So.romantic Quotes

Music makes one feel so romantic - at least it always gets on one's nerves - which is the same thing nowadays.

You two are too cute,” the counter girl said, setting two cups piled with whipped cream on the counter. She had a sort of lopsided, open smile that made me think she laughed a lot. “Seriously. How long have you been going out?” Sam let go of my hands to get his wallet and took out some bills. “Six years.” I wrinkled my nose to cover a laugh. Of course he would count the time that we’d been two entirely different species. Whoa.” Counter girl nodded appreciatively. “That’s pretty amazing for a couple your age." Sam handed me my hot chocolate and didn’t answer. But his yellow eyes gazed at me possessively—I wondered if he realized that the way he looked at me was far more intimate than copping a feel could ever be. I crouched to look at the almond bark on the bottom shelf in the counter. I wasn’t quite bold enough to look at either of them when I admitted, “Well, it was love at first sight.” The girl sighed. “That is just so romantic. Do me a favor, and don’t you two ever change. The world needs more love at first sight.

Reality provides us with facts so romantic that imagination itself could add nothing to them.

Elizabeth, With my compliments. You will never get your claws into another one of mine. Rot in hell, L Nïx clasped her hands over her chest, sighing, “He gave you his heart. That’s so romantic. So much better than a candy heart. Those get stuck in the fangs, you know.

I wish I could grow swords like I can roses. Wouldn’t war be so romantic then? Then the U.S. could really show the world how much it loves it.

You’ve shown me joy where before I saw only despair. You’ve taught me hope where before I knew only hopelessness. I may be broken, but all my pieces are yours. And I’ll work every day of my life to deserve you.

Books have souls. Or so romantics like me tend to think.

I really don't see what is so romantic about proposing. One may be accepted - one usually is, I believe - and then the excitement is ended. The very essence of romance is uncertainty.

Nïx clasped her hands over her chest, sighing, “He gave you his heart. That’s so romantic. So much better than a candy heart. Those get stuck in the fangs, you know.

Slow down you're doing fine You can't be everything you want to be Before your time Although it's so romantic on the borderline tonight Too bad but it's the life you lead You're so ahead of yourself That you forfeit what you need Though you can see when you're wrong

Why does the rain make us feel so romantic and strange? Maybe it's the fact that we are unnatural spectators of it, from inside our homes, and it is a reminder that we have the power to live our whole lives like this, if we choose. It's not the smell of fertile ground kicked up by raindrops, or the slick leaves, or the way we must amplify our voices to be heard over this larger presence. It's the power of the rooftop that makes us want to fuck under it.

Love is to beer as I am to drunk. And you say I’m not romantic. Shoot, I’m so romantic I could just puke.

I got a head start and ws already hanging upside down when he caught up. All the blood was rushing to my head, making me feel dizzy. "I can't stay like this much longer," I told him."Head rush." He leaned down and stuck his face next to mine, gifting me with a beautiful smile."I know the feeling," he said. "You give me a head rush all the time.

Dolphins love each other so romantically, so playfully, so completely, that it is obvious that they are sent by God to teach us by their example to do the same.

... you are never so smart again in a language learned in middle age nor so romantic, brave or kind.

He'd practically saved her life! It was so....romantic. Just like in fairy tales. Just like Westley saved Buttercup in The Princess Bride. Like Superman saved Lois Lane. Like James Bond saved...well....everyone

Why do I prefer boys? Because of their shape and their voices and their smell and the way they move. And boys can be so romantic. I can put them into my myth and fall in love with them.

[A]s people are beginning to see that the sexes form in a certain sense a continuous group, so they are beginning to see that Love and Friendship which have been so often set apart from each other as things distinct are in reality closely related and shade imperceptibly into each other. Women are beginning to demand that Marriage shall mean Friendship as well as Passion; that a comrade-like Equality shall be included in the word Love; and it is recognised that from the one extreme of a 'Platonic' friendship (generally between persons of the same sex) up to the other extreme of passionate love (generally between persons of opposite sex) no hard and fast line can at any point be drawn effectively separating the different kinds of attachment. We know, in fact, of Friendships so romantic in sentiment that they verge into love; we know of Loves so intellectual and spiritual that they hardly dwell in the sphere of Passion.

Falling in love is like catching an incurable disease. Yeah, maybe that doesn’t sounds so romantic, but it’s true. It’s incurable and it’s contagious as shit. It makes you want to have babies and raise kittens, pet butterfly wings and sleep with your head on somebody else’s chest. Love… man, it fucks with everything you are and everything you want to be. I like it and hate it.

The water nymphs who came to Poseidon explained how little they desired to couple with the gods. Except to find out whether it was different, whether there was a fresh world, another dimension in their loins. In the old Pittsburgh, we dreamed of a city where women read Proust in the original French, and wondered whether we would cross over into a different joy if we paid a call girl a thousand dollars for a night. Or an hour. Would it be different in kind or only tricks and apparatus? I worried that a great love might make everything else an exile. It turned out that being together at twilight in the olive groves of Umbria did, indeed, measure everything after that.

Yes.” She sighed again, with even more drama, not that Gregory would have imagined it possible. “It is all so romantic,” she added. “The bride, the groom…” “Both are considered standard in the ceremony, I understand.” His mother shot him a peevish look. “How could I have raised a son who is so unromantic?” Gregory decided there could not possibly be an answer to that.

I continue to laugh until I start crying, which turns into hysterical, desperate sobs. I don’t want to end up as Violet Balls. I wanted to be Violet Waters—it sounds so romantic—and Alex ruined it all. My life sucks Randy’s balls.

But boy do I miss proposing, nothing so romantic. Make sure you try it, at least once, Len – it’s skydiving with your feet on the ground.

Allie,” he said. “You told me once I had a white-knight complex. You said I saved you.” He was going to say I saved him. It was going to be so romantic. “But the truth is,” he said, “I didn’t save you—I stole you. I wanted you and I knew I didn’t deserve you, but I didn’t care. And for some reason it seems like you don’t either, so it seems to me that I should make it permanent before you come to your senses. Will you marry me?

