Amanda Show Quotes

I wanted to show you that it's not all cold and intimidating," Finn explained. "I wanted you to see something warm and beautiful.

write the story. push your hands into the dirtiest parts of yourself. take the rot & decay & turn it into nourishment & life. water it & sing to it & show it sunlight. grow a beautiful garden from your aching & teach yourself how to thrive from it. write your story.

Even a broken clock shows the correct time twice a day.

Now that that's settled, you're coming with me." "Never in a billion suns. Not even if Zeus showed up as a swan and tried to peck me in your direction. I wouldn't go with you even if my other option was Hades dragging me to the Underworld for an eternal threesome with Persephone.

One of the sneakiest ways these biases show up is that in our language, in our culture, maleness is seen as the default

You just couldn’t wait to get me naked, could you, Princess?” Loki asked tiredly. I started to pull my hand back, but he put his own hand over it, keeping it in place. “No, I—I was checking for wounds,” I stumbled. I wouldn’t meet his gaze. “I’m sure.” He moved his thumb, almost caressing my hand, until it hit my ring. “What’s that?” He tried to sit up to see it, so I lifted my hand, showing him the emerald-encrusted oval on my finger. “Is that a wedding ring?” “No, engagement.” I lowered my hand, resting it on the bed next to him. “I’m not married yet.” “I’m not too late, then.” He smiled and settled back in the bed. “Too late for what?” I asked. “To stop you, of course.” Still smiling, he closed his eyes.

Not to sound, you know, like a dick," Jack said carefully. "But you just dragged us out of bed to show us Jane's messy room? That's not really an emergency Mae." "She's not here!" Mae shouted, gesturing to the mess around her. "That's the emergency."  "Again, not to be a dick, but that's not really an emergency." Jack said.

forget being lady-like & allow yourself to show the world just how unapolegeticaly angry this inequality makes you

Let go,” I demand. “No.” My eyebrows snap together. “Why not?” “Because your gut reaction is always to punch, and I don’t like being tickled.” Tickled? Tickled! Indignation swamps me. I’ll show him a tickle.

Shemar Moore is so hot,” Clove laughed. “He is. They should make the entire show about him solving cases with his shirt off.

It'll be okay," I said. "We're here for you." Kelly said. "I've decided to become a divorce lawyer," Amanda said. Well, we all have our own ways of showing we care.

I'll show these people how a curtsy is done, even if I am wearing soggy boots and a bloody pair of pants. Literally. There's blood on them, and I can't get it out, no matter how hard I scrub. At least it's not mine.

A place to show her children: and you belong to the earth, and the earth is hard.

there came a time when poetry showed me how to bleed without the demand of blood. - my most loyal lover.

we are not defined by the love our family could or could not give us. we are defined, instead, by the people we consciously become in spite of them—the kindness we show others, the forgiveness we give to ourselves, the times we speak up instead of choosing to remain silent, & the difficult yet necessary apologies we make.

Griffin leans closer, his voice dropping to a low, suggestive rumble only I can hear. "There are things I could boast about, but I'd rather show than tell.

for the boy who lived. thank you for inspiring me to be the girl who survived. you may have a lightning bolt to show for it but my body is a lightning storm.

For the first time, I will allow myself to believe that the best can & will happen to me, instead of the worst. - life doesn't have to be a horror show.

Light is more vibrant in the cold, like it knows that people are stuffed away in their houses, miserable from lack of sunshine, and it needs to put on a show.

I make a show of smoothing down my hair – a lost cause at this point. “Ah, that. It’s getting to the stage where it deserved a name. The Knotted Nest? The Twisted Tresses?” “What about the Terrible Tangle?” I nod. “That has serious possibilities.” “The Matted Mess?” he suggests.

These trials were supposed to show the truth, but there was no truth to her family’s legacy—because they’d lied to everyone, but they’d lied to themselves most of all.

It is impossible for one to show love unless he has accepted love.

why is it that we're always the damsels in distress? write more difficult women. write more angry women. write more unlikeable women. write more cunning women. write more women who revel in their wickedness. -show our complexity

Take your clothes off slowly. For me?” Ethan asked as he folded his large hands behind his head. So he wanted a show? Cecile had never done anything that sexy in her life, and she felt she lacked any real grace, but for Ethan, she’d give it a try.

I think she might at least have waited till the funeral was over,' said Amanda in a scandalized voice. 'It's her own funeral, you know,' said Sir Lulworth; 'it's a nice point in etiquette how far one ought to show respect to one's own mortal remains.' ("Laura")

You show me an angel that breaks bad, and I’ll show you a devil in disguise.

