Topper Quotes

Years ago, I tried to top everybody, but I don't anymore. I realized it was killing conversation. When you're always trying for a topper you aren't really listening. It ruins communication

Great pals we've always been. In fact there was a time when I had an idea I was in love with Cynthia. However, it blew over. A dashed pretty and lively and attractive girl, mind you, but full of ideals and all that. I may be wronging her, but I have an idea that she's the sort of girl who would want a fellow to carve out a career and what not. I know I've heard her speak favourably of Napoleon. So what with one thing and another the jolly old frenzy sort of petered out, and now we're just pals. I think she's a topper, and she thinks me next door to a looney, so everything's nice and matey.

You've got this...this love-no, it's louder than love. It's passion and beauty built up inside you that deserves to burst out.

Uh-oh.” Shane’s chuckle startled me out of my epiphany. “What?” “I know that look.” “What ‘look’?” Shane smirked. “That screw-the-world-I’m-about-to-write-a-chart-topper look.

If we hurry you can make the 6:35." "I'd rather kiss you and take the 6:55.

I have never loved like I love you. You've got to know this. My silly drunk girl.

I studied every thing but never topped.. But today the toppers of the best universities are my employees" - Bill Gates

You are the best thing to happen to me, bar none. You, Abbey...all of this. You both walked into my life and...I never knew what I wanted until you did.

There is no such thing as coincidence, Topper. It is always, always your enemies conspiring against you." (from How to Succeed in Evil)

I can't believe you quoted Shakespeare and the Doors in the same breath.

As Toppers rose from her seat on a sofa to meet him, Storm realized that he was looking at an architectural marvel. She weighed less than a hundred pounds and was under five feet tall, but she was so top-heavy that Storm wondered how she kept herself from tumbling facedown when she reached out to shake his hand.

I guess I'm not a very spiritual person. I don't think things always 'happen for a reason,' everything must be 'God's way,' or (and this is one of Karen's favorites) 'He only gives you what you can handle.' I simply believe, and I'm sorry to sound crude about it, that shit happens. Period. Sometimes you are the pigeon. Sometimes you are the statue.

(Topper) I’ll story ’em, Fin. I’ll story ’em clean.

Don't try to retrace steps. We'll find new ones.

You are glorious chaos.

Vanity and prejudice have as usual played havoc with the truth, and Mr. Topper's reputation has been tossed into a furnace of frantically wagging tongues. The

Topper had once heard a saying, "If you set out on the path to revenge, first dig two graves." But things worked a little differently in the savage dwarf's head. So, he had remembered it like this, "If you set out on the path to revenge, first pour two glasses." And that's exactly what he did.

The pure rapture was apparent, although there were glimmers of what could only be described as an exorcism. He was simultaneously reaching for something yet trying to rid himself of it at the same time as he ran through a smooth and fast legato.

I may be wronging her, but I have an idea that she's the sort of girl who would want a fellow to carve out a career and what not. I know I've heard her speak favourably of Napoleon. So what with one thing and another the jolly old frenzy sort of petered out, and now we're just pals. I think she's a topper, and she thinks me next door to a looney, so everything's nice and matey.

He put a hand on each of my cheeks to cool the burn. "All the beauty in the world can't help an ugly relationship," he said softly. Pulling his fingers down along the edge of my jawbone and lingering on my chin, he tilted it ever so slightly. "This…now this is pure beauty.

Don’t seem right, do it?” said Topper. “It ain’t right,” replied Fin. “Not at all.” Jack guzzled his wine and wiped at his beard. “Mayhap it’s right and we can’t see it...” Topper scratched his bald head and hummed in thought. “Still don’t seem right,” he proclaimed when he’d hummed enough. Jack dropped his flagon to the deck and it rolled away clattering. “Yeah, well, what seems ain’t always what is.

You’ve got all this. . . this love—no, it’s louder than love. It’s passion and beauty built up inside you that deserves to burst out,” I whispered against his mouth as we came up for air.

He fell next to me on the futon and curled his body against mine. “I have never been loved . . .” His words poured over me, warming every part, as I lazily kissed up the inky paws on his forearm and wrapped it around my shoulder. I heard his voice catch. “. . . like I have been loved by you,” he continued, his voice scratchy yet gentle, like a cat’s tongue, deliberate and patient, slicking over the same spot. “And I have never loved like I love you. You’ve got to know this. My silly drunk girl.

