Abs In Making Quotes

Crickey, love, what happened here? Are you hurt?” he asked, lifting her to her feet, the surfboard leash still wrapped around her foot. Her eyes worked their way up his torso, along the plush green towel hugging his midsection. Catherine couldn’t help staring at his well-formed abs and chest before making her way up to his concerned eyes. “Obviously I fell,” Catherine said. “I think I got a splinter.” “Let me see,” Jake insisted, taking her hand into his. “It’s small. I can take care of that in a snap.” Staring up into his deep blue eyes, Catherine could feel herself drowning in the depths of them, unconsciously resting her other hand upon his dampened chest to steady herself.

…one, two, three, four, six, Good Lord, eight? Eight packs? Furthermore, had I actually been feeling said person’s eight pack? And, dear God, I was counting. I had touched each muscle. And great, my hand was still firmly placed against the guy’s stomach. I jerked my hand back and closed my eyes. “Were you just counting my abs?” His voice sounded amused. It also sounded like a movie star voice, the type that makes you want to jump into the TV screen.

You’ll be fine. Just hang on to me. I won’t make you let go all night if you don’t want to.” She took me up on my offer. Slowly, she slipped her arm around my waist and then clung to me like she was super glued there. I tensed beneath her touch and had to fight back shivers. “Feel free to hang on to other parts of me too.” My voice came out thick because it had been stuck in my throat. “My butt’s feeling pretty left out, and I don’t spend so much time working out my abs and chest just to never get felt up.

Ahhhhhhhggg. Oh sweet Lord Jesus, my hand." He attempted to make a fist and winced. "I think Chuck Parson had a textbook strapped to his stomach." "Those are called abs", I told him.

The soundtrack should be a lilting indie affair; equal parts hopeful and with a broken, bittersweet lyric hook that makes your heart hurt for some unknown reason. But instead it’s scored by the 1980s hair metal I found in an incriminating iPod playlist titledGym. “You seriously got those abs while listening to Poison and Bon Jovi,” I crow, and he can’t deny it. It’s just us, windows down, stereo cranked, the road curling in front of us like a tongue.

People who enjoy the struggles of a gym are the ones who run triathlons and have chiseled abs and can bench-press a small house. People who enjoy long workweeks and the politics of the corporate ladder are the ones who fly to the top of it. People who enjoy the stresses and uncertainties of the starving artist lifestyle are ultimately the ones who live it and make it. This is not about willpower or grit. This is not another admonishment of “no pain, no gain.” This is the most simple and basic component of life: our struggles determine our successes.

O Karma, Dharma, pudding and pie O Karma, Dharma, pudding and pie, gimme a break before I die: grant me wisdom, will, & wit, purity, probity, pluck, & grit. Trustworthy, loyal, helpful, kind, gimme great abs & a steel-trap mind, and forgive, Ye Gods, some humble advice— these little blessings would suffice to beget an earthly paradise: make the bad people good— and the good people nice; and before our world goes over the brink, teach the believers how to think.

Some people who have been working out regularly for months or even years are still out of shape because the number of cheat days they have in a week exceeds six.

The cold never bothers me when I’m filled with the hot soup of bad souls. Nevertheless I make a show of shivering. Chi strips off his leather vest and I hold it as he peels off his hoodie, pulling his shirt up with it. I get an eyeful of carved six-pack abs and bite back a whistle. Demon-hunting must be good for the physique. The looks of an angel and yet all it makes me want to do is sin.

I rolled my eyes, trying to keep my eyes off his body, just the sight of his abs or arms was enough to make me want to get naked and let Carlo take over anything he wanted.

I don't know what the exact answer is, Bax, but I do know you made the choice to be ab ad guy and you can make the choice not to be.

Emotional manipulation methodically wears down your self-worth and self-confidence, and damages your trust in your own perceptions. It can make you unwittingly compromise your personal values, which leads to a loss of self-respect and a warped self concept. With your defenses weakened or completely disarmed in this manner, you are left even more vulnerable to further manipulation. A

She brushed the tears from their faces and sang them a melancholy lullaby. Her obvious devotion to her daughters pulled at my heart strings, making my chest ache with longing for my own mother.

The great anxious focus on the minutiae of appetite—on calories and portion size and what's going into the body versus what's being expended, on shoes and hair and abs of steel—keeps the larger, more fearsome questions of desire blurred and out of focus. American women spend approximately $1 million every hour on cosmetics. This may or may not say something about female vanity, but it certainly says something about female energy, where it is and is not focused. Easier to worry about the body than the soul, easier to fit the self into the narrow slots of identity our culture offers to women than to create one...that allows for the expression of all passions, the satisfaction of all appetites. The great preoccupation with things like food and shopping and appearance, in turn, is less of a genuine focus on hunger—indulging it, understanding it, making decisions about it—than it is a monumental distraction from hunger.

You learned good, Uncle Fifty," Lou said, shoveling beans onto her plate. "You get an A-plus. Will you teach Mattie how to cook? She can only make mush and pancakes. And a pea soup that's so bad, it's more pee than soup." Uncle Fifty roared. My sisters laughed. Especially Lou. Pa raised an eyebrow at her, but that didn't quiet her. She knew she was safe because our uncle was laughing. "Don't mind them, Mattie," Abby said, petting me. "You like my pea soup, don't you Ab?" I asked, hurt. She looked at me with her kind eyes. "No, Mattie, I don't. It's awful.

The Kraken?” Forge’s entire body shakes as booming laughter tumbles from his lips. But I’m not looking at his lips. I’m still watching his dick as it bobs when he laughs. It’s also getting bigger. “Are you going to look at my face or just stare at my dick?” “I’ve seen your face before,” I tell him, not looking up. I got caught staring; I might as well make the most of it. When a navy towel with a silver monogram suddenly covers the object of my attention, I’m forced to glance up . . . at the most beautiful grin that has ever crossed a man’s face. Why is he so attractive? It’s not right. Money, abs, a big dick, and drop-dead gorgeous? If I needed any more proof that life is definitely unfair, it’s standing right in front of me. Even his laugh is perfect. Stop, Indy. Get down to business. He hacked your phone. “Stop laughing. This isn’t swim time.

Gathering her bags, Alani started around the side of her house to the front door. She drew up short at the sight of Jackson sprawled on her porch steps, a cowboy hat on his head, mirrored sunglasses hiding his eyes. He didn’t move, and neither did she. He had an utterly relaxed look about him. But then, Jackson had perfected a deceptively indolent pose that hid razor-sharp reflexes and phenomenal speed. Last night, all night, he’d been far from indolent. Breathing fast, Alani studied him. His continued stillness suggested sleep. Even when she inched closer, he didn’t move. He was now clean-shaven. A white T-shirt was pulled across his wide chest and shoulders, and hung looser around his taut abs. Awareness stiffened her knees. Memories of touching his body, tasting hit hot flesh, sent a tide of sensation through her veins. She swallowed audibly—and stared some more. He sat with his long legs loose, one foot braced on a step, the other stretched out, his elbows back, his breathing deep and even. Alani licked her lips and started to slowly, silently retreat. “Don’t make me chase you, darlin’.” Shock snapped her shoulders back. The big faker! He’d been watching her watch him. Teeth set, Alani asked, “What are you doing here?” He gave a slow smile. “Whatever it takes . . .

The trouble is, we have up-close access to women who excel in each individual sphere. With social media and its carefully selected messaging, we see career women killing it, craft moms slaying it, chef moms nailing it, Christian leaders working it. We register their beautiful yards, homemade green chile enchiladas, themed birthday parties, eight-week Bible study series, chore charts, ab routines, “10 Tips for a Happy Marriage,” career best practices, volunteer work, and Family Fun Night ideas. We make note of their achievements, cataloging their successes and observing their talents. Then we combine the best of everything we see, every woman we admire in every genre, and conclude: I should be all of that. It is certifiably insane.

I’m getting on pretty well with German, though I haven’t arrived at the stage of finding it a reasonable medium for the expression of thought. I think the original couple who spoke it must have died rather soon after the Tower of Babel, leaving a rather pedantically-minded baby, who had learnt all the words of one syllable, and had to make up the long ones with them – at least how else can you account for such words as Handschule and be-ab-sichtigen? I

it’s crucial to make the right call about whether to use an algorithm or a heuristic in a specific situation. This is why the Google experiment with forty-one shades of blue seems so foreign to me, accustomed as I am to the Apple approach. Google used an A/B test to make a color choice. It used a single predetermined value criterion and defined it like so: The best shade of blue is the one that people clicked most often in the test. This is an algorithm.

Metaphor (subserved by the right hemisphere) comes before denotation (subserved by the left). This is both a historical and an epistemological truth. Metaphorical meaning is in every sense prior to abstraction and explicitness. The very words tell one this: one cannot draw something away (Latin, abs-away, trahere pull), unless there is something to draw it away from. One cannot unfold something and make it explicit (Latin, ex-out, plicare fold), unless it is already folded. The roots of explicitness lie in the implicit.

Jane started say­ing ‘Wel­come to be­ing in a re­la­tion­ship’ to me over and over again. I’d tell her about all the com­pro­mises I was mak­ing and how much Andy’s self-ab­sorp­tion could ir­ri­tate me and how I’d no­ticed that he’d stopped find­ing me sexy and started find­ing me sweet – that he used to grab my bum and kiss me, and now he kissed me on the head and pulled the zip­per of my jacket up and down in a cutesy way. ‘Wait till he stops find­ing you sweet,’ she said. ‘That’s a whole other phase.’ I told her about how much time was spent com­fort­ing him and buoy­ing him up and get­ting him out of low moods. How his emo­tions were al­ways more im­por­tant than mine – that when we had arguments, his feel­ings were dis­cussed as facts and mine were in­ter­ro­gated as fab­ri­ca­tions. ‘Jen,’ she said mat­ter-of-factly, ‘do you even want a boyfriend?’ I asked her if this was all stuff she put up with and she nod­ded. ‘Wel­come to be­ing in a re­la­tion­ship,’ she said. And I thought: I don’t want to be wel­come here. I don’t want to get com­fort­able here.

Behind every successful person is a relentless work ethic, the ability to block out distractions, and a well-defined six-pack of self-control. Find creative ways to work your self-control and keep making it stronger. Unlike your abs, this muscle needs to be fit even during the winter, so get to work.

The Germans have another kind of parenthesis, which they make by splitting a verb in two and putting half of it at the beginning of an exciting chapter and the other half at the end of it. Can any one conceive of anything more confusing than that? These things are called “separable verbs.” The German grammar is blistered all over with separable verbs; and the wider the two portions of one of them are spread apart, the better the author of the crime is pleased with his performance. A favorite one is reiste ab—which means departed. Here is an example which I culled from a novel and reduced to English: “The trunks being now ready, he de- after kissing his mother and sisters, and once more pressing to his bosom his adored Gretchen, who, dressed in simple white muslin, with a single tuberose in the ample folds of her rich brown hair, had tottered feebly down the stairs, still pale from the terror and excitement of the past evening, but longing to lay her poor aching head yet once again upon the breast of him whom she loved more dearly than life itself, parted.” However, it is not well to dwell too much on the separable verbs. One is sure to lose his temper early; and if he sticks to the subject, and will not be warned, it will at last either soften his brain or petrify it. Personal pronouns and adjectives are a fruitful nuisance in this language, and should have been left out. For instance, the same sound, sie, means you, and it means she, and it means her, and it means it, and it means they, and it means them. Think of the ragged poverty of a language which has to make one word do the work of six—and a poor little weak thing of only three letters at that. But mainly, think of the exasperation of never knowing which of these meanings the speaker is trying to convey. This explains why, whenever a person says sie to me, I generally try to kill him, if a stranger.

