A Squash And A Squeeze Quotes

I really wondered why people were always doing what they didn't like doing. It seemed like life was a sort of narrowing tunnel. Right when you were born, the tunnel was huge. You could be anything. Then, like, the absolute second after you were born, the tunnel narrowed down to about half that size. You were a boy, and already it was certain you wouldn't be a mother and it was likely you wouldn't become a manicurist or a kindergarten teacher. Then you started to grow up and everything you did closed the tunnel in some more. You broke your arm climbing a tree and you ruled out being a baseball pitcher. You failed every math test you ever took and you canceled any hope of being a scientist. Like that. On and on through the years until you were stuck. You'd become a baker or a librarian or a bartender. Or an accountant. And there you were. I figured that on the day you died, the tunnel would be so narrow, you'd have squeezed yourself in with so many choices, that you just got squashed.

I'm going to let that slide because you seemed to have been in the middle of being eaten by a monster.” He was clutching his midsection as if from pain, the squashed remnants of a soft brown cookie squeezing between his fingers as though dough from a pasta machine.

I really wondered why people were always doing what they didn't like doing. It seemed like life was a sort of narrowing tunnel. Right when you were born, the tunnel was huge. You could be anything. Then, like, the absolute second you were born, the tunnel narrowed down to about half the size. . . . I figured that, on the day you died, the tunnel would be so narrow, you'd have squeezed yourself in with so many choices, that you just got squashed.

His helmet touched hers, and even through all the clothes and gear, she felt him squeeze her. "It's just like making love, Snow White, let go and feel," he said in a low voice, sending sparks ripping through her, squashing the fear and replacing it with desire.

Bernie Jackson found his daughter wrapped up in her sheets, whimpering mutedly as her pillow was shoved into her mouth. He shook her awake, and she lashed out, kicking him in the rib cage with her one free foot. Melody opened her eyes wide, and stared at him as though in terror. A moment later the girl relaxed her expression as the image of her father, and not a saliva-producing Wolf, was standing over her. “I'm going to let that slide because you seemed to have been in the middle of being eaten by a monster.” He was clutching his midsection as if from pain, the squashed remnants of a soft brown cookie squeezing between his fingers as though dough from a pasta machine.

I just wished there was more room in my little body to accommodate all these violent wild feelings that kept screaming around inside me. I already had so much stuff squashed in there - liver and appendix and intestines and heart and all that junk. There was absolutely no room for feelings. But they still managed to squeeze in somewhere. Most of them lived in my stomach - a whole huge mess of them in there - but some kept crawling over my hands, and some stuck in my throat like I'd swallowed a doorknob.

I meant it seriously. I really wondered why people were always doing what they didn't like doing. It seemed like life was a sort of narrowing tunnel. Right when you were born, the tunnel was huge. You could be anything. Then, like, the absolute second after you were born, the tunnel narrowed down to about half that size. You were a boy, and already it was certain you wouldn't be a mother and it was likely you wouldn't become a manicurist or a kindergarten teacher. Then you started to grow up and everything you did closed the tunnel in some more. You broke your arm climbing a tree and you ruled out being a baseball pitcher. You failed every math test you ever took and you canceled any hope of being a scientist. Like that. On and on through the years until you were stuck. You'd become a baker or a librarian or a bartender. Or an accountant. And there you were. I figured that on the day you died, the tunnel would be so narrow, you'd have squeezed yourself in with so many choices, that you just got squashed.

It seemed like life was a sort of narrowing tunnel. Right when you were born, the tunnel was huge. You could be anything. Then, like, the absolute second after you were born, the tunnel narrowed down to about half that size. You were a boy, and already it was certain you wouldn’t be a mother and it was likely you wouldn’t become a manicurist or a kindergarten teacher. Then you started to grow up and everything you did closed the tunnel in some more. You broke your arm climbing a tree and you ruled out being a baseball pitcher. You failed every math test you ever took and you canceled any hope of being a scientist. Like that. On and on through the years until you were stuck. You’d become a baker or a librarian or a bartender. Or an accountant. And there you were. I figured that on the day you died, the tunnel would be so narrow, you’d have squeezed yourself in with so many choices, that you just got squashed.

