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.

Oh my god. Falalala fuck me in the ass.

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

Feminism…who’s she?

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.

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.

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

JUST STOP BEING A WHORE.

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

Die Hard…Christmas movie? Yay or nay.

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

February 22: Pat Newcomb arranges a Mexico City press conference. Wearing a green Pucci dress and green mull (cotton) scarf, she provides a witty performance while sipping champagne.

Meses después, cuando la primera gota de agua llovida la despierte de su largo sueño, la semilla comenzará a comprender que en su corazón palpita todo un bosque,

Es para aquellas personas que buscan intimidad con el discurso erótico de sus flores, lo surreal de sus diseños, las historias en sus hojas, el secreto de sus semillas.

La semilla que germina desentierra su propia muerte.

Frágil no es lo mismo que débil. (De la semilla)

La flor es la nota mas alta del canto del árbol.

Pequeño no es insignificante. Es concentrado.

Porque ya sabemos que mirar nunca es simplemente mirar: es dejarse tocar por las imágenes y florecer con ellas.

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,

And she said it in her essay “On Keeping a Notebook”—which has obvious appeal as a how-to primer for any aspiring writer who likes to eavesdrop but which also delivers an unexpected meditation on identity and place. I was in the right place until it was the wrong place, she says of herself. Or to me: There is nothing wrong with you; you are just in the wrong place. This idea that there is a right place and time for each of us, and you can vacate it by mistake and return to it only at great expense, fills much of her work with a kind of anticipatory nostalgia—looking backward even as she projects into the future. It’s an example of what Shakespeare called the “preposterous,” which as his scholars love to point out literally describes a condition where “before” follows “after” or “pre” follows “post”—a state of chronological, and often psychological, confusion. Remember the scene in “On Keeping a Notebook” when Didion sees a blonde in a Pucci bathing suit at the Beverly Hills Hotel surrounded by fat men? The blonde does the one thing that a blonde in a Pucci bathing suit was born to do: she “arches one foot and dips it into the pool.”2 There, she’s in her element. Right time, right place. It has a cinematic or photographic quality, like Henri Cartier-Bresson’s decisive moment.

Not quite the sweet boy I remember you being… Much more predator now, than prey.

If this school had a royal court, I’d be the king. The reality is, this school is a snapshot of the world, and McCallister is my crown, even if it’s heavy on my head.

It wasn’t that long ago that I searched for myself in any willing body, which ironically only made me lose myself more.

Be warned, Grey McCallister. A girl like me is bad for a boy like you.

Fuck, Donovan’s like the last known location of my innocence. When I believed in shit like Santa and that my future would be in my hands one day.

We can’t walk away because love brings us back, but all the goddamn hate we feel for ourselves, each other, creates our tragedy.

Without a moment’s breath, I whisper, “Please.” Cole freezes. Silent, staring down at me. He delicately brushes my hair behind my ears, looking down with approval before his hand travels to my throat, keeping my face on his as he pins me in place.

You two look like there’s gonna be a tiger in the bathroom.

God, I have a weakness for Crew like this—half naked and charming. But it’s fine. I’m on vacation. He’s just my Italy.

Good. Now, give daddy a kiss and make it better.

All of them milling about in the middle of the busy casino floor like forgotten Sims players.

Marrying some rando you just fucked is like a rite of passage in Vegas.

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.

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

Your dick’s been in my ass. You can’t be worried about my armpit.

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

Why is my pussy being problematic?

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

I mean…not really, but like, do I have a crush on my future ex-husband?

There’s nothing sweeter than meeting your soulmate and finding out he likes it when his friends fuck you too. Now I know why the lord gave me one heart and three holes.

Shut the fuck up. Lies. Holy fuck. Dad’s going to kill you. You’ll need to change your name to Julia Roberts because your ass is sleeping with the enemy.

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

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.

glance over at Eleanor, and she’s sitting there like a gangster, riding and probably dying on the inside but still holding strong with an incredibly unnerved demeanor.