Rea­sons Why I Loved Be­ing With Jen I love what a good friend you are. You’re re­ally en­gaged with the lives of the peo­ple you love. You or­ga­nize lovely ex­pe­ri­ences for them. You make an ef­fort with them, you’re pa­tient with them, even when they’re side­tracked by their chil­dren and can’t pri­or­i­tize you in the way you pri­or­i­tize them. You’ve got a gen­er­ous heart and it ex­tends to peo­ple you’ve never even met, whereas I think that ev­ery­one is out to get me. I used to say you were naive, but re­ally I was jeal­ous that you al­ways thought the best of peo­ple. You are a bit too anx­ious about be­ing seen to be a good per­son and you def­i­nitely go a bit over­board with your left-wing pol­i­tics to prove a point to ev­ery­one. But I know you re­ally do care. I know you’d sign pe­ti­tions and help peo­ple in need and vol­un­teer at the home­less shel­ter at Christ­mas even if no one knew about it. And that’s more than can be said for a lot of us. I love how quickly you read books and how ab­sorbed you get in a good story. I love watch­ing you lie on the sofa read­ing one from cover-to-cover. It’s like I’m in the room with you but you’re in a whole other gal­axy. I love that you’re al­ways try­ing to im­prove your­self. Whether it’s running marathons or set­ting your­self chal­lenges on an app to learn French or the fact you go to ther­apy ev­ery week. You work hard to be­come a bet­ter ver­sion of your­self. I think I prob­a­bly didn’t make my ad­mi­ra­tion for this known and in­stead it came off as ir­ri­ta­tion, which I don’t re­ally feel at all. I love how ded­i­cated you are to your fam­ily, even when they’re an­noy­ing you. Your loy­alty to them wound me up some­times, but it’s only be­cause I wish I came from a big fam­ily. I love that you al­ways know what to say in con­ver­sa­tion. You ask the right ques­tions and you know ex­actly when to talk and when to lis­ten. Ev­ery­one loves talk­ing to you be­cause you make ev­ery­one feel im­por­tant. I love your style. I know you think I prob­a­bly never no­ticed what you were wear­ing or how you did your hair, but I loved see­ing how you get ready, sit­ting in front of the full-length mir­ror in our bed­room while you did your make-up, even though there was a mir­ror on the dress­ing ta­ble. I love that you’re mad enough to swim in the English sea in No­vem­ber and that you’d pick up spi­ders in the bath with your bare hands. You’re brave in a way that I’m not. I love how free you are. You’re a very free per­son, and I never gave you the sat­is­fac­tion of say­ing it, which I should have done. No one knows it about you be­cause of your bor­ing, high-pres­sure job and your stuffy up­bring­ing, but I know what an ad­ven­turer you are un­der­neath all that. I love that you got drunk at Jack­son’s chris­ten­ing and you al­ways wanted to have one more drink at the pub and you never com­plained about get­ting up early to go to work with a hang­over. Other than Avi, you are the per­son I’ve had the most fun with in my life. And even though I gave you a hard time for al­ways try­ing to for al­ways try­ing to im­press your dad, I ac­tu­ally found it very adorable be­cause it made me see the child in you and the teenager in you, and if I could time-travel to any­where in his­tory, I swear, Jen, the only place I’d want to go is to the house where you grew up and hug you and tell you how beau­ti­ful and clever and funny you are. That you are spec­tac­u­lar even with­out all your sports trophies and mu­sic cer­tifi­cates and in­cred­i­ble grades and Ox­ford ac­cep­tance. I’m sorry that I loved you so much more than I liked my­self, that must have been a lot to carry. I’m sorry I didn’t take care of you the way you took care of me. And I’m sorry I didn’t take care of my­self, ei­ther. I need to work on it. I’m pleased that our break-up taught me that. I’m sorry I went so mental. I love you. I always will. I'm glad we met.

Who you are is defined by what you're willing to struggle for. People who enjoy the struggles of a gym are the ones who run triathlons and have chiseled abs and can benchpress a small house. People who enjoy long workweeks and the politics of the corporate ladder are the ones who fly to the top of it. People who enjoy the stresses and uncertainties of the starving artist lifestyle are ultimately the ones who live it and make it.This is not about willpower or grit. This is not another admonishment of "no pain, no gain." This is the most simple and basic component of life: our struggles determine our successes. Our problems birth our happiness, along with slightly better, slight upgraded problems.

It is the simplest phrase you can imagine,” Favreau said, “three monosyllabic words that people say to each other every day.” But the speech etched itself in rhetorical lore. It inspired music videos and memes and the full range of reactions that any blockbuster receives online today, from praise to out-of-context humor to arch mockery. Obama’s “Yes, we can” refrain is an example of a rhetorical device known as epistrophe, or the repetition of words at the end of a sentence. It’s one of many famous rhetorical types, most with Greek names, based on some form of repetition. There is anaphora, which is repetition at the beginning of a sentence (Winston Churchill: “We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields”). There is tricolon, which is repetition in short triplicate (Abraham Lincoln: “Government of the people, by the people, and for the people”). There is epizeuxis, which is the same word repeated over and over (Nancy Pelosi: “Just remember these four words for what this legislation means: jobs, jobs, jobs, and jobs”). There is diacope, which is the repetition of a word or phrase with a brief interruption (Franklin D. Roosevelt: “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself”) or, most simply, an A-B-A structure (Sarah Palin: “Drill baby drill!”). There is antithesis, which is repetition of clause structures to juxtapose contrasting ideas (Charles Dickens: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times”). There is parallelism, which is repetition of sentence structure (the paragraph you just read). Finally, there is the king of all modern speech-making tricks, antimetabole, which is rhetorical inversion: “It’s not the size of the dog in the fight; it’s the size of the fight in the dog.” There are several reasons why antimetabole is so popular. First, it’s just complex enough to disguise the fact that it’s formulaic. Second, it’s useful for highlighting an argument by drawing a clear contrast. Third, it’s quite poppy, in the Swedish songwriting sense, building a hook around two elements—A and B—and inverting them to give listeners immediate gratification and meaning. The classic structure of antimetabole is AB;BA, which is easy to remember since it spells out the name of a certain Swedish band.18 Famous ABBA examples in politics include: “Man is not the creature of circumstances. Circumstances are the creatures of men.” —Benjamin Disraeli “East and West do not mistrust each other because we are armed; we are armed because we mistrust each other.” —Ronald Reagan “The world faces a very different Russia than it did in 1991. Like all countries, Russia also faces a very different world.” —Bill Clinton “Whether we bring our enemies to justice or bring justice to our enemies, justice will be done.” —George W. Bush “Human rights are women’s rights and women’s rights are human rights.” —Hillary Clinton In particular, President John F. Kennedy made ABBA famous (and ABBA made John F. Kennedy famous). “Mankind must put an end to war, or war will put an end to mankind,” he said, and “Each increase of tension has produced an increase of arms; each increase of arms has produced an increase of tension,” and most famously, “Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.” Antimetabole is like the C–G–Am–F chord progression in Western pop music: When you learn it somewhere, you hear it everywhere.19 Difficult and even controversial ideas are transformed, through ABBA, into something like musical hooks.

I wasn't sure if i was embarrassed or just irritated. Cursing, I held the packet to my chest and stomped off. I turned around to send him one last seething glare and ran smack dab into a tree. Or at least it felt like a tree. But trees weren't warm. And they didn't have 1, 2, 3, 4, 6 Good Lord, 8? Eight pack? And dear God i was counting. I had touched each muscle. And great my hand was firmly places against the guys stomach. I jerked my hand back and closed my eyes. "Were tyou just counting my abs?" His voice sounded amused. It also sounded like a movie star voice, the type that makes you want to jump into the TV screen. It was deep, strong and had a slight accent I couldn't place. British? Scottish?

If you’re a guy, the mystical secret to a sexy stomach is to get your body fat percentage under 12%. Yup, that’s it. When your body fat percentage approaches 10%, your abs become clearly visible whether you directly train them or not. If you’re a woman, getting your body fat percentage under 20% will get you a flat, lean, toned stomach. That’s all there is to it

SECTION 6: Jesus Cleared of False Charges 55  When Allah said: O Jesus, I will cause thee to diea and exalt thee in My presenceb and clear thee of those who disbelievec and make those who follow thee above those who disbelieve to the day of Resurrection.d Then to Me is your return, so I shall decide between you concerning that wherein you differ.e 55a.  I‘Ab says

When we go to the beach and bare our skin, we’re not there to be visually appealing to others. We’re there to feel the sand, hear the waves, smell the salt, take in the view. We’re there to make memories. The dimples on our thighs or whether another beachgoer disapproves of our size is irrelevant. It’s not why we’re there. Being aesthetically pleasing is not the purpose of our existence.

For example: Suppose Circa-2000 David Beckham were to strut across this busy Los Angeles Metro station platform wearing nothing except his ripped abs and jeans? He’d seductively squeeze his way through the crowd of downtown-bound commuters, his gaze glued to mine as he makes a beeline toward me, professing Victoria—what’s-her-face—has left him and he wants to be with me. Then, of course, I’d forgo swearing off men.

Who you are is defined by what you’re willing to struggle for. People who enjoy the struggles of a gym are the ones who run triathlons and have chiseled abs and can bench-press a small house. People who enjoy long workweeks and the politics of the corporate ladder are the ones who fly to the top of it. People who enjoy the stresses and uncertainties of the starving artist lifestyle are ultimately the ones who live it and make it.

He unfastened his pants and shrugged off his shirt, baring his beautiful chest, the ripple of his abs, and the soft trail of hair leading below. "I was saving the best for last." He ground his palm over his erection. "Tease." She couldn't tear her eyes away. "Take it all off." "You're not in a position to make demands." But he didn't make her wait. Instead he lowered his zipper and pulled out his cock. Thick and hard, he was more than ready for her. "Do you want this, sweetheart?" She wasn't complaining about the term of endearment now. "Very much." He gave a casual shrug that belied the evidence of his desire. "Maybe when I've finished my search." "What else..." Her voice trailed off when he lay between her legs, slid off her panties, and placed her feet on his shoulders. "The best things are found in the most secret places." He lowered his head. His tongue did the most wicked things that had her arching and twisting on the bed. "Jay..." It was a plea. It was a demand. "That's Mr. Dayal to you." Without warning, he slid two fingers deep inside her, his firm steady strokes making all her nerve endings fire at once. His tongue found her sensitive clit and her inner walls tightened around his fingers. She soared and peaked, her orgasm crashing through her body in a tidal wave of sensation. Dazed, languid on the bed, she watched him shrug off his trousers and roll on a condom. "Did you find what you were looking for?" "Not yet." He lifted her legs, spread them wide, opening her for him as he positioned himself between her thighs. "You're very good at your job." Now that her body was sated, she was generous with her praise. "And you are a beautiful, sexy temptress who is about to be fucked by a man who wants her so desperately he's willing to do anything to have her.

Most writers cannot afford focus groups or A/B testing, but they can ask a roommate or colleague or family member to read what they wrote and comment on it. Your reviewers needn’t even be a representative sample of your intended audience. Often it’s enough that they are not you. This does not mean you should implement every last suggestion they offer. Each commentator has a curse of knowledge of his own, together with hobbyhorses, blind spots, and axes to grind, and the writer cannot pander to all of them. Many academic articles contain bewildering non sequiturs and digressions that the authors stuck in at the insistence of an anonymous reviewer who had the power to reject it from the journal if they didn’t comply. Good prose is never written by a committee. A writer should revise in response to a comment when it comes from more than one reader or when it makes sense to the writer herself.

