I'm a weird, bald musician who makes records in his bedroom and lives in the Lower East Side.
We went from being a band that was recording songs in my bandmate's bedroom to a band that's doing extensive touring and had a record on the Billboard charts and everything happened insanely fast, but it's not something that I sought out. It just happened.
The best way to live above all fear of death is to die every morning before you leave your bedroom.
There is still the feeling that women's writing is a lesser class of writing, that what goes on in the nursery or the bedroom is not as important as what goes on in the battlefield, that what women know about is a less category of knowledge.
When I was a girl I would look out my bedroom window at the caterpillars; I envied them so much. No matter what they were before, no matter what happened to them, they could just hide away and turn into these beautiful creatures that could fly away completely untouched.
Many people believe the names of In 'n Out and Steak 'n Shake perfectly describe the contrast in bedroom techniques between the coast and the heartland.
I think maybe what happened was the convenience of technology overshadowed the experience of holding an album in your hands, and sitting on your bedroom floor, and staring at a picture of John Lennon or Gene Simmons or Johnny Rotten. That tangible experience can sometimes become an even more emotional experience, because it's really happening.
Don't use your bedroom for work, unless you're a prostitute.
If you're gonna fall apart, do it in your own bedroom.
Suicide and antipathy to fires in a bedroom seem to be among the national characteristics. Perhaps the same moral cause may originate both.
C’mon, sweetie, you can say it. (Delphine) (She moved his mouth playfully with her hands. ) You don’t suck, Delphine. I…you. C’mon, Jericho. I only bite in the bedroom. You can do this. I know you’re not really mute. (Delphine)
"What are you doing here anyway?" "'Here' as in your bedroom or 'here' as in the great spiritual question of our purpose here on this planet?"
I prefer to work alone – except in the bedroom. (Steele)
There was something unmistakably exultant about the mess that Rosa had made. Her bedroom-studio was at once the canvas, journal, museum, and midden of her life. She did not “decorate” it; she infused it.
Our teen-agers withdrew to their bedrooms on their thirteenth birthday and didn't show themselves to us again until it was time to get married.