Skittles Quotes

I planted a kamikaze kiss on Jamie’s cheek. “FUCK,” he shouted, wiping it off. “What if you killed me!” He threw a Skittle at my face. It hit my forehead. “Ow!” “Taste the rainbow bitch.

If you put a bunch of chameleons on top of a bunch of chameleons on top of a bowl of Skittles what would happen? Is that science? Because if so, I finally get why people want to do science.

On Asking to Have the Candy Passed to Me During Schindler’s List “What do you want — the candy? They’re throwing people in the fucking gas chamber, and you want a Skittles?

Flipping to the front, I caught Aiden's gaze and offered a sympathetic smile. "Skittles?" "Please." I dumped some into his open palm, then picked out the green ones. Aiden grinned at me. "You know I don't like the green ones?" Shrugging, I popped them in my mouth. "The few times I've seen you eat them, you leave the green ones behind." Deacon popped his head between our seats. "That's true love right there." "That it is." Aiden's gaze flicked to the road. I flushed like a little schoolgirl and focused on the remaining pieces of candy until Deacon drifted back into his seat. I handed all the red ones to Aiden.

What's this?" He brought the brown square to his nose. "It smells musty." "It's chocolate. You'll love it." "That's what you said about Skittles. I vomited a rainbow afterward.

Got plans for the rest of the day ?" "No plans," I whispered. Test drive your mattress? Let me pretend to be a Skittle and you can taste my rainbow? Fifty Shades me? Please ! Oh, holy horror, I'm freaking losing it.

An AK-47 in a white hand has more rights than a Black kid with Skittles.

It's not strange seeing her now, even knowing the things I know. I thought maybe it would be, but it's not. To me, she's still just Charlie—lover of Skittles and bed bouncing and scandalous raccoons.

felt SO insanely happy I could just . . . VOMIT sunshine, rainbows, confetti, glitter and . . . um . . . those yummy little Skittles thingies!

Knocking the shrieking goblins aside like skittles

Life's not all beer and skittles

Skittles: the fun,colorful candy to eat, but even funner to throw at old people. =] (yes I know funner isn't a word)

Six vampires came scuttling over the roof, in assorted colors of sunblock, like someone spilled a bag of Skittles. Taste the undead rainbow.

On Asking to Have the Candy Passed to Me During Schindler’s List “What do you want—the candy? They’re throwing people in the fucking gas chamber, and you want a Skittles?

Everybody goes through pain man…life is never going to be completely positive. It's never going to rain gummy bears, gumdrops, or skittles. Keep your mouth open anyway, and embrace those moments in the rain...at one point you just have to click reset.

I don't know what she's trying to say, but I can feel her struggle to get it out. "I love Skittles.

Haven’t you heard, Ron? I prefer Skittles these days. You know, taste the rainbow and all that.” Ron

Camp-keeping in the Delta was not all beer and skittles.

As far as plans went, it was like facing the zombie apocalypse with a nail file and a bag of Skittles. It might work, but chances were good that I'd die a horrible, painful death. At least the end would be filled with fruity, candy goodness. And for my dramatic death scene I could whisper, in a creepy, quivery death rattle, taste the rainbow. Boy would those zombies be confused.

Why did I, like thousands of others, have to carry a cross I hadn't chosen, a cross which was not made for my shoulders and which didn't concern me? Who decided to come rummaging around in my obscure existence, invade my gray anonymity, my meager tranquility, and bowl me like a little ball in a great game of skittles? God? Well, in that case, if He exists, if He really exists, let Him hide His face. Let Him put His two hands on His head, and let Him bow down. It may be, as Peiper used to teach us, that many men are unworthy of Him, but now I know that He, too, is unworthy of most of us, and that if the creature is capable of producing horror, it's solely because his Creator has slipped him the recipe for it.

Finally- no more ruddy show for the folks back home. No pretending it's all beer and skittles and no one ever gets hurt.- Phoenix and Ashes

I WUV FOOD ~Bricks+Skittles+Oreos=MY LIFE~

For which part: sleeping with your boss, or not telling him he used to watch you diddle your skittle on camera?

Where is the happiness, the sunshine, where are those thick skittles of wood which crashed and bounced so nicely, where is my bicycle with the low handlebars and the big gear? It seems there's a law which says that nothing ever vanishes, that matter is indestructible; therefore the chips from my skittles and the spokes of my bicycle still exist somewhere to this day. The pity of it is that I'll never find them again - never.

I need grit and struggle and Los Angeles is terribly nice, but people, once they get there, cease to be real. Constant and repetitive fulfillment is not good for the human spirit. We all need rain and good old depression. Life can't be all beer and skittles.

Death and burial were a public spectacle. Shakespeare may have seen for himself the gravediggers at St Ann's, Soho, playing skittles with skulls and bones.