The ballroom was empty of people but filled with round tables and chairs. It was set for a wedding party. White tablecloths with huge pink bows and pink and white artificial flower centerpieces, a two-foot riser with a long decorated table for the bridal party, a smaller round table next to the riser. The smaller table supported a massive wedding cake that was being cooled by a standing fan. “This is so romantic,” I said to Ranger. “Does it give you ideas?” He wrapped an arm around me, dragged me close against him, and kissed me on the forehead. “Yes, it gives me ideas, but not about marriage. Mostly about setting fire to this atrocity.

Her mouth was on his with such ferocity, it knocked him back a step. He managed to haul her back so he could gasp for air and answers. "Not that I'm complaining." "Then don't. Shut up and put out Savoie." "You are so romantic, detective." She chained rough kisses about his neck. "What if I can't perform under this unexpected pressure?" Her hand dropped below his belt for an assessing fondle. "Just my luck. Appears to be high performance all the way." He chuckled and began to nuzzle and nip at her rather roughly, his attention supercharged by her aggression. "And what kind of handling are you looking for?" "Fast and reckless

Though emotion roughened his voice, he spoke quietly. This was only for her. "I am your sword and your shield. I am your wolf and your steed. Mountains will tremble at my approach, for they know I will tear them apart if they stand between us. But you need not be afraid, Zenobia Fox, because my heart is iron and my will is steel, and before the new moon rises, I will come for you" ... He kissed her and as he pulled away, he wasn't leaving her. It was just the first step back to her side.

Mr. Grey, so romantic.” “For you Mrs. Grey—hearts and flowers. Always.

He leans forward and presses a kiss to my cheek. It's so romantic and soft. I want to capture it in a mason jar and preserve it for later.

I don’t see what’s so “romantic” about spending a week in a tropical paradise with your spouse whom you’ve already seen almost every day for the past quarter century.

There’s a moment in [Anne of Green Gables] where Anne Shirley (great character) […] is in the same classroom as Gilbert Blythe and she hit’s him over the head with a slate, which is their kind of writing tool, and I always say that moment for me was just, I was just absolutely mesmerised. I thought it was so romantic, though she hated his guts. I would always say that in every one of my novels there is a moment where my characters metaphorically hit their potential love interests over the head with a slate. It could be that winning an argument or getting the upper hand, an example in say The Piper’s Son could be here’s Tom thinking it will be easy, text messaging Tara saying ‘How’s it going, babe’ and her response, that for me is the hitting someone over the head with a slate. It happens in Saving Francesca when she kind of meets Will and Will’s such a bastard to her. So they’re moments I kind of adopted and I loved that particular one, so I would say [L.M. Montgomery] was a major influence.

If I could only escape, if I could only escape... he murmured the words to himself a dozen times; then metaphorically shook himself for being so impractical, so romantic, so dutiless.

After every date we're going to end up in bed together. You might as well save on rent." Her lips curled up at the corners as she fought a smile. "That's so romantic. I don't know how to argue with that.

Shortly before seven, he made Katie her sourdough toast and coffee, and woke her up with breakfast in bed. The tire shop he managed was closed on Sunday, so this was the only day he could relieve his wife of what would otherwise be a seven-day-a-week job. Taking care of the kids so she could sleep in an hour was, she frequently assured him, so romantic, and so sexy—and on most Sunday nights after the kids went to bed, she showed him exactly how much she appreciated the gesture. But

There was a reason she was so romantic about the moon. It never asked her questions or begged for the answers, nor did she ever have to prove herself to it. It was always just there – breathing, shining, and in ways most humans can’t understand.

When I saw the Twilight movies I thought being a Vampyre was so romantic. When my friends decided to be Vampyres it was so cool. We would do anything to be like Dwayne and Maria and the rest. I got what I wished for but I have no life to enjoy it with.

To me the erotic is the relationship that organically manifests itself between people finding and exploring love. It is the universality of accepting the darkness that makes up human nature, the darkness I find so romantic within that dance, the inevitable opening up that lets in the light of sensuality between two human beings becoming one together without the confines of preconceived morality. In short, an exploration of all the facets of both the subconscious and conscious of light and dark. “Emotional connectedness.

I’ll kill them all,” he growled, his eyes glowing with inner fire. “Why?” “Because they hurt you. I’ll shoot them in the kneecaps and make them crawl. Hook them to some booster cables and clip them to a power line. Inject poison into their veins.” “And then?” “I’ll kill them.” She sighed. “That is so romantic.

It’s so romantic, isn’t it? But I was incensed. I told him I’d had my fill of poetry that painted ordinary men as saints for dying worse than ordinary deaths or getting injuries that meant they’d live worse than ordinary lives. I told him there was nothing noble about dying in a bloody cornfield – it was just a waste.

People like to imagine that they get a girl who's been depressed, or confused, or desperate, and it's so romantic and exciting, but they definitely don't want to imagine what she might have really done. Trust me. I know of what I speak. Tragic is interesting but only if there was no collateral damage, and there always is.

The life of an artist is not so romantic as some might suppose.

The last time I saw love was in my imagination while reading a book on Thomas Jefferson. Isn’t the Constitution of the United States so romantic?

Women! They think it so romantic to break the rules. But what are we if we don't hold to tradition, am I right?" ~Darian

My favourite setting are England, because I was born here and love it, and Spain, because it's fabulous and so romantic.

You’re mine. My best friend and my lover, my only version of forever, and I don’t intend on ever letting you go. My only intention is to legally bind you to me for the rest of our lives.” “So romantic.

Still, I was surprised because he’s otherwise so romantically naive. Maybe all Egyptians are. Reem is the same. They think dating is about love, when any New Yorker will tell you that dating is a martial art

I gave her my heart. I don’t need a man or paperwork to do that. Nor do I need it to guarantee that I am her husband until death should part us.” Lucian sat in the awkward silence for what felt like eons, waiting for hell-fire and brimstone. “Well I never.” She fiddled with a pale yellow handkerchief in her hands. “My Wilbur was just like that. So romantic. Wilbur’s her granddad, you know. He passed three years ago.

