Prissy Quotes

Oh, baby, don’t ask me that question. I know exactly who and what I am…and more to the point, what I’m capable of. How dare you bring your prissy little ass into one of my clubs and pull this shit. You’re lucky you’re still breathing. (Savitar)

Fo' Gawd, Miss Scarlett! We's got ter have a doctah. Ah- Ah- Miss Scarlett, Ah doan know nuthin' 'bout bringin' babies. -Prissy

She should be assertive but not bossy, feminine but not prissy, experienced but not condescending, fashionable but not superficial, forceful but not shrill. Put simply: she should be masculine, but not too masculine; feminine, but not too feminine. She should be everything, which means she should be nothing. That

A dragon was ten times more capable of swooping in and stealing the maiden away than that prissy fuckstick, prince charming.

Her fingers were gnarled and crooked like the roots of the oldest swamp trees. Not prissy roots of trees that grew in manicured parks and didn't understand the mess of life. These were roots forced to grow around, and down, and through, to survive.

And nobody knows your weak spots better than sisters. Those prissy little virgins, Artemis and Athena, always looking down their smug, goody-goody noses at her.

But it had still made him feel vulnerable, yet another piece of evidence added to the overstuffed file testifying to his pinched prissiness, his fundamental and irreparable inability to be the sort of person he tried to make people believe he was.

Books are not holy relics,' Trefusis had said. 'Words may be my religion, but when it comes to worship, I am very low church. The temples and the graven images are of no interest to me. The superstitious mammetry of a bourgeois obsession for books is severely annoying. Think how many children are put off reading by prissy little people ticking them off whenever they turn a page carelessly. The world is so fond of saying that book s should be "treated with respect". But when are we told that _words_ should be treated with respect? From our earliest years we are taught to revere only the outward and visible. Ghastly literary types maundering on about books as "objects"...

Sometimes during the night I'd look at my poor sleeping mother cruelly crucified there in the American night because of no-money, no-hope-of-money, no family, no nothing, just myself the stupid son of plans all of them compacted of eventual darkness. God how right Hemingway was when he said there was no remedy for life - and to think that negative little paper-shuffling prissies should write condescending obituaries about a man who told the truth, nay who drew breath in pain to tell a tale like that! ... No remedy but in my mind I raise a fist to High Heaven promising that I shall bull whip the first bastard who makes fun of human hopelessness anyway - I know it's ridiculous to pray to my father that hunk of dung in a grave yet I pray to him anyway, what else shall I do? sneer? shuffle paper on a desk and burp rationality? Ah thank God for all the Rationalists the worms and vermin got. Thank God for all the hate mongering political pamphleteers with no left or right to yell about in the Grave of Space. I say that we shall all be reborn with the Only One, and that's what makes me go on, and my mother too. She has her rosary in the bus, don't deny her that, that's her way of stating the fact. If there can't be love among men let there be love at least between men and God. Human courage is an opiate but opiates are human too. If God is an opiate so am I. Thefore eat me. Eat the night, the long desolate American between Sanford and Shlamford and Blamford and Crapford, eat the hematodes that hang parasitically from dreary southern trees, eat the blood in the ground, the dead Indians, the dead pioneers, the dead Fords and Pontiacs, the dead Mississippis, the dead arms of forlorn hopelessness washing underneath - Who are men, that they can insult men? Who are these people who wear pants and dresses and sneer? What am I talking about? I'm talking about human helplessness and unbelievable loneliness in the darkness of birth and death and asking 'What is there to laugh about in that?' 'How can you be clever in a meatgrinder?' 'Who makes fun of misery?' There's my mother a hunk of flesh that didn't ask to be born, sleeping restlessly, dreaming hopefully, beside her son who also didn't ask to be born, thinking desperately, praying hopelessly, in a bouncing earthly vehicle going from nowhere to nowhere, all in the night, worst of all for that matter all in noonday glare of bestial Gulf Coast roads - Where is the rock that will sustain us? Why are we here? What kind of crazy college would feature a seminar where people talk about hopelessness, forever?

And if I ever see you or your fake ass Chanel earrings around here again, I will shove my very real, very pointy Jimmy Choos up your prissy little ass. Do I make myself clear?

Band camp isn't for the prissy.

But not princess-y in a prissy way. No, I would be a total badass, with a long black leather coat and a diamond scepter that doubles as a weapon. Yeah, a weapon!

It’s easy to become careless when making rough comparisons, but the alternative is a prissy attention to detail that takes all the fun out of writing.

I am praying for your eternal soul." "Don't bother." "Come on, don't you want to go to Heaven?" "I wouldn't know anyone up there. And don't get too prissy with that religious bullshit, true? I don't want to spend an eternity without you, so you need to come to Dhunhd with me." "Will they have milk duds there?" "yes, but they'll all be melted together. And we'll be surrounded by Yankees fans, televangelists, and no booze." "We'll think of some way to pass the time." "We always do.

Roarke didn't quite make it to Eve's office. He found her down the corridor, in front of one of the vending machines. She and the machine appeared to be in the middle of a vicious argument. "I put the proper credits in, you blood-sucking, money-grubbing son of a bitch." Eve punctuated this by slamming her fist where the machine's heart would be, if it had one. ANY ATTEMPT TO VANDALIZE, DEFACE, OR DAMAGE THIS UNIT IS A CRIMINAL OFFENSE. The machine spoke in a prissy, singsong voice Roarke was certain was sending his wife's blood pressure through the roof. THIS UNIT IS EQUIPPED WITH SCANEYE, AND HAS RECORDED YOUR BADGE NUMBER. DALLAS, LIEUTENANT EVE. PLEASE INSERT PROPER CREDIT, IN COIN OR CREDIT CODE, FOR YOUR SELECTION. AND REFRAIN FROM ATTEMPTING TO VANDALIZE, DEFACE, OR DAMAGE THIS UNIT. "Okay, I'll stop attempting to vandalize, deface, or damage you, you electronic street thief. I'll just do it." She swung back her right foot, which Roarke had cause to know could deliver a paralyzing kick from a standing position. But before she could follow through he stepped up and nudged her off balance. "Please, allow me, Lieutenant." "Don't put any more credits in that thieving bastard," she began, then hissed when Roarke did just that. "Candy bar, I assume. Did you have any lunch?" "Yeah, yeah, yeah. You know it's just going to keep stealing if people like you pander to it." "Eve, darling, it's a machine. It does not think." "Ever hear of artificial intelligence, ace?" "Not in a vending machine that dispenses chocolate bars.