Dear Abba, I’m starting out free today, free from the advertised lies that promise me everything from four-doors of turbo-charged happiness to some contraption that will shake, rattle, and roll my abs back into a pack I never had even in my twenties. It would be comical if it wasn’t so sad: all of our desires to make ourselves worthy of this world but unfit for the world to come. I want to be a follower of the sacred dream, and one day arrive fully free, free at last.

Joy studied movies because she had to. She literally thought everyone was making sexual attraction up. She'd heard countless people describe it, read literally hundreds of romance novels -- there's never any feelings low in her belly, no shivers down her spine. She doesn't have to cross her legs at the sight of veiny forearms, perky breasts, bubble butts, or perfect abs. It just doesn't happen. The day she realized it was, in fact, a very real thing absolutely blew her mind.

My eyes squeezed shut as I worked him over, determined to make him lose control, to make him feel the same urgent need wreaking havoc on my body. “Wes…” A choked sound left his lips. “Fuck, Wes, you’re making me come.” His fingers pulled my hair to the point of pain, his abs tightening as his hips rocked faster. A few seconds later, he groaned. The husky sound vibrated against my lips as he went still, thrust deep, and came inside my mouth while I swallowed up every last dro—

She was the first close friend who I felt like I’d re­ally cho­sen. We weren’t in each other’s lives be­cause of any obli­ga­tion to the past or con­ve­nience of the present. We had no shared his­tory and we had no rea­son to spend all our time to­ gether. But we did. Our friend­ship in­ten­si­fied as all our friends had chil­dren – she, like me, was un­con­vinced about hav­ing kids. And she, like me, found her­self in a re­la­tion­ship in her early thir­ties where they weren’t specif­i­cally work­ing to­wards start­ing a fam­ily. By the time I was thirty-four, Sarah was my only good friend who hadn’t had a baby. Ev­ery time there was an­other preg­nancy an­nounce­ment from a friend, I’d just text the words ‘And an­other one!’ and she’d know what I meant. She be­came the per­son I spent most of my free time with other than Andy, be­cause she was the only friend who had any free time. She could meet me for a drink with­out plan­ning it a month in ad­vance. Our friend­ship made me feel lib­er­ated as well as safe. I looked at her life choices with no sym­pa­thy or con­cern for her. If I could ad­mire her de­ci­sion to re­main child-free, I felt en­cour­aged to ad­mire my own. She made me feel nor­mal. As long as I had our friend­ship, I wasn’t alone and I had rea­son to be­lieve I was on the right track. We ar­ranged to meet for din­ner in Soho af­ter work on a Fri­day. The waiter took our drinks or­der and I asked for our usual – two Dirty Vodka Mar­ti­nis. ‘Er, not for me,’ she said. ‘A sparkling wa­ter, thank you.’ I was ready to make a joke about her un­char­ac­ter­is­tic ab­sti­nence, which she sensed, so as soon as the waiter left she said: ‘I’m preg­nant.’ I didn’t know what to say. I can’t imag­ine the ex­pres­sion on my face was par­tic­u­larly en­thu­si­as­tic, but I couldn’t help it – I was shocked and felt an un­war­ranted but in­tense sense of be­trayal. In a de­layed re­ac­tion, I stood up and went to her side of the ta­ble to hug her, un­able to find words of con­grat­u­la­tions. I asked what had made her change her mind and she spoke in va­garies about it ‘just be­ing the right time’ and wouldn’t elab­o­rate any fur­ther and give me an an­swer. And I needed an an­swer. I needed an an­swer more than any­thing that night. I needed to know whether she’d had a re­al­iza­tion that I hadn’t and, if so, I wanted to know how to get it. When I woke up the next day, I re­al­ized the feel­ing I was ex­pe­ri­enc­ing was not anger or jeal­ousy or bit­ter­ness – it was grief. I had no one left. They’d all gone. Of course, they hadn’t re­ally gone, they were still my friends and I still loved them. But huge parts of them had dis­ap­peared and there was noth­ing they could do to change that. Un­less I joined them in their spa­ces, on their sched­ules, with their fam­i­lies, I would barely see them. And I started dream­ing of an­other life, one com­pletely re­moved from all of it. No more chil­dren’s birth­day par­ties, no more chris­ten­ings, no more bar­be­cues in the sub­urbs. A life I hadn’t ever se­ri­ously con­tem­plated be­fore. I started dream­ing of what it would be like to start all over again. Be­cause as long as I was here in the only Lon­don I knew – mid­dle-class Lon­don, cor­po­rate Lon­don, mid-thir­ties Lon­don, mar­ried Lon­don – I was in their world. And I knew there was a whole other world out there.

Gentle hands, soft lips, and hot little breaths down my stomach. Pleasure, a thick syrup pouring over my limbs. My cock rose, growing heavy with desire. We were so new together, by all accounts, I should be panting madly, trying to take over. But I was slowly heating wax molding to her will. Emma palmed me through my briefs, and I grunted. I wanted them off, no barriers between us. As if she heard the silent demand, she kissed my nipple and slowly eased the briefs down. I lifted my butt to help her. My dick slapped against my belly as it was freed. Emma made a noise of appreciation and then wrapped her clever fingers around me. "Please," I whispered. My body was weak, but my need grew stronger, drowning out everything else. She complied, stroking, her lips on my lower abs, teasing along the V leading to my hips. "Em..." My plea broke off into a groan as her hot mouth enveloped me. There were no more words. I let her have me, do as she willed, and I was thankful for it. And it felt so good I could only lie there and take it, try not to thrust into her mouth like an animal. But she pulled free with a lewd pop and gazed up at me. Panting lightly, I stared back at her, ready to promise her anything, when she kissed my pulsing tip. "Go ahead," she said. "Fuck my mouth." I almost spilled right there. She sucked me deep once more, and a sound tore out of me that was part pained, part "Oh God, please don't ever stop." The woman was dismantling me in the best of ways. Waves of heat licked up over my skin as I pumped gently into her mouth, keeping my moves light because I didn't want to hurt her, and because denying myself was outright torture. Apparently, I was into that. She sucked me like I was dessert----all the while, her hand stroking steady circles on the tight, sensitive skin of my lower abs. It was that touch, the knowledge that she was doing this because she wanted to take care of me, that rushed me straight to the edge. My trembling hand touched the crown of her head. "Em. Baby, I'm gonna..." I gasped as she did something truly inspired with her tongue. "I'm gonna..." She pulled free with one last suck and surged up to kiss me, her hand wrapping around my aching dick and stroking it. Panting into her mouth, my kiss frantic and sloppy, I came with a shudder of pleasure. And all the tension, all the pain, dissolved like a sugar cube dropped into hot tea.

The curve of her bare breast filled my palm, and we both made a noise of pleasure. I tweaked the hard bead of her nipple, loving the way her lids fluttered as her lips parted. She arched into the touch, her head tilting to the side. I kissed my way along her neck, pinching that sweet nipple, tugging it. Oh, but she liked that, whimpering and wiggling, lifting those sweet tits up higher in encouragement. I dipped down and dragged my tongue along one beaded tip. The sound she made was so dirty, hot, and greedy my dick pulsed. Holding that succulent breast plumped in the palm of my hand, I licked, sucked, and kissed it the way I'd been dying to. "Lucian..." She needed more, her hips grinding on my thigh with uncoordinated motions. My free hand moved to her ass---that spectacular ass----and gripped it. I hauled her up close, my mouth finding hers. "Ride me, honey." I worked her on my thigh, holding her ass as she rocked the slick heat of her sex up and down its length. Emma's breasts tickled my chest with every upward thrust, her lips feathering over mine. Our breath mingled, and I stole a kiss, messy and frantic. My cock throbbed for release, fucking ached for it. But watching her lids flutter, the way her gorgeous face strained with pleasure, made it worth the torture. "I'm going to come if you..."----she gasped, nibbled my lower lip----"keep doing that." "Good," I grunted, flexing my thigh, bouncing her. Oh, she loved that. "Come all over me, honey. Let me see you move." Her head fell to my shoulder, her lips nuzzling my neck. She rocked and ground on my thigh, getting it hot and wet. But her clever hand slid down and found my needy dick once more. I made a noise that sounded a lot like pain, but it was unadulterated pleasure that had me pushing up into the clasp of her hand. "Not without you," she said, jacking my length. Our mouths met, and the kiss became a wild thing. I kissed her until I couldn't breathe, then kissed her again. And she moved on me, her hand stroking and pulling. Heat swarmed my skin, licked up my cock. My abs clenched as I groaned, curling myself around her with a shudder of pure lust. "I'm close." "Are you?" "Yeah." Panting now, we worked with each other, harder, faster. The air steamed, and she trembled. "Now, Lucian. Now." "Fuck." "Oh!" Her deep moan, the way she clenched all around me as her orgasm shuddered through her slim frame, set me off. I released with a shout, pulsing so hard my head went light.

Morning.” She blinks at me. Specifically at my abs, I think. “Where are your pajamas?” “Don’t own any.” I glance down at my boxers. All the important bits are covered. “Does it matter? I could put on my bathing suit instead. It’s more or less the same thing in a brighter color.” “Right.” She clears her throat. But I don’t miss her eyes making another quick sweep of my body. And I have to hold back a laugh. Could Alex be having a moment of regret? “Um…” She shakes her head once. “Thank you for dealing with the delivery.” “No problem.” I lift a hand to my chest and stroke a palm down my bare skin. And, yup, her eyes lock onto my fingers, and she follows my movements like a hungry dog eyes a piece of meat. How funny is this? Now I’m definitely not putting on a shirt this morning. Not until I absolutely have to. Why ruin the fun?

In an effort to justify the prohibition of 186 species of mushroom, including the ‘offending’ psilocybin containing mushrooms sold to the public through smart shops, Dutch Minister of Health, Dr. Ab Klink, refers to the high instance of anxiety and ‘even paranoia’ experienced by those who use them. He makes no mention of the very low incidence of harm (social or otherwise) involving fresh psilocybin containing mushrooms, or the disproportionate number of alcohol and tobacco related deaths, injuries and social disruptions. We are left with an impression that the Minister believes the state has a duty to banish fear itself. This exemplifies the degree to which scientific and medical rationales may become confused with moral and ideological commitments that undermine the ‘wall of separation between Church and State,’ a fundamental tenet of modern democracy.

He grabs my head in both hands and kisses me. I let my eyelids fall closed while I pull him in. His lips are soft and wet. He slants his mouth over mine for real. A warm tongue sweeps the seam of my lips. Then we’re making out in a hospital shower, which is just insane. It’s not about sex, though. It’s comfort kissing. I like it a lot more than a palm on a forehead. When Wes pulls back, he gives me a secretive little smile. “Tonight you’ll be home,” he whispers. “In our bed.” Swallowing hard, I nod. I’d better be. “Lift your arms,” he prompts. When I do, he washes my underarms, skimming my sensitive skin with soap-slicked hands. Those palms continue their journey down my abs and into the juncture of my legs. He nudges my knees apart and washes my inner thighs, his fingertips grazing my balls. He lets his hand linger there, giving me one slow stroke. He’s reminding me that life isn’t always such a drag, and I’m grateful for the message.