Life isn't all beer and skittles; but beer and skittles, or something better of the same sort, must form a good part of every Englishman's education.

The classic honeymoon stage where everyone feels like they’re riding a unicorn on floating rainbows while drinking Skittle smoothies. But eventually you realize the unicorn was just a horse in costume and now you have cavities.

Got plans for the rest of the day?" I looked back at him and my heart just stopped. Then it just started again thudding erratically. What the hell does that mean? I feel like I'm having a heart attack. "No plans," I whispered. Test drive your mattress? Let me pretend to be a Skittle and you can taste my rainbow? Fifty Shades me? Please! Oh, holy horror, I'm freaking losing it.

In the competitive landscape of the digital age, the “food” of information is not getting more nutritious; it’s veering in the direction of junk food. Doritos and Skittles will always get more clicks than spinach. And so we walk down the buffet line of social media snacks and online junk food, daily gorging ourselves to the point of gluttony. Unsurprisingly, it is making us sick.

The non-jocks, the readers, the gay kids, the ones starting to stew about social injustice: for these kids, "letting your freak flag fly" is both self discovery and self defense. You cry for this bunch at the mandatory pep assemblies. Huddled together, miserably, in the upper reaches of the bleachers, wearing their oversized raincoats and their secondhand Salvation Army clothes, they stare down at the school-sanctioned celebration of the A list students. They know bullying, these kids--especially the ones who frefuse to exist under the radar. They're tripped in the hallway, shoved against lockers, pelted with Skittles in the lunchroom. For the most part, their tormentors are stealth artists. The freaks know where there's refuge: I the library, the theater program, art class, creative writing.

It’s kind of adorable how every minute counts for him. The classic honeymoon stage where everyone feels like they’re riding a unicorn on floating rainbows while drinking Skittle smoothies. But eventually you realize the unicorn was just a horse in costume and now you have cavities.

This reminds me: Are you going to eat the placenta?” Renée asked Harper. “I understand that’s a thing now. We stocked a pregnancy guide at the bookstore with a whole chapter of placenta recipes in the back. Omelets and pasta sauces and so on.” “No, I don’t think so,” Harper said. “Dining on the placenta smacks of cannibalism, and I was hoping for a more dignified apocalypse.” “Rabbit mothers eat their own babies,” the Mazz said. “I found that out reading Watership Down. Apparently the mamas chow on their newborns all the time. Pop them down just like little meat Skittles.

And far away in goddamn L.A. or Madison Avenue is the prick who decided that Skittles would sell more quickly if they promised Jalens they would taste the fucking rainbow which is like a complete fucking impossibility and even if it wasn't who said a rainbow would even taste good you know?

Then my cell phone buzzes again. I can’t quite get it out of my pocket because my arm is so bloody. Astley reaches down and pulls it out for me. “You’re blushing,” he says. “You just reached in my pocket. It’s kind of intimate.” He smiles a wicked smile and hands me the phone. “There is candy in here as well.” “Skittles,” I explain. “I like them.

What is the use of beauty in woman? Provided a woman is physically well made and capable of bearing children, she will always be good enough in the opinion of economists. What is the use of music? -- of painting? Who would be fool enough nowadays to prefer Mozart to Carrel, Michael Angelo to the inventor of white mustard? There is nothing really beautiful save what is of no possible use. Everything useful is ugly, for it expresses a need, and man's needs are low and disgusting, like his own poor, wretched nature. The most useful place in a house is the water-closet. For my part, saving these gentry's presence, I am of those to whom superfluities are necessaries, and I am fond of things and people in inverse ratio to the service they render me. I prefer a Chinese vase with its mandarins and dragons, which is perfectly useless to me, to a utensil which I do use, and the particular talent of mine which I set most store by is that which enables me not to guess logogriphs and charades. I would very willingly renounce my rights as a Frenchman and a citizen for the sight of an undoubted painting by Raphael, or of a beautiful nude woman, -- Princess Borghese, for instance, when she posed for Canova, or Julia Grisi when she is entering her bath. I would most willingly consent to the return of that cannibal, Charles X., if he brought me, from his residence in Bohemia, a case of Tokai or Johannisberg; and the electoral laws would be quite liberal enough, to my mind, were some of our streets broader and some other things less broad. Though I am not a dilettante, I prefer the sound of a poor fiddle and tambourines to that of the Speaker's bell. I would sell my breeches for a ring, and my bread for jam. The occupation which best befits civilized man seems to me to be idleness or analytically smoking a pipe or cigar. I think highly of those who play skittles, and also of those who write verse. You may perceive that my principles are not utilitarian, and that I shall never be the editor of a virtuous paper, unless I am converted, which would be very comical. Instead of founding a Monthyon prize for the reward of virtue, I would rather bestow -- like Sardanapalus, that great, misunderstood philosopher -- a large reward to him who should invent a new pleasure; for to me enjoyment seems to be the end of life and the only useful thing on this earth. God willed it to be so, for he created women, perfumes, light, lovely flowers, good wine, spirited horses, lapdogs, and Angora cats; for He did not say to his angels, 'Be virtuous,' but, 'Love,' and gave us lips more sensitive than the rest of the skin that we might kiss women, eyes looking upward that we might behold the light, a subtile sense of smell that we might breathe in the soul of the flowers, muscular limbs that we might press the flanks of stallions and fly swift as thought without railway or steam-kettle, delicate hands that we might stroke the long heads of greyhounds, the velvety fur of cats, and the polished shoulder of not very virtuous creatures, and, finally, granted to us alone the triple and glorious privilege of drinking without being thirsty, striking fire, and making love in all seasons, whereby we are very much more distinguished from brutes than by the custom of reading newspapers and framing constitutions.

