Nine lies on his back, groaning. His chest is shredded from where Eight slashed him, he’s got a fresh black eye, and I think I notice a trickle of blood from where I struck him with his staff. Suddenly, his groans turn to laughter. “That was awesome!” Nine hollers.
I think that boxing is actually not as dangerous as the politics. In boxing, you're gonna get a bloody nose or a black eye. In politics you can obviously get either dioxin in the food or bullet in the head.
I haven't come to you only to take , I haven't come to you empty handed : I bring you poetry as great as yours but in anther tongue , I bring you black eyes and golden skin and curly hair , I bring you Islam and Luxor and Alexandria and Lutes and tambourines and date-palms and silk rugs and sunshine and incense and voluptuous ways
Chavez made a compete fool of himself in front of the entire world while giving the U.N. a black eye. But the real losers are the Venezuelan people who have to put up with this unstable character every day.
As in 'The Three Billy Goats Gruff'?" The skull howled with laughter. "You just got your ass handed to you by a nursery tale?""I wouldn't say they handed me my ass," I said.Bob was nearly strangling on his laughter, and given that he had no lungs it seemed gratuitous somehow. "That's because you can't see yourself," he choked out. "Your nose is all swollen up and you've got two black eyes. You look like a raccoon. Holding a dislocated ass.
Politics is comparable to boxing. The only thing is that in politics there are basically no rules. In boxing, you can get a black eye, but in politics you can get poison in your food or a bullet in the head. It's definitely rougher and tougher than other sports.
The warrior (Zsadist) rolled his black eyes. "Come on, man. What does it matter to me? You, Tohr. Britney Spears.
I'm a powerful being... a wizard," Corny said. "So don't try anything." "Yes," said the little faery, blinking black eyes rapidly. "No. Try nothing.
His eyes shone when he looked at her, green as spring grass. He has always had green eyes, said the voice in her head. People often marvel at how much alike you are, he and your mother and yourself. His name is Jonathan and he is your brother; he has always protected you. Somewhere in the back of Clary’s mind she saw black eyes and whip marks, but she didn’t know why. He’s your brother. He’s your brother, and he’s always taken care of you.
She's got those big black eyes with plenty shiny white in them that makes them shine like brand new money and she knows what God gave women eyelashes for, too. Her hair is not what you might call straight. It's negro hair, but it's got a kind of white flavor. Like the piece of string out of a ham. It's not ham at all, but it's been around ham and got the flavor.
Truth is, I don't mind getting a black eye or broken arm for a girl as long as she's there to kiss it after.
Guys just don't care. We don't take the time to plan behind each other's back. We just say, 'If you don't like me, screw you.' If a guy doesn't like you, you know because you have a black eye.
It took me a full year of black eyes and a bruised and battered tailbone to learn how to do a crippler in the half-pipe. It was a trick that no one else was really doing, and it was scary! But I stuck with it, and one day, it finally clicked. The crippler has been my signature trick ever since, and it's what helped me be so successful in competition.
I’ve discovered a new affliction; it’s called Orphan Black Eyes. When people ask me what I’m working on and I tell them Orphan Black…they usually clutch a part of my body and their eyes go wide and a little crazy. People are MAD for this show. As am I.
I have just read your lousy review. You sound like a frustrated old man who never made a success, an eightulcer man on a four ulcer job ... I have never met you but if I do, you'll need a new nose, a lot of beefsteak for black eyes, and a supporter below.
You never cared that I was your sister before.” “Didn’t I?” His black eyes flicked up and down her. “Our father’s dead,” he said. “There are no other relatives. You and I, we are the last. The last of the Morgensterns. You are the only one left whose blood runs in my veins, too. You are my last chance.
about ten days ago I got started on a new book, and am completely, brazenly devoted to it: my hair is uncut, my letters are unwritten, the house is a shambles, and I sit here as happy as Mrs. Jellaby, though I am in 1836, not Africa. It won't go on like this, I shall fall over some obstacle, and wake out of my dreams with a black eye and broken shins: but while it does last, I daren't interrupt it. I haven't had such a spell of writing for nearly three years.
[Devina] “You know, Adrian, you ever get bored with being a Goody Two-shoes, you could come over to my side.” “Because you have cookies, right.” Those black eyes returned to his own. “And so much more.” “Well, I’m on a diet. Sorry—but thanks for the invite.
Strangely enough, it wasn’t Gabe who was haunting my thoughts, though. That job belonged to a pair of sinfully black eyes that had lost their edge when they studied me, turning as soft and sultry as silk.
Love attacks. It sneaks up like a pride of lions or a pack of hyenas and eats your heart out while you watch. Love is the bully on the playground who takes your lunch money and gives you a black eye in return, the arsonist who burns your house down with you in it, the witch who lures you into her home with candy and boils you alive for dinner. Love is raw, and violent, and instantaneous. You don’t fall in love; you get trampled by it.
New York makes me swoony and in love. The New York of the 1880s was a place where black eye fixers did a brisk business and people were routinely killed for their shoes. But, the constant aspiration of the city never changes.
If I found out some gal was trying to steal my guy, I'd want to give her a black eye! Instead, I wrote this song. At the time I was writing each song [on this album], you could figure out the frame of mind I was in by listening closely. With every song I've ever recorded, I'm in it. I wouldn't write about it if I wasn't in it.
I could get you to smile like that, and without sales tax." I whirled around to find the real Patch standing in the fitting room behind me. He was wearing jeans and a snug white tee. His arms were folded loosely over his chest, and his black eyes smiled down at me. Heat that wasn't entirely uncomfortable flushed through my body. "I could make all kinds of pervert jokes right now," I quipped.
You're a liar!" He turned around, his black eyes snapping. "I'm also a thief, a gambler, a cheat, and a murdered. But this happens to be one of the rare times when I'm telling the truth. Go home. Consider yourself lucky. You've got a chance to start fresh. Not everyone can say the same.
His black eyes sliced into me, and the corners of his mouth tilted up. My heart fumbled a bit and in that pause, a feeling of gloomy darkness seemed to slide like a shadow over me. It vanished in an instant but I was still staring at him. His smile wasn't friendly. It was a smile that spelled trouble. With a promise.
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