Don't talk to me about other worlds, separate realities, lost continents or invisible realms -- I know where I belong. Heaven is home. Utopia is here. Nirvana is now.
Don't talk to me about gravity. When I get out of bed in the morning, I have to be careful not to step on my breasts.
Talk to the guys that ain't doing nothing, don't talk to me. I just want eight guys out there with me who want to play.
Don't talk to me any more about poetry for months -- unless it is other men's work. I really love verse, even rubbish. But I'm fearfully busy at a novel, and brush all the gossamer of verse off my face.
I said, I know why you’re afraid to fight with me.” "And why is that?” If he flexed again, I’d have to implement emergency measures. Maybe I could kick some sand at him or something. Hard to look hot brushing sand out of your eyes. "You want me.” Oh boy. "You can’t resist my subtle charm, so you’re afraid you’re going to make a spectacle out of yourself.” "You know what? Don’t talk to me.
Critics? Don't talk to me of critics! You think some jackanapes journalist, his soul eaten away by the maggots of jealousy and failure, has anything worthwhile to say of art? I don't.
You do know I am my father’s son, right? People don’t talk to me that way and live. (Syn) Oh, like I fear you. Never. Besides, a fight might dislodge whatever has crawled up your sphincter and bring back the much nicer version of you. (Shahara)
You don't need to diet, She-Body. You are a just-right female." "McNab?" Eve said. "Yes, sir." "Shut up." "It's all right, Dallas. We're a couple." "A couple of what? No, don't tell me. Don't talk to me. Don't talk to each other. Let there be silence across the land.
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