Bel m'es quant ilh m'enfolhetis E·m fai badar e·n vau muzan! De leis m'es bel si m'escarnis O·m gaba dereir'o denan, Qu'apres lo mal me venra bes Be leu, s'a lieys ven a plazer." full poetry De dezir mos cor no fina Vas selha ren qu'ieu pus am; E cre que volers m'enguana Si cobezeza la'm tol; Que pus es ponhens qu'espina La dolor que ab joi sana; Don ja non vuelh qu'om m'en planha. Totz trassalh e bran et fremis Per s'Amor, durmen o velhan. Tal paor ai qu'ieu mesfalhis No m'aus pessar cum la deman, Mas servir l'ai dos ans o tres, E pueys ben leu sabra·n lo ver. Ni muer ni viu ni no guaris, Ni mal no·m sent e si l'ai gran, Quar de s'Amor no suy devis, Non sai si ja l'aurai ni quan, Qu'en lieys es tota la merces Que·m pot sorzer o decazer. Bel m'es quant ilh m'enfolhetis E·m fai badar e·n vau muzan! De leis m'es bel si m'escarnis O·m gaba dereir'o denan, Qu'apres lo mal me venra bes Be leu, s'a lieys ven a plazer. Translation The desire of my heart is endless and only devoted to her, beloved among all others. And my will, I guess, abuses me, if lust deprives me of her. For it's keener than a thorn, this pain that heals with joy, and for which I don't want to be pitied. I’m all quivering shaking and shuddering from the love I feel for her, either when I sleep or when I stay up. Such is my fear of dying from this love that I can’t envision how to speak to her. I will remain her servant two or three years perhaps, before letting her know my feeling. Neither dying nor living nor healing, I don’t feel any pain of my sickness, despite its tremendous intensity. I’m unable to scrutinize the mystery of her love, I don’t know whether she will agree to my passion, and even less when that could occur. For in her lies the entire Mercy that can lead me to enhance or to decay. And I find magnificent that she panics me to this point, leaves me with a gaping mouth and bewildered! I enjoy when she scorns me, makes fun of me in my absence or even in front of me. For after the evil will come the good. And that can be soon, if such is her pleasure.

I hope at 50 I'll be dancing like Gianluca Vacchi Party, whiskey, Bellini, Martini, Bloody Maries Bad & Boujee, Tutti Fruity booty, type that really moves me Kundalini rising, energy fill me completely I hope at 50 I'll be writing books like JK Rowling Pen and paper take me places, countries far and foreign Find a cafe up in Edinburgh, write in Scotland Let the stories in my head come out, bloom and blossom I hope at 50
I'll be wealthy like Carlos Slim Buying yachts and mansions and my mother shiny things Encrusted diamond dial on a new Patek Philippe Chill in Maldives but do charity in Ardabil I hope at 50
I'll be funny like Stephen Colbert Cracking witty jokes, making everyone laugh in tears Laughter it goes round and round like a carousel Chronic comic sonic sounds of haha everywhere I hope at 50
I'll be stoic like Robert De Niro Zeno school of thought put an end to my evil ego I hope at 50
I'll be fit as The Rock, Dwayne Johnson Hard rock abs to be paired with an even harder mindset I hope at 50,
I'll be wise like Denzel Washington
Wisdom, knowledge and the faith of God under my skin I hope at 50,
I'll find real love like George Clooney
Amal Alamuddin clone is the type that really moves me

Their mouths crashed together. Tongues tangled. He kissed her as if he wanted to consume her, devour her alive. Fierce kisses, hard kisses, desperate, wanting kisses. He tasted like chocolate and smelled like sin. "Sam..." She pulled away. "I can't breathe." "Neither can I." Her wrapped his arms around her and drew her in for another hungry kiss. Hot, hard, and wet, melting her to the side of the Jeep. His tongue worked past her lips to plunge into her mouth, every stroke tugging at things low and deep in her belly. Her hands moved to his chest, sliding over his pecs and the ripple of abs beneath his shirt. Harman was perfect but Sam was real, his body hard from his fight training, muscles thick from use. He hissed out a breath when her fingers grazed the top of his belt, his infamous self-control giving way to her curious hands. "What are we doing?" he murmured as he drew her earlobe into his mouth, his five-o'clock shadow rough against her sensitive skin. "I don't know, but don't stop." "No chance of that." He shifted against her, his arousal as evident from his ragged breaths as the growing hardness pressed against her hips. When he thrust a thick thigh between her legs, she rocked against him, reckless and wanton in her need for release. She was dying, burning, her body on fire. She'd never felt anything like the toxic combination of anger and lust that pounded through her veins. It made her head spin, drove logic away.

His hands dropped down to her thighs. He kissed her belly, and then blew kisses in between her legs. She experienced nothing but pleasure as he made her body sing. He licked her like he had the other night, and she gasped. She clutched his hair. He touched her bud and stroked her. It felt amazing, and she wanted him to lick her forever, but she didn't know if she was being selfish. She hadn't done anything to pleasure him. She sat up and pulled him next to her. "You don't have to do that again. We can just have sex. Or I can try to do it to you, though I don't know how to." "Babe, sex isn't just about penetration. I want to please you. I love this. You taste so damn sweet. I want you to enjoy yourself and do anything that feels good. I want you to come in my mouth again." "Enrique!" she gasped, her cheeks turning red as she was laughing. She had never talked freely about sex. And she loved how open he was being with her. He smiled. "You're mine now. And I think you're sexy as hell. I'm going to tell you every chance I get--- how much I want you, how badly I wanted to touch you from the second I saw you. How you have the most incredible plump ass. How much I want to eat your pussy." She exhaled. "I've never seen myself as sexy or attractive. But you... you're a god." She rubbed her hand down his abs and stroked his cock. "I've fantasized about this since I met you." He grinned and kissed her neck. "I can pretty much guarantee not as much as I have. Now relax, babe." He kissed her back down to her belly, and in between her thighs. Sweet heat. He licked her pussy and her breath quickened. Her moans came rapidly. He rubbed her nipples with his free hand as she clutched the sheets, writhing against his tongue. She looked down at Enrique, who was settled between her legs, lapping at her as if she were his oasis in the middle of the fields. She took a deep breath and did exactly as he said. Relax. As she loosened up, pressure built between her legs and waves of pleasure washed over her. Her chest heaved. "Enrique. That feels really good." He grinned. "I'm going to make you feel even better." He rubbed her clit. She felt as if she was going to explode. "That's it, baby. Come for me." Carolina closed her eyes and let go. The intensity pulsed through her as her body shook and ecstasy took over. "Ah, Enrique!

And by the end of March one of them had already begun his journey. Twenty-two years old, an A.B. and LL.B. of Harvard, Francis Parkman was back from a winter trip to scenes in Pennsylvania and Ohio that would figure in his book and now he started with his cousin, Quincy Adams Shaw, for St. Louis. He was prepared to find it quite as alien to Beacon Hill as the Dakota lands beyond it, whither he was going. He was already an author (a poet and romancer), had already designed the great edifice his books were to build, and already suffered from the mysterious, composite illness that was to make his life a long torture. He hoped, in fact, that a summer on the prairies might relieve or even cure the malady that had impaired his eyes and, he feared, his heart and brain as well. He had done his best to cure it by systematic exercise, hard living in the White Mountains, and a regimen self-imposed in the code of his Puritan ancestors which would excuse no weakness. But more specifically Parkman was going west to study the Indians. He intended to write the history of the conflict between imperial Britain and imperial France, which was in great part a story of Indians. The Conspiracy of Pontiac had already taken shape in his mind; beyond it stretched out the aisles and transepts of what remains the most considerable achievement by an American historian. So he needed to see some uncorrupted Indians in their native state. It was Parkman’s fortune to witness and take part in one of the greatest national experiences, at the moment and site of its occurrence. It is our misfortune that he did not understand the smallest part of it. No other historian, not even Xenophon, has ever had so magnificent an opportunity: Parkman did not even know that it was there, and if his trip to the prairies produced one of the exuberant masterpieces of American literature, it ought instead to have produced a key work of American history. But the other half of his inheritance forbade. It was the Puritan virtues that held him to the ideal of labor and achievement and kept him faithful to his goal in spite of suffering all but unparalleled in literary history. And likewise it was the narrowness, prejudice, and mere snobbery of the Brahmins that insulated him from the coarse, crude folk who were the movement he traveled with, turned him shuddering away from them to rejoice in the ineffabilities of Beacon Hill, and denied our culture a study of the American empire at the moment of its birth. Much may rightly be regretted, therefore. But set it down also that, though the Brahmin was indifferent to Manifest Destiny, the Puritan took with him a quiet valor which has not been outmatched among literary folk or in the history of the West.

am 100% committed to following the Badass plan. ________ I will “show up” for myself for 21 days of this program and do exactly what the plan recommends. ________ I will get rid of tempting foods in my house, and I will replace them with nutritious ones. ________ I will prioritize my health and fitness from this day forward. ________ I will make body-honoring choices, day by day. ________ I agree that the plan is a lifestyle that I’m developing, not something I pick up and put down when I need it. ________ I understand that to take care of my body is to nurture the most valuable physical resource I have.

The devil’s first trick is to get us to say, “I have not sinned.” And then his last blow is to make us think, “My sin is too great to be forgiven.” But humble faith accepts God’s judgment upon itself, and escapes judgment.

Creating Strong Passwords One method used to make passwords more secure is to require them to be strong. A strong password is at least eight characters in length, doesn’t include words found in a dictionary or any part of a user’s name, and combines three of the four following character types: Uppercase characters (26 letters A–Z) Lowercase characters (26 letters a–z) Numbers (10 numbers 0–9) Special characters (32 printable characters, such as !, $, and *) A complex password uses multiple character types, such as Ab0@. However, a complex password isn’t necessarily strong. It also needs to be sufficiently long. It’s worth noting that recommendations for the best length of a strong password vary depending on the type of account.

work. At the same time, Zakos attended conferences, making assertions that when companies ran A-B testing that compared the way the Cybertwins responded to text-based questions to the way humans in call centers responded to text-based questions, the Cybertwins outperformed the humans in customer satisfaction. They boasted that when they deployed a commercial system on the website of National Australia Bank, the country’s largest bank, more than 90 percent of visitors to the site believed that they were interacting with a human rather than a software program.

Creativity is enhanced by looking for options, keeping on making decisions, shying away from patterns and schemas and adopting ab inclusive thinking to look at different ways of acting, being, feeling and thinking

What makes a good metric What vanity metrics are and how to avoid them The difference between qualitative and quantitative metrics, between exploratory and reporting metrics, between leading and lagging metrics, and between correlated and causal metrics What A/B testing is, and why multivariate testing is more common The difference between segments and cohorts

In the United States, most boards are benign, and the power resides primarily with the chief executive; boards tend to only become significant when it comes time to replace a failing CEO. The AB Inbev board, however, is the primary power center in the company. It exemplifies that boards can play a central role in setting BHAGs, developing strategy, sustaining culture, seizing opportunities and leading through tumultuous times. Without such a strong and unified board, AB Inbev would not have come through the 2008-09 challenges as strong as it did (and perhaps even not at all). The AB Inbev board pays constant attention to its own culture, disciplines and vibrancy, with as much fanatic attention as building and preserving the management culture of the company. Most important, it makes decisions and allocates capital for long-term shareholder value, measured in multiple decades, not in terms of quarterly moments. If more boards behaved this way, we would have better performing enterprises and lasting companies.