You know how Kelly Clarkson sings, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”? I’ll do you one better. What doesn’t kill you makes your soul wiser. You learn from hard situations and use them to inform future ones. On the Other Side, Spirit says it’s mostly rainbows and Skittles, so your soul can’t learn things with the same impact that it does here.

It had freely been noted for him that he might be received as a dog among skittles, but that was on the basis of the old quantity.

Yo momma is so fat… she sat on a rainbow and made skittles.

The truth is, it’s hard to get people to like you, but it’s even harder to keep people liking you. You’d have to bring in Skittles every single day.

Far be it from me to stand between a girl and her Skittles

It’s cool if you’re bi or whatever,” Xavier said. “I’m ace and Xander’s queer, so we’re basically a pack of Skittles at this point.” “Taste the rainbow,” Xander said, deadpan.

I was more confused than a chameleon in a bowl of Skittles.

Across from us stood ogres in every color possible. Like a bag of skittles, see the fucking rainbow that would like to taste you after roasting you on a spit.

—I’m more confused than a chameleon in a bag of Skittles.—

Let me pretend to be a skittle and you can taste my rainbow?

Don’t call your family ‘the fam’, Sean. It sounds douchey. Another two syllables won’t kill you,” I chided playfully. Sean’s smirk indicated he was enjoying my criticism, and I didn’t understand that, either. “This coming from the girl with hair like a packet of Skittles.” “My hair isn’t douchey,” I said, and flicked a few locks over my shoulder. “It brings joy to all those who gaze upon it.

792. Thief.-- N. thief, robber, homo trium literarum, pilferer, rifler, filcher, plagiarist. spoiler, depredator, pillager, marauder; harpy, shark, land-shark, falcon, moss-trooper, bushranger, Bedouin, brigand, freebooter, bandit, thug, dacoit, pirate, corsair, viking, Paul Jones; buccan-eer, -ier; piqu-, pick-eerer; rover, ranger, privateer, filibuster; rapparee, wrecker, picaroon; smuggler, poacher, plunderer, racketeer. highwayman, Dick Turpin, Claude Duval, Macheath, knight of the road, foodpad, sturdy beggar; abductor, kidnapper. cut-, pick-purse; pick-pocket, light-fingered gentry; sharper; card-, skittle-sharper; crook; thimble-rigger; rook, Greek, blackleg, leg, welsher, defaulter; Autolycus, Cacus, Barabbas, Jeremy Diddler, Robert Macaire, artful dodger, trickster; swell mob, chevalier d'industrie; shop-lifter. swindler, peculator; forger, coiner, counterfeiter, shoful; fence, receiver of stolen goods, duffer; smasher. burglar, housebreaker; cracks-, mags-man; Bill Sikes, Jack Sheppard, Jonathan Wild, Raffles, cat burglar. [Roget's Thesaurus, 1941 Revision]

Jeb's eyes look like they might pop ... so do the veins in his neck. He makes a sound—somewhere between a cough and a moan—mesmerized by my rocking hips. He stands. "Would you get down? You're going to hurt yourself." "No. Come up here with me." I raised my arms over my head and roll my pelvis seductively. "It's a wake-up dance for Skittles. You know, like the Native Americans used to do to bring down rain." Jeb gawks. "I seriously doubt Native Americans moved like that.

I wanted nothing more than to yell at these people, “SHUT UP! I’ve been traversing cliffs, creeks, mud, jagged rocks, drop offs, bug hoards, and hellish inclines all morning and all I had to eat before all of it were skittles wrapped in a tortilla!” This

Wes’s big hand pulls back the tissue. He squints at the thing inside. Then he carries the box over to the window to see it better. “It’s…made of purple Skittles?” “Yeah.” My voice is like gravel. He picks it up in two fingers, the one-inch circular shape outlined against the city lights. “It’s a…?” He bites off the question, as if afraid to guess wrong. “Ring,” I croak. “You…I…” My mouth is like sandpaper. “In that interview, you said you wanted…” Deep breaths. “To get married some day. And I think that’s something we should do.

