Oversized Sweaters Quotes

She’s wearing bike shorts and a cute, oversized sweater with the word Velaris written across it. I think that’s from a favourite book of hers, but if I ask, we’ll never get out of here on time.

Maria gave her a scrutinizing look. “Do you wear any other color besides black?” Looking down at her black leggings and oversized dark gray sweater, she gave her own scrutinizing look. “This is dark gray.” Maria rolled her eyes. “That is one shade away from black, and you know it.” “No, it’s not.” It’s more like a shade and a half.

would be funny if Mr. Piccolo resembled a piccolo, but he doesn’t. Actually, he’s quite round. More like a bass fiddle. He has a big pouch of a belly that stretches the oversized turtleneck sweaters he always wears. He has a round face, too. He’s mostly bald and his scalp shines like a bowling ball. He wears square eyeglasses, which are always sliding down

Kerah!" "Opal, finally, you little puke," Ronan said. A creature capered from between the woods, a scrawny, hollow-eyed child. She wore an oversized cable-knit sweater and a skullcap pulled down low over her short white-blond hair. Someone might have mistaken her for a human girl if not for her legs, which were densely furred and ended in hooves. "I told you, that's Chansaw's word. You have lips. Call me Ronan," he told her. The little creature threw her arms around his legs and then pranced around him in a hectic circle, her hooves leaving divots. He lifted a foot. "That was my food, come on.

Who do you think is angriest right now? In our country, I mean.” I shrugged. “African Americans?” She made a buzzing noise, a sort of you’re-out-but-we’ve-got-some-lovely-consolation-prizes-backstage kind of a sound. “Guess again.” “Gays?” “No, you dope. The straight white dude. He’s angry as shit. He feels emasculated.” “Honestly, Jacko.” “Of course he does.” Jackie pointed a purple fingernail at me. “You just wait. It’s gonna be a different world in a few years if we don’t do something to change it. Expanding Bible Belt, shit-ass representation in Congress, and a pack of power-hungry little boys who are tired of being told they gotta be more sensitive.” She laughed then, a wicked laugh that shook her whole body. “And don’t think they’ll all be men. The Becky Homeckies will be on their side.” “The who?” Jackie nodded at my sweats and bed-matted hair, at the pile of yesterday’s dishes in the sink, and finally at her own outfit. It was one of the more interesting fashion creations I’d seen on her in a while—paisley leggings, an oversized crocheted sweater that used to be beige but had now taken on the color of various other articles of clothing, and purple stiletto boots. “The Susie Homemakers. Those girls in matching skirts and sweaters and sensible shoes going for their Mrs. degrees. You think they like our sort? Think again.

