Swag Quotes

It was an annoying name to have. People tended to spell in Mangus, rhymes with Angus. I always corrected them: No, it's Magnus, rhymes with swagness. At which point they would stare at me blankly.

Swag mastah from Doncastah!

Annabelle laughs. "Oh, so you think you're hot, do you?" "Girl, I got swag for days.

My swag was phenomenal.

Boys had something else...a sort of swagger about them.

YOLO is swag. YOLO is me.

Black Girls… Stop settling for less than what you deserve. That’s why I stress self-love! There comes a time when you can no longer blame a man. You’ve got to hold yourself accountable for the choices that you make. Choose wisely! Slow down. Pay attention. Don’t allow his good looks and swag to blind you from the truth. Don’t be so easily flattered by money, cars, jewelry, and all of that other stuff. Your heart and well-being is worth much more than that. Choose someone who respects, loves, and adores you. Somebody who has your best interest at heart. Nothing less! Allow yourself to experience REAL love. Stop giving your love, time, and attention to men who clearly don’t deserve it. #ItsAllUpToYou

Swagger! Swoop. Swoop. Swoop.

Gift ain't what you take by effort, as swag ain't what you worthy have.

You can't build a life on a backstage pass or free swag at Sundance.

That's the Zone for you: come back with swag, a miracle; come back alive, success; come back with a patrol bullet in your ass, good luck; and everything else - that's fate.

Be Swag

When it comes to swag, there's no gender involved.

Swag?” “Scientific wild ass guess.

Being a superhero is great. Everyone should try it.

you can break my heart but you cant break my swag

Swag is not about what you want people to think about you, its already knowing what they think about you.

You cannot handle my swag

Uh huh. Swag...Scientific Wild-Ass Guess

Even the gods were impressed. They descended from Olympus and loaded Hercules down with so much swag, it got embarrassing. Hermes

Ramfis fled the country after Trujillo's death, lived dissolutely off his father's swag, and ended up dying in a car crash of his own devising in 1969; the other car he hit contained the Duchess of Albuquerque, Teresa Beltrán de Lis, who died instantly; Lil'Fuckface went on murdering right to the end.

Food is good

Good people eat all their veggies and all the fruits, but they still have good grades. I call this, Freakonomics.

And I wish I could say I stayed up late thinking about him but the truth is I was only awake a little while. I was so tired the swag felt like a sponge that soaked me up. I went to sleep like someone disappearing from the earth, like rain sopped into dust.

My brother, when he went to sleep, always put his shoes beside the swag, and when he got up in the morning the first thing he did was put his shoes on. He did that ever since he was little. And he never went anywhere without his hat. So, for him to walk off up the road without his hat or his shoes, that’s just straight-up lies. No. I know that for a fact.

where locals and fans could dance the night away and take home expensive swag,

Although if it meant he'd answer a few questions, I'd offer to stitch him a king-size Irish Swag Bohemian Bell quilt. With my toes.

I GOT SOOO MUCH SWAG!!!!

Swag Swag sss-s-s-s--sswaqq

Once you start dating men with purpose instead of swag you'll become a wife on purpose

...outrageous flowers swagging off balconies like bright skirts of ballgowns...

They two men cut the door, and took the box, and opened it, — and when they’d opened it, they didn’t get the swag. Where was the swag?

One day I realized, I am what I'm looking for. The love I've been searching the world for. When I devoutly love myself it's fulfilling, and it attracts others. They fight to love me twice as much.

Marketing is not a department Do you have a marketing department? If not, good. If you do, don’t think these are the only people responsible for marketing. Accounting is a department. Marketing isn’t. Marketing is something everyone in your company is doing 24/7/365. Just as you cannot not communicate, you cannot not market: Every time you answer the phone, it’s marketing. Every time you send an e-mail, it’s marketing. Every time someone uses your product, it’s marketing. Every word you write on your Web site is marketing. If you build software, every error message is marketing. If you’re in the restaurant business, the after-dinner mint is marketing. If you’re in the retail business, the checkout counter is marketing. If you’re in a service business, your invoice is marketing. Recognize that all of these little things are more important than choosing which piece of swag to throw into a conference goodie bag. Marketing isn’t just a few individual events. It’s the sum total of everything you do.