And now I should kiss you again, I think. Isn’t that how it’s done?” Startled, she put her hand to her lips. But their rough, cracked surfaces made the very prospect seem ludicrous. “Yes, I suppose—in a gothic romance. But if you kissed me now, no doubt my lip would split open, and I’d bleed on you.” His shout of laughter was quickly restrained. “Well, all right. Since you put it so romantically. Someplace else. Shall I be adventurous?

Candlelight flickered in the adjacent bedroom. She followed the ambient warmth to the threshold and paused there, marveling at what she saw. Lucan’s austere bedroom had been transformed into something out of a dream. Four tall black pillar candles set into intricate silver sconces burned in each corner. Red silk draped the bed. On the floor before the fireplace was a cushioned next of fluffy pillows and even more crimson silk. It looked so romantic, so inviting. A room intended for lovemaking. She took a step farther inside. Behind her, the door closed softly on its own. No, not quite on its own. Lucan was there, standing on the other side of the room, watching her. His hair was damp from a shower. He wore a loosely tied, satiny red robe that skated around his bare calves, and there was a heated look in his eyes that melted her where she stood. “For you,” he said, indicating the romantic setting. “For us tonight. I want things to be special for you.” Gabrielle was moved, instantly aroused by the sight of him, but she couldn’t bear to make love the way things had been left between them. “When I left tonight, I wasn’t going to come back,” she told him from the safety of distance. If she went any closer, she didn’t think she’d have the strength to say what had to be said. “I can’t do this anymore, Lucan. I need things from you that you can’t give me.” “Name them.” It was a soft command, but still a command. He moved toward her with careful steps, as though he sensed she might bolt on him at any second. “Tell me what you need.” She shook her head. “What would be the use?” A few more slow steps. He paused just beyond an arm’s length. “I’d like to know. I’m curious what it would take to convince you to stay with me.” “For the night?” she asked quietly, hating herself for how badly she needed to feel his arms around her after what she’d been through these past several hours. “I want you, and I’m prepared to offer you anything, Gabrielle. So, tell me what you need.

I didn’t sneer!” said Juliana hastily. “I’d no notion you behaved so dreadfully badly to her. You said you forced her aboard your yacht, but I never supposed that you really frightened her enough to make her fire at you. You need not be in a rage with me for saying so, Dominic, but when I saw Mary at your house she was so placid I made sure you’d not treated her so very brutally after all. Had you?” “Yes,” said Vidal bluntly. He looked at Juliana. “You think it was vastly romantic for Mary to be carried off by me, don’t you? You think you would enjoy it, and you cannot conceive how she should be afraid, can you? Then think, my girl! Think a little! You are in my power at this moment, I may remind you. What if I make you feel it? What if I say to start with that you shall eat your dinner, and force it down your throat?” Juliana shrank back from him involuntarily. “Don’t, Vidal! Don’t come near me!” she said, frightened by the expression in his face. He laughed. “Not so romantic, is it, Ju? And to force you to eat your dinner would be a small thing compared with some other things I might force you to do. Sit down, I’m not going to touch you.” She obeyed, eyeing him nervously. “I—I wish I hadn’t come with you!” she said. “So did Mary, with more reason. But Mary would have died sooner than let me see that she was afraid. And Mary, my love, is not my cousin.

What I want is what other people take for granted: the chance to feel the night tighten around us like a noose. To ask, Did you set the alarm? To say: Remind me that we are running out of toothpaste. To have our time together not be so romantically charged but instead, just plain boring.

Artists flock to him, world leaders praise him, the intellectual set fawns over him, writers and poets dine at his table, but for all of their “enlightenment,” they do not bother to look beneath the green-fatigued facade. Is his uniform still so romantic when they learn how many men have seen those fatigues in the last moments of their lives, condemned to death without any semblance of justice? Would they still admire him if they heard the shots from the firing squads, the cries of the murdered, smelled the blood of their countrymen? Write a poem about that, our slow, never-ending death.

Wow.” She reached for a black pillow decorated with a big sparkly skull and hugged it. “So romantic.” I made a face, because who the hell wanted to be a romantic? Then I couldn’t look past the skull pillow. “Tell me something, sis. Why do we have to make skulls cute? Some things shouldn’t be messed with. Guns, for example. Toilets … toilet paper … guns … They should just stay functional. Sparkle-free.” She rolled her eyes. “Please. If I had a bedazzled toilet, I’d love it and so would you. Don’t even try to deny it. You’d love a fancy can.” I did deny it, which led to a healthy debate.

I crouched to look at the almond bark on the bottom shelf in the counter. I wasn’t quite bold enough to look at either of them when I admitted, “Well, it was love at first sight.” The girl sighed. “That is just so romantic. Do me a favor, and don’t you two ever change. The world needs more love at first sight.” Sam’s voice was husky. “Do you want some of those, Grace?” Something in his voice, a catch, made me realize that my words had more of an effect on him than I’d intended. I wondered when the last time someone had told him they loved him was. That was a really sad thing to think about.

Sometimes, just when she thought Seb was made out of wires and circuit boards, he came up with ideas so romantic that she wanted to throw her arms around him and bury a kiss in his hair. Were he only her little boy again, the one he had been not so many years ago, she would have done so there and then.

He’s been fighting a lot on the Midwest circuit, but Vegas is the big-time. If he ever wants to get anywhere, he has to fight here. And since we’re here, we thought we’d get married, since Vegas is so romantic.” Ivy could think of a dozen cities more romantic than Vegas—Akron, Ohio came to mind—but she didn’t argue.

Your boots are as filthy as your mouth.” He grabbed hold of the other boot, and that too hit the floor with a thump. “And while I enjoy that mouth in my bed, I won’t enjoy the boots.” He glanced down at my soiled, bloodied breeches. “They need to come off, too.” “Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever had a man ask me to remove my clothing so romantically before.

