Socks With Gym Quotes

You Titans are about as bright as my gym socks.

Did you know that when a guy comes, he comes 200 million sperm? And you're trying to tell me that your child is special because one out of 200 million -- that load! we're talking one load! -- connected. Gee, what are the fucking odds? 200 million; you know what that means? I have wiped civilizations off my chest with a gray gym sock. That is special. Entire nations have flaked and crusted in the hair around my navel! That is special. And I want you to remember that, you two egg-carrying beings out there, with that holier-than-thou "we have the gift of life" attitude. I've tossed universes...in my underpants...while napping! Boom! A milky way shoots into my jockey shorts, "Aaaah, what's for fucking breakfast?

Ew,” I said quickly, shaking my head and walking forward. “You’re sweatier than two rats fucking in a gym sock.

The Sloth hated himself. He considered himself lazy. He had a dead-end job and no plans to get a better one. His relationship was on-again-off-again, and he never got to the gym even though he kept paying the membership dues. There was mould in his refrigerator and he watched reruns on TV. Sometimes he wore the same pair of socks twice in the same week. The Sloth would sit on his couch, paralyzed by all the things he wasn’t taking care of. Then one day, a Wednesday, he just said, ‘Fuck it!’ He threw his hands up into the air and said, ‘Fuck it!’ This was the day that the Sloth discovered his superpower, an amazing ability to say ‘Fuck it’ and really, truly mean it.

It is like super stinky. It smells like rotten vegetables mixed with well-used gym socks,

Ewwww…” the audience said. “Holy moly…” I said. “Wow… well, the mayor definitely won first place for vomit projectile distance,” said Devlin. “I told you it tastes like old gym socks,” said Scratch. “Ugh…” the mayor wiped away the nasty residue from his lips. “I guess I’ve lost my touch…” “Um, yeah,” said Grant. “Let’s finish this up quickly before I

I had Trevor Mitchell’s clothes in my arms. His sweater, V-neck, undershirt, khakis, socks, loafers, and underwear. I had his power. His mask. I had his whole life. What was a girl to do? This girl ran. I ran so hard, like I had never run before. Like I had been training every day in gym class. If Mr. Harris could have seen me then, he surely would have put me on the track team.

I bypass car-size lemonade bushes, zingy with a hint of gym socks, toward a patch of lichen flourishing at the base of a eucalyptus. I put my nose right up to the musty scent, even though it smells like raccoon urine. Aromateurs are trained from an early age to view each scent with objectivity. “You

Mavis packs: many separate top and bottom options, including but not limited to multiple shorts and shirts, dresses short and long, skirts, running/exercise tanks and shorts, a special moisture-wicking-type bra, athletic socks, several sandals, a pair of gym shoes, at least one romper, an extra carburetor, a full silver service, a twin-size bed, several different types of Tylenol, and a cooler full of dry snacks and drinks and coffee. It never even occurred to me that I might do anything other than survive off of whatever I could find in a vending machine or from room service. She is a real-life adult. It’s impressive.

He was dangerous. And difficult. And he was all mine. Sometimes in the morning, when he worked in the gym one floor below, I’d stand by the gym’s glass wall for a few minutes before I came in to spar. I’d watch him lift dumbbells or do dips with the weights attached to his belt, powerful muscles bulging and relaxing with controlled exertion, while the bars creaked under his weight and sweat slicked his short blond hair and skin until it glowed. Watching him never failed to send a slow insistent heat through me. He wasn’t working out now. He was standing there in sweatpants and a blue T-shirt, carrying some sort of bottle, and I was ready to jump his bones. I could picture him above me in the bed. At least it didn’t show on my face. I had to have some dignity left. I’d missed him so much, it almost hurt. It started the moment I left the Keep and nagged at me all day. Every day I had to fight with myself to keep from making up bullshit reasons to call the Keep so I could hear his voice. My only saving grace was that Curran wasn’t handling this whole mating thing any better. Yesterday he’d called me at the office claiming that he couldn’t find his socks. We talked for two hours.

My feet hurt. I needed some new shoes. Or maybe it was high time I got in shape. I was six-three in my socks, heavy enough with muscle, but my gut was starting to show the influence of a few too many beers. I could join a gym. Pump some iron, run on a treadmill while staring at a TV talk show twenty inches in front of my face. Do time on the elliptical next to some flabby gasper in spandex. Or maybe I just needed better shoes.

