Uhaul Quotes

I stood beside the U-Haul, and I just watched her. I stared at her while she looked on with the saddest look in her eyes. I wanted to know what she was thinking about, what was going on in her head. What had mad her so sad? I wanted to hug her so bad. When she finally got out of the U-Haul and I introduced myself to her, it took all I had to let go of her hand. I wanted to hold on to it forever. I wanted to let her know that she wasn't alone. Whatever burden it was that she was carrying around, I wanted to carry it for her. I wish I could, Lake. I wish I could take it all away. Unfortunately, that's not how it works. It doesn't just go away.

I met a girl in a U-Haul. A beautiful girl And I fell for her. I fell hard. Unfortunately, sometimes life gets in the way. Life definitely got in my way. It got all up in my damn way, Life blocked the door with a stack of wooden 2x4's nailed together and attached to a fifteen inch concrete wall behind a row of solid steel bars, bolted to a titanium frame that no matter how hard I shoved against it- It wouldn't budge. Sometimes life doesn't budge. It just gets all up in your damn way. It blocked my plans, my dreams, my desires, my wishes, my wants, my needs. It blocked out that beautiful girl That I fell so hard for. Life tries to tell you what's best for you What should be most important to you What should come in first Or second Or third. I tried so hard to keep it all organized, alphabetized, stacked in chronological order, everything in its perfect space, its perfect place. I thought that's what life wanted me to do. This is what life needed for me to do. Right? Keep it all in sequence? Sometimes, life gets in your way. It gets all up in your damn way. But it doesn't get all up in your damn way because it wants you to just give up and let it take control. Life doesn't get all up in your damn way because it just wants you to hand it all over and be carried along. Life wants you to fight it. It wants you to grab an axe and hack through the wood. It wants you to get a sledgehammer and break through the concrete. It wants you to grab a torch and burn through the metal and steel until you can reach through and grab it. Life wants you to grab all the organized, the alphabetized, the chronological, the sequenced. It wants you to mix it all together, stir it up, blend it. Life doesn't want you to let it tell you that your little brother should be the only thing that comes first. Life doesn't want you to let it tell you that your career and your education should be the only thing that comes in second. And life definitely doesn't want me To just let it tell me that the girl I met, The beautiful, strong, amazing, resilient girl That I fell so hard for Should only come in third. Life knows. Life is trying to tell me That the girl I love, The girl I fell So hard for? There's room for her in first. I'm putting her first.

We have brought nothing into the world, so we cannot take anything out of it either.' There are no U-Hauls behind hearses.

Packing all of your belongings into a U-Haul and then transporting them across several states is nearly as stressful and futile as trying to run away from lava in swim fins.

Fantasy is, I think, the defining cliche of female queerness. No wonder we joke about U-Hauls on the second date. To find desire, love, everyday joy without men's accompanying bullshit is a pretty decent working definition of paradise.

Whenever I hear the word danger, I see Marlena and me staring into the mouth of that U-Haul in the winter hour between twilight and dark. Two girls full of plans, fifteen and seventeen years old in the middle of nowhere. Stop, I want to tell us. Stay right where you are, together. Don't move. But we will. We always do. The clock's already running.

You'll never see a hearse towing a U-Haul.

You can't hook up a U-Haul to a hearse

then Sarah said, “So, what do you think of Indianapolis?” And then the guy standing behind the counter at the U-Haul place paused for a moment before saying, “Well, you gotta live somewhere.

There is no UHaul behind the hearse.

As soon as we were inside, Edwart's family rushed to greet me. What seemed like thirty people circled me, chattering away. "Oh my god, you smell good." "Good smell, good smell." "(she really does smell good.)" "do you mind if I put my nose right on you? Right on your arm?" "More smelly smelly please." "If I could destroy every part of my brain except the part that smelled your smell, I would do it. I would do it in a second." "Let's go, Belle," Edwart whispered and grabbed my hand. We pushed through the ravenous vampires nad out the front door. "So that went well!" I said outside in the U-HAUL. I sniffed my hair. I did smell good. "No, no, that wasn't my house," Edwart said, starting the truck. "I don't even know those people! Sometimes I get addresses confused.

