Peachy Quotes

How many wives have told their husbands, “I’m fine,” when they really mean, “I want to cut your balls off with a butcher knife”? How many men have told their girlfriends, “You look fine,” when they really mean, “You need to go back to the gym and work out—a lot.” It’s the universal way of saying we’re just peachy—when we’re really anything but.

You okay, Sam?” “Ha-ha, why wouldn’t I be? Everything is peachy! I’m okay. I’m better than okay.” “Okay. I only ask because you haven’t stopped staring at me for the last four hours.” “You lie with all your lies!

Pilots are never ‘peachy,’ girl. We’re spirited.” “Or,” I added, “briskly energized by the prospect of dealing death to the coming enemies.” “Or that,” Cobb said. “If you’re psychotic.

Peachy.

I'm as peachy as a peachy peach!

Are you okay?" I sighed,my sodden coat chilling me to the bone. "Peachy.Made a new friend." He pulled me up by the hand,unzipping my coat and yanking it off me. "Shirt,too,please." "No!" "It's only fair. I seem to recall you making me strip the first time we met.

It's experiences in life that give us something to write about, and since good fiction is applied tension, you'll have an arsenal of good material if life hasn't been peachy (and not a whole lot if it has).

I’m just peachy. Even managed to keep most of my clothes on and everything. (Vane) Yeah, you do that. Don’t want your scrawny body making my Sunshine go blind or anything. (Talon) Trust me, if she hasn’t gone blind looking at your fat, hairy ass, mine’s not going to hurt her any. (Vane) Hairy? Excuse me, but you definitely have me confused with your brother. (Talon)

Fine’s a funny word, don’t you think? I don’t think there’s another like it in the English language that says so much while actually saying so little. How many wives have told their husbands, “I’m fine,” when they really mean, “I want to cut your balls off with a butcher knife”? How many men have told their girlfriends, “You look fine,” when they really mean, “You need to go back to the gym and work out—a lot.” It’s the universal way of saying we’re just peachy—when we’re really anything but.

I walked towards her. Jean-Claude grabbed my arm. "Do not harm her, Anita. She is under our protection." "I swear to you that I will not lay a finger on her tonight. I just want to tell her something." He released my arm, slowly, like he wasn't sure it was a good idea. I stepped next to Monica, until our bodies almost touched. I whispered into her face, "If anything happens to Catherine, I will see you dead." She smirked at me, confident in her protectors. "They will bring me back as one of them." I felt my head shake, a little to the right, a little to the left, a slow precise movement. "I will cut out your heart." I was still smiling, I couldn'tseem to stop. "Then I will burn it and scatter the ashes in the river. Do you understand me?" She swallowed audibly. Her health-club tan looked a little green. She nodded, staring at me like I was the bogey man. I think she believed I'd do it. Peachy keen. I hate to waste a really good threat

If all I can say is I'm not in this swamp, I'm not in this swamp then there is not a rope in front of me and there is not an alligator behind me and there is not a girl sitting at the edge eating a hot dog and if I believe that, then dying would be the only answer because then Death couldn't come and say Peachy to me anymore and after all she has a brother who believes in hope.

She's fine," said Declan, defensive. "You're fine, right?" She gave him a look. "Peachy." "See? Both Alex and her astounding wit have made it here intact. Her sense of humour seems to be M.I.A, but I'm pretty sure that was a pre-existing condition.

How ya doing?” Gabby’s face came into view, and she grinned down at me. She’d stopped doing her healing thing, and the pain rushed in. “I’m just peachy,” I quipped, throat scratchy. “Only hurts when I breathe or blink or exist, if I’m being honest.

Empires die, like all of us dancers in the strobe-lit dark. See how the light needs shadows. Look: wrinkles spread like mildew over our peachy sheen; beat-by-beat-by-beat-by-beat-by-beat-by-beat, varicose veins worm through plucked calves; torsos and breasts fatten and sag...as last year's song hurtles into next year's song and the year after that, and the dancers' hairstyles frost, wither, and fall in chemotherapeutic tufts; cancer spatters inside this tarry lung, in that ageing pancreas, in this aching bollock; DNA frays like wool, and down we tumble; a fall on the stairs, a heart-attack, a stroke; not dancing but twitching...They knew it in the Middle Ages. Life is a terminal illness.

Peachy. Alrighty, then. She’d just get in her car, run home to check her clothes, hair, and makeup, walk across the street to Jason’s apartment, knock on his door, stare at his masculine hotness in stupid adoration, probably insert her foot into her mouth fifty-five times in under five minutes, then go back to her place and relive the embarrassment all night long while replaying what she should’ve done or said had she been a sophisticated woman, instead of a blundering moron. Done and done. Piece of cake.

I would love to to go somewhere else and pick peachy fruits in the early morning from the back of an elefunt.

The Tuscan countryside whizzed by in a kaleidoscopic whirl of shapes and colors. Green grass and trees melded with blue sky, purple and yellow wildflowers, peachy-orange villas, brown-and-gray farmhouses, and the occasional red-and-white Autogrill, Italy's (delicious) answer to fast food.

That present sucked," I muttered. Dad slipped an arm around my shoulder and helped me sit up. As he did, his sleeve fell back to reveal several slivers of demonglass embedded in his forearm. "I'm fine," he said before I could ask. "Cal can get them out later. Are you all right?" My shoulder was still on fire, but there was no pain anywhere else, and other than the shock of being blown backward and stabbed, I was peachy. "I think so. What was that, like a magic pipe bomb?" The present lay in tatters on the floor, its ribbon coiling and snapping like a snake. Cal stomped on the ribbon, and it went still. "Seems like it," he said grimly. "And it was ensorcelled to seek you out," Dad added. He looked so worried and angry that I decided not to give him a hard time for using a word like ensorcelled.

