Throwing Stones At Glass Houses Quotes

We throw stones though we live in glass houses, We talk shit like its a cross to bare. You're only relevant 'til you get older. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer

You shouldn't throw stones if you live in a glass house and if you got a glass jaw, you should watch yo mouth: cause I'll break yo face.

I am one of the sort that lives by throwing stones at other people's glass houses, but I never mean to put up one for them to stone.

It's the people who almost decide to live in glass houses who throw the first stones.

I think about my dad's favorite expression: People in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. What is my house made of? Paper, I decide. Like in a pop-up book. Easily collapsible.

People who live in my stone house shouldn't throw glass.

Rachel looked annoyed. “Do you think he’s embarrassed by us?” “More likely he’s embarrassed by her,” said Gabriel. “She’s probably a stripper.” “Professors in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.” Rachel glared at her brother and stormed out.

Hunter scored a total beauty in the third,” Hollis says from his stool. “I almost came in my pants.” “Don’t be crude in front of the baby,” I say immediately. “Bro, you brought a baby to a bar. Go throw glass stones in your own house.” When everyone snickers, Hollis is visibly confused. “What?” “That’s not the phrase,” Hannah says helpfully. “Sure it is.” “It’s really not.” Hollis waves a hand. “You know nothing, Jon Snow.

People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones,

You’re thinking, maybe it would be easier to let it slip let it go say ”I give up” one last time and give him a sad smile. You’re thinking it shouldn’t be this hard, shouldn’t be this dark, thinking love could flow easily with no holding back and you’ve seen others find their match and build something great together, of each other, like two halves fitting perfectly and now they achieve great things one by one, always together, and it seems grand. But you love him. Love him like a black stone in your chest you couldn’t live without because it fits in there. Makes you who you are and the thought of him gone—no more—makes your chest tighten up and maybe this is your fairytale. Maybe this is your castle. You could get it all on a shiny piece of glass with wooden stools and a neverending blooming garden but that’s not yours. This is yours. The cracks and the faults, the ugly words in the winter walking home alone and angry but falling asleep thinking you love him. This is your fairy tale. The quiet in the hallway, wishing for him to turn around, tell you to stay, tell you to please don’t go I need you like you need me and maybe it’s not a Jane Austen novel but this is your novel and your castle and you can run from it your whole life but this is here in front of you. Maybe nurture it? Sweet girl, maybe close the world off and look at him for an hour or two. This is your fairy. It ain’t perfect and it ain’t honey sweet with roses on the bed. It’s real and raw and ugly at times. But this is your love. Don’t throw it away searching for someone else’s love. Don’t be greedy. Instead, shelter it. Protect it. Capture every second of easy, pull through every storm of hardship. And when you can, look at him, lying next to you, trusting you not to harm him. Trusting you not to go. Be someone’s someone for someone. Be that someone for him. That’s your fairy tale. This is your castle. Now move in. Build a home. Build a house. Build a safety around things you love. It’s yours if you make it so. Welcome home, sweet girl, it will be all be fine.

But a glass house was definitely not the place for someone to live when they were throwing quite so many stones.

Don't go throwing stones in your glass house, because you're bound to get cut.

He has the grace to refrain from pointing out that I am throwing stones from my glass house.

You shouldn’t throw stones when your house is made of glass.

To the hyper-judgmental gay community, I say this: don't throw stones when you live in glass houses, everyone can see you barebacking strangers from the internet. You also have bad taste. Glass walls? Time to execute your decorator. And yourself.

It's the people who almost decide to live in glass houses who throw the first stones

It’s the people who almost decide to live in glass houses who throw the first stones.

Maybe make sure you don't live in a glass house before you start throwing woke stones.

You know what they say about people in glass houses?” Benoit says. “They shouldn’t throw stones?” “They shouldn’t get stoned.

we’d heard that those who lived in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. But no one had told us anything about how to conduct ourselves within the display cases of crystal conference rooms and buildings constructed out of thousands of soulless glass eyes.