Cam lifted the back of the U-Haul door to find Perry holding up a pair of Nana's enormous, silky white underpants. 'Whoops,' said Cam. 'You'll have to make do.' And she shut the door, ignoring Perry's continued pounding on the side of the trailer. 'I packed some cute stuff for her, too,' Asher said regretfully.

You'll never see a U-Haul behind a hearse,' Denzel Washington often said as we worked together on 'Fences.' 'I don't care how much money you have or what level of notoriety you've achieved, you can't take any of it with you.' There is a cap on earthly success, a ceiling on the amount of joy that possessions and awards can bring before disillusionment sets in. Our appearance, our prosperity, the applause: all of it is so fleeting. But a life of true significance has unlimited impact. It is measured in how well we've loved those around us, how much we've given away, how many seeds we've sown along our path. During her ninety-six years, Ms. [Cicely] Tyson has discovered the potent elixir: she has lived a life of that is bigger than she is, an existence grounded in purpose and flourishing in service to others. That is her defining masterpiece. That is her enduring gift to us all. [Viola Davis, Foreword]

I've never seen a hearse pull a U-haul

At the end of the first date, I got my courage up and I made a move. One U-Haul van and 1,500 miles later, I regretted my boldness.

Life Lesson: If you love someone let them go. If they return they are yours forever.   If you keep letting them return, you need therapy…

High above, the rafters were made of old wood, and sturdy as the mountain the house had been built on, and across the way, sixteen coffins were stacked one upon the next, as if they were nothing but moving boxes from U-Haul. The

Fantasy is, I think, the defining cliché of female queerness. No wonder we joke about U-Hauls on the second date. To find desire, love, everyday joy without men’s accompanying bullshit is a pretty decent working definition of paradise.

Sarah explained that we had moved from New York for her job at the Indianapolis Museum of Art, and the guy said he’d been to the museum once as a kid, and then Sarah said, “So, what do you think of Indianapolis?” And then the guy standing behind the counter at the U-Haul place paused for a moment before saying, “Well, you gotta live somewhere.

After we had loaded the last one, I backed the pickup around and drove down the twisting road to the big truck. As we rounded the final curve, we noticed there was a strange pickup parked near the U-Haul. Two men got out of it and looked around furtively, but did not see us. They tiptoed over to the truck, their curiosity piqued by an apparently abandoned U-Haul. They tried the sliding back door gingerly, and found it would open. They gave it a push. The loose bees inside rushed out toward the light and enveloped the two men in a furious buzzing cloud. The men were both heavy, with ample beer bellies, but they ran like jackrabbits to their pickup and drove off at top speed, careening from one side of the road to the other as they tried to brush bees from their heads. I’ll wager that is the last time either of them meddled with an abandoned truck.

Kevin D. Williamson in a sneering screed published in March 2016 in National Review, a leading conservative journal: The problem isn’t that Americans cannot sustain families, but that they do not wish to. If you spend time in hardscrabble, white upstate New York, or eastern Kentucky, or my own native West Texas, and you take an honest look at the welfare dependency, the drug and alcohol addiction, the family anarchy—which is to say, the whelping of human children with all the respect and wisdom of a stray dog—you will come to an awful realization. It wasn’t Beijing. It wasn’t even Washington, as bad as Washington can be. It wasn’t immigrants from Mexico, excessive and problematic as our current immigration levels are. It wasn’t any of that. Nothing happened to them. There wasn’t some awful disaster. There wasn’t a war or a famine or a plague or a foreign occupation. Even the economic changes of the past few decades do very little to explain the dysfunction and negligence—and the incomprehensible malice—of poor white America. So the gypsum business in Garbutt ain’t what it used to be. There is more to life in the 21st century than wallboard and cheap sentimentality about how the Man closed the factories down. The truth about these dysfunctional, downscale communities is that they deserve to die. Economically, they are negative assets. Morally, they are indefensible. Forget all your cheap theatrical Bruce Springsteen crap. Forget your sanctimony about struggling Rust Belt factory towns and your conspiracy theories about the wily Orientals stealing our jobs. Forget your goddamned gypsum, and, if he has a problem with that, forget Ed Burke, too. The white American underclass is in thrall to a vicious, selfish culture whose main products are misery and used heroin needles. Donald Trump’s speeches make them feel good. So does OxyContin. What they need isn’t analgesics, literal or political. They need real opportunity, which means that they need real change, which means that they need U-Haul. For

