Pressing was a form of execution that was used for centuries before it became obsolete. One of the methods, used especially in South and Southeast Asia was that of using an elephant to crush the body of the unfortunate person being executed.
pressing these keys, I’m trying to write the very best I can. But you see writing under pressure is very dePRESSING. You see what I did there? *hehe*
I’m sure I suck at this oh-so-scary game for which I’m sorry in advance.
Regards,
A sucky human.
To press or not to press? I find that whichever pressing path you choose, the result is depression. Not to convey the perception of pessimism, but to pronounce a a stance of a presumptuous pressing bias. For the choice is in an ilusion, at some post pressed point, the paths will permeate into one congruent river promptly resulting in the ultimate destruction of every prized possession by the pressure of the creators thumb pressing down on posthumous paste.
the pressing matter pressed Preston as he pressed the button for the bottom floor. the body hidden in his apartment was the least of his worries now. the taco in his pocket was now crumbled beyond comparable.
In Quatro, I find it more personal. This is the work of much of my life. Imagine if we could publish just any old time, no saving, no squandering, no care. Try to use just one type. And that boy they sent over three months ago, I hear he does it right. This is the work of much of my life. Imagine if we could publish just any old time, just say any little thing, down a tree, push out words with little thought and little meaning; thin entertainment. What a mess to find something worth reading. Letter pressing. Take your time. I know I’m young, but this is the work of much of my life.
Pressing. The word is pressing. Time is pressing on. The weight of the world is pressing upon us. Why is it that there is always so much pressure? Why is it that everything is always so urgent — so pressing? Perhaps because life is short. But perhaps that’s also why we shouldn’t be pressured.
he rubbed his finger over his temple again. what was it? he knew he had rushed into this room for something, but he wasn’t quite sure what it was. it was pressing on him so hard now, on the edge of his memory. then, the smell of smoke met his nose. OH! that’s right. fire extinguisher.
She was pressing into me. In multiple ways. In both her body was so close to mine, pressed against me, pressing me into the wall. And her whispered questions trapping me, but I didn’t care; i couldn’t escape and i didn’t want to.
She’s never needed to go to the bathroom during a quorum meeting before but this seemed to be a new symptom, another sign her body was betraying her. She tried to get Bill’s attention by nudging his leg with her heel. He jerked and the movement shot a sharp pain through her bladder. Her wince was what caught his attention and she felt his hand move to her knee, a gentle question and a comforting, knowing support.
Then you start to grow into your own body. You have boobs now, or your balls drop or something. You have all the things that come with boobs suddenly sprouting on that bare canvas of skin you call a chest. Or your balls doing whatever balls do at that age. I wouldn’t know. I am a girl. But yeah. So you have boobs now, in some fashion. Maybe they haven’t quite reached their full potential yet, but they’re there, and that’s enough. You get to be a kid and have all of those things you saw in movies when you were growing up; lacy training bras; parties where everyone chokes on Smirnoff ice; semi-permanent hair-dye; that kind of stuff. Never mind that you still secretly play with Bratz Dolls or Beanie Babies or whatever—there are boys now. Or maybe you’re interested in other girls. And suddenly we’re all knocking our braces together and feeling each other up. Then, oh, it’s off to school band or some shit. You get to play T rated video games if your parents are cool with it. If you were an adolescent in 2005 like me, you stay up late and listen to 92.0 K Rock on the radio. If you’re adolescent in 2015, I don’t know. But it’s more or less the same thing. You have baby boobs. You’re still playing with kids toys even as you get to explore all the happening things teenyboppers do on TV. Sure, it’s a little weird being caught between “child” and “young adult” or however the new marketing brands it, but it’s pretty good times. Until you get your period for the first time. You don’t know it yet, but your boobs will stop growing. And then you have all the things that come with boobs, but without all the fun stuff. They’re heavy sometimes. Sometimes you have the urge to press them down, make them go away. You wake up in the middle of the night and find yourself pressing them down. This can happen early as 16, like it did for me. You pressing down your tits, trying to make them flat like when you were a kid. You’re trying to go back.
There were more pressing matters at hand. Like the fact that Heather was dead. She honestly didn’t understand how Veronica could focus on mundane things or, you know, sleep with her killer. Why did she become friends with her again?
The thing that feels most pressing right now is making enough money. Which means about $400 per day. Today, that means getting my proofreading project done…and if I have time, also applying to a bunch of other copywriting jobs.
It’s hard to image you not in my life. Pressing your heart into mine. Pressing your soul against mine as we lye together. It’s hard to imagine you not in my life.
