Justinbieber Quote #6719325
all quotes · justinbieber · belieber · annefrank · away messages ·
all quotes · justinbieber · belieber · annefrank · away messages ·
Umm did anyone else read about what Justin Bieber wrote at the
Umm did anyone else read about what Justin Bieber wrote at the
Anne Frank House?
"Truly inspiring to be able to come here. Anne was a great girl. Hopefully she would have been a belieber"
"Hopefully she would have been a belieber"
Really?
http://www.cnn.com/2013/04/14/showbiz/bieber-anne-frank/
"Truly inspiring to be able to come here. Anne was a great girl. Hopefully she would have been a belieber"
"Hopefully she would have been a belieber"
Really?
http://www.cnn.com/2013/04/14/showbiz/bieber-anne-frank/
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CharliesTheName
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posted April 14, 2013 at 9:03pm UTC tagged with justinbieber, belieber, annefrank, away messages
more quotes by CharliesTheName
- What I've always wanted to do: Me: Hi, I'm Charlie from the Charlie is Awesome show. And you're watching Disney Channel! Me: *draws disney logo in the corner of your tv*
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- For those not in the know, Night Witches were Russian lady bombers who bombed the sh//t out of German lines in WW2. Thing is though, they had the oldest, noisiest, crappiest planes in the entire world. The engines used to conk out halfway through their missions, so they had to climb out on the wings mid flight to restart the props. The planes were also so noisy that to stop germans from hearing them coming and starting up their anti-aircraft guns, they’d climb up to a certain height, coast down to german positions, drop their bombs, restart their engines in midair, and get out of there. Why isn't this taught in history class?
- The 226th Day Part II Having never been the sort of person who cared for politics and having an uncanny knack for tuning people I didn’t want to listen to out, I wasn’t particularly sure if the rumours of war I heard early that morning were true, or partially true, or not true at all- all I knew was that there was talk of war. I can remember, with crystal-clear clarity, getting bored of listening to rumours and (as my parents weren’t home) deciding it would be simplest to just go and fetch myself a paper. So, up I got and fetched my coat and a handful of coins from the jar in my bedroom at home and strode down the road. No longer was I twelve, and there was a girl I was trying to impress, so I didn’t run. Not until I had rounded the corner anyway. When I reached the marketplace, I had to weave in and out of a crowd of people, not unlike the one surrounding the stalls when Neville Chamberlain was appointed Prime Minister. Still, this was a different crowd as it was then. It was likely filled with the same people, but there was a different energy. It was an energized hype, as though a fog of panic and confusion had clashed with airs of excitement and hasty conclusions and resulted in hysteria. Opinions were clashing and all I could here were shouts about ‘Germans’, ‘invasions’ and ‘soldiers’ coming from left, right and centre. I fought my way to the middle of the mob and purchased the second last copy of the Daily News the poor man had left. As I dodged women and men of all ages flying past me to get the last newspaper, I remember seeing a woman I recognized as Mrs Hopkin’s sister fighting another woman over the newspaper. Upon seeing this I tucked my own copy under my jacket and put my head down, refusing to look anyone in the eye until I made it home. Settled in the comforts of my own living room, with a cup of tea on the wooden coffee table before me, the clock on the mantelpiece ticking at its usual steady pace and my feet resting on the well-used flowered footstool which my mother refused to get rid of despite the moth-eaten fabric, I read the first page. I reread the page, slower, skimming less, not quite sure I believed what I was reading. Britain and France have declared war on Germany, following the German invasion of Poland. Stunned, I read the remainder of the article. Intrigued, I moved on to the seven more inside. No sooner had I turned to skim the last page for more details knocking sounded on my back door, heavy knocking which could only mean Marty was at the door, seeing as how Arnold had married and moved to Liverpool with his wife and daughter. After letting my friend in and letting him make himself comfortable in my living room, we began discussing the shocking news. Neither of us could quite believe what was written in black and white before us but once the questions started the reality of what was happening hit. Three questions seemed more important than the others: ‘What happens if it’s brought here? England is our home.’, ‘what happens if the people we love are hurt?’ and ‘are you going to sign up?’ Personally, I knew the answers to all three of them. If war was to be brought to my home, I would fight it back with all my might. If someone I loved were hurt, I would avenge them. And would I join? I most certainly would, I wasn’t about to risk the people and places in questions in one and two. So, when the British Army marched down Main Street, I was one of the hundreds who watched, eagerly, as they saluted and twirled their rifles and whatnot. I had known from the off I was going to sign up and this was the day I was going to do it. My mother cried when I told her of my plans, she broke down in tears and my father had to comfort her for a half hour straight to calm her down. He himself told me he was proud and I was a brave man, but there were tears in his eyes and his gruff voice had a sense of foreboding to it, a deep sorrow which had not previously existed lingering on his tone. He walked with Marty and myself to Main Street, talking in low tones with Marty’s father- a workmate of his and, following mine and Marty’s shenanigans as youngsters, a close friend. We couldn’t hear what they were saying, but both of them were more sentimental that day than I’ve seen either of them before. Despite the excitement brewing as General Marks stood at the podium at the head of the street, telling tales of the Great War, there was a deep undertone of alarm. The older generation were all solemn; I reasoned it must have been due to them being alive in the Great War, if only I was right. Women were crying and clutching their sons and husbands, all of whom stood with the same steely expressions on their faces. Only the young and unattached (such as Marty and myself) seemed excited when you looked deeper into the crowds and it flared a little voice of worry inside of me. When the General announced sign-ups there was a surge of people as an influx of men rushed forward, some of them steadily, others shoving and pushing to get to the front. I like to think of myself as the former, even if the only reason I didn’t push to the front was because I was brought up with manners. By the time me and Marty were signing up, the groups had thinned out somewhat. Sergeant Fox, who was taking down names for the under-20s suggested I stayed home with the territorial’s, due to my childhood illnesses and young age. I agreed, because the sense of misery emanating from the adults around me had planted a seed of doubt deep in my mind. Marty signed to go straight there, and I received a letter four months later stating that my best friend had been shot and had died. That frightened me more than anything else, anything I read in the paper or heard on the radio. Anti-German propaganda was everywhere, egging me to just go sign-up again, rather than wait to be called on for National Service like I was supposed to.
