Oh, he did look like a deity – the perfect balance of danger and charm, he was at the same time fascinating and inaccessible, distant because of his demonstrated flawlessness, and possessing such strength of character that he was dismaying and at the same time utterly attractive in an enticing and forbidden way.
The pretty ones are usually unhappy. They expect everyone to be enamored of their beauty. How can a person be content when their happiness lies in someone else's hands, ready to be crushed at any moment? Ordinary-looking people are far superior, because they are forced to actually work hard to achieve their goals, instead of expecting people to fall all over themselves to help them.
Fashion doesn't make you perfect, but it makes you pretty.
Dresses won't worn out in the wardrobe, but that is not what dresses are designed for.
Dresses don't look beautiful on hangers.
It's time to shop high heels if your fiance kisses you on the forehead.
Maybe if I'd agreed to do the debutante thing like she wanted. Or taken up pageants instead of riding jump bikes with a bunch of grungy boys. I'd always tell her, why can't I do both? Who says you have to be either smart or pretty, or into girly stuff or sports? Life shouldn't be about the either/or. We're capable of more than that, you know?
How easily such a thing can become a mania, how the most normal and sensible of women once this passion to be thin is upon them, can lose completely their sense of balance and proportion and spend years dealing with this madness.
Ô, the wine of a womanfrom heaven is sent, more perfect than allthat a man can invent.When she came to my bed and begged me with sighsnot to tempt her towards passion nor actions unwise, I told her I’d spare her and kissed her closed eyes, then unbraided her body of its clothing disguise.While our bodies were nude bathed in candlelight fineI devoured her mouth, tender lips divine;and I drank through her thighs her feminine wine.Ô, the wine of a woman from heaven is sent,more perfect than all that a man can invent.
No one will come and save you. No one will come riding on a white horse and take all your worries away. You have to save yourself, little by little, day by day. Build yourself a home. Take care of your body. Find something to work on. Something that makes you excited, something you want to learn. Get yourself some books and learn them by heart. Get to know the author, where he grew up, what books he read himself. Take yourself out for dinner. Dress up for no one but you and simply feel nice. it’s a lovely feeling, to feel pretty. You don’t need anyone to confirm it.
Ô, the wine of a woman from heaven is sent,more perfect than all that a man can invent.
Instead of being regarded as intelligent or knowledgeable, many a woman would rather be regarded as beautiful or good in the kitchen; many a man, as handsome or good in bed.
He noticed that he felt calmer now she was here, still in that grey dress with her dowdy hat, the air around her redolent with orchid oil. Perhaps all women in England had this effect. Perhaps they all smelled of flowers and exuded a calm and measured purpose. He couldn’t remember.
She really was pretty, for a grown-up person, but when you are seven, beauty is an abstraction, not an imperative. I wonder what I would have done if she had smiled at me like that now: whether I would have handed my mind or my heart or my identify to her for the asking, as my father did.
Why hoard away so many back-issues of People Magazine? Fashion magazines are just empty promises. You can go bankrupt blowing all your cash on expensive beauty products, but the only way you’ll ever look just like the people on those glossy front covers is if you know how to use computer editing software for photographs. Besides, people who think they are ugly, are never really all that ugly anyway. People who think they are pretty, are rarely ever all that pretty.
Slowly the truth is loadingI'm weighted down with loveSnow lying deep and evenStrung out and dreaming ofNight falling on the cityQuite something to beholdDon't it just look so prettyThis disappearing worldWe're threading hope like fireDown through the desperate bloodDown through the trailing wireInto the leafless woodNight falling on the cityQuite something to beholdDon't it just look so prettyThis disappearing worldThis disappearing worldI'll be sticking right there with itI'll be by your sideSailing like a silver bulletHit 'em 'tween the eyesThrough the smoke and rising waterCross the great divideBaby till it all feels rightNight falling on the citySparkling red and goldDon't it just look so prettyThis disappearing world"~David Gray
Female competition is when you are with a guy you like and you look around, see a girl who is prettier than you standing nearby, and think to yourself: "I wish she wasn't here." -This is what happens when you attach your identity and sense of worth to the amount of male attention you receive.
Sometimes I wonder if we ever truly let anyone completely in. The desire for another human being to know you, all of you, all the pieces, even the ones you’re ashamed of — is huge. But too often, we sit down and sort through the pieces only picking out the pretty ones, leaving the ugly ones behind, not realizing that choosing not to share with someone else is like committing a crime against our very soul
When I left, Lydia was prattling about new clothes for her wedding and expressing her ownsatisfaction that she, the youngest of the Bennet sisters, would be the first of them to be married.Wickham smiled indulgently and said pretty things to her. I, disgusted with them both, was persuaded they deserved each other.
She was still glad she looked like Scully. He wasn't pretty either, but pretty people weren't the kind you need. Pretty people saw themselves in the mirror and were either too happy or too sad. People like Billie just shrugged and didn't care. She didn't want to turn into anyone pretty. Anyway, she had scars now, you only had to look.
