Perky Quotes

What makes big boobs and perkiness so attractive to boys? I mean, really. Two round, mounds of fat and a fake smile. Yeah, winning attributes.

Last night you said you wanted to know what to expect so you could better select your attire. I told you we were going to visit a vampire in a Goth-den tonight. Why, then, Ms. Lane, do you look like a perky rainbow?

And while my mind is telling me I'm flirting with her just to prove a point, my body wants to play "you show me your perky privates and I'll show you mine.

Note to self, lock bedroom door at night to keep perky morning people out.

I am fucking charming!” Dex shouted, his entire face going beet red. “I am the most charming motherfucker you will ever know, so kiss my perfectly perky ass!” After some consideration, Sloane cocked his head to one side and shrugged. “I’ve seen better.” “Oh, now you’re insulting my ass?

She has great breasts," the Colonel said without looking up from the whale. "DO NOT OBJECTIFY WOMEN'S BODIES!" Alaska shouted. Now he looked up. "Sorry. Perky breasts." "That's not any better!

She tried to act as though it were nothing to go to the library alone. But her happiness betrayed her. Her smile could not be restrained, and it spread from her tightly pressed mouth, to her round cheeks, almost to the hair ribbons tied in perky bows over her ears.

I ordered a coffee and a little something to eat and savored the warmth and dryness. Somewhere in the background Nat King Cole sang a perky tune. I watched the rain beat down on the road outside and told myself that one day this would be twenty years ago.

The moon loved them. Not because they were beautiful, or because they were perfect, or because they were perky, but because they were her darling daughters.

I called Clay from the SUV. "How'd it go at the paper?" he asked. "She called me perky." "Ouch.

Aw, kiss him, Gwen, clamored a hundred perky eggs. Shut up, she rebuked. We don't even know him, and until moments ago we thought he was dead. That's no way to start a relationship.

Optimism: That effervescent, blindingly- bright, perky, chipper, twittering quality you want to squash out of annoying people.

Oh, that's just Thud! That's easy!" yapped a voice. Both men turned to look at Horsefry, who had been made perky by sheer relief. "I used to play it when I was a kid," he burbled. It's boring. The dwarfs always win!" Gilt and Vetinari shared a look. It said: While I loathe you and every aspect of your personal philosophy to a depth unplummable by any line, I'll credit you at least with not being Crispin Horsefry.

It's our first Elysium together, Ash. They'll be expecting us. Both of us." He moaned and grabbed another pillow, covering his eyes. "No playing hooky and insulting the Winter Queen. I'm not doing this by myself." I took the second pillow, tossing it on the floor, and mock-glared at him. "Up." He regarded me with a wry smile. "You're awfully perky for someone who kept me up all night." "Hey, you started it remember?

He’d just poured himself a hot cup of coffee, his mouth already watering as he brought the mug to his lips. “Oh, thanks, sweetie.” And like that, the cup was gone. He glared down at the female who dared take his coffee. The life-giving elixir was his! Then he noticed she was fully dressed. “You’re leaving?” Damn. And he really did have plans for that adorable little ass. “Oh, yeah.” She sipped the coffee and grimaced. “Geez. Battery acid.” It suddenly occurred to him…She was perky. Who was perky at five-thirty in the morning? Good Lord!Morning people were perky at five-thirty in the morning!

For anyone who wonders what it's like to have a tragedy shatter your existence, this is what I would tell them: it's like going through the motions of everyday life in a zombified state. It's having outbursts of anger for what seems like no apparent reason, for even the smallest of offenses. It's forgetting how to be your once cheerful, perky self, and having to relearn basic social skills when mingling with new people (especially if those people are ignorant, or just plain terrible at showing sympathy). It takes a while to re-learn all those basic skills. Maybe...it's possible. Maybe you have to want your life back first, before it can start repairing itself But then you also have to accept that the mending process may take the rest of your life. I don't think there's a set time limit for it.

There are blondes and blondes and it is almost a joke word nowadays. All blondes have their points, except perhaps the metallic ones who are as blond as a Zulu under the bleach and as to disposition as soft as a sidewalk. There is the small cute blonde who cheeps and twitters, and the big statuesque blonde who straight-arms you with an ice-blue glare. There is the blonde who gives you the up-from-under look and smells lovely and shimmers and hangs on your arm and is always very tired when you take her home. She makes that helpless gesture and has that goddamned headache and you would like to slug her except that you are glad you found out about the headache before you invested too much time and money and hope in her. Because the headache will always be there, a weapon that never wears out and is as deadly as the bravo’s rapier or Lucrezia’s poison vial. There is the soft and willing and alcoholic blonde who doesn’t care what she wears as long as it is mink or where she goes as long as it is the Starlight Roof and there is plenty of dry champagne. There is the small perky blonde who is a little pal and wants to pay her own way and is full of sunshine and common sense and knows judo from the ground up and can toss a truck driver over her shoulder without missing more than one sentence out of the editorial in the Saturday Review. There is the pale, pale blonde with anemia of some non-fatal but incurable type. She is very languid and very shadowy and she speaks softly out of nowhere and you can’t lay a finger on her because in the first place you don’t want to and in the second place she is reading The Waste Land or Dante in the original, or Kafka or Kierkegaard or studying Provençal. She adores music and when the New York Philharmonic is playing Hindemith she can tell you which one of the six bass viols came in a quarter of a beat too late. I hear Toscanini can also. That makes two of them. And lastly there is the gorgeous show piece who will outlast three kingpin racketeers and then marry a couple of millionaires at a million a head and end up with a pale rose villa at Cap Antibes, an Alfa-Romeo town car complete with pilot and co-pilot, and a stable of shopworn aristocrats, all of whom she will treat with the affectionate absent-mindedness of an elderly duke saying goodnight to his butler.

We have created youth ministry that confuses extroversion with faithfulness. We have effectively communicated to young people that sincerely following Jesus is synonymous with being 'fired up' for Jesus, with being excited for Jesus, as if discipleship were synonymous with fostering an exuberant, perky, cheerful, hurray-for-Jesus disposition like what we might find in the glee club or at a pep rally.

