Mactavish Cod Quotes & Sayings

No, I got a photo of my man draped in all of your women. — Kristen Proby

I was elected to lead not to read. — Arnold Schwarzenegger

The world was supposed to have cheap, ugly rooms, it was a fact of life. — Christine Klocek-Lim

Keep playing games. Make time to play games with your friends and family, because it's surprisingly heartbreaking to wipe a thin layer of dust off a game you love, before you put it back on the shelf because the real world is calling you. — Wil Wheaton

such tracts as these. The trouble was, they seemed more the rule than the exception, — Dawn Mactavish

Real life is only ever just real life. Messy. What it means depends on how you look at it. The only thing you've got to do is find a way to live there. — Patrick Ness

We do it wrong, being so majestical,
To offer it the show of violence,
For it is as the air, invulnerable,
And our vain blows malicious mockery. — William Shakespeare

The second I open my car door I'm ready to kill her. "Fucking shit!" I slam my hand on the roof. There, on the back seat, is a guy, eyes wide open and staring lifelessly at the ceiling. His head is at an odd angle, and his jaw is hanging open. She snapped his neck. What is she? Jackie-Fucking-Chan? — L.P. Lovell

All civilisations have a tendency toward narcissism, and the stronger the civilisation, the more clearly this tendency will appear. It spurs civilisations into conflict with others, triggering their arrogance and lust for domination.This always involves contempt for Others. — Ryszard Kapuscinski

Or there, in the clay-baked piedmont of the South, that lean and tan-faced boy who sprawls there in the creaking chair among admiring cronies before the open doorways of the fire department, and tells them how he pitched the team to shut-out victory to-day. What visions burn, what dreams possess him, seeker of the night? The packed stands of the stadium, the bleachers sweltering with their unshaded hordes, the faultless velvet of the diamond, unlike the clay-balked outfields down in Georgia. The mounting roar of eighty thousand voices and Gehrig coming up to bat, the boy himself upon the pitching mound, the lean face steady as a hound's; then the nod, the signal, and the wind-up, the rawhide arm that snaps and crackles like a whip, the small white bullet of the blazing ball, its loud report in the oiled pocket of the catcher's mitt, the umpire's thumb jerked upwards, the clean strike. — Thomas Wolfe