was running out of valuable athletic clichés. Would beach volleyball say much about proposals for federal health care reform? Could I use mumblety-peg comparisons to explain the North American Free Trade Agreement negotiations? Golf, however, is ideal for these purposes. “Christian fundamentalists put a wicked slice in the Republican party platform.” “Somebody should replace the divot on the back of Al Gore’s head.” “Let’s go hit Congress with a stick.” I also wanted a sport with a lot of equipment. All truly American sports are equipment intensive. Basketball was strictly for hoop-over-the-barn-door Hoosiers and Jersey City Y’s until two-hundred-dollar gym shoes were invented. And synchronized swimming will never make it to network prime time because how often do you need new nose plugs? I’m an altruistic guy, in my own Reaganomics way. Sports gear purchases are about all that’s keeping the fragile U.S. economy alive, and you’d have to get into America’s Cup yachting or cross-country airplane racing to find a sport that needs more gear than golf. I’ve bought the shoes, hats, socks, pants, shirts, umbrellas, windbreakers, and plus fours—all in colors that Nirvana fans wouldn’t dye their hair. Then there are the drivers, irons, putters, and the special clubs: parking-lot wedge, back-of-the-tree mashie, nearby highway niblick. MasterCard has installed a plaque on the wall of its headquarters to commemorate my taking up golf.

I’m gonna warn you guys, it tastes like feet, and not the good kind,” Icky hissed at Torina and me, leaning our way. “There’s a… good-tasting kind of feet?” Torina asked. Icky blinked at her. “Well, yeah.” When the bowl came to me and I lifted it to my face, sure enough, I was walloped with a blast of eau du gym locker. I held my breath, took a sip, and swallowed the hot, acrid liquid as quickly as I could. Then I passed it on to Torina. She glanced at me as she took it. “Feet?” I peeled my tongue from the roof of my mouth, which it had desperately hugged for protection. “It’s more nuanced than that. I’d say more… sweaty sock.” She took a sip, made a face like she’d been punched, passed on the bowl, and turned back to me. “I think a bunch of my taste buds just put in their two-week notice,” she hissed.

I feel like a kite being jerked around by gusts and occasional hurricane-speed winds. Maureen, my occupational therapist, says that’s part of having Sensory Processing Disorder. It’s hard to explain Sensory Processing Disorder—I guess it means that it’s harder for me to be a person in the world than it is for most people. Like how I hate slimy textures and the taste of eggs makes me gag and I can never wear shirts with tight collars or jeans that squeeze my knees. I hate bright overhead lights, and having my toenails trimmed makes me howl in pain. And don’t even talk to me about perfume. Total chemical overload. But, at the same time, I love being squeezed by a body sock and I can’t get enough of certain tastes, like passion fruit. I could taste passion fruit forever. Beyond touch and taste and smell issues, it’s also hard for me to control my energy level, and I’m kind of clumsy and I’m always losing things. Water bottles are the worst. I lose my water bottle every few weeks. My mom says she first noticed something was different about me when I was a toddler and she took me to a Music Together class. While the other kids danced in a circle and shook their plastic gourds, I hid in a corner of the gym and beat a drum until long after the song was over. And then there were other things. I kept falling onto the sidewalk and chipping my baby teeth. And I couldn’t climb out of the sandbox like all the other kids. And even though I hated my music class, I loved pounding pots and pans and making my own noise. That’s why Sensory Processing Disorder is hard to explain. It’s different in every person. For me, I hate some textures and love others. Like I love nachos and popcorn because they’re awesome to crunch. But I can’t stand the crunch of a baby carrot. I can chew a baby carrot for ten minutes and still have a mouthful of orange gunk. Sometimes I hate crowds and other times I love being surrounded by people. And my shins? Covered in bruises. I’m not chipping teeth anymore but I’m still clumsy. When I was four, I started going to occupational therapy. For a few years, I also saw a physical therapist who taught me how to jump and climb, and I had appointments with a speech therapist who gave me bumpy plastic toys to chew. I even had a special teacher following me around in preschool, telling me not to hug other children so hard they’d topple over. I doubt I ever hugged Avery Tanaka back in preschool, but my mom told me that once at pickup I tried to bite her sweatshirt. Yeah, I was a weird kid.

Rain jacket 4 t-shirts 2 long sleeve shirts 2 pairs of pants Gym shorts Swim suit Underwear and socks Shoes Toiletries Electronics Laptop

my arms, around my legs, and suddenly the force field disappeared. I could move again! The only problem was, the instant I did, my clothes all fell off. The laser had sliced my shirt, my pants, my shoes and socks, even my underwear, into pieces—and had done it all without touching my skin. “Get me out of here!” I yelled. “Get me some clothes!” No answer. Did that mean there wasn’t anyone there? Just as well, I decided, since I didn’t have any clothes on. But how long were the aliens going to leave me here? Or was someone watching me even now—watching, but not speaking? That made sense, in a way. If the alien mission was to study earthlings, then probably they were doing that right now—especially since I was the only one they had. I decided if I was going to be the sample earthling, I was going to do my best not to act like an idiot. So I began to take deep breaths. I felt myself getting a little calmer. I mean, it wasn’t like no one had ever seen me naked before. I’ve been to the doctor. And next year I would be taking showers in gym class. Come to think of it, given my choice of getting stuck naked in front of a bunch of aliens, or in a seventh-grade gym class, I’d choose the aliens any day. At least they won’t flick your butt with a wet towel! Unfortunately, just as I was getting calm, my little chamber started to fill with gas. Was this a test, to see if I would panic? Were they going to knock me out and do some medical exams? Or were they going to kill me and dissect me? I held my breath until my lungs were