I say,” he said, smiling his very white smile and pulling her a touch closer. “You don’t look half bad in the sunlight. It brings out a perky red in your hair.” “Oh, honestly,” said Azalea, trying to tug her hand away gently. “Mr. Hyette, please.” “You don’t find me handsome?” “No.” Mr. Hyette’s smile faded. “Now see here,” he said. “You certainly have no right to be picky. Everyone knows the point of this silly riddle is to find the future King.

Call me old-fashioned, but whenever I see those wire-fortified ribbons, I have the secret stab of nostalgia for old-timey ribbon, the kind whose ends flop like spaniel ears. I'm suspicious of unnaturally perky ribbon.

I don't believe that." She seems like suck a force,this reasonable girl who kills with a turn of her fingers. She would have left all this behind, if she had the chance. "I honestly don't remember," she sighs "I don't think I was strong in life. Now it seems like I loved every moment, that every breath was charmed and crisp." she clasps her hands comically to her chest and breaths in deep through her nose, then blows it out in a huff. "I probably didn't. For all my dreams and fancies, I can't recall being...what would you call it? Perky?

So I heard on the news that the Tard died and your house burnt down. I bet secretly you're relieved you don't have to live with him anymore in that dump." The whole commotion in the hallway immediately stopped, as if her words had been spoken over the intercom. It became so quiet that you could hear Mina's and Nan's sharp intakes of breath. Mina wasn't prone to violence and was about to think of something mean to say back to Savannah, but she didn't have the chance to, because Nan Taylor, perky, happy-go-lucky Nan Taylor, pulled back her fist and punched Savannah in the face. Savannah wasn't prepared, and fell to the floor. Nan stood over her shocked face and yelled, "No way was he handicapped, or different. He was the most special, coolest and smartest kid ever. And the world is a much sadder place because he's not here. And don't you ever, EVER, insult him again!" Nan shook with anger. The hall was full of students and teachers, and one by one they started to clap.

Everyone had grown used to giving orders to the pleasant-voiced feminine robots. Alexa, Siri, Sophia, Sage, do this for me. A perky ‘okay’, and your wish was her command. They’d all been doing it for years before women started realising the men in their lives had been conditioned to do the same to them. And by then it was too late.

Reading for me, was like breathing. It was probably akin to masturbation for my brain. Getting off on the fantasy within the pages of a good novel felt necessary to my survival. If I wasn't asleep, knitting, or working, I was reading. This was for several reasons, all of them focused around the infititely superior and enviable lives of fictional heroines to real-life people. Take romans for instance. Fictional women in romance novels never get their period. They never have morning breath. They orgasm seventeen times a day. And they never seem to have jobs with bosses. These clean, well-satisfied, perm-minty-breathed women have fulfilling careers as florists, bakery owners, hair stylists or some other kind of adorable small business where they decorate all day. If they do have a boss, he's a cool guy (or gal) who's invested in the woman's love life. Or, he's a super hot billionaire trying to get in her pants. My boss cares about two things: Am I on time ? Are all my patients alive and well at the end of my shift? And the mend in the romance novels are too good to be true; but I love it, and I love them. Enter stage right the independently wealthy venture capitalist suffering from the ennui of perfection until a plucky interior decorator enters stage left and shakes up his life and his heart with perky catch phrases and a cute nose that wrinkles when she sneezes. I suck at decorating. The walls of my apartment are bare. I am allergic to most store-bought flowers. If I owned a bakery, I'd be broke and weigh seven hundred pounds, because I love cake.

You usually just get lumped with whatever emotion your subconscious wants to kick you in the teeth with on any given day. Look at me for example, every day I go to bed deciding to wake up perky and peppy, making friends with everyone and anyone I meet. And yet when the morning swings around, I’m still the same mean bitch I was last night.

They have a name for it these days. They have a name for everything these days. They call it Second Lifetime Syndrome, and it happens when a sorcerer watches her family and friends age and die around her. You’ll latch on to other mages from that moment on, because what’s the point of going through all that pain again? Valkyrie, there are some stark realities you have to face. You’re going to look the way you do for the next eighty years. In two hundred years, you’ll look twenty-five. You won’t be able to form attachments to mortals. They will start to notice something is different about you when they’re lined and saggy and you’re still young and perky. You’re going to have to say goodbye to your parents before they start to ask questions.

Tapping into likability doesn't mean you have to be constantly perky and bright. It's about productive and authentic energy.

Morning people use up their perky too early and end up being just plain grumpy.

It was a perky, faintly masculine voice—excitable and… “M-Bot?” I whispered. “What in the heavens?” I’m a ghost, he said in my mind. Boo!

Hi. How are you feeling?" "Downright perky, thanks for asking." She smiled a little until she came up to him. With her night vision, she saw that he was lying on top of the covers with only a pair of boxers on. He had a gauze pad around his belly and was covered with bruises. And-oh God-his leg... "Don't worry,". he said dryly. I haven't had that foot-and-shin combo for over a century. And I really am okay. Just some aesthetic damage." "Then why are you wearing that bandage like a sash?" "It makes my ass look smaller.

On the platform in the opposite corner of the bar, the jazz ensemble was playing a perky little tune. Admittedly, when the Count had first encountered jazz, he hadn’t much of an affinity for it. He had been raised to appreciate music of sentiment and nuance, music that rewarded patience and attention with crescendos and diminuendos, allegros and adagios artfully arranged over four whole movements – not a fistful of notes crammed higgledy-piggledy into thirty measures. And yet… And yet, the art form had grown on him. Like the American correspondents, jazz seemed a naturally gregarious force – one that was a little unruly and prone to say the first thing that popped into its head, but generally of good humor and friendly intent. In addition, it seemed decidedly unconcerned with where it had been or where it was going – exhibiting somehow simultaneously the confidence of the master and the inexperience of the apprentice. Was there any wonder that such an art had failed to originate in Europe?

Ah, selfish. There’s that word again.” Sherry smirked. “It’s been hurled at me many a time, because being a mother and wife is all about selflessness, see?” She imitated a perky, syrupy-sweet voice. “Giving up every molecule of your soul. If you want anything for yourself, you’re accused of being selfish. Marriage and especially motherhood mean being condemned to play second fiddle your entire life.