- The orignial story I posted on this account can now be found on wattpad, and it's still not finished, woo! Okay, so this is just a short story I wrote because I had time to spare. I kinda like it but I kinda don't so I thought I'd just upload it and see. Lynsey, xoxoxo The 226th Day Part I As I walked down my old street, three things crossed my mind. The first: of how I was born in the house to my left- number seven of Guelder Lane; 18 years ago. The second was of my sister’s wedding, to an inner-city man who liked to tease me about being younger. The third was about the parades which marched up and down our street, the day I signed up for the army. I was born almost a month early, on January the 11th, at half past two in the afternoon. According to my sister, parents and grandparents they had just finished having a lovely afternoon tea and were listening to a song which was surely very popular at the time (although none of them can remember the exact name,) when my mother started crying. Around two hours later, I was born. I was a sickly child, prone to nosebleeds and headaches, fevers and rashes. According to my sister I had two bouts of the measles as a very young child which kept me, her, mum, dad and half of England awake at nights. Luckily, I don’t remember much of this and the sickness went away as I grew up. By the time I was eight, I was as healthy as all of the other children in the street; which pleased me to no end. We went out, playing stickball and chasing one-another up and down the street, hopping over the low walls separating gardens. I remember Mrs Hopkins, a sour-faced woman whose husband was always working, who would always stand in the back door, screeching at us with her bright blue plastic curlers unfurling themselves from her ginger hair and rolling off down the cobbled path as though they were having a race to get away from her. She hated us, we always thought it was because we ‘squashed her petunias’ but looking back, she didn’t have any kids of her own, and seeing us playing probably made her more lonely than she already was. Another thing brought to mind when talking about the games we played is football. Two boys, older and rougher than me, introduced me to football when I was ten and I never looked back- despite the broken noses and snapped wrist I suffered throughout my days as goalie. Those two boys (named Arnold and Marty) soon became my best friends, and we were known through our street of fifteen houses as ‘Guelder’s Rascals’ a nickname given to us, unwittingly, by Mrs Hopkins who had opened the window of her house to yell it at us one day when we accidently kicked a football into her garden, knocking over a precariously balanced garden gnome which had been sitting on top of the wall. Sometime in the same year, I can vaguely recall my sister walking into our kitchen one evening with her hands clasped around a very tall, broad shouldered man’s hands and announcing they were getting married. I had never had much interest in her life before, as she was eight years older than me at the time and eleven year old boys don’t pay attention to their sisters’ lives. Something I vividly remember from that night was my mother dropping the wooden spoon she was using to steer some sort of soup and splashing it out of the pot and onto the newly painted cream walls, dripping it down onto the brown patterned laminate flooring. My parents were awfully house-proud and redecorated whenever a new fashion came out, so you can imagine the shade of puce my father went when he saw bright orange soup dripping down his clean white walls. My sister married on September the third which was ‘a lovely day’. Everyone seemed to think it was anyway- a warm, sunny day- perfect for a wedding- except from me. As far as I was concerned it was too sunny, and the church was too stuffy and hot. The underneath of my collar was itchy and sticky with sweat and being the twelve year old boy I was, I would far rather have been out with my friends, exploring further and further from home every day. This was something I protested about regularly throughout the wedding ceremony; much to the annoyance of my parents and relatives as they thought I was setting a bad example for our younger cousins. They, of course, were right and as soon as the terrible five and seven year olds caught wind of my complaining they started as well; mimicking me like parrots and chortling whenever they were told off. If, however, I had thought aggravated my parents I wasn’t ready for the wrath of my sister, who was so furious I thought actual steam was going to come out of her ears. I remember her taking me to the back of the church, while her husband was greeting guests and welcoming them to the reception meal, and all but ripping my head off in anger. Two years later she gave birth to my nephew Andrew, a very chubby, round faced little boy who was apparently the face of me (I didn’t see it.) Andrew was just turned three when it was declared that World War Two had begun. It’s funny, I can’t remember where I heard it first, simply that when I awoke on the first of September in 1939 something was different, and I knew something was coming.
- In my creative writing class Me: *raises my hand* Teacher: Yes? Me: What year was Prussia abolished? Teacher: Sorry, I don't know much about WW1. *walks away* Me:........it was WW2, moron.
I actually thnk it was kinda sweet and nice!
2) It still doesn't make up for the fact that he permanently marked something in a historical house about something that revolves around himself