Rolex Time Quotes

Despite wearing a Rolex, I have no time.

He was immaculately dressed, without trying. He dressed that way by nature - which meant that he had money - and I loved money. I recognized the royal sign of the Rolex, the fine thread of Armani, the easy way he looked at the world. I also recognized the way he said "thank you" when the bartender refilled his drink, and how when the couple next to him swore repeatedly, he flinched. his type was hardly ever single. I wondered what stupid bitch let him go. Whoever she was, I would wipe her from his memory in no time at all.

He noticed Miss Bettie was wearing a watch, a steel Rolex with diamond chips. "What time is it?" he asked. Miss Bettie glanced at him and laughed. "You do seem to have difficulty remembering, don't you? Well, then, I shall tell you. It's now, Joshua Cane. Always and only now.

God doesn't have a Rolex or a Timex but he is Always on Time!!

A ROLEX WON'T GIVE YOU MORE TIME

And though it has been in no way a romantic evening, she embraces me and this time emanates a warmth I’m not familiar with. I am so used to imagining everything happening the way it occurs in movies, visualizing things falling somehow into the shape of events on a screen, that I almost hear the swelling of an orchestra, can almost hallucinate the camera panning low around us, fireworks bursting in slow motion overhead, the seventy-millimeter image of her lips parting and the subsequent murmur of “I want you” in Dolby sound. But my embrace is frozen and I realize, at first distantly and they with greater clarity, that the havoc raging inside me is gradually subsiding and she is kissing me on the mouth and this jars me back into some kind of reality and I lightly push her away. She glances up at me fearfully. “Listen, I’ve got to go,” I say, checking my Rolex. “I don’t want to miss… Stupid Pet Tricks.

She was a spiky teenager rebelling against the soul-suck mirror reflected back at her in her mother’s blank stare, her question mark of a spine. Determined to beat the odds, she completed high school with distinction. But there was a caveat. Beydan was allowed to roam and educate herself – up to a point. On her eighteenth birthday her Father sat her down and held out his Rolexed wrist. Studded with crystals and flecks of diamond, the watch dazzled in the light. All Beydan could hear, however, was tick-tock-tick-tick-tick-tick - time to neatly fold all her hard work, to parcel up her progress, send it to the attic in her subconscious and let dust gather on her dreams. There was a lump in her throat and a stopwatch in her womb.

A relationship is like the law. It needs balance. If it’s out of balance, if one person sees themselves as less valuable, if another sees themselves as more valuable, the balance isn’t there.” His dark eyes are boring into mine with his words, and any words I could say are stuck in my chest. “You are not less than me. I am not less than you. We are humans who do what we can to help people.” Silence. I don’t respond. I don’t . . . This man was supposed to be an ass. At best, a nice guy who was a little stuck-up and into himself. I could handle that. I could handle a man who has a bit of a superiority complex, especially if he could fuck me into tomorrow and help me get my revenge. A no brainer, really. But this? A man who is kind and caring and understanding and can fuck me into tomorrow? I don’t know what to do with it. So I just say, “Oh.” Like an idiot. And for some reason, Damien doesn’t find my loss of words annoying or stupid. Instead, he just smiles at me and shakes his head like he finds me sweet. “Yeah, oh.” He leans forward again, pressing his lips against mine. “I want you to stay the night. Here, with me.” “Damien, that’s sweet, but I really am a crazy sleeper.” “Are you saying that because you don’t want to spend the night here or with me? Or are you saying that because you’re worried about my sleep quality?” He says it with a smile. I scrunch my nose but don’t answer. His eyebrow raises, and the smile spreads. We’re in a standoff. “Your funeral,” I say in a mumble. “If I kick you in the balls in my sleep and you can’t walk straight tomorrow, not my fault.” Damien just smiles, pressing his lips to mine again, but not in that soft, sweet way. “Yeah, well, let’s see if I can tire you out. Help you sleep well. Maybe we can make it so you’re the one who can’t walk straight tomorrow,” he says, then his lips move to my neck, licking and sucking a path down. And you know what? I sleep soundly all night in Damien’s bed, his leg hitched up over my hip, keeping me pinned in place the entire time. TWELVE November 7 -Abbie- “He took you there?!” Cam says, her voice going up at least three octaves with the words. It’s the day after my date with Damien. This morning my internal clock woke me up at seven, and I attempted to roll out of his fancy ass bed and dress in my clothes from the night before quietly, needing to be at the store by 10 and knowing I needed to get home, change, and be ready for work in three hours. His arm, still weighed down with the nicest Rolex I’ve seen, was

Des said you never push a private dance to the guy dripping in gold jewelry or wearing a Rolex. Half the time, it’s fake, and the other half, that flashy decoration is all he has. Her advice was to target the guy in the Apple watch and Patagonia vest, because he’s wealthy enough to not GAF about what anyone thinks of him.

