Bizkids Quotes & Sayings

I love the smell of Waffle House; it's the smell of freedom, being on the open road and knowing that ninety percent of the people eating around you are also on that road. Truck driver's, road-trippers, hangovers
those who don't live that monotonous life of society slavery. — J.A. Redmerski

I am always grieved when a man of real talent dies. The world needs such men more than Heaven does. — Georg C. Lichtenberg

The beer gave Penn a headache immediately; she blinked like a mermaid struck by sunshine. — Genie Frisbee

In order to be creative, you have to know how to prepare to be creative. — Twyla Tharp

That was the thing about heartache. You never could erase it. You carried it with you, always. — Kass Morgan

My dream is for people around the world to look up and to see Canada like a little jewel sitting at the top of the continent. — Tommy Douglas

The effervescence of this fresh wine reveals the true brilliance of the French people. — Voltaire

I think that fiction writers can write about anyone. If you are writing a character, and the only thing they are to you is their otherness, then you haven't written a character. — Hanya Yanagihara

I attacked Dawkins's book on God because I think he is theologically illiterate. — Terry Eagleton

Sexual energy is divided into three distinct types. First: the energy having to do with the reproduction of the species. Second: the energy having to do with the spheres of thought, feeling and will. Third: the energy that is found related with the world of pure Spirit. — Samael Aun Weor

A handsome prince, such as yourself, deserves someone who is no less than one hundred percent dedicated to him. — Colleen Houck

And then she frowned, and shook her head, then put her arms around him once more, pressing her face into his shoulder, making a noise that sounded almost like rage.
'What's up?' he asked.
'Nothing. Oh, nothing. Just ... ' She looked up at him. 'I thought I'd finally got rid of you.'
'I don't think you can.' he said — David Nicholls

I sit in my chair, the wreath on the ceiling floating above my head, like a frozen halo, a zero. A hole in space where a star exploded. A ring, on water, where a stone's been thrown. All things white and circular. I wait for the day to unroll, for the earth to turn, according to the round face of the implacable clock. The geometrical days, which go around and around, smoothly and oiled. Sweat already on my upper lip, I wait, for the arrival of the inevitable egg, which will be lukewarm like the room and will have a green film on the yolk and will taste faintly of sulphur. Today, — Margaret Atwood