Not A Damsel In Distress Quotes

I have a fetish for damsels in distress.” “Don’t be sexist.” “Not at all. My services are also available to gentlemen in distress. It’s an equal opportunity fetish.

This isn't a romance. You're not a damsel in distress and I'm not the handsome prince come to save you.

I look up to say something but he puts his finger to my lips and whispers, “Don’t talk. You’ll just spoil my fantasy of rescuing an innocent damsel in distress as soon as you open your mouth.

I don't damsel well. Distress, I can do. Damseling? Not so much.

So are you going to be my knight in shining armor or what?' Kent does a little bow. 'You know I can't resist a damsel in distress.

I’m not a damsel and there is no distress

I'd never been a good damsel in distress. I was a "hands-on" damsel.

I'm done being the damsel in distress. I don't need anyone to save me.

I have to get back there." I said to Adrian. "Into that door." He arched an eyebrow. "What, like sneaking in? How very black ops of you. And oh, you know— dangerous and foolish." "I know." I said, surprised at how calm I sounded as I admitted that. "But I have to know something, and this may be my only chance." "Then I'll go with you in case that guy comes back," he said with a sigh. "Never let it be said Adrian Ivashkov doesn't help damsels in distress.

I've done nothing for the past five years but try to be the hero who protects her. The problem? Heroines don't need protecting.

But you're a prisoner," said Thorne. "I prefer damsel in distress," she murmured. One side of Thorne's mouth quirked up, into that perfect half smile he'd had in his graduation photo. A look that was a little bit devious, and all sorts of charming. Cress's heart stopped, but if they noticed her melting into her chair, they didn't say anything.

She managed a smile. "You're kind of pushy, you know." He shrugged. "I have a fetish for damsels in distress." "Don't be sexist." "Not at all. My services are also available to gentlemen in distress. It's an equal opportunity fetish," he said, and with a flourish, offered his arm again.

Isn't that what a gentleman does? Rescues a damsel in distress?

It [Ashfair House] was an old fashioned house—the sort of house in fact, as Strange expressed it, which a lady in a novel might like to be persecuted in.

I'm a damsel, I'm in distress, I can handle this. Have a nice day!

Because if there was one thing Cress knew about heroes, it was that they could not resist a damsel in distress. And she was nothing if not in distress.

I might be the only chick in the group, but that didn't make me the damsel in distress.

Single ladies, we are not Damsels in Distress…we are Divas that Impress!

Let Valten go save his own damsel in distress. I'm sure there are other maidens he can fall in love with.

Lily lit up. “Do I want to come on a bro road trip with you, rushing to the aid of gorgeous damsel in distress, Jem I’d-love-to-climb-’em Carstairs?

Sober or blotto, this is your motto: keep muddling through.

Aunt Syl must have conveniently stopped reading the childhood fairy tales when the knight left the damsel in distress to pursue a better damsel out of my bedtime routine.

Raise your daughter so she is not a damsel in distress. Raise her so she can be the one saving herself. - Raising A Strong Daughter: What Fathers Should Know by Finlay Gow JD and Kailin Gow MA

Don't talk. You'll just spoil my fantasy of rescuing an innocent damsel in distress as soon as you open your mouth.

What makes you think I'm giving you a ride?” “Because I'm a damsel in distress,” she said. “And you are a knight in whatever. A really dirty car.

Well, sorry pet, I don't want to be fixed. Whatever your little schoolgirl brain told you about men is absurdly wrong. This isn't a romance. You're not a damsel-in-distress and I'm not the handsome prince come to save you.

Want to talk third wave feminism, you could cite Ariel Levy and the idea that women have internalized male oppression. Going to spring break at Fort Lauderdale, getting drunk, and flashing your breasts isn't an act of personal empowerment. It's you, so fashioned and programmed by the construct of patriarchal society that you no longer know what's best for yourself. A damsel too dumb to even know she's in distress.

The only thing true about what you just said was the storybook damsel part - and that only because you're pretty enough to be one.

A damsel in complete distress was a burden to her protectors; one familiar with self defence, not as much.

