Best 36 quotes of Francesca Zappia on MyQuotes

Also,' McCoy continued, 'this is the yearly reminder that our beloved scoreboard's birthday, the anniversary of its donation to the school, is coming up in just a few short weeks. So everyone get ready, prepare your offerings, and be ready to celebrate this great occasion!' The PA system went quiet. I stared at the ceiling. Did he just say 'offerings?' For a scoreboard?

Are you French?' I asked instead. 'Oui!' Foreign. Foreign spy. French Communist Party acted on Stalin's instructions during part of World War II. French Communist spy. Stop it stop it stop it I turned to Art, a black kid who was a foot and a half taller than me and whose pecs were about to burst of his shirt and eat someone. I gave him a two on the delusion detector. I didn't trust those pecs. 'Hi,' he rumbled. I waved weakly.

Dear Asshole: Thank you for keeping your word and believing me. It was more than I expected. Also, I'm sorry you were inconvenienced by my gluing your locker shut at the beginning of this year. However, I am not sorry that I did it, because it was a lot of fun. Love, Alex.

Do you do this all the time?' he asked. 'No,' I said. 'Just today.' He smiled.

Here.' Miles unzipped the backpack and pulled out the container of IcyHot. 'Go to the dresser. Should be one of the top drawers--smear this in the crotch of every pair of underwear you find.' 'I--what?' I took the container. 'That's disgusting.' 'I'm paying you fifty dollars for this,' Miles hissed, turning toward the bed. I went to the dresser and yanked open the top drawer on the left. Empty. Crisp white underwear and boxers filled the one on the right. Well... at least they were clean.

How can you be mad that something doesn't happen, when it would hurt another person? If she had to quit for her health, then I'm glad she did. You shouldn't have to kill yourself for your art.

I am real. This”–he put his other hand over the first-“is real. You see me interacting with other people all day long, don’t you? I talk to people; I affect things in the world. I cause things to happen. I am real.” “But-but what if this whole place”-I had to suck in air again-“what if everything is inside my head? East Shoal and Scarlet and this bridge and you-what if you’re not real because nothing is real?” “If nothing’s real, then what does it matter?” he said. “You live here. Doesn’t that make it real enough?

I can empathize with characters. Real people are harder. Real people don’t have concise character arcs.

I do have friends. Maybe they live hundreds of miles away from me, and maybe I can only talk to them through a screen, but they're still my friends.

I don’t know anymore. I don’t know, I don’t know, god, I’m so tired.

If nothing’s real, then what does it matter?” he said. “You live here. Doesn’t that make it real enough?

If you want the motivation back, you must feed it. Feed it everything. Books, television, movies, paintings, stage plays, real-life experience. Sometimes feeding simply means working, working through nonmotivation, working even when you hate it.

I realized everyone around me was wearing a uniform. Black pants, white button-down shirts, green ties. Gotta love the smell of institutional equality in the morning.

I stood there looking stupid, because that’s what I do when I’m accused of something I didn’t do. Forget making a case or, you know, denying that I’d done it. Denying hadn’t helped me in the past.

It is weird for him to point it out. No one points out how I look. I am not a "point out how she looks" kind of girl.

It kind of felt like she was kicking me in the gut, and every kick said I don't want you. I don't need you. I don't love you.

I've met artists before who have experienced similar feelings—not feeling worthy of their own work, guilt over an incomplete piece, anxiety about what their fans want and how they might deliver it. It's normal, but that doesn't mean it's always healthy. Eliza, you worth as a person is not dependent on the art you create or what other people think of it.

I was diagnosed a thirteen. Paranoid got tacked on about a year later, after I verbally attacked a librarian for trying to hand me propaganda pamphlets for an underground communist force operating out of the basement of the public library. (She'd always been a very suspect type of librarian--I refuse to believe donning rubber gloves to handle books is a normal and accepted practice, and I don't care what anyone says.)

I was the big sister. I was supposed to set and example and lead the way so people would say, 'Hey, you're Alex's sister, aren't you? You two look exactly alike!' instead of 'Hey, you're Alex's sister, aren't you? Are you crazy, too?' The only example I was ever going to set for her was to always check her food before she ate it.

I wished I had put more cherries on that slice. The whole jar of cherries. I could watch him eat a whole jar of cherries. Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, what was happening to me?

Mile's fingers pressed into the small of my back. "Basorexia," he mumbled. "Gesundheit." He laughed. "It's an overwhelming desire to kiss." "I thought you weren't good at figuring out what you felt." "I'm probably using the word in the wrong context. But I'm pretty sure that's what this is.

My emotions have been wrung out like a wet washcloth. Like someone cut me open, scrubbed my insides with a stiff brush, and sewed me back up again

My parents didn't grow up here or anything. They chose to live in this nowhere town. Why? Because it was named after Hannibal of Carthage. Their basic train of thought was this: Hannibal's Rest? And we're naming our child after Alexander the Great? MARVELOUS. Ah, the history, it tickles. Sometimes I wanted to beat my parents over the head with a frying pan.

My superpower is the ability to draw for hours without realizing what time it is or that I haven't eaten in too long.

Nature defies my anger. Nature defies every emotion I have. I can't complain to nature, or appeal to it, or rage at it. Nature doesn't care about me

No, you're not a bad person," he said. "And Richter isn't a bad person, and I'm not a bad person. We're just people, and people sometimes do stupid things.

People are too much sometimes. Friends, acquaintances, enemies, strangers. It doesn’t matter; they all crowd. Even if they’re all the way across the room, they crowd. I take a moment of silence and think: I am here. I am okay.

The first thing I noticed about East Shoal High School was that it didn't have a bike rack. You know a school is run by stuck-up sons of bitches when it doesn't even have a bike rack. I shoved Erwin behind the blocky green shrubs lining the school's front walk and stepped back to make sure the tires and handlebars were hidden. I didn't expect anyone to steal, touch, or notice him, since his rusty diarrhea color made people subconsciously avert their eyes, but I felt better knowing he was out of harm's way.

The only thing missing was Miles. But he was probably circling somewhere, destroying villages and hoarding gold in his mountain lair.

There is no force in high school more powerful than one person's blunt disagreement.

The rest of the year, I wondered if the point of Christmas was just spending money and getting fat and opening gifts. Indulging. But when Christmas finally comes, and that warm, tingly, mints-and-sweaters-and-fireplace-fires feeling gathers in the bottom of your stomach, and you're lying on the floor with all the lights off but the ones on the Christmas tree, and listening to the silence of the snow falling outside, you see the point. For that one instance in time, everything is good in the world. It doesn't matter if everything isn't actually good. It's the one time of the year when pretending is enough.

Was there some kind of law about drop-kicking assholes in the face? Probably. They always had laws against things that needed to be done.

Yeah. I told you he was crazy, right? I heard he does some weird stuff at home, too.' He said it with a conspiratorial stage whisper. 'Like mowing his lawn, and trimming his peonies.' 'Peonies?' I balked. 'God, he really is a freak.

You don't know Max and Emmy in real life?' 'I know them in real life. It's not like they're pretending to be somebody else just because they're online.

You Found Me In A Constellation

You know a school is run by stuck-up sons of bitches when it doesn't even have a bike rack.