Im Limited Edition Quotes

It's because I'm a 'Limited Edition'. Y'all should be grateful for even knowing me," Meryn huffed.

I’m not weird. I’m limited edition.

My husband never transformed into a handsome prince. He stayed quite firmly in the reptile family, a chameleon, perhaps? And I’m pretty sure that if I had ever lost a shoe—even if it were priceless, like a limited edition Manolo Blahnik—he wouldn’t have lifted a finger to find it. Why didn’t I see that he was never going to be my prince?

I'm through accepting limits 'cause someone says they're so. Some things I cannot change but 'till I try I'll never know. Too long I've been afraid of losing love, I guess I've lost. Well, if that's love it comes at much too high a cost. I'd sooner buy defying gravity.

Whatever you need, honey, it’s yours. You have cold feet, I’m going to warm them. You want me to hold you, I’m going to wrap my arms around you. You want me to kiss you, I’m going to press my lips to yours. You want me, I’m yours,” he whispers and tears well in my eyes.

I’m not the first to want what I can’t have, but my problem runs irreparably darker than that. My dark lust can’t be sated by normal means, or even slightly less-than-normal means. Role playing and dominant games with their bullshit negotiations and imposed limits don’t do it for me.

E-Liz-A-Beth, you'll take me to Noctem Falls won't you?" Meryn begged giving her puppy dog eyes. "Of course I will. We can go there after DragonCon next year," she promised. "Oh no. She talked you into that convention thing." Aiden glared at his mate. "It's perfectly safe. Think of it this way. It's an event where thousands of people just like Meryn get together for a couple days and live it up," Elizabeth explained. All five men paled. "Thousands of people," Colton whispered. "Just like Meryn?" Keelan asked. Elizabeth looked around. The men had that deer in the headlights looks. "Maybe not just like her." "Thank goodness. One Meryn in the world is enough," Colton teased, looking relieved. "It's because I'm a 'Limited Edition'. Y'all should be grateful for even knowing me," Meryn huffed. "We are, my love. We are." Aiden scowled at his men over Meryn's head. "We wouldn't trade you for a sane version any day," Colton reassured her. Meryn smiled then frowned. "What do you mean 'sane version'?

I'm sorry, sir, but we have a dress code," said the official. I knew about this. It was in bold type on the website: Gentlemen are required to wear a jacket. "No jacket, no food, correct?" "More or less, sir." What can I say about this sort of rule? I was prepared to keep my jacket on throughout the meal. The restaurant would presumably be air-conditioned to a temperature compatible with the requirement. I continued toward the restaurant entrance, but the official blocked my path. "I'm sorry. Perhaps I wasn't clear. You need to wear a jacket." "I'm wearing a jacket." "I'm afraid we require something a little more formal, sir." The hotel employee indicated his own jacket as an example. In defense of what followed, I submit the Oxford English Dictionary (Compact, 2nd Edition) definition of jacket:1(a) An outer garment for the upper part of the body. I also note that the word jacket appears on the care instructions for my relatively new and perfectly clean Gore-Tex jacket. But it seemed his definition of jacket was limited to "conventional suit jacket." " We would be happy to lend you one, sir. In this style." "You have a supply of jacket? In every possible size?" I did not add that the need to maintain such an inventory was surely evidence of their failure to communicate the rule clearly, and that it would be more efficient to improve their wording or abandon the rule altogether. Nor did I mention that the cost of jacket purchase and cleaning must add to the price of their meals. Did their customers know that they were subsidizing a jacket warehouse?

I’m going to invite you to contemplate a fictional scenario. Say that we are all citizens in a New England town with a traditional town meeting. As usual, a modest proportion of the citizens eligible to attend have actually turned out, let’s say four or five hundred. After calling the meeting to order, the moderator announces: “We have established the following rules for this evening’s discussion. After a motion has been properly made and seconded, in order to ensure free speech under rules fair to everyone here, each of you who wishes to do so will be allowed to speak on the motion. However, to enable as many as possible to speak, no one will be allowed to speak for more than two minutes.” Perfectly fair so far, you might say. But now our moderator goes on: “After everyone who wishes to speak for two minutes has had the floor, each and every one of you is free to speak further, but under one condition. Each additional minute will be auctioned off to the highest bidder.” The ensuing uproar from the assembled citizens would probably drive the moderator and the board of selectman away from the town hall—and perhaps out of town. Yet isn’t this in effect what the Supreme Court decided in the famous case of Buckley v. Valeo? In a seven-to-one vote, the court held that the First Amendment–guarantee of freedom of expression was impermissibly infringed by the limits placed by the Federal Election Campaign Act on the amounts that candidates for federal office or their supporters might spend to promote their election.3 Well, we’ve had time to see the appalling consequences.

