I don't go clubing. So, I don't smoke or drink.
I don’t like water. I drink Diet Coke. Nor do I smoke, or drink alcohol or even sip a café. I don’t look after myself. I don’t do yoga, Pilates, those things. I hate physical effort, I don’t run anywhere, but I am super-energetic. Make-up? I just black my eyes and that’s it. My hair? I get it cut on set (fashion shoots), I never go to a hairdresser. I’m not sure I’m French. You think I’m not smart enough?
Gas grills are a no-no. Gas is a petroleum product. Rather than a smokey flavor, it will add a a petroleum-based weird taste into your meat. However, if you already have a gas grill, you can bring in some smoke flavor by tightly rolling wood chips in tin foil really tight and placing them on the top of your burners.
I used to wash my hands every ten minutes. I couldn't step out of the house unless I had gloves on. I wouldn't smoke a cigarette unless I opened the pack myself, and I would never use another cigarette out of that pack if someone else had touched it.
If you don’t smoke, I don’t know why.
Some people eat, some people drink, some people smoke. I Pledge.
Perhaps we wouldn't eat so much, or smoke, or drink so much if we were paying attention to ourselves. Perhaps we wouldn't talk so much if we were paying attention to each other. All these oral activities are trying to meet a need, and perhaps the greatest need is to be seen and heard.
The vital elements are often momentary, change-sent things ... a gleam of light on water, a trail of smoke from a passing train, a cat crossing the threshold. Sometimes they are a matter of luck, sometimes of patience, waiting for an effect to be repeated that you have seen. It is usually some incidental detail that heightens the effect of a picture, stressing a pattern, deepening the sense of atmosphere.
I have a low opinion of books; they are but piles of stones set up to show coming travelers where other minds have been, or at best signal smokes to call attention. No amount of word-making will ever make a single soul to know these mountains. As well seek to warm the naked and frostbitten by lectures on caloric and pictures of flame. One day's exposure to mountains is better than cartloads of books.
The short story is not as restrictive as the sonnet, but, of all the literary forms, it is possibly the most single-minded. ...at the end there has to be the literary equivalent of the magician's puff of smoke, an outcome that is both startling and anticipated.
Me, I don’t want any children, I don’t want responsibility. I am gay, I smoke weed and I do exactly what I want in my life because of my talent. I represent an ideal which others have had to let go and they blame me for that. Especially men.
The verdict of a jury is the a priori opinion of that juror who smokes the worst cigars.
Teenagers are bored. By everything. Show a teenager an actual volcanic eruption, in progress, featuring giant billowing clouds of smoke, hot rocks raining from the sky, lava floes destroying entire villages, etc., and the teenager, eyebrows arched with sarcasm, will look at you and say, "Gee, this is swell," then return to the rental car, turn on his portable CD player, and listen to a band called Stomach Contents.
That's what we're all doing: paving the way, finding the roles that have the complication instead of the one that's always got it together or the dedicated housewife or the wild one who smokes cigarettes and sleeps with anybody.
The audiences certainly have declined. If I go to the theatre now I find people come there to eat and smoke and talk to one another. And look like scarecrows.
One very great annoyance in open air gatherings is cigar smoke when blown directly in one's face or worse yet the smoke from a smouldering cigar. It is almost worthy of a study in air currents to discover why with plenty of space all around, a tiny column of smoke will make straight for the nostrils of the very one most nauseated by it!
I am who I am, you are who you are, and everything else is a perception based on acceptance, deception, smoke, mirrors, and so on. It's what's between us that seems to justify our accidental identities.
I want to play golf, practice and not do much else. I don't drink, I don't smoke and I hate going places where you have to yell at someone who is about a foot away from you.
Looked at sky through smoke heavy with human fat and God was not there. The cold, suffocating dark goes on forever and we are alone. Live our lives, lacking anything better to do. Devise reason later. Born from oblivion; bear children, hell-bound as ourselves, go into oblivion. There is nothing else.
My friend is an idiot. He smokes three packs of cigarettes a day. He won't quit, either. His big excuse is, "Why should I quit smoking? Anything could kill me. I could be walking down the street one day and i could be hit by a bus." Maybe if you quit smoking you could cross the street a hell of a lot faster.
I'm always blowing the speakers out in studios, like, there's smoke coming out of them. I found out that I'm not built for studio monitors. I record and mix down everything in the headphones and then I bring it to the speakers.
When you fly from temptation, don't leave a forwarding address. Where there's smoke there's fire.
I love being chubby because chicks that smoke pot love me. They think I have food at my house.
Marijuana will be legal some day, because the many law students who now smoke pot will someday become congressmen and legalize it in order to protect themselves.
You can't smoke in a restaurant in Los Angeles, which is mildly ironic, when you consider the fact that you can't breathe outside a restaurant in Los Angeles.
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