Hello? Tonight I am going to the Restaurant, where I will eat a killed and burned-up bird and drink old purple grapes and also I will gulp clear water that used to have bugs and poop and poison in it but has been cleaned up so that it doesn’t make us blow chunks. Oh Joy I am going to the Restaurant and I am just drooling at the thought of the killed and burned bird and I want to sip the grape gunk and so I put skin-colored paint all over my face and I dab pasty red pigment on my lips and swish peachy powder on my cheeks and I take a pencil and draw an eye-shaped line around my eye so that people know where my blinkers are.

You are aware that what they do, they do for the world, and the results are, of course, magnificent. But when you . . . read Douglas Adams. . . you feel you are, perhaps, the only person in the world who really gets them. Just about everybody else admires them, of course, but no one really connects with them in the way you do . . . It’s like falling in love. When an especially peachy Adams’ turn of phrase or epithet enters the eye and penetrates the brain, you want to tap the shoulder of the nearest stranger and share it. The stranger might laugh and seem to enjoy the writing, but you hug to yourself the thought that they didn’t quite understand its force and quality the way you do, just as your friends, thank heavens, don’t also fall in love with the person you are going on and on about to them.

I was supposed to be trained by a Slayer, and I got the cowardly one. Fucking hell, that was just peachy.

Everybody leads you to think that hospice is this really great thing, that once you accept it, life just smooths out and everything is peachy keen. What a load of crap!

Peachy imagined the two great chiefs far off in the big white house, sucking their pipes, talking peace, and drawing on some ancient power to cut a hole in the day.

How do you expect me to provide you with a demon tear if I don’t have a body? I can’t cry you a goddamn river while stuck in a bronze reproduction of an ugly-ass alchemist. A dead one, at that.” “You can move your eyes,” Navin ventured. “And you’re a demon. Can’t you do some kind of demon magic and produce tears?” “Demon magic? Have you been eating Ironwood mushrooms? Demons don’t do magic. Demons curse. We tear apart reality and feed on the blood of innocents.” Navin shivered. “Stop being so dramatic. You’re hardly in the position to tear apart reality. You’d have trouble tearing open a packet of potato chips right now.” Newton made a horrific snorting sound that might have been laughter. “Ah, dear boy. And you said you weren’t interested in comedy. If only I could cry tears of laughter right now, we’d be peachy.” “Shut up a minute. I’m trying to think.” “I know. I can hear your two brain cells rubbing together.

Far above the snow clouds, the moon must have been bright and full. Its light bled through the storm, marking each flake with a silvery luster and pouring a pale, peachy glow onto the mountain.

His face clouded over when Calvin and Peachy tried to explain women. Peachy pressed on bravely. “Now, the purpose of the vagina,” he was saying. He stopped and said to Calvin, “Why can’t we just buy him a book?

Oh, they're usually peachy about it,' said Spike, laughing. 'They hang about for, well, five, six, maybe more—' 'Weeks?' I asked. 'Months?' 'Seconds,' replied Spike mournfully, 'and those were the ones that really liked me.

ancient charmers with skeleton throats and peachy cheeks that have a rather ghastly bloom upon them seen by daylight, when indeed these fascinating creatures look like Death and the Lady fused together, dazzle the eyes of men. Forth

Pay attention to the yearning desire to live a life that enriches your soul, whatever that may be. Take your own breath away and explore new territories that release the baggage of a comfort zone. Dare to be authentic and real, genuine and whole; alone. Meet today with possibility that grew from yesterdays downfalls. Not everything is peachy but our perception is fucking everything. Take note of that and give meaning to it all. It wont fix your problems but it will allow you to see beyond them.

Did you ever hear of the turd theory?" she asked. He shook his head. "It goes like this. You think if a certain obnoxious person wasn't in your life, then everything would be just peachy. Then that person is miraculously out of your life, and behold, another turd floats to the top," Jill said.

Because, really, how we act when times are just peachy is nothing compared to how we act when times are rotten. The peachy times don’t say as much, anyway, about strength or determination. Moments when I felt my weakest, when I was absolutely certain that I’d rather give up than keep going—that was when I learned what I’m made of.

The last of the warm Christmassy feeling seemed to leave the room, and there she stood in the doorway: the Beast in Ocher. Also known as “the she-devil with the Hermès scarf,” in ordinary life Philippa Adelaide Spencer, or Granny, as Grayson and Florence called her. Apparently her friends at the bridge club knew her as Peachy Pippa, but I wasn’t going to believe that until I heard it with my own ears.

A house of stone and glass and iron should be stark and sober, a watchtower from which a benevolent guard is kept on society. But the white stone of this particular house rippled as if reacting to a hand that had found its most pleasurable contact. A notable newspaper critic had described this effect as being that of "a pernicious sensuality." And if that wasn't enough, the entire construction blushed a truly disgraceful peachy-pink at sunset and dawn.

There is more in front: a timid, desperate cub Locked in a fickle case, wounded and incoherent. We are all that youngling, together in this cosmic hub, And we are not alone in the universe, we are it. But beware the pavement makes us only see the peachy— We care about the diapered: the children and the old, And anyone in between is just an asshole species. The challenge is to see the little child through their cold For we don’t grow at the same pace as our body.

