I know it's practical for career women, but sneakers with suits? Jesus couldn't possibly weep harder than I did.
Never, EVER give up. Not ever. Not EVER. Ever EVER!
You have attained maturity; display it for us, if you please.
Can you burn me up with holy water? Poke me to death with your crucifix? Pelt me with communion wafers?
I was so furious I was actually dizzy with it. There were so many bitchy, sarcastic observations to make, I was having a sarcasm stroke. "My God! You people! You're - you're so stupid you're making my eyeballs throb. They're throbbing, dammit!
Has anyone ever told you that you lack focus?
Why is it suddenly uncool to spell? That's all I want to know.
Also,I loathe it when you refer to me as dude" Eric Sinclair to Betsy
He said my name the way diabetics talked about hot fudge sundaes.
Elizabeth Anne Taylor April 25, 1974 - April 25, 2004 Our Sweetheart, Only resting
Majesty, I beg your forgiveness for the idignity you suffered and offer you the head of our enemy as—" "Put that thing down," I said impatiently. "I can't talk to you when you're shaking his head like a damned maraca.
Yeah, well, it's been a super fun week. And by 'super fun' I mean 'horrible and endless'.
Back off, boys. You don't want to mess with an out-of-work secretary. We're real testy.
I've been stabbed before. Barely a week ago, in fact. AND I've been audited, AND I come from a broken home. In short - no offense, shorty - you don't scare me.
You'll pay," she said stonily. "You won't be like this by this time tomorrow." "Bored and pissed off? God, I hope not.
Wow, girlfriend, you're incompatible with life! And here I thought I was just incompatible with pink.
My my Laura Goodman. I must say that is a charming name for a charming young lady." "Eric's old." I broke in. "Really really old." "Er— really?" Laura asked. "Gosh you don't look even out of your thirties." "Tons of face-lifts. He's a surgical addict. I'm trying to get him help." I added defensively when they both gave me strange looks.
... friends are such a mixed blessing.
I've always assumed he'd be around to be, you know, yelled at and taken for granted. And of course I was wrong. Nobody's going to put up with that forever.
He snarled at me. "This isn't over yet, Betsy." "Excellent," I said. "I would also have accepted 'You haven't seen the last of me' and 'You'll regret this'.
I've got a folder full of rejection slips that I keep. Know why? Because those same editors are now calling my agent hoping I'll write a book or novella for them. Things change. A rejection slip today might mean a frantic call to your agent in six months.
All writers are crazy. So never mind what the editors and your family and your critique group tells you. Submit your manuscripts and keep submitting until you get an offer. Then you can be crazy, with a paycheck.
We have souls. Sure we do. Otherwise we'd do bad things all the time. You know, like politicians.
Kissing Sinclair was like making out with a sexy timber wolf— he was licking my fangs and nipping me lightly and growling under his breath and it was...oh, it was really something.
Here I am, just wandering down a deserted street in the middle of the night. I hope I don't run into any trouble. Goodness, that would just ruin my whole evening." I strolled and hummed, trying to project Innocent Victim.
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