The cake sitting on the dining room buffet table was wide and three layers tall. There was a fondant topper shaped like a branch, and from that branch draped candy strings of Spanish moss, flowing down the side of the cake like a veil. Bey kept looking over it. Why did Lisette make it so large? They were going to be eating cake for weeks.

Rest here with me a moment," he said, "and let the world go to hell.

It frightens me to be in a homogeneous environment. Plus, homogenity is boring. What can you learn from that kind of environment? Friction is interesting.

You are drunk.” “And you”—he popped two of the curiously strong mints into his mouth—“are beautiful.” “Jesus Christ.” “I’ll sober up soon . . . and hopefully, you will still be beautiful.

WHEN YOU LIVE IN GOD, your day begins when you open your eyes, though you have done nothing yourself to open them, and you take your first breath, though there is no reason why this life-giving breeze should be given to you and not to some other. In the dark or in the light, with a stone slab under your back or a feather topper, your day begins when you let God hold you because you do not have the slightest idea how to hold yourself—when you let God raise you up, when you consent to rest to show you get the point, since that is the last thing you would do if you were running the show yourself. When you live in God, your day begins when you lose yourself long enough for God to find you, and when God finds you, to lose yourself again in praise.

Am I doing what I really want to be doing? Absolutely not, yet I haven't ruled out that I'll get back into the mess. But after having my ass kicked day in and day out for ten years, it's about time that I have some life left in me.

My mantra, like most, was that if it didn’t kill you, it only made you stronger. Later on in life, after being beat down by the experiences following you’ll read about, I’ve changed the mantra to, if it doesn’t kill you now, it will later.

She raises her hands to the sky and breathes it in, she starts spinning, enjoying the feel and energy of this Africa. She floats, her long skirt swaying with the dry grass in the breeze with her spirals, her sandaled feet covered in dust. She is part of Africa. She has never felt so free and happy.

Our breath and movements flowed evenly, measured, in unison. He brought his torso up to meet mine as he heaved, hands grasping at my bra straps, my curls, anything tangible to keep him from floating into the ether. I witnessed his face speak a thousand words as his lips just uttered one: my name again. He was all at once demonic, blissful, tortured, humble and at peace.

I told her about my revenge on Topper the attempted rapist and the guy at the transient's hotel in  Brooklyn, and, finally, I told her about stealing the money. "You did what?" She sat straight up in her chair, her eyes wide, her mouth open. "Shhh." Other diners were staring at us, frozen in silent tableau, some with forks or spoons halfway  to mouth. Millie was blinking her eyes rapidly. Much quieter, she said, "You robbed a bank?" "Shhh." My ears were burning. "Don't make a scene." "Don't shush me! I didn't rob a bank." Fortunately she whispered it. The waiter walked up then and took our drink order. Millie ordered a vodka martini. I asked  for a glass of white wine. I didn't know if it would help, but I figured it couldn't hurt. "A million dollars?" she said, after the waiter left. "Well, almost." "How much of it is left?" "Why?" She blushed. "Curiosity. I must look like a proper little gold digger." "About eight hundred thousand." "Dollars!" The man at the next table spilled his water. "Christ, Millie. You want me to leave you here? You're fifteen hundred miles away from  home you know.

It's one thing to ruminate, but another to enunciate.

We spent the next two hours holding each other, Adrian's fingers kneading his history across my skin. My vertebrae became pinpoints on the time line he lingered upon, as I kissed my questions along his shoulders and neck.

For the first time Topper's established routine of living gave place to a disorderly desire to live.

We must just keep on and on until the mountains themselves crumble from nausea or we learn to scale them and cool our hands in the sky.

as he

Grub, his adopted son Admiral Nok Commander Alardis Nil, a Wickan warlock Nether, a Wickan witch Temul, a Wickan of the Crow Clan (survivor of the Chain of Dogs) Squint, a soldier in the Aren Guard Pearl, a Claw Lostara Yil, an officer in the Red Blades Gall, Warleader of the Khundryl Burned Tears Imrahl, a warrior of the Khundryl Burned Tears Topper, the Clawmaster MARINES OF THE 9th COMPANY, 8th LEGION

where you’ll pass farms, ponds, and the Nantucket Shipwreck and Lifesaving Museum. The Wauwinet is located on the harbor at the entry to Great Point. The hotel has an expansive deck lined with Adirondack chairs that overlook the harbor. There’s a library, a charming tucked-away bar, and a fine-dining restaurant, Topper’s (which is where Bone Williams takes Alessandra in this book and where Benji and Celeste

you’ll never forget. There is a guardhouse just before the Wauwinet Inn where you purchase your sticker. On your way home, you can pop into the Wauwinet’s super-cute tiny bar for a drink. (Topper’s, the restaurant, is exquisite but expensive, even by Nantucket standards.) There are some people who think driving on a beach is an abomination. I respect that—and so does Nantucket. Most beaches do not allow cars. Here are some of my favorite