mad maddie: I GOT ACCEPTED TO SANTA CRUZ!!!! SnowAngel: omg!!! zoegirl: maddie!!!! yay!!!!! mad maddie: i know! it's incredible! SnowAngel: *squeals and hugs sweet maddie* SnowAngel: tell us every single detail!!! mad maddie: well, i got home from school and saw this big thick envelope on the kitchen counter, with "Santa Cruz Admissions Office" as the return address. i got really fidgety and just started screaming, right there in the house. no one was there but me, so i could be as loud as i wanted. zoegirl: omg!!! mad maddie: i took a deep breath and tried to calm down, but my hands were shaking. i opened the envelope and pulled out a folder that said, "Welcome to Santa Cruz!" inside was a letter that said, "Dear Madigan. You're in!" mad maddie: isn't that cool? i LOVE that, that instead of being all prissy and formal, they're like, "you're in! yahootie!" SnowAngel: oh maddie, i am sooooo happy for u! mad maddie: i ran out to my car all jumping and hopping around and drove to ian's, cuz i knew neither of u would be home yet. i showed him my letter and he hugged me really hard and lifted me into the air. it was AWESOME. zoegirl: i'm so proud of u, maddie! SnowAngel: me 2!

I did not and do not want my life tied up in cloak-and-dagger bullshit, dead guys, or pissing contests with either the testosterone crowd in there or some prissy-assed Earl Grey-drinking, scone-munching major who isn't even my freaking boss. I don't know you and I don't give a rat's ass if you trust me.

But it had still made him feel vulnerable, yet another piece of evidence added to the overstuffed file testifying to his pinched prissiness, his fundamental and irreparable inability to be the sort of person he tried to make people believe he was. And

It’s a prissy, overdecorated P238 SIG Sauer, red and black, with gold-inlaid flowers scrolling down the barrel. Morris drops the clip and sees it’s full. There’s even one in the pipe. He puts the clip back in and lays the gun on the desk—something else to take along.

Ask me anything, Bailey challenged. What are you scared of? The question got out of Tibby's mouth before she meant to ask it. Bailey thought. I'm afriad of time, she answered. She was brave, unflinching in the big Cyclops eye of the camera. There was nothing prissy or self-conscious about Bailey. I mean, I'm afraid of not having enough time, she clarified. Not enough time to understand people, how they really are, or to be understood myself. I'm afraid of the quick judgments and mistakes that eerybody makes. You can't fix them without time. I'm afraid of seeing snapshots instead of movies. Tibby looked at her in disbelief. She was struck by this new side of Bailey, this philosophical-beyond-her-years Bailey. Did cancer make you wise? Did those chemicals and X rays supercharge her twelve-year-old brain?

I try not to hate anybody. "Hate is a four-letter word," like the bumper sticker says. But I hate book reviewers. Book reviewers are the most despicable, loathsome order of swine that ever rooted about the earth. They are sniveling, revolting creatures who feed their own appetites for bile by gnawing apart other people's work. They are human garbage. They all deserve to be struck down by awful diseases described in the most obscure dermatology journals. Book reviewers live in tiny studios that stink of mothballs and rotting paper. Their breath reeks of stale coffee. From time to time they put on too-tight shirts and pants with buckles and shuffle out of their lairs to shove heaping mayonnaise-laden sandwiches into their faces, which are worn in to permanent snarls. Then they go back to their computers and with fat stubby fingers they hammer out "reviews." Periodically they are halted as they burst into porcine squeals, gleefully rejoicing in their cruelty. Even when being "kindly," book reviewers reveal their true nature as condescending jerks. "We look forward to hearing more from the author," a book reviewer might say. The prissy tones sound like a second-grade piano teacher, offering you a piece of years-old strawberry hard candy and telling you to practice more. But a bad book review is just disgusting. Ask yourself: of all the jobs available to literate people, what monster chooses the job of "telling people how bad different books are"? What twisted fetishist chooses such a life?

Prissy!

Are you seriously giving my buddy, Dave, a hard time, in front of me, you prissy little pissant? Please, tell me you are, so I can crack your face in half.

She’d take Jane Turner’s brisk snippiness any day over this woman’s prissy sweetness with its razor-sharp edges.

He needed to man up. Step one. Take a deep breath. Step two. Scratch his balls to remind himself he wasn’t a prissy fucking princess. Step three— “What the hell are you doing?” Constantine said, snapping him back to the here and now. Doing? Why having a panic attack, of course, but that wasn’t something he was about to admit. “Just taking in all the changes to the place.

No one uses words correctly and if you call them on it, they claim that words are fungible, that it’s oppressive and prissy not to let words mean whatever the speaker wishes them to mean.

With Truth, Reason, and Morality off the board, we then capture their last Rook —that prissy little virtue, Temperance— for she depends on those other three for her beauty and was thus left wholly undefended.

Somehow, despite avoiding this feeling for nearly two hundred and fifty years, he was no head-over-heels for a prissy murdering half-breed who hated the sight of him and snored. If this wasn’t repayment for his many sins, he didn’t know what was. … He’d tell her none of it … The rest would have to wait until she looked at him and saw a man instead of a monster…and looked at herself and saw a woman instead of a sin to atone for.

The thing I love about a blue drink is that it isn’t pretending to be anything other than a prissy, made-up concoction for people who can’t drink their whiskey straight. A cocktail with the courage of its lack of conviction.

