Nail Advertising Quotes

Colonel Melchett silently marvelled at the amount of aids to beauty that women could use. Rows of jars of face cream, cleansing cream, vanishing cream, skin-feeding cream! Boxes of different shades of powder. An untidy heap of every variety of lipstick. Hair lotions and “brightening” applications. Eyelash black, mascara, blue stain for under the eyes, at least twelve different shades of nail varnish, face tissues, bits of cotton wool, dirty powder-puffs. Bottles of lotions—astringent, tonic, soothing, etc. “Do you mean to say,” he murmured feebly, “that women use all these things?” Inspector Slack, who always knew everything, kindly enlightened him. “In private life, sir, so to speak, a lady keeps to one or two distinct shades, one for evening, one for day. They know what suits them and they keep to it. But these professional girls, they have to ring a change, so to speak. They do exhibition dances, and one night it’s a tango and the next a crinoline Victorian dance and then a kind of Apache dance and then just ordinary ballroom, and, of course, the makeup varies a good bit.” “Good lord!” said the Colonel. “No wonder the people who turn out these creams and messes make a fortune.” “Easy money, that’s what it is,” said Slack. “Easy money. Got to spend a bit in advertisement, of course.” Colonel

Two principles inspire much of the personal and social dealings of many a citizen in our land: “What can I get out of it?” and “Can I get away with it?” Evil is confused with good, and good is confused with evil. Revolting books against virtue are termed “courageous”; those against morality are advertised as “daring and forward-looking”; and those against God are called “progressive and epoch-making.” It has always been the characteristic of a generation in decay to paint the gates of Hell with the gold of Paradise. In a word, much of the so-called wisdom of our day is made up of that which once nailed our blessed Lord to the Cross.

How that creative thinking is deployed will change and evolve – it will be a continually moving target. To nail your colours to any particular medium or technology will sow the seeds of your destruction.

Heated seats or talk radio? Or music? I can do all of them at once if you want.” He starts flipping switches, making the corresponding sound effects. Leave it to Dan to turn his super fancy Range Rover into the USS Enterprise. My body betrays me and I snuggle deeper into the warming leather seats. “Where are we going anyway?” “Why, the happiest place in Natchitoches, of course.” He waves his hands in a broad gesture to encompass the whole town. I panic for a second when he doesn’t immediately put his hands back on the wheel. “Oh my God, will you be careful!” He smiles at me then glances down at his knee, which can apparently steer just fine. “I’d never endanger your life, fair lady.” I roll my eyes and take a relieved breath. Something walks into my thoughts and takes a seat. Is he…flirting? “Looks like no matter how hard you try, you can’t stop talking like you’re in the middle of a LARP game.” I find myself scratching at my nail polish again, so I tuck my hands under my thighs. “I didn’t know I should be trying to not talk that way. In fact, I try to find every opportunity to practice my verbal skills. I can’t seem out of practice when Craytor returns again.” He holds a fist up in the air. “Heads shall roll, maidens shall be rescued, and elves shall be insulted!” I make sure he sees my blank stare followed by a slow blink before saying, “Right. You never said where we’re going.” “The Phoenix, of course. We don’t exactly have Disney World Natchitoches.” He puts on an über-cheesy smile, which is way more endearing than the fake mischievous one he tried back at school.That smile turns on the heated seats around my heart. Oh God, did I just think that? Gross. He nudges my arm. “Get it? Because I said the happiest place in Natchitoches. And that’s a well-known advertisement slogan for—” I hold my hands up. “I get it. Really, I get it

I learned that female professors and departmental secretaries are the natural enemies of the academic world, as I was privileged to overhear discussions of my sexual orientation and probable childhood traumas from ten to ten-thirty each morning through the paper-thin walls of the break room located adjacent to my office. By these means I learned that although I was in desperate need of a girdle, I was better off than one of the other female professors, who would never lose all that baby weight by working all of the time. As hard as I worked, I just couldn’t get ahead. Showers became a biweekly ritual. My breakfast and lunch were reduced to a couple of cans of Ensure from the cases that I kept under my desk, and in desperation, I once threw one of Reba’s Milk-Bones in my purse so that I could gum it during a seminar, trying to keep peoples’ attention off of what I knew would be my growling stomach. The acne that I had never wrestled with as a teenager decided to make up for lost time with a magnificent debut, and I passed the workday biting my nails with ferocity. My brief forays into romance had convinced me that I would be relegated to love’s bargain bin; none of the single guys that I met could understand why I worked all of the time, and nobody wanted to listen to me talk about plants for hours, anyway. Everything about my life looked pretty well messed up compared with how adulthood had always been advertised to me.