This was why love was so dangerous. Love turned the world into a garden, so beguiling it was easy to forget that rose petals sails appeared charmed. They blazed red in the day and silver at night, like a magician’s cloak, hinting at mysteries concealed beneath, which Tella planned to uncover that night. Drunken laughter floated above her as Tella delved deeper into the ship’s underbelly in search of Nigel the Fortune-teller. Her first evening on the vessel she’d made the mistake of sleeping, not realizing until the following day that Legend’s performers had switched their waking hours to prepare for the next Caraval. They slumbered in the day and woke after sunset. All Tella had learned her first day aboard La Esmeralda was that Nigel was on the ship, but she had yet to actually see him. The creaking halls beneath decks were like the bridges of Caraval, leading different places at different hours and making it difficult to know who stayed in which room. Tella wondered if Legend had designed it that way, or if it was just the unpredictable nature of magic. She imagined Legend in his top hat, laughing at the question and at the idea that magic had more control than he did. For many, Legend was the definition of magic. When she had first arrived on Isla de los Sueños, Tella suspected everyone could be Legend. Julian had so many secrets that she’d questioned if Legend’s identity was one of them, up until he’d briefly died. Caspar, with his sparkling eyes and rich laugh, had played the role of Legend in the last game, and at times he’d been so convincing Tella wondered if he was actually acting. At first sight, Dante, who was almost too beautiful to be real, looked like the Legend she’d always imagined. Tella could picture Dante’s wide shoulders filling out a black tailcoat while a velvet top hat shadowed his head. But the more Tella thought about Legend, the more she wondered if he even ever wore a top hat. If maybe the symbol was another thing to throw people off. Perhaps Legend was more magic than man and Tella had never met him in the flesh at all. The boat rocked and an actual laugh pierced the quiet. Tella froze. The laughter ceased but the air in the thin corridor shifted. What had smelled of salt and wood and damp turned thick and velvet-sweet. The scent of roses. Tella’s skin prickled; gooseflesh rose on her bare arms. At her feet a puddle of petals formed a seductive trail of red. Tella might not have known Legend’s true name, but she knew he favored red and roses and games. Was this his way of toying with her? Did he know what she was up to? The bumps on her arms crawled up to her neck and into her scalp as her newest pair of slippers crushed the tender petals. If Legend knew what she was after, Tella couldn’t imagine he would guide her in the correct direction, and yet the trail of petals was too tempting to avoid. They led to a door that glowed copper around the edges. She turned the knob. And her world transformed into a garden, a paradise made of blossoming flowers and bewitching romance. The walls were formed of moonlight. The ceiling was made of roses that dripped down toward the table in the center of the room, covered with plates of cakes and candlelight and sparkling honey wine. But none of it was for Tella. It was all for Scarlett. Tella had stumbled into her sister’s love story and it was so romantic it was painful to watch. Scarlett stood across the chamber. Her full ruby gown bloomed brighter than any flowers, and her glowing skin rivaled the moon as she gazed up at Julian. They touched nothing except each other. While Scarlett pressed her lips to Julian’s, his arms wrapped around her as if he’d found the one thing he never wanted to let go of. This was why love was so dangerous. Love turned the world into a garden, so beguiling it was easy to forget that rose petals were as ephemeral as feelings, eventually they would wilt and die, leaving nothing but the thorns.

What if someone comes out?” “I’ll shoot them.” “So romantic. I’ve always wanted to have sex on a porch with a man who said he’d shoot anyone who interrupts us.” A fierce groan broke from his chest. “This isn’t about romance. It’s about me putting my hands, my mouth, and my cock everywhere on or in your beautiful body and fucking you until I’m so deep you forget your own name.

I should like, I think, to die of consumption; it is so romantic; and the symptoms are so agreeable! What a pity it is that it is so slow in its approaches, that we must be so long about dying of it; and then, too, there is so much coughing and groaning, so little dignity in the thing,--in short, I never could perceive any thing to admire in consumption but its name and the name is its best part.

Andrew just shrugged, and I fiddled with the napkin in my lap while glancing idly around the restaurant. The obligatory mirrors hung on the walls, and there was one of those fountains with fake lily pads in the entryway. The restaurant was also lit like a mine shaft. I've never understood why dim lighting is supposed to be so romantic. Night vision belongs into a Paris Hilton sex tape - not in a restaurant that could potentially poison me with peanut sauce.

We have plenty of natural springs in our area. The cool springs have the sweetest water you'll ever taste - hence the name of our town. And it's never too cold for a Montanan to sit in a natural hot spring, even if it means your wet hair turns into icicles." Her hand rose to cover her mouth, and her eyes widened. He laughed at her shocked expression. Pamela lowered her hand. "Hot springs outdoors? In the winter?" "Hot springs feel down right good to soak in anytime, especially when the air's cold outside. The hot water soothes sore muscles and is good for what ails you. But I also have a river through my property. I've dammed up a spot that makes for a nice swimming hole when it's hot in the summer." A blush rose in her cheeks, and she glanced to the side. "Very refreshing," he teased, just to watch the pink deepen.... Pamela couldn't help the dreamy vision of bathing with him in a hot spring, touching each other as the snowflakes swirled around them. She let out a sigh. So romantic.

Where is everybody?” “Hiding,” she said. “Except for Doolittle. He was excused from the chewing-out due to having been kidnapped. He’s napping now like he doesn’t have a care in the world. I got to hear all sorts of interesting stuff through the door.” “Give.” She shot me a sly smile. “First, I got to listen to Jim’s ‘it’s all my fault; I did it all by myself’ speech. Then I got to listen to Derek’s ‘it’s all my fault and I did it all by myself’ speech. Then Curran promised that the next person who wanted to be a martyr would get to be one. Then Raphael made a very growling speech about how he was here for a blood debt. It was his right to have restitution for the injury caused to the friend of the boudas; it was in the damn clan charter on such and such page. And if Curran wanted to have an issue with it, they could take it outside. It was terribly dramatic and ridiculous. I loved it.” I could actually picture Curran sitting there, his hand on his forehead above his closed eyes, growling quietly in his throat. “Then Dali told him that she was sick and tired of being treated like she was made out of glass and she wanted blood and to kick ass.” That would do him in. “So what did he say?” “He didn’t say anything for about a minute and then he chewed them out. He told Derek that he’d been irresponsible with Livie’s life, and that if he was going to rescue somebody, the least he could do is to have a workable plan, instead of a poorly thought-out mess that backfired and broke just about every Pack law and got his face smashed in. He told Dali that if she wanted to be taken seriously, she had to accept responsibility for her own actions instead of pretending to be weak and helpless every time she got in trouble and that this was definitely not the venue to prove one’s toughness. Apparently he didn’t think her behavior was cute when she was fifteen and he’s not inclined to tolerate it now that she’s twenty-eight.” I was cracking up. “He told Raphael that the blood debt overrode Pack law only in cases of murder or life-threatening injury and quoted the page of the clan charter and the section number where that could be found. He said that frivolous challenges to the alpha also violated Pack law and were punishable by isolation. It was an awesome smackdown. They had no asses left when he was done.” Andrea began snapping the gun parts together. “Then he sentenced the three of them and himself to eight weeks of hard labor, building the north wing addition to the Keep, and dismissed them. They ran out of there like their hair was on fire.” “He sentenced himself?” “He’s broken Pack law by participating in our silliness, apparently.” That’s Beast Lord for you. “And Jim?” “Oh, he got a special chewing-out after everybody else was dismissed. It was a very quiet and angry conversation, and I didn’t hear most of it. I heard the end, though—he got three months of Keep building. Also, when he opened the door to leave, Curran told him very casually that if Jim wanted to pick fights with his future mate, he was welcome to do so, but he should keep in mind that Curran wouldn’t come and rescue him when you beat his ass. You should’ve seen Jim’s face.” “His what?” “His mate. M-A-T-E.” I cursed. Andrea grinned. “I thought that would make your day. And now you’re stuck with him in here for three days and you get to fight together in the Arena. It’s so romantic. Like a honeymoon.” Once again my mental conditioning came in handy. I didn’t strangle her on the spot.