Lord Marshmoreton: I wish I could get you see my point of view. George Bevan: I do see your point of view. But dimly. You see, my own takes up such a lot of the foreground

Excuse me? "I am not a damsel in distress. If I were, do you think I could do that?" I point to the two unconscious goons I had taken out." "You're not an average damsel in distress, I'll give you that.

Need someone to rescue?” She interrupted him again, spitting her words out with all the rage, contempt, and anger she had bottled up inside. “I’m not a damsel in distress, and you sir, are no knight in shining double breasted, JC Penny!

I accepted being a damn damsel in distress for you. You can be the hunky archangel in distress for once.

You’re not a very pleasant damsel in distress,” Park remarked. “And you’re a shitty Lassie. Timmy never had to wait this long when he fell down a well.

...as your father, my instinct is to protect you ... Other people will want to protect you too. But remember that you are not a damsel in distress, waiting for some prince to rescue you. Forget the prince. With your brain and your resourcefulness, you can rescue yourself.

The proprietor of the grocery store on the corner was bidding a silent farewell to a tomato which even he, though a dauntless optimist, had been compelled to recognize as having outlived its utility.

These days when you kiss a prince you often run the risk of turning him into a frog. But don't let the ogres in shining armor get you down. There is no need for distress - you don't want to be anyone's damsel anyway. Simply remind yourself that you are busy racking up those 'frequent failure points' that will eventually pay for an all expenses paid trip to Mr Right.

See what I mean? You fell off. You're such a damsel in distress.

I'm not really what you'd call a damsel in distress." "I hate fucking damsels. Always in such distress. Who wants a high-maintenance girl like that?

Despite what you may think, you can't control me. You need to understand that I'm not a damsel in distress, this isn't a fairytale, and you sure as hell are no Prince Charming." His mouth dropped open in shock as he pulled back slightly. "But...but...I'm almost freakishly charming. And I'd probably look good in a fluffy shirt.

I saw myself as a knight-errant...but the damsel in distress stabbed me in the back, my sword shattered on the dragon's hide, and my grail turned out to be the bottom of a whiskey bottle.

In the case of our fair maiden, we have overlooked two very crucial aspects to that myth. On the one hand, none of us ever really believed the sorcerer was real. We thought we could have the maiden without a fight. Honestly, most of us guys thought our biggest battle was asking her out. And second, we have not understood the tower and its relationship to her wound; the damsel is in distress. If masculinity has come under assault, femininity has been brutalized. Eve is the crown of creation, remember? She embodies the exquisite beauty and the exotic mystery of God in a way that nothing else in all creation even comes close to. And so she is the special target of the Evil One; he turns his most vicious malice against her. If he can destroy her or keep her captive, he can ruin the story.

The End" is just the beginning.

Alana, we are soldiers, not fucking damsels in distress.

So what if he's hot, sometimes. Like every time I look at him. Besides, annoying he may be, but he's had his shining White Knight Moment, what with the whole saving-me-and-my-best-friend-from-a-brawl-and-probable-jail-time thing. Even if I'm no damsel in distress and he's miles away from Prince Charming, such displays of gallantry, combined with his not-bad-okay-actually-pretty-good looks, make my strange lusty feelings completely justified. Practically obligatory, even.

That you could fix me? What’s more, that I could fix you? Well, sorry pet, I don’t want to be fixed. Whatever your little school-girl brain told you about men is absurdly wrong. This isn’t a romance. You’re not a damsel in distress and I’m not the handsome prince come to save you. You ran. I went to collect my property. End of story

We’re trained to help damsels in distress.” “If you ever call me that again, I’ll kick you in the soft parts.

I don’t need saving – I’m not your damsel in distress And you’re not my knight in tarnished armor. ..... Don’t spare me, Certainly don’t protect me, I won’t break.

Maybe she wasn't a damsel in distress, but it still felt nice to anchor herself to something before casting herself into the unknown.