Sometimes the very best things in life are given without request.

live your life to the fullest cause you never know when it will end

I'm proud of her; she's proud of me. There is no competition animosity, envy, or jealousy. We're just secure, confident women doing our thing while supporting each other. I call that a SiSTARship and it is the essence of a Smart Woman Achieving Greatness. (SWAG)

Approaching the Williamsburg Bridge - not really certain of how he had managed to find himself there - he experienced an extraordinary moment of buoyancy, of grace. There was a lot more traffic now, but his shifting was smooth and the sturdy little car was adroit at changing lanes. He launched himself out over the East River. He could feel the bridge humming underneath his wheels and all around him could sense the engineering of it, the forces and tensions and rivets that were all conspiring to keep him aloft. To the south, he glimpsed the Manhattan Bridge, with its Parisian air, refined, elegant, its skirts hiked to reveal tapered steel legs, and, beyond, the Brooklyn Bridge, like a great ropy strand of muscle. In the other direction lay the Queensboro Bridge, like two great iron tsarinas linking hands to dance. And before him, the city that had sheltered him and swallowed him and made him a modest fortune loomed, gray and brown, festooned with swags and boas of some misty gray stuff, a compound of harbor fog and spring dew and its own steamy exhalations. Hope had been his enemy, a frailty that he must at all costs master, for so long now that it was a moment before he was willing to concede that he had let it back into his heart.

Well, the priest did very well, considering.  He got in all the details, and that is a good thing in a local item:  you see, he had kept books for the undertaker-department of his church when he was younger, and there, you know, the money's in the details; the more details, the more swag:

Venice was luscious. She had real curves and real cleavage. She had a stunning face, set off by a broad, lascivious grin. She had an indefinable hairstyle, a swag of thick blond dazzle that seemed always in motion, falling in her eyes, getting caught in her mouth. Venice spoke in a husky growl, with a deep, filthy laugh. Venice was no stranger to flirtation; she was practically no stranger to anyone. She smoldered, even at breakfast. Venice—at times literally—enjoyed a love affair with Manhattan.

My four-year-old is…what is he doing, exactly? I’m not entirely sure, but knowing Knight, it can’t be anything remotely constructive, and it will probably earn him an indefinite amount of naughty spot time. This kid has seen more walls than a mural painter. He is my mini-me on steroids. Swag, attitude, and mischief all wrapped up in an innocent smile.

They don't think it be like it is but it do

Yolo.

I'm just like an open book, it's words that you'll never understand.

I am the definition, of swag.

hi my name is gail xxxx #swag

In the morning he sat with his feet crossed under him and watched the sun rise. It sat swagged and red in the smoke like a matrix of molten iron swung wobbling up out of a furnace.

Your swag or mine?

Wrong Planet people tend to dress slightly differently from Rag, Tag & Bobtail. My son, Kai, always used to say that I have my own swag, meaning that my style of clothing is different from a lot of people. Not radically so, I’m not completely outrageous – although I’ve probably had my moments – but my clothes are often quite different from everybody else’s, who for the most part socialise in the same kind of shirts they wear to work. I was wearing shirts or jackets 20 years ago that are only just starting to come into fashion nowadays. I can’t explain this, I’m hardly a trend-setter, just that I’ve always liked that style.

On this literary journey. I never thought that this would ever come true. I'm finally living out my dreams. Not trying to be a carbon copy I'm the blueprint, I am who I am and not going to make excuses for who I am. I'll never trying to pretend to be someone else its too hard being me as it is, nor would I try to walk in another's shoes, don't need the foot fungus. I'm too much of a Diva for that, I love my own Stillettos! Now that is my swag ™

Sir Edmund’s home is an architectural grotesque, the ornate facade the unlikely union of a warship and a wedding cake. A riot of musket loops, carved shells, liquorice-twist chimneys, mock battlements, a first-floor prow, and an exuberance of portholes. On the carved stone pediment above the wide front door Neptune cavorts with sea nymphs. The lower-floor windows are festooned with theatrical swags of stone starfish and scallop shells. For all this, the house looks unlived in.

We drive into a strange, windless, sunny afternoon that makes everything resemble hollow metal models painted with enamel. Clouds, swags of leaves, houses. All in the same plane, like a stage-set, and riveted together. The air smells of woodsmoke.

