Dave Connell Quotes & Sayings

He invades authors like a monarch; and what would be theft in other poets is only victory in him. — John Dryden

Real loneliness comes when we have lost all sense of having things in common. When — Henri J.M. Nouwen

Thousands of beautiful women? Yes. Thousands of insects whose only purpose is to lure fish? No. — Colleen Houck

Anyway, that guy. This is all his damned fault. It's his fault I'm bent over the edge of the bed with my red satin panties hanging from my one ankle. It's his fault I've got a little hot, gooey cum dripping from my chin. It's his fault my heart is still pounding from my first non-DIY orgasm. My first thundering, shuddering orgasm that I didn't tease out with my wet, dripping fingers, the corner of the dryer or 'Jumbo', the 7-inch ribbed black dildo I keep as my shameful little secret, tucked in the gap between my mattress and the headboard.

...

Fuck you, Michael Cera. Fuck you hard.

Sincerely,

Jill Travers — Aya Fukunishi

Nothing of value is free. Even the breath of life is purchased at birth only through gasping effort and pain. — Robert A. Heinlein

Here we are sitting at the Waldorf in a conference room... and in comes someone with long hair and wearing an outfit dripping leather. I remember whispering to Dave Connell, "How do we know that man back there isn't going to throw a bomb up here or toss a hand grenade?"
Connell, always one to keep a cool head, assessed the situation with care. He discreetly turned his head toward the back and realized he recognized the tall, angular man carrying a small purse under his arm. A slight smile curled as he assured Cooney the hippie back there posed no threat.
"Not likely, that's Jim Henson," he said. — Michael Davis

Because if you try to do it again, I'll touch you. Then the only thing you'll be touching is the wind as you're scattered across the world. — Jus Accardo

Little sleek crisp flaxen wig, setting very close to his head: which wig, it is to be presumed, was made of hair, but which looked far more as though it were spun from filaments of silk or glass. His linen, though not of a fineness in accordance with his stockings, was as white as the tops of the waves that broke upon the neighbouring beach, or the specks of sail that glinted — Charles Dickens

I drink and I know things. — George R R Martin