Jamie popped a handful of Skittles into his bottle of Grolsch. He took a swig and savoured the tangy sweets shrinking in his mouth. He glanced up at the pictures on the pub wall: Alexander Graham Bell, Busby the bird and Sam Spade. The picture of Bogart made Jamie want to put a fag in his mouth

It is pleasant to sit quietly somewhere, in the beer garden for example, under the chestnuts by the skittle-alley. The leaves fall down on the table and on the ground, only a few, the first. A glass of beer stands in front of me, I've learned to drink in the army. The glass is half empty, but there are a few good swigs ahead of me, and besides I can always order a second and a third if I wish to. There are no bugles and no huge attacks, the children of the house play in the skittle-alley, and the dog rests his head against my knee. The sky is blue, between the leaves of the chestnuts rises the green spire of St. Margaret's Church.

Tip had turned his liberty to hopeful account by becoming a billiard-marker. He had troubled himself so little as to the means of his release, that Clennam scarcely needed to have been at the pains of impressing the mind of Mr Plornish on that subject. Whoever had paid him the compliment, he very readily accepted the compliment with HIS compliments, and there was an end of it. Issuing forth from the gate on these easy terms, he became a billiard-marker; and now occasionally looked in at the little skittle-ground in a green Newmarket coat (second-hand), with a shining collar and bright buttons (new), and drank the beer of the Collegians.

Can someone please tell me where Croatia is on this map?” Jacob groaned. “Like is there a song I can come up with that will somehow remind me of this?” “Hungary, Slovenia, Bosnia,” I said, pointing at the blank map of Europe. “And then there is Serbia.” Jacob glared at me. “Fucking overachieving bitch.” I popped a red Skittle in my mouth. “Sorry.

Taste the rainbow.

I just keep waiting for it not to hurt so bad. Every time I meet a woman, I want her to be you. And these sweet, pretty, smart girls fail so miserably. There's nothing wrong with them; they're just not you. You know that 'other half' people spend their life looking for? I already found her. She's somewhere watching Inside the Actor's Studio and eating yellow Skittles without me. I know who she is. But I can't have her.

Dear Pinterest, When we first started dating, you lured me in with Skittles-flavored vodka and Oreo-filled chocolate chip cookies. You wooed me with cheesy casseroles adjacent to motivational fitness sayings. I loved your inventiveness: Who knew cookies needed a sugary butter dip? You did. You knew, Pinterest. You inspired me, not to make stuff, but to think about one day possibly making stuff if I have time. You took the cake batter, rainbow and bacon trends to levels nobody thought were possible. You made me hungry. The nights I spent pinning and eating nachos were some of the best nights of my life. Pinterest, we can’t see each other anymore. You see, it’s recently come to my attention that some people aren’t just pinning, they are making. This makes me want to make, too. Unfortunately, I’m not good at making, and deep down I like buying way more. Do you see where I’m going with this? I’m starting to feel bad, Pinterest. I don’t enjoy you the way I once did. We need to take a break. I’m going to miss your crazy ideas (rolls made with 7Up? Shut your mouth). This isn’t going to be easy. You’ve been responsible for nearly every 2 a.m. grilled cheese binge I’ve had for the past couple of years, and for that I’ll be eternally grateful. Stay cool, Pinterest. PS. You hurt me. PPS. I’m also poor now. Xo Me 10

It had been a nice night, but not one they’d repeat. Like, ever. Why was he dialing his phone? A few rings later, a familiar voice picked up on the other end. “Whitman.” Dammit, my subconscious really is out to get me. “Matt? Brennan. I was wondering if…” make it something good, “…you…wanted to…” his gaze flew around the room, settling on his DVD shelf, “…watch Star Wars with me?”Star Wars? A hundred DVDs on the shelf and he settled on fucking Star Wars? He was never going to get in Matt’s pants ever again. There was a pause on the other end. Great, I’ve scared him off with my closet geekery. Go me. “Which one?” His heart skipped a beat. Or not.“I have all six.” “My favorite is Strikes Back. I can be at my place in about twenty. I’ll bring food?” Brennan’s eyes squeezed closed and he grinned, kicking his feet in delight. I am such a girl. “You know we can’t watch Strikes Back without immediately going to Return, right?” “We should pace ourselves. Star Wars is serious business. Usually I don’t watch them without consuming about five pounds of Skittles and three bottles of Coke.” “I’ll grab the junk food. We can pull an all -nighter.” “It’s a weeknight.” Matt sounded ridiculously disappointed about the fact, which was so happy-dance-worthy that Brennan almost literally jumped out of his chair. “But maybe we could turn it into a three-part date? Start tonight? End Friday?

