Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Smudge. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Smudge Quotes And Sayings by 98 Authors including Robert M. Pirsig,Elizabeth Wein,Amy Zhang,Joseph Conrad,Mark Forsyth for you to enjoy and share.
I spit on my glove tips, touch it and can see the sizzle. Not good.
Must stop. This ink is amazing, it really doesn't smear, even when you cry on it
I put my hand in my pocket and squeeze my rocks and wonder if there is a word for the marks you get on your palm when you squeeze something so hard that the skin is on the verge of ripping.
She left a lingering smudge of smoke on the sky, and two vanishing trails of foam on the water.
It is time to buddle (scrub in water) all that is not illutile (unwash-awayable). Baudelaire said that humans were deluded if they thought they could wash away all their spots with vile tears, but Baudelaire was French and therefore knew nothing about hygiene or shower gel.
I'm not bored. Can't we stay here, and I'll find something in the minibar to smear all over you?
Budge stomps into the room. "Do you know you have a blob of brown stuff on your nose?" "My life is in the crapper." "I think it left a souvenir on your face.
Two types of dust I require to wipe my sin
smouldering away in a fit of impotent rage
The crap and the trash of the world. Post-consumer human butt wipe that no one would ever go to the trouble to recycle.
oil paints...the look of licked lips.
Leave a mark, not a blemish.
fishhook. It's squiggly like a worm. Something's
Cheese makes a rubbish eraser.
I want this to be the sand that stays on my fingers.
Splendiferous. That's your word. It's yellow with six legs and it's crawling up your arm.
Why is there blue stuff on your face?
i was partying with the smurfs. i wanted to fit in.
I'm covered with loser dust.
is the answer none of the above
crouched in a hole like a mud-streaked fugitive
everyday a different version of
pouring it away like a water through a sieve
Throw dirt on my name, and I still come out clean
If you choke a Smurf, what color does it turn?
There's nothing I hate more than gritty, linty, mysterious pocket schmutz in the cap of my lip moisturizer - or, even worse, on the applicator itself. I shudder at the thought.
You can scrub and scrub, but sometimes something doesn't just go away. It ... it stains you.
The smylere with the knyf under the cloke.
Fuck a Smurf and call him Gimpy, is that who I think it is?
Crap on a stick.
Some people have the Midas touch, other's dip their fingers in sticky, permanent black ink, Smudged. Unlucky.
Who who whose smell in the air of her room, whose fingerprints all over her friends' secret places.
Stutter, stutter!
Stains were a patchwork of mistakes you couldn't get rid of. They showed the world your real self, even the parts you didn't want it to see.
I look just like one of Brianna's UGLY finger paintings. Because now I'm completely covered with: 1. brown peanut-butter stains 2. purple jelly stains 3. white soap suds AND 4. bright fluorescent-green hand soap from the girls' bathroom.
I washed mud off of mud.
If you're dirty, what in this world isn't?!
Each touch of dust on the clouding lenses was a violation, a dirty man touching something pure.
Was still a fine, persistent drizzle. There was a word in Scots for it - smirr.
I'm sort of a slob.
Some minds are made of blotting-paper: you can write nothing on them distinctly. They swallow the ink, and you find a large spot.
A sure sign of ineptitude and malice is manifested when one's attacker is willing to cover himself with mud in order to try and make some of it adhere to his target.
dripping-wet Gloss
I shall strip away layer after layer of grime
the toffee-colored varnish and caked soot left by a lifetime of dissembling
until I come to the very thing itself and know it for what it is. My soul. My self.
I am clouded and bruised with the print of minds and faces and things so subtle that they have smell, colour, texture, substance, but no name.
I'll bring boys home if I haven't cleaned my apartment.
I'll let them see the dishes in my sink,
the mascara rubbed into my pillowcases,
my unswept floors. Think, if we are seeing each other
undressed and blemished from the sun,
what is a dirty fork?
A face in the picture would bother me, so I'd rub it out with the turpentine and do it over.
Creep, clobber, squawk. Repeat.
It's like I'm trying to distract him with something shiny." Cath circled her spoon hand in front of her face, accidentally flicking cottage cheese on her sweater. "He already knows about all this. This is what I look like." She tried to scrape the cottage cheese off without rubbing it in." (pg. 290)
A layer of fine powder coats his skin.
"My lungs are turning to concrete," Rob wheezes, hacking and spitting.
"So are my eyes. How do I always get roped into these things?" Avery coughs and pats Rob's back in sympathy. A poof of dust billows from the contact.
How did society ever function without you, little Sharpies? Your nibs have the precise amount of give to create a line quality with character, yet not so much character as to be smushy. Thank you, little pens.
One can't go on anymore, she said, electronics seems so clean and yet it dirties, dirties tremendously, and it obliges you to leave traces of yourself everywhere as if you were shitting and peeing on yourself continuously: I want to leave nothing, my favorite key is the one that deletes.
When he's like this, Miss Lowell," Mark offered from his seat on the sofa, "I usually take it upon myself to stamp out in a rage."
