Inspirational quotes with punchline.
The TypeEveryone needs a place. It shouldn't be inside of someone else. -Richard SikenIf you grow up the type of woman men want to look at,you can let them look at you. But do not mistake eyes for hands.Or windows.Or mirrors.Let them see what a woman looks like.They may not have ever seen one before.If you grow up the type of woman men want to touch,you can let them touch you.Sometimes it is not you they are reaching for.Sometimes it is a bottle. A door. A sandwich. A Pulitzer. Another woman.But their hands found you first. Do not mistake yourself for a guardian.Or a muse. Or a promise. Or a victim. Or a snack.You are a woman. Skin and bones. Veins and nerves. Hair and sweat.You are not made of metaphors. Not apologies. Not excuses.If you grow up the type of woman men want to hold,you can let them hold you.All day they practice keeping their bodies upright--even after all this evolving, it still feels unnatural, still strains the muscles,holds firm the arms and spine. Only some men will want to learnwhat it feels like to curl themselves into a question mark around you,admit they do not have the answersthey thought they would have by now;some men will want to hold you like The Answer.You are not The Answer.You are not the problem. You are not the poemor the punchline or the riddle or the joke.Woman. If you grow up the type men want to love,You can let them love you.Being loved is not the same thing as loving.When you fall in love, it is discovering the oceanafter years of puddle jumping. It is realizing you have hands.It is reaching for the tightrope when the crowds have all gone home.Do not spend time wondering if you are the type of womanmen will hurt. If he leaves you with a car alarm heart, you learn to sing along.It is hard to stop loving the ocean. Even after it has left you gasping, salty.Forgive yourself for the decisions you have made, the ones you still callmistakes when you tuck them in at night. And know this:Know you are the type of woman who is searching for a place to call yours.Let the statues crumble.You have always been the place.You are a woman who can build it yourself.You were born to build.
Books. It's always easier to tell people that a character is funny rather than attempt to hit the punchline of a joke that character would've said. But if we all simply told, books would cease to exist. And so would empathy. And feeling.
...if you think the worst you'll get the worst, but if you think the best...""and then everything will blow up in your face anyway. Don't you get the punchline yet? Its the great cosmic practical joke: Knock knock, who's there? Big kick in the Ass.
If you grow up the type of woman men want to look at,You can let them look at you.But do not mistake eyes for hands,Or windows for mirrors.Let them see what a woman looks like.They may not have ever seen one before.If you grow up the type of woman men want to touch,You can let them touch you.Sometimes it is not you they are reaching for.Sometimes it is a bottle, a door, a sandwich, a Pulitzer, another woman –But their hands found you first.Do not mistake yourself for a guardian, or a muse, or a promise, or a victim or a snack.You are a woman –Skin and bones, veins and nerves, hair and sweatYou are not made of metaphors,Not apologies, not excuses.If you grow up the type of woman men want to hold,You can let them hold you.All day they practice keeping their bodies upright.Even after all this evolving it still feels unnatural,Still strains the muscles, holds firm the arms and spine.Only some men will want to learn what it feels like to curl themselves into a question mark around you,Admit they don’t have the answers they thought they would by now.Some men will want to hold you like the answer.You are not the answer.You are not the problem.You are not the poem, or the punchline, or the riddle, or the joke.Woman, if you grow up the type of woman men want to love,You can let them love you.Being loved is not the same thing as loving.When you fall in love,It is discovering the ocean after years of puddle jumping.It is realising you have hands.It is reaching for the tightrope after the crowds have all gone home.Do not spend time wondering if you are the type of woman men will hurt.If he leaves you with a car alarm heart.You learn to sing along.It is hard to stop loving the ocean,Even after it’s left you gasping, salty.So forgive yourself for the decisions you’ve made,The ones you still call mistakes when you tuck them in at night,And know this.Know you are the type of woman who is searching for a place to call yours.Let the statues crumble.You have always been the place.You are a woman who can build it yourself.You are born to build.
If you can’t laugh at your life, then your life is a punchline in a bad joke.
I listen to the rain talk to the leaves. She tells a story of love and leaving (isn’t that always the story? Isn’t that always the punchline?) She tells it softly like someone who has recently lost something that cannot be replaced. She closes her eyes and remembers. The leaves quietly wait. They love in silence. They understand in the dark. And I too begin to understand. We are all part pouring rain, part fallen leaves. We are all part of the world, and we all have a story.
Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read to the end just to find out who killed the cook. Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark, in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication. Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot, the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones that crimped your toes, don’t regret those. Not the nights you called god names and cursed your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,b chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness. You were meant to inhale those smoky nights over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches. You’ve walked those streets a thousand times and still you end up here. Regret none of it, not one of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing, when the lights from the carnival rides were the only stars you believed in, loving them for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved. You’ve traveled this far on the back of every mistake, ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied of expectation. Relax. Don’t bother remembering any of it. Let’s stop here, under the lit sign on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.
Listen with an open mind, gather all the incoming information, both verbal and non-verbal and be careful not to ignore things you don’t wish to hear. Don’t make assumptions or jump to conclusions. The punchline usually comes at the end!
Writing a first draft is like groping one's way into a dark room, or overhearing a faint conversation, or telling a joke whose punchline you've forgotten. As someone said, one writes mainly to rewrite, for rewriting and revising are how one's mind comes to inhabit the material fully.
The inside jokes have already dissolved into unordered words with no punchline. The gifts have been reduced to objects whose saving grace is their monetary value, no meaning and all function. There are photographs, somewhere, but I’m not the person posed in them anymore and whoever that is sitting next to me, all dressed up in your costume and wearing your mask, well, that’s not you either.
And it started out fun. We were chattering enthusiastically, flipping between CNN, MSNBC, and FOX News. But as the evening wore on, and the numbers rolled in, it got quieter, and I found myself becoming intensely depressed. Why was I putting myself through this? The issues I’ve devoted my life to have become so marginalized by the coverage that they have no possible relevance to me. I can’t even blame the media — people simply don’t care about alternate-party politics. And why should they? I’m so far in the minority that my activism is a joke, a punchline that stopped being funny years ago. It goes beyond rooting for the underdog. It’s not rooting for the Giants: it’s more like, say, rooting for the Twins. But during the Super Bowl.
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