Randy Balls?” I burst out laughing. “You want to set me up with a guy named Randy Balls? Can you even imagine what would happen if we got married? My last name would be Balls. Violet Balls!” “Huh.” He makes a scrunchy face. “That wouldn’t be so good, would it? ’Specially if you hyphenated. Hall-Balls.” I continue to laugh until I start crying, which turns into hysterical, desperate sobs. I don’t want to end up as Violet Balls. I wanted to be Violet Waters—it sounds so romantic—and Alex ruined it all. My life sucks Randy’s balls.

THE ENGLISHMAN’S VERY SHY (FOX-TROT)   (Bloat): The Englishman’s very shy, He’s none of your Ca-sa-no-va, At bowling the ladies o-ver, A-mericans lead the pack—   (Tantivy): —You see, your Englishman tends to lack That recklessness transatlantic, That women find so romantic Though frankly I can’t see why . . .   (Bloat): The polygamous Yank with his girls galore Gives your Brit-ish rake or carouser fits,   (Tantivy): Though he’s secretly held in re-ve-rent awe As a sort of e-rot-ic Clausewitz. . . .   (Together): If only one could al-ly A-merican bedroom know-how With British good looks, then oh how Those lovelies would swoon and sigh, Though you and I know the Englishman’s very shy.

THE ENGLISHMAN’S VERY SHY (FOX-TROT)   (Bloat): The Englishman’s very shy, He’s none of your Ca-sa-no-va, At bowling the ladies o-ver, A-mericans lead the pack—   (Tantivy): —You see, your Englishman tends to lack That recklessness transatlantic, That women find so romantic Though frankly I can’t see why . . .   (Bloat): The polygamous Yank with his girls galore Gives your Brit-ish rake or carouser fits,   (Tantivy): Though he’s secretly held in re-ve-rent awe As a sort of e-rot-ic Clausewitz. . . .   (Together): If only one could al-ly A-merican bedroom know-how With British good looks, then oh how Those lovelies would swoon and sigh, Though you and I know the Englishman’s very shy.  

The evil stepmother is a fixture in European fairy tales because the stepmother was very much a fixture in early European society–mortality in childbirth was very high, and it wasn’t unusual for a father to suddenly find himself alone with multiple mouths to feed. So he remarried and brought another woman into the house, and eventually they had yet more children, thus changing the power dynamics of inheritance in the household in a way that had very little to do with inherent, archetypal evil and everything to do with social expectation and pressure. What was a woman to do when she remarried into a family and had to act as mother to her husband’s children as well as her own, in a time when economic prosperity was a magical dream for most? Would she think of killing her husband’s children so that her own children might therefore inherit and thrive? [...] Perhaps. Perhaps not. But the fear that stepmothers (or stepfathers) might do this kind of thing was very real, and it was that fear–fed by the socioeconomic pressures felt by the growing urban class–that fed the stories. We see this also with the stories passed around in France–fairies who swoop in to save the day when women themselves can’t do so; romantic tales of young girls who marry beasts as a balm to those young ladies facing arranged marriages to older, distant dukes. We see this with the removal of fairies and insertion of religion into the German tales. Fairy tales, in short, are not created in a vacuum. As with all stories, they change and bend both with and in response to culture.

Dear Mr. Beard, On the radio last spring, President Roosevelt said that each and every one of us here on the home front has a battle to fight; We must keep our spirits up. I am doing my best, but in my opinion Liver Gems are a lost cause, because they would take the spirit right out of anyone. So when Mother says it is wrong for us to eat better than our brave men overseas, I tell her that I don't see how eating disgusting stuff helps them in the least. But, Mr. Beard, it is very hard to cook good food when you're only a beginner! When Mother decided it was her patriotic duty to work at the airplane factory, she should have warned me about the recipes. You just can't trust them! Prudence Penny's are so revolting. I want to throw them right into the garbage. Mrs. Davis from next door lent me one of her wartime recipe pamphlets, and I read about liver salmi, which sounded so romantic. But by the time I had cooked the liver for twenty minutes in hot water, cut it into little cubes, rolled them in flour, and sautéed them in fat, I'd made flour footprints all over the kitchen floor. The consommé and cream both hissed like angry cats when I added them. Then I was supposed to add stoned olives and taste for seasoning. I spit it right into the sink.

