Best 18 quotes of Susan Juby on MyQuotes

If you are alive and conscious, you are probably codependent.

In the future if my mother tries to shame me with her disapproval, I will let her know in no uncertain terms that I reject her and all of her codependent baggage. I am Codependent No More.

It’s not a good idea to let on about extreme happy feelings. People get ideas.

Maybe careers aren’t something you can really plan for. They just sort of happen, like brown eyes or flat feet. I took one of those career aptitude tests last year, and it showed that I should be a flight attendant or a seamstress. Not a fashion designer or anything, mind you, but a sweatshop worker. Apparently stewardesses and sweatshop workers and I enjoy a lot of the same interests and activities.

Bobby just stared at me. There was already crumbs in his mustache and it was barely seven in the morning.

Earl had let Bertie off the porch for some fresh grass and I didn't want Dr. Eustace to see her. She still looked as though we'd put Hannibal Lecter in charge of her shearing and had hired the special effects team from Night of the Living Dead to bandage her.

Enthusiasm isn’t really my thing.

Fucking Hallmark never wrote anything for how I felt then. When Metallica and the rest of the metal community pitched in to pay for Acrassicauda, the Iraqi heavy metal band, to move to the US is the only thing that comes close. And maybe the late-breaking success of Anvil. I had a toasty heart, especially after I got called back to pick up first prize for Miss Frizz. Ah, never mind. You know what I'm saying.

Good luck with that," I said. Because seriously. The fuck? Strawberry social? Did I somehow move onto the set of the remake of Little House on the Prairie?

Got anything to eat?" I asked. "You know where the gas station is," said my incredibly nurturing and maternal mother.

I had this vision of the two of us holding hands or getting into some light petting behind shower curtains or up in the fencing aisle or some shit.

In spite of the terrible pain I was in, I tried to help name the hot sauces. For the allegedly mild one, which tasted like nuclear fall-out, I suggested Hot as Fuck. For the medium one, which tasted like seven lit cigarettes applied firmly to the tongue, I suggested You'd Have to Be an Idiot to Try This, and for the Scorpion sauce, which was so hot I think it gave me permanent nerve damage, I suggested Lawsuit Followed by Complete Financial Collapse. She ignored all my suggestions...

It's been a pretty tough day," he said. "No sense making it worse with a salad.

My heart kind of hurt when I looked at her. Not because I was in love, but because I could tell from looking at her that she didn't hate herself. Not only didn't she seem to hate herself, she barely seemed to think about herself. How fucking glorious must that be?

The old man kept going about how he could never keep her home, how she loved to roam. He said she should have been a sheep in the foothills of Scotland. Now if that wasn't a load of shit I don't know what is. I'll tell you why that sheep roamed. The fences around here was held up with goddamn binder twine and half-assed prayers. That's why.

This bastard was in a self-help program? For what? Square-jawed, cleft-chin sufferers? Handsome Bastards Anonymous?

Wetting one's pants is no kind of self-esteem builder.

When we reached the lobby outside the office, moving like a pair of power walkers--no running in the halls of Green Pastures because there was too much chance of knocking over one of the many ethereal, artistic types wandering around in hip glasses with the wrong prescription... (39)