Chanel Cleeton Quotes

Why me?"
"Because when you touched me, I had to have more.

"Because when you" title="Chanel Cleeton Quotes: Why me?"
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For some, there is only one true love. But not everyone is lucky enough to have that love work out for them. And for some, the love we cannot have is the most powerful one of all.

On the surface, ojalá translates to "hopefully" in English. But that's just on paper, merely the dictionary definition. The reality is that there are some words that defy translation; their meaning contains a whole host of things simmering beneath the surface. There's beauty contained in the word, more than the flippancy of an idle hope. It speaks to the tenor of life, the low points and the high, the sheer unpredictability of it all. And at the heart of it, the word takes everything and puts it into the hands of a higher power, acknowledging the limits of those here on earth, and the hope, the sheer hope, the kind you hitch your life to, that your deepest wish, your deepest yearning will eventually be yours.

Yep, we both put the "fun" in dysfunctional when it came to romance.

I stared down into her eyes, trying to read the emotions I saw there. I wanted her. More than a dance. More than a fuck.
I was drunk on her, and in this case, sobriety was just out of my reach.

London was like a drug - an incredible high you never wanted to come off of. It made you feel like you could do anything, be anyone. You could reinvent yourself in a city like this.

She was almost too beautiful. Maybe that sounded stupid, but there wasn't another way to describe it.

Anyone would be lucky to be involved with you. I'm lucky you kissed me. So fucking lucky.

She was an indulgence, a dangerous one, but weren't those the best kind?

This isn't a good idea."
"I know. It's a terrible idea. But right now, it feels like the best bad idea I've ever had. I have to be inside you.

Kiss me. I want to feel what it's like to be kissed by a man who wants me," I whispered. "Please.

It was the cruelest irony that the man I despised, the man who tortured me from the front of the classroom three days a week, was the hottest fucking thing I'd ever seen.

I'm not the hero, Blair. And somehow I still got the princess."
"Honey, I'm pretty sure you're the beast. And I am definitely not a princess. I thought we just established that."
"You're my princess. Dirty mouth, naughty lingerie, wicked tongue, formidable temper, and all.

She was like a dream I'd given up long ago. A different life, a better me. A chance to wash the filth away.

This was what happened when perfect cracked and splintered. This was what happened when your life fell apart.

To be in exile is to have the things you love most in the world - the air you breathe, the earth you walk upon - taken from you. They exist on the other side of a wall - there and not - unaltered by time and circumstance, preserved in a perfect memory in a land of dreams.

I wanted to consume her; I wanted to break her and put her back together again, because that's what I did - I broke things.

I hadn't been looking for trouble, but it seemed that now that I'd found it, I wasn't running from it, either.

I want a little girl with your smile and your smarts. I want Christmases and birthdays and a chocolate Lab who wears an American flag bandana that you name after a political philosopher or something. We can even include him in the family campaign photos.

London had been a dream, one I promised I would indulge when I graduated university and made something of myself.

The problem with revolution, with the wave of violence it carries with it, is that it's like a flash flood - it sweeps everything away, and nothing looks the same as it once dd. And you think this is good, change was what you wanted in the first place, change was what you needed. But suddenly you have a country you must govern, people whose basic needs must be met. You must stabilize a currency... reform a constitution. Those are not the things young men dream of. They dream of dying for their country; dream of honor in battle. No one dreams about sitting at a desk and arguing over phrases.

I am Cuban, and yet, I am not. I don't know where I fit here, in the land of my grandparents, attempting to recreate a Cuba that no longer exists in reality. Perhaps we're the dreamers in all of this. The hopeful ones. Dreaming of a Cuba we cannot see with our eyes, that we cannot touch, whose taste lingers on our palates, with the tang of memory. The exiles are the historians, the memory keepers of a lost Cuba, one that's nearly forgotten.

There is somewhat of a divide between the Cubans who left and the Cubans who stayed. There is affection and worry for family members and friends who remained behind, the intrinsic need to help anyone leave Cuba, but there is also a schism, Some believe those who stayed contributed to Cuba becoming what it is now, and in doing so, bolstered Fidel's power and legitimized it. People like my grandmother saw that as another betrayal-One that hurt especially because it came from her fellow Cubans. It is much easier to forgive a stranger than it is one you love.

Terrible things rarely happen all at once, she answers. They're incremental, so people don't realize how bad things have gotten until it's too late.

Loyalty is a complicated thing - where does family fit on the hierarchy? Above or below country? Above or below the natural order of things? Or are we above all else loyal to ourselves, to our hearts, our convictions, the internal voice that guides us?

I want you to be scared. I want things to be messy, and complicated, and difficult. I want you to feel, and I want you to know I'm the one making you feel, that I'm the one making it mean something.

I want forever with you. I want to wake up next to you every morning and go to bed beside you every night. I want to wear a ring on my finger every day of my life marking me as yours. I want to make you promises, and I want to spend every day of my life working to keep those promises.

If a woman's in my bed, it's because I want her there. I'm not a child who gets bored with his toys after five minutes. If the guys you've been with treat you like that, then you've been screwing round with boys. Would't you rather fuck a man?

Is the buying-your-own-drinks thing what you use to give guys the polite brush-off, and now you're just offering me the seat because you feel sorry for me, or do I actually have a chance here?

I worry I'm surrounded by madmen who desire to burn the world down without thought for the consequences of their actions, without regard for all the innocent lives that will be charred by the flames.