Pucci Quotes

The irony," he said,"...is that now that I'm this blind man, it's clearer to me now than it's ever been before. What that line? 'Was blind but now I see...

I want to turn around, pull her from the room, tell her to stay away from me, beg her to wait for me, ruin her, exalt her. I’m at war with the most unworthy of opponents: my heart. Goddammit.

People had always amazed him, he began. But they amazed him more since the sickness. For as long as the two of them had been together, he said, Gary’s mother had accepted him as her son’s lover, had given them her blessing. Then, at the funeral, she’d barely acknowledged him. Later, when she drove to the house to retrieve some personal things, she’d hunted through her son’s drawers with plastic bags twist-tied around her wrists. “…And yet,” he whispered, “The janitor at school--remember him? Mr. Feeney? --he’d openly disapproved of me for nineteen years. One of the nastiest people I knew. Then when the news about me got out, after I resigned, he started showing up at the front door every Sunday with a coffee milkshake. In his church clothes, with his wife waiting out in the car. People have sent me hate mail, condoms, Xeroxed prayers…” What made him most anxious, he told me, was not the big questions--the mercilessness of fate, the possibility of heaven. He was too exhausted, he said, to wrestle with those. But he’d become impatient with the way people wasted their lives, squandered their chances like paychecks. I sat on the bed, massaging his temples, pretending that just the right rubbing might draw out the disease. In the mirror I watched us both--Mr. Pucci, frail and wasted, a talking dead man. And myself with the surgical mask over my mouth, to protect him from me. “The irony,” he said, “… is that now that I’m this blind man, it’s clearer to me than it’s ever been before. What’s the line? ‘Was blind but now I see…’” He stopped and put his lips to the plastic straw. Juice went halfway up the shaft, then back down again. He motioned the drink away. “You accused me of being a saint a while back, pal, but you were wrong. Gary and I were no different. We fought…said terrible things to each other. Spent one whole weekend not speaking to each other because of a messed up phone message… That time we separated was my idea. I thought, well, I’m fifty years old and there might be someone else out there. People waste their happiness--That’s what makes me sad. Everyone’s so scared to be happy.” “I know what you mean,” I said. His eyes opened wider. For a second he seemed to see me. “No you don’t,” he said. “You mustn’t. He keeps wanting to give you his love, a gift out and out, and you dismiss it. Shrug it off because you’re afraid.” “I’m not afraid. It’s more like…” I watched myself in the mirror above the sink. The mask was suddenly a gag. I listened. “I’ll give you what I learned from all this,” he said. “Accept what people offer. Drink their milkshakes. Take their love.

Shut the fuck up and take this dick like a good girl.

Feminism…who’s she?

Oh my god. Falalala fuck me in the ass.

You guys are literally ruining women for everyone else. You know that, don’t you?

I’m not available to babysit anyone’s audacity. You have to take that shit home with you.

Jesus, throw your pussy at him, why don’t you?

What made him most anxious, he told me, was not the big questions -the mercilessness of fate, the possibility of heaven. He was too exhausted, he said, to wrestle with those. But he'd become impatient with the way people wasted their lives, squandered their chances like paychecks. I sat on the bed, massaging his temples, pretending that just the right rubbing might draw out the disease. In the mirror I watched us both -Mr. Pucci, frail and wasted, a talking dead man. And myself with a surgical mask over my mouth, to protect him from me. "The irony," he said, "... is that now that I'm this blind man, it's clearer to me now then it's ever been before. What's the line? 'Was blind but now I see...' " He stopped and put his lips to the plastic straw. Juice went halfway up the shaft, then back down again. He motioned the drink away. "You accused me of being a saint a while back, pal, but you were wrong. Gary and I were no different. We fought ...said terrible things to each other. Spent one whole weekend not speaking to each other because of a messed-up phone message... That time we separated was my idea. I thought, well, I'm fifty years old and there might be someone else out there. People waste their happiness -that's what makes me sad. Everyone's so scared to be happy." "I know what you mean," I said. His eyes opened wider. For a second he seemed to see me. "No you don't," he said. "You mustn’t. He keeps wanting to give you his love, a gift out and out and you dismiss it. Shrug it off because you're afraid." "I'm not afraid. It's more like ..." I watched myself in the mirror above the sink. The mask was suddenly a gag. I listened. "l'll give you what I learned from all this," he said. "Accept what people offer. Drink their milkshakes. Take their love.