I scooch my body over so I’m on the bed, and we’re head to toe. She’s lying next to me. “Sixty-nine,” I say with a smirk. “Oh. I’ve never done that.” “Hop on. Don’t be shy.” She doesn’t hesitate, and the next thing I know, my tongue is on her again and my cock is taken in by her magical mouth. I love the weight of her tits on my abs as she bobs up and down on me. I wrap my arms around her waist, and as much as I want to see what she’s doing that is making me feel so amazing, I love how I can make her wiggle in this position. Her body shudders again, and I wonder if she’s coming. I damn well hope so. I feel some combination of her hands, mouth, and tongue on me as she slides up and down, slick hands on my rock-hard erection. I gyrate up and down a little, rocking my hips into her. Our bodies press together in an explosion of sixty-nine heat and sweat and sex. For a moment, I pull her hands behind her back, forcing her to sit up and on my face. She’s hesitant at first, but I think my enthusiasm overrides any shyness she might have, and she’s twisting into me as she comes again. I know because she tells me, even though her words are barely a whimper at this point. She lifts her body up and off me, then kneels between my legs and pushes her hair behind her head. “D, tell me how you want me to finish you,” she says as she runs her hand up and down on my cock. I bite my lip. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to fuck your tits.” “Well, I’m glad you’re not lying.” She looks down. “Fuck these things? And how would you do that?” I narrow my eyes. “You’ve never done that?” She shakes her head. “Never.” “So I get to take your boobs’ V card?” I exclaim. “Let’s not make a big deal out of it.” She lies down on her back and I position my legs on either side, straddling her upper body. I slide my cock between her breasts, and just enjoy the beautiful view for a moment. When I lean back with one arm for balance, I find myself fondling her clit again—instinct—but she grabs my arm. “Nah-ah. This is about you, now. This is about D.” Grabbing my cock, she pulls me toward her face and leans forward at the same time, then takes me to the back of her throat, leaving me nice and slick. She puts my cock between her tits and then presses them together. “You like that?” she asks, and I nod vigorously. “Very much,” I grit out. “Good. I like watching you do it.” Her eyes flicker with excitement and that turns me on even more. I press her boobs together myself and she grabs hold of my ass and slides her hands around my hips. It’s so damn hot and this is goddamn reckless abandon, and I feel like I can do anything sexually with this woman, like I’m free and she’s my toy and I’m hers, too. I pump my cock between her tits again and she lets out a moan that puts me over the edge. “Gonna come,” I growl. “Where should I come.” “My tits, baby,” she says throatily, and next thing I know I spurt ropes all over her breasts and neck. By some miracle, none gets on her face. When it’s all over, both of our hearts are racing. She looks down at her chest, and then up at me. “Wow.” “I would say sorry, but that would be a lie.” She touches a tiny bit of the liquid with her finger and taps her tongue. “You taste good, actually. I mean, I already tasted you before.” I laugh as I unstraddle her and go grab a towel. “I’ll let you taste me as much as you want, babe. By the way, let me just say you kind of look hot as hell right now.” “Thanks.” I wipe her off, wipe myself off, and then lean down to kiss her. I envisioned a peck, but it ends up being a long, lingering kiss that promises more. She takes my hand and I stand there for a minute, next to her.

Again, let’s take the Push Up, a standard exercise that works your chest, shoulders, triceps, abs, obliques, and lower back (unlike benching which only works half of these). If you do Push Ups standing up with your hands against a wall a couple of feet in front of you, the exercise is pretty easy. Then try them with your hands on an elevated surface, like the edge of a bureau or windowsill. The lower the surface you use–a desk, a couch, a coffee table, telephone books–the harder it gets. Putting your hands on the floor, like a standard Push Up, is harder. If we put our feet on the coffee table and our hands on the ground, the exercise becomes significantly more difficult. This is using leverage to increase the exercise’s difficulty. To make the exercise still harder we could place our hands on one or two balls, like a basketball. Now we’re using an unstable surface. Still harder would be to do basketball Push Ups with pauses at the bottom. Still not hard enough? Try doing them one-handed on the floor. Then one-handed with your feet on the couch. Then on an unstable surface. Then with pauses … You get the idea. And this is only a simple example that can be repeated with many of my exercises. You’ll see the possibilities are endless. So there you have it: We’ve gone from one variation of an exercise, that probably everyone reading this book can do, to a more difficult variation that probably no one reading this book can do right off the bat. The difficulty of bodyweight exercises can be tailored to suit the needs of virtually anyone. You have total control of the resistance.

So, my program develops the entire spectrum of physical skills: Muscular Strength, Muscular Endurance, Cardiovascular Endurance, Power, Speed, Coordination, Balance, and Flexibility. The degree to which you possess these eight physical qualities defines your level of fitness. It is only by focusing on these seven skills, rather than appearance, that you will make your best gains, in ability, well-being, and in appearance. The washboard stomachs, big chests, round shoulders, and shirt-sleeve-stretching biceps of my men are testament to that, as are the toned legs, tight triceps and abs of the women I’ve trained.

MAKE EMAIL SUBJECT LINES CLEAR, CATCHY, AND ACTIONABLE Most subject lines fall under the following categories: • Curiosity • Urgency or scarcity • Special offers • Social proof (e.g., How I did…/THIS made me…) • Benefit • Story (e.g., I failed…/I never thought…) Experiment with subject line styles from different categories. See what attracts your audience. If your email service provider has an A/B or split test function, use it. Incorporate symbols or emojis to get attention as well. But don’t overdo them or they lose their effect on your subscribers.

If it had been 2016 rather than 1996, we would have leaned into A/B testing—the omnipresent tool of the internet age. A/B testing just means running a digital experiment where you test option A versus option B with customers. So some see a blue button, some see an orange button, and you see which button gets the most clicks. It’s an incredible tool—infinitely faster than customer panels and so much easier to interpret.

How do I clean your grave if I can't find it, if you yourself don't even know where you are? Is the cycle even complete? I subsist only on marigolds as I make my way through the ash and lye, under velvet ab sence of the moon. How do I want to remember you, my friend of dancing hair and obsidian tongue, left-handed in fighting? By your name that adorns the walls, simultaneous ly a blessing and an indictment? By your gestures of violent beauty, by the throbbing lunar glow of your knuckles? Or by your words to caress and be caressed by? No. I want to remember you by your laugh. Your laugh that is the flaming rag in the glass bottle. Your laugh that is the window yelling in high bell chime. Your laugh that is the explosion taking a deep breath.

Vacations are more than vacations, and that island is more than an island. Vacations are the act of grabbing minutes and hours and days with both hands, stealing against the inevitability of time. There will be a day when our family as we know it will no longer exist, and I want to know in that moment that I wasn’t at the office or doing the dishes when I could have been walking on the dock with my dad, when I could have been drinking tea and eating ginger cookies on the porch with my mom. I don’t want to be building my bank account or my abs or my dream house when I could be dancing with Aaron at the beach bar on New Year’s Eve, when I could be making crackers and cheese for dinner because we were on the boat till way after the shops closed, sunburnt and sandy and windblown, and happier there and together than anywhere else with anyone else.

I’m not joking. I am so sick of men, I can’t even tell you. I’m sick of their dimples and their rock hard abs and their ridiculously hot bodies. They make it so I can’t think – even though I know what the right thing to do is. I want to rip their hair right off their heads.” The door to the elevator dinged and swung open. I strode in and turned to the girls that were still standing there waiting. “We’ll get the next one,” one of them said quickly. Yup, I was coming across as deranged.

He flashed her a smile that could make panties melt, according to the reviewer who hadn't liked his movie but had started #StarringRyanKwoksAbs. And Lindsay was not immune. Her mouth opened and she released a shaky breath. He watched her breasts move up and down beneath that rather tight tank top. This was almost as bad as when she'd wrapped her lips around that thick bubble tea straw last week. An erection would be inconvenient now, but it was happening anyway.

Get a light dumbbell, say ten pounds for an average lady and two to three times as much for a gentleman, and do one arm snatches two to three times a week followed by ab work and back and hamstring stretches. Do as much as you can stand; the sets, reps, and rest periods are up to you. Just make sure to have your heart checked beforehand and slowly ease into the program. And do not forget to synchronize your breathing with your movement, otherwise you will wilt in no time flat.

1. Your press is only as good as your clean. a. Make the kinetic energy of the clean go straight down to your feet. b. Brace your full body before the impact. c. Store the energy of the clean like a spring. 2. Stay tight. a. Brace (don’t suck in) your abs b. "Breathe behind the shield," while keeping your abs "braced for a punch." c. Cramp your glutes. d. Tense your quads and pull up your kneecaps. e. Crush the kettlebell handle. 3. Use solid shoulder mechanics. a. Keep your shoulder down. b. Press and lower from the lat. c. Don’t press the kettlebell; push yourself away from it. d. Press in an arc rather than straight up. Push out against the body of the kettlebell with your forearm.

I should be dead. But I’m not human, am I?” She swiped a tear of frustration off her face. “Whatever I am makes me stronger, faster, and scary as hell when fighting. I changed, scaled the top of a moving truck, and fought a guy shooting a gun at me.” She ran her hand across her face to wipe away the tears. “I’m a mess. The mud in that ravine got in all the cracks, even my underwear. But the injuries are already almost gone, and somehow, I know all this will heal. Based on you being all pissy, I assume your meeting didn’t go well.” “It took an unanticipated turn.” His tone was odd as he continued to stare at her. “What exactly do you do that involves secrecy and the Crown?” “I can’t tell you.” Something about how he looked at her was different. Her skin tingled like it had before she’d shifted. Survival instinct flared. “Did they order you to…kill me?” It came out of her on a fatigued exhale. Her shoulders drooped. His face remained remote as if trying to wall off emotion. He neither confirmed nor denied, which might as well have been a screaming affirmative. She dropped her chin. He said nothing, so she looked up. He stared intently at her, making her almost shrink in place under the gaze of those thunderous eyes. “Is this when you tell me to leave again?” she asked. “Would you go?” “If they ordered you to kill me, wouldn’t you be forced to come after me? To hunt me down? So, what’s the point in me running unless you like the hunt?” He pushed his hand through his dark hair and stepped away from her. Frustration oozed from him. Seeing him start to lose some of his composure made him less threatening. He wasn’t the robot assassin. She wanted to run her fingers through his thick hair and down his scruff-roughened chiseled jawline to soothe him. Would her touch, if done in comfort, affect him the way she suspected his touch would destroy her? From the way he simply stared at her, she guessed yes. The silence was killing her. “What’s going on here?” “No idea.” He muttered something under his breath that she couldn’t make out. He stepped toward her and slid a finger under her chin to tilt her face upward. Their eyes met and held. “I’m sorry someone hurt you. That you had to fight for your life and went through a windshield.” In a whisper, he added, “I should’ve been there.” The grit in his voice, the despair, as if he’d let her down, packed one hell of a punch. What was she supposed to do with that? Oh dear…God. His hold on her face, how his thumb gently stroked over the skin on her jaw… How he moved in so she could feel the hard surfaces of his body, the concrete chest and abs… All of it swirled together, turning her mind to mush, which was bad when she needed to remain alert. Death… her death was on the line. But she was about to make a very bad decision to let him do whatever the hell he wanted after that declaration. “I made a promise to erase Dom’s kiss. To make you forget. I never go back on my promises.” Like his promise to help her get answers? He didn’t lower his head, but stood there, hesitant. “You’re too hurt right now.” “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She slid her good hand up his shoulders and neck. His muscles twitched under her touch, and his chest rose and fell more rapidly. Feeling how much just her hand on him affected him encouraged her to continue. Cradling the back of his head, she pressed her body into his. As she pulled him toward her mouth, his incredible size and power registered but didn’t intimidate. Didn’t scare her. Her mouth touched his. Warmth on warmth. Once… Twice… Three times. His lips were a lot softer than they appeared. The roughness of his facial scruff scratched her skin.