He did. He researched her. Someone told him that she had a special interest in John Milton. It did not take long to discover the century to which this man belonged. A third-year literature student in Beard’s college who owed him a favor (for procuring tickets to a Cream concert) gave him an hour on Milton, what to read, what to think. He read “Comus” and was astounded by its silliness. He read through “Lycidas,” “Samson Agonistes,” and “Il Penseroso”— stilted and rather prissy in parts, he thought. He fared better with “Paradise Lost” and, like many before him, preferred Satan’s party to God’s. He, Beard, that is, memorized passages that appeared to him intelligent and especially sonorous. He read a biography, and four essays that he had been told were pivotal. The reading took him one long week. He came close to being thrown out of an antiquarian bookshop in the Turl when he casually asked for a first edition of “Paradise Lost.” He tracked down a kindly tutor who knew about buying old books and confided to him that he wanted to impress a girl with a certain kind of present, and was directed to a bookshop in Covent Garden where he spent half a term’s money on an eighteenth-century edition of “Areopagitica.” When he speed-read it on the train back to Oxford, one of the pages cracked in two. He repaired it with Sellotape.

Were you checking out my ass, Audrey?” She sighed heavily. “You were sticking it in the air, Reese. It’s hard not to.” “Did you like what you saw?” “No,” she said in her best prissy voice. “You have cellulite.” He laughed softly at that. “You’re such a liar. Your face is all red.

You should have woken me. I would have taken a shift at the tiller.” “We actually considered it when you started to snore.” “I don’t snore!” “I beg to differ,” Hadrian chided while chewing. She looked around the skiff as each of them, even Etcher, nodded. Her face flushed. Hadrian chuckled. “Don’t worry about it. You can’t be held accountable for what you do in your sleep.” “Still,” she said, “it’s not very ladylike.” “Well, if that’s all you’re worried about, you can forget it,” Hadrian informed her with a wicked smirk. “We lost all illusions of you being prissy back in Sheridan.” How much better it was when they were silent. “That’s a compliment,” he added hastily. “You don’t have much luck with the ladies, do you, sir?” Wally asked, pausing briefly and letting the paddles hang out like wings, leaving a tiny trail of droplets on the smooth surface of the river. “I mean, with compliments like that, and all.” Hadrian frowned at him, then turned back to her with a concerned expression. “I really did mean it as a compliment. I’ve never met a lady who would—well, without complaining you’ve been—” He paused in frustration, then added, “That little trick you managed back there was really great.

Tits. Ass. Cock. I know those words, Mason, and I know you think I’m so deeply prissy and vanilla but I’m actually a big girl, so you can go ahead and use them on me.”… “You want it then?” His mutter was raspy and low and his eyes burned so deep into mine I felt paralyzed before he even spoke. “Fine, Taylor,” he whispered, pressing his hand down hard on my thigh. “You walked in here and the first thing I thought of was how goddamned good you looked and how bad I wanted to rip that dress off those perfect tits of yours. I thought about what you’d look like in those boots and those boots alone and it turned me into a fucking crazy person for a second because I had some very real thoughts about grabbing you, taking you home and fucking you on my bed till I could hear those pretty lips screaming my name. does that get the point across or do you want to hear just how hard and deep I imagined my cock inside you.” Holy fuck. Just like that, panties ruined.

If you let people shit all over your doorstep, you’re the one who looks like shit, not them. Go and shit on their doorstep. Or are you too liberal, prissy and up yourself for that? There’s nothing worse than dilettantes, posers and Ignavi. If you’ve got no fire in your belly, fuck off! Go and let someone shit on you. We’re not interested in coprophiliacs.

When he began writing it was often like this - a dry and sterile exercise. No, it was worse than that. Starting off always felt a little obscene to him, like French-kissing a corpse. But he had learned that, if he kept at it, if he simply kept pushing the words along the page, something else kicked in, something which was both wonderful and terrible. The words as individual units began to disappear. Characters who were stilted and lifeless began to limber up, as if he had kept them in some small closet overnight and they had to loosen their muscles before they could begin their complicated dances. Something began to happen in his brain; he could almost feel the shape of the electrical waves there changing, losing their prissy goose-step discipline, turning into the soft, sloppy delta waves of dreaming sleep.

You know those FBI shows on TV? Where they do the profiling?” “Yeah.” “Cops hate that stuff. While it's all well and good to sit behind a desk and have assigned characteristics and fancy medical names for criminals,” Jerry said in a prissy voice, “at the end of the day, you just don't know what anybody's gonna do. You gotta prepare for everything. Human beings are unpredictable. After three decades with PD, I still get surprised.

I jumped up, my hands in the air. “Yes!” Lend laughed. “Okay, looks like I need to make a run to the grocery store. Do faeries hate wheat or white bread more, you think?” “Get bread with raisins,” I said. “Everyone hates raisins.” Jack was bouncing, obviously excited. “That’s all we need, right?” “We need Reth.” “No,” Lend and Jack whined in unison. “Come on, you two. Reth knows the Faerie Realms better than you do. Jack, you didn’t see where the people were; it might take you a while to find them, and that’s time we can’t afford to lose. And Reth’s getting worse; being there might give him more time.” Lend scowled, grabbing the car keys off the counter. “Fine. But I’m really getting tired of his stupid smirk and prissy clothes.” Jack nodded. “And his voice that sounds like it’d even taste good. Really, it’s overkill. Best to have only a few absolutely perfect traits—for example, my hair and eyes and sparkling personality—so you don’t overwhelm them.” “Aww, are you guys jealous of how pretty Reth is? That’s kind of adorable.” “You know I could look exactly like him,” Lend said, frowning darkly. “Please for the love of all that is good and holy, never, ever wear Reth. That’s the stuff of nightmares.” That brightened his face a bit and he left me with a lingering kiss and a promise to be back with every loaf of bread we could carry. “Well, go find your stupid faerie boyfriend,” Jack said, lying down on top of the counter and drumming his fingers on his stomach. “I haven’t filled my quota for pissing off the Dark Court yet this week.” “We are going to blow your quote sky high.” He held up a hand and I high-fived him as I walked past and out of the house toward the trail. Yet again. I should have invested in a dirt bike or something given the amount of mileage I was getting out of the path between the house and the pond.

I'm sure your children won't approve of you, Scarlett, any more than Mrs. Merriwether and Mrs. Elsing and their broods approve of you now. Your children will probably be soft, prissy creatures, as the children of hard-bitten characters usually are. And to make them worse, you, like every other mother, are probably determined that they shall never know the hardships you've known. And that's all wrong. Hardships make or break people. So you'll have to wait for approval from your grandchildren.

