Shopping Spree Quotes

Books are, let's face it, better than everything else. If we played cultural Fantasy Boxing League, and made books go 15 rounds in the ring against the best that any other art form had to offer, then books would win pretty much every time. Go on, try it. “The Magic Flute” v. Middlemarch? Middlemarch in six. “The Last Supper” v. Crime and Punishment? Fyodor on points. See? I mean, I don’t know how scientific this is, but it feels like the novels are walking it. You might get the occasional exception -– “Blonde on Blonde” might mash up The Old Curiosity Shop, say, and I wouldn’t give much for Pale Fire’s chance against Citizen Kane. And every now and again you'd get a shock, because that happens in sport, so Back to the Future III might land a lucky punch on Rabbit, Run; but I'm still backing literature 29 times out of 30.

I would have liked Allie better if she were a shy, bookish type I could have taken on shopping sprees at indie bookstores instead of an iPhone-addicted, TikTok-obsessed basic bitch in training.

The disorder is more common in women." Note the construction of that sentence. They did not write, "The disorder is more common in women." It would still be suspect, but they didn't bother trying to cover their tracks. Many disorders, judging by the hospital population, were more commonly diagnosed in women. Take, for example, "compulsive promiscuity." How many girls do you think a seventeen-year-old boy would have to screw to earn the label "compulsively promiscuous"? Three? No, not enough. Six? Doubtful. Ten? That seems more likely. Probably in the fifteen-to-twenty range, would be my guess - if they ever put that label on boys, which I don't recall their doing.... In the list of six "potentially self-damaging" activities favored by the borderline personality, three are commonly associated with women (shopping sprees, shoplifting, and eating binges) and one with men (reckless driving). One is not "gender specific," as they say these days (psychoactive substance abuse). And the definition of the other (casual sex) is in the eye of the beholder.

Bipolar disorder is about buying a dozen bottles of Heinz ketchup and all eight bottles of Windex in stock at the Food Emporium on Broadway at 4:00 a.m., flying from Zurich to the Bahamas and back to Zurich in three days to balance the hot and cold weather (my sweet and sour theory of bipolar disorder), carrying $20,000 in $100 bills in your shoes into the country on your way back from Tokyo, and picking out the person sitting six seats away at the bar to have sex with only because he or she happens to be sitting there. It's about blips and burps of madness, moments of absolute delusion, bliss, and irrational and dangerous choices made in order to heighten pleasure and excitement and to ensure a sense of control. The symptoms of bipolar disorder come in different strengths and sizes. Most days I need to be as manic as possible to come as close as I can to destruction, to get a real good high -- a $25,000 shopping spree, a four-day drug binge, or a trip around the world.

What tipped you off—about Stan, I mean?” I asked. “Couple of things,” Alex replied. “He referred to Blitzen as the dwarf and claimed you hadn’t been in. Knowing how terrified you are of Sam—” “I am not!” “—I thought it was unlikely you’d skipped the shopping spree. So, I tested his story and called your phone. When I heard my ringtone, I knew he was lying about you being here. But the biggest clue? He refused to sell me anything. I mean, come on.” He gestured to his pink cashmere sweater vest and tight lime-green pants. “A real clothing salesman would have seen dollar signs the minute I walked into the store.

My apologies, see, I forgot my manners. I get on the mic ’cause it’s my life. You show off for girls and cameras. You a pop star, not a rapper. A Vanilla Ice or a Hammer. Y’all hear this crap he dumping out? Somebody get him a Pamper. And a crown for me. The best have heard about me. You can only spell “brilliant” by first spelling Bri. You see, naturally, I do my shit with perfection. Better call a bodyguard ’cause you gon’ need some protection, And on this here election, the people crown a new leader. You didn’t see this coming, and your ghostwriters didn’t either. I came here to ether. I’m sorry to do this to you. This is no longer a battle, it’s your funeral, boo. I’m murdering you. On my corner they call me coroner, I’m warning ya. Tell the truth, this dude is borin’ ya. You confused like a foreigner. I’ll explain with ease: You’re just a casualty in the reality of the madness of Bri. No fallacies, I spit maladies, causin’ fatalities, And do it casually, damaging rappers without bandaging. Imagining managing my own label, my own salary. And actually, factually, there’s no MC that’s as bad as me. Milez? That’s cute. But it don’t make me cower. I move at light speed, you stuck at per hour. You spit like a lisp. I spit like a high power. Bri’s the future, and you Today like Matt Lauer. You coward. But you’re a G? It ain’t convincing to me. You talk about your clothes, about your shopping sprees. You talk about your Glock, about your i-c-e. But in this here ring, they all talking ’bout me, Bri!