Letters blend to give rise to words  Like colors pave way for the birth of million shades! Evanescence reminisces sepia! Memory takes back to black and white! Music pops hot pink! Dance rocks wine red! Marvelous is miraculous as the indigo! Magnificent is magnanimous like Russian red! Splendid is classy like arctic blue! Resplendent inspires like  strawberry pink! Flamboyance is flowery like fuchsia! Flawless is perfect like flamingo! Extraordinary stands out like lime yellow! Peculiar is unique like cyan! Pleasant pleases like periwinkle! Soothing soothes like lemonade! Opulent glitters gold! Spectacular shimmers silver! Nice is as mild as dulce de leche! Attractive dazzles onyx! Powerful is headstrong like tangerine! Puissance stupefies like scarlet red! Mellifluence is dissolving, like lavender! Sonorous sounds magenta! Lovely cutely blushes! Sweet is peachy! Richness is wealthy like lush green! Poverty is brown as in flower wilt! Candid is frank as candy red! Altruism is selfless like parmesan! But, BEAUTY IS IRIDESCENT! Which

The man eyes that were always roaming here and there like the eyes of tigers, those searchlight eyes, needed to be shielded from the alluring and indeed blinding power of us—of our shapely or skinny or fat legs, of our graceful or knobbly or sausage arms, of our peachy or blotchy skins, of our entwining curls of shining hair or our coarse unruly pelts or our straw-like wispy braids, it did not matter. Whatever our shapes and features, we were snares and enticements despite ourselves, we were the innocent and blameless causes that through our very nature could make men drunk with lust, so that they’d stagger and lurch and topple over the verge—The verge of what? we wondered. Was it like a cliff?—and go plunging down in flames, like snowballs made of burning sulphur hurled by the angry hand of God. We were custodians of an invaluable treasure that existed, unseen, inside us; we were precious flowers that had to be kept safely inside glass houses, or else we would be ambushed and our petals would be torn off and our treasure would be stolen and we would be ripped apart and trampled by the ravenous men who might lurk around any corner, out there in the wide sharp-edged sin-ridden world.

bags and boxes across the hot parking lot to the van. On the way back to the mall, Willa Jean, who spotted the ice-cream store that sold fifty-two flavors, told her uncle she needed an ice-cream cone. Uncle Hobart agreed that ice-cream cones were needed by all. Inside the busy shop, customers had to take numbers and wait turns. Ramona, responsible for Willa Jean, who could not read, was faced with the embarrassing task of reading aloud the list of fifty-two flavors while all the customers listened. “Strawberry, German chocolate, vanilla, ginger-peachy, red-white-and-blueberry, black walnut, Mississippi mud, green bubble gum, baseball nut.

and confused if someone does not appreciate their niceness. Others often sense this and avoid giving them feedback not only, effectively blocking the nice person’s emotional growth, but preventing risks from being taken. You never know with a nice person if the relationship would survive a conflict or angry confrontation. This greatly limits the depths of intimacy. And would you really trust a nice person to back you up if confrontation were needed? 3. With nice people you never know where you really stand. The nice person allows others to accidentally oppress him. The “nice” person might be resenting you just for talking to him, because really he is needing to pee. But instead of saying so he stands there nodding and smiling, with legs tightly crossed, pretending to listen. 4. Often people in relationship with nice people turn their irritation toward themselves, because they are puzzled as to how they could be so upset with someone so nice. In intimate relationships this leads to guilt, self-hate and depression. 5. Nice people frequently keep all their anger inside until they find a safe place to dump it. This might be by screaming at a child, blowing up a federal building, or hitting a helpless, dependent mate. (Timothy McVeigh, executed for the Oklahoma City bombing, was described by acquaintances as a very, very nice guy, one who would give you the shirt off his back.) Success in keeping the anger in will often manifest as psychosomatic illnesses, including arthritis, ulcers, back problems, and heart disease. Proper Peachy Parents In my work as a psychotherapist, I have found that those who had peachy keen “Nice Parents” or proper “Rigidly Religious Parents” (as opposed to spiritual parents), are often the most stuck in chronic, lowgrade depression. They have a difficult time accessing or expressing any negative feelings towards their parents. They sometimes say to me “After all my parents did for me, seldom saying a harsh word to me, I would feel terribly guilty complaining. Besides, it would break their hearts.” Psychologist Rollo May suggested that it is less crazy-making to a child to cope with overt withdrawal or harshness than to try to understand the facade of the always-nice parent. When everyone agrees that your parents are so nice and giving, and you still feel dissatisfied, then a child may conclude that there must be something wrong with his or her ability to receive love. -§ Emotionally starving children are easier to control, well fed children don’t need to be. -§ I remember a family of fundamentalists who came to my office to help little Matthew with his anger problem. The parents wanted me to teach little Matthew how to “express his anger nicely.” Now if that is not a formula making someone crazy I do not know what would be. Another woman told me that after her stinking drunk husband tore the house up after a Christmas party, breaking most of the dishes in the kitchen, she meekly told him, “Dear, I think you need a breath mint.” Many families I work with go through great anxiety around the holidays because they are going to be forced to be with each other and are scared of resuming their covert war. They are scared that they might not keep the nice garbage can lid on, and all the rotting resentments and hopeless hurts will be exposed. In the words to the following song, artist David Wilcox explains to his parents why he will not be coming home this Thanksgiving: Covert War by David Wilcox

The red haired waitress arrived with their drinks, dancing about the table as she placed their orders in front of them. "Hiya, keeds. Peachy place, ain't it?" Before anyone could respond, she kicked her heels in the air and flitted off again. Waldo lit up a cigarette and tasted his drink. "Listen, I don't think we ought to stay here very long...." "No shit, Sherlock!" Brisbane chortled. "But first I want to have a little fun. I think I'm gonna talk to some of these guys." The fredneck left the table and walked over to a group of five men, all of them clad in the old baseball uniforms that were apparently quite popular at The One Year Wonder And All-Around Oddity Bar. They were huddled together on one side of the bar, and Brisbane broke into their conversation with a burst of fredneck chutzpah.

