Quotes About Satisfaction

The overall intent is to make everyone sufficiently happy (or in some cases, insufficiently unhappy).

Working his way back to the leaking tip, Connor licked the droplet of white cum from the slit, stabbing the opening with the point of his stiffened tongue. 

the notion that having a job or an income of any kind should be happiness enough has become outdated.

If things were eventually going to work out, did it matter how you got there? Didn't it ultimately just matter that you got the ending you wanted?

My father never measured success the way he did - reaching the top-top of something, as if there was an objective tip-top. My father measured it by how well you figured out what you wanted for your life - what you needed to be happy -Georgia

My father never measured success the way he did—reaching the tip-top of something, as if there was an objective tip-top. My father measured it by how well you figured out what you wanted for your life—what you needed to be happy.

Because it puts it ultimately in our hands, doesn't it? What we choose to live with, and what we choose to live without.

Cuando se habla de comer, hecho por demás importante, sólo los necios o los enfermos no le dan el interés que merece.

Just how much renunciation of desire does society demand of us versus the degree of gratification it provides?

Using love to escape love, groping for love outside the home - it's kind of like smoking and wearing a nicotine patch at the same time: two delivery systems for an addictive chemical substance that feels vitally necessary to your well-being at the moment, even if likely to wreak unknown havoc in the deepest fibers of your being at some unspecified future date.

Love is also a way of forgetting what the question is. Using love to escape love, groping for love outside the home - it's kind of like smoking and wearing a nicotine patch at the same time: two delivery systems for an addictive chemical substance that feels vitally necessary to your well-being at the moment, even if likely to wreak unknown havoc in the deepest fibers of your being at some unspecified future date.

Love is also a way of forgetting what the question is. Using love to escape love, groping for love outside the home to assuage the letdowns of love at home - it's kind of like smoking and wearing a nicotine patch at the same time: two delivery systems for an addictive chemical substance that feels vitally necessary to your well-being at the moment, even if likely to wreak unknown havoc in the deepest fibers of your being at some unspecified future date.

Whatever you want, at any moment, someone else is getting it. Whatever you have, someone else is longing for.

I wanted you to choose this. To choose me. But it isn't always possible for two people to want the same thing. I want you, and that will have to be enough for both of us.

Any morsel that wasn't low-calorie was "sinful," "naughty," "gobble gobble gobble," "heavy sinning," or "a cruel but devastating lover." Just

If you choose your life's work well, something bewitching can happen through your labors. Each hour you log can be a source of joy.

You deserve to be happy. What can I do? Don't send me away, I thought. He looked at me again. What do you want? I want to taste an apple, I said. And your lips, I thought.

Sweet,Genny,he whispered against her breast.You´re creaming,ma chérie.Your tights,your pussy and my sheets are drenched.He ran his teeth over her nipple.Just the way I like it. Jean-Baptiste,please,she said breathlessly,wiggling against his wrist,wanting his hand,needing to be filled.

Do you see my tongue sliding all the way down the ridge of your clit?Do you feel it thrusting up inside your cunt,fucking your drenched pussy until you come?All the way down my throat.

We people aren't too different from the cows, are we? Never content with what we have, always leaning through the fence in search of more.

If your life works, and you work in it, then it's okay, whatever is happening is okay.

I felt like shit, but it was happy shit.

He made a small sigh, as he swallowed the first blood, then his mouth closed over my earlobe, mouth working at the wound, tongue coaxing blood from the wound. He pressed his body the length of mine, one hand cupping my turned head, the other playing down the line of my body. Maybe it was just blood, but I never stroked my steak while eating it.

They would be happy to bring some up. No one bitched about the time. No one questioned. You can always tell how much you're paying for a room by how little they complain.