I'm not going to have any of your horrid New England directness, cousin," said St. Clare, gayly. "If I answer that question, I know you'll be at me with half a dozen others, each one harder than the last; and I'm not a going to define my position. I am one of the sort that lives by throwing stones at other people's glass houses, but I never mean to put up one for them to stone.

Stranger" As the music roared We moved through the crowd I kissed your lips There was no one around There was no one around In a house made of glass There's a boy throwing rocks Every love's like his last Cause your heart's all you got Yeah your heart's all you got Cos it's been so long Since you've been around I've never missed a stranger before I think it's love It's Judas's call I've never missed a stranger before, like you She wore lace round her hair Yeah she looked like a queen With eyes so fair... She was something of a dream Shw was something of a dream Cos it's been so long Since you've been around I've never missed a stranger before I think it's love It's Judas's call I've never missed a stranger before, like you Cos it's been so long Since you've been around I've never missed a stranger before I think it's love It's Judas's call I've never missed a stranger before, like you.

Not that I can throw stones, since, as a woman without a career or children, so much effort is poured into curating the perfect life. Your house must always be pristine because if not, people will wonder what the fuck else you do with your time. Your hosting skills must be tip-top; guests’ glasses should never be empty – like radio, there should never be dead air – and every aspect of the meals you serve must be impeccable because if not, people will wonder what the fuck else you do with your time. Your marriage must be loving and fun, but also meaningful, and you must make sure others know your marriage is loving and fun, but also meaningful, because if not, people will wonder what the fuck else you do with your time. It’s important to note they must know about your fun, loving but also meaningful marriage without you shoving it in their face like a cream pie. It is a pie to be smelt and displayed on a window ledge and admired.

Don't throw glass in a stone houses.

People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, Gretchen.

People who have been sorely tempted, battled temptation, and almost given in to it - but resisted at the eleventh hour - come to dislike, even despise those who did not succeed in the same effort. It's the people who almost decide to live in glass houses who throw the first stones.

A gangster? Yeah, I'm aware. I'm also aware that the tattoo you, Archer, and Steele all share isn't just ‘cause you're BFFs. Those in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, Kodiak Jones." I mean, not that I was admitting to having spent way too long checking out their ink when they didn't think I was looking. But if I had, I might have noticed all three of them had matching grim reaper tattoos woven into their other ink. I'd lived in Shadow Grove all my life and wasn't ignorant enough not to recognize that as the symbol of Zane's gang—the Shadow Grove Reapers.

He waved at a red pickup—one that looked old in a ready-for-the-junkyard way, rather than in a classic-car-show way—parked behind Jules’s SUV. A shepherd-type dog sat in the passenger seat, watching them with huge, pricked ears. “Why?” “No reason.” A rustling sound made her jerk her head around, but it was only the wind making leaves dance across the road. “Uh-huh,” Hugh said, not sounding as if he believed her. “Was someone bothering you in there?” “She wasn’t sure how to answer that. Although she would’ve sworn she heard someone outside her dressing room, she was starting to think that she was imagining things. After all, the past several days would’ve messed with almost anyone’s sanity. Since she didn’t want to consider that she couldn’t trust her own senses, she changed the subject. “What are you doing out here?” “Just…more errands.” For the first time since she’d met him, Hugh didn’t answer with his usual cocky confidence. Instead, his gaze darted to the side as he slid his hands in his pockets, looking like a strangely appealing combination of naughty boy and confident man. He snuck a glance at her, and she raised an eyebrow, making him huff and swing a hand toward the pickup. “My truck’s right there. I had to walk by here to get to it.” “Uh-huh.” She echoed his skeptical sound from earlier. “Do we need to have the stalking-is-bad talk again?” “I’m a cop, not a stalker,” he said with exaggerated patience. “I arrest stalkers.” “Might want to check out your house.” “What?” She smirked. “It’s looking a little see-through and glassy to me.” “What?” “Glass house? Throwing stones?” Lips pursed, he eyed her for several seconds. “You’re not very good at telling jokes.” “I’m an excellent joke teller!” Grace huffed. “Uh-huh.