And now we're going for a shopping spree at the mall, at my expense. Shall we get a latte and a ginger scone at the coffee bar? An acupuncture treatment? A massage?" Bruno stared at the guy. "I can't drag her up to Tony's cabin in a miniskirt and heels. There might be snow up there." "Bruno, he's right. Stopping for clothes would be silly," Lily said. "Let's just save that for when we- " "You're spattered in blood!" he yelled. "You're coat is canvas, with no lining! You don't even have any goddamn underwear!" Lily jerked loose of his encircling arm. "You bastard!" she hissed. "I do, too!

Two hundred dollars! OMG! Shopping spree!

It was one of those puzzling facts of life that women either celebrated a happy event or solved their problems with a shopping spree.

(from his random observations after reading David Copperfield by Charles Dickens) In the Old Curiosity Shop I discovered that in the character of Dick Swiveller, Dickens provided P.G. Wodehouse with pretty much the whole of his oeuvre. In David Copperfield, David's bosses Spenlow and Jorkins are what must be the earliest fictional representations of good cop/bad cop.

If you think the dress is right for you, where are you going to wear it? Does it fit into the kind of life you lead? (If you live in the country, what are you doing with all those town suits and hostess pajamas?) Supposing the dress is all right. If so, what shoes do you wear with it? What hat, gloves? Handbag, jewelry? […] So many women fall in love with a dress, bring it home, and find absolutely nothing that will go with it.

Those who are creating the riots are not in tune with their religion. They want to plunder and destroy. Don’t you know why the sweet shops get ravaged? People hanker after sweets. And gold shops too, because of greed for gold. It’s the criminals and hoodlums who are on this spree of loot and plunder. There’s really no conflict between the communities.

Despite how progressive America claimed to be, there was still a sexist double standard quietly underpinning everything. She and Jeff were proof of it, like in those scientific studies where they treated twin babies the same except for one key variable, then tracked how it affected them. The variable here was that Jeff was a boy and Sam was a girl, and even when they did the exact same thing, people reacted to them differently. If the paparazzi caught Jeff on an expensive shopping spree, he was splurging for a special occasion, while Samantha was spoiled. If pictures surfaced of Jeff visibly drunk and stumbling out of a bar, he was blowing off some much-needed steam. Samantha was a wild party girl. If Jeff talked back to the paparazzi, he was simply being firm, protecting his privacy. Samantha was a ruthless bitch.

The point is, you must show them how to live and not just teach them theory while contradicting yourself in practice, because cynicism, hypocrisy and insincerity are adult character traits that children have no way of appreciating. Children learn by imitating our behavior, and if it contradicts our thinking then at best they learn to simply ignore what we say and at worst become troubled by it. Suppose you teach them about the environmental devastation they will witness during their lives, and explain to them that it is being caused by burning fossil fuels, and that during their lives fossil fuels will disappear altogether with nothing to replace them … while continuing to burn hundreds of gallons of heating oil to heat an oversized house, driving all over creation in an oversized vehicle, jetting off to the tropics on brief winter holidays and going on shopping sprees to buy on a whim things you don’t need. Then what you would be teaching them is that you can’t be trusted. And this doesn’t help them; instead, it damages their spirit. It is better to have an ignorant fool for a parent than a well-informed hypocrite because being a fool is not a moral failing. Fools deserve pity and mercy; hypocrites—neither.

Around her the tables were filling with people, tourists planning their next stop over a coffee, businessmen meeting for luncheon, well-heeled women taking a break from their sprees, leaning in to gossip with one another, shopping bags piled at their feet.

Julie was downright giddy about the fully paid trip, and my promised shopping spree with the black Am Ex card that Omar gifted to me with the words, “Whatever makes you happy. There is no limit to this card, and there is no limit to what I would give you for the joy you’ve brought to my life.” Needless to say, not only did I squeal, but when I told Julie, she fell off her chair.

Latch onto East Dane promo codes and save yourself a fortune on your shopping spree by availing lucrative discounts and deals.

The variable here was that Jeff was a boy and Sam was a girl, and even when they did the exact same thing, people reacted to them differently. If the paparazzi caught Jeff on an expensive shopping spree, he was splurging for a special occasion, while Samantha was spoiled. If pictures surfaced of Jeff visibly drunk and stumbling out of a bar, he was blowing off some much-needed steam. Samantha was a wild party girl. If Jeff talked back to the paparazzi, he was simply being firm, protecting his privacy. Samantha was a ruthless bitch.

In a moment of mouse madness, I had clicked on a hi-tech outfit that apparently could breathe, sweat and possibly even do the running for me, or that’s what I expected for the price.

