We Must Protect This Man At All Costs. And I Seriously Just Read That As, "I Sang Until My Eyes Pooped".

We must protect this man at all costs. And I seriously just read that as, "I sang until my eyes pooped".

I upload all the discography of Deftones in this blog.

I will upload everyday at 22:00 (GMT+1) a new song.

Thanks for watching.

Subo toda la discografía de Deftones en este blog.

Cada día a las 22:00 (GMT+1) subiré una nueva canción.

Gracias por vernos.

Deftones - White Pony (2000)

11- Pink Maggit

I’ll stick you a little Enough  To take your oxygen away Set you on fire ‘cause I’m on fire And I’m with you, Alone, I’m so into this whore Be afraid I might lose her so forget about me Because I’ll stick you Pushed back to square Now that you’ve kneed her In the throat Well there you go Cause back in school We are the leaders Of all so transpose Or stop your life is what you do All you are to me is meat Now pass the flask

Pg.28 "Of course, he didn't know what Derry was really like."

     "And what's Derry really like, Don?" Reeves asked.

     "It's a lot like a dead strumpet with maggots squirming out of her cooze," Don Hagarty said.

     The two cops stared in silent amazement.

     "It's a bad place," Hagarty said. "It's a sewer. You mean you two guys don't know that? You two guys have lived here all of your lives and you don't know that?"

Pg. 36

"I started after him... and the clown looked back. I saw its eyes, and all at once I understood who it was."

     "Who was it, Don?" Harold Gardener asked softly.

     "It was Derry," Don Hagarty said. "It was this town."

     "And what did you do then?" It was Reeves.

     "I ran, you dumb shit," Hagarty said, and burst into tears.

I hate when readers criticize books they don't like and blame it on the fact that the author is young. I would just like to point out that firstly—they had enough talent to get their book out there, to write tens of thousands of words, to get it queried and published, or, maybe even they did the work all themselves. And secondly, books can be bad. Anything can. But attacking a writer's life work because they are young makes no sense at all. I've read dozens of books written by young authors who write beautifully. And even more crappy books by old ones. It's not age that makes the writing, not at all. When you read a book and you tell people that the reason you disliked it so much was because the author needed more experience, needed more time, you're putting off generations of young writers who want to improve. If you dislike a book, fine. But don't blame it on the author's age. It's discouraging for people who look up to them and admire them—but more so, discouraging for the author, who has worked hard to be where they are.

"But this has got a good beat and you can dance to it," Richie Tozier said.

"That's as good a way of putting it as any. Going on intuition is like picking up a beat and dancing to it." Mike Hanlon said. -IT

Pg. 44 In July of 1972, with the ink barely dry on her diploma, Patty Uris had landed a job teaching shorthand and business English in Traynor, a small town forty miles south of Atlanta. When she thought of how she had come by that job, it always struck her as a little- well, eerie. She had made a list of forty pg.45- possibles from the ads in the teachers' journals. Twenty-two replies indicated that the positions had been filled. In other cases, a more detailed explanation of the skills needed made it clear she wasn't in the running. She had finished with a dozen possibles. Stanley looked at the strew of papers on the table and then tapped the letter from the Traynor Superintendent of Schools.

     "There," he said.

     She looked up at him, startled by the simple certainty in his voice. "Do you know something about Georgia that I don't?"

     "Nope. Only time I was ever there was at the movies."

     "If you don't know anything about Georgia and you've never been there, then why-"

     "Because it's right."

     "You can't know that, Stanley."

     "Sure I can," he said simply. "I do."

     "How do you know?"

     He had been smiling a little. Now the smile faltered, and for a moment he had seemed puzzled.

     "The turtle couldn't help us," he said suddenly. He said that quite clearly. She heard it.

     "Stanley? What are you talking about? Stanley? "

Pg. 46     "Stanley- what were you talking about?"

     "I forgot," he said. "But I think we ought to think Georgia, baby-love."

     "But-"

     "Trust me," he said, so she did.