Playlist Names Quotes

Because the song is us and the song is her and this time I’m going to use her name. Norah, Norah, Norah - no rhymes really. Just truth. I shouldn’t want the song to end. I always think of each night as a song. Or each moment as a song. But now I’m seeing we don’t live in a single song. We move from song to song, from lyric to lyric, from chord to chord. There is no ending here. It’s an infinite playlist.

Who's Jessie?" "My Yugo" "You have a name for your Yugo? Please don't tell me you're one of those guys who also names his dick." "Unfortunately, I've yet to find the perfect name for mine, so it's in this netherworld of nameless identity right now.

I see Nick's number. I debate whether to assign a name to his number. If I commit to that, then I will truly be heartbroken if he never calls me again; my heart will knot each and every time I use this phone and see his name in there. I would probably end up having to trash the phone entirely.

No, It does. And if I left, you’d probably want to give me my jacket back. And if you did, I wouldn’t be able to put it on, because the whole time I’d be knowing how perfectly it fit on you. How even though the sleeves are ridiculously too long and the collar is all fucked up and for all I know some guy named Salvatore is going to come in this very club and say, ‘Hey, that’s my jacket’ and strike up a conversation and sweep you off your feet away from me- even though all those things are true or possibly true, I just can’t ruin the image of you sitting there across from me wearing my jacket better than I, or anyone else could. If I don’t owe it to you, and I don’t owe it to me, I at least owe it Salvatore.

I kind of hate Nick right now, too, but there's someone else higher on my list, someone I hate more than Saddam Hussein and any asshole named Bush combined, hate more than that fuckhead who canceled 'My So-Called Life' and left me with a too-small boxed DVD set that does not answer the questions whether Angela and Jordan Catalano did it, or if Patty and Graham got a divorce, or if there really was something to all that lesbian subtext between Rayanne and Sharon.

Look, I owe you a kind of explanation. I know you probably think I’m a horrid bitch from the plant Schizophrenia, but I’m honestly not trying to mess with your head. I’m just messing with my own head and I seem to have dragged you along the ride. I think you’re nice to me and that scares the fuck out of me. Because when a guy’s a jerk or an asshole, it’s easier because you know exactly where you stand. Since trust isn’t an option, you don’t have to get all freaked out about maybe having to trust him. Right now I am thinking about ten things at the same time, and at least four of those things have to do with you. If you want to leave right now and drive home and forget my name and forget what I look like, I wouldn’t blame you in the least. But what I’m trying to say is that if you did that I would be sorry. And not just sorry in an I-apologize-I’m-so-sorry way, but sorry in a sad-that-something-that-could’ve-happened-didn’t way. That’s it. You can go now. Or we could stay for Where’s Fluffy when Toni’s set is over. I think they’re playing a surprise show here tonight.

I mean, they're only the best punk band out there right now, named for the fucking apathy of a xenophobic fucking nation oblivious to the fucking terror its leaders wreak on the rest of the world because they're too busy worrying if their cat might be stuck up a tree or something.

No!" Tony/Toni/Toné exclaims. "I saw the two of you canoodling. You're a regular Johnny Castle." I have no idea who Johnny Castle is, but I definitely approve of the name.

I carefully scrolled through his playlists and almost had a heart attack when my eyes landed on the one named Songs for Shannon.

I think of my naming strategy as a hobby, even though my psychiatrist doesn’t see it that way. I don’t simply listen to music, I study the lyrics, and when I’m done making a playlist, I pick three words from one of the songs—three words that perfectly encapsulate the collection—and that becomes its title.

Your content is a unique snowflake Nobody’s channel is like yours. Now you can organise and present your videos and playlists to reflect your one-of-a-kind style.

Can so much really happen in a night? The song was never really over, but now I have the ending—I don’t know how I’ll phrase it, but it will involve our returning, it will take in the strange pink light and the Sunday-morning quiet. Because this is us, and the song is her, and this time I’m going to use her name. Norah Norah Norah—no rhymes, really. Just truth.

Hi. I'm Thom. With an 'h'." I tell him, "I'm Gnorah. With a 'g'. The 'g' is silent. Like 'gnome.'" "Really?" Thom says. "No, not really. I have an 'h' too. At the end. Used to be just N-O-R-A but when I had the H legally added to my name after my dad failed to sign up Norah Jones when he had the chance. I don't like him to forget these things easily.

Just the other night, when I was drafting a blog post, I’d gone to listen to our Spotify playlist, only to find that the name had been changed from “zoe + eliza g8 hits” to “recs for divya.” Which, rationally speaking, is a small thing. Insignificant.

