Voorhees Quotes

Yuki: "What can I learn from a stupid cat like you? You didn’t even know that Jason isn’t really a bear. He’s a character in a horror film." Kyo: "Yeah? So what if I didn’t? Like I’d waste my time watching some movie about a bear!" Yuki: You truly are an idiot.

If Paris were missing, he´d want the same guys looking for him. Seriously, the only team capable of getting better results would be Jason Voorhees, Freddy Krueger, Michael Myers and Hannibal

It's like they think we're still five years old, coloring in kindergarten, and all the kids get cupcakes whether its their birthday or not. Maybe its a kind of self-preservation. If parents actually knew what their kids were like, they'd probably shoot themselves in the head.

There are many benefits to interracial friendships, and one of my favorite is the freedom to call each other nicknames that other people consider racist. I think everyone has a natural urge to say the wrong thing. It's like standing next to some dude on the sidewalk and suddenly wanting to push him into oncoming traffic. Don't even try to tell me you've never had that feeling.

felt, at that age, if time could put lines on my face, I could put them on my body.

Mr. Hyde, Dr. Moreau, and even slasher Jason Voorhees of the Friday the 13th films should all remember Mary Shelley on Mother’s Day.

It's weird going to school with rich people. On the surface, you're jealous. You want to be like them, you want to have the things they have, wear the clothes they wear, and drive the cars they drive. But somewhere in the back of your head, you realize that you don't want to be the one everybody looks at and says to themselves, "I can't stand that fucker." So you're left wanting to be just like them and hating every bone in their bodies at the same time.

As I stand behind him, it occurs to me just how much trust we put in other people. Complete strangers, friends. Everybody. Dalton's just sitting there, relaxed, trusting that I'm not going to lose my temper and stab him in the back of the neck with a fork. Every time we get into a car, we trust everybody else on the road. Every time we walk on the sidewalk, we put our lives in other people's hands. We'd never even leave the house if we actually thought about how little control we have over living and dying.

My voice was timid and I asked, “that is when you knew you loved me?” He turned back to me, eyes sharp. “No. That is when I knew I would never not love you. That is when I knew I would be in love with my wife for the remainder of my winters, until my death and if spirits and ghosts exist, then I would also be in love thereafter.

And I was not immune to the heady awareness one has when an inscrutable beholder wants to behold you.

My mother says all women are mothers in different ways, that we all give birth, just not all to children. She says some women give birth to revolutions, to movements, to sanctuary, to art, to brilliance.

Which left only rhodium, palladium, platinum, silver, and gold—five of the eight noble metals. Rhodium and palladium wouldn’t be discovered until the 1880s, well after money had been in use for thousands of years; and platinum’s melting point would have been too high for preindustrial furnaces. By process of elimination you were left with silver and gold. Silver tarnished easily and had a much greater industrial application—too useful to make good money—leaving gold just useful enough. “Gold is valuable because of its naturally occurring properties: it’s scarce, durable, portable, divisible, fungible, hard to counterfeit, and easy to authenticate,” Tyler said. “Exactly,” Voorhees responded, “and bitcoin has all of those properties too—

Hang tight,” he said. “I’ll be right there.” Marlboro Man was right there, in less than five minutes. Once I determined the white pickup pulling beside my car was his and not that of Jason Voorhees, I rolled down my window. Marlboro Man did the same and said, with a huge smile, “Having trouble?” He was enjoying this, in the exact same way he’d enjoyed waking me from a sound sleep when he’d called at seven a few days earlier. I was having no trouble establishing myself as the clueless pansy-ass of our rapidly developing relationship. “Follow me,” he said. I did. I’ll follow you anywhere, I thought as I drove in the dust trail behind his pickup. Within minutes we were back at the highway and I heaved a sigh of relief that I was going to survive. Humiliated and wanting to get out of his hair, I intended to give him a nice, simple wave and drive away in shame. Instead, I saw Marlboro Man walking toward my car. Staring at his Wranglers, I rolled down my window again so I could hear what he had to say. He didn’t say anything at all. He opened my car door, pulled me out of the car, and kissed me as I’d never been kissed before. And there we were. Making out wildly at the intersection of a county road and a rural highway, dust particles in the air mixing with the glow of my headlights to create a cattle ranch version of London fog.

