A Quote by C.C. Hunter

I've dug so deep into his background, I can practically tell you when he stopped waring diapers. — © C.C. Hunter
I've dug so deep into his background, I can practically tell you when he stopped waring diapers.
He felt around desperately for a weapon. What did he have? Diapers? Cookies? Oh, why hadn't they given him a sword? He was the stupid warrior, wasn't he? His fingers dug in the leather bag and closed around the root beer can. Root beer! He yanked out the can shaking it with all his might. "Attack! Attack!" he yelled.
Houses were knocked down; streets broken through and stopped; deep pits and trenches dug in the ground; enormous heaps of earth and clay thrown up; buildings that were undermined and shaking, propped by great beams of wood. In short, the yet unfinished and unopened Railroad was in progress.
No," he said, voice thick and husky. His fingers dug into the chair's arms. "You'd better not get too close." I stopped, laughing softly. "You don't strike me as the assaulting type, Mortensen." "Yeah, well, there's a first time for everything.
We found ourselves in a hole that I didn't dig, but I have dug, dug and dug to try to get out of that hole.
If Hank Williams had lived any longer, his name would have been one of the most hated in the land. Nashville would have dug him deep.
I am excited to show people how, when you get older, you get deeper, you get more raw, you get more honest, and you stop pretending to be the person you think people want you to be. I stopped worrying about what people wanted me to say and just sort of dug deep into my personal arsenal of my mistakes and shameful thoughts.
Practically everyone I know now is from a middle- or upper-middle-class background, and I no longer have the huge chip on my shoulder that I carried around for so many years. I'm not sure it comes out much in the work, but coming from this kind of background is absolutely central to my identity, to my sense of who I am.
X-rays ... I am afraid of them. I stopped experimenting with them two years ago, when I came near to losing my eyesight and Dally, my assistant practically lost the use of both of his arms.
I dug it, New York City, all-the streets and the snows and the starving and the five-flight walkups and sleeping in rooms with ten people. I dug the trains and the shadows, the way I dug ore mines and coal mines. I just jumped right to the bottom of New York.
Yes, you make yourself useful, angel boy. Meanwhile, I’ll be in the bathroom.” William’s jet-black hair was dripping wet and plastered to his face. There was a fluffy white towel wrapped around his waist, displaying muscles that rivaled Paris’s own, and a tattooed treasure map that led to his man junk. Looking at his, you could see the makings of a temper so savage anyone who miraculously survived an encounter with him would end up needing therapy. And diapers. “I’ve got to finish deep conditioning my hair.” Or maybe not so savage.
I love design-based stuff. I dug it in 'Pleasantville' and dug it in 'Seabiscuit.'
I had this idea for a while to do mix this Al Green vibe with a samba thing. I tried to do that in many different ways. Peter added his own modern notion of funk and his own deep background in classical music.
Dad says Specter gets steak every Saturday night for the rest of his life.""Specter will hold him to that, I'm sure." Diana leaned back against the pillows. "Hurry up and tell me the rest. Once Colby gets back, he probably won't tell me a thing. All he'll want to discuss is breast-feeding techniques and how tochange diapers.
The common error today is to bring God so close that we strip Him of His "godness." We think we have him figured out. So God becomes our pal, our buddy, our Divine Butler." from "Dug Down Deep
I looked him in the eye, "I will always love you." Then plunged the stake into his chest. It wasn't as precise a blow as I would have liked, not with the skilled way he was dodging. I struggled to get the stake in deep enough to his heart, unsure if I could do it from this angle. Then, his struggles stopped. His eyes stared at me, stunned, and his lips parted, almost into a smile, albeit a grisly and pained one. "That's what I was supposed to say..." he gasped out.
If somebody writes clearly, you can pretty much tell immediately if something is shallow or deep, whereas if they write with all this duckweed on the surface, you can't tell if the stream is one inch deep or a hundred fathoms.
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