One also, in our milieu, simply didn't meet enough Americans to form an opinion. And when one did—this was in the days of crew-cuts and short-legged pants—they, too, often really did sport crew-cuts and trousers that mysteriously ended several inches short of the instep. Why was that? It obviously wasn't poverty. A colleague of my father's had a daughter who got herself married and found that an American friend she had met on holiday had offered to pay the whole cost of the nuptial feast. I forget the name of this paladin, but he had a crew-cut and amputated trouser-bottoms and a cigar stub and he came from a place called Yonkers, which seemed to me a ridiculous name to give to a suburb. (I, who had survived Crapstone… ) Anyway, once again one received a Henry Jamesian impression of brash generosity without overmuch refinement. There was a boy at my boarding school called Warren Powers Laird Myers, the son of an officer stationed at one of the many U.S. Air Force bases in Cambridgeshire. Trousers at The Leys School were uniform and regulation, but he still managed to show a bit of shin and to buzz-cut his hair. 'I am not a Yankee,' he informed me (he was from Norfolk, Virginia). 'I am a CON-federate.' From what I was then gleaning of the news from Dixie, this was unpromising. In our ranks we also had Jamie Auchincloss, a sprig of the Kennedy-Bouvier family that was then occupying the White House. His trousers managed to avoid covering his ankles also, though the fact that he shared a parent with Jackie Kennedy meant that anything he did was accepted as fashionable by definition. The pants of a man I'll call Mr. 'Miller,' a visiting American master who skillfully introduced me to J.D. Salinger, were also falling short of their mark. Mr. Miller's great teacher-feature was that he saw sexual imagery absolutely everywhere and was slightly too fond of pointing it out [...]. Meanwhile, and as I mentioned much earlier, the dominant images projected from the United States were of the attack-dog-and-firehose kind, with swag-bellied cops lying about themselves and the political succession changed as much by bullets as by ballots.

The room was rather anonymous, with fashionable upholstered Sheraton chairs in a salmon-colored stripe and studded wood, salmon-colored swags on the windows, and cream silk on the walls. Nothing personal marred the room, as though the house’s inhabitants had ordered the furnishing to be as elegant yet innocuous as possible.

On the other side of the ledger stood the fact that fotitude was useless against it (liquor). Even the mightiest potsman, a paladin who could match tankards with a whole alehouse of swag-bellies Falstaffs and outquaff the parcel of them, would see his length measured upon the floor by less liquid than it would take to fill his hat.

All practical jokes, friendly, harmless or malevolent, involve deception, but not all deceptions are practical jokes. The two men digging up the street, for example, might have been two burglars who wished to recover some swag which they knew to be buried there. But, in that case, having found what they were looking for, they would have departed quietly and never been heard of again, whereas, if they are practical jokers, they must reveal afterwards what they have done or the joke will be lost. The practical joker must not only deceive but also, when he has succeeded, unmask and reveal the truth to his victims. The satisfaction of the practical joker is the look of astonishment on the faces of others when they learn that all the time they were convinced that they were thinking and acting on their own initiative, they were actually the puppets of another’s will. Thus, though his jokes may be harmless in themselves and extremely funny, there is something slightly sinister about every practical joker, for they betray him as someone who likes to play God behind the scenes. […] The success of a practical joker depends upon his accurate estimate of the weaknesses of others, their ignorances, their social reflexes, their unquestioned presuppositions, their obsessive desires, and even the most harmless practical joke is an expression of the joker’s contempt for those he deceives.

He’s a dumb ass,” Emilio said to me. “I’m almost finished.” The second he was out of earshot, Marcus sauntered back up to the bench with stiff, rehearsed swag. Definitely a mirror practicer, that one. “Why you messin’ with Emilio? What’s up with you and me?” He wiped his hand on his black tank top and held it out, presumably for me to take, at which point we’d presumably climb aboard his moped and ride off into the sunset. Before I could shatter his dreams, Samuel smacked his hand away. “Keep it movin’,” Samuel said. He nudged him back toward the bikes, but the guy was unfazed. “She likes me.” “She thinks you stupid,” Samuel said. “And she right.” Marcus cocked an eyebrow and licked his lips, more dazzling mirror work, and leaned in for another proposition. “When you’re ready to graduate from a boy to a man, you call me.” “How about I call when you’re ready to graduate from a boy to a man?” The other guys howled, and just when I decided this game might be kind of fun, Emilio was at the bench, tugging a shirt over his head. “Vamos, princesa.