Tabby, I think Wren’s ass is possessed.” “Why’s that, sugar?” Tabby sounded calm, but Chloe could hear rustling, like Tabby was playing with her sheets…or changing a newborn’s diaper. “Should it look like something from The Exorcist is living in there?” “Alex, we were told about this.” Tabby’s tone was patient. “The black stuff, the…what did she call it? The poo cork? Is out now, and we’re going to see the poop rainbow for a while.” “I’ll never look at Skittles the same way again,” Alex groaned.

Ah, that’s just the wery thing, Sir,’ rejoined Sam, ‘they don’t mind it; it’s a reg’lar holiday to them — all porter and skittles. It’s the t’other vuns as gets done over vith this sort o’ thing; them down-hearted fellers as can’t svig avay at the beer, nor play at skittles neither; them as vould pay if they could, and gets low by being boxed up. I’ll tell you wot it is, sir; them as is always a-idlin’ in public-houses it don’t damage at all, and them as is alvays a-workin’ wen they can, it damages too much. “It’s unekal,” as my father used to say wen his grog worn’t made half-and-half: “it’s unekal, and that’s the fault on it.”’ ‘I think you’re right, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, after a few moments’ reflection, ‘quite right.

Miss Oliphant?” he said. His voice was cautious, quiet. “Three liters of Glen’s, please,” I said. My voice sounded strange—croaky and broken. I hadn’t used it for some time, I supposed, and then there was all that vomiting. He placed one before me, then seemed to hesitate. “Three, Miss Oliphant?” he said. I nodded. Slowly, he put another two bottles on the counter, all of them now lined up like skittles that I’d need to knock over, knock back. “Anything else?” he said. I briefly considered a loaf of bread or a tin of spaghetti, but I was not in the least bit hungry. I shook my head and offered him my debit card. My hand was shaking and I tried to control it, but failed. I punched in the numbers, and the wait for the receipt to be printed was interminable.

You’re fast. Like, inhumanly fast,” I hissed at him, ripping open a box of Jelly Belly’s. “Keep your voice down,” he admonished me, scooping up bags of gummies to slide onto pegs. “My voice is down,” I shot back in a harsh whisper. “And you’re avoiding.” “I just wanted to make sure you were all right. I shouldn’t have left you alone like that when you could have been in shock.” “I’m fine,” I told him quietly, the rage slowly escaping. “But, I want answers.” He sighed, leaning his head briefly against the metal shelf. “This is not the place.” Pausing for a moment to take in my surroundings, a laugh bubbled up, catching us both by surprise. Sobering immediately, I shot him a sharp look. “Name the right place, then. We’re going to have a real talk.” Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and I realized he was as riled up as I was. “After work,” he finally responded, spinning on a heal to exit the aisle, leaving a half empty box of skittles in his wake.

I once thought of habits as things I do without thinking. Like stealing candy out of my kid’s Halloween bucket on November 1. A minute ago, I was at my computer, and now I’m standing in a different room stuffing my face with Skittles. I don’t even know how I got here. Bad habits. I have lots of those. I assumed when people talked about cleaning habits they would work the same way, but they don’t. They so don’t. I have never once found myself dusting and thought, “How in the world did I get here? I don’t even remember grabbing the duster!

Typically only the incivility of the less powerful toward the more powerful can be widely understood as such, and thus be subject to such intense censure. Which is what made #metoo so fraught and revolutionary. It was a period during which some of the most powerful faced repercussion. The experience of having patriarchal control compromised felt, perhaps ironically, like a violation, a diminishment, a threat to professional standing—all the things that sexual harassment feels like to those who’ve experienced it. Frequently, in those months, I was asked about how to address men’s confusion and again, their discomfort: How were they supposed to flirt? What if their respectful and professional gestures of affiliation had been misunderstood? Mothers told me of sons worried about being misinterpreted, that expression of their affections might be heard as coercion, their words or intentions read incorrectly, that they would face unjust consequences that would damage their prospects. The amazing thing was the lack of acknowledgment that these anxieties are the normal state for just about everyone who is not a white man: that black mothers reasonably worry every day that a toy or a phone or a pack of Skittles might be seen as a gun, that their children’s very presence—sleeping in a dorm room, sitting at a Starbucks, barbecuing by a river, selling lemonade on the street—might be understood as a threat, and that the repercussions might extend far beyond a dismissal from a high-paying job or expulsion from a high-profile university, and instead might result in arrest, imprisonment, or execution at the hands of police or a concerned neighbor. Women enter young adulthood constantly aware that their inebriation might be taken for consent, or their consent for sluttiness, or that an understanding of them as having been either drunk or slutty might one day undercut any claim they might make about having been violently aggressed upon. Women enter the workforce understanding from the start the need to work around and accommodate the leering advances and bad jokes of their colleagues, aware that the wrong response might change the course of their professional lives. We had been told that our failures to extend sympathy to the white working class—their well-being diminished by unemployment and drug addictions—had cost us an election; now we were being told that a failure to feel for the men whose lives were being ruined by harassment charges would provoke an angry antifeminist backlash. But with these calls came no acknowledgment of sympathies that we have never before been asked to extend: to black men who have always lived with higher rates of unemployment and who have faced systemically higher prison sentences and social disapprobation for their drug use; to the women whose careers and lives had been ruined by ubiquitous and often violent harassment. Now the call was to consider the underlying pain of those facing repercussions. Rose McGowan, one of Weinstein’s earliest and most vociferous accusers, recalled being asked “in a soft NPR voice, ‘What if what you’re saying makes men uncomfortable?’ Good. I’ve been uncomfortable my whole life. Welcome to our world of discomfort.”34 Suddenly, men were living with the fear of consequences, and it turned out that it was not fun. And they very badly wanted it to stop. One of the lessons many men would take from #metoo was not about the threat they had posed to women, but about the threat that women pose to them.