He’s dying!’ Doctor Cove, one of the ship’s two medical officers told me, looking at his med-scanner as he kneeled at the broken body of the only living Corsair on the black ship. I remember the look on his face as he told me – which seemed more to be puzzlement than actual concern. The man was a Corsair after all, and had injuries I could see, but he was conscious, and none of them looked fatal. But then, I’m no doctor. I never was any good at healing anything – and my job was doing the opposite, and I admit I’m pretty good at it. Always have been.
Have a look around, my pretty, we are surrounded by Death in all forms – just the two of us are still alive –
LED lighting has its place: cold, detached, hollow places like office buildings, factories, fast food chains and public schools - places full of humans but no human emotions. LED lighting really belongs in the apathy of the digital age, where science and technology rules over friendship, love and freedom. Incandescent light bulbs have a warm yellow-orange glow like the glow of a nice fireplace, where friends and family might sit and talk together or where children might open Christmas presents, a glow that can project celluloid films and bring back old memories, a glow that can light the text of a paperback novel. Something that beautiful, with that much power, could never last very long in a time as depressing and uncertain as the 21st century.
They're brainless girls, otherwise they wouldn't be seen dead here. They're pretty, with ugly, appealing smiles and conversations we can't hear. They breathe smoke and blow it out, and words drop from their mouths and get crushed to the floor. Or they get discarded, just to glow with warmth for a moment, for someone else to tread on later.
She was not the sort of woman guys settle for. She was the one they lust after and strive for. She was the one who ruins other people's relationships simply by existing, but she will always be surmounted as guys come to realize the virtues of the approachable girl next door. She was, in brief, too pretty to be trusted or had.
There are some people who through hurts do not feel they are good enough and this is a destroyer of their self-images. As a true believer of your dream, you need to see yourself as God sees you. God sees you as his own handiwork and that is pretty great to carry you through!
Ladies and gentlemen, when you paint your lips, eyes, nails, hair, side-beards, or whatever, to look beautiful or handsome, don't forget your up stairs, if you don't go up there to put things in order, then, consider the former attributes null and void.
That was the thing about her. When you told her about an incident where you so badly screwed up, half expecting her to laugh at you in amusement, half anticipating a smirk of disgust, she would hardly express her pity or maybe she did express what she felt, for she would just nod her head, gesturing you to go on... As if it's normal... As if you're normal.
So it's back once more, back up the slope.Why do they always ruin my ropewith their cuts?I felt so ready the other day,Had a real foretaste of eternityIn my guts.Spoonfeeding me yet another sipfrom life's cup.I don't want it, won't take any more of it.Let me throw up.Life is medium rare and good, I see,And the world full of soup and bread,But it won't pass into the blood for me,Just goes to my head.It makes me ill, though others it feeds;Do see that I must deny it!For a thousand years from now at leastI'm keeping a diet.
To think I actually talked to the boy who nearly got you killed," Ivy mutters, shuddering with disgust. "I'm so sorry I did.""It's okay. You didn't know," I reassure her as we take a seat on some pool chairs."But you told me before what his appearance was. I should have recognized him!""It's fine, Ivy. Even if you did your best to avoid him, he would've found way to hit on you eventually."Ivy wrinkles her nose at the unfamiliar language. " 'Hit on'? What does that mean?""Flirting. Or, for Dunstan, more like a procedure. He's been hitting on any pretty girl he sees ever since he and Melanie broke up. I don't know if he's doing this to make her jealous or what, but it's really annoying."I look back up to see Ivy go rigid. For some reason she looks classically surprised; her hand is over her mouth, and the rosy blush is back with a vengeance,"Ivy? You okay?"Ivy removes her hand, muttering something so quietly I can't hear it."Sorry?""You called me pretty." The moment those words are said, Ivy stares down at her feet as her face gets brighter."Well, yeah," I murmur, my face hot. "You really are beautiful tonight, Ivy.
I gazed up as if I hadn't heard, but what I was thinking was, tellme more about the pretty girls. I was embarrassed for wanting it, itwas base, what did pretty matter? I had thought that so many timeswith my mother. A person didn't need to be beautiful, they justneeded to be loved. But I couldn't help wanting it. If that was theway I could be loved, to be beautiful, I'd take it.
That's always seemed so ridiculous to me, that people would want to be around someone because they're pretty. It's like picking your breakfast cereals based on color instead of taste. But I'm not pretty, not close up anyway. Generally, the closer people get to me the less hot they find me.
Her problem is with pretty,” Tennyson said. "She thinks I’ll need all these dresses in college. Like I would ever in a billion years pledge a sorority. I’ll pack a few of these to be ironic, though. I can wear them to, like, truck stops at night with mascara running down my cheeks and stuff.
I walked until the water lapped against my chest, and then I kept walking until it kissed the underside of my jaw. I was surprised how cold it was. I closed my eyes and ducked beneath the surface. Thee was the wind and the clouds and the pure pool and the boy beneath its unsettled surface, and the blood, the boy's and monster's, defiling the pool.
He stripped to his trunks, then dove into the pool. We all watched as he broke the surface and climbed from the water, his muscles slick and wet, his green eyes glowing in the half light of the glass ceiling. I heard Natalie and Sara both sigh, and Harry murmur that it almost made him want to go gay. Coby stretched out on a chaise beside me and asked, “So you still sorry you moved here?