Ur a cool person

Dance like Mrs. Faith is watching! (:

Women who drove like badasses, threw punches without hesitation, and filled out a pair of jeans while they did it were my ultimate type. Sexy.

If you ever have need of my life, come and take it.

You can't go climbing out of windows under the eyes of an Aberdeen terrier so prone as Bartholomew was always to think the worst. In due season, no doubt, he would learn that what he had taken for a burglar escaping with the swag had been in reality a harmless guest of the house and would be all apologies, but by that time my lower slopes would be as full of holes as a Swiss cheese.

Saturday morning brought an Imbolc gift of thick fog, as our select company of three set off onto the rain-sodden moor. ‘Here we are,’ said Mrs Darley, as the well appeared before us after a ten minute climb. She immediately began to unwrap a joint offering from Phyllis and herself of an ivy swag interwoven with white ribbons and laid it across the lintel of the well. I followed suit but with a far more modest bunch of pine branches and silver honesty. ‘Drinks, dear?’ Mrs Darley looked at Phyllis, who right on cue produced three paper cups from her bag and filled them with whiskey from a hip flask.

Whether you're a bride or a birthday boy, your options are much the same. Cake comes in chocolate, yellow, or white. Frosting comes in chocolate or vanilla buttercream, or you can opt for whipped cream. Fillings are either chocolate or vanilla custard, fresh bananas, or strawberries or raspberries in season. For birthday cakes, you can have either flowers or balloons in your choice of colors. For wedding cakes, you can add either fondant or marzipan covering, or either smooth or basket-weave buttercream, in white or ivory, with either pearl-like dots or ribbony swags made of frosting, and fondant faux flowers are extra.

When K & I returned to the gingerbread house after taking Nana home, I was beyond exhausted. But I couldn't sleep, not for a long time. I stayed awake. Thinking of boys, of myself, & of all the intersections in between. ... Regardless, there were times when I was at least part boy. A femme boy deep down. Shy sweater fag, my cardigan on hand to comfort me in the cold world. Bookworm queer boy at heart, K told me on more than one occasion. Certain moods & I was the most enviable of drag princesses, eyelashes all a-flutter & my fingers tickling the air with each gesture. Sometimes I was full of flirtatious swagger, but that playful swag could turn fierce snarl for defense, if need be. Never, I promised myself one line I wouldn't cross, never would I be the mean kind of boy that laughed me back inside the store's red doors when I did no good at hot afternoon sour pissing contests. Of course, there were plenty of times I was such a fairy lady that I ceased to be even part boy. Yes, Rob would have accused me of bringing the communal growl down for saying I'm part boy. And pre-Stonewall dykes would have wanted to call my game. What kind of dyke was I, anyway? Good question. Simple & complicated all at once, I wasn't a pigeon to be tucked away neatly into a hole. I didn't wear a fixed category without feeling pain. I was more, or less, or something different entirely.

That night, lying exhausted in my swag, covered with salt water and river mud, I had a single thought running through my mind over and over. Thank God that Steve was there. Wherever I was in the Australian bush, whatever I was doing, I resolved that Steve had to be with me. I felt that as long as he was there, no matter what accident or incident happened, I knew I would be fine. It wasn’t just that I knew Steve would protect me and that his knowledge of the bush was so complete. I was beginning to sense something we would both come to feel and talk about seriously. When we were together, nothing bad would happen. Apart, we might be vulnerable. It was hard to explain, but it was as if the universe had brought us together and now we were as one. Whatever it was, we both felt it.

Come on, buddy. The maze is fun." I tug at the leash. "I did unholy things to your future mom there more times than I can count." "Jesse!" I call out to her, which prompts her breathless giggles, the ones that float straight to my dick. I know where to find her. In the center of the snowflake. "Stay where you are. I'm coming to get you." I'm praying the Labrador puppy behind me won't bark and shit all over my surprise. Especially literally. "Are you panting?" She laughs harder, and I shoot the pup a you're-making-me-look-bad frown, trying hard not to crack up. Dude is killing my swag. For a cute thing, he sure sounds like a chain-smoking swine. "Yeah." I crack my gum. "Gotta work on my cardio. I could use some help." "You're getting help twice a day, sometimes three on weekends.

