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No hot guys should be allowed to have an English accent and drive a motorcycle. Not to mention wear the leather jacket or sport the cool shades. Hot guys should be forced into footie pajamas.

Jandy Nelson

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Jandy Nelson
Age: 58
Born: 1965
Born: November 25
Writer
New York City
New York
Guy
Hot
Jackets
Allowed
Accent
Drive
Leather
English
Mention
Cool
Accents
Pajamas
Wear
Shade
Shades
Guys
Forced
Jacket
Sports
Sport
Motorcycle

More quotes by Jandy Nelson

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... every available inch of his face busts into a smile - whoa. Has he blown into our school on a gust of wind from another world? The guy looks unabashedly jack-o'-lantern happy, which couldn't be more foreign to the sullen demeanor most of us strove to perfect.
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We were all heading for each other on a collision course, no matter what. Maybe some people are just meant to be in the same story.
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When he plays all the flowers swap colors and years and decades and centuries of rain pour back into the sky
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Maybe some people are just meant to be in the same story.
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The Color Of Extraordinary.
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I can't shove the dark out of my way.
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When people fall in love, they burst into flames.
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Take a (second or third or fourth) chance. Remake the world.
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Reality is crushing. The world is a wrong-sized shoe. How can anyone stand it?
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This is it--what all the hoopla is about, what Wuthering Heights is about--it all boils down to this feeling rushing through me in this moment with Joe as our mouths refuse to part. Who knew all this time I was one kiss away from being Cathy and Juliet and Elizabeth Bennet and Lady Chatterley!?
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The. World. Is. Not. A. Safe. Place.
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Sometimes you think you know things, know things very deeply, only to realize you don't know a damn thing.
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But then I think about my sister and what a shell-less turtle she was and how she wanted me to be one too. C'mon, Lennie, she used to say to me at least ten times a day. C'mon Len. And that makes me feel better, like it's her life rather than her death that is now teaching me how to be, who to be.
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It’s never occurred to me that the stars are still up there shining even in the daytime when we can’t see them.
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Our tongues have fallen madly in love and gotten married and moved to Paris.
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For the first time in our lives, I’m somewhere she can’t find, and I don’t have the map to give her that leads to me.
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Someone might as well roll up the whole sky, pack it away for good.
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I wish my shadow would get up and walk beside me.
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I wonder why bereaved people even bother with mourning clothes when the grief itself provides such an unmistakable wardrobe.
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The guy's life drunk, I think, makes Candide look like a sourpuss. Does he even know that death exists?
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