Meanwhile, back at the milliner’s, Terrence the Topper now had six banana skins stuck up his brim. What? Oh, I’m so sorry, completely wrong story!

I have always detested the ghastly pasttimes upon which girls are encouraged to squander their lives. Spending hours squinting over an embroidery ring does not strike me as a worthwhile use of anyone's time. For the lower classes, sewing or knitting may be a necessity, but we are not paupers and there is no need for me to go about in homemade togs. Of course, there is the piano, but since Veronica's death it has been no more than an ornament. ... So I spent my evenings in the brocade armchair reading novels about Modern Independent Women who throw it all up at the first whiff of matrimony. I long ago resolved never to become a Modern Independent Woman. I do not myself understand this current mania for freedom. It seems to me that we would all be a good deal better off if we accepted our lot in life, rather than struggling to throw off some imagined shackles. I realise that not everyone is as fortunate as me, but this constant striving for things above one's station is no more than a recipe for discontent. I want nothing more than to look after my father and be able to treat myself now and then to a new coat or a pair of stockings. That is not to say that when I am out and about, I do not sometimes feel a stab of envy towards those to whom success comes easily, but we cannot all be tip-toppers. It is better all round to accept one's allotted portion in life. All the needlepoint and pianoforte in the world cannot alter the fact that, for most of us, quiet despair is the best we can hope for.

topper.

It is possible that any of us could dream the next great chart topper.

Although Fibber has put on airs a number of times speaking in a formal British dialect, this is the first time he adopts sixteenth-century language, the topper being his question after he breaks a knickknack: “What the hecketh was that?

You need a lower core body temperature for sleep; being too warm could inhibit sleep hormones. A hot bath an hour or so before bed actually lowers your core temperature, which is good. There are also cooling mattress toppers that might make a difference. Keep the thermostat low or the windows open. A

Never force your kids to be toppers, Toppers never change the world. Instill a sense of curiosity instead, so they can dare to find unfound answers.

Ever think he’s too good to be true? Sam had asked the day I showed her the cake topper. I wished she’d never asked that question.

Never go to the butcher shop without looking at the wurst case, Topper.” “A good sausage never goes to waste, you say?” “As long as you don’t have to see it being made.

DON’T BE A TOPPER. If somebody tells you they are having trouble with their teenage son, don’t turn around and say, “I know exactly what you mean. I’m having incredible problems with my Steven.

try to keep your bedroom cool—around sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit seems to be optimal. A warm bath before bed may actually help with this process, not only because the bath itself is relaxing but also because when we get out of the bath and climb into our cool bed, our core temperature drops, which signals to our brain that it is time to fall asleep. (There are also a variety of cooling mattresses and mattress toppers out there that could help people who like to sleep cool.)

If you feel alone in society, then don't feel down because topper always one in whole class..

One can frequently recognize a woman of Real Society by the way she dresses. Real Society women’s clothes have a way of staying in style longer than other people’s because Real Society fashions do not change markedly from year to year. Neither the junior-cut mink coat nor the beaver jacket has gone through many transitions since the introduction of the designs, nor has the cut of the classic camel’s hair topper. The short-sleeved, round-collared McMullen blouse is ageless, and the hemline of the Bermuda short has hardly been known to fluctuate. What is more classic than a double strand of good pearls? The poplin raincoat is as suited to suburban shopping today as it was to the Smith campus in 1953.

Kindness and empathy, my friend, aren't just one-hit wonders. They're the chart-toppers of your legacy, playing in everyone's hearts long after you've left the stage. When you sprinkle kindness like confetti and share empathy like your favorite playlist, you create harmonious moments in people's lives. It's not about being there only in their struggles but also dancing together in their joy. So, be a person of compassion and understanding, and let your legacy be a symphony of love

Let your conduct be noble, and never sing the National Anthem to people wearing bell-toppers.