the streets. So now everyone is afraid of it. Petr GINZ Today it’s clear to everyone who is a Jew and who’s an Aryan, because you’ll know Jews near and far by their black and yellow star. And Jews who are so demarcated must live according to the rules dictated: Always, after eight o’clock, be at home and click the lock; work only labouring with pick or hoe, and do not listen to the radio. You’re not allowed to own a mutt; barbers can’t give your hair a cut; a female Jew who once was rich can’t have a dog, even a bitch, she cannot send her kids to school must shop from three to five since that’s the rule. She can’t have bracelets, garlic, wine, or go to the theatre, out to dine; she can’t have cars or a gramophone, fur coats or skis or a telephone; she can’t eat onions, pork, or cheese, have instruments, or matrices; she cannot own a clarinet or keep a canary for a pet, rent bicycles or barometers, have woollen socks or warm sweaters. And especially the outcast Jew must give up all habits he knew: he can’t buy clothes, can’t buy a shoe, since dressing well is not his due; he can’t have poultry, shaving soap, or jam or anything to smoke; can’t get a license, buy some gin, read magazines, a news bulletin, buy sweets or a machine to sew; to fields or shops he cannot go even to buy a single pair of winter woollen underwear, or a sardine or a ripe pear. And if this list is not complete there’s more, so you should be discreet; don’t buy a thing; accept defeat. Walk everywhere you want to go in rain or sleet or hail or snow. Don’t leave your house, don’t push a pram, don’t take a bus or train or tram; you’re not allowed on a fast train; don’t hail a taxi, or complain; no matter how thirsty you are you must not enter any bar; the riverbank is not for you, or a museum or park or zoo or swimming pool or stadium or post office or department store, or church, casino, or cathedral or any public urinal. And you be careful not to use main streets, and keep off avenues! And if you want to breathe some air go to God’s garden and walk there among the graves in the cemetery because no park to you is free. And if you are a clever Jew you’ll close off bank accounts and you will give up other habits too like meeting Aryans you knew. He used to be allowed a swag, suitcase, rucksack, or carpetbag. Now he has lost even those rights but every Jew lowers his sights and follows all the rules he’s got and doesn’t care one little jot.

If I must die one day God please allow me to die bankrupt of all my gifts and talents. May I die empty with no wind left in my cell from pouring everything I am, and have into empowering, enlightening, and encouraging others. May we all S-erve W-ith A-ll G-ifts! What part of the world will you create positive change for this week? Procrastination only decreases your options so don't waste another second act now.

What do you think we'd be bringing you along for, hmmm?" "Well, I would have imagined that this had something to do with it," she said, moving her hands strategically to a more interesting location. "Ah," he said, "and so it does, but you could sort of be honorary captain, too-" "Can I name the boat?" "As if you'd let anyone else do it!" "All right," she whispered. "If that's the plan, that's the plan. We'll do it." "You really mean-" "Hell," she said, "with just the swag we pulled from Salon Corbeau, everyone on this crew can stay drunk for months when we get back to the Ghostwinds. Zamira won't miss me for a while." They kissed. "Half a year." They kissed again. "Year or two, maybe." "Always a way to attack," Jean mused between kisses, "always a way to escape." "Of course," she whispered. "Hold fast, and sooner or later you'll always find what you're after.

Said he the fact of the matter is I am a rat charmer. Thats very nice but do you want the flour or not I can't stand here all day discussing it. I'll give you my two pennies said the old fellow and the benefit of my rat charming. I have no rats. Thats for me to know. What do you mean by that you stinky old galoot do you think I do not know my own house and what is in it? Never you mind what I mean my name is Kevin the Rat Charmer and that is a name you won't be forgetting in a hurry I will send a plague upon your shebeen. Will you now? I will begot and ye will be praying to the Virgin that you had relented of your penny. And with that he turned away. If he had a swag it were hidden somewhere up the track for my mother never seen it and if he had baby rats riding in his pocket they was cleverly concealed for my mother detected nothing astir on his person. He were just a stinky old man in a woollen coat he went off down the muddy track to the creek then cut down in the direction of Winton. She never saw him again but he were correct that she would remember the name of Kevin the Rat Charmer for many a day.