Hey, wifey. Remember me?” I bite my lip, trying not to laugh as I nod and attempt to fix my hair, swiping it out of my face. But he winks and rubs his jaw, tapping a finger to it as he adds, “Good. Now, give daddy a kiss and make it better.

Look at you. Suddenly shy. I didn’t believe him when he told me.” Reed bends down, bringing his lips to my ear. “Fuck manners. You make me want to bend you over this counter and eat that pretty little ass until you’re begging me to tongue your pussy.

To long car conversations, explanatory knee-swaying videos, and Christmas puns. This one’s for us, Katie. And for everyone else in need of an escape during an otherwise, “I’m gonna need to take another deep breath” kind of day. This is for you too. Here’s to a smutty holiday season!

God Will, I wish you'd stop telling me what to do. What if I like watching television? What if I don't want to do much else other than read a book?" My voice had become shrill. "What if I'm tired when I get home? What if I don't need to fill my days with activity?" "Bur one day you might wish you had", he said quietly. "Do you know what I would do if I were you?" I put down my peeler. "I suspect you're going to tell me." "Yes. And I'm completely unembarrassed about telling you. I'd be doing night school. I'd be training as a seamstress or a fashion designer or whatever it is that taps into what you really love." He gestured at my minidress, a Sixties-inspired Pucci-type dress, made with the fabric that had once been a pair of Grandad's curtains. The first time Dad had seen it he had pointed at me and yelled, "Hey, Lou, pull yourself together!" It had taken him a full five minutes to stop laughing. "I'd be finding out what I could do that didn't cost much - keep-fit classes, swimming, volunteering, whatever. I'd be teaching myself music or going for long walks with somebody else's dog, or -" "Okay, okay, I get the message," I said, irritably. "But I'm not you, Will." "Luckily for you.

Whoever’s behind me is wearing the kind of cologne that pisses you off when the face doesn’t match the scent.

Aw, come on, sunshine. Since when don’t you want me to eat your cookie?

Fuck me running. What am I doing? I officially hate myself. How am I allowed to be in my thirties and this awkward?

I’m knee-deep in tinsel and red balls.” My sister snorts from the other end. “It’s better than blue ones.

I really can’t stay—” He gives his signature smirk.  “But, baby, it’s cold outside.

Three glasses of wine, and I’m all for an orgy. I’m such a lightweight. A disgrace. I’m sorry .008 percent Irish ancestry, I’ve let you down.

His grumpy, broody silence was my favorite color—red flag. Every piece of me is screaming to cross the line.

Die Hard…Christmas movie? Yay or nay.

Just like when I was in high school and thought the song “Pony” by Ginuwine was about riding horses.

I don’t know what it is about him that makes me feel obstinate and obedient at the same time. Maybe it’s the brusque way he speaks. It’s demanding. I like it, and I want to rebel.

JUST STOP BEING A WHORE.

Next, he’ll tell me to drop to my knees because he wants to feed me his big ol’ candy cane.

Our eyes connect for seconds before we scramble, shamelessly pressing our ears to the wood. While I’m still holding my wood.

I-kissed-Cole-last-night-and-then-dry-humped-his-best-friend-in-the-kitchen-before-he-told-me-they-want-to-share-me.

People always say when luck meets opportunity, that equals success. But I call bullshit. And today is proof. Because even when you get knot so lucky, you can still hit a jackpot.

Wild Card, no more flirting with the bench. I’m the starting fucking lineup.