Dream House as Fantasy Fantasy is, I think, the defining cliché of female queerness. No wonder we joke about U-Hauls on the second date. To find desire, love, everyday joy without men’s accompanying bullshit is a pretty decent working definition of paradise. The literature of queer domestic abuse is lousy with references to this(27) punctured(28) dream(29), which proves to be as much a violation as a black eye, a sprained wrist. Even the enduring symbol of queerness—the rainbow—is a promise not to repeat an act of supreme violence by a capricious and rageful god: I won’t flood the whole world again. It was a one-time thing, I swear. Do you trust me? (And, later, a threat: the next time, motherfuckers, it’ll be fire.) Acknowledging the insufficiency of this idealism is nearly as painful as acknowledging that we’re the same as straight folks in this regard: we’re in the muck like everyone else. All of this fantasy is an act of supreme optimism, or, if you’re feeling less charitable, arrogance. Maybe this will change someday. Maybe, when queerness is so normal and accepted that finding it will feel less like entering paradise and more like the claiming of your own body: imperfect, but yours. --- 27. “I go to sleep at night in the arms of my lover dreaming of lesbian paradise. What a nightmare, then, to open my eyes to the reality of lesbian battering. It feels like a nightmare trying to talk about it, like a fog that tightens the chest and closes the throat…. We are so good at celebrating our love. It is so hard for us to hear that some lesbians live, not in paradise, but in a hell of fear and violence” (Lisa Shapiro, commentary in Off Our Backs, 1991). 28. “What will it do to our utopian dyke dreams to admit the existence of this violence?” (Amy Edgington, from an account of the first Lesbian Battering Conference held in Little Rock, AR, in 1988). 29. From a review of Behind the Curtains, a 1987 play about lesbian abuse: “By writing the play [and] by portraying both joy and pain in our lives, [Margaret Nash rejects the] almost reflex assumption that lesbians have surpassed the society from which we were born and, having come out, now exist in some mystical utopia” (Tracey MacDonald, Off Our Backs, 1987).

I can’t stress enough, when we came from Canada we knew nothing. We had a U-Haul full of stuff and thought, “It’s normal to spend eighty dollars on a motel room.” But eighty dollars in New York City means there’s going to be a murder down the hall from you, maybe two. You’re going to hear gunfire, and someone might go through all of your personal stuff. Our motel was at the mouth of the Holland Tunnel, on Tonnelle Avenue in Jersey City. It was just terrifying. Jason says, “It’ll be fine.” And it was quite the opposite. I slept in my clothes.

Chapter 51 In Atlanta, the day had gone mostly as Elliott had expected. The stock market crash had rattled everyone. It was a cloud that hung over the euphoria of Black Friday. The most difficult part of his plan had been convincing the other five families to pool their money with his for the purchases, which together added up to hundreds of thousands of dollars. They had begun by renting two twenty-six-foot U-Haul trucks. They drove them to Costco and filled them with survival necessities. It was mostly food; Elliott planned to be near a freshwater source if worst came to worst. Next, they purchased two high-end RVs. The price was exorbitant, but they carried a thirty-day money-back guarantee, and they only had to make a down payment—the remainder was financed. Elliott had assured his neighbors that within thirty days, they would either be incredibly glad to have the two homes on wheels—or they’d have their money back. Now he sat in his study, watching the news, waiting for the event he believed would come. He hoped he was wrong. DAY 7 900,000,000 Infected 180,000 Dead