The man eyes that were always roaming here and there like the eyes of tigers, those searchlight eyes, needed to be shielded from the alluring and indeed blinding power of us—of our shapely or skinny or fat legs, of our graceful or knobbly or sausage arms, of our peachy or blotchy skins, of our entwining curls of shining hair or our coarse unruly pelts or our straw-like wispy braids, it did not matter. Whatever our shapes and features, we were snares and enticements despite ourselves, we were the innocent and blameless causes that through our very nature could make men drunk with lust, so that they’d stagger and lurch and topple over the verge—The verge of what? we wondered. Was it like a cliff?—and go plunging down in flames, like snowballs made of burning sulphur hurled by the angry hand of God.

The neon orange orb sat low in the sky, slowly breaking free of the horizon like the waking memory of a dream. The salty air smelled faintly of fish, and was thick with humidity and hung like a cloak over my body. The lavender sky at the horizon faded into cerulean above and behind me. The soft breeze whispered past my face, teasing my hair on its way to tickle the sawgrass that swayed in gratitude as if laughing like a child.
 I sat on the top plank of the boardwalk rail, the wood heavy with atmosphere and was damp and cool under my left palm. The surprising warmth of the winter air and the cool of the wood reminded me that yes, I am alive! Yes, I am grateful for this morning! And yes, I am glad to be here!
 The paper in my notebook as I wrote this began to feel sticky and moist within a few minutes. The ink from my pen seemed to grip the paper faster and firmer as if to say, I’m here, I’m happy, and I don’t want to lose this moment. Like my ink, I too wanted to cling to this morning.
 The sky started turning a peachy orange at the bottom and the ocean was sea foam green. The waves were breaking quietly, as if to give my thoughts amplitude so I could record and rejoice in the sea’s majesty. 
 The sand was gray and silky like a freshly pressed pair of slacks. The smooth beach seemed paved with sunlight. A jogger ran by, his knees probably grateful for the even stride the flat surface provided. 
 Chunks of sea foam lay strewn on the beach like remnants of Poseidon’s nightly bubble bath. A seagull circled low in the air, gliding in the sky with its streamlined body as the sun lit its white wings up like an angel’s halo.

Then I pushed my way through and saw a young woman climb down, no more than my age, only she was as pale as a flour bag, with rosebud lips pressed tight together, and two spots of rouge high on her cheeks. She stared at the rabble, her eyes narrowing. She weren't afeard of us, no not one whit. She lifted her chin and said in a throaty London drawl, 'Mr Pars. Fetch him at once.' Like magic the scene changed: three or four fellows legged it indoors and those staying behind hung back a bit, fidgeting before this girl that might have dropped from the moon for all we'd ever seen such a being in our yard. What drew my eye was her apricot-colored gown that shone like a diamond. I drank in all her marks of fashion: the peachy ribbon holding the little dog she clutched to her bosom, her powdered curls, but most of all it was her shoes I fixed on. They were made of shiny silver stuff, and in spite of the prettiest heels you ever saw, were already squelched in Mawton mud. It were a crime to ruin those shoes, but there were no denying it, she'd landed in a right old pigsty.

How to describe the woman? Silky hair, velvety lips. No, it won’t do, I’m using fabrics, constructing a doll. How about coppery hair, or golden locks of hair, or platinum blonde? No, now I’m doing some kind of industrial metallurgy with precious metals; in addition to everything else, the woman sounds like a commodity. And what’s “locks of hair” supposed to mean? Lock, some kind of bondage? No, strike it out. Ruby lips, pearly white teeth, brilliant smile. No, now I’m making the woman out of precious stones, and out of clichés. Almond-shaped eyes, hazel-colored eyes, pear-shaped waist, apple-red cheeks, lips like the bud of a moist flower, peachy fuzz on her upper lip. Now I’m making up a woman out of fruits, plants. She strode like a gazelle. Her snaky waist coiled and uncoiled. Now I’m demeaning the woman, making her into an animal. On the other hand, you can call a woman a goddess. Aphrodite, Venus, or at least a demi-god, angelic beauty. But these terms were all invariably overused, clichés. In addition, if you call a woman Aphrodite, it might seem like an oblique way of saying that the woman is overweight.

Overall look: Soft and delicate   Hair: Most often blonde or golden grey   Skintone: Light, ivory to soft beige, peachy tones. Very little contrast between hair and skin   Eyes: Blue, blue-green, aqua, light green IF you are a Light Spring you should avoid dark and dusty colors, which would make you look pale, tired and even pathetic. Spring women who need to look strong, for example chairing a meeting, can do so by wearing mid-tone grey or light navy, not deeper shades. If you are a Light Spring and you wear too much contrast, say a light blouse and dark jacket, or a dress with lots of bold colors against a white background, you ‘disappear’ because our eye is drawn to the colors you are wearing. See your Light Spring palette opposite. Your neutrals can be worn singly or mixed with others in a print or weave. The ivory, camel and blue-greys are good investment shades that will work with any others in your palette. Your best pinks will be warm—see the peaches, corals and apricots—but also rose pink. Never go as far as fuchsia, which is too strong and would drain all the life from your skin. Periwinkle blue toned with a light blue blouse is a smart, striking alternative to navy and white for work. Why wear black in the evening when you will sparkle in violet (also, warm pink and emerald turquoise will turn heads)? For leisure wear, team camel with clear bright red or khaki with salmon.   Make-Up Tips Foundation: Ivory, porcelain Lipstick: Peach, salmon, coral, clear red Blush: Salmon, peach Eyeshadow for blue eyes: Highlighter Champagne, melon, apricot, soft pink Contour Soft grey, violet, teal blue, soft blues, cocoa Eyeshadow for blue-green and aqua eyes: Highlighter Apricot, lemon, champagne Contour Cocoa or honey brown, spruce or moss green, teal blue Eyeshadow for green eyes: Highlighter Pale aqua, apricot, champagne Contour Cocoa or honey brown, teal blue, violet, spruce.