Grovelling then busking All at once And all in time Leaving a Ferris-wheel trail Across a deep mountainous climb Descended with rapture and with joy Their mindless triumphant demeanour Gossamer wings parade-parade These gormless little ants Full to the brimful Empty to the last meandering weight Pulled across the Rotting fruit filled with retiring goodness Tiny prissy princelings These masterful creatures Filled with adventuring spirit March on, march on Under the forgiving human's Watchful, waiting and wandering eye.

The creature you find in Speak, Memory is rare enough to be zoo-worthy. He’s not just smarter but somehow more effete than most of us without seeming put on. Resenting him for it would be like resenting a gazelle for her grace. He doesn’t sound prissy painting himself as a cultivated synesthete who can hear colors and see music, nor vain talking as a polyglot who translates his own work back and forth into many languages. He’s just your standard virtuoso aristocrat from a gilded age. Which is the miracle of his talent. He has shaped the book to highlight his own magnificent way of viewing the world, a viewpoint that so eats your head that you never really leave his very oddly bejeweled skull, and you value things in the book’s context as he does, never missing what you otherwise adore in another kind of writer.

The tailor sidled forward, his long, multi-joined fingers caressing the dress form closest to me. "Ah, yes," he said. "Beautiful, isn't it? The color of storms and oceans, or so we've been told. This dress," he continued, "belonged to Magdalena. She was beautiful- the way you mortals reckon, anyhow- beautiful, but stupid. Oh ho, we had fun with this one, we did, but we used her up too soon. Her fire died, leaving us cold and dark." The dress form beneath the gown was tall and well-formed, the bosom and hips generous, the waist tiny. The dress, a robe à la française, was made from a deep, jewel-toned blue silk, and I could imagine the dramatic coloring of the woman who had worn it: pale skin, dark hair, and blue eyes to match her gown. A breathless beauty, a glittering jewel, and I imagined the Goblin King partaking of her loveliness over and over again, biting the sweet peaches of her cheeks until she was gone. "And this one," Thistle chimed in, pointing to another dress form, "belonged to Maria Emmanuel. Prissy, she was. Refused to do her duty by her lord. She was consecrated to someone else- a carpenter? Something like that. Don't know what the king saw in her, but they were both possessed of a strange devotion to a figure nailed to a wooden cross. She lasted the longest, this prudish nun, not having given herself to king and land, and during her rule, our kingdom suffered. Yet she lasted the longest for that, although she too died in the end, pining for the world above she could see but not touch." This dress form was slim, the gown that hung on it made of an austere gray wool. I could imagine the woman who wore this dress- a pious creature, veiled like a bride of Christ. No beauty, but her eyes would be a clear, luminous gray, shining with the fervor of her passion and faith. Not like Magdalena, whose loveliness would have been carnal and earthly; Maria Emmanuel would have glowed with an inner light, the beauty of a saint or a martyr. The Goblin King was a man of varied tastes, it seemed.

The whole reason I’d written about him so freely was that I never expected to face him in person and could therefore imagine him in ways that gratified my conception of who he should be: a white trash savant imbued with junkyard political savvy. In truth, I found the magazine completely disgusting—as I was meant to, obviously: it had long been the most reviled instance of mass-circulation pornography around and used people like me (shame-ridden bourgeois feminists and other elites) for target practice, with excremental grossness among its weapons of choice. It was also particularly nasty to academics who in its imagination are invariably prissy and uptight—sadly I’m one of this breed too. (A cartoon academic to his wife: “Eat your pussy? You forget, Gladys, I have a Ph.D.”)1 Maybe I yearned to be rescued from my primness, though Flynt was obviously no one’s idea of a white knight. (Of course, being attracted to what you’re also repelled by is not exactly unknown in human history.) For some reason, I tend to be drawn to excess: to men who laugh too loud and drink too much, who are temperamentally and romantically immoderate, have off-kilter politics and ideas. Aside from that, it also happened that in the period during which my ideas about things were being formed, the bawdy French satirist Rabelais was enjoying an intellectual revival in my sorts of circles, along with the idea of the “carnivalesque”: the realm of subversion and sacrilege—the grotesque, the unruly, the profane—where the lower bodily stratum and everything that emerges from it is celebrated for supposedly subverting established pieties and hierarchies. I was intrigued by these kinds of ideas, despite—or more likely because of—my aforementioned primness. Contemplating where one might locate these carnivalesque impulses in our own time I’d immediately thought of Hustler, even though back then I had only the vaguest idea what bodily abhorrences awaited me within its shrink-wrapped covers (as if a thin sheet of plastic were sufficient to prevent seepage from the filth within). In fact, the first time I peeled away the protective casing and tried to actually read a copy, I was so disgusted I threw it away, I didn’t even want it in the house.

I was prissy as a child. No dirt under these fingernails.” “You were prissy? I don’t believe it.” “If you knew my mother, it wouldn’t surprise you.” I raise both of my hands in surrender. “But I’ve grown up. I’m not afraid to get dirty anymore.” A lone eyebrow skyrockets and color creeps up his neck. “Is that right?” I drop my face into my hands and bump against his shoulder. “I didn’t mean it like that.” His laughter is warm on the nape of my neck. “Don’t worry. I know.” We stand to leave and I soak up the view one more time, taking a dozen more pictures before heading for the lift to go down. It’s all going too fast. The sun’s already descending on our last day. I’m not ready to go back.

Only sleeping?” she questioned. “Aye. They don’t read, study, or do quiltwork, lass.” “But what about…?” As her voice trailed, he heard the subtle laughter. As he cut his gaze to the left, Ramsay caught a shy smile on her face. Miss Prissy Daughter of a Noble had joked about sex? Taken by surprise and bewildered by her suggestive question, he almost missed his opportunity to taunt her in return. “Are you truly wanting to know what goes on between goblins?