Redneck Rules of Etiquette • To avoid bruising wine as you decant it, make sure to tilt the paper cup. • Your centerpiece should never be prepared by a taxidermist. • When dating (outside the family), always offer to bait your lady’s hook, especially on the first date. • Establish with her parents what time she is expected back. Some will say 10:00 P.M.; others might say Monday. If the latter, it is the man’s responsibility to get her to school on time. • When attending the theater, refrain from talking to the characters on the screen. Tests have proven they can’t hear you. • Never take a beer to a job interview. • Always identify people in your yard before shooting at them. • Convenient though it may be, it’s considered tacky to bring a cooler to church. • If you have to vacuum the bed, it is time to change the sheets. • Even if you’re certain you’re in the will, don’t drive a U-haul to the funeral home.

I was sure that, from his perch in the clouds, Johnnie was drinking a Pepsi, watching me — and beaming. I can hear him now: “See, Dee? You’re never gonna see a hearse pulling a U-Haul. You really can’t take it with you.

Mom and Dad rented a great big U-Haul truck. Mom explained that since only she and Dad could fit in the front of the U-Haul, Lori, Brian, Maureen, and I were in for a treat: We got to ride in the back. It would be fun, she said, a real adventure, but there wouldn’t be any light, so we would have to use all our resources to entertain one another. Plus we were not allowed to talk. Since it was illegal to ride in the back, anyone who heard us might call the cops. Mom told us the trip would be about fourteen hours if we took the highway, but we should tack on another couple of hours because we might make some scenic detours.

He cometido el error típico de principiante, el 101, «uan o uan», del que siempre me he burlado entre lesbianas. En parrilladas o entre tragos siempre comentamos: «fulana se ha mudado con mengana, horror, solo llevan dos meses». Y apostamos cuánto tiempo durarán. Yo voy una semana y me he enganchado a una extraña, he vaciado la mitad de mis cajones y mi clóset para que se instale. En el baño ahora hay dos toallas y dos cepillos de dientes. A esta situación, en los monólogos queer o en shows cómicos norteamericanos, le llaman el síndrome U-Haul, haciendo alusión a los camiones de mudanzas de dicha empresa. Conoces a una chica con la que parece que tendrás la relación perfecta y quieres mudarte a los dos días con ella, porque no quieres perder tiempo, cuando en realidad tiempo es lo que dos personas necesitan para conocerse. Por separado. Ahora yo soy la broma.

When we leave this earth, there will not be a U-Haul with our crap following us. The pharaohs tried, and they got robbed. You can’t take it with you. We need to live our best life now. There’s no room for what might have been.

Pretty sure someone’s out there driving a U-Haul in my honor ... Fucking crazy sons of bitches.

What gets headlines? Murder, mayhem, and madness—the cardinal M’s of the newsroom. That’s what terrifies the travel agents of the world. That’s what rates congressional hearings and crime commissions. And that’s what frightens off bozo Shriner conventions. It’s a damn shame, I grant you that. It’s a shame I simply couldn’t stand up at the next county commission meeting and ask our noble public servants to please stop destroying the planet. It’s a shame that the people who poisoned this paradise won’t just apologize and pack their U-Hauls and head back North to the smog and the blizzards. But it’s a proven fact they won’t leave until somebody lights a fire under ‘em.

This witch and I had gone on one single date and I was already ready to jump her bones. Fuck. Maybe I should book the U-Haul now . . .

Horses had been brought in from a farm in Rockville, Maryland, to pull U-Haul trailers.