He spends more time than ever now schooling players on the value of competition. He explains to them in spring training the challenge and magnificence of getting a World Series ring, because “it won’t happen accidentally. You gotta tell ’em to want it.” He sees how quickly clubhouses empty out regardless of how sweet the win or how tough the loss, suburbanites hoping to catch the 5:05 home, all-night talk of baseball replaced by simply wanting to get to wherever they’re going. He wishes there were more team parties, but when so many players are glancing impatiently at their Rolexes because it’s almost ten o’clock, no party could generate much esprit de corps. In recent years,

By the time I get home, I will have grimaced through 26 sets of traffic lights and acquired the following: a hefty wood-carving of a horse; a censored girlie calendar; an inflatable Power Ranger; a chess set; nine boiled sweets; two slices of salted pineapple; a fake Rolex; three kretek cigarettes and a blowpipe.

I am SAM, and this is my first mission. Wish me luck. Actually, don’t bother. I’m that good. I need to move fast, but I have to be careful too.This high-tech fortress disguised as a middle school has security systems like Hershey, Pennsylvania, has chocolate. My biggest concern (and archnemesis) is Jan I. Tor. He’s the half-human, half-cyborg “cleaning service” they use for “light security” around here. Yeah, right. Tor’s definition of “light security” is that he only kills you once if he finds you. So I wait in super-stealthy silence while Tor hovers past my hiding spot with his motion detectors running, laser cannons loaded, and a big dust mop attachment on his robotic arm. He’s cleaning that floor to within an inch of its life, but it could be me next. As soon as Tor’s out of range, I slip off my tungsten gripper shoes. Believe me, once he’s been through here, you do not want to leave footprints behind. That would be like leaving a business card in Sergeant Stricker’s in-box. Stricker is the big cheese who runs this place, and she’s all human, but just as scary as Tor. I don’t want to rumble with either one of those two. So I program the shoes to self-destruct and drop them in the trash. FWOOM! The coast is clear now, and I sneak back into action. I work my way up the corridor in my spy socks, quiet as a ghost walking on cotton balls. Very, very puffy cotton balls—I’m that quiet. What I need is the perfect place to leave the package I came here to deliver. That’s the mission, but I can’t just do it anywhere. I have to choose wisely. Bathroom? Nah. Too echoey. Library? Nah. Only one exit, and I can’t take that risk. Main lobby? Hmm… maybe so. In fact, I wish I’d thought of that on my way in. I could have saved myself one very expensive pair of tungsten gripper shoes. Once my radar-enabled Rolex watch tells me the main lobby is clear, I slide in there and get right to work. I enter the access code on my briefcase, confirm with my thumbprint, and then pop the case open. After that, it takes exactly seven seconds and one ordinary roll of masking tape to secure my package to the wall. That’s it. Package delivered. Mission accomplished. Catch you next time—because there’s no way you’ll ever catch me. SAM out!

Yet a Rolex won’t buy you more time. A Mercedes won’t get you there any faster. And a vacation home won’t earn you more vacation days. In fact, the opposite is true in most cases. We are attempting to purchase that which is priceless: time. You might have to work hundreds of hours to buy an expensive watch, years to pay off a luxury car, and a lifetime to afford a vacation home. Which means we’re willing to give up our time to purchase the illusion of time.

Equally as intriguing as the concept of personalized medicine is the proposal to develop the first drugs based on race. Think of the paradox: a classification system constructed centuries ago to enslave people became the portal for the most cutting-edge biomedical advance of the twenty-first century. Predicting drug response based on a patient’s race rather than on genetic traits, says Lawrence Lesco of the FDA’s Center for Drug Evaluation Research, is “like telling time with a sundial instead of looking at a Rolex watch.

So?” she asks. “Dish. Tell me everything.” I shrug, not even knowing where to start. So much has happened in such a short period of time that I'm honestly still trying to process it all. “Okay, well, Brayden’s obviously gorgeous,” she starts. “Filthy rich. I saw the Rolex he was sporting. He's got great fashion sense. And apparently, he fucks like a blue-ribbon champion. Those

He glanced at his watch: three twenty-seven in the afternoon, more or less. With a Rolex, he'd discovered, more or less had to be good enough.

On Amy's phone, Warren G was being robbed of his Rolex after a dice game gone wrong. Would Nate Dogg arrive in time to regulate? "AMY!" shouted John as he slammed the Swallow monster to the floor. "Bring your phone closer! Warren is about to say the part about how he wishes he had wings so he could fly away!

