I don't like my hockey sticks touching other sticks, and I don't like them crossing one another, and I kind of have them hidden in the corner. I put baby powder on the ends. I think it's essentially a matter of taking care of what takes care of you.
I find it funny how people pick you flaws to try boos there confidence. But when you can't break the rock baby, your picking on the wrong mountain! Keep hustling', keep bustlin' and your true colours will show...
I saw a dead mother still holding her blackened baby in the water. Some people looked as though they were wearing kimonos, but that was their skin hanging from own bodies. I couldn't believe that it was real.
It is so sad to hear that Nikolai Nikolaevich Vasiliev has died. We all find it hard that he’s not alive. Friends write to us, but many letters don’t reach us… We remember the old days, visiting our hospital. I guess no one goes to the graves of our injured ones now nearly everyone was taken away from Tsarskoe. Do you remember Lukyanov he was so pitiful and sweet, always playing with our bracelets like a baby. His visiting card was in my album, but unfortunately the album was left behind at Tsarskoe. Just now I’m writing in our bedroom. On the writing desk are pictures of our beloved hospital…All in all, the times we went to visit the hospital were awfully good. We often reminisce about our visits to the hospital, the evening chats on the telephone, and everything, everything….
Our children are here to stay, but our babies and toddlers and preschoolers are gone as fast as they can grow up-and we have only a short moment with each. When you see a grandfather take a baby in his arms, you see that the moment hasn't always been long enough.
The day is coming, and it ain't going to be long, when you ain't even gonna have to leave your living room. No more schools, nor more bodegas, no more tabernacles, no more cinneplexes. You're going to snuggle up to your fiber optics baby and bliss out.
With a new familiarity and a flesh-creeping homeliness entirely of this unreal, materialistic world, where all sentiment is coarsely manufactured and advertised in colossal sickly captions, disguised for the sweet tooth of a monstrous baby called the Public, the family as it is, broken up on all hands by the agency of feminist and economic propaganda, reconstitutes itself in the image of the state.