Slowmo Quotes

And I’ve got admirers. Okay, probably drunken geeks with nothing better to do than scroll through a thousand videos to check out cleavage shots in slow-mo, but still.

They say time is elastic. Sometimes an hour passes in an instant while you scratch and cling at every second as they go by, willing them to slow down. Sometimes, an instant stretches out to an hour, when everything runs in super slow-mo, time itself elongated as the edges blue and the colors run.

Amelia crouched and set the cereal on the ground beside the box of rice. She thought of James’s sperm, fanning out, a slow-mo explosion, how cool it looked,

I ignore her and stare at the cookies I just unpacked, wondering if I can sneak one before she realises. “Stop staring at the cookies like its porn and tell me who they are!” she shouts next to me. Yum, cookie porn... I wonder what it would look like? Slow-mo of them baking, then breaking when they are all gooey. I wipe my mouth, drool dripping down my lip, and finally turn to face Lane, who stares at me in disgust.

Just in case we’re having too much fun with this, let’s go back a notch in time. Only a little while, don’t be afraid, not far enough to get caught in the starry wheeling vertigo of the slow-mo free-fall no-up-and-no-down that is the more distant past. We will go there—chronology has its uses—but not just yet.

Ever seen a movie where the hero gets punched right in the face? A gruesome slow-mo close-up, where a spray of sweat and blood flies through the air? Notice how you wince, or flinch, or turn away even though you know it’s only a movie? Even though you know it’s make-believe, you can’t help relating to it on some level. How ironic is it that we can so easily relate to the nonexistent pain of a fictitious movie character, but we often completely forget about the very real pain of the people we love? Humans are social animals. When it comes to affairs of the heart, most of us are pretty similar. We want to be loved, respected, and cared for. We want to get along with others and generally have a good time with them. When we fight with, reject, or distance ourselves from the people we love, we don’t feel good. And when they fight with, reject, or distance themselves from us, we feel even worse. So when you fight with your partner, you both get hurt. Your partner may not reveal his pain to you; he may just get angry, or storm out of the house, or quietly switch on the TV and start drinking, but deep inside he hurts just like you. Your partner may refuse to talk to you, she may criticize you in scathing tones, or go out on the town with her friends, but deep inside, she hurts just as you are. It is so important to recognize and remember this. We tend to get so caught up in

She understood it was her job to be whatever he needed—if he wanted to take his time, she was Slow-Mo Flo. If he wanted it fast, she was Quickie Chickie. He fucked her how and when he wanted to.

The tray now tracing out its own arc through the ari, everything in super slow-mo your mother’s face somewho remaining calm through it all, the only flicker in her expression one of momentary concern, as the pot of scalding teas nearly hits you on its way down. She catches it, or almost does, the bulk of the pot landing on her palm, which must be impervious to pain because she doesn’t yell or cry out, simply takes it, absorbing the blow, all of the liquid heat and force and letting no harm come to your stupid little head

Thank you for your opinion, but please note that I did not request it. When and if I desire your advice, I will ask you for it directly. Until then? I’m good to go.” Then, if they keep on keeping on: “You have now entered an Asshole-Free Zone. You are puncturing my Shut The Fuck Up bubble and violating my personal airspace. As such, you are diminishing my tolerance for people who don’t know when to keep their noses on their faces instead of up other people’s asses. If you continue down this path, I will be forced to Taser you in the nipples. Each nipple. In turn. One after the other. Bzzt, and then bzzt. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go continue creating awesome shit while you sit here dreaming about tearing awesome shit down. Please enjoy a pair of rigidly up-thrust middle fingers as I walk away unflinchingly, like an action star slow-mo walking from an exploding building, except instead of a burning building, I’m walking away from a flaming pile of human excrement. Boom.

Here we are, folks, at the first interstellar tonsil hockey championships. It looks like Admiral Wilson is in the lead so far, but Mrs. Wilson is holding her own.

Agent Ingrid Skyberg saw it all happen in slow-mo as she ran past. She glimpsed the woman’s mouth form a wide silent ‘O’, throw up her hands in disbelief then scream at the top of her lungs.