But how could he have known? We can’t know the future; we can only know the past. Does that young man in the U-Haul envision his older self: yes, but it is a grand self. He doesn’t envision simply an older version of his current self, wrapped in the trappings he himself has woven, leaving that original living core to struggle ceaselessly against the woven forgery. He certainly doesn’t envision a middle-aged man, alone and weeping the edge of a church in a place where he was his best self, acknowledging the impossibility of returning to the self he once was in order to change the future. And even if he could return, would he do anything differently?

For now, he wanted to help Ena escape the dragon fae king's wrath. As soon as Prince Grotto learned what she was about to do in the worst way. The reason she was in this mess was because Brett had helped take Princess Alicia prisoner. As Alicia's reward for saving the Princess, Alicia's grandfather had declared that Ena would wed Alicia's cousin. He was a dangerous dragon fae. Sure Ena would become a Princess if she were to wed Prince Grotto. Brett also knew that the fae intended to use her for her special skills and terminate her when she proved useless. Brett wasn't sure how to help Ena move her gold and staff to somewhere safe. Hopefully, in the Hawk Fae kingdom. They didn't have U-Haul trucks in the fae world. She was a dragon and that meant she wasn't leaving without her horde of treasure.

A killer’s instinct was as easily packed away in a U-Haul as a fitness machine or a golf cart was. He’d

So you're getting back together with her? Just like that? Muriel asks. "Not 'just like that'..." "How then?" Muriel enjoys playing devil's advocate. "For starters, it will have to be long distance for a while..." She doesn't let up. "For a while? Have you booked the U-Haul already?

I needed to know how much clothes to pack if I was going to temporarily move in as an emotional support dog. After reading this shit, I scheduled my U-Haul for tomorrow.

The truth about these dysfunctional, downscale communities is that they deserve to die. Economically, they are negative assets. Morally, they are indefensible… The white American underclass is in thrall to a vicious, selfish culture whose main products are misery and used heroin needles. Donald Trump’s speeches make them feel good. So does OxyContin. What they need isn’t analgesics, literal or political. They need real opportunity, which means that they need real change, which means that they need U-Haul.

Masih ada satu gadis lagi," lanjut Will. "Dia pindah ke salah satu rumah di jalan ini beberapa waktu lalu. Aku masih ingat hari aku melihat dia datang mengendarai U-Haul. Dia begitu percaya diri menyetir pikap itu; padahal ukuran pikap itu seratus kali lebih besar darinya, tapi dia memundurkannya tanpa minta bantuan sedikit pun. Kuperhatikan dia saat memarkir U-Haul itu lalu menopangkan kakinya ke atas dasbor, seolah menyetir U-Haul memang pekerjaannya sehari-hari. Urusan sepele. Waktu itu, aku sudah harus berangkat kerja, tapi Caulder malah berlari ke seberang jalan. Caulder bermain tarung pedang khayalan dengan anak laki-laki yang ada di dalam U-Haul itu. Aku baru saja mau meneriaki Caulder supaya naik ke mobil, tapi ada sesuatu tentang gadis itu. Aku harus bertemu dia. Jadi aku pun menyeberangi jalan, tapi dia sama sekali tidak melihatku. Dia sedang memandangi adiknya bermain bersama Caulder dengan sorot mata melayang jauh. Aku pun berdiri di samping U-Haul dan hanya memperhatikan gadis itu. Kupandangi dia yang sedang menatap dengan sorot mata begitu sedih. Aku ingin tahu apa yang dia pikirkan, apa yang sedang berkecamuk di dalam kepalanya. Apa yang membuat dia begitu sedih? Aku begitu ingin memeluknya. Ketika gadis itu akhirnya keluar dari U-Haul dan aku memperkenalkan diri padanya, aku butuh mengerahkan segenap usaha saat melepaskan tangannya. Aku ingin memegangi tangan gadis itu selamanya. Aku mau dia tahu bahwa dia tidak sendirian. Beban apa pun yang sedang dia pikul, aku mau memikulkan beban itu untuknya.