Who you are is defined by what you’re willing to struggle for. People who enjoy the struggles of a gym are the ones who run triathlons and have chiseled abs and can bench-press a small house. People who enjoy long workweeks and the politics of the corporate ladder are the ones who fly to the top of it. People who enjoy the stresses and uncertainties of the starving artist lifestyle are ultimately the ones who live it and make it. This

Where to touch? The worst of the waxy spikes were stuck from waist to groin. She swiped at his hip, managed to knock off a few. She made a wider sweep on his outer thigh, and cleared a few more. Her hand over his zipper. Shook. Cade was still picking needles off his abdomen. He widened his stance. "Don't be shy." There was challenge in his tone. He was getting even with her. She'd forced him to replace the bulbs. His request for her to remove the prickles seemed a fair exchange. Her heart gave an unfamiliar flutter. Her stomach knotted. They presently stood between the tall box of headstones and a privacy hedge. They weren't visible from the road. She decided to pick off the needles individually instead of making a palm-wide sweep. There'd be less touching. In her hurry, her knuckles bumped his sex. He sucked air. Enlarged. The tab on the zipper slid down an inch. He made the adjustment. "Good enough." He pushed her hand away. She sighed her relief. He twisted, struggled with the prickles on his back, stretching to brush those between his shoulder blades. Frustrated by those he couldn't reach, he snagged the hem on his T-shirt and tugged it over his head. Shook it out. Grace's eyes rounded and her mouth went dry. Her had a magnificent chest. Broad and bare, his chest tempted her. Her fingers itched to touch him. Even for a second. This was so unlike her. The need to satisfy her curiosity outweighed the consequences. She went with the urge. She traced his flat stomach and six-pack abs. His jeans hung low. Sharp hip bones, man dents, and sexy lick lines. The man was sculpted. Cade clutched his shirt to his thigh. Stood still. She felt his gaze on her, but couldn't meet his eyes. Not after she flattened her hand over his abdomen, and his heat suffused her palm. His stomach contracted. Her fingers flexed. She scratched him. He groaned.

The sound of silence was beginning to get louder, and familiar. And I was deeply in love with it. I stopped being mute, and became dumb again. There are no pictures of gurus, or even of the Buddha himself. There are no personalised gods or its dubious derivates – dogmas, or godmen – to prostrate before. No hugs, kisses, threads, amulets, satins or holy ash. No grand trickery that makes life here a hell in promise of a heaven there. It shows us the same arduous path that some of the enlightened men have walked. Men who can only show the path and are not the destination; where they communed with their truth, or, for lack of a better word, their God, in silence. The choice is left to us, to walk, stroll, stray, or squat on that path. [Many men; Ab to Za, all those letters of alphabets and all the other men in between… Same grand truth, revealed in parts… Same path, seemingly different… Same destination…. No single path.] But Vipassana does not offer us the easier path of pleading, coaxing, extorting or seducing such men for easy blessings. It nudges you to start walking. To be your own blessing. To create your own miracles.

The sound of silence was beginning to get louder, and familiar. And I was deeply in love with it. Not only does it not involve religious practices, it makes you shed all religious affiliations for ten days. What you are left with is your bare breath. That becomes the only thing you focus on – your personal rosary. There are no pictures of gurus, or even of the Buddha himself. There are no personalised gods or its dubious derivates – dogmas, or godmen – to prostrate before. No hugs, kisses, threads, amulets, satins or holy ash. No holy ‘trap’ of devices designed for an instant osmosis of blessings. No grand trickery that makes life here a hell in promise of a heaven there. It shows us the same arduous path that some of the enlightened men have walked. Men who can only show the path and are not the destination; where they communed with their truth, or, for lack of a better word, their God, in silence. The choice is left to us, to walk, stroll, stray, or squat on that path. [Many men; Ab to Za, all those alphabets and all the other men in between… Same grand truth, revealed in parts… Same path, seemingly different… Same destination…. No single path.] But Vipassana does not offer us the easier path of pleading, coaxing, extorting or seducing such men for easy blessings. It nudges you to start walking. To be your own blessing. To create your own miracles.

Social Media Advertising - Different Options & Their Benefits How To Use Social Media Paid Ads Ideally? What is the most effective way to make use of social media ads? Choosing which social media platform to advertise on depends on your target audience. You need to understand which platforms are being used, the type of campaigns that can run on each platform, and what investment you’ll be required to make. Pew Research Center’s report helps give us an idea of the most preferred platform for various demographics. For example, if your product caters to the teenage group, consider advertising on Instagram, TikTok, or Snapchat. If you’re catering to a more B2B client, you can consider LinkedIn. Once you understand where your audience spends the most time, you can narrow down the platforms. However, we’d still advise on A/B testing various platforms. You’d be surprised by how many B2B clients you can find on TikTok! What Are The Most Popular Social Media Ads? Here is a brief rundown of the various social media ad options available. 1. Facebook Ads Facebook Ads are the most successful form of social media advertising. Statistics show that Facebook paid ads have an average conversion rate of 9.21%. They’re easy to set up and track, and allow you to measure campaign performance easily, giving insights into how well your ads are performing. They also offer a wide range of targeting options that help you reach people who might be interested in what you’re selling, which is why they’re so effective at generating sales leads. Facebook Ads are also highly targeted. You can target specific demographics or audiences based on gender, age range, location, and other details such as interests and behaviors or job titles. This helps ensure that only people who are interested in what you’re offering, see your ad on Facebook. 2. Twitter Ads Twitter ads are a great way to reach your target audience, especially if your company already has a presence on the platform. They’re easy to set up and manage so you can focus on other aspects of your business. As of 2022, they have an average conversion rate of 0.77%. Twitter ads also offer simple targeting options that let you get more followers, increase engagement with existing customers and gain new followers interested in what you have to offer. There are multiple ad options to choose from for accomplishing various advertising goals, including promoted ads, follower ads, amplify ads, and takeover ads. Promoted and follower ads have a much wider average cost range than their takeover counterparts. 3. LinkedIn Ads LinkedIn is a professional networking site, so it’s not as casual as other social media platforms like Instagram and Facebook. As a result, users are more likely to be interested in what you are promoting on the platform because they’re looking for something related to their professional lives. LinkedIn has an average click-through rate of 0.65%. In addition, the conversion rate for LinkedIn ads is also fairly decent (2.35%). They can have high or low conversion rates depending on factors like interests and demographics. But if your ad is effectively targeted, it will have more chances of enjoying a higher conversion rate. 4. Instagram Ads As a younger demographic, Instagram users make up a great target audience for social media advertising. They are highly engaged in the platform and are more likely to respond to call-to-action than other demographics. 5. YouTube Ads YouTube ads are excellent for marketers with video content to promote their business. Furthermore, the advertising options offered by this platform ensure that you needn't bother with YouTuber fame or even a large number of subscribers on your channel to spread the word on this platform.

Wireframes help you to focus on what matters: the words. To illustrate this, take one of your pages, select all the text, and paste it into a plain text editor. You may be surprised at what you see. (For many websites, this exercise is much more useful than it may sound.) Some pages are so beautifully designed, it’s easy to overlook the words. But the words are what win A/B tests.

If you have economies of scale, penetration pricing often works best Would your business benefit from economies of scale? (Most web businesses do.) If so, your ideal pricing strategy may be penetration pricing—charging a low price, basing your financial model on eventually reaching market-dominating economies of scale. Supply-side economies of scale mean that your profit margins increase the more you sell, because as you sell more, your cost of sales (unit costs) usually becomes lower, and your fixed costs become a smaller fraction of your overall costs. Demand-side economies of scale mean that the more customers you get, the more value each customer gets from your service, for the following reasons. You may benefit from having a network of customers. For example, if a phone system had only two users, only one type of call could be made (one between User A and User B). If it had three users, then three types of call could be made (A–B, B–C and A-C). If it had twelve users, sixty-six different types of calls could be made. The overall value of a phone system to its users is roughly proportional to the square of the number of users. You may benefit from there being a market of complementary products and services. The project-management web app Basecamp has many integrations, which it promotes on its website. At the bottom of the page, Basecamp shows off how quickly it’s acquiring new users, to persuade other companies to add integrations. You may benefit from having a bigger knowledge base, more forums, or more trained users. The ecosystem of knowledge around a product can be valuable in itself. WordPress grows because it’s easy to find a WordPress developer and it’s easy for those developers to find answers to their questions. You may benefit from the perception that yours is the standard. Users are aware of the value of choosing the ultimate winner—especially when they have to invest time and resources into using your company—so they will be attracted by the perception that you’ll win.

Tools for click-mapping We often use Crazy Egg, Hotjar, and Clicktale, and several A/B testing tools that include similar functionality. Alternatives include Fullstory, Inspectlet, Decibel Insight, Jaco, Lucky Orange, MouseStats, Ptengine, and userTrack.

Thus Socrates anticipates the unique paradigm of the individual when he speaks of a παράδειγμα of the city “of one’s own” that may well not be “the city of one’s birth”, but which is “laid up in heaven for him who wishes to contemplate it and so beholding to constitute himself its citizen. But it makes no difference whether it exists now or ever will come into being. The politics of this city only will be his and of none other” (Rep. 592ab, trans. Shorey).

I know my alphabet,' I said sharply as he laid a piece of paper in front of me. 'I'm not that stupid.' I twisted my fingers in my lap, then pinned my restless hands under my thighs. 'I didn't say you were stupid,' he said. 'I'm just trying to determine where we should begin.' I leaned back in the cushioned seat. 'Since you've refused to tell me a thing about how much you know.' My face warmed. 'Can't you hire a tutor?' He lifted a brow. 'Is it that hard for you to even try in front of me?' 'You're a High Lord- don't you have better things to do?' 'Of course. But none as enjoyable as seeing you squirm.' 'You're a real bastard, you know that?' Rhys huffed a laugh. 'I've been called worse. In fact, I think you've called me worse.' He tapped the paper in front of him. 'Read that.' A blur of letters. My throat tightened. 'I can't.' 'Try.' The sentence had been written in elegant, concise print. His writing, no doubt. I tried to open my mouth, but my spine locked. 'What exactly, is your stake in all this? You said you'd tell me if I worked with you.' 'I didn't specify when I'd tell you.' I peeled back from him as my lip curled. He shrugged. 'Maybe I resent the idea of you letting those sycophants and war-mongering fools in the Spring Court make you feel inadequate. Maybe I indeed enjoy seeing you squirm. Or maybe-' 'I get it.' He snorted. 'Try to read it, Feyre.' Prick. I snatched the paper to me, nearly ripping it in half in the process. I looked at the first word, sounding it out in my head. 'Y-you...' The next I figured out with a combination of my silent pronunciation and logic. 'Look...' 'Good,' he murmured. 'I didn't ask for your approval.' Rhys chuckled. 'Ab... absolutely.' It took me longer than I wanted to admit to figure that out. The next word was even worse. 'De... Del...' I deigned to glance at him, brows raised. 'Delicious,' he purred. My brows knotted. I read the next two words, then whipped my face toward him. 'You look absolutely delicious today, Feyre?! That's what you wrote?' He leaned back in his seat. As our eyes met, sharp claws caressed my mind and his voice whispered inside my head. It's true, isn't it? I jolted back, my chair groaning. 'Stop that!' But those claws now dug in- and my entire body, my heart, my lungs, my blood yielded to his grip, utterly at his command as he said, The fashion of the Night Court suits you.