You only like white guys?” “Stop that,” I say through gritted teeth. “What?” he says, getting all serious. “It’s the truth, ain’t it?” Mrs. Peterson appears in front of us. “How’s that outline coming along?” she asks. I put on a fake smile. “Peachy.” I pull out the research I did at home and get down to business while Mrs. Peterson watches. “I did some research on the hand warmers last night. We need to dissolve sixty grams of sodium acetate and one hundred millimeters of water at seventy degrees.” “Wrong,” Alex says. I look up and realize Mrs. Peterson is gone. “Excuse me?” Alex folds his arms across his chest. “You’re wrong.” “I don’t think so.” “You think you’ve never been wrong before?” He says it as if I’m a ditzy blond bimbo, which sets my blood to way past boiling. “Sure I have,” I say. I make my voice sound high and breathless, like a Southern debutante. “Why, just last week I bought Bobbi Brown Sandwash Petal lip gloss when the Pink Blossom color would have looked so much better with my complexion. Needless to say the purchase was a total disaster,” I say. He expected to hear something like that come out of my mouth. I wonder if he believes it, or from my tone realizes I’m being sarcastic. “I’ll bet,” he says. “Haven’t you ever been wrong before?” I ask him. “Absolutely,” he says. “Last week, when I robbed that bank over by the Walgreens, I told the teller to hand over all the fifties he had in the till. What I really should have asked for was the twenties ‘cause there were way more twenties than fifties.” Okay, so he did get that I was putting on an act. And gave it right back to me with his own ridiculous scenario, which is actually unsettling because it makes us similar in some twisted way. I put a hand on my chest and gasp, playing along. “What a disaster.” “So I guess we can both be wrong.” I stick my chin in the air and declare stubbornly, “Well, I’m not wrong about chemistry. Unlike you, I take this class seriously.” “Let’s have a bet, then. If I’m right, you kiss me,” he says. “And if I’m right?” “Name it.” It’s like taking candy from a baby. Mr. Macho Guy’s ego is about to be taken down a notch, and I’m all too happy to be the one to do it.

Sa'll good, right, Teen? Trip mumbled without looking her way. Oh we're mother-fuckin peachy, honey. She replied in a fake peppy voice.

It was as peaceful and beautiful a night as she could ever have imagined, and she understood what drew the Bedouins to this barren place and kept them there. When the sun rose, the distant rocks took on the most magnificent hues—the peachy gold and pale strawberry and pistachio green of ice cream—and Simone was quick to mount a camel and, with spurs and a riding crop, urge it on.

And do you have a lot of friends, Peachy?” said Teatime. “Got a few, yeah . . . ” With a sudden whirl of movement that made the men start, Teatime spun away, grabbed a chair, swung it up to the table and sat down on it. Three of them had already got their hands on their swords. “I don’t have many,” he said, apologetically. “Don’t seem to have the knack. On the other hand . . . I don’t seem to have any enemies at all. Not one. Isn’t that nice?

Fine’s a funny word, don’t you think? I don’t think there’s another like it in the English language that says so much while actually saying so little. How many wives have told their husbands, “I’m fine,” when they really mean, “I want to cut your balls off with a butcher knife?” How many men have told their girlfriends, “You look fine,” when they really mean, “You need to go back to the gym and work out – a lot.” It’s the universal way of saying we’re just peachy – when we’re really anything but.

I can’t be the only one. There have to be other people out there who see the Mr. Twister mascot for what he is: Hitler. A grinning, cartoon, twisty-cone version of the Führer himself, advertising to the world that this place is secretly Nazi central. There is no other logical reason to put one of those little black smudge mustaches on a custard mascot. Of course, I’ve got Annie in my head—Chill out, Mo. It’s obviously supposed to be Charlie Chaplin—so fine, where’s the cane? And the hat? Exactly. Hitler. This truck is an oven. I am pot roast. I’d go in, but I’m already throwing up a little in my mouth just thinking about the assault of peachy-ness behind those doors. Peach walls, peach aprons, peach countertops, peach chalk on the blackboard menu. And of course, Annie is in there smiling and faking brain-dead. I’m better off as pot roast, and besides, the Spanish Inquisition isn’t going to learn itself. I turn back to the previous page, the one that I’ve already read and forgotten three times this hour, and start over. The picture of Ferdinand II of Aragon is freakishly distracting. It’s the way he’s glaring. I close my right eye and glare back at him and his unapologetic scowl. I bet nobody told him to quit being cranky.

A smell caught Kitty's attention, yanking her thoughts back to the present. The scent of someone she knew, but up on the roof? Curiosity had never hurt Kitty. She crept along, her feet silent on the roof tiles, following the peachy, creamy smell. By Humpty Dumpty's shell, it was Darling Charming! Locked up in a metal box on the roof! Honestly, and people said that Wonderlandians were weird.

Do not harm her, Anita. She is under our protection.” “I swear to you that I will not lay a finger on her tonight. I just want to tell her something.” He released my arm, slowly, like he wasn’t sure it was a good idea. I stepped next to Monica, until our bodies almost touched. I whispered into her face, “If anything happens to Catherine, I will see you dead.” She smirked at me, confident in her protectors. “They will bring me back as one of them.” I felt my head shake, a little to the right, a little to the left, a slow precise movement. “I will cut out your heart.” I was still smiling, I couldn’t seem to stop. “Then I will burn it and scatter the ashes in the river. Do you understand me?” She swallowed audibly. Her health-club tan looked a little green. She nodded, staring at me like I was the bogey man. I think she believed I’d do it. Peachy keen. I hate to waste a really good threat.

America was an orchard of peachy dreams behind a gauzed fence and a sign that said ‘No Tresspassing’. This land was his land as much as the next man’s. Like the folk songs he sang, it belonged to everyone, so it belonged to no one. The ungodly sin was the fence, not the crossing of it.

