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J Quotes

Browse famous quotes beginning with J. This page is a child index of the full Popular Quotes A-Z directory.

All J Quotes

“Jay-Z's a guy that wears the Che Guevara t-shirt and he doesn't realize Che Guevara was a racist. Che Guevara was a murderer and a killer. So look, he's an entertainer, obviously. He's not in the middle of any public discourse here. But I think it's important to point out when people take stances like this that are absurd.”

“Jayden went for my fries, ignoring Anna’s narrowed gaze. “Thanks, babe.” “You two know each other?” Jo gestured between Jayden and me with her fork. Before I could nod, he dropped an arm over my shoulders. “She’s my bae.” I grinned. “Bae?” Keira sighed. “I hate that word. Do you know what it really means?” “Poop,” I answered without thinking. “In Danish.” My eyes widened. Holy crap. I’d spoken without hesitation at lunch! Holy crap! No one recognized my internal freak-out over it, but I couldn’t believe it. I sat there and spoke with no problem. I needed to give myself a cookie. Anna giggled. “Oh, man. I know. I know. Still think it’s a cute word.” Across from her, Keira rolled her eyes. “It literally means shit.” “Mallory is the shit, though.”

“Jaylynn has a halo of spikes and thorns over her head, which digs into her forehead, and the blood runs down her shadowy brown wavy wispy hair. Her eyes can glow the color of pink. ‘I call them Olivia Cooper eyes! You know, with the black teardrops!’ and her dark cherry black blood flows from them too, as we talk. I think I saw from time to time a black widow crawling on her, making webs on her body. (So- hair-raising.) Along with the markings of unlucky, thirteen were tattooed on her and chiseled into her chest. Other insignias are cataloging her, she has numbers on her marking her like a beast. She has the cereal barcode numbers of- (J-N-0069699611) on her left butt cheek, which glows lime green in the dark! You are nothing but a number along with your first and last initials when you are a dark angel. She can have fire readily available at her fingertips, sharp retracting claws. Along with withdrawing fangs and horns. She also has a very elaborate samurai-like sword with a curved blade. As well as, yes you guessed it! She can sparkle like many thousands of little reflective broken mirrors in the brilliant full moonlight. I never thought I would speak to a black angel, yet she is my little girl, how could I not? ‘To live is to be haunted, to die is to be unperturbed.’ I remember back when she was on the edge of fifteen, and my life was entertaining, pleasurable, and stimulating. Not at all like now; I remember her first days of high school everything seemed flawless, little did I know, that the tower's children had their children, and their evil spirits were passed down to the next demons in the circle of pain; his clan started torturing my little girl until her end. Just as there, mothers did with me. All my life I have tried to prove this story… but how do I write a story that seems so silly to other people that do not understand?”

“Jaylynn, she was so like me in every way; in her personality, in her actions, her laughter, and when I looked into her eyes it is all the same as if am looking into the eyes of a reflection of myself in my bloodstained mirror, from the eras of past, oh so long ago. I have never spoken about her to anyone until now; no one even knows about these stories, no one cares. Now that I am getting older, and getting closer to that casket, I feel that I should share my story with someone, so I decided on putting everything in my life down onto paper in my scrapbook diary, as you know! I have some of it on notepaper, yet I want to get it all on neat crisp paper with the black crisp font. Yet my early 1920’s vintage black Underwood Standard Typewriter No.5. It- the typewriter just smiles at me, because I start and stop one word at a time, plus the button letter ‘N’ has gone missing. Where it has gone is a mystery too, using a typewriter is not the way things work these days, everything is done digitally, with either video or recordings. Until now my dream was to write and complete my story! So, that is just okay with me. I am not a writer, there are not many out there anymore. I cannot even get a complete thought on a page… without jamming, or type-o's now, it pisses me off, but I will do it in time! I wonder how much more time I have to do this. There is nothing more annoying than that snowy old page, maybe there is, but I need to get this down somehow. This is all my misery, which cannot stop playing in my head that I need to let out. Furthermore, this is the only way I want to do it because they all said I never would. The paper is so old now, that it is yellow. The stack of paper is just like my cracked teeth; hell, the little bell does not even go ding anymore.”

“Jazz as Herman has come to it is part of the big come-on. Get ‘em in and get ‘em loaded. Get ‘em loaded and get ‘em laid. Get ‘em laid and get ‘em out. And all the while the band made noise, laid down the beat. When you got laid, you jazzed your girl, but you didn’t want to the hit the street with jazz still on our pants… and, what the hell, jazz is jazz… and the dance floor and the tables, too, completely filled and the temperature going up and up, the faces of the dancers shining with sweat and excitement. Because they’ve surrendered as well, all of them, the booze beginning to take hold, its toxic contents roaring through their veins, mounting into the heads topped with brilliantined hair or bobbed, the girls’ cheeks flushed like rose petals and the flush creeping down their swanlike necks, past the strings of paste that for tonight are agreed to be the real thing.”

“Jazz as Herman has come to know it is part of the big come-on. Get ‘em in and get ‘em loaded. Get ‘em loaded and get ‘em laid. Get ‘em laid and get ‘em out. And all the while the band made noise, laid down the beat. When you got laid, you jazzed your girl, but you didn’t want to the hit the street with jazz still on our pants… and, what the hell, jazz is jazz… and the dance floor and the tables, too, completely filled and the temperature going up and up, the faces of the dancers shining with sweat and excitement. Because they’ve surrendered as well, all of them, the booze beginning to take hold, its toxic contents roaring through their veins, mounting into the heads topped with brilliantined hair or bobbed, the girls’ cheeks flushed like rose petals and the flush creeping down their swanlike necks, past the strings of paste that for tonight are agreed to be the real thing.”

“Jazz celebrates older generations and not just the youth movement. When you "sell" only to people of a certain age, you get cut off from the main body of experience. The power of couple dancing and courtship, it's elegant, and you wouldn't realize America was once a nation of dancers and singers today. People of all races could dance and sing.”

“Jazz had stayed with her for three hours. Three, long luxurious hours where he'd pleasured her---to use an old-fashioned word---time after time. And what she'd paid for was good old-fashioned romancing. That had taken her by surprise. All of Jazz's attention had been entirely focused on her body, her desires. He'd managed to push buttons that she didn't even know she had. How many women could say that they got the same service from their husbands? He'd been the ultimate professional, the perfect gentleman. It was hard to see this arrangement as a fairly sleazy business contract. Jazz had seemed to enjoy himself too; either that or the man was a damn fine actor. She closed her eyes and a stream of sexy images washed over her. His attaché case had contained a range of potions, lotions and toys to set the scene for a very naughty evening. He'd drizzled chilled champagne all over her body and had lapped it up with his hot tongue. The thought of it made her shiver with delight.”