Looking ahead at continuing transition needs The lives of adoptive parents and children are always in transition. Helping adopted children connect their beginnings to their present lives with us doesn’t end with the transition at placement. Parents need to deal with adoption related issues over and over again as their children reach new levels of cognitive and language development. Sometime between the ages of 24 and 36 months, many children will begin correcting Mom or Dad if they make a mistake or forget part of their Lifestory. Shortly thereafter children begin to fill in factual names, places, and events when invited to share in the story telling. Preschoolers’ reasoning is very limited and most do not sense anything unusual about being adopted. My three-and-a-half-year-old adopted nephew announced proudly, “I’m adopted.” He then added, “And there’s a kitty growing in my tummy.” Children spontaneously announce to the store clerk such things as, “My mommy came to get me in a big airplane” or “I’m from Peru!” At this age, parents should continue to build the factual foundation that will help full comprehension later on and instill a sense of pride and positive feelings about adoption.

Within you, whoever you may be, regardless of how big a failure you may think yourself to be, is the ability and the power to do whatever you need to do to be happy and successful. Within you right now is the power to do things you never dreamed possible. This power becomes available to you just as soon as you can change your beliefs. Just as quickly as you can dehypnotize yourself from the ideas of “I can’t,” “I’m not worthy,” “I don’t deserve it” and other self-limiting ideas.

It’s limited-edition because there’s only one. Because plush dolls are hard to make. I’m hoping to sell that at a fair price. $400? Maybe $500? I don’t know. I’ll have to see how many people want it once the convention starts. I’ll also have a bunch of Kid Youtuber stickers available that WON’T be as limited as the Davy plushie. The stickers were pretty easy to make, so I’ve got, like, a million of those suckers ready to go.

All these years later I’m still not completely immune to the idea of combining my desire to make great art with having big commercial success. It’s the balancing act many of my heroes pulled off, but is so hard to achieve when you try it for yourself.

You write about love a lot in your music. Yes I do, but in fairly oblique ways. The wonderful thing about the love song is it’s infinitely reinventible. You’d think by now there would be nothing new left to say about love. I’m constantly amazed to discover that it’s not the case.

What I mean when I say I’m a fan is that I like what an artist has created enough to be interested in what else they might have done and what they might do next.

people can and want to engage with more unusual and unexpected subject matter when it’s done as brilliantly as this. I want to say the same about the music world, but I’m not sure I can.

Artists can be a volatile mix of sensitivity, charm and narcissism. You might say most of them are ‘on the spectrum’. At least a lot of the great ones seem to be, so maybe that’s why I can’t say I’m great.

I’ve found writing a kind of exorcism of that side of me, like an unburdening. Listeners seem to respond to these sad songs in much the same way I respond to sad songs. They don’t make me depressed, quite the opposite. They help me understand I’m not alone in experiencing these things, and that is a beautiful thing, finding comfort through seeing yourself reflected back in the mirror of art.

I have big dreams and big goals. But also big limitations, which means III never reach the big goals unless I have the wisdom to recognize the chains that bind me. Only then will I be able to figure out a way to work within them instead of ignoring them or naively wishing they'll cease to exist. I'm on a perennial quest to find balance. Writing helps me do that. To quote Neruda: Tengo que acordarme de todos, recoger las briznas, los hilos del acontecer harapiento (I have to remember everything, collect the wisps, the threads of untidy happenings). That line is ME. But my memory is slipping and that's one of the scariest aspects about all this. How can I tell my story, how can I create a narrative around my life, if I cant even remember the details? But I do want to tell my story, and so I write. I write because I want my parents to understand me. I write to leave something behind for them, for my brother Micah, for my boyfriend Jack, and for my extended family and friends, so I won't just end up as ashes scattered in the ocean and nothing else. Curiously, the things I write in my journal are almost all bad: the letdowns. the uncertainties. the anxieties. the loneliness. The good stuff I keep in my head and heart, but that proves an unreliable way of holding on because time eventually steals all memories-and if it doesn't completely steal them, it distorts them, sometimes beyond recognition, or the emotional quality accompanying the moment just dissipates. Many of the feelings I write about are too difficult to share while I'm alive, so I am keeping everything in my journal password-protected until the end. When I die I want my mom to edit these pages to ensure they are acceptable for publication-culling through years of writing, pulling together what will resonate, cutting references that might be hurtful. My hope is that my writing will offer insight for people living with, or loving someone with, chronic illness.

