked asphalt. The beat of her shoes matched the throb of his heart. He could hear her heavy, fearful breathing. He smiled. The moon scurried behind the clouds as if hiding its face in horror. He was an avenger, a messenger of God. His mission was to rid the nation's capital of immoral women. Fearing him, prostitutes now walked the streets in pairs. Even in their terror, they still pursued their wicked trade. At times he saw them huddled in groups of three or four. They reminded him of children in a thunderstorm. Like a spirit, he crept in her direction. The only light was cast by the Miller Lite sign and a distant street lamp. The light in the parking lot had burned out weeks ago, throwing it into darkness. He stalked her as a lion does its prey. He moved slowly, silently, low to the ground, keeping the car between them. His dark running suit blended with the night. He was the Dark Angel, the Angel of Death. In another life, he had passed over Egypt, killing the firstborn of those condemned by God. Her eyes darted in every direction, still she didn't see him. He was invisible. Her hands shook as she tried to get the key in the door. The 11 o'clock news reported that another one had been found. If he stuck with his pattern, the D.C. Killer would strike again tonight. By morning a woman would be dead. She prayed it wouldn’t be her. She fumbled, dropping the key ring. She stooped to pick it up, her head turning in every direction, her ears alert to every sound. Now, without seeing him, she sensed him. She lowered her eyes, trying again, successfully this time. She turned the key. There was a click. She sighed, unaware that she had been holding her breath. The dome light flashed as she opened the door. He was on her in an instant. Their bodies slammed against the door. The light blinked out. He held her in an iron grip with one hand over her mouth and the blade poking into her