Stephanie, huh?” I ask, when she doesn’t respond. “You go by Steph?” “No. Not Steph.” she says as we cross the street to the familiar green and white Starbucks logo. “My ex-boyfriend called me that so I’m kind of over it.” God, someone actually dated this cranky little midget? Then my eyes skimmed the perky cleavage beneath the tiny tank top. Right. There was that.

There’s no one like you. There’s no one who smells like you, tastes like you. There’s no one with the same wide eyes, the same perky nose, the same slight freckles, the same plump lips, the same curve of your ass, the same short but beautiful legs, the same toes I want to nibble on. I don’t care how many women I’ve been with. There’s only one you, and I can’t get enough.

There's this mental illness, right? It's called 'anhedonia.' It means 'without pleasure.' You can look it up, though all you really need to do is look around." She motioned to the door the other women had disappeared through, and to the world at large. "A good deal of people, mostly women, spend their entire lives in this state. It's a sort of half-death. But if you recognize this, you can fix it...You focus on bliss. Small pleasures. Fill your day with as many as you can fit into twenty-four hours. You devote every possible moment not to fulfilling another person-a man-but yourself."-Suzanne "Sounds hedonistic"- Joanna "But once you can do this, you start attracting everyone to you. You dont need compare yourself to some other girl, no matter how young or firm or perky she is.....Trust me. A woman like this, one at her best? We're the color of the world. We're the light and the beauty. So focus on your pleasure, and the man you want can't help but realize...that he may be a prince...but your a goddess.-Suzanne

erah Graesin had a silky, low voice. It was reputed to be sexy, but then, everything about Terah Graesin was supposed to be sexy. Kylar didn’t see it. Oh, she was pretty. She had a wide mouth, full lips, and the kind of figure that was unattainable for the majority of noblewomen who spent their days doing nothing more strenuous than issuing orders to the servants. Maybe it was that she was a little too self-consciously good-looking. She wore lots of makeup—expertly applied and subtle, but lots—and had tweezed her eyebrows down to tiny lines. The truth was, she held herself like he ought to admire her, and it pissed him off. What pissed him off more was that to look her in the eye with his disguise, he had to stare straight at her admittedly perky breasts. Dammit, why were breasts so intriguing?

Jacque rolled her eyes. "Jen you were screaming at the top of your lungs that it wasn't fair that you had to give up your perky rack, and you were sick of your nipples feeling as though they had been stuck in a pencil sharpener while salt was poured on them." "How do you even know that? I was at the Serbian pack mansion when I had my moment.," Jen growled. "Your mate put you on speaker phone," Sally said trying not to laugh.

say that Finnegan Lane was something of a womanizer was like telling someone that it was a little steamy in the South in the summertime. Old, young, fat, thin, blonde, brunette, bald, toothless, face like a steel trap, Finn didn’t care as long as it was breathing, female, and had the breasts to prove it. He wasn’t even particular about how perky they were.

Someday Perky. Someday... When you're ready, you'll realize just how dirty my mouth can be all over you. And you'll love it.

His voice was chipper. Cinnamon hated chipper. She wrapped Chipper up in duct tape, pounded nails into it and used it to beat the crap out of Perky.

I am fucking charming!” Dex shouted, his entire face going beet red. “I am the most charming motherfucker you will ever know, so kiss my perfectly perky ass!

It was that summer, too, that I began the cutting, and was almost as devoted to it as to my newfound loveliness. I adored tending to myself, wiping a shallow red pool of my blood away with a damp washcloth to magically reveal, just above my naval: queasy. Applying alcohol with dabs of a cotton ball, wispy shreds sticking to the bloody lines of: perky. I had a dirty streak my senior year, which I later rectified. A few quick cuts and cunt becomes can't, cock turns into back, clit transforms to a very unlikely cat, the l and i turned into a teetering capital A. The last words I ever carved into myself, sixteen years after I started: vanish. Sometimes I can hear the words squabbling at each other across my body. Up on my shoulder, panty calling down to cherry on the inside of my right ankle. On the underside of a big toe, sew uttering muffled threats to baby, just under my left breast. I can quiet them down by thinking of vanish, always hushed and regal, lording over the other words from the safety of the nape of my neck. Also: At the center of my back, which was too difficult to reach, is a circle of perfect skin the size of a fist. Over the years I've made my own private jokes. You can really read me. Do you want me to spell it out for you? I've certainly given myself a life sentence. Funny, right? I can't stand to look myself without being completely covered. Someday I may visit a surgeon, see what can be done to smooth me, but now I couldn't bear the reaction. Instead I drink so I don't think too much about what I've done to my body and so I don't do any more. Yet most of the time that I'm awake, I want to cut. Not small words either. Equivocate. Inarticulate. Duplicitous. At my hospital back in Illinois they would not approve of this craving. For those who need a name, there's a gift basket of medical terms. All I know is that the cutting made me feel safe. It was proof. Thoughts and words, captured where I could see them and track them. The truth, stinging, on my skin, in a freakish shorthand. Tell me you're going to the doctor, and I'll want to cut worrisome on my arm. Say you've fallen in love and I buzz the outlines of tragic over my breast. I hadn't necessarily wanted to be cured. But I was out of places to write, slicing myself between my toes - bad, cry - like a junkie looking for one last vein. Vanish did it for me. I'd saved the neck, such a nice prime spot, for one final good cutting. Then I turned myself in.

Here and there great branches had been torn away by the sheer weight of the snow, and robins perched and hopped on them in their perky conceited way, just as if they had done it themselves.

I taste the past in his kiss. I taste apologies and regrets, questions without answers, the fine-grooved sense of time making me relax and tense up at the same time. Meaning doesn't matter in this brief flash of touch. What this kiss means isn't important. That it's happening at all is.

An ironic, snarky, or perky tone can be used to avoid true intimacy with readers. Literary writing isn’t necessarily intimate, either. A life “closely observed” doesn’t mean we’ll care about it.

