My Valentino Quotes

I write short stories because I am one. I wish I was a novel. Breaths away from midnight, I know my final chapter is close. I look up at Valentino, wondering what life could’ve offered if I had more pages in me.

I cannot live in fear of losing him, for fear of not living my life at all.

My name? My name is nothing compared to Orion.” “No, I love your name. You’ve got tons of nickname opportunities. I got O, and that’s it. Oh, actually, I also had people calling me ‘Oreo’ in high school. Hated that.” “That’s bad, but at least you didn’t have to deal with ‘Valentino’s Day’ every Valentines Day. I had to ask out my friends’ crushes for them like I was Cupid.” “I’m so sorry, Cupid.” “It’s okay, Oreo.

Well, well, my dear. Are we so brokenhearted as that? Is the loss of that terrible prince really worth your life?

Christmastime was always my favorite time of year. It did something to me. It made me softer. More kindhearted. Not an affliction I fall prey to lately. But back then I loved the days leading up to Christmas almost as much as I loved the day itself.

Luck is one thing. It has always been there, it has always been a part of my success. It's a part of everyone's success. Without it, you can't be successful. But luck is something you have to stimulate, something you have to nurture through the choices you make...That's why things have always worked out for me. Things work out not just because I'm lucky, but because I plan ahead. I figure out what I want and I go for it. I've always spent a lot of time trying to surround myself with the right people, the kinds of teammates who could lead me to my goals.

You are beautiful, my dear, truly. Do not ever forget that, even if I am not here to remind you.

Don’t let yourselves get caught up in someone else’s story. Stick to your own tale, my darlings. Write your own ending

but I cannot live in fear of losing him, for fear of not living my life at all.

It's hard to feel sorry for those willing to fling themselves into disaster. They are their own undoing, my dear. They bring it upon themselves. They don't merit your pity.

Her name is Aurora, for she is my shining light in the darkness.

That's my point. Almost all of us have been hurt by our families, but look at us now, making families of our own, with people we choose to love,

Don’t let yourselves get caught up in someone else’s story. Stick to your own tale, my darlings. Write your own ending if you need to.

My ghosts weren't ghosts anymore. They were people and they loved me. Anita was right. They were my family.

but I cannot live in fear of losing him, for fear of not living my life at all. May

Yeah, well, my point is he stuck his neck out for you, and from what I know of him, he doesn’t really seem like the type to do something like that so lightly. Maybe he’s biding his time … or,’ she raised her finger, ‘maybe he’s scared of something … or someone. It’s probably his twin. The bossman. Old blue-eyes-creepysmile. What’s his name again?’ ‘You know his name,’ I said. ‘And can you keep your voice down, please? I’ve taken a vow of secrecy and anyone could be listening to you right now.’ Millie rolled her eyes. ‘And no, I doubt Valentino would be thrilled at the idea of me making out with his brother. Especially after everything that happened with Nic.’ ‘You know,’ said Millie who was now narrowing her eyes, ‘for someone with such a romantic name, he’s a real killjoy, isn’t he? He’s all, Ooh look at me, I’m sensitive and kind and I have a beautiful long name and pretty eyes, and then BAM! Psyche! I’m going to shoot you. You know what I call that, Soph? I call that false advertising, and I’m pretty sure it’s illegal.

I write short stories because I am one. I wish I was a novel. Breaths away from midnight, I know my final chapter is close. I look up at Valentino, wondering what life could've offered if I had more pages in me.

I write short stories because I am one. I wish I was a novel. Breaths away from midnight, I know my final chapter is close. I look up at Valentino, wondering what life could’ve offered if I had more pages in me.

I write short stories because I am one. I wish I was a novel. Breaths away from midnight, I know my final chapter is close. I look up at valentino, wondering what life could have offered if I had more pages in me.

When I did finally come to, I reported to Patrick that Valentino (not the dress designer but the silent movie star) had auditioned Patrick and me. At the climactic moment we had to twirl pantless, go into splits, and leave on the floor an inked impression of our anuses. Valentino had liked my impression more than Patrick’s and called me back for a second audition, which didn’t go so well.

I no longer believed that Valentino would continue to build anything at all. Instead, he would merely leave behind the empire of hope that he had constructed in each of our minds. Leonardo's empire boasted cities more perfect than Plato or Augustine could have imagined. My empire of hope was an Italy defended by citizen soldiers rather than mercenary thugs, free of tyranny and foreign armies, with justice for all regardless of rank or wealth. But I feared I had come to Cesenatico only to wander among its ruins.

 Don't get me wrong, I'm still not trying to die, but watching Valentino live through his End Day has been rough. It's hard not to feel like the author of his story is some cruel bastard who won't give him any wins. There's so many ways he could've died by now-gunshot or beat down with a bat or smashing his head on the curb or that fall back at the apartment or run over in the middle of the street—and he's surviving for what? To get rejected by his agent, and find out his sister is still stuck back home? I can't celebrate my life knowing his final hours are not working out for him.