Honest to God, I hadn’t meant to start a bar fight. “So. You’re the famous Jordan Amador.” The demon sitting in front of me looked like someone filled a pig bladder with rotten cottage cheese. He overflowed the bar stool with his gelatinous stomach, just barely contained by a white dress shirt and an oversized leather jacket. Acid-washed jeans clung to his stumpy legs and his boots were at least twice the size of mine. His beady black eyes started at my ankles and dragged upward, past my dark jeans, across my black turtleneck sweater, and over the grey duster around me that was two sizes too big. He finally met my gaze and snorted before continuing. “I was expecting something different. Certainly not a black girl. What’s with the name, girlie?” I shrugged. “My mother was a religious woman.” “Clearly,” the demon said, tucking a fat cigar in one corner of his mouth. He stood up and walked over to the pool table beside him where he and five of his lackeys had gathered. Each of them was over six feet tall and were all muscle where he was all fat. “I could start to examine the literary significance of your name, or I could ask what the hell you’re doing in my bar,” he said after knocking one of the balls into the left corner pocket. “Just here to ask a question, that’s all. I don’t want trouble.” Again, he snorted, but this time smoke shot from his nostrils, which made him look like an albino dragon. “My ass you don’t. This place is for fallen angels only, sweetheart. And we know your reputation.” I held up my hands in supplication. “Honest Abe. Just one question and I’m out of your hair forever.” My gaze lifted to the bald spot at the top of his head surrounded by peroxide blonde locks. “What’s left of it, anyway.” He glared at me. I smiled, batting my eyelashes. He tapped his fingers against the pool cue and then shrugged one shoulder. “Fine. What’s your question?” “Know anybody by the name of Matthias Gruber?” He didn’t even blink. “No.” “Ah. I see. Sorry to have wasted your time.” I turned around, walking back through the bar. I kept a quick, confident stride as I went, ignoring the whispers of the fallen angels in my wake. A couple called out to me, asking if I’d let them have a taste, but I didn’t spare them a glance. Instead, I headed to the ladies’ room. Thankfully, it was empty, so I whipped out my phone and dialed the first number in my Recent Call list. “Hey. He’s here. Yeah, I’m sure it’s him. They’re lousy liars when they’re drunk. Uh-huh. Okay, see you in five.” I hung up and let out a slow breath. Only a couple things left to do. I gathered my shoulder-length black hair into a high ponytail. I looped the loose curls around into a messy bun and made sure they wouldn’t tumble free if I shook my head too hard. I took the leather gloves in the pocket of my duster out and pulled them on. Then, I walked out of the bathroom and back to the front entrance. The coat-check girl gave me a second unfriendly look as I returned with my ticket stub to retrieve my things—three vials of holy water, a black rosary with the beads made of onyx and the cross made of wood, a Smith & Wesson .9mm Glock complete with a full magazine of blessed bullets and a silencer, and a worn out page of the Bible. I held out my hands for the items and she dropped them on the counter with an unapologetic, “Oops.” “Thanks,” I said with a roll of my eyes. I put the Glock back in the hip holster at my side and tucked the rest of the items in the pockets of my duster. The brunette demon crossed her arms under her hilariously oversized fake breasts and sent me a vicious sneer. “The door is that way, Seer. Don’t let it hit you on the way out.” I smiled back. “God bless you.” She let out an ugly hiss between her pearly white teeth. I blew her a kiss and walked out the door. The parking lot was packed outside now that it was half-past midnight. Demons thrived in darkness, so I wasn’t surprised. In fact, I’d been counting on it.

After a parting eyebrow arch into the mirror, I drift into my room and spend a second staring longingly at a an oversized gray hoodie picturing the cover of one of my favorite books, My Antonia, before tossing it aside and grabbing a boring, cream sweater that hits me about mid-thigh. I have these ridiculously awesome Prada combat boots that would breathe some life into this bleh, but I don’t want to draw that kind of attention tonight, so I settle on a pair of brown Tory Burch riding boots that would only look expensive to the most discerning eye. I shake my head around a few more times, letting my armpit-length auburn waves cascade around my face, before I fasten my hair into a casual French braid. Then I grab my backpack purse, my adorable bear keychain, and my phone out of the Bose dock, and sprint toward the garage door:

Paige and Charlotte had first met on the playground. Without a word, each had recognized the other as a sister in the bonds of chronic sleep deprivation. It wasn’t anything so obvious as dark circles, dirty hair, or the word diapers scrawled on the back of a hang. Or even the fact that they both were wearing their husbands’ oversize sweaters. It was seeing the identical expression, the haunted, bewildered look of the POW on the other woman’s face. How did this happen? This moment of recognition had caused each of them to look away.

She was travel-ready in leggings and an oversized sweater, but even dressed down, she was always the most beautiful woman in any room she stepped into.

Greta suspected Sabine was anorexic—both traditionally and sexually. She hadn’t been laid since her divorce. Romantic relationships seemed to utterly repulse her, and sex wasn’t worth the trouble of making small talk. She’d lost twenty pounds in three months, though that was just a guess, as the only articles of clothing Sabine wore were a pair of off-white overalls and an oversize moth-eaten sweater. Anorexia was about control, Greta remembered having read somewhere, and Sabine lived in chaos. Perhaps exercising control over what she allowed into her body made her life feel less crazy.