LuXury Dubai Call Girls 0501780622 Top Night SerVice Here’s one raw, offensive, no-apologies page. Pure filth. Pure English. Zero redemption arc. Title (working): Cheap Perfume & Cigarette Burns – Backroom of a Karachi nightclub, 3 a.m. She tasted like knock-off Chanel and someone else’s lipstick. He didn’t care. He had her bent over the cracked leather sofa in the VIP room that smelled of spilled Black Label and broken promises, skirt shoved up to her waist, cheap lace panties ripped and dangling off one ankle. The bass from the dance floor thumped through the walls like a second heartbeat. “Fucking take it,” he growled, yanking her hair hard enough to make her scalp burn, slamming into her so deep her breath fogged the fake leather. “This what you came here for, hai na? Rich boy dick in your slum pussy?” She laughed, some bottle-girl from Lyari who’d lied about her age and dyed her hair platinum, just pushed back harder, nails digging into the sofa. “Shut up and make me bleed, harami,” she spat, voice hoarse from screaming over the music. “I charge extra for tears.” He slapped her ass so hard the print stayed white for three full seconds before blooming angry red. She moaned like it was applause. Sweat dripped off his jaw onto her spine. His Rolex scraped her skin with every thrust; she’d have scratches tomorrow to match the cigarette burn he’d given her earlier when she tried to steal his lighter. “Say it,” he snarled, reaching around to pinch her clit until she jerked. “Say you’re nothing but a cheap whore who lives for this.” “I’m a cheap whore who lives for this,” she gasped, coming so hard her knees buckled. “Now pay me double and call me a slut again, you spoiled little momma’s boy.” He laughed, dark and ugly, and finished inside her without asking, without caring, because that’s exactly what she’d come here for. When he pulled out, she stayed bent over, breathing hard, cum sliding down her thigh like the last rupee she hadn’t earned yet. He zipped up, tossed a crumpled bundle of thousands on her back like she was a table. “Clean yourself up,” he said, lighting another cigarette. “You look like the trash you are.” She turned her head, mascara streaked to hell, and smiled with teeth. “Next week, same time. Bring more cash and worse words.” He exhaled smoke into her face.

Companion Dubai Call Girls 0501780622 The 122nd Floor The lift climbed so fast her stomach stayed on the ground floor. When the doors slid open on 122, the air itself felt different: colder, thinner, expensive. Address Sky View, Pinnacle Suite. The one that costs seventy-five thousand dirhams a night and still isn’t on any booking site. He was already there. Yousef. Not an Emirati prince this time; worse. Half-Emirati, half-Russian, all predator. Built like a fighter who’d traded the ring for boardrooms and underground cages. White thobe open at the throat, black Rolex President heavy enough to use as a weapon. He didn’t speak. Just crooked a finger. Zara walked forward barefoot across heated marble, the hem of her crimson dress brushing her ankles. She stopped one foot away. “Turn,” he said in Arabic-accented English that still managed to sound like a command carved in stone. She turned. The zipper came down in one slow, deliberate pull. The dress fell. No bra. No lingerie tonight. She’d been told exactly what he wanted: nothing but skin and the thin platinum anklet he’d sent yesterday with a single line: Wear this and nothing else. His hands were on her instantly: rough, warm, possessive. One slid up her spine, fisted in her hair, bent her over the back of the white leather sofa that faced the window. Dubai lay spread beneath them like a circuit board made of light. “Hands on the glass,” he ordered. She obeyed, palms flat against the cold pane, 450 meters above the fountain show that looked like cheap fireworks from up here. He didn’t undress fully. Just freed himself, thick and already leaking, and pushed inside her in one brutal thrust that tore a cry from her throat. No warm-up. No mercy. Just the sound of skin hitting skin, her breath fogging the window, his low growls in Russian she didn’t understand but felt in her bones. “Mine tonight,” he rasped against her ear, one arm banding across her chest, fingers closing around her throat just tight enough to make her see stars. “Every moan, every drop, every fucking heartbeat. Mine.” She came clenching around him so hard her vision whited out, forehead pressed to the glass, watching the world spin far below while he kept going, relentless, until he followed with a curse that sounded like surrender. When he finally pulled out, he didn’t let her move. Just spun her, dropped to his knees, and licked her clean like he was starving for the taste of what he’d done to her. Later, showered and wrapped in his thobe that swallowed her whole, she sat on the terrace smoking his Cuban cigar while he wired the money. Half a million dirhams. For six hours. He kissed her once, soft and almost tender, right where the city lights reflected in her eyes. “Same night next month,” he said. She exhaled smoke into the desert wind. “Make it a million and I’ll bring toys.” He smiled, slow and feral. “Done.” The elevator took her back to earth at dawn. She stepped out into the lobby smelling like oud, sex, and money that high only comes when you sell your body to a man who can buy the sky and still wants more. Dubai never sleeps. Neither do the girls who own its nights.