The Unthinkable is not a book about disaster recovery; it’s about what happens in the midst—before the po­lice and firefighters arrive, before reporters show up in their rain slickers, before a structure is imposed on the loss. This is a book about the survival arc we all must travel to get from danger to safety.

If the story of my life could say one thing, I’d hope it would show the importance of venturing into the highways and the hedges to let invisible people know they’re seen and loved. To invite them in.

Our first job in life is to recognize the gifts we’ve already got, take the donuts that show up while we cultivate and use those gifts, and then turn around and share those gifts—sometimes in the form of money, sometimes time, sometimes love—back into the puzzle of the world. Our second job is to accept where we are in the puzzle at each moment.

Karma is a bitch. And yours is starting to show.

There came a time when poetry showed me how to bleed without the demand of boood. -my most loyal lover.

When language works to make you question your own perceptions, whether at work or at church, that’s a form of gaslighting. I first came across the term “gaslighting” in the context of abusive romantic partners, but it shows up in larger-scale relationships, too, like those between bosses and their employees, politicians and their supporters, spiritual leaders and their devotees. Across the board, gaslighting is a way of psychologically manipulating someone (or many people) such that they doubt their own reality, as a way to gain and maintain control.

We had the schools we wanted, in a way. Parents did not tend to show up at schools demanding that their kids be assigned more challenging reading or that their kindergarteners learn math while they still loved numbers. They did show up to complain about bad grades, however. And they came in droves, with video cameras and lawn chairs and full hearts, to watch their children play sports.

Are you going to hand me over to him?" "I haven't decided yet," I teased, and he smiled again, erasing his momentary seriousness. "So, where'd you get the suit?" "Believe it or not, that lovely friend of yours, Willa," Loki said. "She brought me a whole slew of clothes last night. When I asked her why she was being so generous, she said it was out of fear that I would run around naked." I smiled. "That does sound like something you would do. Why are you wearing all black, though? Didn't you know you were going to a wedding?" "On the contrary," he said, doing his best to look unhappy. "I'm in mourning over the wedding." "Oh, because it's too late?" I asked. "No, Wendy, it's never too late." His voice was light, but his eyes were solemn. "May I cut in?" the best man asked. "No, you may not," Loki said. I'd started to move away from him, but he held fast. "Loki," I said, and my eyes widened. "I'm still dancing with her," Loki said, turning to look at him. "You can have her when I'm done." "Loki," I said again, but he was already twirling me away. "You can't do that." "I just did." He grinned. "Oh, Wendy, don't look so appalled. I'm already the rebel Prince of thine enemy. I can't do much more to tarnish my image." "You can certainly tarnish mine," I pointed out. "Never," Loki said, and it was his turn to look appalled. "I'm merely showing them how it's done." He began spinning me around the dance floor in grand arcs, my gown swirling around me. He was a brilliant dancer, moving with grace and speed. Everyone had stopped to watch us, but I didn't care. This was the way a Princess was supposed to dance on her wedding day. The song ended, switching to something by Mozart, and he slowed, almost to a stop, but he kept me in his arms. "Thank you." I smiled. My skin felt flushed from dancing, and I was a little out of breath. "That was a wonderful dance." "You're welcome," he said, staring intently at me. "You are so beautiful." "Stop," I said, looking away as my cheeks reddened. "How can you blush?" Loki asked, laughing gently. "People must tell you how beautiful you are a thousand times a day." "It's not the same," I said. "It's not the same?" Loki echoed. "Why? Because you know they don't mean it like I do?" We did stop dancing them, and neither of us said anything. Garrett came up to us. He smiled, but his eyes didn't appear happy. "Can I cut in?" Garrett asked. "Yes," Loki said, shaking off the intensity he'd had a moment ago, and grinned broadly at Garrett. "She's all yours, good sir. Take care of her." He patted Garrett on the arm once for good measure and gave me a quick smile before heading back over to the refreshment table.