This is not a wedding. This is a shopping spree.

I no longer work like this, by the way. I learned my lesson after working with buyer after buyer who wouldn’t actually buy anything. Now I qualify buyers, I help them focus, and teach them that purchasing property is a process of elimination, not a shopping spree.

self-criticism backfires as a strategy for self-control. Like other forms of stress, it drives you straight to comfort coping, whether that’s drowning your sorrows at the nearest dive bar, or lifting your spirits with a Visa-sponsored shopping spree.

January 2013 Continuation of Andy’s Message (part one)   Young,               You must be eager to find out what transpired after my exhibitionistic shower episode at that homey eatery.☺               As our group browsed one of Princesa City’s outdoor markets, I was stalked by the two forest boys. They trailed us at a distance, only making appearances when they thought I wasn’t looking. LOL!               Before long, those two had edged up next to me as I was looking at souvenirs for friends. Since I towered over them in height and build, they gawked at me as if at an alien. Their petite stature measured to my waist when they stood next to me.               As it was customary for street vendors to haggle over prices with their clients, I asked the boys if they would bargain on my behalf. They agreed. Although Taer, the older of the two, had a knack for bargaining, his chum Anak was a master of haggling. The both of them would drag me away from the stall in question, if the vendor did not agree to their offer. By harrying away, the stall keeper would often beckon our return, thus sealing the deal we offered.               Even though the duo could only communicate in broken English, it did not deter my rowing pals from soliciting their bargaining services. We treated the boys to a scrumptious dinner at an outdoor eatery they recommended towards the end of our shopping spree. Throughout our excursion, they seized every opportunity to brush against me – a trait I found adorable.☺               I invited them for a nightcap at my lodging after a jovial dinner. Quick to jump at that suggestion, they headed back to my hut with me. Before I knew it, we were frolicking naked in the ocean below my chamber. You guessed it, one thing led to another…               To be continued. LOL!

There are times today when Rachel looks at Zach and sees an effusion, she sees him in colours of yellow and blue, sun and sky. She sees the yellow crew-neck jumper and blue jeans the boy of eight years old appeared in the day he came to Chelsea from the Coram Family via the two or three previous fosterers who returned him there, defeated, pronouncing him uncommunicative and maladroit in the extreme, animal, said one; unruly. So why this boy? For Katya the fractious? Of all the orphan boys in the world, why him? Of all potential mothers, why Katya? What did she see? Everyone has a part and a destiny. Rachel remembers the yellow jumper the boy rarely removed, even after the family shopping spree for a new wardrobe at Harrods followed by lunch in a restaurant with napkins large as small tablecloths, and heavy cutlery and wine for Katya and Lev and a pervasive daunting hush. Zach had never been to a restaurant before and chose spaghetti, because he knew what it was. He ate it with knife and fork. On the day he arrived in Chelsea, he stopped in the vestibule to slip his feet from lace-ups without undoing the bows, removing his shoes with institutional efficiency, left hand still held in Katya's right. Rachel sees that boy still, blue and yellow. Sky and sun.

While the vision he had shown in building Trump Tower remained, the discipline he had summoned to get the skyscraper built evaporated. Emboldened by easy money and a laudatory press, Donald went on a massive and ill-considered shopping spree. Among the projects he juggled was a promising expanse on the West Side on the same turf where Zeckendorf wanted to erect Atomic City, and Donald gave the development-in-waiting an equally retro, Jetsons-like label: Television City. As Donald wheelied along, fine-tuning his performance as the business world’s answer to Evel Knievel, the media lavished whopping reams of attention on him. For the most part, reporters didn’t cover Donald’s ventures because what he did was smart. They covered Donald’s doings because what he did was fun to watch. Whether any of them recognized that what they were watching was a slow-motion car crash didn’t matter. It was the ’80s.

Jets off to Marble, lavish shopping spree from what I can see, and staying at the most expensive hotel in California. I’d say we got a Masala Mama on our hands. Shouldn’t Sammy be your Dosa Daddy?

