A Quote by Matt Groening

How can I be expected to love someone who tries such crude manipulations as bringing me breakfast in bed? — © Matt Groening
How can I be expected to love someone who tries such crude manipulations as bringing me breakfast in bed?
I am a breakfast girl. Breakfast is my favorite food. I love it. I love egg white omelettes. I love biscuits. I love toast. I love granola. I love quiche. I love all the fatty, horrible breakfast things!
I locked the door, for what good it would do me, and went to bed. The Browning Hi-Power was in its second home, a modified holster strapped to the headboard of my bed. The crucifix was cool metal around my neck. I was as safe as I was going to be and almost too tired to care. I took one more thing to bed with me, a stuffed toy penguin named Sigmund. I don't sleep with him often, just every once in a while after someone tries to kill me. Everyone has their weaknesses. Some people smoke. I collect stuffed penguins. If you won't tell, I won't.
I'd never expected my first time to be in a cabin in the woods, but I realized the place didn't matter. The person did. With someone you loved, you could be anywhere, and it would be incredible. Being in the most luxurious bed in the world wouldn't matter if you were with someone you didn't love.
I have an air mattress. It's great because if someone tries to suffocate me in bed I can just poke a hole in it and use it to stay alive.
I'm not afraid to eat breakfast at three in the morning. As a kid, I used to go to bed at 8 P.M., wake up at 1 A.M. when my grandma would cook me breakfast, and then I'd pass out again.
Stormy in love, stormy in interviews, breakfast in bed - that's me, love.
I've always believed that you have to have the skills before you destroy the skills. If you want to be crude, be crude, but don't be crude because you don't know how to do it, because you're not perfect at drawing and pattern-cutting.
I love someone who tries to boss me around.
i expected demands. he gifted me with tenderness. i expected ego. he let me experiment. i expected disrespect. he called me beautiful. i expected him to expect perfection. he taught me all i needed to know.
I don't know how doctors pick one specialty over another. Some you can understand. Pediatricians. Or gynecologists delivering babies, bringing a new life into the world, but how does someone want to be a proctologist? How can you fall in love with proctology?
A baby is expected. A trip is expected. News is expected. Forgetfulness is expected. An invitation is expected. Hope is expected. But memories are not expected. They just come.
He stepped colser. Looked deep into my eyes. Hesitated a millisecond, and then dove in. "I think I'm falling in love with you." Oh. No. "Cole--" "I know how you feel. About me. About him. I just wanted you to know-we could be good together. We could have a life. Kids. Vacations. On Sunday mornings I could serve you breakfast in bed." He gave me his I-know-you-find-me-irrestible grin. "And then I could make you something to eat.
You may think me crude, and probably I am crude, but I am not so crude as I was, for I am clever enough to see that the girl of nineteen who thought herself a genius was only an unusual girl writing her heart out.
"Why are breakfast food breakfast foods?" I asked them. "Like, why don't we have curry for breakfast?" "Hazel, eat." "But why?" I asked. "I mean seriously: How did scrambled eggs get stuck with breakfast exclusivity? You can put bacon on a sandwich without anyone freaking out. But the moment your sandwich has an egg, boom, it's a breakfast sandwich."
In Bach there is still too much crude Christianity, crude Germanism, crude scholasticism; he stands on the threshold of European (modern) music, but he looks back from there to the Middle Ages.
I've spent twenty-eight years doing what everyone around me expected me to do...being what everyone around me has expected me to be. And it's horrid to be someone else's vision of yourself.
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