You’d think he’d be more understanding of their love story.” Millie laughs harder as she piggybacks off my sister. “Right, but he was basically ‘You’re on your own, kid.’” Samantha’s almost wheezing as she answers. “Exactly, it’s not like she was the mastermind either.

I bet our girl… I bet our girl was wishing…wishing she was… in a lavender haze.

He knew all too well she wasn’t. But ruining Crew’s reputation was better than revenge.

I’m dying a slow death, and you’re doing Tay Tay puns. Really? You guys are the worst.

shake my head, looking down at the long T-shirt that says I’d hit that. There was no way I was leaving it behind. It’s the perfect memento from my night of debauchery.

You want epic?” I pinch her chin between my fingers, guiding her face over her shoulder, making her twist to look out the window as I let my lips brush her ear and say two little words that detonate like a bomb. “Marry me.

All I do know is that if I ever hear a man make fun of a woman for loving Harry Styles or anything, for that matter…I am going to out them for the fangirls they are.

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

Mills: Oh…P.S.—4, 7, 22, 30 I frown, confused, holding my phone above my face as I whisper to myself, “What the fuck?” Mills: Your horoscope says those are your lucky numbers. And that big life changes will alter the road to your happiness. Bet on red!

That’s my QB-Wan.

Pieces of Me’ got me through some hard times, Eleanor. Have some respect.

There isn’t a person in the world that needs more than an hour with me to know I’m not available to babysit anyone’s audacity. You have to take that shit home with you.

No, we did. I distinctly remember buying condoms that looked like poker chips. Because when they rolled them on, I yelled jackpot.

And those twins were definitely not identical. Unless it’s measured in the ability to find my clit because then, they were the blind leading the fucking blind.

Here’s to the best weekend of our lives, Eleanor Roosevelt. Because what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Let’s get slutty, buddy.

Is this the part where I choose which one of you is my favorite version of a one-night stand?” They look at each other, smiling before they look back at me and shake their heads. Mr. Adorable offers a different option with a wink. “Who said you have to choose?

I should really buy a notebook and write the whole night out while it’s still fresh. That way, when I get old, the people at the nursing home can read me my ho tales, so I’ll die happy.

Eww. Why is my pussy being problematic? Vegas is for catching cock, not crushes.

It’s about time you got here. Fuck, Crew. It’s not a good look to make a judge wait.” Law and Order looks at me, adding, “Excuse my French. Hi, I’m Joshua Maroney, your lawyer for the day.” I grin. “I don’t speak French, Stabler, so you’re good. Just make sure your fee is covered by the other guy.

That girl I married: No, YOU listen… There’s nothing sweeter than meeting your soulmate and finding out he likes it when his friends fuck you too. Now I know why the lord gave me one heart and three holes.

Again, I say…I hate football. I’m banning it from my vocabulary. I won’t even read about it anymore. From now on, I’m only reading hockey romance.

Shut the fuck up and take this dick like a good girl.” Yes, daddy.

Damn, you really do like her,” he says under his breath. So I nod. “Yeah. I do. She’s kinda the perfect girl, just in the wrong lifetime.

Oh man, we’re almost at the halfway mark in this marriage of convenience.” He nods, chuckling. “This marriage is anything but convenient.” “Truth.

Her pussy is my Super Bowl, and I want that ring. So fucking bad.

But I swear I feel like it’s been imprinted on me. Like I’m Jacob and his cock is my Renesmee. I have to stop watching Twilight before I go to bed.

The not-love of my life is seated on the arm of the couch…shirtless…and in gray sweats. When did he get those? He must’ve snuck into the room while I was in the shower. Good god. And I mean that. Because there has to be one. I believe now.

Dating four guys at the same time is only for reality television shows that hand out roses, and romance novels. Not real life.

Gimme,” she whispers, wiggling her fingers for my beer. “Why didn’t you get your own when I asked if you wanted one?” She smirks. “Why are you acting like sharing isn’t your favorite thing?