I was in love with the result—the image of me on stage, people cheering, me rocking out, pouring my heart into what I was playing—but I wasn’t in love with the process. And because of that, I failed at it. Repeatedly. Hell, I didn’t even try hard enough to fail at it. I hardly tried at all. The daily drudgery of practicing, the logistics of finding a group and rehearsing, the pain of finding gigs and actually getting people to show up and give a shit, the broken strings, the blown tube amp, hauling forty pounds of gear to and from rehearsals with no car. It’s a mountain of a dream and a mile-high climb to the top. And what it took me a long time to discover is that I didn’t like to climb much. I just liked to imagine the summit. The common cultural narratives would tell me that I somehow failed myself, that I’m a quitter or a loser, that I just didn’t “have it,” that I gave up on my dream and that maybe I let myself succumb to the pressures of society. But the truth is far less interesting than any of these explanations. The truth is, I thought I wanted something, but it turns out I didn’t. End of story. I wanted the reward and not the struggle. I wanted the result and not the process. I was in love with not the fight but only the victory. And life doesn’t work that way. Who you are is defined by what you’re willing to struggle for. People who enjoy the struggles of a gym are the ones who run triathlons and have chiseled abs and can bench-press a small house. People who enjoy long workweeks and the politics of the corporate ladder are the ones who fly to the top of it. People who enjoy the stresses and uncertainties of the starving artist lifestyle are ultimately the ones who live it and make it. This is not about willpower or grit. This is not another admonishment of “no pain, no gain.” This is the most simple and basic component of life: our struggles determine our successes. Our problems birth our happiness, along with slightly better, slightly upgraded problems. See: it’s a never-ending upward spiral. And if you think at any point you’re allowed to stop climbing, I’m afraid you’re missing the point. Because the joy is in the climb itself.

My Atlas pinged behind me. And again. And again. “You’re popular this morning,” Darcy commented, eyeing it with interest. I grunted in response. “Caleb’s just trying to get into my pants again.” She snorted a laugh. “How hard are you going to make him work for it?” “He took part in the whole throwing us in a pit business. So I’m thinking I’m done with him,” I said dismissively. “Yeah, you totally should be,” she agreed. “But that look in your eye says you’re not.” “That’s just the part of my brain which is blinded by his hotness. I refuse to listen to her because she’s a slut. The sensible part of my brain says hell no and I’ll be keeping company with her and her chastity belt from now on.” “Okay,” Darcy said in a way which told me she wasn’t totally convinced but there wasn’t much I could do about that. My track record spoke for itself. The Atlas pinged again. And again. “At least let’s see how hard he’s grovelling,” she said with a wicked smile. I laughed and moved to grab my Atlas from the bed. Caleb: That’s so cold, Tory. I know you felt things too... the noises you were making in response to them are kinda hard to deny ;) Caleb: Do you want me to beg? Do you like the idea of getting me on my knees for you? Caleb: Are you ignoring me now? Can’t we just agree to disagree about the whole throne issue and take out our frustrations over the situation on each other? I promise, I’m super frustrated over it and it will take a lot of work to make me feel any better about it... Caleb: You wanna see how frustrated I am...? I really need help working through this... The last message contained a photograph which Caleb had taken of himself in a mirror after getting out of the shower. His blonde curls were damp and looked darker than usual and every inch of his exposed, muscular body glistened with fat drops of moisture. The picture cut off at his waist and his navy eyes blazed with an intensity which made me swallow a lump in my throat. Caleb: Want to come over and see the rest? Darcy released a breath of laughter. “Well he certainly knows what he wants.” My gaze raked over the picture of his tight abs glistening with water and I groaned. “Why does he have to be such an asshole?” I complained. “Well if he wasn’t, you probably wouldn’t like him at all,” she reasoned and I couldn’t help but laugh at that. “That is a tragically accurate assessment,” I agreed. I decided to leave Caleb hanging and closed down the private messages with a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. (tory)

Oh God, baby. Daddy has the biggest load for you. Daddy’s going to fill your sweet little mouth with his cum. Oh fuck, baby. I’m going to come in your mouth. Here it comes, sweetheart, oh fuck, here’s all my cum for you.” I can’t hold back any longer. My orgasm rocks through me, making my hips buck, and I hold my cock against my stomach as it jerks and pulses, covering my abs in my cum.

And life doesn’t work that way. Who you are is defined by what you’re willing to struggle for. People who enjoy the struggles of a gym are the ones who run triathlons and have chiseled abs and can bench-press a small house. People who enjoy long workweeks and the politics of the corporate ladder are the ones who fly to the top of it. People who enjoy the stresses and uncertainties of the starving artist lifestyle are ultimately the ones who live it and make it. This is not about willpower or grit. This is not another admonishment of “no pain, no gain.” This is the most simple and basic component of life: our struggles determine our successes. Our problems birth our happiness, along with slightly better, slightly upgraded problems.

And yet the debate over AB 1421, as I discovered in San Francisco, touched upon crucial issues of autonomy and civil liberties. The bill makes the assumption that people who display a certain level of mental disorder are no longer capable of choosing their own treatment, including medication, and therefore must be forced into doing so.

We got here two minutes ago.” Ryleigh smacks his abs. “And you were like ‘ewww, they’re probably doing it.’” She looks at him. “It.” She tries not to laugh at the word he was using but can’t help it, and all he can do is glare at her. “She’s my sister,” Stone defends, and then Romeo comes over and slaps his shoulder. “Not so fun anymore, big guy?” He shakes his head, going to grab Gabriella’s hand. “If it makes everyone feel better,” I say, stepping out, “we weren’t doing it.” “Yeah,” Nash adds, “we did it in the shower before you guys got here.

You going to glare all night or fucking talk to me?” “Sorry my scars disgust you, fucking princess. Time to go back upstairs.” Pressing the gun to his chin, I narrow my eyes. “I don’t give a fuck what you think about your scars, Garrett, but you will listen to me. I love them, they make me feel better about mine. Each one was earned, and it shows you survived something most others wouldn’t. When I see them, I’m reminded how strong you are, and honestly, they don’t detract from your hotness, but add to it. I was staring earlier at your fucking abs, okay? Wondering if it would be weird if I licked them.” He freezes, his eyes wide. “What?” “You saw what you wanted to see in my eyes—disgust, because it would make it easier to keep pushing me away.

Kota, I can’t see—” “Hold on.” She mutes herself. I can see her profile. She’s saying something, but I can’t hear the words. That’s when it happens. The bathroom door behind her swings open, and Jake steps out through a billowing cloud of steam. Freshly washed and completely naked. I blink, a strangled whimper lodging in my throat. Holy crap. He’s perfect. I knew he was beautiful, but my fantasies fall short of the reality. His wet hair falls in his face as he towels off. First his damp locks. Then his wide, muscular chest. Down his washboard abs. And finally his groin where an enormous erection bounces against his stomach. I’m frozen until the sound mysteriously pops back on again, and his deep voice fills my room. “Let’s make this quick, Dakota. I gotta jet.” They’re definitely going to fuck. “Oh God.” I slam my laptop shut. My hands are shaking as I fling it away from me. Nausea sweeps over me so hard, I barely make it to the trash can before I lose my breakfast. Five minutes later, my phone buzzes from my nightstand, but I ignore it. The calls and texts keep coming. I don’t bother to check them because nothing my sister or Jake say will change my pathetic situation. Later that afternoon, Jake knocks on my door, calls my name, apologizes for not knowing I was on a video conference with my sister. My suitemate thinks I’m home, but since I don’t answer, they decide I must be out. I don’t budge from where I sit on the floor with a box of tissues. The sun sets and rises again. My suitemate comes and goes as the dorm comes alive, and by the time I finally dust myself off and stand, I’ve made my decision. I’m going to transfer schools. As quickly as possible.

The states of withdrawal and craving from any drug are always exactly opposite to the drug’s effects. If a drug makes you feel relaxed, withdrawal and craving are experienced as anxiety and tension.” Alcohol is a depressant, so if we’re using it to relax, we’re actually netting out with more anxiety because of this A-B process—one drink leaves us more stressed, tensed, anxious, and depressed. And this effect isn’t reserved for heavy drinkers; withdrawal and craving are things we experience anytime we consume a drug. One glass is one dose.

In my head, I'd pretty much narrowed the reason for your nickname down to having ripped abs. Or making women want to rip their clothing off. Something like that.

I’ve got a few things to say, and I don’t want you running for the hills. Can you listen before you freak out?” Not ominous at all. “Okaaayyyy.” “I talked to Sebastian.” His mouth twists as he sort of spits out the name. “You shouldn’t have.” His hand flies up to halt my protest. “Yes. I should have. I’m your friend and I kind of wanted to punch that guy in the face, but he’s pretty big, so…” A snicker sneaks out. “Sorry, Abs. Wasn’t willing to risk my pretty face for you. Although maybe a broken nose would give me that extra bad boy edge. I don’t like it any more than you do. I’d love nothing more than for you to punch this guy yourself and move on with your life, but I don’t think you can. Abby, trust me. I know what it’s like to care about someone so deeply you can’t shake them from your system. You need to talk to him and figure out what’s going on. Then you can make the choice. Either ditch him for good or maybe you’ll understand him a little better.” “He doesn’t deserve my time.” I repeat myself. “Maybe not, but you deserve it. The closure, or whatever. I still want to punch the guy for being an idiot, but I think he has some genuine reasons for his actions, and I think it’ll help you out to hear them. I can’t stand seeing you so upset.” “He’s been avoiding me. How do I even know he’ll talk to me?” He takes a long pause without turning to face me, and the words slip out on a whisper. “Because I can see it in his eyes, his mouth. Every single feature says he’s fighting his feelings for you.” “But…” His eyes meet mine as he cuts off my protest. “He’s the one you never got over, Abby. Don’t waste your chance.

Ryan’s body would make a Greek god weep; tanned skin from his summer home in Miami, and a torso with more abs than I can count. Forget a Greek god, it makes me want to weep.

the choice we have to make is the same choice we make in every moment of our lives. Are we going to hide in the dark and hope the challenge we’re facing goes away, or are we going to stand tall and live our lives with dignity and courage?

Something very terrible is happening in the United States. Nobody seems happy anymore, and I don't know quite why that is. Is it the media that gives that impression, because television likes conflict, or is it reality? Whichever, the result is the same. An impression of unease, unhappiness. It's just extraordinary... We won the war, we settled the problem of the Bomb, we beat the Russians, we've expanded liberty to groups never before even acknowledged in our own country, and still people are bitching. The culture seems sleazy; everything is tacky; people hate it and don't know how to change the situation. There is this terrible sense of godlessness - this feeling we're all alone, we're all we've got. I think Nietzsche was right. The death of God, he said, would not be felt for two centuries. Sometimes I think we're beginning to feel it now. Now that this country is so rich and overdeveloped, we have nothing to do but face the emptiness of life. Our problem is that we have no problems. Nobody really cares about the inner cities, or even saving the rain forest. We just drive cars and watch TV. And TV has destroyed everything! Theater, social life, a sense of security. Everybody's moving into gated communities and working on their abs. It's very narcissistic. Plus we have no sense of adventure anymore, of the future. There are no worlds to be discovered, and since most of us are not going to outer space, we stay home and eat fat-free fudge. Integration seems to be the main project the media has for the rest of us. But integrating blacks into American life is just not an exciting project for the race that wiped out the Indians and settled the West. It's like making them eat spinach. I don't know what the future of this country holds - I suspect white Americans are basically bored to death. And not at all happy with the way things are going.