Think about it,” McLain said. “Why are you so riled up? Because you lost a good friend? That happens all the time. No, it’s because you were lied to. And the toppers will feel this ever more keenly, trust me. They live in sight of those who’ve been lied to. It’s the mids, the people who aspire upward without knowing and who look down on us without compassion, that will be the most reluctant.

You want an Ayahuasca topper?’ He looks at me through a pair of old leaks. ‘Sure.’ I nod towards Nelly’s stomach. ‘It’ll do the baby good.

making. Little birds were always so excited. He had

He was committing a terrible crime. He was destroying her good opinion of herself. Topper

Topper was making her realise how calculatingly cruel and unsympathetic she was, how stubborn as a wife and inadequate as a friend. No

I observed all the students at IIT. They came from all parts of India, toppers in their respective schools. Few had come there to research science or learn about technology. Most had come to achieve their middle-class dream—a better life. And that is what the IITs promised them.

Satisfaction. Now there’s a loaded word.

...anyone who willingly turns their life upside down by becoming a cook is totally insane to begin with. So many chefs that I have met are dyslexic and totally not school people or intellectuals. That could be symbolic of the kind of lifestyle that they choose to live. They all drink a lot, do a lot of drugs, drink a shitload of coffee and espresso. They don’t sleep much, and obviously don’t have much of a life outside the kitchen. A cook’s friend is a cook, there isn’t much time for a non-cook friend or girlfriend. And time really isn’t the issue so much as it’s a lifestyle and a culture that is very hard to understand or identify with unless you are on the inside. Cooks hang out with cooks because there is nobody else awake, hungry and totally wired at 2am on a Tuesday.

I have never been loved . . .” His words poured over me, warming every part, as I lazily kissed up the inky paws on his forearm and wrapped it around my shoulder. I heard his voice catch. “. . . like I have been loved by you,” he continued, his voice scratchy yet gentle, like a cat’s tongue, deliberate and patient, slicking over the same spot. “And I have never loved like I love you.

What was the first thing that came to your mind when you met Tree?” She blew into her half-empty beer bottle and awaited his answer. It didn’t take him long. “That she was stunning . . . and one day I’d possess her heart.” The

Calling Billie Burke a “character actress” is like calling the Grand Canyon “quite a slice.” Though she’s best known for dithering supporting roles in such films as The Wizard of Oz, Topper and Dinner at Eight, Billie was a stage star, silent movie star, and a brilliant dramatic actress as well. Her comic talent was only the tip of the iceberg.

LIFE IS NOT AN EXAM TO BE THE TOPPER, LIFE IS A LESSON FROM THE BOTTOM OF YOUR HEART

Lindsay rolled her eyes. “Stop planning your wedding-cake topper. You’re missing the fucking point.

Ritika Rajput | Urban Fellows Programme (2020 - 21) | Testimonial - IIHM youtube channel A personal note about this girl as she was my closest friend once. When we used to trek to bram kunth along with Shubham das, Shalini chauhan and Urvashi Poonia Bishnoi near Nalanda Interim campus in rajgir, she makes everyone laugh. She is such as crazy girl I have every met. She is talented soul that has completed BSc in Chemistry from Jamia Milia Islamia with Gold Medal, Nalanda University topper in MSc Ecology and Environmental studies, Then she pursued urban fellows program as part of CSR, SDG, Water and Human Settlement goal as a research topic. She is vivid reader, and her favorite book was silent spring, sigmund freud and Vivekananda., She also read texts in science, statistics and very good mathematics and also NCC. In trekking in Rajgir once we visited along with 10 other people, she deliberately put her legs on me to what my reaction was, I said you need better specs. Yes she is having blindness problem. Very talented soul that is not showing any growth in research now as far as my knowledge. This kind of women should come up to research. Urvashi is also good researcher but lack in focus. Shubham went to banking and Shalini is a freelance language trainer. Just memories

Discussing the wedding created a perplexing hollow in Veblen. She had picked up a copy of Brides magazine since the whole idea came into play; it wanted to fill her mind with wedding souvenirs and makeovers and cake toppers and what she would wear on her head, but none of that stuff captivated her the way she knew it was supposed to, and she wondered if she should make it an actual goal to start relating to all the bridal fanfare in a more happy-go-lucky way so she wouldn’t miss out on something important. How do you know if you’re stubbornly missing out, or if it’s just not for you and that’s perfectly okay?

It's the middle and backbenchers who change the world, whereas toppers and front benchers only make good employees.