I meant it seriously. I really wondered why people were always doing what they didn’t like doing. It seemed like life was sort of narrowing tunnel. Right when you were born, the tunnel was huge. You could be anything. Then, like, the absolute second after you were born, the tunnel narrowed down to about half that size. You were a boy, and already it was certain you wouldn’t be a mother and it was likely you wouldn’t become a manicurist or a kindergarten teacher. Then you started to grow up and everything you did closed the tunnel in some more. You broke your arm climbing a tree and you ruled out being a baseball pitcher. You failed every math test you ever took and you canceled any hope of being a scientist. Like that. On and on through the years until you will stuck. You’d become a baker or a librarian or a bartender. Or an accountant. And there you were. I figured that on the day you died, the tunnel would be so narrow, you’d have squeezed yourself in with so many choices, that you just got squashed.

Please. Do this for me one more time and I’ll give you…” A thought struck her and she let out an exalted laugh. “I’ll give you my firstborn child!” He balked. “What?” She gave him a chagrined smile, a helpless shrug. And though the words had been said in jest, she was already beginning to wonder. Her firstborn child. The likelihood that she would ever conceive a child was so minuscule. Ever since the fiasco with Thomas Lindbeck, she’d felt resigned to a future of solitude. And given that the only other boy who had captured her interest was dead… What did it matter if she promised away a nonexistent child? “Assuming I live long enough to birth any children,” she said. “Even you have to admit that’s a good deal. What could possibly be more valuable than a child?” He held her gaze, his expression intense and, she thought, just the tiniest bit saddened. Under the soft fabric of his sleeves, she imagined that she could feel his pulse. But no, it was only her own heartbeat, fluttering in her fingers. And in the sudden silence, she caught the tremulous rhythm of her own shallow breaths. The moments ticking by, too fast. The candle flickering in the corner. The spinning wheel, waiting. Gild shivered and tore his gaze from her face. He looked down at her hands, the pried his arms away. Serilda released him, heart sinking. But in the next moment, he’d taken her fingers into his. His head lowered, avoiding her gaze, as he wrapped his fingers around hers. “You are very persuasive.” Hope skittered inside her. “You’ll do it? You’ll accept that offer?” He sighed, the sound long and drawn out, as if it physically pained him to agree to this. “Yes. I will do this in exchange for…your firstborn child. But” —his grip tightened, squashing the jolt of euphoria that threatened to have her throwing her arms around him— “this bargain is binding and unbreakable, and I fully expect you to stay alive long enough to fulfill your end of it. Do you understand me?” She gulped, feeling the magical pull of the bargain. The air pressing in around her. Stifling, squeezing in against her chest. A magical bargain, binding and unbreakable. A deal struck beneath the Chaste Moon, with a ghostly thing, and unliving thing. A prisoner of the veil. She knew she couldn’t really promise to stay alive. The Erlking would have her killed as soon as it pleased him to do so. And yet, she heard her own words as if whispered from a distant place. “You have my word.” The air shuddered and released. It was done.

Noboru managed, while following his own dreamy thoughts, to pay scrupulous attention to the details. The kitten's dead pupils were purple flecked with white; the gaping mouth was stuffed with congealed blood, the twisted tongue visible between the fangs. As the fat-yellowed scissors cut them, he heard the ribs creak. And he watched intently while the chief groped in the abdominal cavity, withdrew the small pericardium, and plucked from it the tiny oval heart. When he squeezed the heart between two fingers, the remaining blood gushed onto his rubber gloves, reddening them to the tips of the fingers. *What is really happening here?* Noboru had withstood the ordeal from beginning to end. Now his half-dazed brain envisioned the warmth of the scattered viscera and the pools of blood in the gutted belly finding wholeness and perfection in the rapture of the dead kitten's large languid soul. The liver, limp beside the corpse, became a soft peninsula the squashed heart a little sun, the reeled-out bowels a white atoll, and the blood in the belly the tepid waters of a tropical sea. Death had transfigured the kitten into a perfect, autonomous world. *I killed it all by myself* - a distant hand reached into Noboru's dream and awarded him a snow-white certificate of merit - *I can do anything, no matter how awful.* The Chief peeled off the squeaky rubber gloves and laid one beautiful white hand on Noboru's shoulder. 'You did a good job. I think we can say this finally made a real man of you - and isn't all this blood a sight for sore eyes!

