Nail Extensions Quotes

Landlords took the side streets, typically not in their Saab or Audi but in their “rent collector,” some oil-leaking, rusted-out van or truck that hauled around extension cords, ladders, maybe a loaded pistol, plumbing snakes, toolboxes, a can of Mace, nail guns, and other necessities.

The way my hormones are raging, I would like nothing more than to rip out those cheap extensions on your head and nail them to my wall like a hunting trophy!

Excuse me while I throw this down, I’m old and cranky and tired of hearing the idiocy repeated by people who ought to know better. Real women do not have curves. Real women do not look like just one thing. Real women have curves, and not. They are tall, and not. They are brown-skinned, and olive-skinned, and not. They have small breasts, and big ones, and no breasts whatsoever. Real women start their lives as baby girls. And as baby boys. And as babies of indeterminate biological sex whose bodies terrify their doctors and families into making all kinds of very sudden decisions. Real women have big hands and small hands and long elegant fingers and short stubby fingers and manicures and broken nails with dirt under them. Real women have armpit hair and leg hair and pubic hair and facial hair and chest hair and sexy moustaches and full, luxuriant beards. Real women have none of these things, spontaneously or as the result of intentional change. Real women are bald as eggs, by chance and by choice and by chemo. Real women have hair so long they can sit on it. Real women wear wigs and weaves and extensions and kufi and do-rags and hairnets and hijab and headscarves and hats and yarmulkes and textured rubber swim caps with the plastic flowers on the sides. Real women wear high heels and skirts. Or not. Real women are feminine and smell good and they are masculine and smell good and they are androgynous and smell good, except when they don’t smell so good, but that can be changed if desired because real women change stuff when they want to. Real women have ovaries. Unless they don’t, and sometimes they don’t because they were born that way and sometimes they don’t because they had to have their ovaries removed. Real women have uteruses, unless they don’t, see above. Real women have vaginas and clitorises and XX sex chromosomes and high estrogen levels, they ovulate and menstruate and can get pregnant and have babies. Except sometimes not, for a rather spectacular array of reasons both spontaneous and induced. Real women are fat. And thin. And both, and neither, and otherwise. Doesn’t make them any less real. There is a phrase I wish I could engrave upon the hearts of every single person, everywhere in the world, and it is this sentence which comes from the genius lips of the grand and eloquent Mr. Glenn Marla: There is no wrong way to have a body. I’m going to say it again because it’s important: There is no wrong way to have a body. And if your moral compass points in any way, shape, or form to equality, you need to get this through your thick skull and stop with the “real women are like such-and-so” crap. You are not the authority on what “real” human beings are, and who qualifies as “real” and on what basis. All human beings are real. Yes, I know you’re tired of feeling disenfranchised. It is a tiresome and loathsome thing to be and to feel. But the tit-for-tat disenfranchisement of others is not going to solve that problem. Solidarity has to start somewhere and it might as well be with you and me

The ship's surgeon was a spotty unshaven little man whose clothes, arrayed with smudges, drippings, and cigarette burns, were held about him by an extensive network of knotted string, The buttons down the front of those duck trousers had originally been made, with all of false economy's ingenious drear deception, of coated cardboard. After many launderings they persisted as a row of gray stumps posted along the gaping portals of his fly. Though a boutoniere sometimes appeared through some vacancy in his shirt-front, its petals, too, proved to be of paper, and he looked like the kind of man who scrapes foam from the top of a glass of beer with the spine of a dirty pocket comb, and cleans his nails at table with the tines of his salad fork, which things, indeed, he did. He diagnosed Camilla's difficulty as indigestion, and locked himself in his cabin. that was the morning.

She was decidedly attractive, he saw, but in an ill-natured, ungracious way. Because of his connection with Fitzgerald, Carstairs & Scott, Johnnie had an extensive knowledge of the external appearance and different modes of behavior of a great variety of attractive women: they came up to the office in shoals, with their nails dipped in blood and their faces covered with pale cocoa. And some were charming and simple beneath their masks, and some were complex and arrogant. This girl belonged to the latter type, the type which would ignore or stare surlily at him if he spoke to them, until they learned that the actual money came through him, when their manner sweetened wonderfully. This girl wore her attractiveness not as a girl should, simply, consciously, as a happy crown of pleasure, but rather as a murderous utensil with which she might wound indiscriminately right and left, and which she would only employ to please when it suited her purpose. They were like bad-tempered street-walkers, without walking the street.

For long moments, head back, slowly riding him, she let sensation rule, let her senses expand and fill her mind. All but overwhelmed by sensual delight, by an awareness of her body and its potential for pleasure more extensive and more compelling than ever before, she slowed. He growled, a guttural sound that sparked a completely different awareness. An instant later, even before she could lift her lids, he rolled, taking her with him, trapping them both in a welter of covers. Cushioned in the billows of the bed, he held her beneath him and thrust- hard, deep. With a cry, she arched; as he thrust again, even deeper, she desperately caught her breath, then wrapped her arms about him, lifted her legs and gripped his flanks, and raked her nails across his back as she joined him in frantic urgency as he rode her. Hard, fast, desperate for fulfillment, willing to surrender all just to reach that peak. And then they were there, panting, wanting, reaching, stretching for the glory. It broke upon them, swept them up, shattered them, then on a gust of deep, mindless pleasure, surged through them and left them wrecked. Wrecked with pleasure. Smiling sillily, dizzy with delight, softly laughing, they slumped in each other's arms, and let the moment cradle them.