Not a headache." A husband. The human equivalent of a skittle ball knocking the pins of Brenna's routines in all directions.

It couldn’t be. Devon was supposed to be in London! It was a trick of her imagination…a hallucination. Except that the air was hot and humid, spiced with the fragrance that was unmistakably his…a spicy, clean incense of skin and soap. Apprehensively Kathleen parted her fingers just enough to peek through them. Devon was reclining in the copper tub, looking at her in sardonic inquiry. Hot mist rose around him in a smoke-colored veil. Droplets of water clung to the tautly muscled slopes of his arms and shoulders, and sparkled in the dark fleece of hair on his chest. Kathleen whirled to face the door, her thoughts scattering like the pins in a game of skittles. “What are you doing here?” she managed to ask. His tone was caustic. “I received your summons.” “My…my…you mean the telegram?” It was difficult to pull a coherent thought from the wreckage of her brain. “That wasn’t a summons.” “It read like one.” “I didn’t expect to see you so soon. Certainly not so much of you!” She went crimson as she heard his low laugh.

The waited stopped by and Nathan order a cup of coffee. "No cake?" I asked, surprised. He patted his flat stomach. "Trying to watch my figure." I laughed. "Whatever, Captain Skittles.

I look like I just threw up a family-sized bag of Skittles all over myself. Trust me, even you’d look bad in it, and you look good in anything.

Somewhere in this period I moved, for the first time, into an apartment by myself. A junior one bedroom between Fourth and Fifth Avenues in Park Slope. To be able to live alone, in such a quiet, light-filled, tree-shaded trio of rooms, for $850 a month - I felt incredibly lucky. I woke up to birds. So many birds, in the spring, it was as if the tree outside my front windows held one hundred nine-year-old girls on a Skittles high.

He slapped my diabetes bag out of my hands. It hit the ground with a glassy crunch. My stomach crunched right along with it. That pack contained my insulin, my syringes, my blood-glucose meter, my sharps disposal container (for used needles), my Band-Aids, and a fun-size bag of Skittles. If he broke something important in that pack, I could be in real trouble.

What premier league football team do you support ? To be honest (don’t be mad) we’re not huge football fans. Though we do occasional wear a Seahawks jersey and eat skittles.

One day in November, I moved Skittles into color-specific piles on his chest while a murderer chopped away at teenagers having sex onscreen. Doesn't even make sense, Jeffrey said. He's not exactly quiet. They would have heard him coming. Too busy listening to each other coming, I said. Jeffrey coughed so hard he dislodged the Skittles. Could you be more vulgar? he said. Actually, yes, I could. It's just the truth. Who's going to notice an ax murderer sneaking up on you when you're in the throes of passionate sex in a dirty, disease-ridden barn? If you're horny enough to get it on in there, you're not going to notice anything.

Skittles?

One great way to do that is by playing what I call the “I have to listen to you now” game. Introduce this by saying, “I know being a kid is tough. There are so many things that parents ask of you! So let’s play a game. For the next five minutes, you’re the adult and I’m the kid. I have to do what you say, assuming it’s safe.” Explain to your child that the game does not involve food or gifts (your child cannot tell you to go buy them a hundred new Pokémon packs or give them thirty bags of Skittles)—it’s really about the routine of your day. But the details here aren’t important. What’s important is to reverse roles, allow your child to experiment with the position of powerful adult, and express empathy for the difficulties of being a child. While you play the game, exaggerate how hard it is to listen to your “parent”; voice things like, “Ughhhhhh, really? I have to clean up the Magna-Tiles? I don’t waaaaaaant to,” and “Ughhhhh, I wish I didn’t have to take a shower right now!” I find this game useful for myself as well—it reminds me how hard it can be to take orders when you don’t want to do something.