Harry, you’re squashing your frog.” Harry looked down; he was indeed squeezing his bullfrog so tightly its eyes were popping;

Slow-Cooker Bean & Spinach Enchiladas   Nutritional info: - Calories 576, Fat 11 g, Protein 28 g, Carbohydrates 60 g. Servings: 4   Ingredients: 15 ½ oz. black beans (rinsed) 10 oz. frozen chopped spinach (thawed & squeezed of excess liquid) 1 cup frozen corn 1/2 tsp. ground cumin Kosher salt & black pepper (to taste) 3½ c. salsa 8 (6”) corn tortillas (warmed) 6 c. head romaine lettuce (chopped) 4 radishes (cut into matchsticks) 1/2 c. grape tomatoes (halved) 1/2 cucumber (halved & sliced) 3 tbsp. fresh lime juice 2 tbsp. olive oil Sliced scallions (for serving)   Directions: First, in a medium bowl, squash half the beans. Then, add in the spinach, corn, cumin, the remaining beans, 1/2 teaspoon of salt & 1/4 teaspoon of pepper; mix well to combine. Next, spread the salsa in the bottom of a 4-6 quart slow cooker. Evenly divide, roll up the bean mixture into the tortillas (about 1/2 cup each) & place the rolls seam-side down in the slow cooker, in a single layer. Top it with the remaining salsa. Now, cover & cook on low for about 2½ to 3 hours or until heated through. Before serving in a large bowl; toss the lettuce, radishes, tomatoes, cucumber, lime juice, oil & 1/2 teaspoon each of salt & pepper. Serve it with the enchiladas & sprinkle with the scallions.

People who are retiring now are finding that annuity rates have been squashed by QE, and that they will get a smaller pension than they expected. Retirees who get locked into a weak annuity will find that the Bank’s money printing leaves them out of pocket for the rest of their lives.134

I pinched my weenus. Shocked that I felt nothing, I squeezed harder. Still nothing. It was kind of addicting. Tim was literally twisting his weenus. Dirk was squashing his weenus so hard it looked like his fingers were touching each other. Wally shrieked with joy as he gripped and flattened his weenus. Carl had his arms crossed over each other and was doing a double weenus yank. And Fred had mashed his weenus in a full hand grip. I was laughing so hard my stomach hurt. The absurdity of the activity was hilarious.

For an engine to keep going, some of the work created during expansion must be sacrificed, pressing the piston back to its starting position. To minimize that, the gas in the cylinder is cooled so it’s easier to squeeze. But as the piston returns, it squashes the gas in the cylinder. This reheats it, making it resistant again. For a sense of how this happens, squeeze a balloon full of air. You will feel it become hotter.

The civilised, higher move is to understand that they are behaving badly for a reason which they are in no position to tell you about, so under pressure are they from their more primitive minds. Maybe they have had a hard day. Maybe they are worried about something. Perhaps they have felt squashed and sidelined in their career and now having someone squeeze in in front of them on the road is too much to bear. Instead of simply seeing them as the dangerous enemy, we can recognise that they are distressed and that their bad behaviour (the impatient horn the swearing behind the windscreen) is a symptom of hurt rather than of ‘evil’.