The knight returns with the damsel in distress," Jameson declared as I made my way toward him. He glanced toward Grayson. "You're the damsel." "I figured

Mosca said nothing. The word ‘damsel’ rankled with her. She suddenly thought of the clawed girl from the night before, jumping the filch on an icy street. Much the same age and build as Beamabeth, and far more beleaguered. What made a girl a ‘damsel in distress’? Were they not allowed claws? Mosca had a hunch that if all damsels had claws they would spend a lot less time ‘in distress’.

You'd better come in handy. Something tells me we won't have time to be saving damsels in distress." Anna's brows knit. "Damsels? You get sliced open, burned, and dashed against the rocks about a thousand times or so. Then we'll see who the damsel is.

My entire life, I saw myself as the beautiful damsel or the graceful maiden. I was the princess searching for her knight. But with my newfound abilities, I finally discovered that, after all this time, I was the powerful witch.

she was looking at him as if he'd just dropped fully formed from the sky.

If what he says is true, that makes him my savior… my knight in shining armor, even if I refuse to buy into being the damsel in distress.

I’m not the damsel in distress. I’m the villain. It’s only a matter of time before he realizes this.

And what if there are no damsels in distress? What if I knew that, and I called your bluff? Don't you think every kitten figures out how to get down, whether or not you ever show up?

[On Female Attraction to Men in Uniform] That male military persona feeds a subconscious, passive-aggressive female desire to dominate the warrior as he is perceived an iconic example of masculinity (particularly amongst traditionally warlike cultures). The damsel in distress theme always struck me as embodying this: the hapless, innocently beautiful woman unwittingly enraptures the heroic male so completely that he would risk all to submit to her at his own peril, and quite in spite of it.

Once upon a time... ...as a fair maiden lay weeping upon a cold tombstone, her heartfelt desire was suddenly made real before her: tall, broad of shoulder, attired in gleaming silver and gold, her knight in shining armor had come to rescue his damsel in distress....

What George was thinking was that the late king Herod had been unjustly blamed for a policy which had been both statesmanlike and in the interests of the public. He was blaming the mawkish sentimentality of the modern legal system which ranks the evisceration and secret burial of small boys as a crime.

I’m no damsel in distress, trust me, I’ve survived a lot more than most, but you can’t underestimate the overwhelming power of someone swooping in to save you after a lifetime of having to save yourself.

Professors have a lot of power.” I almost smiled. “Even medieval history professors?” “Especially medieval history professors,” he assured me. “Knights on horseback and all that?” A responding smile tugged at his mouth. “And damsels in distress.

There are monsters all around us They can be so hard to see hey don't have fangs, no blood-soaked claws They look like you and me. But we're not defenseless We're no damsels in distress Together we can fend off the attack All we gotta do is watch our backs. Your body is beautiful how it is Who you love is nobody's business We all contemplate life and death It's the poet who gives these thoughts breath. The monster is strong, don't be mistaken It thrives on fear-keeps us isolated But together we can fend off its attack All we gotta do is watch our backs. In your darkest hour When the fight's made you weary When you think you've lost your power When you can't see clearly When you're ready to surrender Give in to the black look over your shoulder I've got your back.

It's a damn good thing I'm not the damsel in distress type; we'd all be f*cked.

This hurt is never going away. Ever. And neither is yours. But that doesn't mean life is over.

I guess that,when it's done and you're done and everything has happened,that's when it's time to get up and start making things happen for yourself.

...the Colonel hadn't raised a damsel in distress. He'd raised a damsel who caused distress.

You can't save the damsel if she loves her distress.

I had rescued myself entirely.

Heroes became extinct when saving the world became more important to rescue a damsel in distress.

Oh, come on," he replied. "It's not every day I get to rescue a damsel in distress." "That's because this damsel is usually pretty good at taking care of herself." "Which is why I have to take advantage of every opportunity.

Hey, Arnold," he said. I looked up 'in love with a white girl' on Google and found and article about that white girl named Cynthia who disappeared in Mexico last summer. You remember how her face was all over the papers and everybody said it was such a sad thing?" "I kinda remember," I said. "Well this article said that over two hundred Mexican girls have disappeared in the last three years in that same part of the country. And nobody says much about that. And that's racist. The guy who wrote the article says people care more about beautiful white girls than they do about everybody else on the planet. White girls are privileged. They're damsels in distress." So what does that mean?" I asked. "I think it means you're just a racist asshole like everybody else.

