微信长网名繁体字带符号 求长一点的网名，有符号【最好是英文不用长，是中文的话就要长一点的谢谢了，大神帮忙啊

求长一点的网名，有符号【最好是英文不用长，是中文的话就要长一点的谢谢了，大神帮忙啊  

求长一点的网名，有符号【最好是英文不用长，是中文的话就要长一点的谢谢了，大神帮忙啊

英文Waikki 中文 暗夜雪暖 指间流云

带怡字的网名 要长一点的 多点符号 急 谢谢了

女神是你@怡 你是我的、怡

帮忙想想网名，要有符号的，要长一点的，伤感一点的，谢啦

＿安静了世界热闹了心∝
﹌带点温柔的风拂过脸颊
肆意流淌的眼泪麻木了心﹚
↘张开双手。拥抱自己◈
望采纳。。。。ps：可以自己改符号~~~

帮忙取个 LOL五黑网名。 要英文+中文的。最好长一点的。求格式，求搞怪，求霸气

用什么名字啊！直接原计划皮肤走起不是更吊

求长一点的网名。要求：长一点，意境优美，带有特殊的符号。

幼儿园哋莪们、掱菈掱
阳光穿透泛白旳回忆ゆ
剪断曾为你留起的长发つ
゛ 抬头仰望卟属于我嘚天
- 悲泣角落阴霾弥漫
夏夜天空中的星星是美的
╮指尖缠绕出破碎的蓝鸢花
眯着眼笑╮就看不到悲伤了
╰听说每颗星都会寂寞ㄟ
⒈私安静背后存杂快乐∞
╰歔沩哋笑嫆洳泚傪惔·
∝逝去丶俄那最天真的笑
▓℡棉花朵朵糖依旧づ
╯寻不到花的折翼枯叶蝶。
太阳背后、只剩黑白々
仅余笔水→写不出我的结局
▌ 冲着太阳微笑丶
幸福№ー半阳光，ー半受伤
ら散在空气里的小温馨ゞ°