Kristen? Do you think it’s weird Tucker showed up on the anniversary of the accident? I mean, it is, right?” She waited for me to continue, stirring her ice around her glass. “Tucker literally fell into my lap. And do you know what kind of dog he is? A Nova Scotia duck tolling retriever.” I ticked the long name off with a five-finger tap on the countertop. “A hunting dog, Kristen. Ducks.” Kristen knew better than anyone the significance of that. Duck hunting had been Brandon’s favorite sport. He’d fly out to South Dakota every year for it with Josh.

Zoe, I like every fucking version of you: the princess who used to chase me around with a wand and try to turn me into a toad, the version that sang karaoke in my living room like she didn’t care who was watching, the version that wrote in diaries about how big of a crush she had on me then left them under my little sister’s bed.”  She tries to pull her head back, to escape—from embarrassment or to yell at me, I don’t know—but I hold her head in place, continuing. “I love the version that keeps a ticket from a concert we went to fifteen years ago. I love the version that wants everyone to see her value, and I fucking love the version who jumped into her car to go on a random road trip with me. I love the version that doesn’t want me to get crumbs in her damn Jeep, and I love the version that gave in when I told her I needed food. I love the version that remembers crazy things we did as kids because that means we have memories together since the beginning.” Her head tries to move, her voice starting to protest with my name, but I press it in more.  “You keep pretending, Zoe. You keep living in this road trip ideal world where this is all fun, and we can figure out the details later, but know that I’m not pretending. This is us. This is me and you, and I’m not turning back.

We were the lost children of our parents, Those that ran away, Those that sought homes away from home, Looking for ourselves; some finding their ways. Others forever lost. We could be defined by name, origin and favorite playlists. And we wondered about our future as much as we wondered about what we would have for dinner. We were ambitiously bored. We sought out meaning to our lives, holding on to one another like a family of geographical orphans. Looking for new fertile ground to plant our roots, Because we wanted to go where we were celebrated. Not just tolerated.

He’d asked one of his employees, an Ecuadoran named José Maria, to go to town and buy him an iPod and load it up with a playlist he’d entitled “Ranch Music.” It consisted largely of film scores. Cuts from Ennio Morricone like “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly,” the theme from A Fistful of Dollars, “L’Estasi Dell’oro (The Ecstasy of Gold),” and “La Resa dei Conti (For a Few Dollars More),” Elmer Bernstein’s theme from The Magnificent Seven, “The Journey,” and “Calvera’s Return,” and Jerome Moross’ theme from The Big Country. Big, wonderful, rousing, swelling, sweeping, triumphalist music from another era. It was music that simply wasn’t made anymore. The pieces were about tough (but fair) men under big skies on horseback, their women waiting for them at home, and bad guys—usually Mexicans—to be vanquished. In

model its name and consists of events and programs that take place in public spaces. These events are designed so that potential participants “stumble over” them. They are low barrier in that they are free and require no prior knowledge or commitment to participate. Chabad pioneered this notion of outreach thirty years ago, and while my approach—championed by the Jewish Outreach Institute—in these spaces differs considerably, there is much to learn from Chabad’s successes. Chabad is focused on the Jewish calendar, for example, but people live within a framework of several calendars, including but not limited to the Jewish calendar, the secular calendar, and the local cultural calendar. Public Space Judaism takes advantage of the various calendars that guide people’s lives. It also insinuates itself into public events already taking place in the community. The second level of Public Space Judaism is

hegemony of the modern synagogue. These are the events that surround birth, coming of age, marriage (including divorce), and death. Many synagogues will name babies for parents who are not members, presuming that one day they might become members. And more often than not, those who marry are not synagogue members, since they no longer live in their hometowns and, as young singles, have not been motivated to join a synagogue in their new city of residence. Following the common trajectory of synagogue membership, by the time people die (in old age), they have already discontinued their synagogue membership, although perhaps their children are still members. Thus, some synagogues do funerals for people who are technically not members. In practice, the synagogue generally limits its services only to members in the area of bat or bar mitzvah. Most life-cycle events (outside of these four core events) that individuals mark,

Some people have 2000s divorced dad rock, but courtesy of Rook Van Doren, I have domesticated stoner dad hip-hop. Which just so happens to be the name of this playlist. 

These were love songs. These were all love songs. Saved to a playlist with my name on it. Why? Why would he do this? Did he…? No. No, he didn’t. Of course, he didn’t. Then why…?