I Am A God [Intro: Capleton] Blazing, mi don't want them Mi need them Blazing Suh mi tek har outta bugah red and put her in a tall skirt And now she find out what life is really worth No to X rated Yo mi tek har outta bugah red and put her in a tall skirt And now she find out what life is really worth No to X rated [Intro] I am a god I am a god I am a god [Hook] I am a god Hurry up with my damn massage Hurry up with my damn ménage Get the Porsche out the damn garage I am a god Even though I'm a man of god My whole life in the hands of god So y'all better quit playing with god [Verse 1] Soon as they like you make 'em unlike you Cause kissing people ass is so unlike you The only rapper compared to Michael So here's a few hating-ass niggas who'll fight you And here's a few snake-ass niggas to bite you And I don't even wanna hear 'bout what niggas might do Old niggas mentally still in high school Since the tight jeans they never liked you Pink-ass polos with a fucking backpack But everybody know you brought real rap back Nobody had swag, man, we the Rat Pack Virgil Pyrex, Don C snapback Ivan, diamond, Chi-town shining Monop' in this bitch, get a change of climate Hop in this bitch and get the same thing I'm in Until the day I get struck by lightning I am a god So hurry up with my damn massage In a French-ass restaurant Hurry up with my damn croissants I am a god I am a god I am a god AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!! [Verse 2] I just talked to Jesus He said, "What up Yeezus?" I said, "Shit I'm chilling Trying to stack these millions." I know he the most high But I am a close high Mi casa, su casa That's that cosa nostra I am a god I am a god I am a god AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!! [Outro: Justin Vernon] Ain't no way I'm giving up. I'm a god

Over the course of two years, from June 2004 to June 2006, two separate deaths did nothing to ease my overall anxiety. Steve’s beloved Staffordshire bull terrier Sui died of cancer in June 2004. He had set up his swag and slept beside her all night, talking to her, recalling old times in the bush catching crocodiles, and comforting her. Losing Sui brought up memories of losing Chilli a decade and a half earlier. “I am not getting another dog,” Steve said. “It is just too painful.” Wes, the most loyal friend anyone could have, was there for Steve while Sui passed from this life to the next. Wes shared in Steve’s grief. They had known Sui longer than Steve and I had been together. Two years after Sui’s death, in June 2006, we lost Harriet. At 175, Harriet was the oldest living creature on earth. She had met Charles Darwin and sailed on the Beagle. She was our link to the past at the zoo, and beyond that, our link to the great scientist himself. She was a living museum and an icon of our zoo. The kids and I were headed to Fraser Island, along the southern coast of Queensland, with Joy, Steve’s sister, and her husband, Frank, our zoo manager, when I heard the news. An ultrasound had confirmed that Harriet had suffered a massive heart attack. Steve called me. “I think you’d better come home.” “I should talk to the kids about this,” I said. Bindi was horrified. “How long is Harriet going to live?” she asked. “Maybe hours, maybe days, but not long.” “I don’t want to see Harriet die,” she said resolutely. She wanted to remember her as the healthy, happy tortoise with whom she’d grown up. From the time Bindi was a tiny baby, she would enter Harriet’s enclosure, put her arms around the tortoise’s massive shell, and rest her face against her carapace, which was always warm from the sun. Harriet’s favorite food was hibiscus flowers, and Bindi would collect them by the dozen to feed her dear friend. I was worried about Steve but told him that Bindi couldn’t bear to see Harriet dying. “It’s okay,” he said. “Wes is here with me.” Once again, it fell to Wes to share his best mate’s grief.

Dear black boy, I know your “drip” is an ocean of pretense. I know your “ice” is the element you traded your soul with.

She was tall, slender, lithe. She wore her hair in smooth black curls around the perfect oval of her face, and her eyes were pale gray, the color of fog. She wore the clothes of a lady with neither apology not discomfort, dark purple poplin trimmed with black lace, high-necked and formfitting with a great swag of bustle behind. She saw us and made her way across the room without hesitation.

If you ain't a hoe get up out my trap house

How to Love (The Sonnet) How do I love thee? Lemme count the ways. No wait, why bother counting, When I can shower you with praise! When there's sunshine on your face, Lemme drink it like miracle syrup. When your soul is blue and cloudy, Lemme be your personal stand-up. Your achievements are my own, As such they boost my swag. When you are mad at yourself, Lemme be your punching bag. Give me your body or not, I don't care. I just wanna be there to wipe your every tear.

She felt along the solid green marble of the day for the hairline crack that might let her out. This could not be forced. Outside, the air hung swagged and the clouds sat in piles of couch stuffing, and in the south of the sky there was a tender spot, where a rainbow wanted to happen.