She’s wearing leggings and a cute, oversized sweater with the word Velaris written across it. I think that’s from a favorite book of hers, but if I ask, we’ll never get out of here on time.

Gina was pretty in a sexy librarian sort of way. She wore oversized sweaters and tight pencil skirts, her hair was usually pulled back into a loose ponytail or bun. She was the kind of woman who could get away with a look like that and somehow still appear corporate and professional.

I pull a pair of oversized jeans on and one of my favorite holiday sweaters, a cat wearing a Santa hat that says ‘Meowy Christmas.

Now that the weather had turned more chill, he could cheerfully—or what passed as cheerfully in Nate-adjusted terms—pile on oversized sweaters and baggy cords and scarves until he was a moving pile of natural and synthetic fibers.

in a colorful scarf and an oversized beige sweater that made me look like I was the guest speaker at the Yarn of the Month Club

She’s wearing bike shorts and a cute, oversized sweater with the word Velaris written across it. I think that’s from a favourite book of hers,

Ophelia Clark," James breathed. "I've been head over heels for you since the moment I laid my eyes on you. The very second I saw your blonde hair, your chunky Converse, and your oversized sweater that you were wearing in the middle of summer. I knew that I was wrapped around your finger, whether I liked it or not. It was like coming up for air. I love you senselessly. I'm in love with you. I saw this ring six months ago. It’s been stuffed in my nightstand drawer ever since. It was beautiful, and I knew that you deserved to have it on your finger. So, pretty girl, will you marry me?" -- Page 304-205

Ophelia Clark," James breathed. "I've been head over heels for you since the moment I laid my eyes on you. The very second I saw your blonde hair, your chunky Converse, and your oversized sweater that you were wearing in the middle of summer. I knew that I was wrapped around your finger, whether I liked it or not. It was like coming up for air. I love you senselessly. I'm in love with you. I saw this ring six months ago. It’s been stuffed in my nightstand drawer ever since. It was beautiful, and I knew that you deserved to have it on your finger. So, pretty girl, will you marry me?" -- Page 304-305

Chikusho, I thought. This was the famous Imogen Kato, right here! She saw me and glanced down at the magazine I'd been looking at while waiting for my meeting with Chloe, open to the photo spread- of her. God, how embarrassing. I closed the magazine abruptly. It was definitely the same girl, although now her hair was platinum blond with dark roots instead of a mixture of auburn with honey and green apple-colored streaks. Beneath her plaid uniform skirt, she wore deep purple-and-blue-and-silver leggings that had prints of galloping gray unicorns, and over her blouse was a worn-out, oversize, cream-colored cardigan sweater with the belt tied to the side instead of center. Apparently, the uniform dress code was not that strict at this school.

Although a toned body was important in the 1980s, the nation was again distracted by even more ridiculous hair and clothing. I was at my thinnest at this point in time. Also, I’d gained four inches in bangs height. And yet, I squandered my small, perky ass on oversized khaki Bermuda shorts, loafers with argyle socks that I pulled up to my knees, and crewneck wool sweaters with tie-on lace collars. Comedian Karen Kilgariff, of My Favorite Murder, described the 1980s aptly as a time when young girls dressed like they were doing middle-aged secretary cosplay. Barbara had become my style icon.

And Harry's friend Ron isn't much better." She looked at another kid with flame-red hair and a homemade sweater so big the cuffs draped onto his food. "His older brothers are always playing dirty tricks on Slipperens. Just yesterday, they put two second years in the hospital wing with oversized goblin noses. It's going to take a week to shrink them and another to remove the warts. And Ron, he hates anyone who has more money than his family, which is everyone here, except maybe Haggard.