I went to school on the Internet. I was not a cheerleader.
Growing up, I played softball and I was a cheerleader.
Qualifying for this Olympic team has been the most stressful experience of my athletic career. It has taught me so much about myself and how to handle high-pressure moments. I've learned to become my own biggest cheerleader, always feeding myself positive thoughts, visualizing myself winning, and most importantly focusing on each individual point.
My looks had gone from well-kempt cheerleader to apocalyptic disasterpiece.
People become discouraged when they listen to their 'inner critic'... Whatever that voice is saying, articulate a response, drawing from the part of you that feels strong and confident. Be your own cheerleader.
I didn't go to high school, but when I did go to school, I was actually in the group made up of cheerleaders; I just wasn't one of them. But I hung out with a bunch of different kids.
All good things have to come to an end, and the male cheerleader has come to an end
If the media is just a cheerleader for an authoritarian populist, who isn't that popular, then we're in a sorry state. The media has to be critical - it has to scrutinize it, it has to call out things.
When you've been initiated, you can stand in the world differently. And I think it is up to all of us, we can have cheerleaders, we can have supporters, but it comes down to us as individuals, how do we now proceed? Do we have the tools to proceed?
The greatest trick the rich - and their cheerleaders on the right - ever pulled was convincing the world that class didn't exist. Out here in the real world, it is more real and more rigid than it has been for a century.
Your best champion and cheerleader is yourself. Always be proud of your accomplishments, big or small.
American press, like the press in many countries, acts like a cheerleader to our government rather than a critical observer. This is especially true, when it comes to foreign interventions. That means that when government leaders conclude that intervention in a foreign country is justified, the press rarely criticizes it. In fact, the press has been an enthusiastic cheerleader for many of our foreign interventions.
It's numbers like these that both bubble-theorists and market cheerleaders can pounce on to make their points. Reality is more mundane.
You’ll fail at some things, that’s a learning experience that you need so that you can take that on to the next experience... What you learn from those challenges and those failures are what will get you past the next ones... I was the pretty consistent bull and the cheerleader on eBay actually.
In a rational society we would want our presidents to be teachers. In our actual society we insist they be cheerleaders.
It was like seeing Bill Gates at age thirteen, times two. And half of him was wearing a cheerleader uniform. Yes, I know that’s a weird image.
Who would be an artist that was perfectly happy? Maybe nowadays, but when I grew up in the '60s, you had nobody in the art club who was popular. No cheerleaders in the art club. I was told that I couldn't be a painter by my first painting teacher. I said I wanted to go to Cooper and be an art student, and he said, "You'll be a waitress." It was really the strangely indifferent parenting.
Get me outa here. F*ckin' creepy cheerleaders.
Well, I am as much a cheerleader for President Obama as Sen. McConnell is a Chippendale dancer.
I got a washed out version of Mom’s curls and a better copy of Dad’s blue eyes, The rest of me, I guess, is up for grabs. Except maybe Gran’s nose, but she could have been trying to make me feel better. I’m no prize. Most girls go through a gawky stage, but I’m beginning to think mine will be a lifelong thing. It doesn’t bother me too much. Better to be strong than pretty and useless. I’ll take a plain girl with her head screwed on right over a cheerleader any day.
I have been a ballerina, a cheerleader and a sorority girl. I was the girliest girl alive.
If I ever form a clan, we'll be the anti-cheerleaders and walk under the bleacher forming mild acts of mayhem.
It was autumn, the springtime of death. Rain spattered the rotting leaves, and a wild wind wailed. Death was singing in the shower. Death was happy to be alive. The fetus bailed out without a parachute. It landed in the sideline Astroturf, so upsetting the cheerleaders that for the remained of the afternoon their rahs were more like squeaks.
Cardboard cutouts of cheerleaders operated by arthritic monkeys would move more fluidly.
There was a contact between a football player and a cheerleader, male I might add. That male cheerleader clipped me from the side as I was running full speed, or slower than full speed, but generally, in the upper quadrant of speed. And I hit the ground pretty good.
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