Quotes About Apartment

Not our problem. We don't have a dead blue hooker in our apartment.

I unlocked the door of my apartment, where the only movement, while I was gone, had been the light moving across the walls from the morning to evening and a scuttling roach or two, and the air inside smelled of loneliness. The ache got eased a little the next day, after I'd picked up my dog from my sister, gotten sucked back into the slipstream of the city. But only a little. And soon it spread, until the word home could make me cry. I wanted one.

He seemed only ... annoyed. Annoyed, and sweaty, and hot. "Yeah, well," he said, "the next time you decide to sneak out of our magically warded apartment through a door that shouldn't really exist, leave a note.

Though Alec had never seen the occupants of the first floor loft, they seemed to be engaged in a tempestuous romance. Once there had been a bunch of someone's belongings strewn all over the landing with a note attached to a jacket lapel addressed to "A lying liar who lies." Right now there was a bouquet of flowers taped to the door with a card tucked among the blooms that read I'M SORRY. That was the thing about New York: you always knew more about your neighbors' business than you wanted to.

I was going to watch Project Runway ," said Jace. "It's on next." "No, you're not," said Magnus. He snapped his fingers and the TV went off, releasing a small puff of smoke as the picture died. "You need to deal with this." "Suddenly you're interested in solving my problems?" "I'm interested in getting my apartment back. I'm tired of you cleaning all the time.

At least Kyle wasn't home. That would be a hard one to explain to his new roomate. Nobody liked a guy who kept blood in the fridge.

And then, every time I didn't see her, there was a fall involved. I thought about dancing on the fifth-floor ledge outside out apartment. Every train she wasn't on felt something like hitting the pavement from five floors up. So maybe my father was right about that. Maybe happiness and excitement really are dangerous things.

Kids are cute, babies are cute, puppies are cute. The little things are cute. See, nature did this on purpose so that we would want to take care of our young. Made them cute. Tricked us. Then gradually they get older and older, until one day your mother sits you down and says, "You know, I think you're ugly enough to get your own apartment."

Shooting at Coco Chanel's apartment was an unexpectedly absorbing experience. The essence of Chanel is firmly rooted there in all of her possessions, and I truly believe that her spirit and soul still inhabit the second floor.

From my apartment in Arlington, I could see Washington. It was always nice to be near home.

I avoid my neighbors - luckily, my building has two exits.

I live in a small apartment. There's only so much Batman memorabilia a guy can hang on to in New York City.

As most New Yorkers have done, I have given serious and generous thought to the state of my apartment should I get killed during the day.

2. I live in an apartment. I could never live anywhere but in an apartment. I love apartments because I lose everything. Apartments are horizontal, so it's much easier to find the things I lose-- such as my glasses, gloves, wallet, lipstick, book, magazine, cell phone, and credit card. The other day I actually lost a piece of cheese in my apartment.

My apartment's only about a block away. Isn't that handy. Fate, he countered as he took a seat on the sofa and made himself at home. Fantasic, isn't it? One day very soon, I'm going to tell you what you can do with that fate of yours.

Moonlight. The silvery sorcery of moonlight slipped through the windows. Roses. The fragile fragrance of roses floated on the air. Music. The muted magic of Beethoven drifted in from the apartment below.

Either a brave, stubborn southern belle is trying to keep the Union army from burning the apartment next door, or somebody's television is too loud.

She looked around her apartment which seemed to be waiting for something. Lana hated that, when the room was a pregnant pause.

You don't have to call it 'the apartment,' " I say, suddenly uncomfortably aware that I am standing next to our bed half naked and about to be abandoned by my sort-of-ex-husband whom I probably should not have just slept with. "Just say, 'my apartment. I have to get back to my apartment.'

I'm trying," he calls after me, and I want to say, Yes, you are. He'll get up in a few minutes, put his clothes on, and get in his car and head to his apartment a mile from here, the two-bedroom on the East Side that I helped him pick out, near the lake and full of light, newly decorated with inexpensive but decent furniture and blue rugs and lots of pillows, and far too cozy to be as temporary as we agreed it was.

darted in first, my pistol up. Lori came in behind me. I scanned the shitty little apartment quickly. Bedroom, bathroom, nothing. The window was open, and I muttered "Shit" as I wedged myself onto the fire-escape landing. It was a long way down. Cops with a thing about heights shouldn't climb around on fire escapes. But there was no choice.

the front door of our apartment

Pet Girl's address indicated that her apartment was in the picturesque and cheapest part of the former barracks, a long walk from where we stood. And what got to me instantly was that Norma Johnson's home was within viewing distance of Sea Cliff, where she'd gone to the Burke School—and where she'd been disgraced.

My mother was a doctor, and I grew up with her in a little apartment belonging to my grandmother, because the Soviet Union never saw fit to let our family have its own apartment.