I touched Loki's chest, running my fingers over the bumps of his scar. I didn't know why exactly, but I felt compelled to, as if the scar connected us somehow. "You just couldn't wait to get me naked, could you, Princess?" Loki asked tiredly. I started to pull my hand back, but he put his own hand over it, keeping it in pace. "No,I-I was checking for wounds," I stumbled. I wouldn't meet his gaze. "I'm sure." He moved his thumb, almost caressing my hand, until it hit my ring. "What's that?" He tried to sit up to see it, so I lifted my hand, showing him the emerald-encrusted oval on my finger. "Is that a wedding ring?" "No, engagement." I lowered my hand, resting it on the bed next to him. "I'm not married yet." "I'm not too late, then." He smiled and settled back in the bed. "Too late for what?" I asked. "To stop you, of course." Still smiling, he closed his eyes. "Is that why you're here?" I asked, failing to point out how near we were to my nuptials. "I told you why I'm here," Loki said. "What happened to you, Loki?" I asked, my voice growing thick when I thought about what he had to have gone through to get all those marks and bruises. "Are you crying?" Loki asked and opened his eyes. "No, I'm not crying." I wasn't, but my eyes were moist. "Don't cry." He tried to sit up, but he winced when he lifted his head, so I put my hand gently on his chest to keep him down. "You need to rest," I said. "I will be fine." He put his hand over mine again, and I let him. "Eventually." "Can you tell me what happened?" I asked. "Why do you need amnesty?" "Remember when we were in the garden?" Loki asked. Of course I remembered. Loki had snuck in over the wall and asked me to run away with him. I had declined, but he'd stolen a kiss before he left, a rather nice kiss. My cheeks reddened slightly at the memory, and that make Loki smile wider. "I see you do." He grinned. "What does that have to do with anything?" I asked. "That doesn't," Loki said, referring to the kiss. "I meant when I told you that the King hates me. He really does, Wendy." His eyes went dark for a minute. "The Vittra King did this to you?" I asked, and my stomach tightened. "You mean Oren? My father?" "Don't worry about it now," he said, trying to calm the anger burning in my eyes. "I'll be fine." "Why?" I asked. "Why does the King hate you? Why did he do this to you?" "Wendy, please." He closed his eyes. "I'm exhausted. I barely made it here. Can we have this conversation when I'm feeling a bit better? Say, in a month or two?" "Loki," I said with a sigh, but he had a point. "Rest. But we will talk tomorrow. All right?" "As you wish, Princess," he conceded, and he was already drifting back to sleep again. I sat beside him for a few minutes longer, my hand still on his chest so I could feel his heartbeat pounding underneath. When I was certain he was asleep, I slid my hand out from under his, and I stood up.

I think what I really want is to treat life less like a war. Wouldn't we have less Imposter Syndrome and fewer actual imposters if we just lowered our standards a bit? Modern productivity dogma encourages us to act fast, and milk our exceptionalism for all it's worth. Under that kind of pressure, perhaps the truest rebellion is to embrace our ordinariness. In everyday life, if we could not only tolerate the discomfort, but wholeheartedly embrace our own lack of expertise, then we might have a far better chance of showing others the same grace. Then perhaps life might feel, at the very least, less agitating, at most, we might even find peace. How’s this? Let’s stoop below average at 50% of all we do. We’ll relish it, the commonness. Next time we have a question, let’s hold our for as long as we humanly can before googling the answer. It’ll be erotic, like edging before a climax. It’s quite nice, I am learning, just to wonder indefinitely. To never have certain answers. To sit down, be humble, and not even dare to know

According to Shermer, studies show that American test subjects with the lowest education levels have a higher probability of subscribing to certain paranormal beliefs, like haunted houses, Satanic possession, and UFO landings; but it’s test subjects with the most education who are likeliest to believe in New Age ideas, like the power of the mind to heal disease. Psychologist Stuart Vyse has remarked that the New Age movement “has led to the increased popularity of [supernatural] ideas among groups previously thought to be immune to superstition: those with higher intelligence, higher socioeconomic status, and higher educational levels.

They do not pretend to deserve me; better yet, they do not even pretend that they can save me. They do not view me as a broken, feathered thing they can mend up if they scoop me into their hands and show me enough attention. In time, they know that I will stretch across the skies again, but not before I'm ready. - not before I mend my own wing.

Scars will forever show in our hearts, on our skin or in our soul, but it is up to us to show the world their true beauty

she is not without the option.  Yet… She didn’t choose Grake.  She didn’t choose Brax.  Tara is choosing me.  She’s showing me in all the ways she can that she wants me.

The forest would absorb her, she thought, it would keep her until the future showed itself.

Tears of my own begin to mix in with the raindrops, but I tell myself that the sky cries to show us that we can too.

Anyone who has served in any form of public office will recognize this problem. Extremists have outsized influence because they always show up, when everyone else stays home.