After school, I’m walking out of class when my phone buzzes in my purse. It’s Peter. I’m out on parole. Meet me at my car! I race to the parking lot, where Peter is in his car waiting for me with the heat on. Grinning at me, he says, “Aren’t you going to kiss your man? I just got released from prison.” “Peter! This isn’t a joke. Are you suspended?” He smirks. “Nah. I sweet-talked my way out of it. Principal Lochlan loves me. Still, I could’ve been. If it had been anybody else…” Oh, Peter. “Please don’t brag to me right now.” “When I came out of Lochlan’s office, there were a bunch of sophomore girls waiting for me to give me a standing O. They were like, ‘Kavinsky, you’re so romantic.’” He hoots, and I give him a look. He pulls me to his side. “Hey, they know I’m taken. There’s only one girl I want to see in an Amish bikini.” I laugh; I can’t help it. Peter loves attention, and I hate to be another girl who gives it to him, but he makes it really hard sometimes. Besides, it was kind of romantic. He plants a kiss on my cheek, nuzzles against my face. “Didn’t I tell you I would take care of it, Covey?” “You did,” I admit, patting his hair. “So did I do a good job?” “You did.” That’s all it takes for him to be happy, me telling him that he did a good job. He’s smiley all the way home.

I know you’ve had some bad luck recently, but there’s this guy, he plays for New York, they’re looking at trading him—” “Buck, I don’t want to date another hockey player.” I set down my controller so I can shovel more of the sundae into my mouth, uncaring of the suffering that will follow this frozen dairy heaven. “Not all of us are dogs, Violet. Randall’s a great guy.” “His name is Randall. How awesome can he be?” Buck mows down a group of people playing road hockey. “He goes by Randy.” “Even better. His name is another word for horny. Sounds perfect for me.” I’m not sure if I should laugh or cry. It’s not Randall’s fault his parents named him in relation to horniness. I can’t even entertain the idea of dating anyone else right now. Besides, I could never get serious with a hockey player again, or a dude named Randy. I’d make thrusting motions every time I said his name. It’d be awkward. “Wait a minute. Didn’t Alex get suspended for kicking the shit out of some guy named Randy?” I’m almost positive this is the case. “That was Randolph Cockburn. This is Randy Balls.” “Are you serious?” What’s with these guys with terrible last names? “Yeah, why?” Buck, my perverted stepbrother, doesn’t connect the outlandishly pornographic last name with the first name. “Randy Balls?” I burst out laughing. “You want to set me up with a guy named Randy Balls? Can you even imagine what would happen if we got married? My last name would be Balls. Violet Balls!” “Huh.” He makes a scrunchy face. “That wouldn’t be so good, would it? ’Specially if you hyphenated. Hall-Balls.” I continue to laugh until I start crying, which turns into hysterical, desperate sobs. I don’t want to end up as Violet Balls. I wanted to be Violet Waters—it sounds so romantic—and Alex ruined it all. My life sucks Randy’s balls.

I don’t know why anyone thinks looking at the stars is so romantic,” he said. “Have they ever read Greek mythology? It’s all the same story—God sees mortal, God desires mortal, mortal suffers gruesome fate and is rewarded with an eternity of pain in the cosmos.” He shrugged. “You could always make up your own stories.” But she was already shaking her head. “No. Those stories are written in stardust millions of years old. I don’t think I get to change them.” “Then I’m thankful for light pollution,” he said.

I’m going to marry him.” “When we get back to Arizona,” Mel said. “Not here. Your parents would skin you alive and you know it.” “But eloping is so romantic,” Angie protested. “We could go home as Mr. and Mrs. Tate Harper.” “It won’t be romantic when your brothers string Tate up like a piñata and smack the candy out of him,” Mel said. “And you know they will.

You put my present under the chicken? You're so romantic.

Scott doesn’t suspect anything, right?” I ask. “Are you kidding? He knows pretty much everything,” Travis says as if there was ever a doubt. “What? Did you tell him?” I accuse. “Etty, he’s turning thirty. He’d have to be a moron to not know there is going to be a party. You always order food from the same place, and we both live in a shoe box, so your parents’ house is the only place that could fit more than five people. It didn’t take Einstein.” I chew on my bottom lip. “We will have to do something spontaneous,” I say, nodding my head. “Slow down,” he says, holding up his hands. “Don’t go crazy. The party we planned is fine.” Why does everyone always say that to me? Like they think I go overboard on everything. Which is so untrue. Everything I plan is with love, and I am in complete control the whole time. It’s the plans that have a mind of their own. I mean, did I ask the magician to put my mom in that box for his ‘Disappearing Trick’ even though my mother’s claustrophobic? No. And after I calmed her down and she drank a bottle of wine I think even she appreciated that it was a pretty cool trick. And my dad fumbling with the keys to get her unlocked and punching out the magician− it was so romantic. Sadly, I did lose my security deposit on that one.

I didn’t even know you looked at him like that.” “Well, things feel more forbidden when you keep them secret, don’t they, Pippa?” I laugh and roll my eyes. “What other secrets do you have these days?” She leans in super close to her computer with a devious smile. “Do you have an Italian lover I should know about? Or lovers?” “What?” My cheeks flame. “There is someone!” Morgan slaps her palm on the desk. “What’s his name? Wait! Is it that Bruno guy? The one who kissed you? What aren’t you telling me?” “Settle,” I say, turning down the volume to keep her shrill voice from waking up the whole building. “Uh, Bruno’s…well…” “Yes?” She moves her hand in a small circle, urging me to continue. “There’s this other guy, he’s American. But there hasn’t--” “American?” She scrunches her nose. “We have those over here.” “Morgan!” “I’m just kidding! How cute is he?” Darren’s insane hair curls around my heart and I warm all over. “He’s really cute.” “Has he kissed you? What’s he like?” “No kissing,” I say with a shake of my head, “but he, like, saved me. I hurt my ankle and he carried me.” Her eyes widen more than I remember ever seeing them. “That’s how you met? Did you die? I would have died! That’s so romantic!” “It didn’t feel romantic at the time.

In her whole life, nobody had ever said anything so romantic, or so confusing, to her.

No… Actually I want to use you as bait…” “You’re so romantic, Joe – I almost wish I never had to set eyes on you again.” “But I know you’d miss me,” he said. “Only if I sneezed when I pull the trigger.

Wow, wouldn’t have guessed this would be the immaculate proposal I’d get one day. Just ‘put it on your goddamn finger and don’t take it off.’ So romantic.