He waved her off. “I have more pressing concerns than the state of your fiance, sister,”
“The fiance YOU sent to the front lines? The fiance who, up until she became so, was one of your best and oldest friends? That fiance, brother?” she snarled defiantly.
He heaved a dramatic sigh and she only just resisted the urge to smack the disinterested look off his face. “Who else, Arianna? Unless you’ve changed your mind…” his wicked eyes gleamed and she fought the urge to be sick.
“You know I haven’t,”
“I have a pressing engagement this afternoon, – with my masseur!” The microsecond that Gerard smiled before he guffawed at his own joke was a tormenting glimpse of heaven for Louise. For that instant, she wondered, “Was he smiling at me? Could it be he actually likes me?” Her heart leaped, flew to the heavens for that one small moment, and fell crushingly to earth when she realised her undying love for him remained unrequited.
Pressing. The way you pressed your skin against mine, late at night, the way you pressed your lips against my temple, whispering something about ditching a couple of friends to watch a movie instead. Your hands pressed against my shoulders, saying how beautiful I looked when I cried
It was a pressing sort of question, and I had no idea how to answer it. My mind had gone blank; any thoughts left behind were running laps around my head.
Jamie, seeing me pause, kicked me under the table. I yelped with surprise and pain, and Anni looked at us suspiciously. She asked again.
fingers tightly wound around your gift,
a bouquet of clementines.
pressing every button in the elevator
high heels, velvet seats
arabesque, drosselmeyer.
we’re making the best of a bad situation with pointe shoes and pine needles.
Everyone always has a pressing need. Have to get this done. Have to be at this place. Have to see this person. Have to, have to, have to. I feel like more people want to slow down, but they can’t admit it because they can’t afford to fall behind.
Hands together. Sweat builds up, the heart rate quickens. Anxiety. Impatience. Pressing my hands together, this causes me stress. Trouble. No reason to do this. I cause myself trouble.
He was just pressing himself on me. Pressing all my inibitions, pressing all my low self-steam, pressing my fears. Not pressing my brains tho. I was still thinking. I was still alert.
Alert about my body. Alert about my naive, my inexperience, my way to act.
I was just wanting to lose it all while he was pressing me.
“You got my shirt wrinkled.”
“Sorry.”
“Why were you wearing it?”
“I had an interview. Anyway, it was in the hamper anyway.”
“Wait. You wore a wrinkly shirt to an interview?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“You didn’t iron it?”
“No. Should I?”
“Yes. A shirt like this needs a good pressing to look presentable. You’re hopeless.”
“We have pressing matters to discuss,” she said.
And so she spoke. On and on, unending. Her words sluiced out of his head just as they came in. He cared little for it it all, especially her. Everything felt so trivial, so miniscule, so…. pointless.
“…. pressing matters,” she said again.
He wished she would shut up.
I feel that life is being very pressing about what i am suppose to do with my life. I feel the deadlines are coming and life is changing but i have this over whelming feeling that it is pressing forward and I need to make moves fast.
button
‘Don’t press the button’ mama said to my sister Lorie, the rocket’ll shoot off into the sky,
We heard Lorie say “button” we turned around slowing and there she was pressing the button….
She lay her palm into the dough and pressed until it oozed to the edges of the plate beneath it. The air smelled of cloves–some had spilled onto the floor, and each time Cathy stepped in it the smell rose again.
Oh God. This describes an annoying trait I sometimes see in my colleagues, and in myself. I don’t understand how it creates productivity, in fact it just makes everything less efficient. it is distracting. This word alone creates a cloud of negativity above the positive vibes I’ve been having all day.
urgent matters press me. but they cant hex me. im clearly sexy but they wanna deny my test, see. i dont play those games. im here for the strange, that kind of vibe where youre so alive and nothing really seems plain. damn girl. you. on me, i want you pressing. follow me @grldg
pressing against me
lingering lips and
language
encouraging me
to bloom
fruit
oft forgotten
yet ripe all the same
coming alive and undone
professing your name
i saw someone pressing the button on the tv remote to turn the tv on. then the were pressing the button on the pc. and jaguar was on the bear pressing and puring and pooka came in and pressed on her nose
Pressing was a form of execution that was used for centuries before it became obsolete. One of the methods, used especially in South and Southeast Asia was that of using an elephant to crush the body of the unfortunate person being executed.
no one sticks to deadlines.
pressing these keys, I’m trying to write the very best I can. But you see writing under pressure is very dePRESSING. You see what I did there? *hehe*
I’m sure I suck at this oh-so-scary game for which I’m sorry in advance.
Regards,
A sucky human.