It was still clear and wet. She touched the water that lapped at her shoes and brought it to her lips. Still salty. A low wind blew gentle waves on the water and the sun was setting. "Take me!" she shouted at the ocean. The air smelled cloyingly fishy, yet the more she inhaled, the clearer her mind felt. Clean, clean air. "Take me!" She threw off her gym shoes and socks and moved into the water.

It is her mother’s exhausted face leaning over the crib, relieved the colicky screams have stopped at last, such a good girl, both of them happy now as she sucks her sugar water, swallows, sucks, gulps. It is her hopscotch-scraped knee with its grid of blood, her little girl tears, the kiss-it-better not working and so the butterscotch candies uncellophaned fast from grandma’s purse, it is the sticky butter-sweet glowing her blood, and all is fine now, all is good. It is the big girl finishing her glass of milk and so the reward of Whoppers Malted Milk Balls mumping her cheeks, smiles all around. It is look she’s finished her homework cleaned her room eaten her glazed carrots at dinner, and so now the nipple’d sweet of a Hershey’s Kiss poking out her cheek, the tiny crunch of M&M’s candy coatings, and how long can she hold the creamy brown melt in her mouth. It is the Halloween bounty, the season of candy corn and Tootsie Pops, the gritty sweet sand of Pixy Stix, the plastic orange pumpkin weighted with mini Mounds and Snickers and Milky Ways and Baby Ruths, all careful-parent examined for razor blades, for evil tamperings, then given back for sock-drawer hoarding that lasts only days, not the promised months. Fruits are the lab-made, ascorbic-acid flavors of Skittles and Starbursts and Jelly Bellies, raisins are Raisinets, almonds mean marzipan and Almond Joys, milk is a vehicle for Nesquik strawberry or chocolate syrups, sucked through red licorice Twizzler straws. It is the quivering anticipation of birthday cakes with the biggest pinkest prettiest sugar rose for the birthday girl, the backyard piñata attacked and attacked and attacked with baseball bat frenzy until she is showered with manna. Easter is creamy Cadbury Eggs, Thanksgiving is candied yam casserole peaked with marshmallow crust, Christmas is the faux-minty red-and-white swirl of candy canes sucked into spears, the pot of melting caramel meant to golden the popcorn garlands and shellac the apples, instead mouth-spooned away at the stove. It is the zoo the circus the carnival, all ballet-pink gossamer puffs of cotton candy crunched to hard coral between her teeth. It is the bloodbeat rush, the delirium, sailing soar into bliss, and then the plummet and bitter crash, the jitters and shakes. It is acidic pantings and acrid sweatings and belly flesh bulging around the elastic of panties and training bras, it is claiming a stomachache to duck the bleachers-running or rope-climbing or naked locker room of gym, it is the yearly mouthful of Novocain needle and new silver-filling glints rewarded with a gleaming, jewel-colored lollipop. It is the terror of beach parties or swim parties and the mumbled, towel-mummied excuses of sunburning so easily. It is her teenage Saturday nights baking Betty Crocker brownies alchemized into bigger higher happiness soars with added bags of Reese’s Pieces and Nestlé chocolate chips. It is the sweet boy, the cute kind caring boy in English lit who smiles, compliments her understanding of Shakespearean metaphor, comes to her house after school for quiz study, sits on her bed and eats half a pan of her offered brownies while she chatters away, then sweet-mouth kisses her silent, once, the chocolate masking the breath going sour, then nudges her head to his lap, to his opening fly, to the hard sucking candy and sweat and come filling her mouth, her throat, her belly, even as she suspects, knows, this is all she will get, all she deserves, but let me have it now, this sweetness, more and more and more, give it to me, it is so good.

Low-quality photography showed Michelangelo chests harnessed in leather, feet in sloppy football socks, their soles black with dirt, or headless bodies in tight underwear, obscured by streaky mirrors in gyms and supermarket toilets. One boy posed before a row of Portaloos at a festival, wearing a flamingo-print shirt and round sunglasses, the pink lenses all but concealing pill-fed pupils. Others lay in their bathtubs; climbed up metal steps at lidos; stood before lakes, castles or famous paintings; sat cross-legged on wind-battered sand dunes; or pinched the Leaning Tower of Pisa between thumb and forefinger.