Pierre asked his confessor: “Is it a sin to marry someone you don’t love?” Father Moineau was a square-faced, heavyset priest in his fifties. His study in the College des Ames contained more books than Sylvie’s father’s shop. He was a rather prissy intellectual, but he enjoyed the company of young men, and he was popular with the students. He knew all about the work Pierre was doing for Cardinal Charles. “Certainly not,” Moineau said. His voice was a rich baritone somewhat roughened by a fondness for strong Canary wine. “Noblemen are obliged so to do. It might even be a sin for a king to marry someone he did love.” He chuckled. He liked paradoxes, as did all the teachers. But Pierre was in a serious mood. “I’m going to wreck Sylvie’s life.” Moineau was fond of Pierre, and clearly would have liked their intimacy to be physical, but he had quickly understood that Pierre was not one of those men who loved men, and had never done anything more than pat him affectionately on the back. Now Moineau caught his tone and became somber. “I see that,” he said. “And you want to know whether you would be doing God’s will.” “Exactly.” Pierre was not often troubled by his conscience, but he had never done anyone as much harm as he was about to do to Sylvie. “Listen to me,” said Moineau. “Four years ago a terrible error was committed. It is known as the Pacification of Augsburg, and it is a treaty that allows individual German provinces to choose to follow the heresy of Lutheranism, if their ruler so wishes. For the first time, there are places in the world where it is not a crime to be a Protestant. This is a catastrophe for the Christian faith.” Pierre said in Latin: “Cuius regio, eius religio.” This was the slogan of the Augsburg treaty, and it meant: “Whose realm, his religion.” Moineau continued: “In signing the agreement, the emperor Charles V hoped to end religious conflict. But what has happened? Earlier this year the accursed Queen Elizabeth of England imposed Protestantism on her wretched subjects, who are now deprived of the consolation of the sacraments. Tolerance is spreading. This is the horrible truth.” “And we have to do whatever we can to stop it.

That is turn of the century Bien Hoa. If you break it, I will break you," Giovanni gasped out as his friend put him in a choke hold. "Oh, it's fin, Gio! You're such a prissy bastard sometimes.

Do you not see the golden halo on my head and my prissy angel wings?’ ‘Oh, yes sir. I do. Can you fly with those?’ ‘Alas no. I use them to prance about and create great gusts of wind when my talking cannot fill the space with air.

Not only was Rachel wasting her life on her courses, she was a vegetarian who wrote prissy articles advising what people should eat.

I'm a warrior. Not some prissy princess waiting for someone to rescue her. ~ Aurora Salem

Do you know the difference between pain and suffering? Pain is about feeling real, appropriate, and valid hurt when something bad happens. Suffering is when you add extra dollops to that pain. You're feeling bad about feeling bad. So getting rid of suffering means you're not adding to the pain. You appropriately felt awkward and uncomfortable and regretful that that dinner party didn't go well. You appropriately feel annoyed and angry at one of your friends who is being prissy. You're just accepting of it all. And if the feeling stays, you ask, okay, why is this feeling still in me? And then, assume that there's incredible wisdom in your intuitions and just start listening to them. What is this? What is this thing in my body right now? What are you trying to teach me?

I bought a narrow blue one with white spots and square ends, took off my long-striped tie and rolled it up in my top jacket pocket, leaving a bit sticking out. After a few attempts at the speckled mirror, I manage to get the bow tie almost right, if a little lopsided. In the world of bow ties, it is important that it should be ever so slightly imperfect; this is to show that: a) you tied it yourself; and b) that you are slightly 'devil may care' and not at all prissy. Perfection is the sign of an amateur, perhaps someone who works with great skill but without connection to his animal nature, to passion and lust. Perfection is not for living things, certainly not for human beings; if you are not capable of loving flaws and faults, then you are not capable of love. I have lived most of my life in poverty, but I can tie a bow tie and to some this will be a mystery, but somebody who knows me would say, 'Of course he can tie a bow tie.' Such imperfections - wrinkles in the world - are where all of life's best stories are.

What if I want to leave?” “You don’t.” “You seem pretty sure of that.” He kisses me softly on the lips. Smiling, he says, “I like it when I irritate you.” “That’s unfortunate, because I like it when I’m not being irritated.” “Your mouth gets all puckered and your nose wrinkles up. You look like a prissy little old lady.” “Whoa, slow down with the compliments, Romeo! I’ll swoon hard and hit my head on something.” “Know what I just realized?” he whispers, eyes burning.

I’ve spent a lot of time in the States, and the Big Country elates and irritates me simultaneously. It is a big boy child that frequently needs a hug: sometimes needing the prissiness of the world to remind it that its voice is not the only one. Africa is older and wiser, a poor grandmother, a pillaged woman, but still a strong woman. She knows she is a daughter of Earth. There are the sexy aunts of Asia and Europe, and of course, the fussy, once histrionic mother that is Britain. But it was Africa taught America the lesson of liberty.

Some people thought of vampires as rock stars, but really they were more like Martha Stewart. Vampires were prissy. They had to follow rules. They had to look good.

Minstrel music was party music, vigorous and sexy in contrast to the prissy bourgeois music of the era. That is why it succeeded. And in succeeding, it established the central role of African American music in American culture, one that has endured to the present, and made a first introduction of African American culture to the greater American culture. The first minstrels violated, distorted, and ridiculed the black man’s music, but they also clearly demonstrated an appreciation for it. They were as confused about race as America has always been, but they loved the music dearly. Some things don’t change.