However, the simple-minded Middle Ages used dramatic and picturesque methods to squeeze out the desired confessions: the rack, the wheel, the bed of nails, impalement, hot coals, etc. In the twentieth century, taking advantage of our more highly developed medical knowledge and extensive prison experience (and someone seriously defended a doctoral dissertation on this theme), people came to realize that the accumulation of such impressive apparatus was superfluous and that, on a mass scale, it was also cumbersome. And in addition . . . In addition, there was evidently one other circumstance. As always, Stalin did not pronounce that final word, and his subordinates had to guess what he wanted. Thus, like a jackal, he left himself an escape hole, so that he could, if he wanted, beat a retreat and write about “dizziness from success.” After all, for the first time in human history the calculated torture of millions was being undertaken, and, even with all his strength and power, Stalin could not be absolutely sure of success. In dealing with such an enormous mass of material, the effects of the experiment might differ from those obtained from a smaller sample. An unforeseen explosion might take place, a slippage in a geological fault, or even world-wide disclosure. In any case, Stalin had to remain innocent, his sacred vestments angelically pure.

Rhi stood in the doorway and watched Henry. He was a fighter. Maybe that’s why she saved him. There was also a slim chance it was because he helped the Kings. “It’s a good thing you called me,” Usaeil, Queen of the Light, said as she came to stand beside Rhi. Rhi could’ve brought Henry to Usaeil’s manor on the west coast of Ireland, but then it would reveal to one and all power she’s managed to keep hidden from them. That was something she wanted to keep to herself. So she got Henry out of the prison and to the outskirts of Dublin. From there, it was simply a matter of asking Usaeil for help. Now all Rhi had to worry about was finding out how much Henry remembered. If he recalled seeing her teleport him out, then she would need to convince him to lie for her. Although Usaeil would want to know how Henry got out of his prison and how Rhi found him. Usaeil hadn’t begun those questions yet. But they were coming. “I’m glad you agreed to help,” Rhi said. Usaeil shoved her black hair over her shoulders and adjusted the coral sheath dress she wore. “He’s aiding the Kings. Why wouldn’t I help him?” Rhi wanted to roll her eyes, but she didn’t. “We might be Light, but we also use humans as the Dark do.” “We don’t kill them.” “No, we sleep with them once and ruin them for any other mortal. We don’t hurt them at all,” she said sarcastically, giving Usaeil a cutting look. Usaeil slid her silver eyes to Rhi. “I can easily toss Henry North out on his ass.” “Do it. What do I care?” “I think you care more than you’re ready to admit. Why else would you want to help him?” Usaeil sighed. “Rhi, we all know you went through hell at Balladyn’s hands. We know it’s going to take time for you to heal, but you will heal.” Rhi wasn’t so sure. She could feel the darkness within her, coiling and shifting. She had to fight to remember what she should do, instead of what the darkness wanted her to do. “Henry is healing nicely,” Rhi said, changing the subject. Usaeil nodded slowly. “His injuries were extensive. Had you not found him when you did, the internal bleeding would’ve killed him in a few hours. By the way, how did you find him again?” This was what Rhi had been waiting for. Everyone knew she couldn’t lie without feeling tremendous pain. She sank her nails into her palms, held Usaeil’s gaze and lied. “I found him in Dublin. As I said, I don’t know how he got there.” “So very odd.” The pain was gut wrenching. It twisted her insides and squeezed her lungs so that she couldn’t breath. Pain exploded inside her head. She began to shake. It was time for Rhi to change the subject again. “You should tell Con we have him.” The queen twisted her lips. “If I do, Con will want to come here and finish healing Henry himself, or want us to bring Henry to him. I’m not in the mood for either.” “Henry will be finished healing soon. What then? You want him to remain? In a place full of Light Fae?” Thankfully, the pain began to dull enough that Rhi could breath easier. “No,” Usaeil said with a frown. “Already his appearance has sparked interest. They’re trying to get in to see him. He’s a mortal, so he’ll succumb to any Fae he encounters.” Rhi took exception to that. “He’s stronger than that.” “He’s human, Rhi. Not a single one can resist us. It’s a fact. Henry is no different.” Rhi didn’t argue, but she knew she was right. Henry was different. She’d seen it the first time she met him in Con’s office months ago. He took in the fact his friends at Dreagan were actually dragon shifters with a nod, his solemn hazel eyes seeing things anew. She bit back a grin as she recalled how he’d become a little flustered when he saw her and learned who she was. Henry’s smile was charming, sweet . . . honest. He looked at her as if she were the only woman on the realm. Even though Rhi understood that it was the fact she was Fae that intrigued him, enthralled him, she took an instant liking to the human who never backed down.

On the basis of this personal investigation, Posidonius wrote an extensive ethnography of the Gauls. He noted the un-Mediterranean houses of the Gauls (the account quoted at the start of this chapter was probably derived from his work). Posidonius was initially shocked by the widespread custom of nailing the heads of defeated enemies to their houses, but noted rather honestly that he gradually became accustomed to it.

I had silver chrome effect polish on my nails and toes but had drawn the line at nail extensions. Anything that interfered with the possible need to take people out was a solid no.

Calling MacKenzie a MEAN GIRL is an understatement. She’s PURE EVIL in hair extensions and sparkly nail polish.

Within the CIA it was widely understood that SAD was the most dangerous assignment in the Agency. Such were the nature of the Top Secret missions they were sent out on that their casualty rate was higher than for any other group of its kind in the world, even though every member of SAD was an experienced, tough-as-nails U.S. Army Delta or Navy SEAL veteran, who underwent further extensive training than even those formidable groups. Once an SAD Special Operations Group team, or SOG, was activated, they were dedicated to complete their mission or die-and more of them had than all the rest of the CIA’s other operatives combined. Scorpion’s initial assignment when he first joined the CIA had been in SAD.