I've been impeached. Well, that's just peachy. Yummm, like those heirloom Elberta peaches from the farmer's market on Block Island last summer. Juice that dripped down my arm with each bite I took. I made a fantastic peach tart, with black raspberry puree on a crispy bed of buttery phyllo dough. Served with a dollop of crème anglaise.

Frankie was blessed enough to know a wealth of good men. She hadn't dated one yet, because she was related to most of them, and there were laws against that sort of thing.

This was part of the problem with having a customer service job. Even when the customers were enormous shit heels, you weren't allowed to slap them.

We expect a certain amount of stupidity from our young people. We let them tire themselves out like overgrown toddlers, because self-preservation usually stops them before they go too far.

Mama always said that if you can't say anything nice, it's best to just smile until the murderous urges go away.

You can't fire up the crematory to solve personal problems, sweetheart.

I swear if my peachy butt has any permanent damage, I’m gonna be seeking reparations in blood,

Parenting isn’t always a peachy-colored glow. Half the time, it’s just showing up and doing your best.

And I’ll start by taking out my frustrations on that peachy fucking ass of yours. I’ll bend you over my knee and spank the disobedience out of you until you can’t sit down without thinking of me, and you’ll take every hit and beg for more like a good fucking girl, won’t you?” I don’t even think, answering without hesitation. “Yes, Daddy.” “Good girl,

After a lifetime of contorting myself to fit into boxes never meant for the likes of me—it’s true. I got tired of feeling ashamed all the time. It is wildly subversive to say that I no longer feel ashamed—not in body, soul, beliefs, or movement through the world, not for who, what, or how I am. I do not hold an apology for the ways, hows, and whos of my work, my desire, and my love. There is an ownership of power in this simple fact that refuses to fit into words. But if you see me, you’ll know it. Sovereignty. That’s what I call it. Somehow, through all the twists and turns and fuckery of this life, I became a woman who is sovereign unto herself. Does this mean I’ve beaten all my demons and that I don’t give a fuck, and that everything is peachy keen all the time? Oh, hell no. Not even close. I am a woman who will forever be grappling with herself—pushing and growing and expanding and contracting, learning and unlearning, and tripping over the same lessons 50 times or more on the way to integration. It gets messy in this brain, heart, and body of mine. That’s just how I’m made. But the fact remains that no person, relationship, religion, belief system, or organization holds me to any agreement that negates my contract with myself. Fact: Your shame serves nobody. In fact, where there is shame, there is no pleasure. It is your pleasure that the universe spirals eternally toward. There comes a time in human evolution when a woman gets tired of asking permission to live, breathe, be, and love in the most honest and true way. When she stops looking outside of herself, she writes her own permission slip and doesn’t look back. A time when she is ready to own her story. Remove the masks. Shed the shame. Speak and write and live as a human sovereign unto herself. Are you ready to be subversive? How about revolutionary? Is this finally your time?

Day 4: Berry Peachy 2 handfuls kale 1 handful spinach 2 cups water 2 apples, cored, quartered 11/2 cups frozen peaches 11/2 cups frozen mixed berries 2 packets stevia 2 tablespoons ground flaxseeds OPTIONAL: 1 scoop of protein powder Place leafy greens and water into blender and blend until mixture is a green juice-like consistency. Stop blender and add remaining ingredients. Blend until creamy. Day 5: Peach Berry Spinach 3 handfuls spinach 2 cups water 1 cup frozen peaches 1 handful fresh or frozen seedless grapes 11/2 cups blueberries 3 packets stevia to sweeten 2 tablespoons ground flaxseeds OPTIONAL: 1 scoop of protein powder Place spinach and water into blender and blend until mixture is a green juice-like consistency. Stop blender and add remaining ingredients. Blend until creamy. Day 6: Pineapple Spinach 2 cups fresh spinach, packed 1 cup pineapple chunks 2 cups frozen peaches 2 bananas, peeled 11/2 packets stevia 2 cups water 2 tablespoons ground flaxseeds OPTIONAL: 1 scoop of protein powder Place spinach and water into blender and blend until mixture is a green juice-like consistency. Stop blender and add remaining ingredients. Blend until creamy. Day 7: Pineapple Berry 2 handfuls spring mix greens 2 handfuls spinach 1 banana, peeled 11/2 cups pineapple chunks 11/2 cups frozen mango chunks 1 cup frozen mixed berries 3 packets stevia 2 cups water 2 tablespoons ground flaxseeds OPTIONAL: 1 scoop of protein powder Place leafy greens and water into blender and blend until mixture is a green juice-like consistency. Stop blender and add remaining ingredients. Blend until creamy. Day 8: Spinach Kale Berry 2 handfuls kale 2 handfuls spinach 2 cups water 1 apple, cored, quartered 1 banana, peeled 11/2 cups frozen blueberries 2 packets stevia 2 tablespoons ground flaxseeds OPTIONAL: 1 scoop of protein powder Place leafy greens and water into blender and blend until mixture is a green juice-like consistency. Stop blender and add remaining ingredients. Blend until creamy. Day 9: Apple Mango 3 handfuls spinach 2 cups water 1 apple, cored, quartered 11/2 cups mangoes 2 cups frozen strawberries 1 packet stevia 2 tablespoons ground flaxseeds OPTIONAL: 1 scoop of protein powder Place spinach and water into blender and blend until mixture is a green juice-like consistency. Stop blender and add remaining ingredients to blender. Blend until creamy. Day 10: Pineapple Kale 2 handfuls kale 1 handful spring mix greens 2 cups water 11/2 cups frozen peaches 2 handfuls pineapple chunks 2 packets stevia 2 tablespoons ground flaxseeds OPTIONAL: 1 scoop of protein powder Place leafy greens and water into blender and blend until mixture is a green juice-like consistency. Stop blender and add remaining ingredients. Blend until creamy.