A throat cleared. “Earth to Arik. Come in, boss.” With brows drawn, Arik glared at his beta. “What?” “I was asking what had your boxers in a knot.” “You know I go commando.” “Usually, but something obviously has your panties in a twist. Spill.” Oh, he spilled all right. Arik yanked off the hat and flung it against the wall and then swiveled his chair to get it over with. Indrawn breath. A snicker. A full-on guffaw. Arik swirled again and tossed deadly visual daggers at his second. “I fail to see the humor in my butchered mane.” “Dude. Have you seen it? It is bad. What did you do to piss Dominic off? Seduce one of his daughters?” “Actually one of his granddaughters did this to me!” He couldn’t help the incredulous note. The effrontery of the act still got to him. A thump and a shake of the wall as Hayder hit it, his shoulders shaking with laughter. “A girl did that to you?” His beta convulsed with mirth, not at all daunted by Arik’s glower and tapping fingers. “This is not amusing.” “Oh, come on, dude. Of all the people to have a hair mishap, you are the worst.” “I look like an idiot.” “Only because you didn’t let her finish hacking the rest off.” His fingers froze as he took his gaze off the screen for a moment to address the travesty. “Cut off my mane?” Was his beta delusional? “Well, yeah. You know, to even it out so it doesn’t show.” A growl rumbled forth, more beast than man, his lion not at all on board with any more trimming. “Okay, if you’re not keen on that, then what about a hair weave? Maybe we could get you a platinum one, or pink for contrast since you’re being such a prissy princess about it.” That did it. A lion could take only so much. Arik dove over his desk and tackled his beta. Over they went with a thump and a tangle of limbs. As he was slamming Hayder’s head off the floor, snarling, “Take it back!” to his beta’s chortled, “We’ll get your nails done while they’re weaving,” Leo strode in. A giant of a man, he didn’t even have to strain as he grabbed them each by a shoulder and yanked them apart. But he didn’t stop there. He slammed their heads together before shoving them down. Arik and Hayder sat on the carpeted floor, nursing robin’s eggs, united in their glare for the pride’s omega, also known as the peacemaker. Of course, Leo’s version of peace wasn’t always gentle, which was why he was perfect for the pride. The behemoth with the mellow outlook on life took a seat in a chair, which groaned ominously. “You do know that the staff two floors down can hear the pair of you acting like ill-behaved cubs.” “He started it!” Arik stabbed a finger at his beta. He had no problem assigning blame. Delegation was something an alpha did well. Hayder didn’t even deny his guilt. “I did. But can you blame me? He was pissing and moaning about this precious mane. All I did was offer a solution, and he took offense.” “I assume we’re talking about the missing chunk of hair on our esteemed leader’s head?” Leo shook his neatly trimmed dark crown. “I keep telling you that vanity is your weakness.” “And chocolate chip ice cream is yours. We all have our vices,” Arik grumbled as he heaved himself off the floor and into his leather-padded seat— with built-in heating pad and massager because a man in his position did enjoy his luxuries. “My vice is beautiful women,” Hayder announced with a grin, adopting a lounging pose on the floor. Felines were king when it came to acting as if embarrassing positions weren’t accidental at all. “Don’t talk to me about women right now. I’m still angry at the one who did this.” “I think I’m missing a key point,” Leo stated. It didn’t take long to bring Leo up to speed. To his credit, the pride omega didn’t laugh— long.

Paying lip service to the idea of tolerance at a time when gay liberationists had started marching in the streets, Lovaas and Rekers proposed that “society probably could afford to become more tolerant with individuals with sex-role deviations” but insisted that “the facts remain that it is not tolerant. Realistically speaking, it is potentially more difficult to modify society’s behaviors than Kraig’s.” To nip the little boy’s inappropriate behavior in the bud, they devised a program of total immersion based on Lovaas’s work on autism. This time, instead of hand-flapping, gaze aversion, and echolalia, the behaviors targeted for extinction included the “limp wrist,” the submissively yielding “hand clasp,” the notorious “swishy gait,” the girlish “hyperextension” of the limbs in moments of exuberance, and prissy declarations like “goodness gracious” and “oh, dear me.

See, you do care about him! Sarah, what Nolan Walker needs is a good wife to encourage him, to see that he eats properly, make sure he gets his rest.” The picture Prissy had painted of Sarah as devoted wife, caring for Nolan, was a very appealing one. But she couldn’t dwell on it, because Prissy wasn’t done. “When are you going to get off your lofty perch and let yourself love him?” she went on. “That excuse that he’s a Yankee’s wearing a little thin by now, don’t you think?” Sarah stared at her as they had reached their little cottage and went in. She hung up her coat with a sigh, then took Prissy’s coat and hung it up, too. “Dr. Walker and I have become friends. But how can he and I be anything more if he’s not a believer? The Bible warns about being unequally yoked, you know.” Prissy groaned exasperatedly. “Sarah Matthews, if you gave that man the slightest bit of encouragement, he’d be sitting in the front pew every Sunday morning, and you know it.

And is her boy Anson as ornery as ever? I imagine he’s all grown up now, isn’t he?” Sarah nodded. “He’s grown a foot since he went away to war, and filled out some. He’s quite the handsome charmer now.” “Ohhhhh?” No one could inject such a depth of meaning into a single syllable and a lifted brow as her sister. “He tried flirting with me, but I indicated I wasn’t interested,” Sarah said loftily, pretending a great interest in brushing a cookie crumb off her bodice. “Though I imagine the Spinsters’ Club ladies will be.” “Why?” Milly said, ignoring Sarah’s second remark for the first. “Because of our Yankee doctor?” To her dismay, Sarah felt a blush spreading up her cheeks. “Of course not. I don’t know why you and Prissy keep trying to pair us off.” Milly only smiled. “We agreed to be friends,” Sarah said, “and then he didn’t even show up at the taffy pull, and hasn’t mentioned it since. Though I imagine it was because he was so busy taking care of all those sick folks,” she admitted, determined to be fair.

He's never going to love me. Men like that don't love women like me. They screw women like me. They don't marry women like me and make me a part of their perfect prissy lives.

Or maybe you should make the biscuits. I declare, yours are the lightest, the fluffiest…I don’t think I’ll ever be able to make biscuits like that.” Prissy let out a gusty, dramatic sigh. “Oh, I don’t know…the ones you made this morning were…um, much better,” Sarah told her with a grin. “You mean they were almost edible this time, as opposed to the lead sinkers I made last night for dinner,” Prissy said, with a rueful laugh. “Your sisters’ pigs probably wouldn’t eat them.” “It just takes practice. You’ll be making fine biscuits before long, I promise.

So what are you going to wear?” Prissy asked. Sarah shrugged. “I don’t know…I suppose you have a suggestion, now that you’ve seen the entire contents of my wardrobe?” Prissy giggled. “I think you should wear that lovely red grenadine dress with the green piping. Very festive. And men like red dresses.” “I don’t give a fig what color Dr. Walker likes!” “Ah, but I said ‘men.’ You applied my generalization to Dr. Walker.