Svenson jammed the cap down over his ears and marched for the door. “ ‘Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to war we go!’ ” “Mama, how do you stand him?” demanded Frideswiede, youngest of the seven sisters. Her father counterwheeled, snatched his wife in a Rudolph Valentino embrace, and bussed her mightily. “ ‘Farewell, my own. I return with my shield,’ or—What the hell’s the rest of it?” “For you there is no rest of it,” said his helpmeet, tucking back a strand of flaxen hair and casting a somewhat complacent glance at Frideswiede. “Go, then, I will keep a herring in the window for you.” “Mama,” said Gudrun, the second youngest, “it’s a candle you’re supposed to keep in the window.” “Nonsense, my child. A candle would smoke up the glass and drip on the sill. A herring lies looking mournful and bereft. The symbolism is much more meaningful. Also it comes in handy for smorgasbord later. Get ready now at once or you will miss the school bus.

after many hours of feasting and dance, the King and Queen took their sleeping girl to her bedchamber. “Good night, little bird,” said the Queen as she kissed Snow. The girl’s cheek felt as soft as silk on the Queen’s lips. She left the child to her dreams. She was sure they were filled with lovely ladies spinning in circles and colorful dresses and banners swirling all around her. The King took his new wife by the hand and led her to their chamber. The sun, now coming through their curtains, was casting an otherworldly glow. They stood there for a moment looking at each other. Bliss. “I see you have opened my gift,” the King said looking at the mirror. The mirror was oval-shaped and beautifully ornate, gilded, with serpentine designs around the perimeter, and crowned with an engraving of a headpiece fit for a Queen. It was nearly perfect. But something about it made her feel that same uneasiness that had shaken her before the ceremony. Her chest tightened and the room suddenly felt oppressively confining. “What is the matter, my love?” the King asked. The Queen moved to speak, but she could not. “You don’t like it?” he asked, looking crestfallen. “No, my love, it…I’m just…tired. So tired,” she finally muttered. But she couldn’t take her eyes off of the mirror.

Knowing that one man can indeed make a difference, my commitment to the next generation is to leave to them a better world than the one that I was born into" Kendal-Valentino

The Exotic Erotic Cirque Without moving a single muscle, I sat mesmerized in my seat. At that tender age, I had never observed anything like it. This fervent performance was thirty years before Cirque De Soleil’s human circus made its mark in our popular culture. It was also precisely thirty-two years prior to the last movie Stanley Kubrick directed, “Eyes Wide Shut.” The exotic erotic cirque was already playing at Sfera Mascherata di San Valentino di Conte Mario Conti, and I had the opportunity to witness this spectacular extravaganza first hand. At 2:00 A.M., the night was young. My partners in crime, exploring the upstairs, were The Raven King and The Twins (Oscar and Devaj).

Smiling prettily when all you want to do is plunge your freshly manicured hand into someone’s chest and rip their heart to tatters is hard work, but it pays well. I should know - I’ve been ignoring my homicidal instincts for decades. I may be pent up but at least I can buy myself a new pair of Valentino sandals to take the edge off when I need to.

I stir the simmering potion until it turns a bright, gruesome red, the same shade as Ruby Valentino's lips. But it's too bright, too obvious. Then I remember. I reach into the pocket of my dress, past the spool of thread, to the thing I'm looking for. When I pull it out, the leaves are slightly flattened, but it's still intact: the four-leaf clover given to me by the leprechaun in St. Patrick Town. He said it would bring me luck. And I need it now. I drop the green clover into the potion, and within seconds, the color turns a vibrant, grassy green--reminding me of the damp meadow in St. Patrick Town, freshly dewed with rain. The exact shade I need.

No," said James with a smile. "But I am the pirate from my story.

I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.

Distinguish yourself. [Mama] wanted me to be more like her. But Papa had always wanted me to be my own woman. He wanted me to distinguish myself from my mother.

Within the tiny changing space (four poles draped with fancy velvet) hung a dozen fabulous couture gowns from internationally well-known designers such as Christian Dior, Givenchy, Chanel, Yves Saint Laurent, Valentino and Emanuel Ungaro. I was in seventh heaven having this rare and unexpected opportunity to study and scrutinize these exquisite designer dresses. I turned every garment inside out to see how they were sewn, beaded and constructed. That day, floating in a parade boat along other vessels in the middle of the Grand Canal in historic Venezia, my fashion schooling had begun. It was the first day of my professional fashion education.

No, I meant Tulip. Your words led me to believe she’d thrown herself off the cliffs of her father’s shores.” Lucinda answered, “She did, my dear, but was saved by our friend Ursula.

closer to your goal, and that is always frightening, my son, because realizing one’s dreams can be a terrifying venture, for fear they don’t meet one’s expectations.