Porsche Love Quotes

You know the reason The Beatles made it so big?...'I Wanna Hold Your Hand.' First single. Fucking brilliant. Perhaps the most fucking brilliant song ever written. Because they nailed it. That's what everyone wants. Not 24/7 hot wet sex. Not a marriage that lasts a hundred years. Not a Porsche...or a million-dollar crib. No. They wanna hold your hand. They have such a feeling that they can't hide. Every single successful song of the past fifty years can be traced back to 'I Wanna Hold Your Hand.' And every single successful love story has those unbearable and unbearably exciting moments of hand-holding.

She’s not just a Porsche. She’s a Porsche nine-one-one GT-three. There’s a difference.Let me guess, it’s the love of your life?” I said, quoting Travis’ statement about his motorcycle. “No, it’s a car. The love of my life will be a woman with my last name.

We are fighters and survivors. We are here. We are alive and breathing, living and loving, birthing and caring, working and earning. The sky is above us. The earth is below us. We can never be poor. ~ NanaAnna

That girl would’ve promised you forever. As long as you love her, for as long as you care, she’s yours. So walking to the park with you and climbing in that Porsche? Easiest decision she’s ever made.

A girl should never be stupid unless she is pretending to be stupid to save her own life,” Lina said.

First single. Fucking brilliant. Perhaps the most fucking brilliant song ever written. Because they nailed it. That’s what everyone wants. Not 24-7 hot wet sex. Not a marriage that lasts a hundred years. Not a Porsche or a blow job or a million-dollar crib. No. They wanna hold your hand. They have such a feeling that they can’t hide. Every single successful love song of the past fifty years can be traced back to ‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand.’ And every single successful love story has those unbearable and unbearably exciting moments of hand-holding. Trust me. I’ve thought a lot about this. About "I wanna hold your hand" by The Beatles

Love never disappears,” he said calmly. “It’s impossible. If it disappears it was never love,” he said.

Not every bitch is a queen. Most chicks are just regular. Most of them know it and accept it, as long as nobody points it out. A queen is authentic, not because she says so, just because she is. A queen doesn’t have to say nothing. Everybody can see it, and feel it, too.

Remember, your body is the vehicle that your soul is using here on Earth. If you don’t pay attention and take great care with your vehicle, it will break and become useless. Then your soul will be released and return.

I mean, this is not like bidding for a boat or a Porsche. I guess you cannot take the bachelor for a ride.” Okay, that sounded … wrong. One could technically take someone for a ride. A certain sort of ride. “Not that kind of ride,

The Beatles.” “What about The Beatles?” “They nailed it.” “Nailed what?” “Everything.” “What do you mean?” Dev takes his arm and puts it right against mine, skin to skin, sweat on sweat, touch on touch. Then he glides his hand into mine and intertwines our fingers. “This,” he says. “This is why The Beatles got it.” “I’m afraid I’m not following…” “Other bands, it’s about sex. Or pain. Or some fantasy. But The Beatles, they knew what they were doing.You know the reason The Beatles made it so big?” “What?” ‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand.’ First single. Fucking brilliant. Perhaps the most fucking brilliant song ever written. Because they nailed it. That’s what everyone wants. Not 24-7 hot wet sex. Not a marriage that lasts a hundred years. Not a Porsche or a blow job or a million-dollar crib. No. They wanna hold your hand. They have such a feeling that they can’t hide. Every single successful love song of the past fifty years can be traced back to ‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand.’ And every single successful love story has those unbearable and unbearably exciting moments of hand-holding.

Don’t care too much, Porsche. Every person you meet will use it against you.

Now let’s go do karate in the garage.”  “By ‘karate’ do you mean I’ll bend you over the hood of Doctor Stephan’s Porsche and fuck you blind until you beg me to stop?

You've felt guilty ever since, haven't you? That's why you're such a rogue reporter, with your exposés and your inside dirt. It's all backlash." "You see right through me, Jones. I'm just a tortured soul, in search of redemption. So you wanna have sex with me now?" The look on her face went from one of sympathetic understanding to one of disgust faster than his Porsche could go from zero to sixty. "You are such an asshole." "Ah, come on. I'm sure with the love of a good woman I could be whole again." "Go to hell, MacKenzie." "Been there. They threw me out 'cause I made the devil look good.

It was the emotion I hated the most of all emotions, shame.

A queen is authentic, not because she says so, just because she is. A queen doesn’t have to say nothing. Everybody can see it, and feel it, too.

Daydreaming had spun in her head a book-length "soon-to-be" affair with Percy. He would call her when she returned home, ask her out, pick her up in a Porsche, take her to an expensive restaurant and order lobster, then to the theater, kissing her passionately in his leather upholstered seats afterwards, promising that he would see her the following day, and the day after that. She was still working on the castle-in-the-sky and the happily-ever-after chapters. It was incredible the material an innocent, half-hour conversation could generate.

With the exception of Hunter West, who's been my own personal porn since that fateful night Mom's Porsche broke down, I don't find that many men attractive. Maybe I am a lesbian, but I don't think so.