She knuckle shuffled her nubbin. And now I’m thinking of her digits on her skittle.

stately homes of Britain. Trerice in Cornwall not only has its bowling alley still, but an original Tudor set of kayles, which are rather fat-bellied skittles, or bowling pins, to play with. And whether it really happened or not, Sir Francis Drake is reputedly said to have refused to break off his game of bowls when the Spanish Armada was finally sighted, a story that gains its credibility from the popularity of the game among gentlemen. The city of London had public bowling alleys, both indoor and outdoor.

In ancient cultures, the sharing of food was symbolic of unification. And in modern times, Skittles were delicious.

Yo momma is so fat… she sat on a rainbow and made skittles.   Yo momma is so fat… she had to be baptized at sea world.   Yo momma is so fat… it took me a bus and two trains just to get on her good side.   Yo momma is so fat… she uses an air balloon for a parachute.   Yo momma is so fat… she was going to Wal-Mart, tripped over Kmart, and landed right on Target!!!   Yo momma is so fat… her measurements are 26-34-28, and her other arm is just as big!   Yo momma is so fat… she broke a branch in her family tree!   Yo momma is so fat… when she wore a blue and green sweater, everyone thought she was Planet Earth.

appearing. After seeing the completed film, Brennan thanked Goldwyn for persuading him to do it. “It’s stories like these,” he told Hedda Hopper, “that make you realize it isn’t all beer and skittles in the life of a producer. I don’t mean our people should be mollycoddles and do things against their will, but they should listen to men who back their own opinions with their own cash.” Brennan always had a healthy respect for businessmen and liked to think of himself as one, too.

The truth is, it’s hard to get people to like you, but it’s even harder to keep people liking you. You’d have to bring in Skittles every single day. The

He's morbidly obese. He's unusually bloated. There are needle marks on his abdomen and thighs that indicate he's an insulin-dependent diabetic. His diet was fast food and Skittles. Collier looked skeptical. "So Harding conveniently slipped into a diabetic coma during the middle of a death match?

and carefree. It is so good to have Greg back with us again, breathing the salty air, experiencing the breeze on his face. We spend at least an hour on that beach. Almost back at the car, Greg stops at a wooden bench that looks out onto the strand. ‘Let’s sit for a while.’ My stomach tightens. Greg settles at one end of the bench, Toby on his lap, Rachel next to them. I’m at the other. Bookends. ‘Guys,’ Greg says. ‘I want to explain why I’m in hospital.’ ‘It’s OK, Dad. We know,’ says Toby. ‘You’re exhausted.’ ‘Well, it’s a little more than that.’ He takes a breath. ‘I have a sickness that makes me sad sometimes. Other times it makes me very excited.’ They take time to digest that. Toby is first to speak. ‘But it’s OK to be sad, Dad. You said.’ He looks at Greg for confirmation. ‘I did. And it’s OK to cry when something happens to make you sad.’ ‘Yeah, you’re always telling us that.’ ‘It’s just that if there’s no reason to be sad and you’re sad anyway – all the time – well, that’s not good, is it?’ Toby shakes his head wildly. ‘No, that’d be…sad.’ ‘And not good,’ says Greg. ‘No,’ agrees Toby. Rachel’s quiet. Taking it all in. ‘And it’s OK to get excited too,’ continues Greg. ‘Lots of things are exciting…’ ‘Like Christmas and birthdays and fireworks and when you get onto the next level in a game.’ ‘Exactly.’ Greg smiles. ‘But being hyper isn’t good.’ ‘No.’ Toby shakes his head again. ‘When you have Coke or Skittles or something you get hyper. And that’s not good ‘cause you go bananas. Isn’t that right, Dad?’ ‘Yes, son.’ Greg kisses the top of his head. ‘But you eventually go back to normal, don’t you?’ ‘Yeah.’ Rachel, eyes fixed on her father, is oblivious to the breeze whipping her hair across her face. ‘Well,’ says Greg. ‘I have a sickness that makes me hyper for weeks. And that’s not good.’ ‘No.’ Toby squints. ‘Why not, again?’ ‘Well, it can make me do silly things, and can make

Like a reflection of his eyes, his hand moved upwards and very gently he trailed his fingers over my throat. The touch sent a ripple of goose bumps skittling across my skin, my breath deciding it didn’t like its chances and ricocheting straight back down my throat. Shit!

I ate three skittles at a time. One skittle didn’t provide enough flavor. Two was a tease of sugar, yet four skittles in one bite drowned the senses. Therefore, the exact number of three served as the perfect harmony of candy goodness.

