The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing...that is a friend who cares.
Great tranquility of heart is his who cares for neither praise nor blame.
Who cares about pretty? I'm going for noticeable.
With actors, all our ages are out there for all to see - you can't hide anything, really. And it's kind of a relief. This is my age, this is what I look like without makeup on - who cares? That youth culture - that lying about your age - it's all denial of death anyway.
I'm for legalizing marijuana. Why pick on those drugs? Valium is legal. You just go to a doctor and get it and overdose on it - what's the difference? Prozac, all that stuff, so why not marijuana? Who cares? It's something that grows out of the ground - why not? Go smoke a head of cabbage. I don't care what you smoke.
Don't waste your energy trying to educate or change opinions... Do your thing and don't care if they like it.
Be someone who listens, and you will be heard. Be someone who cares, and you will be loved. Be someone who gives, and you will be blessed. Be someone who comforts, and you will know peace.
As you get older you will gain a bit more control over everything. Don't let anyone, even your parents, break you. Find good people who care about you and surround yourself with just them. If you can't find them at first, find good music and fall into it, let it hold you until they come. I truly hope you enjoy the new record.
You know, I believe that marriage is between a man and a woman.
I believe marriage is between a man and a woman. I am not in favor of gay marriage.
I believe a marriage is between a man and a woman.
Every social war is a battle between the very few on both sides who care and who fire their shots across a crowd of spectators.
Who cares what a man's style is, so it is intelligible,--as intelligible as his thought. Literally and really, the style is no more than the stylus, the pen he writes with; and it is not worth scraping and polishing, and gilding, unless it will write his thoughts the better for it. It is something for use, and not to look at. The question for us is, not whether Pope had a fine style, wrote with a peacock's feather, but whether he uttered useful thoughts.
Honor to the soldier and sailor everywhere, who bravely bears his country's cause. Honor, also, to the citizen who cares for his brother in the field and serves, as he best can, the same cause.
Put your energies into creativity. Forget about anger as a problem, ignore it. Channelise your energy towards more creativity. Pour yourself into something that you love. Rather than making anger your problem, let creativity be your object of meditation. Shift from anger to creativity and immediately you will see a great change arising in you. And tomorrow the same things will not feel like excuses for being angry because now energy is moving, is channelised, is being sublimated, is enjoying itself, its dance. Who cares about small things?
Once the rockets are up, who cares where they come down ? That's not my department.
Once the rockets are up, who cares where they come down?
There's a lot of vitriolic ranting out there, but there are literally hundreds of critics on the web who care deeply about film and having something to say about it.
Apathy's a problem but who cares?
Who cares about everyone? What about me?
You know, I was a nerdy kid going through high school, and then I got to college and that all vanished. I mean, a lot of my good friends - when we were in high school, we would never have been able to hang out together because we were in such different cliques or whatever. Now, who cares?
As for kids who are struggling personally, ignore the bullies! Who cares what they think? A lot of the time, they're not thinking, so you shouldn't take their words to heart. Ignore, ignore, ignore, and keep pushing forward.
It's become fashionable these days to say that the writer writes because he is not whole, he has a wound, he writes to heal it, but who cares if the writer is not whole; of course the writer is not whole, or even particularly well.
If unconditional love, loyalty, and obedience are the tickets to an eternal life, then my black Labrador, Venus, will surely be there long before me, along with all the dear animals in nature who care for their young at great cost to themselves and have suffered so much at the hands of humans.
You’re too important to just … die.” He shakes his head. He won’t even look at me—his eyes keep shifting across my face, to the wall behind me or the ceiling above me, to everything but me. I am too stunned to be angry. “I’m not important. Everyone will do just fine without me,” I say. “Who cares about everyone? What about me?
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