The cake is pretty simple; they didn't want anything too fancy. Two tiers. The bottom is the Frango mint tier from the cake contest, but the top is a new one. An almond cake with a whipped honey caramel filling and a layer of thinly sliced spiced poached pears, with vanilla buttercream. The whole cake will get a smooth white fondant coating, and then a detailed lace pattern hand-piped with white royal icing. They've opted out of toppers, so I've made some simple wildflowers out of gum paste, colored with the powdered food colors to look incredibly real.

It was right about then that a drink dropped down in front of me on the table, Brant sliding into the open chair to my side. "You know I can't have..." I started, big-eying him so I didn't have to say it. "Raspberry mocha shake with skim milk but full fat whipped cream," he explained, popping the little piece of paper topper off the straw. "Not a damn bit of actual coffee in it," he said, looking disgusted at the very prospect. "Oh, and here," he said, pulling my phone out of his pocket. "You know, you can't pull the 'pregnancy' card every time your phone has an issue and you don't want to go to Verizon." "True," I agreed, taking a long sip of the shake he made and closing my eyes on a sigh. "But I can for the next eight or so months," I concluded, giving him a saucy smile. He chuckled at that, reaching for the piece of paper I had in front of me with the design for the macaron wedding cake. "Macarons, huh?" he asked, looking excited. It didn't matter how many different recipes I came up with, he never seemed to get sick of them. "It's not too soon," he informed me, reading my thoughts as I looked down at the perfect princess cut ring. "It hasn't even been a year," I had insisted, shaking my head. "Sweetheart, I knew this was where we were heading that first time you moaned like a porn star over your break-up frappe." I looked around my mother's and mine and Brant's little shop, feeling it down to my soul: peace. Then I looked over at Brant, feeling it down to my bones: love. And finally, to the plate at the center of the table where Brant and I reached toward simultaneously and grabbed one each: macarons. It was all I would ever need.

He discovered in his heart the first faint whispering of pure Christianity, and in some way he continued to keep his virtue intact by keeping his vices active.

She simply sat there and looked at him, radiating rage and tulle, resembling an indignant cake topper.

WAITRESS 2 Then, the topper . . . an elbow to the ribs . . . “Hey, you make it?” Really sensitive, like we’ve got a fucking recipe for an orgasm!

As much as I hated flying, I hated the anticipation of flying more. And all the waiting around was making me squirrelly. One and a half hours already shot. Couldn’t we just drive there at six hundred miles per hour? We can send a man to the moon, but no one has figured out how to build one long runway across the country? Gas up the plane and just drive that sucker. So it would take a little longer. So what? At least we’d know what we were up against. Currently, we were involuntary captives. Tarmac delays sucked.

This ends now. You had no right to change the date without consulting me first.” “Enough with the dramatics. I get it. You don’t want to marry me in June. We’ll move it. Point made,” she snapped at me. “No, you don’t get it! I don’t want to marry you. Not in June. Not in July. Not two years from now. Not anytime.” I felt like I was reading from the Dr. Seuss book Laney had quoted to the little girl at Jughead’s Diner. Not in June, not on the moon, not in socks, not in a box. Never, never! “I’m done, Sloane.” There was a pause. Who was being dramatic now? “You can’t do this to me!” “Me, me, me!” I seethed. “Just because marriage starts with an m and ends with an e , it’s not all about you!” “Well, the word mistake does, too, but you can’t blame me for the one you’re making, mister. Just wait until my father—” My cab careened past Ruel’s and the other cars idling along the curb for departures and swung into the first free space. I had caught up with Laney. I breathed a sigh of relief. “Have a nice life, Sloane.

A traffic cop was monitoring the drop-off line, waving cars on if they stood too long. Dreadlock Guy got in his car to leave, but not before rolling down his passenger-side window and beckoning me over. “What you leave behind?” he wanted to know, his Jamaican accent lilting. “Wedding dress.” It came out barely above a whisper. “And his computer. And luggage.” He shook his head with a smile, his dreaded ponytail smacking each shoulder, back and forth. “Clothing is easily replaced. Computers, you can back up the data. Insurance covers what you lose.” I looked at him expectantly, figuring that at any moment, he’d utter “Don’t worry, be happy.” Say it and I’ll pull you out your car window by your dreads and put the hurt on you. “But a kiss like that , miss—” He clucked his tongue. “Irreplaceable. Don’t let that go the other way.” It took me a moment to process his last words, as they came out “gowdee otterway.” But as he put the car in reverse and backed up in order to swing around the shuttle parked infront of him, it sank in.