I kept driving for a while, then stopped on the side of the road. Shining my brights on the road in front of me, I watched out for Leatherface while dialing Marlboro Man on my car phone. My pulse was rapid out of sheer terror and embarrassment; my face was hot. Lost and helpless on a county road the same night I’d emotionally decompensated in his kitchen--this was not exactly the image I was dying to project to this new man in my life. But I had no other option, short of continuing to drive aimlessly down one generic road after another or parking on the side of the road and going to sleep, which really wasn’t an option at all, considering Norman Bates was likely wandering around the area. With Ted Bundy. And Charles Manson. And Grendel. Marlboro Man answered, “Hello?” He must have been almost asleep. “Um…um…hi,” I said, squinting in shame. “Hey there,” he replied. “This is Ree,” I said. I just wanted to make sure he knew. “Yeah…I know,” he said. “Um, funniest thing happened,” I continued, my hands in a death grip on the steering wheel. “Seems I got a little turned around and I’m kinda sorta maybe perhaps a little tiny bit lost.” He chuckled. “Where are you?” “Um, well, that’s just it,” I replied, looking around the utter darkness for any ounce of remaining pride. “I don’t really know.” Marlboro Man assumed control, telling me to drive until I found an intersection, then read him the numbers on the small green county road sign, numbers that meant absolutely nothing to me, considering I’d never even heard the term “county road” before, but that would help Marlboro Man pinpoint exactly where on earth I was. “Okay, here we go,” I called out. “It says, um…CR 4521.” “Hang tight,” he said. “I’ll be right there.” Marlboro Man was right there, in less than five minutes. Once I determined the white pickup pulling beside my car was his and not that of Jason Voorhees, I rolled down my window. Marlboro Man did the same and said, with a huge smile, “Having trouble?” He was enjoying this, in the exact same way he’d enjoyed waking me from a sound sleep when he’d called at seven a few days earlier. I was having no trouble establishing myself as the clueless pansy-ass of our rapidly developing relationship. “Follow me,” he said. I did. I’ll follow you anywhere, I thought as I drove in the dust trail behind his pickup. Within minutes we were back at the highway and I heaved a sigh of relief that I was going to survive. Humiliated and wanting to get out of his hair, I intended to give him a nice, simple wave and drive away in shame. Instead, I saw Marlboro Man walking toward my car. Staring at his Wranglers, I rolled down my window again so I could hear what he had to say. He didn’t say anything at all. He opened my car door, pulled me out of the car, and kissed me as I’d never been kissed before. And there we were. Making out wildly at the intersection of a county road and a rural highway, dust particles in the air mixing with the glow of my headlights to create a cattle ranch version of London fog. It would have made the perfect cover of a romance novel had it not been for the fact that my car phone, suddenly, began ringing loudly.

To get them out of the way, he had already pinned up his posters on the narrow strips of wall between each of the cupola’s windows. One of them was a movie poster for a Friday the 13th movie, with a full-body shot of the hockey-masked Jason Voorhees coming at you with a machete. Another depicted the cast of the TV show The Walking Dead, with the character Rick standing on top of a school bus aiming his giant revolver. Romero’s original black-and-white Night of the Living Dead. The popular zombie game Left 4 Dead 2.

The lawn of Boston Common, the low sloping part from the merry-go-round and the frog pond to the road that cut between the Common and the Public Garden, was a crowd. Of all sorts of people, old and young, black and Asian and white and brown, skinny and fat and short and tall, and they were all in costume, and because they were all in costume, it was like looking straight into their hearts at what they loved or who they wanted to be. There were Poes and ghosts and cats and ravens and Spider-Men and mermaids and fairies and grim reapers and Leatherfaces and a freaky good Jason Voorhees—he was huge, scary huge; when he passed Dorry, she was eye to belly button—a bat, an Uno card, Dracula vampires, Twilight vampires, their faces brushed with glitter, some Red Sox, some Bruins, a Celtic who could have been Kevin Garnett, but she couldn’t get close enough to tell for sure. Someone was dressed as Mayor Menino. Someone was dressed as Kermit the Frog. Someone, a guy, Dorry thought—he had big shoulders and an Adam’s apple—was dressed as Cher, which Dorry got only after Cher came up to Ned and said, “Prince!” and Ned said, “Cher!” and they hugged, because even though they were strangers, they knew each other.