Words wouldn’t come, so I used my body to show her. And if she didn’t understand that I loved her, then I’d show her again tomorrow.

All I’ve ever wanted was for someone to see my inside and get it fixed, but how could they, when there is nothing on my outside to show them what’s wrong?

Feeling so disoriented that you doubt the very language you’ve been speaking your whole life can make you commit even more strongly to a charismatic leader who promises to show you the way.

Cameron found that when people use female as a noun, as opposed to woman, it’s often in explicitly negative contexts. For example: My poor Clemence was as helpless a female as you’d find in a long day’s march. “Stupid, crazy female” was all he said as he set about bandaging it. A call yesterday involved giving the chatty female at the other end one’s address. These examples all involve a speaker passing derogatory judgment on the subject. And though their statements would still be insulting if you swapped in the word woman, they would be, as Cameron says, “less unequivocally contemptuous.” The corpus data also showed that the noun form of female is almost never used in a positive context. You wouldn’t hear someone say, “My best friend is the kindest, most generous female I have ever met.

Studies show that people who are prone to guilt are more forgiving. They handle anger more constructively, experience more empathy and have a greater ability to see others’ perspectives. Those prone to shame, on the other hand, are more likely to hold grudges and are less likely to forgive when they feel wronged. Shame is also associated with feelings of anger and aggression and the tendency to blame others.

The autopsy revealed that Dean’s right cerebral artery had burst. “Daddy was strong, but he had a tiny weak spot there was no way of knowing about,” Amanda said. She took out an old nursing textbook and showed Oriana a drawing of the vasculature of the brain. “Right in there, that’s the place, do you see?” Oriana nodding yes, but not allowing the medical facts to impede her father’s imminent return as an angel.

I reminded myself to smile, to show teeth, to exude joy from my stance and my eyes. The more you look like you’re actively laughing, the harder it is for anyone to decipher what’s actually happening underneath.

Hey!” Mena exclaimed “Don’t knock Jeopardy. I love that show” “So do I” Max admitted. “I like it when I know the answers.” Logan added. Trent turned to Logan, “Dude, if you hate the show, all you had to do was say so.

But even as a kid you learn pretty quick that church doesn’t start and stop with the hours of service posted on the church sign. No, church dragged on like the last hour of the school day as we waited in the hot car with Dad for Mom to finish socializing in the fellowship hall. Church lingered long into the gold-tinted Sunday afternoons when Amanda and I gamboled around the house, stripped down to our white slips like little brides. Church showed up at the front door with a chicken casserole when the whole family was down with the flu and called after midnight to ask for prayer and to cry. It gossiped in the pickup line at school and babysat us on Friday nights. It teased me and tugged at my pigtails and taught me how to sing. Church threw Dad a big surprise party for his fortieth birthday and let me in on the secret ahead of time. Church came to me far more than I went to it, and I’m glad.

Her words echoed through her head as she entered her room. Ask God. She had been doing that. Or had she? Abigail stared at the floor. Had she really asked, or had she merely told God what she wanted and then waited for his approval of her plans? She feared she had done the latter. Perhaps that was why she hadn’t received an answer. Slowly, she sank to her knees and bowed her head in prayer. Father in heaven, I’m sorry. I trust you. I know you have plans for me, and they’re better than my plans. Show me your plan. There were no answers, nothing but the feeling of peace that filled her heart. That was enough for now. The answers would come.

Some people say, "Give the customers what they want." But that’s not my approach. Our job is to figure out what they’re going to want before they do. Henry Ford once said, ‘If I’d asked customers what they wanted, they would have told me, a faster horse!’ People don’t know what they want until you show it to them. That’s why I never rely on market research. Our task is to read things that are not yet on the page.8

Sarah gasped and opened her eyes. Such wanton thoughts! James bent his head, his hands urging her even closer to his firm body. His lips were on level with her eyes. If she turned her head, if she leaned ever so slightly toward him, she would feel them on her temple. She felt his breath against her cheek as he counted. “One, two, three. One, two, three.” A strange, drenching heat pooled low in her stomach. “Follow me, love,” he whispered, his words stirring the tendrils of hair by her ears. “Come with me.” She did. She forgot about her feet. She forgot the music room, Robbie and Lizzie, and the others. She gave herself up to James, let her body move with his. When the music stopped, it took her more than a moment to come back to herself. “Well, Lady Amanda,” she heard Robbie say, “I do believe James and Sarah just showed us why the waltz is such a dangerous dance.