Sophie stood there all perky with her hands on her hips in a model-like stance, and a smile that showed way too many pearly whites…and a helium balloon that shouted It’s A Boy!!! “Nice balloon, Sophie,” he said, slightly amused. “What?” she asked, all innocently. “They were out of Get Well.” The hell they were. This little stunt was so Sophie. I knew exactly what that balloon meant – that I came into this hospital alone but I was gonna leave it with a boy wrapped in my arms. Sophie probably thinks he’s ready to suckle my breasts too.

Ten salespeople, all young, all dressed in generic cotton casual, looked up from their conversations, spotted the money in her hand, and simultaneously stopped breathing-their brains shutting down bodily functions and rerouting the needed energy to calculate the projected commissions contained in Jody's cash. One by one they resumed breathing and marched toward her, a look of dazed hunger in their eyes: a pack of zombies from the perky, youthful version of The Night of the Living Dead. "I wear a size four and I've got a date in fifteen minutes," Jody said. "Dress me." They descended on her like an evil khaki wave.

I gotta say—women look real nice in dresses, bikinis, or of course less, but when a little blonde is on her hands and knees, her tank top gaping down in the front, perky ass up in the air, her face smeared with mud, AND she’s holding out a cup of worms she dug for you… This is the stuff country boys dream about.

Some people are story collectors. While others collect seashells, or stuffed animals, or stamps, story collectors wrap themselves in words, surround themselves with sentences, and play with participle, even those pesky, perky dangling ones. They climb over Cs and mount Ms and lounge in Ls. Soon enough they land in the land of homonyms, then, wham! They stumble into onomatopoeia, that lovely creaking, booming bit of wordplay - and that, Dear Friend, is where our story begins.

Back when I was with Justin, if I was going out clubbing with Rachel he would always remind me that lots of men see ‘quirky girl’ and think ‘desperate and easy’. He’s right, as per usual. I actually wonder if it’s easier to get laid as a quirky girl than a perky cheerleader type: you’re more approachable, and nobody assumes you’ve already got a boyfriend.

How much memory do we pack into our skin?

Leave. Just leave while I am still strong enough to let you go.

with the perky vigor of a man who had sat through one too many free webinars about the importance of networking.

I’m convinced that super positive and perky people are all ignoring their inner grumps, whereas I embrace the fact that sometimes it’s good to be a moody old bat.

The blonde kept darting glances at Tommy. Cute and perky. I hated her.

Hello, Jackass Dirtbag,” says a perky computer voice. “Welcome to your divisional experience! I am your fully automated Unwinding Intelli-System, but you can call me UNIS.

That’s lust. She wants me to suckle those perky tits. I just fucking know it. — Ace, Chapter 2, Erotomaniac: (Book 1) The Filthy Kings Trilogy

Miami’s like any banana republic, a pair of perky silicone titties surrounded by a cancer-ridden body.

He was a thorn in my side, but he had legs for days. And I hated how perky his ass was. It was insulting how nice it was.

Taylor and Niall are watching their personal assistant prospects waiting to be interviewed. "Leave them sitting there until one of them shows some initiative." Niall said. Ten minutes ticked slowly by. "I give in," Niall said. "They're all idiots." Taylor laughed. "I'm intrigued now. How long are they going to sit there?" "I suspect until they drop dead." Five more minutes before Taylor heard Niall exhale in frustration, and then the door of the living room flew open and a chicken burst in. "What the f**k?" Taylor gasped. "Hi, everyone," the chicken said in a perky voice. "Thank goodness, I'm not too late. I had difficulty getting across the road." She laughed and then sighed when no one else joined in. They sat staring at her in mute shock.

Amanda spots two breasts poking out of its hair-covered torso with a perkiness that for a fleeting moment reminds her of the nude Jean Paul Gaultier cone bra from Madonna’s Blond Ambition tour

Granny is seventy-seven years old, going on seventy-eight. She’s not very good at it either. You can tell she’s old because her face looks like newspaper stuffed into wet shoes, but no one ever accuses Granny of being grown-up for her age. “Perky,” people sometimes say to Elsa’s mum, looking either fairly worried or fairly angry as Mum sighs and asks how much she owes for the damages.

Living is more than just existing. When you are living you feel emotions that you may not be able to decipher. You commit mistakes and learn from them and you will be carved in people’s hearts and souls with love and happiness so when you are gone you may not be able to exist anymore but you will still be living inside people’s heart and souls and your memory will forever be cherished by them.

Permian recalls the former Russian province of Perm in the Ural Mountains. For Cretaceous (from the Latin for chalk) we are indebted to a Belgian geologist with the perky name of J. J. d’Omalius d’Halloy.

This won me a couple of fans, notably with new neighbor Delicious, who shouted with surprise, P-I Piper! You got some nice titties! You got those TV titties!! They stand up on they own all perky and everything! Damn!

Morning, K,” Levi said, looking wide-awake and cheerful. Demons shouldn’t be chipper. It should be a rule. Or maybe just my rule. Rule Number 1: Levi must never be perky in my presence. I needed to work on enforcing that.

He blinks a few times. It’s like watching his consciousness swim toward the surface. “Obviously I like the book. I begged to work on it, remember?” “I’ll remember you begging until my last dying breath.” He looks abruptly to the screen, all business, and it feels like my heart is taking on water. “The pages are great,” he says. “The perky physical therapist is a good foil to Nadine, but I think by the end of this section, she needs more depth.” “I wrote that too!” I’m immediately self-conscious about my teacher’s pet I-just-aced-a-quiz voice when I see Charlie’s face. “What?” He squelches his smirk. “Nothing.” “Not ‘nothing,’ ” I challenge. “That’s a face.” “I’ve always had one, Stephens,” he says. “Fairly disappointing you just noticed.

She grinned. “This is the fun part.” She didn’t even look, but a moment before the demon hit, massive wings snapped out of her back with lightning speed and a thundercrack, smacking the demon and flicking it over the rooftops like it was a…gnat. Okay, so the thesaurus in my head wasn’t cranking out the synonyms because I was too busy gawking at the enormous white wings checkered with several feathers the same brilliant blue as her hair and shirt. They fluttered with a whispering grace, sending a soft breeze to cool my sweaty skin. I blinked when she snapped her fingers in my face. “Did you hear anything I just said?” “You have wings?” She sighed. Her shoulders and wings slumped. “I need you to focus, dear, so listen up. You must stick close to the Hex Boys. They’ll protect you whilst—“ “Where did the wings come from?

