Mil Millington Quotes

my academic career was indifferent to the point of beauty- I was so unremarkable, in every way, that the unvarying precision of my mediocrity achieves a kind of loveliness

Happiness has a high body count.

No, no, no, no, no. Sex should not be fun, okay? Sex can be lots of things - thrilling, romantic, scary, mindless, dirty, dangerous, frantic, forbidden, freaky - but if you're finding it 'fun,' you're doing it wrong.

Zach was sitting in the passenger seat, seemingly calm and happy and content with his place in the world. The git.

I'd thought I'd felt like shit that day, but really I'd barely even entered the intestine.

Humans make mistakes. Fortunately, to compensate for this failing, they also have the capacity to keep secrets and to lie. It’s beautiful, really, if you think about it.

The English and German words are almost identical: “tact” and “takt.” The cultural definitions, however, are about as similar as if they were “goose down” and “blitzkrieg.

She wants to paint the living room yellow. I have not the words.

The annoying thing about time is that it takes time...but no amount of it is enough when you are waiting to be sure. Time alone can tell you what will last.

See if you can spot the difference between these two statements: (a) «Those trousers make your backside look fat.» (b) «You're a repellently obese old hag upon whom I am compelled to heap insults and derision — depressingly far removed from the, 'stupid, squeaky, pocket-sized English women,' who make up my vast catalogue of former lovers and to whom I might as well return right now as I hate everything about you.» Maybe the acoustics were really bad in the dining room, or something.

The efficacy of an arbitrary personal attack is that it clears a path for the important issues.

Just think of Emily Bronte, for example: psychotically bookish - but was there ever a woman screaming out so loudly for a good f***ing? I even suspect that's why Wuthering Heights carries on decades too long rather than sensibly drawing the curtains a little after Cathy's death. It was Bronte saying, 'Look - I'm simply going to keep on writing this stuff until someone comes and shags me raw.

Mostly, however, we've got it smooth and efficient now. We don't have to think. She says, 'What are you doing?', I peer at her with irritation and expel air, we go on about our business. This morning, though, she came upstairs to the attic here while I was sitting in front of the computer doing some work on the net. 'What are you doing?' she asks. Trying to concentrate on something, distracted and harassed, I reply with some degree of acerbic aggravation. 'What does it look like I'm doing?' There's a beat, during which we hold each others eyes, unblinking. It's immediately after this beat has passed that I realize I'm wearing no trousers.

All real estate agents should be put on a decommissioned naval frigate which is then towed out into the deepest part of the Atlantic and sunk. It's rather unfortunate that, in recent years, real estate agents have become comedy betes-noires. Rather like lawyers or used car salesmen. Every time they mention their job they probably get people amusingly making the sign of the cross at them or are subjected to some good-natured, humorous ribbing. This has the effect of distorting what I'm trying to say here, which isn't in the nature of a smiling roll of the eyes and a "Tsk, real estate agents, eh?" but rather "All real estate agents should be put on a decommissioned naval frigate which is then towed out into the deepest part of the Atlantic and sunk.

There is, it's opulently redundant of me to add, a perfectly reasonable and innocuous explanation for why I'm browsing the web alone in my attic with no trousers on, but you're all busy people and I know you have neither the inclination nor the time to waste hearing it. As an image, however, it did rather undercut my sarcasm. Margret — in a brutally savage reversal of tactics — didn't speak. She merely raised her eyebrows and there, revealed, was a face that read, 'I have been waiting thirteen years for this moment.

IT’S THE BREAK FROM ROUTINE THAT’S SO REFRESHING

Langlauf – cross-country skiing – at that; which isn’t even proper skiing, it’s just a way of tricking people into what’s really exercise).

Ursula appears to have an, in my opinion, unhealthy obsession with what I'm thinking. It can't be normal to ask a person, as often as she asks me, "What are you thinking?" In fact, I know it's not normal. Because I'm normal, and I virtually never ask her what she's thinking. I'm apparently not allowed, ever, to be thinking "nothing." Odd, really, when you consider the number of times - during an argument over something or other I've done - I'll have "I don't believe it! What was going through your head? Nothing?" thrown over me. The fact is, I find thinking "nothing" enormously easy. It's not something I've had to work at, either.