In America, particularly in non-unionized workplaces, this sort of chronic understaffing acquires a logic all its own. If you can stand to lose employee weight, you should; if you don’t, you’re leaving profits on the table. Appropriately staffing isn’t a way to create a better work environment; it’s “bloat.” Workplaces attempt to counter the negative effects of understaffing with professional development, bonuses, perks, snacks, therapy dogs, subsidized gym memberships, swag, happy hours, access to meditation apps; the list is truly endless. One HR person told us that she was always amazed that employees complained about stress and overwork but then never took advantage of the perks. It makes sense, though. They don’t have the time. What would really make their lives better isn’t a meditation app, but adding a few more employees without also adding the expectation of more work.

And a pirate as successful as Hook had swag to spare.

For starters, wear your swag as often as you can, whether it’s a company T-shirt, hat, canvas bag, or whatever. This is so easy and is a great, inexpensive conversation starter. For years I have worn a .CLUB T-shirt at trade shows. In fact, I’m on a plane right now editing this section and just realized that I’m still wearing my .CLUB shirt even though we sold the company two years ago. I guess old habits are hard to break!

More to life than king and country, More to love than crumpet and nookie. Rise above all mindless swag, Break the spell of heartless shag, Life begins outside the vault of vanity.

the dress sense of an eighties swagged and ruffled floral curtain.

#YOLOSWAG BOIII SWAG SWAG SEX

Interview from the Spear-"People are so suprised when they find out I'm a rapper cause I don't always show that "swag" but when they here my raps they're like 'damn! Yeah there goes CHI-T.' But I seriously love rap and hip-hop rapping is in my veins.

Don't judge people by their appearance cos if all it takes to beat your INTELLIGENCE is appearing with glittering and flashy money display swags then you will remain slaves to others forever until your only focused in life because only to appear better than your Yesterdays and even much more prepared for your present and future

He walks into the room with so much swag and confidence it should be illegal. In fact, I might have to call the fire department to cool him off.

P lanning a wedding can be murder. Planning weddings for a living is nothing short of suicide. “Is there a patron saint for wedding consultants? Because I think after this wedding, I just might meet the requirements.” I stood near the top of the wide marble staircase that swept down the middle of the Corcoran Gallery of Art’s central foyer. Below me, dozens of tuxedo-clad waiters scurried around the enormous hall filled end to end with tables and gold ladder-backed chairs. After having draped ivory chiffon into swags on all forty tables, I massaged the red indentations left on my fingers by the heavy pins. “Annabelle, darling, I may be a lapsed Catholic, but I’m pretty sure you have to be dead to qualify for sainthood.” Richard Gerard has been one of my closest friends since I arrived in Washington, D.C. three years ago and started “Wedding Belles.” At the time he’d been the only top caterer who’d bother talking to a new wedding planner. Now I worked with him almost exclusively. “The wedding isn’t over yet.”“At least your suffering hasn’t been in vain.” Richard motioned at the room below us. “It’s divine.” The museum’s enormous hall did look magical. The side railings of the staircase were draped with a floral garland, leading to a pair of enormous white rose topiaries flanking the bottom of the stairs. Amber light washed each of the three-story limestone columns bordering the room, and white organza hung from the ceiling, creating sheer curtains that were tied back at each column with clusters of ivory roses. “I just hope the MOB is happy.” My smile disappeared as I thought

P lanning a wedding can be murder. Planning weddings for a living is nothing short of suicide. “Is there a patron saint for wedding consultants? Because I think after this wedding, I just might meet the requirements.” I stood near the top of the wide marble staircase that swept down the middle of the Corcoran Gallery of Art’s central foyer . Below me, dozens of tuxedo-clad waiters scurried around the enormous hall filled end to end with tables and gold ladder-backed chairs. After having draped ivory chiffon into swags on all forty tables, I massaged the red indentations left

People tended to spell it Mangus, rhymes with Angus. I always corrected them: No, it’s Magnus, rhymes with swag-ness. At which point they would stare at me blankly.