My little Kathyln, I know you think you did nothing wrong. Everyone gets angry and fights for what they believe in. What I want you to know, my little baby, is that before you are a princess, you are a person. It doesn’t matter if someone is a king, a servant, a powerful mage, an elf, or a dwarf. A person is a person. “Everyone is different and that is what makes everyone special in their own ways. Don’t hate someone for something they can’t change. What if people didn’t like you because you have round ears or because you have beautiful white skin? Or a perky little nose?

all the time complaining at me that she could have had a career dancing topless at the Orbital Grill and Rendezvous Parlor. Her and her perky breasts. Yasmin, I told her, all the girls have perky breasts in zero-g, you were nothing special, you’re lucky a good man took you away from all that.

Being naked and vulnerable in front of someone you love is an act of trust. Being naked and vulnerable in front of billions of people on social media, turned into an object of ridicule and scorn, is an act of war. The masses turn your picture into a battlefield, covered only in your own blood.

She’s guarding you.” “Like I’m a cow.” “Yup.” I bend and grab her around the waist, then put her over my shoulder. “Today’s Prison Break episode ends here.” “Put me down.” “Nope.” I lightly tap her ass with my palm, then decide to leave it there. She might be skinny, but her ass is nice and perky.

he was serenaded by an orchestrated version of an old Sheryl Crow tune with all the sex squeezed out of it and with a perkiness squeezed in, retaining only the skin of the melody to wrap a different and less tasty variety of sausage. In this fallen world, even the most insignificant things, like pop tunes, were inevitably corrupted.

No, Aslan, we won’t, we won’t,” said everyone. But one perky jackdaw added in a loud voice, “No fear!” and everyone else had finished just before he said it so that his words came out quite clear in a dead silence; and perhaps you have found out how awful that can be—say, at a party. The Jackdaw became so embarrassed that it hid its head under its

I'm sitting naked on the edge of the bed with my legs ajar, caressing soft parts; marveling at the pulchritude of her navel. I look up to admire the magnificent curvature of her perky breasts and her endearing smile. I was never in love with her desire to undergo cosmetic surgery. I was then, and have fervently remained, in love with her happiness.

All of that was eventually shown—there’s considerable adult neuro-genesis in the hippocampus (where roughly 3 percent of neurons are replaced each month) and lesser amounts in the cortex.22 It happens in humans throughout adult life. Hippocampal neurogenesis, for example, is enhanced by learning, exercise, estrogen, antidepressants, environmental enrichment, and brain injuryfn9 and inhibited by various stressors.fn10,23 Moreover, the new hippocampal neurons integrate into preexisting circuits, with the perky excitability of young neurons in the perinatal brain. Most important, new neurons are essential for integrating new information into preexisting schemas, something called “pattern separation.

Okay. Sweetheart. “Definitely don’t call me that.” “What should I call you?” “An Uber. I’m out of here.

...I began pulling out old pictures and yearbooks from our Los Angeles high schools and UC Berkeley. Suddenly there we were, thousands of trim-haired, neatly-dressed, conservative-looking youngsters, with perky, forced smiles, encased in identical inch by inch-and-a-quarter boxes for our children to snicker at. Only they did not snicker. “Mom, this isn’t the 60s, is it?

Creatures, I give you yourselves,” said the strong, happy voice of Aslan. “I give to you forever this land of Narnia. I give you the woods, the fruits, the rivers. I give you the stars and I give you myself. The Dumb Beasts whom I have not chosen are yours also. Treat them gently and cherish them but do not go back to their ways lest you cease to be Talking Beasts. For out of them you were taken and into them you can return. Do not so.” “No, Aslan, we won’t, we won’t,” said everyone. But one perky jackdaw added in a loud voice, “No fear!” and everyone else had finished just before he said it so that his words came out quite clear in a dead silence; and perhaps you have found out how awful that can be—say, at a party. The Jackdaw became so embarrassed that it hid its head under its wing as if it were going to sleep. And all the other animals began making various queer noises which are their ways of laughing and which, of course, no one has ever heard in our world. They tried at first to repress it, but Aslan said: “Laugh and fear not, creatures. Now that you are no longer dumb and witless, you need not always be grave. For jokes as well as justice come in with speech.

Everything that is universally considered beautiful and most likely everything that turns you on are signs of these things, such as smooth skin, a symmetrical face, relatively big eyes, round perky breasts, lack of body hair below the head, a skinny frame with a narrow waist, or relatively wide hips if you wish, being both better for childbirth and a sign that a woman has not already been impregnated by another male.

He pressed his thumbs against Iesu's hipbones, caressing the underside of his dick with his tongue and swallowing the salty, sticky precome. He couldn't say he enjoyed the taste, exactly, but... he glanced up, right past Iesu's heaving chest—shirt sticking to his perky nipples—and at his upturned chin where he'd left his whole throat exposed. Vulnerable and at his mercy. And blowing a guy was supposed to be submissive.

Chapter One. I love owning a dog. I love being owned by a dog. No matter how tough the day has been or how low my mood might be, being greeted at the door by a joyful, exuberant animal is one of life’s greatest pleasures. It’s hard to stay tired or grumpy or in a thoroughly foul mood in the face of those bright eyes, perky ears, lolling tongue, shivering body, and tail wagging hard enough to knock the knickknacks off side tables.

The attendant opened the door, and the faint barking Nina had heard before became frantic and shrill. Nina stepped into the concrete cell block and stopped, blown out of her self-absorption by the row of gray metal cages where dogs barked to get her attention. She let her breath out, horrified. “Oh, God, this is awful.” “Spay your pets.” The attendant stopped in front of the next to last cage. “Here you go.” She jerked her head again. “Perky.” Nina

She may even be married to the previously described wiling warrior. Her needs, gallantly subjugated to his towering prowess, are only shared with those who will stroke her selflessness and provide her with an awe-filled “I don’t know how you do it.” Indeed, this lovely yet unabashed matron of martyrdom craves applause even as her self-effacing wisdom and perfectly perky posture leave us squirming, as if listening to the screech of nails on a chalkboard.