Amal, it's naïve to think that because somebody is ignorant they are a bad person. I feel so much for Leila because I know that she understands that she can be all she wants to be, not in spite of Islam, but because of it." "It's her mum's stupid fault." "Amal, Gulchin's just trying to bring up Leila in the only way she knows how. She married young. She never had the opportunity to gain an education. She can't read. She can't write. Her world has always been about raising her children and looking after her home. There's nothing wrong with that, if that's what she chooses." "Yeah, but she's forcing it on Leila!" "Which is wrong. But try to expand your mind and think about things from other people's perspectives. Everything is relative, If you want to understand a problem you look at its cause. You don't look at its manifestation." "How is that supposed to make Leila feel better?" She sighs, playing with my hair. "God knows... Sometimes, Amal, people are paralysed by their traditions and customs It's all they know, so you can't judge them for following and believing what they know." "Come off it, Mum! Any moron would realize that she following her village's culture, not Islam. So for her to g around and tell the world it's Islam when it's the exact opposite is so dumb!" "Yes, I know that. But from her point of view I believe she thinks she is simply trying to protect Leila." "Protect her from what? It's a crappy shopping spree" "Everybody's scared of what they don't know, Amal.

As I watched Emily, I thought, Of course. This is what we all need—a manual for how things work when our own cognitive abilities leave us bewildered and our coping skills have reached their limit. All of us are like Max at times. We can’t figure out what’s happening to our world, why we’re feeling tense and frustrated. So we throw our own kind of tantrum: We gossip or assert our superiority; we get drunk or have an affair; we go on a credit-card shopping spree; we irritate the boss until he’s obliged to fire us. We thrash around in the face of a world that we can’t understand and can’t manage. The many ways people “act out” prove what a challenge life is. Our difficulty in understanding how the world works and how we fit into it has been aggravated, I believe, by the false expectations our culture breeds. We are like people trying to go up the down escalator. We huff and puff and go nowhere. The problem is, the culture is pushing one way, and we haven’t figured out it’s the wrong direction. When we ask the basic questions about our purpose and meaning, we receive false answers. Our attempts to live by these misleading answers inevitably leave us angry and terrified. What we need is to seek the true picture of how the world really works and what we need to live well.

Shallow. Harmless. A little bit stupid. Crazy in love with you. Needs access to every part of the house. Let’s see . . . Who am I? Well, Roman’s trophy wife, of course. I am pretty, elegant, and extremely snobbish. I love wearing expensive clothes, just the best labels. I’m not really into dresses unless the occasion requires it. I much more prefer designer jeans, paired with silky blouses. The heels are a must.” She pauses, opens her eyes, and turns toward me. “Are heels a must, do you think?” She scrunches her tiny nose. “Of course they are. Damn it. I hate wearing heels.” She closes her eyes again and continues. “The heels are a must, and I have dozens of them. Roman loves when I wear them, he says they make my butt look amazing. I’m also very self-conscious about my height, and wearing heels all the time makes me forget how short I am. My favorite pastime is shopping, and I buy a ton of clothes. My husband has to allocate one driver specifically for me and my shopping sprees.” Another pause and she turns toward me again. “Roman, I’ll need funds to support her addiction with clothes. She is an impulse buyer.” “You’ll get anything you need,” I laugh. She’s completely nuts. “My husband is crazy about me, and he allows me to do whatever I want with the house, like rearrange furniture, so the vibe of the house works better with the earth vibrations. The house feels terribly cold, so I buy a bunch of indoor plants and spread them everywhere. I also tour every single room because I want to make sure the unobstructed energy flows, so I rearrange paintings and mirrors. I also hate the dining room table, it’s so overstated, and I decide to swap it with a sleek glass one I found in an interior design magazine.” Another pause. “This woman is expensive, Roman. I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into.” “I’ll manage.” “Your funeral.” She shrugs and continues. “My husband doesn’t like it when he’s interrupted, but of course, that doesn’t apply to me. I often come into his office just to check up on him and exchange a few kisses. It annoys his men so much. They wonder what he sees in me and why he allows me so much freedom, and then decide he’s thinking with his dick. I’m always around, and they hate it.

I feel a spree coming on. Whether it’s killing or shopping is totally up to you.

Then fall the fuck back and let me live my life.” “The life I’m sponsoring?” I shot back. “If you want me to fall back, I’ll fall back. And so will my money that’s afforded you the life you’re living. I ain’t never tried to be your daddy. I’m just looking out for you just like I look out for G, Krys, and everybody else. You’re the only ungrateful muthafucka in the bunch.” I was on a roll now. I’d probably regret half of what I was spewing later, but for now, she needed to hear it. “You can’t even pay your fuckin’ rent! Yet, you want me to fall back and allow another nigga to come up off my dime? A nigga who’s disrespected me hella times? Nah, fuck that. The little credit card you let that bum max out? I’m paying it off then closing it. The money I drop in your account every month for shopping sprees, vacations, and other frivolous spending? That shit is dead. It’ll be just enough in there every month to pay your rent and cover your bills. Anything extra is gonna be on your dime.” I wiped my mouth in anger before adding, “Better yet, ask your boyfriend to pick up my slack. Let’s see how long that

If you won a shopping spree and loaded your cart full of cousins, that was Abuela’s house.