Zechariah 13:1, 8–9a–b (NLT): “On that day a fountain will be opened for the dynasty of David and for the people of Jerusalem, a fountain to cleanse them from all their sins and impurity. . . . Two-thirds of the people in the land will be cut off and die,” says the LORD. “But one-third will be left in the land. I will bring that group through the fire and make them pure. I will refine them like silver and purify them like gold.

I was making Orion into my very own mattress. But instead of springs it had abs.

I wish I could have been perfect for AB's life, and that they could have been perfect for mine. In all my quiet moments, I can only think about their wet-looking curly black hair, those yellow-veined dark-blue black-containing eyes, and that smile of crowded teeth with the red tongue poking through. If I could have spent this very same night with Helena, or off somewhere with AB, hidden in a copse of trees, telling each other our secrets, with only the Earth to hear us, making new secrets, seeing each other close, touching each other's hair and skin, holding hands, hiding and finding each other, like the only two people on Earth, to set aside for just one night all the people in my life who I feel I must constantly solve--if I could, I'm not sure I wouldn't choose to wave goodbye to Helena as she tends the garden and shouts out to me, "Have fun, be safe, see you soon!" and I start walking up the road, around the copse of trees, into a purpling desert, with every intention to come back, but I don't know when...

Xavier and Catalina sat in the VIP box, waving down at us enthusiastically and I waved back before giving Darius my full attention. The entire right side of his face was covered in mud, not to mention the rest of him and his torn jersey fell open to reveal the firm cut of his abs and that perfect V which dipped beneath his waistband. “You’re killing it out there,” I told him truthfully, flashing a sweet smile which instantly had him narrowing his eyes in suspicion. We hadn’t exactly talked much since the whole three way thing and I was really curious about how he was feeling about that. But I was even more curious as to how he was going to react when he realised I’d been playing with the sack of treasure I stole from him oh so long ago. There were plenty of times when I’d thought about the little stash we’d hidden out in the woods and wondered why he hadn’t asked for it back and there was only one reason that made any sense – he assumed I didn’t have it anymore. I didn’t know if he thought I’d sold it or destroyed it, but I was about to remind him that I still had it and see how nice he was when his temper flared. I was pretty sure there was a guide book or two out there about not poking a Dragon, but I guessed I was just too stupid to care. “Thanks. Are you looking for me to make some cheesy statement like I’m thinking of you every time I tackle someone?” he teased and I laughed, tossing my hair. He frowned at me and I had to admit that might have been overkill, but whatever. “Nice to know I’m on your mind every time you have someone pinned beneath you in the mud,” I purred. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Mildred rising to her feet in the stands with a face like an angry Koala which had been hit by a car. I didn’t have long before she came over here to stake her claim on her Dragon, but I didn’t need much time. “I think I’ve made my desire to pin you beneath me pretty clear,” Darius replied in a low voice which had my toes curling, but I wasn’t here to flirt, I was here to poke a Dragon. “Good luck for the second half,” I said in a sweet voice, reaching out touch his bicep, making sure that the gold rings pressed against his skin. Darius looked down the moment he felt his magic stir in response to the gold and his eyes widened in surprise which was quickly followed by a flash of fury as he recognised the jewellery from his stash which I’d stolen. I whirled away from him with a dark laugh before he could do any more than suck in an angry breath and I jogged out to join my squad just as they started up a chant. V – E – G – A! She’ll wipe the floor with you today! Veeeeega! Veeeeega! I fell into the moves of the chant, clapping my hands as some of the others rustled pom-poms and Darcy offered me an appreciative smile from the side of the pitch. We had little chants like that for all of the team members, but we often forgot to call out for the Heirs. The music suddenly dropped and 7 Rings by Ariana Grande burst from speakers around the stadium as we moved into a full routine filled with dance moves and tricks. The song choice turned out to be perfect for taunting a gold obsessed Dragon as well as performing a badass routine to and I couldn’t help but smirk like a psychopath throughout. Darius stood glaring at me from the side of the pitch even when Seth tried to drag him into the locker rooms and my heart thundered at the pure fury in his eyes. Remind me again why I thought poking the Dragon was a good idea because he looks ready to shit a brick! I turned my eyes from him, grinning out at the crowd as I moved between my girls, running forward as I performed a set of hand springs which ended in me throwing a huge blast of multicoloured petals up into the air so that they fell over the crowd. (Tory)

I. Penance is a true Sacrament, instituted by Christ for the forgiveness of post-baptismal sins. II. Penance is a Sacrament distinct from Baptism. 24 THE POWER TO FORGIVE SINS III. The words of Christ recorded in John XX, 23, are to be understood of the power of forgiving and retaining sins in the Sacrament of Penance, not of preaching the Gospel. IV. For the remission of sins there are required three acts by the penitent, which are as it were the matter of the Sacrament of Penance, viz.: contrition, confession, and satisfaction. The terrors with which the conscience is smitten upon being convinced of sin, and the fiduciary faith generated by the Gospel, are not sufficient to obtain forgiveness. V. Imperfect contrition, which is acquired by means of the examination, recollection, and detestation of sins, is a true and profitable sorrow, and does not make a man a hypocrite and a greater sinner. VI. Sacramental confession is of divine institution and necessary to salvation, and auricular confession is not a human invention. VII. Auricular confession comprises by divine right all mortal sins, even those which are secret, and may law fully extend also to venial sins. VIII. The confession of all sins, as demanded by the Church, is not impossible, but a duty incumbent on all the faithful of both sexes. IX. The sacramental absolution given by the priest is a judicial act, not a bare declaration, and must be pre ceded by confession on the part of the penitent. X. Priests alone have the power of binding and loosing, and can exercise it even if they are in a state of mortal sin. XL Bishops have the right of reserving cases to them selves, and from such reserved cases no priest may ab solve. XII. God does not always remit the whole punishment together with the guilt of sin, and the satisfaction of peni tents does not consist in the faith wherewith they appre hend that Christ has satisfied for them. XIII. Satisfaction for sins, as to their temporal pun ishment, is made to God through the merits of Christ, by the punishments enjoined by the priest, and also by those voluntarily undertaken by the penitent himself, and con sequently, Penance is more than merely a new life. XIV. The works of satisfaction performed by the penitent do not obscure the doctrine of grace, the true worship of God, and the benefit of Christ's death. XV. The power of the keys which Christ gave to the Church is not merely the power to loose, but also to bind, and therefore enables priests to impose punishments on those who confess.

His voice was soft as he pulled down the covers, “Come on Harper, get in.” The way his voice wrapped around my name sent a warm shiver through my body and I had to fight to keep my eyes away from his now-bare chest as I crawled into his bed. Even the quick glance at his sculpted chest and abs had my heart racing. After he flipped off the lights, I felt the bed sink down from his weight and I sat up. “What are you doing?” “What do you mean?” “You can’t get in here with me!” He chuckled, “It’s my bed, I’m sure I can do what I want.” I know he couldn’t see me, but I glared at him anyway. Flipping the cover off me, I grabbed a pillow and sank down to the floor. “Get back in the bed Princess.” I scoffed at my nickname but didn’t say anything. I could feel his eyes boring into my back and after what felt like an eternity, heard him sigh and the bed shift. I wanted to ask for a blanket but was too stubborn to ask. Next thing I knew I was in the air. “Oh my word! Put me down!” He dropped me onto the bed and crawled over me. “Chase! No!” “Calm down, I’ll stay on my side. We can even put a pillow between us if it’ll make you feel better.” He snickered. I grumbled and scooted to the edge of the bed. Obviously I’ve never been in a bed with a guy before, and the fact that he was inches away had my whole body shaking. “I swear if you touch me, I’ll go Lorena Bobbitt on you.” It didn’t take him long to figure out what I was referring to. He put a pillow over his face to muffle his booming laugh. “Oh my God! Princess! You’re my new favorite!” “That wasn’t a joke.” His body was still shaking with silent laughs as he moved closer and trailed his fingers up my arm. “One of these days, you’ll be begging for me to touch you.” I couldn’t tell if my next shiver was out of pleasure or disgust but I still growled at him and slapped his hand away. “I’m serious Chase. I’m not like all those girls I saw you with tonight.” “That’s an understatement.” He rolled back to his side of the bed and sighed, “Get some sleep Princess, I’ll see you in the morning.

She couldn’t help it; she looked hungrily at his dessert-covered chest and abs. Like a woman starved and stranded at sea. Her gaze rose slowly to meet his. But before she could reply, or attack and devour him, a boat horn sounded, making them both start. An amused voice carried the short distance across the water. “He surrenders, Kerry! Don’t make him walk the plank!” Kerry pulled back as if she’d been physically poked, swinging her gaze across the water to where another sailboat was passing by, getting ready to leave the harbor for the bay, sails fully unfurled. It was Jim Stein, with his wife, Carol, an older couple who were long-time friends of Fergus’s but well known to the whole McCrae clan. She felt her cheeks flaming in embarrassment and was grateful they were far enough away not to see the particulars of what was going on. Of course they could plainly see Cooper was shirtless, but she still had on the hoodie and fishing hat, so how inappropriately could they be behaving, right? If only they knew. Five more minutes and her old friends might have gotten a completely different eyeful. Hell, five more seconds. She waved, flashed a thumbs-up, then waved again as they sailed on, leaving laughter in their wake. With her teeth still gritted in a smile, she said, “This will be all over the Cove five seconds after they get back. Sooner if they have radio signal.” She turned back to Cooper, who was grinning shamelessly, hands linked behind his head now, as if preparing for his plank walk. “Very funny,” she said, trying to ignore how the posture made his biceps flex and showed off the definition in his six-pack. She couldn’t help but note that some of the blueberries had slid all the way down to the waistband of his cargo shorts, leaving streaks of blue on his skin, like arrows pointing to where she should go to resume their little game. She realized she was staring when her eyes slid a little lower still and--she jerked her gaze back to his, realizing he’d made her blush again. She typically wasn’t much of a blusher either. But she didn’t usually find herself playing food Twister with a half-naked man. Rather than finding a mocking smile waiting for her, the curve of his lips was amused, maybe even a little affectionate. Like she was being cute or something. She’d show him cute. Then she met his eyes and saw there was nothing amused or even borderline condescending to be found there. Incendiary was the word that came to mind.

She couldn’t help it; she looked hungrily at his dessert-covered chest and abs. Like a woman starved and stranded at sea. Her gaze rose slowly to meet his. But before she could reply, or attack and devour him, a boat horn sounded, making them both start. An amused voice carried the short distance across the water. “He surrenders, Kerry! Don’t make him walk the plank!” Kerry pulled back as if she’d been physically poked, swinging her gaze across the water to where another sailboat was passing by, getting ready to leave the harbor for the bay, sails fully unfurled. It was Jim Stein, with his wife, Carol, an older couple who were long-time friends of Fergus’s but well known to the whole McCrae clan. She felt her cheeks flaming in embarrassment and was grateful they were far enough away not to see the particulars of what was going on. Of course they could plainly see Cooper was shirtless, but she still had on the hoodie and fishing hat, so how inappropriately could they be behaving, right? If only they knew. Five more minutes and her old friends might have gotten a completely different eyeful. Hell, five more seconds.