To press or not to press? I find that whichever pressing path you choose, the result is depression. Not to convey the perception of pessimism, but to pronounce a a stance of a presumptuous pressing bias. For the choice is in an ilusion, at some post pressed point, the paths will permeate into one congruent river promptly resulting in the ultimate destruction of every prized possession by the pressure of the creators thumb pressing down on posthumous paste.
the pressing matter pressed Preston as he pressed the button for the bottom floor. the body hidden in his apartment was the least of his worries now. the taco in his pocket was now crumbled beyond comparable.
paper skinny and breathing dandelions
singing pink songs with my eyelashes
some sun in my lungs
In Quatro, I find it more personal. This is the work of much of my life. Imagine if we could publish just any old time, no saving, no squandering, no care. Try to use just one type. And that boy they sent over three months ago, I hear he does it right. This is the work of much of my life. Imagine if we could publish just any old time, just say any little thing, down a tree, push out words with little thought and little meaning; thin entertainment. What a mess to find something worth reading. Letter pressing. Take your time. I know I’m young, but this is the work of much of my life.
Pressing. The word is pressing. Time is pressing on. The weight of the world is pressing upon us. Why is it that there is always so much pressure? Why is it that everything is always so urgent — so pressing? Perhaps because life is short. But perhaps that’s also why we shouldn’t be pressured.
I can feel the creature pressing down on my insides as its hovers over my body.
he rubbed his finger over his temple again. what was it? he knew he had rushed into this room for something, but he wasn’t quite sure what it was. it was pressing on him so hard now, on the edge of his memory. then, the smell of smoke met his nose. OH! that’s right. fire extinguisher.
She was pressing into me. In multiple ways. In both her body was so close to mine, pressed against me, pressing me into the wall. And her whispered questions trapping me, but I didn’t care; i couldn’t escape and i didn’t want to.
She’s never needed to go to the bathroom during a quorum meeting before but this seemed to be a new symptom, another sign her body was betraying her. She tried to get Bill’s attention by nudging his leg with her heel. He jerked and the movement shot a sharp pain through her bladder. Her wince was what caught his attention and she felt his hand move to her knee, a gentle question and a comforting, knowing support.
Then you start to grow into your own body. You have boobs now, or your balls drop or something. You have all the things that come with boobs suddenly sprouting on that bare canvas of skin you call a chest. Or your balls doing whatever balls do at that age. I wouldn’t know. I am a girl. But yeah. So you have boobs now, in some fashion. Maybe they haven’t quite reached their full potential yet, but they’re there, and that’s enough. You get to be a kid and have all of those things you saw in movies when you were growing up; lacy training bras; parties where everyone chokes on Smirnoff ice; semi-permanent hair-dye; that kind of stuff. Never mind that you still secretly play with Bratz Dolls or Beanie Babies or whatever—there are boys now. Or maybe you’re interested in other girls. And suddenly we’re all knocking our braces together and feeling each other up. Then, oh, it’s off to school band or some shit. You get to play T rated video games if your parents are cool with it. If you were an adolescent in 2005 like me, you stay up late and listen to 92.0 K Rock on the radio. If you’re adolescent in 2015, I don’t know. But it’s more or less the same thing. You have baby boobs. You’re still playing with kids toys even as you get to explore all the happening things teenyboppers do on TV. Sure, it’s a little weird being caught between “child” and “young adult” or however the new marketing brands it, but it’s pretty good times. Until you get your period for the first time. You don’t know it yet, but your boobs will stop growing. And then you have all the things that come with boobs, but without all the fun stuff. They’re heavy sometimes. Sometimes you have the urge to press them down, make them go away. You wake up in the middle of the night and find yourself pressing them down. This can happen early as 16, like it did for me. You pressing down your tits, trying to make them flat like when you were a kid. You’re trying to go back.
Sometimes when I close my eyes I can imagine him pressing himself gently against me…as if asking “Do you love me?”
I do.
I do.
I do.
There were more pressing matters at hand. Like the fact that Heather was dead. She honestly didn’t understand how Veronica could focus on mundane things or, you know, sleep with her killer. Why did she become friends with her again?
The thing that feels most pressing right now is making enough money. Which means about $400 per day. Today, that means getting my proofreading project done…and if I have time, also applying to a bunch of other copywriting jobs.
It’s hard to image you not in my life. Pressing your heart into mine. Pressing your soul against mine as we lye together. It’s hard to imagine you not in my life.
He waved her off. “I have more pressing concerns than the state of your fiance, sister,”
“The fiance YOU sent to the front lines? The fiance who, up until she became so, was one of your best and oldest friends? That fiance, brother?” she snarled defiantly.
He heaved a dramatic sigh and she only just resisted the urge to smack the disinterested look off his face. “Who else, Arianna? Unless you’ve changed your mind…” his wicked eyes gleamed and she fought the urge to be sick.