As he drove down the claustrophobic corridor of khaki colored corn stalks the wicked witch was quickly replaced by Michael Myers. Who better to walk out into the middle of the road at that point. Ok, maybe Leatherface or even Jason Voorhees. The more he let his childhood nightmares fill his mind the faster he drove. The house kept growing in size as he got closer.

Freddy never uses a gun, does he? Ghostface? Michael? Jade can’t even imagine Michael Myers using a gun. They’re so impersonal, so “all at once” instead of “one at a time.” Jason Voorhees? C’mon. He’ll use a speargun, sure, but that’s just for a 3-D gag. No, any self-respecting slasher finding a pistol in his hand, what he’s supposed to do is look down at it like it’s a strange bug, then shake his hand until this bitey, attention-drawing thing is gone again.

Veronica Voorhees.

No cataclysmic change since 1984--Energy-exchange system now about 4.5 billion years old--Plant life itself is about four billion years old--24 hour days from one rotation of earth about axis--365-day year--one rotation of earth about sun--varying sunrise and sunset from tilt of earth's axis

Sun--Electro-magnetic energy, including light and heat, 3.5 KW/year/acre

Plants both synthesize food and respire… People respire only…Common to all life processes i the formation of wastes...

Weather is formed in the lowest seven miles of the earth's air envelope, and results from the earth's radiation of solar energy--warm air rising causes the weather…

Genes in each cell set plant potential; environment governs size and quality...

A Russian poacher named Vladimir Markov shot and wounded a tiger but wasn’t able to track it down. Deciding that he didn’t want to walk away from the hunt empty-handed, the poacher stole part of the animal the tiger had killed and was in the process of eating when it ran away. This is where you’d expect the tiger to come bounding back into the clearing and kill the poacher. But this tiger’s brain was built more like that of Jason Voorhees. According to NPR, “The injured tiger hunted Markov down in a way that appears to be chillingly premeditated. The tiger staked out Markov’s cabin, systematically destroyed anything that had Markov’s scent on it, and then waited by the front door for Markov to come home.” Between twelve and forty-eight hours after he wounded the tiger, Markov returned home and was devoured by it,

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MSome stories aren’t written... they’re survived. And that’s what makes them worth telling.

Grief doesn’t ask permission. It shows up barefoot, muddy, and uninvited. But sometimes, it stays long enough to teach you how to love harder.

Rheumatology voorhees nj Rheumatology in Voorhees, NJ plays an essential role in helping individuals manage conditions that affect the joints, muscles, and immune system, offering care that goes far beyond simply treating pain. Many people in the area turn to rheumatology specialists when they face persistent joint stiffness, unexplained swelling, or chronic fatigue that interferes with daily activities. Living with conditions such as arthritis, lupus, fibromyalgia, or autoimmune disorders can be overwhelming, not only because of the physical discomfort but also due to the emotional toll they bring. In Voorhees, patients often seek compassionate and personalized care that combines advanced medical knowledge with a focus on improving quality of life. Rheumatologists in this community use diagnostic tools such as lab testing and imaging to pinpoint the underlying causes of inflammation, while also taking the time to listen to patients’ concerns and histories to create tailored treatment plans. Care often includes a combination of medication management, lifestyle guidance, physical therapy recommendations, and regular monitoring to ensure that symptoms remain under control and long-term health is preserved. One of the unique aspects of rheumatology care in Voorhees is the emphasis on patient education; individuals are guided to understand their conditions in simple, clear terms so they can actively participate in their own health journey. This collaborative approach helps people feel empowered rather than overwhelmed, making it easier to manage flares, adapt to new routines, and maintain independence. Contact us : 856-302-0500 Address : 150 Delsea Drive Suite B Sewell, 08080