Tick For Tat Quotes

And at the risk of sounding like Andy Rooney on Sixty Minutes, have you ever wondered why we say fiddle-faddle and not faddle- fiddle? Why is it ping-pong and pitter-patter rather than pong-ping and patter-pitter? Why dribs and drabs, rather than vice versa? Why can't a kitchen be span and spic? Whence riff-raff, mish-mash, flim-flam, chit-chat, tit for tat, knick-knack, zig-zag, sing-song, ding-dong, King Kong, criss-cross, shilly-shally, see-saw, hee-haw, flip-flop, hippity-hop, tick-tock, tic-tac-toe, eeny-meeny-miney-moe, bric-a-brac, clickety-clack, hickory-dickory-dock, kit and kaboodle, and bibbity-bobbity-boo? The answer is that the vowels for which the tongue is high and in the front always come before the vowels for which the tongue is low and in the back.

I have real feelings for you, Reagan,” I say quietly. “I can’t explain them. And I don’t want to. But don’t try to push what happened between us tonight off as common. Because it wasn’t. It was big. And I want to keep doing it. I want to learn all about you and have you learn all about me. I want you to meet my family. I want to go on a date with you.” I look around. “This place is nice, but…seriously?” She laughs. “You want me to meet your family?” she asks. “If you think you can stand it. There are five of us. All men.” “I’m not afraid of men in general,” she explains. “Just the ones that touch you.” I run my crooked finger along her cheekbone, and she turns into my hand to kiss my palm. “Your brothers look like you,” she says. “How do you know that?” I ask. “I saw them when you got out of prison,” she says quietly. “You were there?” She nods. “My dad made me sit in the truck while he talked to you about camp.” She draws her lower lip between her teeth and bites down like she’s anxious about my response. “Sorry. I should have told you sooner.” She groans. “I kind of asked for you to be here. So I could see you.” “I’m glad you did.” Never been happier about anything. “Your brothers all have tattoos, too,” she says. She looks at the tattoo on my arm that’s for my mom. She picks up my hand and traces the tats that go up my forearm to my sleeve. “I want to look at all of them so I can find out what makes you tick.” She draws a circle around the American flag. “That one’s for my buddy who died in Afghanistan.” Her silky fingertips slide up the dragon on my inner arm. “And this one?” she asks softly. “That one was a little too much courage one night,” I say with a laugh.