英文故事，长一点的，谢谢了

1. The Piece of String 一根小绳头
The Incident That Changed a Man’s Life
On all the roads about Goderville, the peasants were ing toward the town, for it was market day.
Some led a cow or a calf, and some carried on their arms great baskets, from which heads of chickens or of ducks were thrust forth.
Master Hauchecorne, from Breaute, was walking toward the central square when he observed a remnant of string lying on the ground.
Economical, like every true Norman, he thought that it was well to pick up everything that may be of use, and he stooped painfully, for he suffered with rheumatism.
He was just about to roll it up carefully when he noticed, standing in the doorway watching him, Monsieur Malandain, the harness maker, with whom he had formerly had a dispute over a harness.
Hauchecorne felt a sort of shame at being seen thus by his enemy, fumbling in the mud for a bit of string.
He hurriedly concealed his treasure; then he pretended to look on the ground for something else, which he didn’t find; and finally he went on toward the market, his head thrust forward, bent double by his pains.
He lost himself at once in the slow­moving, shouting crowd, kept in a state of continuous excitement by the interminable bargaining.
The peasants felt of the cows, went away, returned, sorely perplexed, always afraid of being cheated.
The women listened to offers for their fowls, adhered to their prices, short of speech and impassive of face; or else, suddenly deciding to aept the lower price offered, would call out to the customer as he walked slowly away: “all right ,Mast’Anthime. You can have it.”
Then, little by little, at the approach of midday, the square became empty as the peasants and the customers betook themselves to the various inns for their meal.
At Jourdain’s the mon room was full of customers feasting on chickens, pigeons, and legs of mutton.
Suddenly a drum rolled in the yard, and in an instant everybody was on his feet, save a few indifferent ones; and they all ran to the door and windows.
Having finished his long tattoo, the public crier shouted in a jerky voice，making his pauses in the wrong places:
“The people of Godervile, and all those present at the market are informed that beeen nine and ten o’clock this morning on the Beuzeville―road, a black leather wallet was lost, containing five hundred Francs, and business papers. The finder is requested to carry it to the major’s office at once, or to Master Fortune Houlbreque of Manneville. A reward of enty francs will be paid.”
Then he went away, leaving the dinners to discuss the incident, reckoning Master Houlbreque’s chance of recovering his wallet.
They were finishing their coffee when the corporal of gendarmes appeared in the doorway and inquired for Master Hauchecorne of Breaute, instructing him to appear at the mayor’s office.
The pesant, surprised and disturbed, drank his petit verre at one swallow, rose, and started off, repeating: “Here I am, here I am.”
The major was waiting for them seated in an armchair, pompous, stout, and solemn-faced.
“Master Hauchecorne,” he said, “you were seen this morning, on the Beuzewille road, picking up the wallet lost by Master Houlbreque of Manneville.”
The rustic, dumbfounded, stared at the mayor, already alarmed by this suspicion which had fallen upon him, although he failed to understand it.
He denied the ausation, upon which the mayor informed Monsieur Malandain, the harness marker.
Then the old man remembered and understood; and flushing with anger, he cried: “Ah! He saw me, did he, that sneak? He saw me pick up this string, look m’sieu’ mayor.”
And fumbling in the depths of his pocket, he produced the little piece of cord.
But he mayor was incredulous and shook his head. “You won’t make me believe, Madter Hauchecorne, that Monsieur Malandain, who is a man deserving of credit, mistook this string for a wallet.”
“It’s God’s own truth, the sacred truth, all the same, m’sieu’ mayor. I say it again, by my soul and my salvation.”
“After picking it up,” rejoined the mayor,” you hunted a long while in the mud, to see if some piece of money hadn’t fallen out.”
The good man was overe by wrath and fear.
“If anyone can tell—if anyone can tell lies that, to ruin an honest man! If anyone can say –”
To no purpose did he protest; he was not believed, but confronted with Monsieur Malandain.
They insulted each other for a whole hour during which ,at his own request, Master Hauchecorne was searched.
They found nothing on him.
The mayor, perplexed, discharged him but warned that he proposed to inform the prosecuting attorney’s office and to ask for orders.
The news had spread. On leaving the mayor’s office, the old man was surrounded and questioned with serious or bantering curiosity.
When he began to tell the story of the string, they laughed at him.
He went his way, sping his acquaintances, repeating again and again his story and his protestations, showing his pockets turned inside out, to prove that he had nothing.
They said to him: “You old rogue ,va !”
And he lashed himself into a rage, feverish with excitement, desperate because he was not believed, at a loss what to do, and still telling his story until night fell.
He was ill over it at night.
The next afternoon, about one o’clock, a farm hand employed by a farmer of Ymauville surrendered the wallet and its contents.
He claimed that he had found it on the road; but, being unable to read the name, he had carried it home and given it to his employer.
When the news reached Master Hauchecorne he started out triumphant to tell his story again.
He noticed，however, that people seemed to laugh while they listened to him –they did not seem convinced.
He felt as if remarks were made behind his back.
And then, on Tuesday of the next week, he went to market at Goderville, impelled solely by the longing to tell his story and have someone believe him.
He aosted a farmer from Criquetot, who did not let him finish, but poked him in the pit of his stomach, and shouted in his face: “Go on, you old fox !” Then he turned on his heel.
When he was seated at the table in Jourdain’s Inn, he was interrupted by a horse trader from Montvillivers: “Nonsense, nonsense, you old dodger! I know all about your string!”
“But they have found the wallet!” faltered Hauchecorne.
“None of that, old boy; there’s one who finds it, and there’s one who carries it back. I don’t know just how you did it, but I understand you.”
The peasant was fairly stunned. He understood at last.
He was aused of having sent the wallet back by a confederate, an acplice.
He returned home, shamefaced and indignant, suffocated by wrath, by confusion, and all the more cast down because, with his Norman cunning, he was quite capable of doing the thing with which he was charged, and even of boasting of it as a shrewd trick.
His innocence was impossible to established, his craftiness being so well known.