It is a remarkable irony that many of the best shows in London— Chicago, Oklahoma!—and even such harmless diversions as The Lion King and Beauty and the Beast—are imports from the colonies, while the homegrown productions include such luxurious twaddle as Mamma Mia!, Bombay Dreams, and Starlight Express. Brits who view’ American culture with disdain are the ones who must pay the freight here, being careful not to throw stones from inside their glass houses. Though it is doubtless a bitter pill to swallow, not everything that is idiotic, pandering, or unsophisticated originated in the land of the free and the home of Kenny G. Americans did not invent Cats.

Someone replies: Brazil’s always been “the world’s trash can.” Nothing is controlled here and the Bolivians know it. If it were a European country, they’d be afraid to walk down the street and get caught in a “razzia.” Someone replies: There are illegal immigrants all over the world my friend. What about the millions of illegal Brazilians in the US, who even commit petty crimes? He who lives in a glass house shouldn’t throw stones!

Grandfather has what Mother says is his only great vice: he cannot pass a bookstore. She says it's like someone who can't pass a bar without going in for a drink. Grandfather cannot pass a bookstore without buying a book. He's not a bibliophile, he's a bibliomaniac. (Look those up in your dictionary!) Of course, Mother shouldn't talk. It's like the pot calling the kettle black, or people in glass houses throwing stones. (pg. 167)

Shouldn’t be throwing stones, not when you’re sitting in a glass house.

People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.

Actually, I’m sugarcoating. What she said is she never would have allowed my daughters in her house if she’d known they were smuggling in contraband. She said the twins are mini Krissie Kellys in the making, and that people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. She said she doesn’t want her precious Jenni anywhere near the twins, and that she’s praying for all of us.

They say those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, but don’t we all?

Slavery was horrible for all miss treated. The lack of compassion for another human was obsolete. (Misogyny ) Was quite prevalent back then as well as the legal doctrine of couverture. which for the record still exists to an extent. However the laws have not been officially demolished. nearly piece by piece broken away to fit within today's society. Slavery was not of color. ( SLAVERY WAS OF ALL COLORS ) !!!!!!!!! I am not racist, I do not believe human beings are illegal, I believe woman's rights are civil rights and yes I do believe in science. I respect you and your beliefs. I expect the same back!!!!!! HOWEVER, I DO NOT DISRESPECT MYSELF NOR OTHERS BY SAYING THOSE DAMN GERMANS, CHINESE, ENGLISH,BLACKS, JEWS, ETC. SO I TAKE OFFENSE TO BEING DISRESPECTED. WHEN I HAVE TO HEAR THOSE WHITE PEOPLE OR DUMB AMERICANS !!!!! I PROMISE YOU NO MATTER WHERE YOUR FAMILY CAME FROM THEY HAD IT HARD !!! VERY HARD!!! IN MOST CASES IT WAS SO PAINFUL THEY CAN'T BRING THEMSELVES TO TALK ABOUT IT!!!! I AM SURE THOSE OF YOU WHO ARE THROWING STONE ARE COMING FROM GLASS HOUSES. LOOK INTO YOUR OWN FAMILY HISTORY AND WHERE THEY CAME FROM AND I AM SURE THEIR HAVE BLOOD ON THEY HANDS!!!!!! NOT ALWAYS BY CHOICE HOWEVER BY SELF DEFENSE !!!!!!!!!!! By Bonnie Zackson Koury

it’s dangerous to throw stones at people if you’re in a glass house.

