A Quote by Rachel Nichols

There's nothing I hate more than gritty, linty, mysterious pocket schmutz in the cap of my lip moisturizer - or, even worse, on the applicator itself. I shudder at the thought.
The tension of a mysterious danger is even more unbearable than danger itself. People hate the vacuum of an unknown situation. They want security. They even prefer war to the insecure expectation of a war with its threat of enemy surprise. This vague fearful expectation acts on their fantasies. They anticipate all kinds of mysterious dangers; they begin to provoke them. It is the evocation of fear and danger in order to escape the tension of insecurity.
They don't call him 'No Drama Obama' for nothing. He's even worse than we thought because he has committed the ultimate American crime, worse than anything he has been accused of so far: He has no sense of humor.
I always have Chanel lip salve with me, a sheet mask for the plane, and extra moisturizer. I like to use iS Clinical Moisturizer, luxe eye mask, and drink water.
I am a lip person. I constantly need a really good lip moisturizer with me. Mine is a Clairin's moisture replenishing lip balm. I have two of them: I have one I keep next to my bed, so it's the first and last thing in the morning and evening, and then 10 times a day in my purse.
Literary studies were no more than a series of autopsies performed by heartless technicians. Worse than autopsies: biopsies. Vivisection. Even movies, which I love more than anything, more than life itself, they even do it with movies these days.
The mind's eye can nowhere find anything more dazzling or more dark than in man; it can fix itself upon nothing which is more awful, more complex, more mysterious, or more infinite. There is one spectacle grander than the sea, that is the sky; there is one spectacle grander than the sky, that is the interior of the soul.
I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair. I hate the way you drive my car. I hate it when you stare. I hate your big dumb combat boots, and the way you read my mind. I hate you so much it makes me sick; it even makes me rhyme. I hate it, I hate the way you're always right. I hate it when you lie. I hate it when you make me laugh, even worse when you make me cry. I hate it when you're not around, and the fact that you didn't call. But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you. Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.
I dare say, ladies and gentlemen, it's even worse in some people, it's worse than the mistake they make in just assuming that there is the world and everything in it, and then there's America. And this one special place just happened. No thought's given to how. No thought's given to replicating it, even. No, that's where it gets even worse. Where it gets even worse is that some of those who look at the United States for what it is, special, no place like it on earth. Want to tear it down for that specific reason just because it's unfair.
There is nothing more mysterious than destiny - of a person, of our species, of our planet, or of the universe itself.
There's not another lip-synch song on the planet, in the history of lip-synching songs, that has been lip-synched more than 'I Will Survive.'
I'm really into lip cream. I have this one by Hourglass: it's an oil with this gold-tip applicator, and it's schmancy-schmancy. When you get to the point that your lips are cracking, the price is worth it.
Men fear thought as they fear nothing else on earth - more than ruin, more even than death. Thought is subversive and revolutionary, destructive and terrible, thought is merciless to privilege, established institutions, and comfortable habits; thought is anarchic and lawless, indifferent to authority, careless of the well-tried wisdom of the ages. Thought looks into the pit of hell and is not afraid ... Thought is great and swift and free, the light of the world, and the chief glory of man.
There is nothing more humanly beautiful than a woman's breasts. Nothing more humanly beautiful, nothing more humanly mysterious than why men should want to caress, over and over again, with paintbrush or chisel or hand, these oddly curved fatty sacs, and nothing more humanly endearing than our complicity (I mean the complicity of women) in their obsession.
Officially there are no fates worse than death. Unofficially, there is a profusion of such fates. For some people, just living with the thought that they will die is a fate worse than death itself.
There is nothing more mysterious than a TV set left on in an empty room. It is even stranger than a man talking to himself or a woman standing dreaming at her stove. It is as if another planet is communicating with you.
Even in the vast and mysterious reaches of the sea we are brought back to the fundamental truth that nothing lives to itself.
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