Platform Heels Quotes

First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches. May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty. When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer. Guide her, protect her When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age. Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit. May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers. Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait. O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed. And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it. And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back. “My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.

When one watches some tired hack on the platform mechanically repeating the familiar phrases - bestial atrocities, iron heel, blood-stained tyranny, free peoples of the world, stand shoulder to shoulder - one often has a curious feeling that one is not watching a live human being but some kind of dummy, the appropriate noises are coming out of his larynx, but his brain is not involved

The only question is this: Do you have enough empathy and yearning and desperation to connect to others outside yourself and scream into the void in four-part harmony? Enough brainpower and fine motor control and aesthetic ideation to look at feathers and stones and stuff that comes out of a worm’s more unpleasant holes and see gowns, veils, platform heels? Enough sheer style and excess energy to do something that provides no direct, material benefit to your personal survival, that might even mark you out from the pack as shiny, glittery prey, to do it for no other reason than that it rocks?

When the train stopped, when she got off and heard the concrete of the platform under her heels, she felt light, lifted, impelled to action. She started off, walking fast, as if the speed of her steps could give form to the things she felt.

How fast can you run? When you really have to? In heels and a work skirt, with your bag banging against your side: how fast? When you’re late for your train and you have to get home, and you race down the platform with seconds to spare: how fast can you run? What if it isn’t a train you’re running for, but your life? If you’re late home from work, and there’s no one in sight. If you haven’t charged your phone and no one knows where you are. If the footsteps behind you are getting closer, and you know, because you do it every day, that you’re on your own; that between the platform and the exit you won’t see another soul. If there’s breath on your neck, and the panic is rising, and it’s dark, and cold, and wet. If it’s just the two of you. Just you, and whoever’s behind you. Whoever is chasing you. How fast could you run then? It doesn’t matter how fast. Because there’s always someone who can run faster.

When one watches some tired hack on the platform mechanically repeating the familiar phrases -- bestial atrocities, iron heel, bloodstained tyranny, free peoples of the world, stand shoulder to shoulder -- one often has a curious feeling that one is not watching a live human being but some kind of dummy: a feeling which suddenly becomes stronger at moments when the light catches the speaker's spectacles and turns them into blank discs which seem to have no eyes behind them. And this is not altogether fanciful. A speaker who uses that kind of phraseology has gone some distance toward turning himself into a machine. The appropriate noises are coming out of his larynx, but his brain is not involved as it would be if he were choosing his words for himself. If the speech he is making is one that he is accustomed to make over and over again, he may be almost unconscious of what he is saying, as one is when one utters the responses in church. And this reduced state of consciousness, if not indispensable, is at any rate favorable to political conformity.

She also chose snakeskin high-heeled platform shoes with ankle straps.

He’s probably used to women throwing themselves at him or curling around his massive frame like a sloth in its favorite tree.  I’m closer to a sloth than I am a stripper. Give me a cozy pair of fuzzy pajamas or a onesie instead of a thong and deathtrap platform heels any night of the week. If I had to choose a vice, it would be sloth. Not lust. Unless the lusting is after cake.  Or Ryan Reynolds.  Or Ryan Reynolds with cake.

The soft cream lace of her floaty dress fell to just mid-thigh and long bell sleeves grazed the backs of her hands, creating the picture of elegance. Her long blonde hair was half twisted up, half falling in gently curled tendrils over her shoulders and down her back to add to the effect, while the matte black platform heels and smoky eyes toughened it up. It was just a shame the mascara streaks on her cheeks completely ruined it all.

The Mother’s Prayer for Its Daughter First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither the Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches. May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty. When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer. Guide her, protect her When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age. Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit. May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers. Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For Childhood is short—a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day— And Adulthood is long and Dry-Humping in Cars will wait. O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed. And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it. And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, That I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back. “My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes. Amen