Biscuit?” I offered, unwrapping the packet. “So romantic.” “I know, right.” It kinda was though. The big sky, smudged shades of blues and purples, the ocean all vast and dramatic, and the beach with just us on it. It really was perfect. No way was I ruining it by asking him why he’d had us both hurtling toward tomorrow as though it was our last day alive.

So he proposed to you,” I say. “While the royal family got butchered. That’s so romantic.

When you’re my wife, I will cut out the eyes of all those who even look at you,” he hisses as his mouth drops to mine. His hot breath tickles me. “And I will cut off the fingers of anyone who dares put his hands on you.” I shiver. My psycho villain siren should be wailing, but instead it is silent. The only sound is my heart thumping loudly in my chest. His violent words turn me on. I rub my thighs together and dart my gaze to his hooded one. “You’re so romantic,” I tease, my voice breathless.

Your prayer will create your troubles, because in prayers you will be so romantic, asking great things which you cannot live by, which will become very heavy and will interfere in your so-called life—which is going on smoothly, although in misery.

Flori mentioned it—but I haven’t had a chance to go looking for it. She was trying to convince Sandor to bring Grizel here for a date, since it’s so romantic.

Hush.” He holds up a finger. “Just sew, Watson. I like listening to your breathing when you concentrate. I find it very meditative. It helps me think.” That puts me in my place. It also makes my heart squeeze. He likes listening to me breathe. That’s just so…romantic. Yeah, I said it. It makes me get fanciful notions about the epic love I’ve always sought but never found.

One popular picture quote is attributed to Steven Furtick: “The reason we struggle with insecurity is because we compare our behind the scenes with everyone else’s highlight reel.” That’s a fine statement. There’s some truth there. Too often, we do compare their sparkle to our shambles. In this Facebook age, our friend’s perfect family picture pops up on the day we didn’t have time to shower or get the kids out of their pajamas. We fight with our spouse, then get on Instagram and see a friend’s “so romantic” date night. But here’s my problem with this as a proposed remedy for comparison: What if my ugly really is uglier than your ugly? What if their marriage fight is over toothpaste and yours is over infidelity? What if their parenting problems are too many video games while yours involve serious rebellion? What if she battles the scale for ten pounds while you’re fighting to lose a hundred? I wonder if this quote instructs us to compare our worst with someone else’s worst, instead of quitting comparison altogether. How do we stop comparing when we really are struggling? Pretty platitudes can’t answer this question.

You just sit tight and try not to blow our cover before we even get to see the beautiful bride.” “Beautiful? You don’t even know what she looks like.” “All brides look beautiful. That’s why they wear a veil—so you can’t see the ugly ones, and everything is magical on their special day.” “That’s so romantic.

Are you mad?” “I’m in love, I think. A little. Maybe.” “You are going to cross Nazi-occupied France to spend a few nights in Paris in the bed of a man whom you might love. A little.” “I know,” Isabelle said. “It’s so romantic.” “You must be feverish. Perhaps you have a brain sickness of some kind.” She put her hands on her hips and made a huff of disapproval. “If love is a disease, I suppose I’m infected.

the idea that Ezra had me followed feels so romantic.

„That is so romantic, like Romeo and Juliet,” Harper said. “You do know they died in the end, don’t you?

home only to pine over an ex-girlfriend, so he stopped. He apologized, saying a few more things that Catherine once again just nodded her head to, smiling, and before she knew it, she had plans to go see a movie with Dickie the following Friday. It was a date, the first of many. It went like this for two months: Friday night dates. Rides home from school while other girls looked on in jealousy. Long nights parked up at The Point, the low rumble of his car idling away while they made out with the heat blowing on her legs. Him sliding his hands up her skirt. Under her shirt. Her moaning. Her face flushing red. Her toes curling. The Rolling Stones on the radio. Why did he taste so good? Never sex, though. Even when he begged for it, she would refuse. She knew what their relationship really was. It was great and fun and wild and exciting, but she knew it wouldn’t last; he was off to college soon, and she remembered how he felt about being tethered to something familiar. That conversation never left her mind for the duration of their relationship, always reminding her to be ready to lose him. At the time, she was still a virgin, and as much as she loved Dickie she did not wish to give herself fully to someone who would more than likely forget about her within months, if not weeks, of leaving. Catherine was young, but never stupid or naive. She knew how the world worked… even Dickie’s world. What she felt and experienced with him may have been real by her definition, but she understood that that did not make the relationship everlasting or meant-to-be. Their time together had been great and fun and had changed her in ways she would never be able to put into words. She would forever cherish their moments together. Or at least, that’s what she’d thought at the time, before these cherished memories soured. Everything changed the night of the dance. The night he changed. The night she changed, too. It was Dickie’s senior prom. He invited her to go and she happily accepted. She even bought a new dress with the money she’d saved working shifts down at Woolworth’s. The dance was fine and good. They had a blast. They’d even kissed in the middle of the gymnasium during the last slow dance. It had been so romantic. But afterward was a different sort of time. Dickie and some of his friends rented a few rooms at the Heartsridge Motel for a place to hang out after the dance. But it was more than just a place to hang out. It was a place to party, a place to drink alcohol purchased illegally, a place for some of the looser girls to sleep with their dates. She had been to parties with Dickie before, parties with drinking and drugs and where there were rooms dedicated to fooling around. She wasn’t a square. But this was different. This place made her skin crawl. There was a raw energy in the air. She remembered feeling it on her skin. And the fact that it was a motel made the whole scene seem depraved. It just felt off, and she wanted to beg him to go somewhere else. But instead she held her tongue and went along with Dickie. He was leaving soon, after all. Why not appease him? He seemed excited about going. A few of them—all friends of Dickie’s—ended up together in one room, drinking Schnapps, smoking cigarettes, having

A surprise visit? That's so romantic...but fairly risky." "If you don't take any risks, life will bass you by," Cunco shipped in.

My own family wasn’t dirt poor. Nothing so romantic. We were city poor, meaning that I was invisible every single day of my young life. Invisible on the street, in school, at home. Invisible, except when creditors came looking for my parents: Mr.

Gentlemen, welcome to my gondola, Il Tritone, The Merman." I gasped, "This is your private gondola?" The Count laughed and replied jokingly, "Yes, my friend this is my, how do you say in Americano, my ‘Love Boat’?" I replied, still absorbing everything with all of my senses, "This is definitely a Love Boat! I've never seen anything so romantic. I feel like Prince Charming in this gondola!