And he was cut to the heart by the injustice of the suspicion.
He made the story longer, added new arguments, and made more solemn oaths, but the more plicated his defense the less he was believed.
He exhausted himself in vain efforts; he grew perceptibly thinner and in late December, took to his bed.
In January he died, in the delirium of his death agony still protesting his innocence, repeating, “A little piece of string –a little piece of string –see, here it is, m’sieu’ mayor .”
2. The Hangover宿醉
There’s no such thing as a good hangover.
They’re all bad.
But some are worse than others, and this one’s a killer.
I feel as though only every fourth or fifth brain cell is working, the rest mired in the slush left over from last night’s partying.
I had a good time at Pete and Sue’s.
At last, I think I had a good time.
I recall arriving at around seven, earlier than most of their invited guests.
Pete poured me a tall Scotch and water, but it seemed to evaporate quickly.
Being the good host, he continued to refresh the glass for me until, until…
The last thing I remember was talking to Vivian, the new puter genius at work.
I can’t remember what happened after that, but there’s no sign of her here, so I guess I struck out.
I’ll call Pete later and ask him. Maybe he’ll remember.
My hands are shaking so badly I can’t drink my coffee like a civilized human.
I have to put the cup down and lower my mouth to the brim, sucking up the hot liquid like a vacuum cleaner.
It looks like I’ll spend the day relaxing, recuperating, regurgitating.
Of course, they say the best and fastest cure for a hangover is a drink.
The way my insides feel now, I think I’ll stick to coffee for the time being.
I sit, collapse is more like it, in my favorite chair and turn on the TV.
Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to find some mindless sit that’ll help divert attention from my churning, grumbling stomach.
Even my name hurts.
All I can find are the midday news broadcasts.
There’s the story about the convenience store that was robbed of “an undisclosed amount” of cash; the tear—jerker about the ins who were reunited after enty-six years apart; the hit-and-run death of a boy, ten year old, who was riding his bicycle home after visiting a friend.
Hit and run.
Ten years old.
What a shame!
I will be forever grateful to the person who invented the remote control, the gadget which has singularly redefined the act of loafing and transformed it into an art form.
With my faithful control box I am able to mount the mythical surfboard and hang ten while I effortlessly soar through all niy worlds the cable pany provides for my entertainment and edification.
All without moving more than one or o small muscles.
The hangover, miserable as it makes me feel, is worth the fun of the drink, I think I’m ready for one now.
I have to do something to steady my hands and make this awful, sick feeling go away.
I pour myself a Scotch and water. Just a small one.
Enough to get me right, to make me feel normal again.
The first one always tastes horrible, like drain cleaner.
But, the rock-steady hands and the healthy feeling make it worth the brief suffering.
Before I know it, I’m back to the local news.
The announcer now says the police are looking for a dark blue sedan in connection with the hit-and-run killing of that boy.
The incident took place about mid-way beeen Pere’s house and here.
My insides suddenly turn to ice as I realize that I probably passed near that area on my way home last night while drinking my dark blue sedan.
I don’t remember leaving Pete’s and I certainly don’t remember the ride home.
But I’m a good driver, a careful driver.
I couldn’t have done anything as horrible as that.
An overwhelming fear takes possession of me.
It is, at once like the sheer terror of drowning, of falling and of burning.
The shaking has now spread throughout my soul.
This sweat drips from all my body, leaving curious patterns of wetness on my shirt and pants.
My fingernails are sweating.
I reach for the bottle of Scotch and pour another drink.
Unintentionally, I fill the tall glass almost to the .
That is alright.
I just need to s these frightening shakes.
I turn the temperature down on the thermostat, though I see it’s seventy—o degrees in the house.
I should feel fortable but I don’t.
I’m still sweating as if it were niy in here.
Ice. I need ice in my drink.
I put four large cubes into the glass, swirl it around until I can feel the coolness on the glass.
Raising it to my lip, I down the contents, almost in one swallow.
I didn’t intend to drink the whole thing.
I just wanted to cool down.
But that’s alright, I feel better already.
I know I must go outside and look at my car.
Although I know I couldn’t possibly be the one who hit that kid, I’m afraid to look.
The thought of finding a dent on the car causes me to start shaking again.
I reach for the Scotch and take a mouthful, this time straight from the bottle.
But there’s nothing to worry about.
I’m a good driver, a careful driver.
I step outside and approach the car with apprehension.
I must look, but I don’t want to look.
As I near the driver’s side, I see that there is no visible damage.
My heart begins to resume a more normal rhythm as I take a deep breath and circle the automobile to look at the other side.
My heart ss.
There, above and to the right of the headlight, is a dent the size of a basketball.
My limbs begin to tremble violently and I run back inside the house before any of my neighbors see me ing apart.
Wait a minute..
There is a dent
So what?
That only means I hit something.
It doesn’t necessarily mean I hit that boy.
It requires further examination
I need to look for signs like paint, or scratches, or...blood.
Before I go back outside, I need another drink.
Once again, it is empty.
When I return to the car, the bright afternoon sun glaring in my eyes and forcing a squint, I see a small streak of red along the edge of the dent.
The effect of the sunlight makes it difficult to see the exact shade of red.
I’m unable to tell whether it appears to be paint or…blood.
Hold on here!
It must be paint.
It can’t be blood.
I couldn’t have hit that boy.
I’m a good driver, a careful driver.
I sit back down in my chair, Scotch bottle in hand, and browse through the TV channels, looking for I don’t know what.
I can’t pay attention to the TV.
All I can see is the image of that boy lying in the street, surrounded by his own blood as life leaves him, betrayed by a stranger.
Betrayed by one he trusted to s or to swerve and avoid hitting him.
One too cowardly to stay and help.
Too cowardly to admit his sin, his crime, and face he is punishment.
That can’t be me!
I’m not capable of doing something so heinous, so unfivable.

帮忙想一个带娇字的网名，本人名字带娇，要长一点的，要有符号。

*~娇~花照水，弱柳扶风~~~~~

伤感一点的情侣网名，长一点，有符号，复杂一点。谢谢！

巴黎街头的哀鸣℡
℡塞纳河畔的悲伤

求一个浪漫点的网名，最好要长一点的

聚散两依依 天涯无际风潇潇 思绪飘落花丛中。 伱、只专属于我的女人ら | 伱、只专属于我的男人ら
天黑说早安╮ | 天亮说晚安╮

有关武艺的QQ英文网名（最好是长一点的）

You αre my Bãbyˊ&Phinp