A Quote by Shanna Moakler

When I'm walking, and I can feel my thighs touch? I don't want that. — © Shanna Moakler
When I'm walking, and I can feel my thighs touch? I don't want that.

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I feel like I have big thighs. My brother was always like, 'Yeah, I want big thighs! Big thighs are awesome!' And I'm like, 'Yeah, for a man!' But I've trained since I was 6 years old to play soccer, and this is just the type of body I have.
Sometimes in New York, you're walking down the street and you realize there's a girl walking in front of you whose thighs you could hit a golf ball through, and maybe that makes you depressed.
I feel the sexiest when I'm on stage with the Dolls because I feel like nothing can touch me. Although I want to touch everyone in some way.
Walking lunges are great for thighs.
Dead girl walking” the boys say in the halls. “Tell us your secrets” the girls whisper, one toilet to another. "I am that girl. I am the spaces between my thighs, daylight shinning through. I am the bones they want, wired on a porcelain frame.
It's hard to find peace with your thighs, but when they chafe, try to be grateful for them. Your thighs let you run and get you where you want to go. I have not just thigh peace but thigh happiness, and it begins with thigh gratitude.
You cannot touch the clouds, you know; but you feel the rain and know how glad the flowers and the thirsty earth are to have it after a hot day. You cannot touch love either; but you feel the sweetness that it pours into everything. Without love you would not be happy or want to play.
I don't tan on my upper thighs, so when I first wore those [ cut-off jean short shorts] I look like I was walking on two cans of milk.
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Your knees are a southern breeze.
Cloud walking. I like that. And yeah, that's exactly how you make me feel. Like my feet will never touch the ground.
We live in an emotionally fragile culture. We are in touch with every hurt past, present, and perceived. We are the walking wounded, and we want everyone to know.
His head is busy moving between my parted thighs. He makes low purr-like sounds between my legs and is so surprisingly ravenous I can feel his teeth. His nails bit into my thighs as he devours me like he's the one deriving pleasure from the act, and I'm so turned on by the way he laps me up, that I come.
I want to see the thirst inside the syllables I want to touch the fire in the sound: I want to feel the darkness of the cry. I want words as rough as virgin rocks.” - Verb.
I am running through a snowfall which is her thighs, he dramatized in purple. Her thighs are filling up the street. Wide as a snowfall, heavy as huge falling Zeppelins, her damp thighs are settling on the sharp roofs and wooden balconies. Weather-vanes press the shape of roosters and sail-boats into the skin. The faces of famous statues are preserved like intaglios.
What's amazing to me now is that I actually recall fixating on the fact that my thighs a-l-m-o-s-t touched at the top....If I could go back in time and slap my eighteen-year-old self, I would. I would tell her to snap out of it, because that's the best you thighs will ever be. You should take pictures of your thighs right now so you can remember how amazing they were!
I don't know a lot about mountaineering. I once went walking in the Lake District with the legendary climber Chris Bonington and had to have emergency physio afterwards to regain sensation in my thighs.
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