I don't know what I'm playing at. I feel so romantic and furious all the time.

An egg would rendezvous with a sperm one not-so-romantic night in a petri-dish, and cellular division would begin under the watchful eye of some goggle-wearing geek.

I’ll be so romantic she’ll want to hop right in the sack”       “‘Atta boy,” I said and handed him the ring box.       “Call her. Ask her out to dinner tomorrow night. Tell her you have something special you want to give her,” Tory said.       He hopped right up, went out to the kitchen, called. We eavesdropped on the half of the conversation we could hear. When it was over, he padded back out to the living room. “It’s on. She said this has all happened so quickly, she’s still sorting it out. That’s why she’s been acting the way she has. But she said she knows she loves me and wants to spend her life with me.”       “Touching.” I tried not to laugh. “Tory and I want to share in this happiness. We’re planning on being at the wedding. That’s okay with you isn’t it?”       “Sure,” he said, brows knitting together in sincerity.       “I’m asking because I don’t want this to get too big. Will your boss be there?”       “Mr. D’Onifrio?”       I nodded.       “Yeah, I talked to him this afternoon. He wanted to know the exact time and place. I told him Friday two o’clock at City Hall, room 410. He told me he’d be there.”       “Just him? Or will other friends come along?”       “The boss won’t come alone. He’ll bring a car full, at least. Three, four guys.”       “We’ll be there, too. Let him know that, okay?”       “Sure. No problem.”       “I’m glad he’s coming. I know he’s pretty busy that day.”       Fish scratched his belly. “Yeah, he’s getting some big award that night. Kinda surprises me, him doing that during meeting time.”       “Meeting time?” Tory asked innocently.       “His bosses are going to be in town. Happens a couple of times a year. Everybody has to walk around

I didn’t want to go, but his arms were underneath me, easing me toward the edge of the gurney and a waiting wheelchair padded with pillows. I was afraid any resistance would result in another game of hospital gown peekaboo. He settled me so gently in the soft wheelchair that my hip and my back hardly hurt. Pushing me past the curtain and into the bustling emergency room, he leaned close, over me, to say, “I fixed it. They’re going to lose the records of your visit, so you’ll never get billed. But you’re my girlfriend.” “What do you mean, I’m your girlfriend?” What delicious blackmail was this? And was it worth the price? Perhaps I could stand it. ‘I had to make them think I have a vested interest in you,” he whispered. “They never would have agreed to lose your records if I told them you were my friend at twelve years old but not so much at eighteen and I had pretty much walked in and stolen the birthright to your family farm. See? Shhh. Hey, Brody.” He slapped hands with another man in scrubs wheeling an empty gurney in the opposite direction. The man eyed me, waggled his eyebrows at Hunter, and kept going. “Couldn’t you have said we’re friends and left it at that?” I needed to keep up the façade that I did not like the idea at all. At the same time, I was a little afraid Hunter would call the charade off. “I have a lot of friends,” he explained, wheeling me into a waiting room marked X-RAY. he rounded the wheelchair and knelt in front of me. Behind him, a door stood ajar. A contraption I assumed to be an X-ray machine was visible through the crack. He glanced over his shoulder at the door, then turned back to me. “Sorry about this,” he murmured as he slid both hands into my hair and kissed me. All I could do at first was feel. His lips were on mine. His hands held me steady, so I couldn’t have shrugged away if I’d tried, but I would not try. Bright tingles spread from my lips across my face and down my neck to my chest. I longed to pull him closer for more. I reminded myself that we were faking this for a reason. I didn’t want to make the kiss deeper than necessary in case it turned him off. Hunter deepened it. His tongue pressed past my teeth and swept inside my mouth. One of his hands released my hair and caressed my shoulder, traveling down. The farther his hand went, the higher I felt. My hip hardly hurt and my back pain was gone. I wondered how low his hand would go. I never found out. A shadow stood in the doorway and cleared its throat. I stopped kissing Hunter back and braced for him to jump away. He did back off, but very slowly. He sat back on his haunches and glared at the X-ray tech as if she had a lot of nerve. His cheeks were bright red. “So, Hunter,” she said mischievously. “This is your girlfriend.” “Hullo.” I gave her a small wave. “And you got hit by a taxi while you were crossing the street to visit Hunter? That is so romantic! Have you seen Sleepless in Seattle?” “Not romantic,” I said flatly. “I hate that movie. They don’t meet until the last scene. They don’t kiss at all.” Too late I realized I sounded like I was begging Hunter for more. “But in that movie,” the tech said, “they talk about An Affair to Remember. Have you seen that? Deborah Kerr is crossing the street to meet Cary Grant and gets hit by a car. Years later he comes back to her and she’s paralyzed from the waist down.” “You call that romantic?” I heard myself yelling. “That is repulsive!” Hunter stood and put a heavy hand on my shoulder as he pushed my wheelchair past the tech and through the doorway to the X-ray machine. “Erin is in a lot of pain,” he murmured to the tech, “and she doesn’t want to think about being paralyzed from the waist down.” After that the tech was a lot nicer, because Hunter had a way with people. Hunter lifted me onto the table and left the room so he wouldn’t be irradiated or see my bony ass.

The two also mated harmoniously. There was no 'rape' between Tilly and Gudrun ... 'Tilikum was so gentle!' she marveled to Jeff later that day.' He would swim behind her, and Gudrun would be in the lead, and she would look back at him, as if to say, 'You're still following me, right?' And then he would swim up to her and caress her with his head, or he'd roll over and take her on his chest. It was so romantic. Afterwards, they were completely content, resting side by side. It was totally different from Kanduke.

What is this?" "Plankton, basically," Henry says. "A plant. A bio luminescent plankton called dinoflagellates." Oh, Henry. He's so romantic.

Oh, is that Sylvan’s?” Nadiah’s eyes sparkled. “Is it from the vranna he killed for his manhood hunt?” “Uh, as a matter of fact, it is.” “And he let you wear it.” Nadiah stroked the thick, green-blue fur softly. “His manhood cloak. That’s so romantic.” “It