Throwing My Hands Up In The Air Quotes & Sayings

WTF!" she says, throwing her hands in the air. "I didn't know this was a fucked-up relationship reunion."
Olivia covers her eyes. "Don't judge me."
Cammie smacks me on the butt and hugs Olivia. "I told you I'd come right away, you didn't have to call him."
"I called him first," she says. "He makes me feel safer than you do."
"It's his massive penis, isn't it? He could just smack Dobson with it and he'd- — Tarryn Fisher

It's generally not recommended that you react to dreadful news by throwing your hands in the air and running around screaming, "We're fucked! We're fucked!" But dammit if the thought didn't cross my mind. — Justin DePaoli

Caleb does the mental equivalent of throwing his hands in the air in defeat. I ignore him.

Lyons, Heather (2013-11-17). A Matter of Heart (Fate Series Book 2) (p. 50). Cerulean Books. Kindle Edition. — Heather Lyons

I yell and scream like they do. I'm the worst of them. Totally. I'm a nightmare. Once they gave me the passport that was it - started throwing my hands in the air, drinking red wine and flying off the handle. — John Kirwan

hear him breathing behind me, loud and fast. "Are you all right, Four?"

"Are you human, Tris? Being up this high..." He gulps for air. "It doesn't scare you at all?"

I look over my shoulder at the ground. If I fall now, I will die. But I don't think I will fall. A gust of air presses against my left side, throwing my body weight to the right. I gasp and cling to the rungs, my balance shifting. Four's cold hand clamps around one of my hips, one of his fingers finding a strip of bare skin just under the hem of my T-shirt. He squeezes, steading me and pushing me gently to the left, restoring my balance. Now I can't breathe. I pause, staring at my hands, my mouth dry. I feel the ghost of where his hand was, his fingers long and narrow.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

"Yes," I say, my voice strained. — Veronica Roth

My next important discovery: Children of Hermes cannot rap. At all.
Bless his conniving little heart, Cecil Markowitz tried his best, but he kept throwing off my rhythm with his spastic clapping and terrible air mic noises. After a few trial runs, I demoted him to dancer. His job would be to shimmy back and forth and wave his hands, which he did with the enthusiasm of a tent-revival preacher.
The others managed to keep up. They still looked like half-plucked, highly combustible chickens, but they bopped with the proper amount of soul. — Rick Riordan