The mask, he’d say, was something that you wore but was opposite to you; because it was not wholly real, it could withstand pain that you could not; because it was not wholly human, its beauty was not diminished by age or feeling. Father’s hands never smelled of the same thing twice; and fragrances hung in the house like sweet invaders, like opulent chains of memories that no longer belonged to anyone. We’d encounter his models on their way up or down the stairs, in the ordinary prettiness of their unmade-up daytime faces; it was always a shock to find them in the magazines a few months later, and see what Father had made from them. Louche, tomboy, prissy, gauche; Cleopatran, Regency, Berlin decadent; flappers and hippies and Arabian princesses—he mined their faces for stories and myths and desires old as history, or older, like seams of rare ore that lay buried in the earth of their youth. In the magazines, the faces of these transient girls had a power, a power that my father could summon and balance, like those old music hall acts that spun plates on sticks. They could call into being any age or emotion or state of mind; and everything around them would be transformed too, turned from diffuse, unwieldy life into a story, something with direction and significance. Looking out from the glossy pages, their faces seemed to promise everything; they promised that you could become anything; they promised that they would take you with them, that you could leave yourself behind.

This isn't BDSM or any of that prissy shit. There are no rules, no safe words. I do not want her willing submission. I want to drag it from her, screaming and crying. I want ultimate power over her, and while she's here in this room with me, I want to own her, body and soul. As

Please keep abusing each other over differences of skin tone and absurdly tiny religious discrepancies. It’s good for the country. Racism needs to rise in periods where slavery makes a comeback, because if all you simian-browed, atavistic gutter-plebes started cooperating, all of a sudden, you’d barbecue our prissy fannies in a hot ghetto second. Vent

Minstrel music was party music, vigorous and sexy in contrast to the prissy bourgeois music of the era. That is why it succeeded.

In the Victorian times there was much demand for Christmas books, which would make an ideal gift, as well provide amusing entertainment over the holiday period. Without a doubt the most famous of these is Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, published in 1843, but he was by no means the only popular writer of such books. Published in 1847, Thackeray’s first Christmas book, Mrs Perkins’s Ball, is a humorous portrait of a seasonal social gathering, with a broad panorama of guests, from the hilarious sot Mulligan to the prissy middle-class characters he upsets. However, it is Thackeray’s ability as an illustrator that is the most impressive in this novella.

Who the fuck keeps a house this clean? Why is this bathroom so goddamn spotless? Only a metrosexual, prissy fuckwit son of a cock-gobbling dickhead would, that’s who!

Nolan’s first impulse, when he found Sarah and Prissy waiting at his office after he returned from yet another call upon a new influenza victim, was to forbid Sarah to have anything to do with nursing the sick. She’d done more than enough already in her care for the Gilmores. She was too sheltered, too fragile…too precious to him. He did not want her exposed again to the ravages of influenza.

I’ve brought more refugees. The carnage on the battlefield is terrible. My own dear wife kissed the butler and was sizing up the senior footmen when I escaped.” St. Just opened the door widely enough that two more men could scurry in behind him. They both had what Elijah was coming to think of as Windham chins—a trait from the sire’s line. They had green eyes, and those green eyes looked harried if not haunted. Kesmore gestured with the bottle. “Bernward, some introductions: The mean-looking one is St. Just. Around his mama we call him Rosecroft. The prissy one is Lord Valentine, and the sniffy one is Westhaven. Cowards, the lot of them. Afraid of a few shrieking children, a bowl of wassail, and some holiday decorations.” “I don’t see you down there,” Westhaven said, taking a place on the raised hearth and looking, indeed, sniffy about it. “I have three children, and I am married to Louisa,” Kesmore said. His smile was fatuous. “And don’t be fooled, Bernward. St. Just is a dear, Lord Valentine more stubborn than the other two put together, and Westhaven only looks sniffy when he’s not beholding his countess. I say this with the authority of a man who loves them sincerely and is only a bit the worse for drink.” Lord

I want to see how perfect you are. Since you seem to forget it.” His gaze moves down to the apex between my legs. “I want you to touch yourself for me.” “How is that your prize?” “Because, Red. You’re going to finger your pussy until you’re screaming my name. You’re going to prove to me that you’ve always wanted this, no matter how much your prissy little mouth denied it. And I’m going to enjoy second.

He turns them so they’re facing me. I recognize her instantly. She was sitting with the smokeshow, prissy chick earlier tonight.

Hell Week is something entirely different. It’s medieval and it comes at you fast, detonating in just the third week of training. When the throbbing ache in our muscles and joints was ratcheted up high and we lived day and night with an edgy, hyperventilating feeling of our breath getting out front of our physical rhythm, of our lungs inflating and deflating like canvas bags squeezed tight in a demon’s fists, for 130 hours straight. That’s a test that goes way beyond the physical and reveals your heart and character. More than anything, it reveals your mindset, which is exactly what it’s designed to do. All of this happened at the Naval Special Warfare Command Center on prissy-ass Coronado Island, a Southern California tourist trap that tucks into slender Point Loma and shelters the San Diego Marina from the open Pacific Ocean.

Sitting at the head of the table, drinking a chicken broth that landed in her stomach like an elixir of resurrection, Meme then saw Fernanda and Amaranta wrapped in an accusatory halo of reality. She had to make a great effort not to throw at them their prissiness, their poverty of spirit, their delusions of grandeur.

The head teacher, a prissy-looking man with burgundy trousers that immediately marked him out as a dyed-in-the-wool Tory voter,

He glanced around, as if taking in the surroundings for the first time. "Is this your childhood room?" he asked. "There's a lot of black." "Well, I didn't paint it that way until I was fourteen and capable of making cryptic comments about how I wanted my room to match my soul. When this was truly my childhood bedroom, it was perfectly normal, thank you very much. I had a wallpaper border with roses on it and an American Girl doll on the dresser and everything." "Let me guess." He narrowed his eyes at me. "Samantha." "Not all brunette girls needed to own a Samantha doll," I said, affronted. "But yes, it was Samantha. She had a really cool tartan cape and a valise and she stood up against child labor, so don't think she was just some prissy rich girl.