Joy studied movies because she had to. She literally thought everyone was making sexual attraction up. She'd heard countless people describe it, read literally hundreds of romance novels -- there's never any feelings low in her belly, no shivers down her spine. She doesn't have to cross her legs at the sight of veiny forearms, perky breasts, bubble butts, or perfect abs. It just doesn't happen. The day she realized it was, in fact, a very real thing absolutely blew her mind.

God, she was gorgeous. Pure and cleanly beautiful. From the rounded crests of her cheeks to the delicate sweep of her jaw, she had the kind of face sculptors memorialized in marble and the rest of us gazed upon for centuries to come. Of course she was beautiful. She was an actress. Meant to be idolized on the screen. Emma Maron, a.k.a Princess Anya, future queen and conqueror on Dark Castle. The guys and I used to watch the show while traveling between games. Anya was a favorite. Particularly since... I'd seen her breasts. It hit me like a puck to the helmet, and my ears began to ring. I'd seen those perfect creamy handfuls with sweet pink tips that pointed upward, defying gravity and begging to be sucked. I had watched her on hands on knees, perky tits bouncing as Arasmus slammed into her from behind. I actually blushed. Me. The guy who'd had dozens of women throw themselves at him every night since high school. I'd had sex so many times and in so many ways it had become a blur. Nothing shamed me or made me uncomfortable. Yet I started to get hot under the collar, my cheeks burning. After nearly a year of being disinterested in all things sexual, my dick decided to make its presence known and start rising. Now, of all times. Now, when I was stuck in a damn truck less than three feet from a woman, I finally got a hard-on. Lovely. I felt like a damn lecher. "At least it's a beautiful drive," she said, breaking through heated thoughts of creamy breasts with cotton candy nipples.

How are you enjoying Thorne Abbey?" Cal took a long sip of orange juice before replying. "It's great." I don't think it was possible for Cal to sound less enthusiastic, but either Lara didn't pick up on it, or she didn't care, because she sounded awfully perky as she said, "Well, I'm sure the two of you are welcoming the chance to spend some time together." Cal and I both stared at her. I tried to will her to stop talking, but apparently that power wasn't in my repertoire. Lara flashed us a conspiratorial grin. "Nothing makes me happier than seeing an arrangement that's a real love match." All the awkwardness that had vanished between me and Cal yesterday seemed to swoop back into the room with an audible whoosh. I dared a quick look in his direction, but Cal, as usual, was doing his whole Stoic Man thing. His expression didn't even waver. But then I noticed his hand tightening around his glass. "Cal and I aren't...we don't...there's not any, um, love," I finally said. "We're friends." Lara frowned, confused. "Oh. I'm sorry." She turned to Cal, eyebrows raised. "I just assumed that was the reason you turned down the position with the Council." Cal shook his head,and I think he was about to say something, but I beat him to it. "What position with the Council?" "It was nothing," he said. Lara gave a delicate snort before saying to me, "After his term at Hecate ended, Mr. Callahan was offered a position as the Council's chief bodyguard. Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you initially accept the assignment?" she asked Cal. It was the closest I'd ever seen Cal to angry. Of course, on him, that meant that his brow furrowed a little. "I did, but-" he started to say. "But then you heard Sophie was coming to Hecate, and you decided to stay," Lara finished, and her lips twisted in the triumphant smile I'd seen on Mrs. Casnoff's face dozens of times. I stood there, frozen in place, as she turned back to me and said, "Mr. Callahan gave up a chance to travel the world with the council so that he could be little more than a janitor on Graymalkin Island. For you.

I’ve been thinking about what this would be like, too. Ever since that night I almost kissed you on the beach back in June. Say you’re right. Say I can have any woman I want. The woman I want is you. Because you’re perky and fun. Because you’re adorable and you make me laugh all the time. And because you’re far more beautiful than you give yourself credit for. I want you, Trina. You’ve got adaptability and smarts that can’t be measured by essays and bubbled answer sheets. I don’t want a distraction. I don’t want a random hook-up. I want you.

How recently have the sharks been fed?" the guy next to me asked. Alex and I were in a small room with a dry-erase board, a perky blonde aquarium emplyee, and three guys from Rutgers who'd won their fraternity Christmas prize. True to Alex's promise, no one had seen me in my miniscule jungle print. Another perky girl had handed me a wet suit and pointed me into a changing room. So as I listened to the basics of shark tank etiquette, I was fully encased in blue neoprene from ankle to jaw. The frat boys kept sneaking looks at me when they thought I-and Alex-wasn't looking. It made me feel just a little bit better. Alex's promise that I didn't have to get into the water if I really didn't want to helped, too. It had gotten me out of the car and into the aquarium. "You can do it," he'd coaxed. "Yes," I'd answered, thinking of the skateboarder a little and "fake it til you make it" more. "I can do it." "Yesterday." Perky Girl answered the feeding question. "Believe me. They're not hungry." I wanted to know exactly how she knew that.Did she ask the sharks? "Okay," she chirped. "Let's get snorkeling.

I go into the toilet stall. I say stall; it’s posh, so the stall is its own little room. The toilet has a heated seat and speaks in a perky Japanese accent. It sprays warm water directly into my vulva after I’m done pissing, and I go, ‘Fucking hell!’ loudly, because I wasn’t expecting it. It also dries me off, with a little blast of hot air. And when I come back out of the bathroom, I’m aware I want to talk about the fucked-up talking toilet, but fucked-up talking toilets that spray water up your gooch without asking are probably just par for the fucking course here, aren’t they?

Because the British were the most active in the early years of the discipline, British names are predominant in the geological lexicon. Devonian is of course from the English county of Devon. Cambrian comes from the Roman name for Wales, while Ordovician and Silurian recall ancient Welsh tribes, the Ordovices and Silures. But with the rise of geological prospecting elsewhere, names began to creep in from all over. Jurassic refers to the Jura Mountains on the border of France and Switzerland. Permian recalls the former Russian province of Perm in the Ural Mountains. For Cretaceous (from the Latin for chalk) we are indebted to a Belgian geologist with the perky name of J. J. d’Omalius d’Halloy.