His silhouette was blurry through the angry, sheeting rain, but she could see his hands were two fists. Was he angry? Livia walked toward him, leaving her heels behind after two steps. She let the umbrella tumble off her shoulder shortly after that. The cold rain made her gasp. It poured over all of Kyle’s handiwork. Livia kept moving until she stood before him. She closed her eyes against the burning of Kyle’s hairspray as it ran down her face. Livia reached out to touch his arms. She felt her way down to his fists and gently unfurled them with her fingers. She leaned forward on her tiptoes until her cheek touched his jaw. She sighed as his ice-cold face met her still-warm one. Livia’s hands followed his arms back up to his chest. She frowned at the bandage on his forearm. When she found his chest, she used it as an anchor as she walked carefully around him. She settled her face on his broad back and hugged him. She felt and heard him breathe. “Livia.” But he did not move. She rubbed her face on the back of his wet black T-shirt to wipe her eyes. When she could see clearly again, she peeked over his shoulder and saw the red heels waiting patiently. The rain had filled them like little ponds. The umbrella lay on its side, catching water like a bucket. Livia leaned up to his ear and said, “Face me,” in a husky voice she’d never used before. Blake turned achingly slowly until the platform light finally revealed his face. Despite the rain everywhere, Livia knew she’d been dying of thirst, and the sight of him was water.

Fozzetto was sheathed in an ebony jumpsuit with a weightlifter cut in the front. Bands of holographic foil twined around his thighs and wound down to the tops of his silver space boots. He teetered on at least six inches of platform heel; maybe Kiss had had a garage sale.

I couldn't read, and it had almost killed me. I hadn't even won properly. I sank to my knees, letting the platform carry me, and covered my face in my shaking hands. Tears burned just before pain seared through my left arm. I would never beat the third task. I would never free Tamlin, or his people. The pain shot through my bones again, and through my increasing hysteria, I heard words inside my head that stopped me short. Don't let her see you cry. Put your hands at your sides and stand up. I couldn't. I couldn't move. Stand. Don't give her the satisfaction of seeing you break. My knees and spine, not entirely of my own will, forced me upright, and when the ground at last stopped moving, I looked at Amarantha with tearless eyes. Good, Rhysand told me. Stare her down. No tears- wait until you're back in your cell. Amarantha's face was drawn and white, her black eyes like onyx as she beheld me. I had won, but I should be dead. I should be squashed, my blood oozing everywhere. Count to ten. Don't look at Tamlin. Just stare at her. I obeyed. It was the only thing that kept me from giving in to the sobs trapped within my chest, thundering to get out. I willed myself to meet Amarantha's gaze. It was cold and vast and full of ancient malice, but I held it. I counted to ten. Good girl. Now walk away. Turn on your heel- good. Walk toward the door. Keep your chin high. Let the crowd part. One step after another. I listened to him, let him keep me tethered to sanity as I was escorted back to my cell by the guards-who still kept their distance. Rhysand's words echoed through my mind, holding me together. But when my cell door closed, he went silent, and I dropped to the floor and wept.

There was a burly chap standing on the low platform, giving the spiel, in a pretty rough delivery. He had tight yellow curls, the colour of cheap lemonade but turning grey, and a big red face, with a splay nose, and very dark red lips. The ears didn’t seem exactly opposite one another. On the chap’s left a girl lay spread out facing us in an upright canvas chair, as faded and battered as everything else in the outfit. She was dressed up like a French chorus, in a tight and shiny black thing, cut low, and black fishnet stockings, and those shiny black shoes with super high heels that many men go for in such a big way. But the effect was not particularly sexy, all the same. The different bits of costume had all seen better days, like everything else, and the girl herself looked more sick than spicy.

Though you may not be half as peculiar as I am, if you separate out your vanities and illusions, the petty titles to which you hold fast and by which you are defined, the abstract and insensible money in your accounts, your bogus theories, and your inane triumphs, what have you other than a body that, even if you are now as healthy as a robust, will eventually war against you until you are left with nothing but memory and regret? You may run quadruple marathons and do one-arm handstands, but only blink, look up, and see yourself hobbling about like a bent insect half-crushed under a heavy heel. That's me, who can hardly walk, struggling each day to the highest points of the Parque de Cicada, a thousand feet up in the quiet and the clouds, to green platforms overlooking the sea.