I heard it was made of the same stuff they make them fortune-telling crystals out of. You can’t tell me that’s right. And he looks at you with it,” said the first speaker. He was known as Peachy, although no one had ever found out why.*

Kat?” The deep voice echoed in the darkness some unknowable length of time later. “Kat? I know you’re in here—I can feel how upset you are.” “Here,” she managed to whisper feebly. “Who…?” “It’s me.” Deep came suddenly into view, picking his way toward her over the fallen rocks. “Lock and I felt your distress and he managed to convince the natives that one of us had to be in here with you at all times. Sorry it turned out to be me, but he has to keep talking to their chief so I’m afraid you’re stuck with—” He broke off abruptly, obviously getting a good look at her for the first time. “Gods, Kat! Are you all right?” “Just peachy.” Kat managed a weak smirk. Despite her pain she was still reluctant to admit the extent of her disability to Deep. “Why are you lying there like that? What’s wrong?” he demanded, crouching beside her. “Just getting a little rest.” This is stupid—just tell him! But somehow she couldn’t. “Being kidnapped at knifepoint by aliens who speak in obscure forms of poetry always tires me out.” She tried to smile but it was apparent Deep wasn’t fooled. “Stop being so goddess damned brave and tell me what’s wrong.” Tilting his head to one side to look into her eyes, he cupped her cheek gently. “Please, Kat. Tell me.” Even

The Milked Duck was empty, save for Dahlia’s two part-time helpers, but they were all rushing around, anticipating the first guests for her Risqué Flavor Tasting event any moment now. The up front freezers were stocked with Chocolate Orgasm, Peachy Passion, Sexual Favors, Mikey’s favorite Cherry Popper and more. She had a case of Sin on a Stick treats ready to go and a temporary menu up on the board behind her.

Sometimes I meet someone, he rubs me the wrong way. Your mother meets the same person, she thinks he’s peachy keen.

PEACHY KEEN Makes 1 serving 1 cup water ½ cup quick-cooking oats 1 tablespoon flaked almonds ½ cup peaches or nectarines, sliced Dash cinnamon (optional) • Bring the water to a boil. Stir in the oats and cook until soft, about 3 minutes. When the oats are finished, top with almonds and fruit slices. > 220 calories, 7 g fat, 6 g fiber, 8 g protein

She obviously wasn’t white, but it was hard to pinpoint her ethnicity beyond that: her skin was a peachy, browny, goldeny something, but maybe that was the glitter.

Inside my soul… within my heart… it hurts… it’s all I really know… My restlessness – how to heal that? I never, nowhere feel at home… The peachy fluff along your neck… the pillow scented with your hair… are in my heart… but they don’t help… You just can’t understand this…

This is where I would fake a smile and say everything is peachy. But I'm tired of being the king I was brought up to be. I need to be the king I was made to be.

Puddin' started barking from the back room; he must have smelled Ashanti in the house. Their moldy, dusty surroundings couldn't mask that slightly floral, slightly peachy scent that wreaked the most delicious havoc on Thad's senses.

It's funny how the ladies who are loudest about needing abortions are the ones who look the least likely to ever be in a position to consider one.

Liberal women want free abortions, wealth redistribution, and affirmation. Normal women want safety, low inflation, and affordable groceries.

Unmarried women are literally happy to see the world burn. Why not? They've got nothing to lose. They want everyone else to share in the bitterness that is their daily ration.

She raises a pinky the way I’d have once raised a thumb to gesture everything’s peachy.

I muttered though I wasn’t really embarrassed about it. I would happily challenge any fucker who thought less of me for losing my shit to spend a night in the company of my tormentors, let alone the amount of time I’d endure them, and come out peachy on the other side.

You busy? Besides dealing with an existential crisis, no, not at all. All's peachy.

So peachy! I wanna lick ur ass...... then pummel that peach pie hole

She was even prettier up close than he'd imagined. Bowtie lips with up-turned outer corners. Peachy skin- smooth, he could tell just by looking, yielding. Glossy curls around a love-heart face.

Peachy,

So you were talking about murdering Wrath?” Montrag sputtered, Earl Grey dappling the front of his bloodred smoking jacket and hitting Daddy’s peachy-keen rug.

It's one of my own recipes: peach crème brûlée with a brandy crust." She paraded it past Daniel's eyes. "See," she said, "I made your favorite. Of course I perfected it considerably these past few weeks." She kept walking and deposited the dish in front of Troy. She poured over it a good douse of brandy, then rummaged in her apron and drew forth a long match. One flick and the brûlée ignited in a crown of blue flames. Troy's eyes widened with childish pleasure. "Here you go, my big man." Her spoon crunched into the caramelized topping and reemerged with rich, creamy, peachy dessert. On the plate, the velvety brûlée glistened with delicious, crackly caramel. Jasmine pushed forward a glass of Robert Mondavi's luscious Moscato d'Oro. "Bon appétit.

The big hair was red-gold and the skin peachy-tinged pale and arms freckled and zy-gomatics indescribable and her eyes an extra-natural HD green.

RJ is standing there, and in his arms is a wriggling French bulldog puppy of the most inexplicable color, almost pale honeyed yellow tinged with a sort of peachy pink. "Oh my goodness! Who are you?" RJ hands me the pup, who immediately starts licking all over my face and biting my ponytail. Dumpling tries to stand on his one leg to see what is going on, and falls over at my feet. RJ scoops him up and puts him face-to-face with the puppy. "Dumpling, there is someone we want you to meet. We thought you might want a little sister." Dumpling looks at the puppy, who leans forward and licks his face. Dumpling licks back. The puppy sniffs his ear and then with one move, snatches the eye patch right off his head and starts to chew it. Dumpling looks at me with his one good eye, head cocked as if to say, "We're going to have our hands full with this one," and then turns and licks RJ under his chin. "I can't believe you did this! You are so sneaky." "Well, we did talk about wanting to do it, and a guy at work breeds them for showing, but this one is off the allowable color charts." "She does have a certain, um... Well, she's kind of, um..." "Pink? Yeah. Some weird anomaly, and apparently, not good for the show circuit." "But good for us." "That's what I thought." "What should we call her?" RJ smiles. "I was thinking Pamplemousse." "Of course. What else could she be?

had no idea how long I’d been at this man’s place. Every meal he ate in front of me was torture. The chewing and the swallowing. That cheeky little grin of his I wanted to claw off his fucking face. The only thing that brought me solace was how deep those gashes on his face were. I still had his blood clogging the underbelly of my fingernails. And the scabs across that peachy little face of his always brought me a modicum of joy to see.