We sort of stumbled across it." I shook my bag of Skittles to see if any stragglers were hanging out in the bottom. "How so?" "Oh, it doesn't matter." "Nate tried to drown a zombie in lemonade. It was great," Misty said, smiling. "Not drown; I wanted to get the bucket on its head so I could save your butt, remember?" I could feel my face getting warm. Misty never missed an opportunity to embarrass me. "Ahh, so it was idiot's luck, so to speak." Idiot's luck? It was idiot's luck Misty stepped between us before I could knock him silly.

The author of this groundbreaking book was Bill Starr; and years before he penned The Strongest Shall Survive, Starr was your quintessential 7-stone weakling.  And Starr would watch in wonder as this training system took a bodybuilding wrecking ball to world records in all sports, knocking them over like skittles: In the world of swimming, Indiana University students began smashing national and world records almost at will. In track and field, Jim Beatty broke the world record in the indoor mile. In competitive weightlifting, Bill March won everything in sight. At the 1963 Philadelphia Open, almost predictably, a world record followed. Yet as remarkable as these results undoubtedly sound, they become almost unbelievable when I tell you something that will likely halt you in your tracks...  It’s this: These results were achieved with lifts that took just 6 seconds. No. That is not a misprint.  Each of these lifts took a mere 6 seconds to build Superhuman strength.  And the really exciting part?  These lifts are guaranteed to work for you too. Train Like Bruce Lee During the course of Ninja Strength Secrets, you’ll learn how to train

As amazing as life can be, it is not always beer and skittles.

was in love with her. There was no denying it. The girl with the Skittles. The sassy redhead who was terrible at ballroom dancing. The loving woman with her arms wrapped around my sister. She owned me. Heart. Body. And soul. She just didn’t know it yet and I was done waiting on her to realize it.

The constable had been all wheeling and splattering, distributing more mess than a group of finger-painting toddlers on a Skittles sugar high.

We scattered like Skittles dropped in a sink;

Milky Way, AirHeads, Mars bars, Twix, Kit Kat, Chunky, mr. Goodbar, York Peppermint Patties, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Mike and Ike, Atomic FireBall, JuJu Fish, Sour Neon Worms, Goobers, Laffy Taffy, Nerds, Sugar Daddy, Baby Ruth, Snickers, Kisses, M & M’s (plain and peanut), gummi bears, Dots, Junior Mints, Milk Duds, Good & Plenty, Whoppers, Twizzlers, Dum Dum, Skittles, Butterfinger, Starburst, Crunch, Jolly Rancher, Sweet Pops, Tootsie Roll….

Sempre que eu conheço uma mulher, quero que ela seja você. E essas garotas delicadas, bonitas e engraçadinhas fracassam miseravelmente. Não tem nada de errado com elas, elas só não são você. Sabe aquela “outra metade” que as pessoas passam a vida procurando? Eu já encontrei. Ela está em algum lugar assistindo Inside the Actor’s Studio e comendo Skittles amarelos sem mim. Eu sei quem ela é. Mas não posso estar com ela.

Ready to meet the spicy purple Skittle?

Her lips taste of lemongrass tequila and rainbow Skittles, sour, sweet, bitter, fresh, all wrapped into one tasty package that I can’t get enough of as I claim her mouth.

CHARLIZE. Chocolate covered skittles. AGENT. You're sure. That sounds... disgusting. CHARLIZE. Yeah I'm sure! Chocolate covered skittles or I walk.

She throws a Skittle at my head, snapping me out of my glitchy-thoughts. “One,” I warn, hoping she catches the humor in my deep tone. “You’ve just earned one.” “One what?” “Fuck around and find out.

have to listen to you now” game. Introduce this by saying, “I know being a kid is tough. There are so many things that parents ask of you! So let’s play a game. For the next five minutes, you’re the adult and I’m the kid. I have to do what you say, assuming it’s safe.” Explain to your child that the game does not involve food or gifts (your child cannot tell you to go buy them a hundred new Pokémon packs or give them thirty bags of Skittles)—it’s really about the routine of your day.

I felt SO insanely happy I could just . . . VOMIT sunshine, rainbows, confetti, glitter and . . . um . . . those yummy little Skittles thingies!

We, too, were married on a Friday; but while your Friday was a nondescript fifth day (I never knew whether it should be called fifth or sixth) ours was the 31st of October,--Hallowmas Eve. To be married on the of Hallowe'en is to play at skittles with an offended deity, the wedded couple being the skittles of course. But to be married at Hallowtide when it happens to fall on a Friday is to invite Satan to your house as an honored guest, and then needlessly insult him by a gift of the Shorter Catechism or an S.P.C.K. pamphlet.