DOC’S BRAN-OATMEAL-RAISIN COOKIES Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position. ¾ cup raisins (either regular or golden, your choice) ¾ cup boiling water 1 cup white (granulated) sugar ½ cup brown sugar (pack it down when you measure it) ¾ cup (1 and ½ sticks, 6 ounces) salted butter, softened to room temperature 2 large eggs ½ teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon baking soda 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon ¼ teaspoon grated nutmeg (freshly grated is best) 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 2 cups all-purpose flour (pack it down in the cup when you measure it) 1 and ½ cups dry quick oatmeal (I used Quaker Quick 1-Minute) 2 cups bran flake cereal Place ¾ cup of raisins in a 2-cup Pyrex measuring cup or a small bowl that can tolerate boiling water without cracking. Pour the ¾ cup boiling water over the raisins in the cup. Stir a bit with a fork so they don’t stick together, and then leave them, uncovered, on the counter to plump up. Prepare your cookie sheets by spraying them with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray, or lining them with parchment paper that you also spray with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray. Hannah’s 1st Note: This cookie dough is a lot easier to make if you use an electric mixer. Place the cup of white sugar in the bottom of a mixing bowl. Add the half-cup of brown sugar. Mix them together until they’re a uniform color. Place the softened butter in the mixer bowl and beat it together with the sugars until the mixture is nice and fluffy. Mix in the eggs, one at a time, beating after each addition. Add the salt, baking soda, cinnamon, nutmeg and vanilla extract. Beat until the mixture is smooth and well incorporated. On LOW speed, add the flour, one-half cup at a time, beating after each addition. Continue to beat until everything is well blended. Drain the raisins by dumping them in a strainer. Throw away any liquid that remains, then gently pat the raisins dry with a paper towel. With the mixer running on LOW speed, add the raisins to the cookie dough. With the mixer remaining on LOW speed, add the dry oatmeal in half-cup increments, mixing after each increment. Turn the mixer OFF, and let the dough rest while you prepare the bran flakes. Measure 2 cups of bran flake cereal and place them in a 1-quart freezer bag. Roll the bag up from the bottom, getting out as much air as possible, and then seal it with the bran flakes inside. Squeeze the bran flakes with your fingers, crushing them inside the bag. Place the bag on the counter and squash the bran flakes with your hands. Once they’re in fairly small pieces, take the bag over to the mixer. Turn the mixer on LOW speed. Open the bag and add the crushed bran flakes to your cookie dough, mixing until they’re well incorporated. Turn off the mixer, scrape down the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula, and give the bowl a final stir by hand. Drop the dough by rounded Tablespoonfuls (use a Tablespoon from your silverware drawer, not one you’d use for measuring ingredients) onto your prepared cookie sheet. There should be 12 cookie dough mounds on every standard-size cookie sheet. Hannah’s 2nd Note: Lisa and I use a level 2-Tablespoon scooper to form these cookies down at The Cookie Jar. Bake Doc’s Bran-Oatmeal-Raisin Cookies at 350 degrees F. for 13 to 15 minutes, or until golden brown on top. Remove the cookies from the oven, and let them cool on the cookie sheets for 2 minutes. Then remove them to a wire rack to cool completely. Yield: 2 to 3 dozen delicious cookies, depending on cookie size. Hannah’s 3rd Note: Doc had to warn the Lake Eden Memorial Hospital cooks not to let the patients have more than two cookies. Since they contain bran and bran is an aid to the digestive system, patients who eat a lot of these cookies could be spending a lot of time in the little room with the porcelain fixtures.

You are not intended to spend this life squeezed and choked and squashed in a vise of Other People’s design, or values that aren’t your own, or an outdated world view; no, you were made for discernment, cultivation, and expansion. Until you realize that the internal forces that guide you will evolve as you do, and that you have within you the power to shift and adapt them so that they better meet your needs at various points in your life, trying to exist under the constraints of anything that doesn’t fit will be a significant source of inner conflict. But when you understand that you are free to live by your rules—not those laid down by your partner or family of origin, where you work or where you worship—you also realize that you can rewrite them as needed. You can create a life that is tailor-made.