“You know I haven’t,”
Pressing On. Moving on. Moving forward. Forgiving.
“I have a pressing engagement this afternoon, – with my masseur!” The microsecond that Gerard smiled before he guffawed at his own joke was a tormenting glimpse of heaven for Louise. For that instant, she wondered, “Was he smiling at me? Could it be he actually likes me?” Her heart leaped, flew to the heavens for that one small moment, and fell crushingly to earth when she realised her undying love for him remained unrequited.
Pressing. The way you pressed your skin against mine, late at night, the way you pressed your lips against my temple, whispering something about ditching a couple of friends to watch a movie instead. Your hands pressed against my shoulders, saying how beautiful I looked when I cried
It was a pressing sort of question, and I had no idea how to answer it. My mind had gone blank; any thoughts left behind were running laps around my head.
Jamie, seeing me pause, kicked me under the table. I yelped with surprise and pain, and Anni looked at us suspiciously. She asked again.
‘How did they die?’
fingers tightly wound around your gift,
a bouquet of clementines.
pressing every button in the elevator
high heels, velvet seats
arabesque, drosselmeyer.
we’re making the best of a bad situation with pointe shoes and pine needles.
Everyone always has a pressing need. Have to get this done. Have to be at this place. Have to see this person. Have to, have to, have to. I feel like more people want to slow down, but they can’t admit it because they can’t afford to fall behind.
Hands together. Sweat builds up, the heart rate quickens. Anxiety. Impatience. Pressing my hands together, this causes me stress. Trouble. No reason to do this. I cause myself trouble.
He was just pressing himself on me. Pressing all my inibitions, pressing all my low self-steam, pressing my fears. Not pressing my brains tho. I was still thinking. I was still alert.
Alert about my body. Alert about my naive, my inexperience, my way to act.
I was just wanting to lose it all while he was pressing me.
“You got my shirt wrinkled.”
“Sorry.”
“Why were you wearing it?”
“I had an interview. Anyway, it was in the hamper anyway.”
“Wait. You wore a wrinkly shirt to an interview?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“You didn’t iron it?”
“No. Should I?”
“Yes. A shirt like this needs a good pressing to look presentable. You’re hopeless.”
“We have pressing matters to discuss,” she said.
And so she spoke. On and on, unending. Her words sluiced out of his head just as they came in. He cared little for it it all, especially her. Everything felt so trivial, so miniscule, so…. pointless.
“…. pressing matters,” she said again.
He wished she would shut up.
I feel that life is being very pressing about what i am suppose to do with my life. I feel the deadlines are coming and life is changing but i have this over whelming feeling that it is pressing forward and I need to make moves fast.
She pushed him back, tears flowing quickly. “Why didn’t you tell me?!” she screamed.
He was silent, biting his lip.
“Why?” she asked again, quieter, voice quivering.
“I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“Well you already did. Congrats.”
button
‘Don’t press the button’ mama said to my sister Lorie, the rocket’ll shoot off into the sky,
We heard Lorie say “button” we turned around slowing and there she was pressing the button….
it’s an urgent matter, never reaching completion
She lay her palm into the dough and pressed until it oozed to the edges of the plate beneath it. The air smelled of cloves–some had spilled onto the floor, and each time Cathy stepped in it the smell rose again.
Oh God. This describes an annoying trait I sometimes see in my colleagues, and in myself. I don’t understand how it creates productivity, in fact it just makes everything less efficient. it is distracting. This word alone creates a cloud of negativity above the positive vibes I’ve been having all day.
urgent matters press me. but they cant hex me. im clearly sexy but they wanna deny my test, see. i dont play those games. im here for the strange, that kind of vibe where youre so alive and nothing really seems plain. damn girl. you. on me, i want you pressing. follow me @grldg
When you want to surprise someone and you don’t have time to finished…
pressing against me
lingering lips and
language
encouraging me
to bloom
fruit
oft forgotten
yet ripe all the same
coming alive and undone
professing your name
“Is this really so pressing of an issue that we need to organize a whole separate meeting for it?”
“Yes! You know how important this is to the club!”
“No…I really don’t, obviously. I mean, what could this news possibly do to upset anyone?”
“Max, I know you’re not taking this seriously…”
“You’re right. I’m not. And do you know why? Because I don’t think it compromises anything, ANYTHING, about our group, okay?!”
i saw someone pressing the button on the tv remote to turn the tv on. then the were pressing the button on the pc. and jaguar was on the bear pressing and puring and pooka came in and pressed on her nose
Pressing is a word that old English people use or romance novelist to say things like “I could feel his member pressing against my leg”.