You’re supposed to be the damsel in distress. We’re supposed to save you.” She snorted and pulled her hand away. “Times have changed.” “But what does that make us? Two dudes in distress? Pathetic.

Because of their DNA, most men loved a damsel in distress. Every time a man sees a pretty lass in trouble, even the boorish slob-of-a-man transforms into a chivalrous knight-in-shining-armour. This was why most women (no matter how strong, competent or resourceful) were forced to act shy, demure and helpless so that their men could feel like strong grizzly bears or ferocious mountain lions.

I remind myself that I'm no longer a damsel in distress. I can think this through. What I can't do? Base my decision on fear. Because, while I might be free to make my choice right now, I'll never be free from the consequences of that choice

Gripping his hand, she shook. “The name’s Neve, not damsel in distress.

Correct me if I'm wrong," said the bat, "but would the main ingredient of water soup be water?

Holy shit, I am the damsel in distress and I might just be getting saved.

why is it that we're always the damsels in distress? write more difficult women. write more angry women. write more unlikeable women. write more cunning women. write more women who revel in their wickedness. -show our complexity

He removes his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders, holding onto my arm as he walks me across the street. I feel a little pathetic with him assisting me—I can walk on my own. I don’t object though, and I feel like a hypocrite to the entire feminist movement. I’ve regressed to the damsel in distress.

It takes Elder about 2.5 seconds to reach my room after I com him. "What's wrong?" he asks, skidding through the door. I laugh at the way his eyes search my room, looking for a dragon to slay for his damsel in distress.

Sure you are," Jack replied. He sashayed up next to me, and yes, it was a sashay, he was far too damn smug for his good looks. Damn me for getting all girly inside at the sight of him coming over to rescue my damsel in distress. Then he became the ultimate man. He picked up the flat spare, looked at it, and said "Yep, it's flat." "What are you, a rocket scientist in your spare time?" "Only on the weekends.

Twenty-five minutes ago, I was blissfully invisible. No laughing. No evil grins. No drama. And now? It couldn’t be more dramatic. I’ve got a stepsister masquerading as Cinderella, the chauvinistic villagers think I’m the ugly stepsister, and the boy coming to my side is more likely to snag a prince than I am.

Penelope glared at her, “Madame said that men love damsels in distress. She failed to point out that damsels in distress look wretched, miserable and downright horrid.” “Men do love damsels in distress. We simply need to look lovely while fighting mortal peril.

Normally he was fond of most things. He was a good-natured and cheerful young man, who liked life and the great majority of those who lived it contemporaneously with himself. He had no enemies and many friends. But today he had noticed from the moment he had got out of bed that something was amiss with the world. Either he was in the grip of some divine discontent due to the highly developed condition of his soul, or else he had a grouch. One of the two.

You don't get it. They gave me beauty and song, and then I was left in the woods to grow up for sixteen years before being handed over to you. I don't know anything about ruling. I don't even really know what taxes are. I was in the woods in the real world. In the dreamworld, I hid like a mouse and then organized balls and parties.

Camilla sobbed, and then gently pulled him onto her lap, stroking his head. 'Please. Please get up.' She had read enough fairy tales as a young girl to know that the prince was supposed to wake the love of his life with a kiss. But Envy was a demon, and Camilla was no damsel in distress. She pressed her lips to his forehead. He didn't magically stir.

Okay you guys need the dope on the real story of the princess and the frog...So once upon a time a beautiful independent confident princess came upon a frog sitting by a pond. The frog said to the princess 'I was once a handsome prince until an evil Witch put a spell on me.'...So the smart-assed frog said 'If you will just kiss me I will turn back into a prince. And then you'll marry me move into the castle with my mother and you can cook for me and clean my clothes have my children and live happy ever after while I go rescue a damsel in distress'...Later that night the princess laughed as she sat down to dinner. 'I don't think so ' she said and dug hungrily into her plate of frog's legs. And she lived happily ever after.