And I’m tempted to keep holding it, but I can’t because that’s the kind of shit that makes the day go from legendary to restraining order.

And remember, what happens in Vegas is now ordered to stay in Vegas.

So, hubby, where do we live?” “In hell, wifey. In. Fucking. Hell.

Samantha, 32. Gemini. Dog lover. Coffee addict. Loves adventure and getting treated like jerky. Bite me, and maybe I’ll let you wife me up.

Tu sei l’unica donna che amerò mai.” You are the only woman I will ever love.

What can you possibly say about Rome? That it's eternal? That all roads lead to it? That it wasn't built in a day? That when there you should do as the locals do? Please. For millennia, Rome has embodied and repelled every cliché, description, and act of comprehension or explanation applied to it. As a city, it has been built and destroyed and rebuilt by - and has celebrated and signified and outlasted - caesars and barbarians and popes and Fascists and prophets and artists and pilgrims and schemers and migrants and lovers and fools.

I knew Reed was charming, but his one-liners are impressive. And he makes every conversation feel like an enemies-to-lovers movie where the characters are brimming with sexual tension and ready to rip each other’s clothes off.

Damn. I really got drunk and married this dude, then let the starting lineup for the Raiders rail me every which way. I’ve never wanted to be a role model, but god has his favorites, so it would be selfish of me not to accept this privilege.

Angel, mi hai cambiato. Mi dai una ragione per credere di nuovo. Voglio dirti che ti amo. Penso di averti amato dal primo momento in cui abbiamo parlato. Mi hai detto di trovare qualcuno che mi dicesse la mia verità e sarebbero stati la mia anima gemella. Sei mio.” Angel, you changed me. You’ve given me a reason to believe again. I want to tell you that I love you. I think I loved you from the first moment we spoke. You told me to find someone to tell me my truth and they would be my soul mate. You are mine.

You are the madness he creates. You are the great fish. But Calder”—she shivers—“he’s the ocean, and he’ll swallow everyone whole. This is the last time I will speak his name. Because to say it calls to evil. But you are wrong. Death isn’t waiting for Calder. It’s listening for his instruction.

En unos años, todas (las hojas del árbol) habrán desaparecido, pero tras fundir ese con la tierra, cada una de sus moléculas volverá a ascender por las raíces, hasta convertirse de nuevo en brotes verdes: pequeñas hojas recién nacidas, que nos mirarán desde arriba con la sabiduría de almas viejas.

Oh fuck. I’ve fallen into Reed’s dick sand, sucked into the serious hotness this guy exudes. I’m lost forever, like Indiana Jones and the Temple of Cock. Because I can’t focus past the rhythmic strokes of his finger on my leg. And the coaxing temptation of his thigh for me to grind my clit against it.

The shower cuts off, and his hand slips into mine, our bare bodies walking in step to the tub. I’m helped inside before he lowers himself in, making the water rise almost to the top. I chuckle, floating my hands over the top of the warmth and staring across at him. “This is nice.” This, as in all of this…him, me, the last few weeks.

Oh, come on, I may not have history with you, but here’s what I know from this weekend. When you’re nervous, you ramble.” I chuckle, snuggling closer as he speaks, even though my arms are folded against my chest. “And when you’re thinking, you’re quiet, you lock yourself away with your thoughts. But wild thoughts are always going on inside that mind of yours—they’re practically written all over your face.” “No, they aren’t.” He smirks. “You, cutie, are an open book.

Beyond honored, I modeled many of Marilyn’s personal items, which I recognized from famous photos of the star: a white terry cloth bathrobe, an orange Pucci top,

Just let me bury everything deep down and pay for therapy later,

If god was a woman, then men would be able to find a woman’s clit.

Is she or isn’t she a brotherfucker.

But I swear I feel like it’s been imprinted on me. Like I’m Jacob and his cock is my Renesmee.

Eleanor is not the girl who’s waiting for her prince. Why would she when she’s been running the kingdom.