"Must I stamp? Or can I sweet out gracefully?" "By all means, sweep.
A prettiness mummified by years of chalk dust.
Aggle flabble kabble . . . snurp?
The dirt of gossip blows into my face and the dust rumors cover me. But if the arrow is straight and the point is slick, it can pierce through dust no matter how thick.
Who spit in your porridge?
I jammed my hand in my jacket pocket, bracing myself fo the next hit, and fel something. Something grainy and samll, sticking to the tips of my fingers: the sand from Commons Park.
Oh Cass, I thought. I miss you so, so much.
Ambition like a liquid ruby stains.
It is useless to try to stir the dirt Out of the muddy water, As it will become murkier. But leave it alone, And if it should be cleared; It will become clear by itself.
The saga of semen stained sheets continues.
I had a microscopic eye for the blemish, for the grain of ugliness which to me constituted the sole beauty of the object.
A black semiplume, the barbs striped deep red, crossed her palm. She lifted it to her face, and her breath trembled the afterfeather. A perfect copy of the plume still burned into her arm, first a curse, now the only thing she had to prove that he had ever touched her.
He looked hopelessly melted. Sex definitely led to smudging.
Your fingerprints never fade from the people you touch
Bloody flaming ashes
A light white, a disgras, an ink spot, a rosy charm.
Got some, dirt on my shoulder, could you brush it off for me?
It looks like frozen snot.
Scratch the surface, and there's just more surface - chalk dust under your nails, but not much else. What you see, as they say, is what you get.
Pony eyed the pitcher of hot fudge sauce Nellie had placed on the table. "And if you pass that pitcher, I will reveal a nugget of information that will please you and instantly return me to your good goddess graces."
Nellie pushed the pitcher forward. "Spill. Not the fudge sauce. The info.
Your hands are no cleaner than mine, Maven.
What are they called? Sprackles, shakums, edible sequins, glossy sugar deedeebobs, I don't know. Instead of sprinkling them on a cookie, I sprinkle them on Angel de la Guarda.
My eyelashes tickled the peephole. from Fogged Up Fairy Tale (Summer 2014)
Some things just won't go away, no matter how hard you scrub.
Who put these fingerprints on my imagination?
There are some things you can't cover up with lipstick and powder.
Hey!" Sam snapped, ducking the sticky shrapnel. "Keep your snot to yourself."
Dev scoffed at that. "Oh, so now you don't want to touch me, huh?" He tsked. "What is it with women? the instant you put a little slime on them, they get squeamish and have no more use for you.
Will you accept these stains, godchild?
Instead of wiping away your tears, wipe the people who make you cry.
Broken glass. It's just like glitter, isn't it?
MEMO: DON'T FORGET THE SOOTY FOOTPRINTS. MORE
PRACTICE ON THE HO HO HO.
A sponge has that much absorbent capability and after a while you can pour water over it and nothing stays.
Wipe your mouth,
there's still a tiny bit of bullshit around your lips.
You can't live life without an eraser.
Only the superfluous is dirty.
The morning slathers its whatever
across the thing.
I assume my stance, and take back the club, low, slowly; at the top, my eyes fog over, and my joints dip and swirl like barn swallows, I swing. There is a fruitless commotion of dust and rubber at my feet. "Smothered it," I say promptly. After enough lessons the terminology becomes second nature.
As if it would slide off their brains at an angle, leaving a scuff mark.
I'm so scared i could sprinkle dust.
revealing a splotchy red forehead, shiny with sweat.
I can eraser you out just as easily as I can pencil you in.
Darkening sea full of stirred silt and clouds of minute
I am the lord your God, and I will smite you until you are smitten.
People who turn pages with licked fingers are as bad as those who wipe their noses on the able linen
The Italians even have a word for the mark left on a table by a moist glass (culacino) while the Gaelic speakers of Scotland, not to be outdone, have a word for the itchiness that overcomes the upper lip just before taking a sip of whiskey. (Wouldn't they just?) It's sgriob.
Oh, gah, I've been slimed. (Jericho)
It's not slime. It's a baby kiss. (Delphine)
It's slime. (Zarek)
I washed walls, polished door knobs and the tiny window. The scales and stench of defeat floated into the pail's dirty water. The
To Severine, his expression was blank. Spotless and clean. She wondered what it'd be like to create a mess in his eyes, to leave an imprint.
Eric moved the broom experimentally and made an attempt to sweep the glass into the pan while it lay in the middle of the floor. Of course, the pan slid away. Eric scowled.
I'd finally found something Eric did poorly.
What's that sticky stuff called?
Basta: Duct tape.
Yes, duct tape. I love duct tape.
Don't try to defile the English language. I can think of a few other things I'd rather dirty up.
Gammy used to say, 'Too much scrubbing takes the life right out of things.'
I was most incorrigibly devoted to versifying, and all my spouse's wholesome admonitions had no manner of effect on me; in short, I believe this scribbling itch is an incurable disease ...