That’s the dirty secret of life. Thighs taste better, pot roast is as tender as any fancy cut of steak, you can only use one bathroom at a time, the prettiest view is the one you get after you walk up a hill, and a Ford gets you to work as fast as a Porsche does. And the right man’s not the one who buys you diamonds, he’s the one who loves you the sweetest and the dirtiest and who holds you when you cry. The rest of it’s just advertising.

This Porsche was a gift from an antique car dealer,” Scythe Curie explained to her. “He wanted immunity?” Citra asked, assuming the man’s motive. “On the contrary. I had just gleaned his father, so he already had immunity.” “Wait,” said Citra. “You gleaned his father, and he gave you a car?” “Yes.” “So he hated his father?” “No, he loved his father very much.” “Am I missing something?

I Wanna Hold Your Hand.’ First single. Fucking brilliant. Perhaps the most fucking brilliant song ever written. Because they nailed it. That’s what everyone wants. Not 24-7 hot wet sex. Not a marriage that lasts a hundred years. Not a Porsche or a blow job or a million-dollar crib. No. They wanna hold your hand. They have such a feeling that they can’t hide. Every single successful love song of the past fifty years can be traced back to ‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand.’ And every single successful love story has those unbearable and unbearably exciting moments of hand-holding. Trust me. I’ve thought a lot about this.

Okay, then . . .” I stand up. “It’s been real,” I tell David flatly. “Yeah,” he says. “Later.” Ethan has leapt to his feet and joined us. “I’ll walk you guys to your car,” he says. “That’s really nice, but you don’t have to,” I say. “We’re parked a couple of blocks away.” “My brother said I should.” “Yes, I did.” David gets up, jamming his phone in his pocket. “Come on. Let’s accompany these two lovely ladies to their car.” I catch a whiff of sarcasm, but the other two are oblivious to it. Ethan resumes his X-Men discourse, but the rest of us are silent, and the walk feels endless. We come to a halt at our Subaru hatchback. “This is yours?” David says, like he’s surprised. “My mom’s.” “Where’s your car?” “Nonexistent?” “Seriously? I pictured you always cruising around in some hot girl car like a Porsche or something.” “A ‘hot girl car’? What does that even mean? That the girl is hot or the car is?” He flushes. “I don’t know why I used that word. I never do.” “Hot or girl?” I ask sweetly.

Aku kepengen jalan berdua lagi sama kamu setelah kita sama-sama di Jakarta nanti. Like, dating you properly, Mikela Chalid.” Dia menarik napas panjang, lalu mengembuskannya pelan. “Aku ingin kenal kamu lebih jauh, lebih dalam. Aku ingin tahu lebih dari sekadar makanan favorit, warna favorit, atau hobimu. Aku ingin tahu bagaimana caranya membahagiakanmu, apa yang mesti aku hindari supaya nggak membuatmu menangis. Aku ingin tahu cerita-cerita remeh setelah lulus sekolah. Aku ingin mendengar masa-masa buruk yang membuatmu down, atau ketika kamu patah hati. Aku ingin tahu rahasiamu, isi hatimu. Cinta pertama dan patah hati terakhirmu. Aku ingin tahu semuanya dan tak berencana mundur selangkah pun.” “....” “Because if I date you, I want it to last.” Miki menemukan sesuatu di mata Jeron, lidah-lidah api semangat yang dia nggak yakin bisa padam dengan mudah. “If I date you, I’m dating you with a purpose.

She’s out of order.” We laughed again. “Someone needs to tell her that the Earth—that’s you—revolves around the sun. That’s me.

Unless you are a part of someone’s life every day or even just with them most of the time, you will never really know what they have and had, what happened with them and how they really are, what they do, why they do it that way and what they feel.

Remember that the mirror can show you a reflection of what you are wearing. It can show you an image of your body that you will only mistakenly compare to the image of someone else’s body. The mirror cannot show you your soul.

Be brave but not stupid. Walk humble, instead of puffed out with pride. Be unafraid but not careless or casual. It is the highest level of civilization when you realize that you are connected to others, and you live your life not just for yourself, but for one another,

Melrose Avenue, Santa Monica - Dialogue on a terrace. SHE: You are jealous ? Are you jealous ? You are fucking jealous! . . . Let me say . . . You 're twenty and I am forty-two, and I'll give my fucking ass to fucking anybody . . . Do you know that? * He gets up, crosses Melrose for no reason, comes back, kneels down in front of her (younger, but as theatrical). HE: Do you love me? Do you love me? SHE: Yes . . . Yes, I love you . . . The Italian kneads his meatballs. An Indian is playing a video game and its shrill soundtrack provides a backing to the conversation. The woman herself speaks in a shrill, hysterical voice. It is pleasant in Los Angeles in November, on the Melrose terrace, around the middle of the night. Everyone is smiling somewhere. No passion. A scene American-style. The waiter takes the car keys and drags off the woman, who shows off her black-stockinged legs and pretends to be mad. A black man gets up and, as he passes, says to me: ' Too much love! ' Gliding along the road that runs beside the coast in a black Porsche is like penetrating slowly into the inside of your own body.

He’d never believed in love at first sight until he saw his fire-engine red Porsche.

You never ever loved a woman, or a girl, I know by now, Porsche, the Netherlands with your Picks of Pigs. Blut und Boden. NSDAP. Have a fine and nice pleasant peasant day.