Avi had always thought of Felix as a pampered pedigree kitten, but the truth was, Felix was an alley cat in a rhinestone collar. He was pretty and prissy, but he was all teeth and claws.

Oh, I know there are those of you who shake your head and clutch your Rosary Beads whenever I let slip yet another F-bomb -- all you prissy, judgemental little pussy farts who've led absolutely perfect lives ... never lied, cheated, coveted a close friend's new piece of ass, or wished ill upon another. Yeah! Im talkin' to YOU!!! You mealy-mouthed phoneys who are mortally offended by words ... WORDS!!! I once heard it said that to the physcian, nothing about the human body is dirty. I'm a writer. For me, there are no dirty words! To be sure, there are some truly ugly, venomous words. Words that still carry their baggage of hate and ignorance. Words that only serve to wound. But those are few in number and remain the exclusive property of the poisoned minds that birthed them. Those aren't the words I speak of. The great defense attorney, Clarence Darrow (one of my idols), was once reprimanded by a judge for using "salty" language. Darrow's response (and forgive my paraphrase) was to inform the judge that given that language is such a woefully inadequate instrument, he felt he should be allowed to use ALL the words. So, in the spirit of that immortal utterance, I'd just like to say, FUCK YOU!

You gonna shed this prissy rich-bitch persona tonight and enjoy yourself? Or do you want me to fuck you politely, like you’re used to? Turn the lights out. Pat you on the head and thank you when I’ve finished, but you haven’t?

In my life, I had no one to disappoint or to let down. Spectres did not haunt me. I very ably created my own prissy set of standards: hesitant, over-polite, submissive. I only became attractive (to myself) when I broke out of that and had bursts of rip-roaring, disgusting behaviour. It was funny and hurt no one.

Then she began to think about Stella Chase and Alden Churchill, until Gilbert offered her a penny for her thoughts. "I'm thinking seriously of trying my hand at matchmaking," retorted Anne. Gilbert looked at the others in mock despair. "I was afraid it would break out again some day. I've done my best, but you can't reform a born matchmaker. She has a positive passion for it. The number of matches she has made is incredible. I couldn't sleep o' nights if I had such responsibilities on my conscience." "But they're all happy," protested Anne. "I'm really an adept. Think of all the matches I've made … or been accused of making … Theodora Dix and Ludovic Speed … Stephen Clark and Prissie Gardner … Janet Sweet and John Douglas … Professor Carter and Esme Taylor … Nora and Jim … and Dovie and Jarvis … " "Oh, I admit it. This wife of mine, Owen, has never lost her sense of expectation. Thistles may, for her, bear figs at any time. I suppose she'll keep on trying to marry people off until she grows up.

Well, I don't like your prissy face!" she jeered as her jungle eyes flashed like an erratic bolt of lightning.

Sitting at the head of the table, drinking a chicken broth that landed in her stomach like an elixir of resurrection, Meme then saw Fernanda and Amaranta wrapped in an accusatory halo of reality. She had to make a great effort not to throw at them their prissiness, their poverty of spirit, their delusions of grandeur.

Who wants a long goodbye if you have to watch suffering day in and day out?” I told her one day.

For a caterpillar to become a butterfly, it must change. —Unknown

This was contrasted with a scene in which two prissy, high-IQ professionals were discussing having children. They both agreed that having children was an important decision and that they needed to wait for the right time, since child bearing wasn’t something that should be rushed into. Ultimately, they died childless. The moral: the dimwitted and impulsive might not be able to hold a job or learn algebra, but they sure knew how to screw each other—and reproduce like crazy.

I don't think of myself as overly prissy, but it bothered me to find a finger on my bedroom floor.

I still don’t get why he never married, though. It’s weird. I’m sorry, it just is.

I realized that some things should be remembered as they were.

Give Me Love” was a hit around the same time as Cat Stevens’s “Morning Has Broken,” a superficially similar hippie-dad prayer, yet I violently hated “Morning Has Broken,” just hated it, despised the choked sobs and prissy whispers, still hate it, because it sounded to my ears (and might still sound, if I had the stomach to investigate) like a phony version of what “Give Me Love” does for real. All four Beatles were surrogate dads to Seventies kids, which partly why we fantasized about them so much, and if George was the dad who’s perpetually disappointed in you, “Give Me Love” is a song that did and still does make me fantasize about what a world fathered and raised by George might look like. Yet it’s the kind of song George distrusted—a song that could get people’s hopes up, making promises he was scared he couldn’t keep.

What i quickly discovered is that high school running was divided into two camps: those who ran cross-country and those who ran track. There was a clear distinction. The kind of runner you were largely mirrored your approach to life. The cross-country guys thought the track runners were high-strung and prissy, while the track guys viewed the cross-country guys as a bunch of athletic misfits. It's true that the guys on the cross-country team were a motley bunch. solidly built with long, unkempt hair and rarely shaven faces, they looked more like a bunch of lumberjacks than runners. They wore baggy shorts, bushy wool socks, and furry beanie caps, even when it was roasting hot outside. Clothing rarely matched. Track runners were tall and lanky; they were sprinters with skinny long legs and narrow shoulders. They wore long white socks, matching jerseys, and shorts that were so high their butt-cheeks were exposed. They always appeared neatly groomed, even after running. The cross-country guys hung out in late-night coffee shops and read books by Kafka and Kerouac. They rarely talked about running; its was just something they did. The track guys, on the other hand, were obsessed. Speed was all they ever talked about....They spent an inordinate amount of time shaking their limbs and loosening up. They stretched before, during, and after practice, not to mention during lunch break and assembly, and before and after using the head. The cross-country guys, on the the other hand, never stretched at all. The track guys ran intervals and kept logbooks detailing their mileage. They wore fancy watched that counted laps and recorded each lap-time....Everything was measured, dissected, and evaluated. Cross-country guys didn't take notes. They just found a trail and went running....I gravitated toward the cross-country team because the culture suited me