You can't just pick up a gun and become a gunfighter, or go off and explore for a new world, or pull a sword out of a stone, or rescue a damsel in distress, or-- so we play games and we read books because the world isn't the world we thought we were supposed to get, the world we thought we'd been promised by somebody. Because things didn't turn out the way they were supposed to. So we go someplace else.

The fantasy bookshelf, complete with beautifully covered books about dragons and witches, is home to the third gargoyle statue, who has really fantastical wings and big claws curling around the miniature book she’s reading. Unlike the others, both of whom look ferocious, this girl looks mischievous, like she knows she’s going to get in trouble for being up way past her bedtime, but she just can’t put the story down. I decide instantly that she’s my favorite and pick out a book from her shelf to read tonight in case I can’t sleep. Then nearly laugh out loud as I trace my finger around the edges of a sticker that reads, “I’m not a damsel in distress; I’m a dragon in a dress.

Well I'm not going to hope that you get hurt, but if you do, remember that you're my damsel in distress, and no one is allowed to carry you." "I don't remember signing a contract." "All the more reason to promise me now." "What if you're not around when I get hurt?" "Send word, I`ll come running." "How big an injury does it have to be? Because sometimes I do this thing when I stand up too quickly and my ankle kind of twists a little---" "Sounds serious. You don't want to put any weight on that. I`d better carry you the next time that happens." "What if I skin my knee?" "I`ll carry you." "Charley horse?" "I`ll carry you." "Chipped toenail?" "Not worth taking a risk. I`ll carry you.” I grin at him [...] I have to admit -- he's funnier and smarter than I've given him credit for.

Before the Prince can save the damsel in distress, he has to slay the dragons that surround her castle. So do we all. Those dragons are our demons, our wounds, our egos, our brilliant ways of denying love to ourselves and others. The ego’s patterns have to be rooted out, detoxed from our system, before the pure love within us can have a chance to come forth.

Is it really for the tournaments or are you going for the women?” “You know, I’m not sure why you always make me out to be such a lady’s man,” Reuben admonished his father mildly. “I’m just looking for the perfect girl for me.” “Well,” growled the duke, “nobody could accuse you of not being diligent in your search, with close attention paid to every subject you study. Very close attention.” The young knight shrugged. “You can’t find the perfect girl if you aren’t looking, can you now? And as for your question—I am indeed going for the tournaments. And if I should happen to stumble over a dragon that needs to be slain or a damsel in distress on the way, I wouldn’t say no to that either.” “You’re mad! Completely mad!

Once upon a time there was a Scottish SAS soldier in Kabul. He met a Soviet Spetsnaz soldier. They were enemies first, then shagged for nine years, fell in love at some stage. Dragons, battles, and damsels in distress in between, until an evil wizard took the Spetsnaz away. The Scot and the damsel battled the vile foes, until the Russian returned, but the evil spell still hat him in its claws. More dragons, battles, knights in not-so shiny armour later, the spell got broken, the Princes got reunited, and our Russian and Scotsman kind of lived happily ever after." (Dan)

It’s going to work.” “Classic,” Roarke said. “What’s going to work? What’s classic? I want my jacket.” “Forget it. You’re going to walk right up to Milo the Mole’s front door, and he’s going to answer.” “I am? He is?” “Damsel in distress, right?” Eve said to Roarke. “A very alluring damsel. Clever, Lieutenant.” “Oh, okay. I get it. I look like I’m in trouble—all alone, unarmed. Harmless. Girl. He opens up to find out what’s what. You should do it,” Peabody told Eve. “You’re the one with the tits. Men are stupid for tits.” “Harsh,” Roarke observed. “But largely true.” “Plus, you’re the type, obviously, who appeals to skinny geeks.” “Oh yeah,” McNab confirmed. “Completely.

They’ve been lying from the start. From the first time we read the words ‘once upon a time,’ we’re fed the idea that these girls—these gorgeous, demure, singing-with-the-wildlife girls—get a happy ending. And I get it. Poor thing had to do some chores around the house, fine. But the idea that she needs a magic old lady to come down and skim off the dirt so the prince will see her beauty? That’s ridiculous. Maybe she should have been working on her lockpicking skills instead of serenading squirrels. She could have busted out, hitched a ride to the castle, and impressed the prince with her safe-cracking prowess. Sorry, magic-fairy lady. She didn’t need your help.

