There is no accounting for taste and no taste for accounting.
For each mouth, a different soup.
Cinnamon bites and kisses simultaneously.
strongly believes in providing 100 percent, undivided attention to the game and the issues and decisions involved.
It wasn't the opponent. We had our opportunities, (and) they had theirs. They executed and we didn't.
I wonder if any of them can tell from just looking at me that all I am is the sum total of my pain, a raw woundedness so extreme that it might be terminal. It might be terminal velocity, the speed of the sound of a girl falling down to a place from where she can't be retrieved. What if I am stuck down here for good?