...Marshall Field's Department Store....I spent - in more ways than one - the afternoon shipping in the vast and famous old store downtown....And then I had them mail a catalog home, too, jus tin case I'd missed something.

Well, this is underwhelming,” said Sophia, looking around. “Where’s the confetti cannon?” “And the balloon drop?” added Erin. We all looked up at the ceiling. “Oh, there’s my pencil.” Sophia pointed to half a NO. 2 lodged in a ceiling tile. “Confetti and a balloon drop are messy. The mayor’s obviously bringing the keys to the city,” said Lucy. “Guys, I think this is it,” said Leila, gesturing around us with a frown. “So much for my chocolate fountain.” I didn’t respond. All their ideas were a little far-fetched. Clearly, Mrs. Clark was taking us on a shopping spree. My friends and I sat and watched other students file in. Each one glanced around, too, with disappointed expressions. When Mrs. Clark finally appeared, she turned off the lights and pressed a button to lower the projector screen at the front of the room. “Sweet! Movie time in coding club,” Bradley said.

NOVEMBER 29 “Chevalier” Wikoff Lincoln, on this day in 1861, read to his cabinet part of his first annual message to Congress. Subsequently the message—to be delivered on December 3—was, however, prematurely leaked to the press, prompting an investigation of Henry Wikoff and the first lady. In her first year in the White House, Mary Lincoln held evening soirees in the downstairs Blue Room. Her guests were mostly men who doted on her and, as journalist Henry Villard noted, Mary was vulnerable to “a common set of men and women whose bare-faced flattery easily gained controlling influence over her.” One such flatterer was Wikoff, a European adventurer who was an intimate of the French emperor, Napoleon. The New York Herald sent Wikoff to Washington as a secret correspondent for them. Wikoff charmed his way into Mary’s salon to become, as Villard claimed, a “guide in matters of social etiquette, domestic arrangements, and personal requirements, including her toilette.” The “Chevalier” Wikoff escorted Mary on her shopping sprees as an advisor, and repaid the first lady with stories in the Herald about her lavish spending. When the Herald published excerpts of Lincoln’s annual message, it was alleged that Wikoff was the leak and Mary his source. A House judiciary committee investigated and Wikoff claimed that it was not Mary but the White House gardener, John Watt, who was his source, and Watt confirmed Wikoff’s claim. As reporter Ben Poore wrote, “Mr. Lincoln had visited the Capitol and urged the Republicans on the Committee to spare him disgrace, so Watt’s improbable story was received and Wikoff liberated.” In February 1862, a reporter named Matthew Hale Smith of the Boston Journal showed Lincoln proof that Wikoff was working for the Herald. “Give me those papers and sit here till I return,” said the president on his way to confront Wikoff. He returned to tell Smith that the “chevalier” had been “driven from the Mansion [White House] that night.

A home-bound woman who depends on bridge clubs and shopping sprees for amusement has only half a personality.

THE VANISHING ART OF SEIZING THE DAY The hijack of carpe diem is the existential crime of the century – and one that we have barely noticed. It might seem odd to claim that a phrase from a dead Roman poet has been ‘hijacked’, but the evidence is compelling. Who, or what, are the hijackers in question? First, the spirit of ‘seize the day’ has been surreptitiously hijacked by consumer culture, which has recast it as Black Friday shopping sprees and the instant hit of one-click online buying: in essence Just Do It has come to mean Just Buy It. Alongside this is the growing cult of efficiency and time management that has driven us toward hyper-scheduled living, turning the spontaneity of Just Do It into a culture of Just Plan It. A third hijacker is 24/7 digital entertainment that is replacing vibrant life experiences with vicarious, screen-based pleasures, and contributing to a new age of distraction. Rather than Just Do It, we increasingly Just Watch It instead. Finally – and though it might seem counterintuitive – carpe diem has been hijacked by the booming mindfulness movement. While practising mindfulness has many proven benefits, from reducing stress to helping with depression, one of its unintended consequences has been to encourage the idea that seizing the day is primarily about living in the here and now. Just Do It has become Just Breathe. Confronted by these four hijackers, the art of seizing the day is vanishing before our eyes and we urgently need to do something about it, or else risk losing touch with the carpe diem wisdom of humanity that has accumulated over the past two millennia. I will be exploring in detail how this cultural hijacking has happened, and how we might best respond.

he does not seem to feel the need to explain the new century’s shopping spree for identities, particularly white identities that have remained untainted by colonialism.

I wanted that heat and intensity. Not a fucking shopping spree.

Uncorked materialism is new cannibalism.