Are we going to do this again?” I grumbled. “Do what?” “The damsel-in-distress and knight-in-shining armor bit.” Pain flashed in his eyes. “That's not how I see us,” he murmured, sliding his hand to the side of my neck. “I told you before, you're no damsel. You're more like a butt-kicking dragon.” He caressed my cheek with his hand. “Oh, thanks.” I attempted to sound annoyed, but his touch melted away the irritation in my voice. “Plus, I've worn armor before, and trust me, it's not my style.

we as authors have been writing about people we aren't for forever. We find a way to empathise, we find a way in. Female characters are no different. All they are are characters. They are people too. Instead of asking yourself, "How do I write this female soldier?" ask yourself, "How do I write this soldier? Where is she from, how was she raised, does she have a sense of humour? Is she big and tall, is she short and petite? How does her size affect her ability to fight? What is her favourite weapon, her least favourite? Why? Is she more logical than emotional? The other way around? Was she an only child and spoiled, was she the eldest of six siblings and a surrogate mother? How does that upbringing affect how she interacts with her team? etc etc and so forth." Notice how the first question gets you some kind of broad, generalised answer, likely resulting in a stereotype, and how the second version asks lots and lots of smaller questions with the goal of creating someone well rounded. One would hope, really, that we as authors ask such detailed questions of all our characters, regardless of gender. So let me, at long last, actually answer the original question: "How do I write a female character?" Write her the way you would write any other character. Give her dimension, give her strength but please also don't forget to give her weaknesses (for a totally strong nothing can beat her kind of girl is not a person, she's again a type - the polar opposite yet exactly the same as the damsel in distress). Create a person.

In England in the 19th century, advances in printing methods, combined with the rise of a prosperous middle class, engendered a booming new industry of books published just for children. Casting about for cheap story material, English publishers laid hands on the subtle, sensual adult fairy tales of the Continental tradition and revised them into simpler stories instilled with Victorian values. Although these simplified versions retained much of the violence of the older stories, elements of sexuality and moral complexity were carefully scrubbed away — along with the fiesty heroines who appeared everywhere in the older tales, tamed now into models of Victorian propiety and passivity. In the 20th century, the Walt Disney Studios watered down the tales further still in popular animated films like Sleeping Beauty and Snow White, continuing the trend of turning active heroines into powerless damsels in distress. Walt Disney considered even the Victorian versions of the tales too dark for 20th century audiences. "It's just that people now don't want fairy stories the way they were written," Disney commented. "They were too rough."

I always imagined rape as this violent scene of a woman walking alone down a dark alley and getting mugged and beaten by some masked criminal. Rape was an angry man forcing himself inside a damsel in distress. I would not carry the trauma of a cliché rape victim. I would not shriek in the midst of my slumber with night terrors. I would not tremble at the sight of every dark haired man or the mention of Number 1’s name. I would not even harbor ill will towards him. My damage was like a cigarette addiction- subtle, seemingly innocent, but everlasting and inevitably detrimental. Number 1 never opened his screen door to furious crowds waving torches and baseball bats. Nobody punched him out in my honor. The Nightfall crowd never socially ostracized him. Even the ex-boyfriend who’d second handedly fused the entire fiasco continued to mingle with him in drug circles. Everybody continued with business as usual. And when I told my parents I lost my virginity against my will, unconscious on a bathroom floor, Carl did not erupt in fury and demand I give him all I knew about his whereabouts so he could greet him with a rifle. Mom blankly shrugged and mumbled, “Oh, that’s too bad,” and drifted into the kitchen as if I’d received a stubbed toe rather than a shredded hymen. Everyone in my life took my rape as lightly as a brief thunderstorm that might have been frightening when it happened, but was easy to forget about. I adopted that mentality as the foundation of my sex life. I would, time and time again, treat sex as flimsily as it started. I would give it away as if it was cheap, second hand junk, rather than a prize that deserved to be earned.