With tinny drumbeats, the rain pounds the roof My teary eyes compete They can't keep up Breathe Let it go Breathe The vice on my chest tightens its razoring grip I gasp No relief If only tears could soothe the pain Then, I would look upon the tidal waves against these walls without fear Crush and roll me, I'd plead, Mold my body anew But with these tears come no healing, Just death, slow and determined This old girl, this old woman, this old soul lives here inside A tortoise outgrowing this hare's body This youthful skin encasing a crumbling frame I smooth the matted web of curls off my sweaty neck And roll my eyes at the clock How slowly the time squeaks by here in this room, In this comfortless bed I abandon the warmth from under my blanket tower and shiver The draft rattles my spine One by one, striking my vertebrae Like a spoon chiming empty wine glasses, Hitting the same fragile note till my neck shakes the chill away I swipe along the naked floor with a toe for the slippers beneath the bed Plush fabric caresses my feet Stand! Get up With both hands, Gravity jerks me back down Ugh! This cursed bed! No more, I want no more of it I try again My legs quiver in search of my former strength Come on, old girl, Come on, old woman, Come on, old soul, Don't quit now The floor shakes beneath me, Hoping I trip and fall To the living room window, I trudge My joints grind like gravel under tires More pain no amount of tears can soothe away Pinching the embroidered curtain between my knuckles, I find solace in the gloom The wind humming against the window, Makes the house creak and groan Years ago, the cold numbed my pain But can it numb me again, This wretched body and fractured soul? Outside I venture with chants fluttering my lips, Desperate solemn pleas For comfort, For mercy For ease, For health I open the plush throw spiraled around my shoulders And tiptoe around the porch's rain-soaked boards The chilly air moves through me like Death on a mission, My body, an empty gorge with no barriers to stop him, No flesh or bone My highest and lowest extremities grow numb But my feeble knees and crippling bones turn half-stone, half-bone Half-alive, half-dead No better, just worse The merciless wind freezes my tears My chin tumbles in despair I cover myself and sniffle Earth’s scent funnels up my nose: Decay with traces of life in its perfume The treetops and their slender branches sway, Defying the bitter gusts As I turn to seek shelter, the last browned leaf breaks away It drifts, it floats At the weary tree’s feet, it makes its bed alongside the others Like a pile of corpses, they lie Furled and crinkled with age No one mourns their death Or hurries to honor the fallen with thoughtful burials No rage-filled cries echo their protests at the paws trampling their fragile bodies, Or at the desecration by the animals seeking morning relief And new boundaries to mark Soon, the stark canopy stretching over the pitiful sight Will replace them with vibrant buds and leaves Until the wasting season again returns For now, more misery will barricade my bones as winter creeps in Unless Death meets me first to end it

Jesus didn’t condemn her because He ultimately took her punishment upon Himself. Now, if her accusers couldn’t condemn her because they had their own issues, and if Jesus didn’t condemn her, did she have any business condemning herself? You probably noticed that there’s a word that comes up a lot in the previous paragraph. It’s that word condemn, and it means “to give judgment against, to judge worthy of punishment.”2 It’s a word we don’t like much in our culture. It’s what we hear when we watch a courtroom drama, when the defendant is “condemned” to their punishment after being found guilty. It’s the word we think of when someone is judging us. It’s a word that can make us uncomfortable because it’s so tied to punishment, loss, and failure. My inside critic was always condemning me, passing all kinds of judgment against me. And that was how I treated myself for a long, long time. Frankly, from the religious system I was part of as a child, I was trained to do it. It’s like I was willing to punish myself ahead of time so that no one else would have to. Somehow the math in my head was that if I beat myself up enough, maybe, just maybe, I could avoid any commentary from the outside critics in my life. I’d come up with harsh disciplines to run my life by. I’d get up earlier than everyone. I’d try to pray longer. I’d feel guilty if I felt good. If I was having a good hair day and liked what I saw in the mirror, then I’d beat myself up about that. I was so consumed with living in my glass house, and so worried someone would throw a stone, that I was hurling boulders at myself all the time as a preventive measure. Which makes no sense, not when I say it now. But that’s how I lived for far too long. And when I’m not careful, I go there again. Jesus showed that to this young woman who did deserve to die under Israelite law. She was supposed to be stoned. But Jesus gave her a way out: Him. He is the answer. He can forgive your sin because He takes the punishment for you. Jesus was not shoving her sin under the rug. He was showing her that He would be stoned instead of her. Why? So she could live in freedom from her sin—from being condemned and being controlled. She could walk in freedom because of Jesus. So can I. And so can you.

The pot is busy throwing stones at the kettle from inside his glass house