I don't know why people were so upset with me. Prince got his own symbol. I just wanted to adopt the handicap symbol as my own so I could park in handicap spots. Deformed people should be honored to park so close to me. Meeting a celebrity like me may give them hope in their mistake of a life.
I've always wanted to have kids of my own, it's just tough finding a woman I wouldn't be wasting my DNA on.
I'd really like to give back to the world, but everything I've achieved, I've earned on my own, so what's the point?
I never really understood all the hype, until I got one of my own.
Have I ever had sex with a hooker? I'd like to answer that question with a question of my own. Can just anyone look up police records?
I was not born to crush my own kind.
If the book is finished—published and on the shelf—I do not think of revising it. But if I'm not finished psychologically with characters, they will recur, either as themselves or as new, slightly altered manifestations, and their same issues will reappear. It's a matter of the subject and emotional investment and my own obsessive thinking about various issues It's an unconscious process. To say that a single story is not done isn't quite true. A story can be finished and judged successful or not by somebody else, but if the issue is not done for me, I can count on its reappearance.
I would exchange everything for one child of my own.
I am afraid I am one of those people who continues to read in the hope of sometime discovering in a book a single—and singular—piece of wisdom so penetrating, so soul stirring, so utterly applicable to my own life as to make all the bad books I have read seem well worth the countless hours spent on them. My guess is that this wisdom, if it ever arrives, will do so in the form of a generalization.
It's the reductionist approach to life: if you keep it small, you'll keep it under control. If you don't make any noise, the bogeyman won't find you. But it's all an illusion, because they die too, those people who roll up their spirits into tiny little balls so as to be safe. Safe?! From what? Life is always on the edge of death; narrow streets lead to the same place as wide avenues, and a little candle burns itself out just like a flaming torch does. I choose my own way to burn.
I know more than anyone the divergent views about my father. I want to be judged on my own merits.
My own reaction from a distance is that Pol Pot's demise as the leader of the Khmer Rouge was inevitable, and that his own paranoia did him in as much as anything else.
Whatever ambivalence I felt about my own career, Frankie more than made up for it with his ambition and tenacity.
I can spot empty flattery and know exactly where I stand. In the end it's really only my own approval or disapproval that means anything.
I was certainly open for something being on the edge of a nervous breakdown, perplexed by my own sexuality. I was gay.
You know what? I don't care. I'm my own guy. I'm very secure with my sexuality. I can cry anytime I want.
I got more used to my own voice, but still it's hard for me to listen to my own voice, or hear the recordings.
Nine years after I had my own accident, I find that in trying to go back to doing those things that I used to do just doesn't fit. Everything seems to just fall apart. I don't know why but I think it is because I am this new creature.
I had utterly abandoned myself to Him. Could any choice be as wonderful as His will? Could any place be safer than the center of His will? Did not He assure me by His very presence that His thoughts toward us are good, and not evil? Death to my own plans and desires was almost deliriously delightful. Everything was laid at His nail-scarred feet, life or death, health or illness, appreciation by others or misunderstanding, success or failure as measured by human standards. Only He himself mattered.
I'm a busy guy but I set aside quiet time every morning and every evening to keep my equilibrium centered on my own path. I don't like being swayed by anything that might be negative or damaging.
It's terribly wrong to stuff that sacred citadel with junk you know darn well is bad for you, I came to realize I was barreling pell-mell down the road leading to disease, disability and premature destruction of the most precious thing I could ever be given-my own life.
Jackie Chan, Jet Li and Bruce Lee are my masters; they're the inspiration for my work. Bruce Lee was a heavy fighter who threw hard punches. Jackie moves very fast and uses a lot of comedy, and Jet Li is very fluid. I've tried to combine all of their styles and added some things of my own.
It is good to read the testimonies of Scripture; it is good to seek the Lord our God in them. As for me, however, I have already made so much of Scripture my own that I have more than enough to meditate on and turn over in my mind. I need no more . .. I know Christ, the poor crucified One.
The tale of the Monkey Girl gave me wat I needed most at a critical time in my life: the image of the creative and complex woman, unique to herself but willing to share those considerable gifts with a man capable of intuiting the wealth of her worth hidden beneath the skin. But more than that, the Monkey Girl also suggested that I need not be afraid of the fragile happily-ever-after, that I had resources of my own, and that I would not have to contort myself into a restrictive social role for fear of losing that fairytale ending.
[Marijuana] doesn't have a high potential for abuse, and there are very legitimate medical applications. In fact, sometimes marijuana is the only thing that works... [I]t is irresponsible not to provide the best care we can as a medical community, care that could involve marijuana. We have been terribly and systematically misled for nearly 70 years in the United States, and I apologize for my own role in that.
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