A Quote by CM Punk
To John Cena after the fans kept throwing his shirt back in the ring : They didn't throw my shirt back.
Related Quotes
My fans want my shirt. They can have my shirt. They put it on my back.
I stop writing the poem to fold the clothes. No matter who lives or who dies, I'm still a woman. I'll always have plenty to do. I bring the arms of his shirt together. Nothing can stop our tenderness. I'll get back to the poem. I'll get back to being a woman. But for now there's a shirt, a giant shirt in my hands, and somewhere a small girl standing next to her mother watching to see how it's done.
I have nothing but respect for John Cena and his work rate. He's one of the hardest-working wrestlers there ever was. He's been a great champion, an inspiring role model. It's not easy being John Cena and carrying all the weight of the company on your back all the time.
When I was young and visited England with my auntie, as somebody who was football crazy, I simply had to come back with a shirt. I can't remember why, but I came back with an Arsenal shirt and my brother had a Manchester United one.
With regards to the fans, whenever I've played in the Atletico shirt, I have given all that I can. I think I will win the fans back on the field and not with words.
Writers collect stories of rituals: John Cheever putting on a jacket and tie to go down to the basement, where he kept a desk near the boiler room. Keats buttoning up his clean white shirt to write in, after work.
I let it all out--my mom's date,my dad's conversation,my confusion about it all.Caleb doesn't laugh,he doesn't pull away,he doesn't talk .. He just lets me be me. When I settle down,I lean back and witness the mess I've made on his shirt."I made ur shirt all gross," I say between sniffles. "Forget the shirt.What's going on? I could.nt understand a word you mumbled into my chest." Now I'm half laughing and half crying.
My heart born naked was swaddled in lullabies. Later alone it wore poems for clothes. Like a shirt I carried on my back the poetry I had read. So I lived for half a century until wordlessly we met. From my shirt on the back of the chair I learn tonight how many years of learning by heart I waited for you.
You look ridiculous,” Wren said. “What?” “That shirt.” It was a Hello Kitty shirt from eighth or ninth grade. Hello Kitty dressed as a superhero. It said SUPER CAT on the back, and Wren had added an H with fabric paint. The shirt was cropped too short to begin with, and it didn’t really fit anymore. Cath pulled it down self-consciously. “Cath!” her dad shouted from downstairs. “Phone.” Cath picked up her cell phone and looked at it “He must mean the house phone,” Wren said. “Who calls the house phone?” “Probably 2005. I think it wants its shirt back.
I learned from many people. I became a better wrestler thanks to my matches with Edge, with Christian, with Rey Mysterio, with John Cena - who, even though you, the fans, want to criticize him, John Cena is one of the best wrestlers of the universe.
The one thing I will never do is buy a shirt because of its name, especially when it's $600 for that shirt. To me, that's ridiculous. It's just a shirt; it's not worth the money.
I have a really basic uniform: in winter, black tights and any old dress that I can throw on. In summer, high-waisted jeans and this shirt, or that shirt, and a cashmere cardigan just in case.
I got live tweeted once by someone who was opposite my home in some rented accommodation. He was actually describing on twitter what I was doing. 'I took a shirt off, I went to the window, I put a shirt back on... ' And I've got blinds in my flat!
I just wear black and gray all the time. If you Google Image me, you'll just see a bunch of black and gray. It's simple. If I like a shirt, I'll buy six or eight of them, wear them back-to-back, and just wait for somebody to say something. 'That's the same shirt you wore yesterday.' 'Yeah, but this one is fresh.'
John Cena I respect, but he know he never get out of my camel clutch and I can break his back.
Then there was Nico di Angelo. Dang, that kid gave Leo the freaky-deakies. He sat back in his leather aviator jacket, his black T-shirt and jeans, that wicked silver skull ring on his finger, and the Stygian sword at his side. His tufts of black hair struck up in curls like baby bat wings. His eyes were sad and kind of empty, as if he’d stared into the depths of Tartarus—which he had.
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