Life is so much better in red six inch platform heels.

grab the phone from her, my heart racing as I watch a video of me kissing Saint in my kitchen. There’s a clear shot of my hand palming his erection in his pants, looking as if I set up my phone to record this, with the words written under the post on some social media platform saying, SAINT’S SLUT OR BRIONY’S BITCH? I blink up at Mia, who’s staring at me, worry etched on her face. “I didn’t do this, Mia. I would never—” “Briony Strait?” I close my eyes tightly, facing her as I hear the deacon call my name from behind. Slowly opening my eyes again, I see Mia’s wrinkle in the corners, fearing the wrath I’m about to face. I inhale a deep breath, letting it out, before turning to face him. “Confessional,” he says simply, turning on his heels and heading down the hall. He’s heading to the church next door, waiting for me to follow him. CONFESS

Shaking my bare ass against the pole, I bend down to touch the lip of the platform heels, ensuring the knife is secure. They don’t seem to notice I’m not the regular they apparently frequent.

Shaking my bare ass against the pole, I bend down to touch the lip of the platform heels, ensuring the knife is secure. They don’t seem to notice I’m not the regular they apparently frequent. I guess an ass is an ass to these people. Twirling around the pole, I attempt to hide my identity, shadowing my face beneath the edge of the black, chopped wig, but my chest practically caves in on itself when I finally see him.

Part Two: When St. Kari of the Blade Met Darth Vader, Star Wars Dark Lord of the Sith  (Earlier, the Emperor commanded Lord Vader to make contact . . . “I have felt a non-tremor in the Nether-Force” “I have not, my master.” “Yes, well, that is why I’m ‘the Emp’ and you are not . . . Um, we have a new enemy, the non-entity known as Blade Kári. She’s running around all over the place gunning for that brat kid of yours.” “Hmm. Interesting,” tight-lipped Darth. “Anyway, I–hey, how can all this mish-mash be?” “Search your feelings, Lord Vader” the Emperor solemnized. “If you feel nothing as usual, you know it to be true or false. By now your guess is as good as mine with this Force stuff.” “Damn!–If you say so,” Vader said smacking his hand. “If she could be turned she would make a powerful ally.” “Yesss . . . can it be done? Bring the Valkyrie creature to me. See to it personally, Lord Vader. The more she is loose the more of a train wreck waiting to happen she becomes to us. Besides, it will break up the monotony until Bingo Wednesday night.” “Okay. She will join us or die–again and again and again–until we all get it right. “Now, what about my son?” grumbed Vader deeply. “Why fish for guppies when you can land a Megalodon? Go on. Get out of here. You Annoy me.” “Yes, my Mahhster . . . ”). back to the action . . . “—Oh yeah? Who is he, this Vader person? Someone I should meet?” Kari percolated. Luke mulled. “No. He is evil and very powerful. A ȿith lord.” “A Scythian, eh? Humm.—for a minute there, you had me worried. “Look—there he is!” Luke shouted scrunching down and pulling the girl besides him. Vader stwalked down the landing craft’s platform decked in his usual evil attire looking at the pile of messy clones. “He doesn’t look so tough’st to me. Pretty trippy wardrobe though. Maybe that is why he is evil. Clothes do that, costuming up n’ all. I think I’ll go down and see him.” Kari launched off to meet him. Luke trying to pull her back, she running up to the battle line strewn with dead clones. “Hey Darth’st.” “Did you do all this? Hmmph. The Force is with you, young Blade Kári, but you are not a Valkyrie yet.” “Sez ‘st who? You’st? Do not be so blamed melodramatic. This ’tain’t no movie ʎ’know’st, well leastways, not yet. I shall have you know I am a charter member of your friendly neighborhood Valkyrie club and my dues are so in.” Vader ignited his red lightsaber (he was not one for small talk). “Where can I get one of those, she asked Vader, pointing to his glowing blade of laser evil. Do they come in assorted colors? I want one!” she yelled back at Luke. Vader struck savagely at the girl, she mildly pirouetting on her heels to evade the cut then giggling, diminutively popped him squarely in his breather-chest contraption bugging him. Again, he struck, the blade harmlessly passing through her. “Impressive, most impressive. And you say you can’t get a date?” “Best take it easy Sith-meister. You’re riling me.” Luke’s eyes bulged. He could not believe it, remembering his own stupid head words to Yoda, his spry little green master. Vader paused, breathing heavily as was typical of him like he was a 20-pack a day smoker. “Your destiny lies with me, young Kári. Look here, if you really want one of these red glow in the Nether dark cutters, come with me.” “Honestly?” Luke nodded his head back and forth as if agreeing with himself. Where had he heard that before . . . ? The kid was going to be nothing but trouble from here on out he foresaw. end stay tuned for part iii  

Like the alien stepping out of the space capsule in The Day The Earth Stood Still, Todd Rundgren set his platform-heeled boots down on the streets of Flint, Michigan, looking roughly 110 per cent more glam than anyone else in the blue-collar town.