Amanda Werner and several other beautiful, elegant, conically breasted foreign ladies, from unspecified vaguely defined countries, plus a few bucolic co-called humorists, comprised Buster's perpetual core of repeats. Women like Amanda Werner never made movies, never appeared in plays; they lived out their queer, beautiful lives as guests on Buster's unending show, appearing, Isidore had once calculated, as much as seventy hours a week.

He learned that people actually love it when he lies. He loves it because he gets stories about his prowess—whether it be sexual, business, or political—in the press. The media loves it because it keeps people reading the papers, watching their shows, and clicking their links. And his enemies love it because they keep thinking that this time will really, finally, truly be the time Trump does himself in with his jaw-dropping yarns. We’re all suckers.

I was wondering if I could talk to you?” I fiddled with one of the drawstrings of my hoodie [...] “Talk?” He stared up at me with a blank expression. I hated blank expressions, because people only used them when they didn’t want to show what they were really feeling. And I really sucked at trying to figure out what people were feeling. “Yeah,” I said, rather condescendingly. “You know, that thing you do where you open your mouth and words come out?

They had heard that many, many miles away, but not so many as before they started, on the other side of the mountains, was the ocean. Constant rain. Greenness. Maybe that's where they were going, thought Talmadge. Sometimes--but how could he think this? how could a child think this of his mother?--he thought she was leading them to their deaths. Their mother was considered odd by the other women at the mining camp; he knew this, he knew how they talked about her. But there was nothing really wrong with her he though (forgetting the judgement of a moment before); it was just that she wanted different things than those women did. That was what set them and his mother apart. Where some women wanted mere privacy, she yearned for complete solitude that verged on the violent; solitude that forced you constantly back upon yourself; even when you did not want it anymore. But she wanted it nonetheless. From the time she was a small girl, she wanted to be alone. The sound of other people's voiced grated on her: to travel to town, to interact with others who were not Taldmadge or Talmadge's father or sister, was torture to her: it subtracted days from her life. And so they walked: to find a place that would absorb and annihilate her, a place to be her home, and the home for her children. A place to show her children, you belong to the earth, and the earth is hard.

Can we get this makeup thing over before we’re late for school?” “Oh, right.” She jumped up from the bed and opened up her backpack. I hated wearing makeup, which was why I never wore any. So needless to say, I wasn't looking forward to this. She held out a tube of something for me to see. “This will help conceal the dark circles under your eyes. And this,” she said, showing me another tube, “will help to conceal the blotchy spots on your cheeks.” I grunted. “Do you have anything that will help conceal the hump on my back?

My deepest appreciation to: Everyone at Scholastic Press, especially Marijka Kostiw, Kristina Albertson, Tracy Mack, and Leslie Budnick. Tracey Adams, my wonderful agent. The members of my critique groups, each of whom possess that rare combination of Charlotte the spider: a true friend and a good writer. My retreat-mates who put me on the right track: Franny Billingsley, Toni Buzzeo, Sarah Lamstein, Dana Walrath, Mary Atkinson, Carol Peacock, and Jackie Davies. With special thanks to Amy Butler Greenfield, Nancy Werlin, Amanda Jenkins, Denise Johns, Melissa Wyatt, Lisa Firke, Lisa Harkrader, Laura Weiss, Mary Pearson, Amy McAuley, and Kristina Cliff-Evans. And to my parents, Earl and Elaine Lord, who gave me wings but always left the porch light on to show the way home.