We’d get through this little arrangement of ours better if you didn’t lie to me, Nash.” “Christ, Dani. I needed to get out of town for a few hours today, okay? Quinn’s got me running so many chores in her mom-wagon, I can feel my balls shrinking in daily increments. So I went to get a little girlie-action. So what? That was never verboten in our agreement. Unless you want to amend your anti-sex-with-me stance?” I glared at him, not appreciating his suggestion, or the fact that he used Mick as an excuse for girlie-action-getting. “Fine!” He held up his hands in surrender. “I went with Sindy, if you must know.” “To pick up girls in Atlantic City?” “No.” He hung his head in shame. “It was a little pony-action. She likes the horse races, okay? It’s just a little embarrassing to say I drove an old lady down there.” I planted my hands on my hips. “Okay, so she drove! I hate the traffic on the turnpike.

So, Dani . . . is that short for Danielle?” I searched for you, I tried to convey with my eyes. Scoured the Internet for your sister’s wedding announcement, knowing you shared a maiden name. Hunted through the White Pages . . . “Danica.” Ah, no wonder. I hoped every Danielle James in the tri-state area would forgive me for cyber-stalking them. It hadn’t occurred to me there might be a variant. “So, um . . . how’d you two meet?” And where? And when? My brain wanted to scream. And why. Why, why, why? Nash’s arm slid around Dani’s waist, pulling her against his hip. “We met on tour, if you can believe that. She was a damsel in distress.” Dani gave a cute snort. “You thought I was a groupie in heat.” “My bad.” Nash gave a shrug and winked in my direction. “I’ll never forget, seeing her out the tour bus window for the first time. She was standing by this old, broken-down van at the side of the road, waving a white lacy thong like a matador—” He butted his forehead against her shoulder, like a big bull come to rut. “Oh?” I managed, swallowed hard. The espresso I’d had earlier threatened to burn its way back up my throat. “It wasn’t a thong , you perv!” Dani gave a tug on his long locks. “It was a camisole. And it was the only thing white I had.

Without Mick, this place would just be . . . bed,” Bear joked, back to grab the last suitcase. “Or bed-and-make-your-own-damn-toast.

He grabbed me in a tight hug. “Hey now, is that a rolling pin in your front pocket, or are you happy to see me?” He had obviously recovered fast, as his lame baker joke mechanism was intact. “Offset spatula, actually.” I thumped on his back. “Good to see you, man.

Of course my van had broken down two weeks into the tour. Mean Mistress Mustard had given a shudder and a sigh as I coaxed her toward a hilly stretch along Route 321 between Boone and Charlotte, North Carolina, as if to say, “Girlfriend, you want me to do what ? Please, bitch. I’m forty-two years old.” I had stood by her bumper, cursing Jax and his entire unborn line of privileged progeny.

Without warning Dawn slices through the night I said I’d stay Till the morning You know I tried with all my might Don’t blame me for leaving Blame the time, the place, the night How was I to know Without warning Something would start to feel so right

Wasting away Waiting to be found Hard to find the words When I can’t hear a sound Lost in the fray Stumble to the ground Cannot be heard When you’re not around Faking your way Leading me along Dying each day As I sing you my song

I’m in another time zone I’m zoned out I’m shut in. My mind is reeling I wish it’d shut up What I’m feeling, I wanna shut down. All I have to do is Forget you Not say your name Not take your call It should be easy to Hate you ’Cuz All you had to do was, All you had to do was tell me After all. It’s not fair It ain’t right I still want to hold you through the night Want you to whisper all the things you never told me In my ear Now all you have to do is Forgive me Say my name Will you take my call It should be easy to break me ’Cuz All you ever did was love me After all.

So. Food? My treat.” I touched my belly. It wasn’t exactly full, and neither was my wallet. I hoped my mom would take five minutes out of her prewedding bliss to remember to run payroll on time. “I don’t know. That yogurt really filled me up.” “Oh, bull. You totally had asparagus envy.” He had me there. “Sushi in the food court?” I could roll with that.