Every female news anchor Sloane had ever seen, no matter the city, looked like she was from Dallas, but the Dallas news anchors were by far the Dallas-iest of them all. Big sprayed-in hair, pink lips, tailored dresses in one of four jewel tones, paired with platform heels that made them walk like baby deer.

The instant that Devon stepped off the train at Alton Station, he was confronted by the sight of his brother in a dusty coat and mud-crusted breeches and boots. There was a wild look in West’s eyes. “West?” Devon asked in startled concern. “What the devil--” “Did you sign the lease?” West interrupted, reaching out as if to seize his lapels, then appearing to think better of it. He was twitching with impatience, bouncing on his heels like a restless schoolboy. “The London Ironstone lease. Did you sign it?” “Yesterday.” West let out a curse that attracted a slew of censorious gazes from the crowd on the platform. “What of the mineral rights?” “The mineral rights on the land we’re leasing to the railway?” Devon clarified. “Yes, did you give them to Severin? Any of them?” “I kept all of them.” West stared at him without blinking. “You’re absolutely sure?” “Of course I am. Severin badgered me about the mineral rights for three days. The longer we debated, the more exasperated I became, until I said I’d see him in hell before I let him have so much as a clod of manure from Eversby Priory. I walked out, but just as I reached the street, he shouted from the fifth-floor window that he gave in and I should come back.” West leaped forward as if he were about to embrace him, then checked the movement. He shook Devon’s hand violently and proceeded to thump his back with painful vigor. “By God, I love you, you pigheaded bastard!” “What the devil is wrong with you?” Devon demanded. “I’ll show you. Let’s go.” “I have to wait for Sutton. He’s in one of the back carriages.” “We don’t need Sutton.” “He can’t walk to Eversby from Alton,” Devon said, his annoyance fading into laughter. “Damn it, West, you’re jumping about as if someone shoved a hornet’s nest up your--” “There he is,” West exclaimed, gesturing to the valet, motioning for him to hurry.

When one watches some tired hack on the platform mechanically repeating the familiar phrases – bestial atrocities, iron heel, bloodstained tyranny, free peoples of the world, stand shoulder to shoulder – one often has a curious feeling that one is not watching a live human being but some kind of dummy: a feeling which suddenly becomes stronger at moments when the light catches the speaker’s spectacles and turns them into blank discs which seem to have no eyes behind them. And this is not altogether fanciful. A speaker who uses that kind of phraseology has gone some distance toward turning himself into a machine. The appropriate noises are coming out of his larynx, but his brain is not involved, as it would be if he were choosing his words for himself.

Mr. Campbell," a voice called. "Mr. Trevor Campbell." Trevor turned to find a tall, severe looking woman wrapped in a dark coat over her dark dress, all edged in smoky gray fur, approaching in heels that would have been deadly on level dry ground, but even more so on the uneven boards with drifts of snow that made up their portion of the train platform. And yet she seemed not to notice. Though the wind blew a bit where they stood in the open, not one dark hair strayed from her sleek French twist. Dusky skin showed off a polished glow over sharp cheek bones and a thin, straight nose. Her dark eyebrows winged up in haughty arches over her sooty eyes that seemed to burn with a fire that had Trevor feeling slightly mesmerized and uneasy at the same time. "Ahh, I caught you just in time," she said in an oddly accented voice. "And you too, Mr. Jackson Campbell." The boys looked at one another and then back at this strange apparition as she presented them each with her business card. "I represent your grandfather's law firm," she announced before turning to wave over a couple of rough-looking men carrying large boxes. "As you did not make it to your grandfather's will reading, I have been charged with providing you with a copy of the will as it pertains to you and your inheritance." The train blew its whistle to give a five minute warning. Trevor could see the conductor hurrying boys on board as the train's engine began to build up steam for its departure. The woman handed Trevor and Jackson each an envelope which was sealed with their grandfather's crest in wax. "These are your copies of the will and instructions from your grandfather.