Their leader looked over at me, his flawless lips in an even line, his nose chiseled to a point like an arrow aimed my way. Raven waves fell away from big eyes exhibiting more alertness in their stare than any animal or human naturally possessed. Despite how defenseless I knew myself to be, I refused to show him fear. Jovani turned back to the four members from his clan. “I won’t need backup, Percival, I have a priceless bargaining chip.” From the way the others eyed my form, I understood it was me he considered his negotiating leverage. I felt somewhat confident that meant I was more valuable alive. “This stinks,” one of the lady vampires complained. “No, Concetta, that’s just the dog.” A perky nose sniffed in my direction as they shared a trill of amusement at my expense. All but Jovani.

From the passenger seat Kitty sighs heavily and rests her head against the window. “What’s up with you?” Peter asks. “The bridesmaids won’t let me go on the bachelorette night,” she says. “I’m the only one left out.” I narrow my eyes at the back of her head. “That’s bullshit!” Peter looks at me in the rearview mirror. “Why won’t you guys let her go?” “We’re going to a karaoke bar! We can’t bring Kitty in because she’s too young. Honestly, I think I was barely allowed to go.” “Why can’t you guys just go to a restaurant like we’re doing?” “Because that’s not a real bachelorette.” Peter rolls his eyes. “It’s not like you guys are going to a strip club or something--wait, did you change your mind? Are you going to a strip club?” “No!” “Then what’s the big deal? Just go somewhere else.” “Peter, it’s not my decision. You’ll have to take it up with Kristen.” I smack the back of Kitty’s arm. “Same goes for you, you little fiend! Quit trying to weasel your way in by manipulating Peter. He has no power here.” “Sorry, kid,” Peter says. Kitty slumps in her seat and then straightens. “What if I came to the bachelor night instead?” she suggests. “Since you’re just going to a restaurant?” Peter stutters, “Uh--uh, I don’t know, I’d have to talk to the guys…” “So you’ll ask? Because I like steak too. I like it so much. I’ll order steak with a baked potato on the side, and for dessert I’ll have a strawberry sundae with whipped cream.” Kitty beams a smile at Peter, who smiles back weakly. When we get to the elementary school and she hops out, perky and puffed up like a chickadee, I lean forward in my seat and say into Peter’s ear, “You just got played.

Small wonder, then, that an institution like the Library found space to take root. It was presented as a good cause, created in the hope of encouraging people to be more open with one another. Its creators were little more than boys: perky, smiling youngsters, well groomed and well dressed, without a trace of facial hair. They looked designed to win people's trust. And who wouldn't trust a cheerful, articulate young man who came calling at your door, inviting you to chat with him about this and that, about the meaning of life, about all the hunger and suffering in the world? It's true; it was whispered that dark forces acted behind them, national and international groups hungry for vengeance after certain recent defeats. But who could believe such things in front of polite young lads who always looked you in the eyes and shook your hand.

Speaking of enjoying self-abusive behaviors, are either of you actually going to our high school reunion? Ten years, can you believe it? I got invitations by email, Facebook messenger, a direct message on Twitter, another one on Instagram, and some kind of text alert I know I didn’t sign up for.” Perky’s casual drop of this question sets my skin to Creepy-Dude-in-Back-Alley mode. “I’ve been ignoring them all for months,” I say brightly, plastering a smile on my face. “I downloaded the app,” Fiona cheerfully says. “Our high school reunion has an app?” I choke out. As my mouth takes in the yummy curry I’m finally eating, my mind tries to parse what Perky’s up to, and my body keeps hijacking my heart. “Everyone has an app,” Perky says with a hand wave. “I don’t have an app!” I protest. “You can’t keep your smartphone charged above six percent at any given time, Mallory. You don’t deserve an app.” “That’s not— ” Fiona shoves a piece of pakora in my mouth before I can finish.

Fifteen of his clubs, dedicated to politics, music, and the performing arts, had all been developing strategic plans for the past two years. And the local branches of various societies--whose goals were to advance aviation, knowledge of chemistry, automotive transportation, equestrian sports, highway construction, as well as the prompt eradication of ethnic chauvinism--existed only in the sick imagination of the local union committee. As for the school of continuing education, of which Sardinevich was especially proud, it was constantly reorganizing itself, which, as anybody knows, means it wasn't undertaking any useful activity whatsoever. If Sardinevich were an honest man, he would probably have admitted that all these activities were essentially a mirage. But the local union committee used this mirage to concoct its reports, so at the next level up nobody doubted the existence of all those musico-political clubs. At that level, the school of continuing education was imagined as a large stone building filled with desks, where perky teachers draw graphs that show the rise of unemployment in the United States on their chalkboards, while mustachioed students develop political consciousness right in front of your eyes.

We walked hand in hand toward the diner, until Ivy froze in her steps. 'What's wrong?' I asked, skimming the area around us, looking for some kind of threat. She made a sound of panic. 'Ivy?' My heart was starting to beat faster. 'I'm still wearing your shirt!' She hissed. 'Is that all, woman? Please.' I started walking again. She refused to budge. I turned back and lifted and eyebrow. 'What now?' She stepped up close and whispered dramatically, 'I'm not wearing a bra either!' I matched her tone to whisper back, 'Good thing the girls are perky!' 'Braeden!' She gasped. I threw back my head and laughed. 'C'mon. I'm so hungry I could eat the rotten end of a pig.' 'Oh my gosh, that's disgusting!' she burst out as I towed her along behind me. 'Awe, baby. That hurts my feelings.' She made a rude noise, and I grinned. I opened the door to the diner, and she walked in first. I had to hold back a smile when she crossed her arms over her unleashed girls. This chick was fucking hilarious. Rimmel waved wildly from a booth near the window. Ivy hurried to the table and slid in across from Romeo and Rimmel. I followed with a lot less hurry in my step and slid in right next to Ivy. Romeo looked at Ivy, then at me. We exchanged a look. He held out his fist to pound it out. I obliged. 'About damn time,' he grunted. Then he glanced at Rimmel, who had her hair piled on the top of her head and a pencil sticking out of the mess. 'Can we order now, smalls? I'm so hungry I could eat the ass out of a skunk.' Ivy and Rimmel both made gagging sounds. 'Good one,' I congratulated him. -Braeden, Ivy, Romeo and Rimmel