Just peachy.

Ignore her. She’s two Peaches in,” Margot told him, bemused.

bald-faced

all hat, no cattle’?” she asked. “Same concept applies to boat purchases.

An orphan who was kept as a prisoner in a tower with plague signs to keep away?" Gina gently teased. "Seems like a lot of work. Nahh, I bet you're a princess of some sort." Rapunzel stared at her. Then she began guffawing: big, hearty barks of laughter. "She doesn't sound like one," Flynn observed. "She wears a pretty dress like one," Gina pointed out. "Your skin is creamy and perfect," Flynn said. "I mean, um, I guess." "You have a crown," Gina said. "It's not my crown," Rapunzel shouted, still laughing. "I grew up in two rooms... not a giant castle. I don't have any servants, or ladies-in-waiting..." "... or crowns you didn't steal," Flynn added. "... or a white horse, or velvet capes, or a scepter..." "You do have that magnificent hair, though," Flynn pointed out. "I mean, just look at it. It looks fancy and expensive and royal. A normal person, even a lord or lady, couldn't manage locks half that long. Even if it ever came in silver, which seems reeealllly unlikely." He leaned forward to get a better look, and at first Rapunzel did nothing, suddenly aware of his closeness. Whatever he said about her skin, Flynn's was also clear, healthy, and peachy. He had a little bit of hair on his chin (not a full beard like she had seen in pictures), a tiny feathery thing that she kind of wanted to touch.

Are you okay?” “Just peachy,” I grit out through clenched teeth. “Really? Because you don’t—” “Good God, man. Just get on with it.” Break up with me so I can break your jaw and knock some sense back into you.

THE NUMBER-ONE THING I HAVE LEARNED IN THE PAST TWO AND A HALF YEARS IS THAT EVERYTHING WILL BE OK, AS LONG AS I DO NOT DRINK. EVEN WHEN THINGS AREN’T PEACHY, LIKE WHEN I LOST MY JOB ON FRIDAY, THEY’RE STILL OK.

Peachy.” She beamed. “My skin is clear, my curls are flourishing, and nobody’s raggedy ass son is stressing me out at night. I’m fan-fuckin-tastic. It’s a wonderful feeling.” She slid into the chair beside me and winked. “Ain’t that right, friend?

You're staring at my boobs." Her tone is wry but somehow not insulted. "I am aware." I should be sorry, but I'm not. "I'm staring at your peachy butt, too, if we're being totally honest here." "Macon." I glance up at her. "Your body is fucking luscious, Delilah. Bitable in the best way possible. A juicy peach, a sweet apple covered in caramel. Do you know how much I'd kill for a caramel apple right now, Tot? And me stuck on this hell diet. It's a torment, I say." "I don't think this is very professional," she says weakly. "I should hope not." God, I love teasing her. Her whole body lights up when I do it. Foreplay. Does she realize that's what we're doing? "I was just thinking---" "What did I say about you thinking?" she warns. "They don't look like bananas now, Tot." "Oh my God, you're terrible." But she's grinning now. Fighting damn hard not to show it, but definitely grinning. "More like peaches. Ripe, juicy peaches." She sways in my direction before catching herself doing it and shifting her weight. "You called my butt peachy." A dry complaint. "My boobs can't be peaches too." Maybe I have a thing for peaches." Somehow, we're only a foot apart, the space between us humming with something. It licks over my tender skin, tickles the back of my neck. Take it slow, Saint. She's skittish. Back off. My body resents this greatly and strains toward her warmth. Her voice is a thread, drawn tight. "You're still staring." "Paying proper respect," I amend quietly. "You don't ignore a body like yours. It would be rude." "Pretty sure you have that backward." She's breathless now, her glorious breasts rising and falling with agitation. I lean down, take in the warmth of her scent. "Come on, Tot. I've grown up, seen the error of my ways. Give me your bountiful banana pie." Again she sways into my space, laughing softly. "Pervert. You're not getting any pie from me." I hum, heat and need making my head swim. "But I have this craving." She's whispering now. "Disappointment can be character building." "I'll need my strength for that. How about peach pie?" Kiss me, Delilah. Or let me kiss you. I'm not picky. The pulse at the base of her tanned neck visibly beats. The scent of her skin is like honey. "I thought you wanted banana cream," she says, a dazed look in her eyes. The tips of my fingers touch the collar of her shirt. "I don't think pie is what I want anymore.

I might have walked away, let it go. But she whisks her shirt off, revealing a tiny sixties-style bikini top and that body with curves for miles. She is glorious, her peachy ass swaying as she drops the shirt like a dare, then saunters to a lounger. Yeah, I might have let it go if she hadn't looked back, a quick glance as though to make certain I was still there. I'm still here, honey. And I'm not going anywhere.

Pee-poo are like dis, Rachel had told me once, putting the peachy-pink Crayola that used to be called Flesh into my hand. As if all the flesh that mattered was that color. That crayon was called Peach now, but the ideas behind its old name were still alive and present. Present everywhere, all across the country, but more overt in Birchville. I wouldn’t raise Digby