I limited and focused my desires to hone and refine them. To reach the infinite – and I believe it can be reached – we need to have a sure port, just one, from which to set out for the Indefinite. Today I’m an ascetic in my religion of myself. A cup of coffee, a cigarette and my dreams can substitute quite well for the universe and its stars, for work, love, and even beauty and glory. I need virtually no stimulants. I have opium enough in my soul.

My therapist, Jennifer—not Jen, never Jen—I made the mistake once and was sharply corrected. The woman has framed quotes on the wall (“Life begins after coffee,” and “I’m not weird I’m limited edition”), so I’m not sure what kind of gravitas she thinks her full name adds.

There's something, for me, in being confronted by my lack of control. Of feeling that I'm at the mercy of another. Another's will, another's wants. Not because I want to feel... used. Or objectified. It's more like..." It was hard to put into words, no matter how many times she'd worked it out in her head. "… like going beyond myself. My own impulses, my desires, my limits, and finding something beyond." Krylov, Varian (2008-05-19). Abduction (Kindle Locations 9209-9212). eXcessica. Kindle Edition.(

As I pass Logan’s room, I catch a glorious purple glow. My curiosity gets the best of me. I walk in and flick on the light switch. On the wall above a bookshelf hangs something truly magnificent. Delicately, I pick up the Mace Windulightsaber replica. It reminds me of those super expensive knives professional chefs use that are weighted perfectly for precision. I take a step back and brandish the weapon at a poster of Aragorn from Lord of the Rings on the wall. “Don’t worry, your highness. Your Jedi escort will see you to safety,” I say in my best Obi Wan accent. “The force is strong with this one.” The words come from behind me. I whip around out of pure freaked-out instinct, swinging the lightsaber in a big arc. It clashes with one just like it, except it’s blue. I look up into Dan’s smug face and wish these lightsabers weren’t replicas. Sure, it’s a cute face, but it’s a face I’m not in the mood to deal with at the moment. I swirl my saber to move his out of the way and put the point of it to his chin. “Don’t make me slice your nose off, you scruffy-looking nerf herder.” I’ve always wanted to call someone that, but the opportunity never presented itself until now. He tosses his lightsaber onto the bed and holds his hands up in surrender. “I yield, but only because that is a limited edition.

Me weird? People I'm limited edition!

I'm not Weird I'm Limited Edition!

I have big dreams and big goals. But also big limitations, which means I'II never reach the big goals unless I have the wisdom to recognize the chains that bind me. Only then will I be able to figure out a way to work within them instead of ignoring them or naively wishing they'll cease to exist. I'm on a perennial quest to find balance. Writing helps me do that. To quote Neruda: Tengo que acordarme de todos, recoger las briznas, los hilos del acontecer harapiento (I have to remember everything, collect the wisps, the threads of untidy happenings). That line is ME. But my memory is slipping and that's one of the scariest aspects about all this. How can I tell my story, how can I create a narrative around my life, if I cant even remember the details? But I do want to tell my story, and so I write. I write because I want my parents to understand me. I write to leave something behind for them, for my brother Micah, for my boyfriend Jack, and for my extended family and friends, so I won't just end up as ashes scattered in the ocean and nothing else. Curiously, the things I write in my journal are almost all bad: the letdowns. the uncertainties. the anxieties. the loneliness. The good stuff I keep in my head and heart, but that proves an unreliable way of holding on because time eventually steals all memories-and if it doesn't completely steal them, it distorts them, sometimes beyond recognition, or the emotional quality accompanying the moment just dissipates. Many of the feelings I write about are too difficult to share while I'm alive, so I am keeping everything in my journal password-protected until the end. When I die I want my mom to edit these pages to ensure they are acceptable for publication-culling through years of writing, pulling together what will resonate, cutting references that might be hurtful. My hope is that my writing will offer insight for people living with, or loving someone with, chronic illness.