Our two taco specials get shoved up on the serving counter, crispy, cheesy goodness in brown plastic baskets lined with parchment paper, sour cream and guacamole exactly where they should be. On the side. There is a perfect ratio of sour cream, guac, and salsa on a shredded chicken tostada. No one can make it happen for you. Many restaurants have tried. All have failed. Only the mouth knows its own pleasure, and calibration like Taco Heaven cannot be mass produced. It simply cannot. Taco Heaven is a sensory explosion of flavor that defies logic. First, you have to eye the amount of spiced meat, shredded lettuce, chopped tomatoes, and tomatillos. You must consider the size and crispiness of the shells. Some people–I call them blasphemers–like soft tacos. I am sitting across from Exhibit A. We won’t talk about soft tacos. They don’t make it to Taco Heaven. People who eat soft tacos live in Taco Purgatory, never fully understanding their moral failings, repeating the same mistakes again and again for all eternity. Like Perky and dating. Once you inventory your meat, lettuce, tomato, and shell quality, the real construction begins. Making your way to Taco Heaven is like a mechanical engineer building a bridge in your mouth. Measurements must be exact. Payloads are all about formulas and precision. One miscalculation and it all fails. Taco Death is worse than Taco Purgatory, because the only reason for Taco Death is miscalculation. And that’s all on you. “Oh, God,” Fiona groans through a mouthful of abomination. “You’re doing it, aren’t you?” “Doing what?” I ask primly, knowing damn well what she’s talking about. “You treat eating tacos like you’re the star of some Mythbusters show.” “Do not.” “Do too.” “Even if I do–and I am notconceding the point–it would be a worthwhile venture.” “You are as weird about your tacos as Perky is about her coffee.” “Take it back! I am not that weird.” “You are.” “Am not.” “This is why Perky and I swore we would never come here with you again.” Fiona grabs my guacamole and smears the rounded scoop all over the outside of her soft taco. I shriek. “How can you do that?” I gasp, the murder of the perfect ratio a painful, almost palpable blow. The mashed avocado has a death rattle that rings in my ears. Smug, tight lips give me a grimace. “See? A normal person would shout, ‘Hey! That’s mine!’ but you’re more offended that I’ve desecrated my inferior taco wrapping with the wrong amount of guac.” “Because it’s wrong.” “You should have gone to MIT, Mal. You need a job that involves nothing but pure math for the sake of calculating stupid shit no one else cares about.” “So glad to know that a preschool teacher holds such high regard for math,” I snark back. And MIT didn’t give me the kind of merit aid package I got from Brown, I don’t add. “Was that supposed to sting?” She takes the rest of my guacamole, grabs a spoon, and starts eating it straight out of the little white paper scoop container thing. “How can you do that? It’s like people who dip their french fries in mayonnaise.” I shudder, standing to get in line to buy more guac. “I dip my french fries in mayo!” “More evidence of your madness, Fi. Get help now. It may not be too late.” I stick my finger in her face. “And by the way, you and Perky talk about my taco habits behind my back? Some friends!” I hmph and turn toward the counter.

Her eyes were closed so tightly that you could see her long-curled eyelashes pointed skyward, in her baby blue coffin. She was an angel to look at even at that moment. I knew that she was looking over all of us! In addition to that, she was most likely looking at him and holding his hands with her spiritual touch, I could just feel it. He said that he felt the breeze of her presents. He was crying hysterically from his hazel almost jade green eyes! I remember he said that he was secretly in love with Jaylynn back to when she was a little girl. That he never got the chance to say that to her in person. I remember him placing one pink daisy in her box on top of her small, yet perky upward-facing breasts next to her motionless heart; with the bloom under her chin and her slight smile. Along with that, then he slid an engraved promise ring on her finger as well; at that moment… one of his teardrops fell from his eyes on her petite hand, as he was holding it… not wanting to ever let go of her. That is love… if I ever did see it. Greg also whispered to me, that he never even got to kiss her as he always hoped to do, and that she was everything that he was looking for in a girl. Furthermore, he would never look for anyone else. That she was the one, and the only! The only thing I could say was; I thank you and follow your heart, and she will be watching over you. Then he walked away… I never saw him again after that. You know I don't even know his last name. Still, I will always remember his face, and the look that was upon it that day, he was devastated. So, someone did care about her, someone truly loved her, and adored her, and it was taken away from him too. Why! Why oh God, why? Why didn’t she see this when she was alive? ‘Why is a question that has no answers, only just more unanswered questions?

If you happened to find yourself at the foot of the stairs in the White House on a typical afternoon sometime around 1804 or 1805, you might have noticed a perky bird in a pearl-gray coat ascending the steps behind Thomas Jefferson, hop by hop, as the president retired to his chambers for a siesta. This was Dick. Although the president didn’t dignify his pet mockingbird with one of the fancy Celtic or Gallic names he gave his horses and sheepdogs—Cucullin, Fingal, Bergère—still it was a favorite pet. “I sincerely congratulate you on the arrival of the Mocking bird,” Jefferson wrote to his son-in-law, who had informed him of the advent of the first resident mockingbird. “Learn all the children to venerate it as a superior being in the form of a bird.” Dick may well have been one of the two mockingbirds Jefferson bought in 1803. These were pricier than most pet birds ($10 or $15 then—around $125 now) because their serenades included not only renditions of all the birds of the local woods, but also popular American, Scottish, and French songs. Not everyone would pick this bird for a friend. Wordsworth called him the “merry mockingbird.” Brash, yes. Saucy and animated. But merry? His most common call is a bruising tschak!—a kind of unlovely avian expletive that one naturalist described as a cross between a snort of disgust and a hawking of phlegm. But Jefferson adored Dick for his uncommon intelligence, his musicality, and his remarkable ability to mimic. As the president’s friend Margaret Bayard Smith wrote, “Whenever he was alone he opened the cage and let the bird fly about the room. After flitting for a while from one object to another, it would alight on his table and regale him with its sweetest notes, or perch on his shoulder and take its food from his lips.” When the president napped, Dick would sit on his couch and serenade him with both bird and human tunes.