Perfectly Posh Quotes

Girl, you are the epitome of spoiled. I can smell it in your expensive perfume, in the quality of your ridiculous clothing, in the bracelet wrapped ’round that delicate wrist.” He closed the gap between us and all the air sucked from the room. “You won’t last out here. You’ll stay blind to the environment that surrounds you. You’ll live in your clean, perfect bubble and return to your posh life come six months. You are....you. I know your kind. I’ve seen it all before. You will never wake up. Not really,” he explained away before backing up and leaving me to my room once again.

She looks rich. Not flashy rich. The French equivalent of posh. You don’t have hair that perfect unless you spend your days doing basically nothing.

We're not trying for perfect - we're aiming for posh shabby chic.

Grace and I had the kind of relationship that might have made other women jealous – I appeared happy to exist in her shadow. We always went where she wanted: bad comedy sets, bad poetry recitals, bad concerts by posh, sweaty men who subsequently developed a reputation for grooming schoolgirls. I was content to make room for her, to be a worthy and dutiful addendum to someone else’s life. There was something refreshing, perhaps even feminist about my turmoil. How good I was, how nice I was – I was so nice, it was almost unbelievable. I was the perfect man.

Lydia had devoted herself- and her husband's money- toward making their home a "destination." She fancied herself floating through a household of the East Coast elite, dazzling them with continental cuisine, priceless art and antiques, and a perfectly stocked wine cellar. They would tour her gardens and marvel at her ability to create such a cultural oasis in the southern desert. In reality, every evening Lydia watched her guests meander across her yard to the Belles', where they delighted in such southern delicacies as moonshine in Mason jars, bawdy conversation, and shoofly pie.

A dozen or so guests gathered in the conservatory for breakfast. The sweet scent of jasmine perfumed the air and an aviary of lemon yellow canaries sang for them. They drank fresh-squeezed juice that smelled like orange blossoms and spooned perfect bites of soft-boiled eggs from fragile shells. White sunlight poured through the glass dome above their heads like an affirmation from heaven, and a constant breeze blew over them as though fanned by invisible servants. Beyond the open doors stretched emerald lawn. Beyond the lawn, the ocean, blue as a robin's egg.

Everyone loves a flawed hero. I don't want perfect people. I want people who have a story, have been through some shit, dance to their own beat and still make i work, not the fake-arsed posh fuck-wits who look down on us slightly geeky weird-but-cool entrepreneurs.

Everyone loves a flawed hero. I don't want perfect people. I want people who have a story, have been through some shit, dance to their own beat and still make it work, not the fake-arsed posh fuck-wits who look down on us slightly geeky weird-but-cool entrepreneurs.