“I’ve got 99 problems and generalized anxiety disorder is among the most substantial.”
“So the student becomes… a slightly more advanced student.”
Sing “Solsbury Hill” five times fast.
Who castrated the insecure boss of that one level in Zelda.
Who facilitated somehow a hand-grenade competition in Boy George’s trousers.
Who designed a stamp in celebration of JFK’s most notable infidelities.
Who staged a coup d’état against Molly Ringwald herself.
Who successfully marketed a swimsuit to the capital-R Ridiculous.
Who re-introduced a maneuver called The Cockroach back into the Joy of Sex.
An American in Paris is a symphonic tone poem, written in 1928 by composer George Gershwin. An American about to be in Paris is a person who ought to call his bank today, lest they suspend his accounts while he’s abroad.
She’s concerned that her concerns have become increasingly narrow. At one point, she was concerned — in what seemed like an authentic way — about a number of issues. Now, though, she’s mostly concerned with the health and well-being of her infant child — and with her capacities as a new mother. She’s concerned about whether a woman can have it all — a career, a meaningful family life, etc. — but is also concerned that she’s just borrowed this concern wholesale from a recent article concerning it. One big concern of hers has always been an independence of thought. So far as she’s concerned, both discerning and abiding by one’s vocation — this is the essential thing. But now she’s concerned: has she abandoned it?
From “Ukridge’s Dog College” by PG Wodehouse:
“The trouble with you is that you don’t plumb the well-springs of human nature and all that.”
While God is regarded commonly as the Author of all things, Barbara Cartland is the author only of most things.
Parlant d’une petite femme. / Woah, woah, woah: elle est une femme.