My father always told me I could be whatever I wanted when I grew up. So I became a woman in a man's world. Turns out I had bigger balls than a lot of the men." ~~Joey

Caroline has laid out a beautiful spread, which is a combination of some of my favorite things that she has cooked, and traditional Sikh wedding dishes provided by Jag's friends. There is a whole roasted beef tenderloin, sliced up with beautiful brioche rolls for those who want to make sandwiches, crispy brussels sprouts, potato gratin, and tomato pudding from Gemma's journal. The savory pudding was one of the dishes from Martha's wedding, which gave me the idea for this insanity to begin with, so it seemed appropriate. I actually think Gemma would strongly approve of this whole thing. And she certainly would have appreciated the exoticism of the wonderful Indian vegetarian dishes, lentils, fried pakoras, and a spicy chickpea stew. From what I can tell, Gemma was thrilled anytime she could get introduced in a completely new cuisine, whether it was the Polish stonemason introducing her to pierogi and borsht, or the Chinese laundress bringing her tender dumplings, or the German butcher sharing his recipe for sauerbraten. She loved to experiment in the kitchen, and the Rabins encouraged her, gifting her cookbooks and letting her surprise them with new delicacies. Her favorite was 'With a Saucepan Over the Sea: Quaint and Delicious Recipes from the Kitchens of Foreign Countries,' a book of recipes from around the world that Gemma seemed to refer to frequently, enjoying most when she could alter one of the recipes to better fit the palate of the Rabins. Mrs. Rabin taught her all of the traditional Jewish dishes they needed for holiday celebrations, and was, by Gemma's account, a superlative cook in her own right. Off to the side of the buffet is a lovely dessert table, swagged with white linen and topped with a small wedding cake, surrounded by dishes of fried dough balls soaked in rosewater syrup and decorated with pistachios and rose petals, and other Indian sweets.

For as long as I can remember, I have been held hostage by the vagaries of mood. When my mood is good, I am cheerful, productive, and affectionate. I sparkle at parties, I write decent sentences, I have what the kids call swag. When my mood swings, however, I am beset by self-loathing and knotted with guilt and shame. I am overtaken by a pervasive sense of hopelessness, a grim pessimism about even the possibility of happiness. My symptoms have never been serious enough to require hospitalization, nor have they ever prevented me from functioning either personally or professionally, but they have made my life and the lives of the people whom I love much more difficult.

God has indisputable swag!

God has indisputable sovereign swag!

Do you remember old Harry Hopwood, Inspector?” “Of course. He was one of the first major arrests I made.” “Right. Nabbed him after that break-in on Greek Street you did. But there was a good deal of swag that was never recovered. Lot of old coins, for instance.” “Yes. There was a goodish reward offered for their return.” “Right. Well, old Harry’s dead, died about two months ago. We was pals in the clink, and knowing he was mortal sick and not likely to make it out the gate, he told me where he’d hid the stuff, and I thought I’d like to tell you.” “Oh? To collect the reward?” “No. I don’t want the reward. They can give it to Mr. Norwood here for that society of his. I’m just trying to prove to everyone that, from now on, I’m really going straight.” “Nifty, I won’t say I’m surprised,” said Wyatt, “because I’m not. I’m dumbfounded, dumb-foozled, and just plain bowled-over!

Mr. Harrison glanced up, as if entreating the heavens, then grimaced. “The Yuletide season has officially started.” He pointed to the crossbeam over the antechamber, where a swag of mistletoe had been hung. “Louisa and Joseph are quite enamored of all things—” Whatever nonsense Jenny had intended to spout one minute before Elijah Harrison trotted out of her life, she forgot as he put a gloved hand on her shoulder. “It’s a harmless tradition,” he said. “One I’ve had occasion to appreciate.” With that, he kissed her, and not on the cheek as a proper gentleman ought. He touched his mouth to hers softly, a lingering, gentle kiss that conveyed… something. Regret perhaps, at having to face the miserable winter day. Before he drew back, he whispered, “You’ll want to look at the sketchbook I used, and, Genevieve?” He bore the scent of rosemary and lavender, and he was leaving. “Mr. Harrison?” “You draw wonderfully. Be proud of yourself.” He gave her cheek a quick buss and passed through the door. Jenny held his compliment close to her heart—the real compliment, the one he’d whispered. She held his kisses closer.

He had what young and/or terrible people were recently calling swag.

Time heals small wounds.

This is the way it is with the Zone: if you come back with swag -- it’s a miracle; if you come back alive -- it’s a success; if the patrol bullets miss you -- it’s a stroke of luck. And as for anything else -- that’s fate.