...you should’ve seen me ready to shiv security for making me take my ring off earlier.” I frowned as I accidently lost control of my chopsticks, my California roll dropping into the little plastic cup of soy sauce. “See?Sounds like classic Bridezilla behavior to me.” She almost choked on her wasabi-laced sushi piece. “Bridezilla? I am the least likely person to turn Bridezilla you will ever meet. In fact, I am like the Mothra of the Bridezilla world.” “Mothra.” I tsked. “Pedestrian. Destoroyah—no, Bridestoroyah—could totally take on Bridezilla.” “You have the chopstick skill level of a preschooler, and you dare to go around citing Japanese monster movie characters to me?” Laney seethed. “I have my reasons for choosing Mothra.” “Yeah?” I stabbed my chopsticks straight through the middle of my errant sushi piece. “Let’s hear them.” “Don’t, it’s bad luck!” she exclaimed. “What, to talk to a bride about her wedding dress before the big day?” And I thought Sloane was taking the wedding superstitions too far. “No, to stab your chopstick through the middle of your food.” She reached across the table and readjusted my sticks for me with one hand. I noticed she kept her other hand on the garment bag riding shotgun in the chair next to her. Its midnight blue sheen and fancy silver embroidery looked out of place in the middle of the airport food court.

Love is like a soldier, Dani. Even if it comes back, it’s never the same.

At locations scattered all across North America from Alaska to New Mexico and from Florida to the state of Washington, more than 1,500 Clovis sites have been found. These sites have yielded more than 10,000 Clovis points and tens of thousands of other artifacts from the Clovis toolkit (40,000 at Topper alone [...]). yet among all these archaeological riches, it bears repeating that the sum total of Clovis human remains found in 85 years of excavations is limited to the Anzick-1 partial skeleton.

घनश्याम दोनों शाम को 6 बजे से लेकर रात्रि 12 बजे तक

Apple Cinnamon Oatmeal Pecan Crunch 1 cup steel-cut oatmeal 2 ½ cups water 1 ½ cups unsweetened vanilla almond milk 1 cup chopped apple 1 tablespoon maple syrup/ desired sweetener 1 ½ teaspoons ground cinnamon ½ teaspoon vanilla extract 1 handful of pecans Spray the inside of a slow cooker with cooking spray and add all of the ingredients except the pecans. Cook on low overnight for about 9 hours (I start it at about 9 p.m. for a 6 a.m. breakfast). Top with pecans before serving. Note: Use your favorite nut as a topper—they’ll all add that crunch factor!

Yeah, the strange thing is, Ms. Topper, I never liked writing before. But now I notice I feel a lot better after I do it.

We took the truck. Corey’s mom’s SUV would have been more comfortable, but also extremely recognizable with the police logo. Not that it mattered, since we were already being tracked, but I could hardly say that. Daniel drove. I rode shotgun. I’d tried to get Sam to take that spot, so her leg would be more comfortable. She’d refused. We opened the window into the topper, though, so we could talk, and left the curtains open. We took the worst of the back roads. Again, that wasn’t necessary. Again, I couldn’t say so.

Corey--who’d been walking ahead with Sam--let out a whistle. He gestured to a tractor trailer, pulling out of what looked like a parking lot. We jogged up to Corey and Sam. “Please don’t be closed for the season,” Corey murmured as we picked up speed. “Please don’t be staffed by witches and demons, lying in wait for us. Please, please, please, just give us a break.” As we approached, we saw the sign. REDWOOD MOTEL AND RESTAURANT. There were three vehicles in the lot--two cars off to the far side and a pickup with a topper in front of the restaurant doors. “This is good,” Corey said. “Tell me this is good.” “People. Phones. Food.” I grinned over at him. “Yep, this is good.” Daniel caught Corey’s arm. “We should let the girls handle this.” “Huh?” Corey said. “We just need to make a phone call, right? Hell, I’ll give them my other twenty to cover it.” “I just…I think we should hang back. We’re in rough shape. That guy with the van was worried about me, not Maya.” Corey sighed. “Fine. For once, you’ve earned the right to paranoia. Go get ’em, girls.” He passed me the twenty. “Just in case.

I think she's a topper, and she thinks me next door to a looney, so everything's nice and matey.

Ma, get your ape, ion got time for her ass while I'm here. I swear you gone wake up and her ass gonna be the topper on the damn Christmas tree," Uncle Gabe stated.

Carla, sweetheart. Wait.’ Everyone else frowns at me. The villain. The evil twin. The arm breaker. The hair burner. And I’m still standing on my ottoman like a bride on a cake topper. A bride who’s been left at the altar, obviously.