This kind of parenting was typical in much of Asia—and among Asian immigrant parents living in the United States. Contrary to the stereotype, it did not necessarily make children miserable. In fact, children raised in this way in the United States tended not only to do better in school but to actually enjoy reading and school more than their Caucasian peers enrolled in the same schools. While American parents gave their kids placemats with numbers on them and called it a day, Asian parents taught their children to add before they could read. They did it systematically and directly, say, from six-thirty to seven each night, with a workbook—not organically, the way many American parents preferred their children to learn math. The coach parent did not necessarily have to earn a lot of money or be highly educated. Nor did a coach parent have to be Asian, needless to say. The research showed that European-American parents who acted more like coaches tended to raise smarter kids, too. Parents who read to their children weekly or daily when they were young raised children who scored twenty-five points higher on PISA by the time they were fifteen years old. That was almost a full year of learning. More affluent parents were more likely to read to their children almost everywhere, but even among families within the same socioeconomic group, parents who read to their children tended to raise kids who scored fourteen points higher on PISA. By contrast, parents who regularly played with alphabet toys with their young children saw no such benefit. And at least one high-impact form of parental involvement did not actually involve kids or schools at all: If parents simply read for pleasure at home on their own, their children were more likely to enjoy reading, too. That pattern held fast across very different countries and different levels of family income. Kids could see what parents valued, and it mattered more than what parents said. Only four in ten parents in the PISA survey regularly read at home for enjoyment. What if they knew that this one change—which they might even vaguely enjoy—would help their children become better readers themselves? What if schools, instead of pleading with parents to donate time, muffins, or money, loaned books and magazines to parents and urged them to read on their own and talk about what they’d read in order to help their kids? The evidence suggested that every parent could do things that helped create strong readers and thinkers, once they knew what those things were. Parents could go too far with the drills and practice in academics, just as they could in sports, and many, many Korean parents did go too far. The opposite was also true. A coddled, moon bounce of a childhood could lead to young adults who had never experienced failure or developed self-control or endurance—experiences that mattered as much or more than academic skills. The evidence suggested that many American parents treated their children as if they were delicate flowers. In one Columbia University study, 85 percent of American parents surveyed said that they thought they needed to praise their children’s intelligence in order to assure them they were smart. However, the actual research on praise suggested the opposite was true. Praise that was vague, insincere, or excessive tended to discourage kids from working hard and trying new things. It had a toxic effect, the opposite of what parents intended. To work, praise had to be specific, authentic, and rare. Yet the same culture of self-esteem boosting extended to many U.S. classrooms.

Wheeler wasn’t the first to point out that quantum mechanics slips into paradox the minute you introduce a second observer. The Nobel Prize–winning physicist Eugene Wigner, for one, had emphasized it with a Schrödinger’s-cat-style thought experiment that became known as “Wigner’s friend.” It went something like this: Inside a lab, Wigner’s friend sets up an experiment in which an atom will randomly emit a photon, producing a flash of light that leaves a spot on a photographic plate. Before Wigner’s friend checks the plate for signs of a flash, quantum mechanics shows that the atom is in a superposition of having emitted a photon and not having emitted a photon. Once the friend looks at the plate, however, he sees a single outcome—the atom flashed or it didn’t. Somehow his looking collapses the atom’s wavefunction, transforming two possibilities into a single reality. Wigner, meanwhile, is standing outside the lab. From his point of view, quantum mechanics shows that until his friend tells him the outcome of the experiment, the atom remains in a superposition of having emitted a photon and not having emitted a photon. What’s more, his friend is now in a superposition of having seen a spot of light on the plate and not having seen a spot of light on the plate. Only Wigner, quantum theory says, can collapse the wavefunction by asking his friend what happened in there. The two stories are contradictory. According to Wigner’s friend, the atom’s wavefunction collapsed when he looked at the plate. According to Wigner, it didn’t. Instead, his friend entered a superposition correlated with the superposition of the atom, and it wasn’t until Wigner spoke to his friend that both superpositions collapsed. Which story is right? Who is the true creator of reality, Wigner or his friend?

There’s this girl…this woman I can’t get out of my mind.” He spilled the story of his seduction of sweet, innocent Amanda McCormick for Rufus’s examination. When he finished talking, there was another silence. “You did that?” Rufus’s voice was as deep and gravelly as a quarry. “Fucked some poor virgin while posing as her fiancé?” “Yeah.” “You got some balls. How’d you know you’d be a close enough match to this Baxter?” “Brown hair, blue eyes, that’s all she seemed to know about him.” Spence couldn’t explain his need for the rush of tempting fate. “I took a chance. It was a gamble.” “Jesus, you’re a mean son of a bitch.” “I didn’t want to hurt her. I was just having fun.” He sounded like a spoiled child even to himself. “And now you want to go see this woman and try to make it right?” Rufus said. “Just how the hell did you think you were going to fix it? By showing up and wrecking her marriage, if you haven’t done that already?” It was Spence’s turn to pause. “Haven’t you done enough to this lady? Where’s your head, boy? Leave her alone.” “I can’t. I have to see her again.” He didn’t want to share his dreams of the little girl. He’d sound crazy. Rufus laughed harshly. “So you can try and get another piece of tail?” “No. It’s not like that.” “What? You think you’re in love. Son, you don’t know the first thing about it. If you did, you’d be putting this woman’s needs above your own.” He thought of the little girl telling him to go to Amanda. “Maybe what she needs is me.” Rufus made a scoffing noise. “A woman needs a man who’ll stand by her, be there through hard times and good. From what you’ve told me these past months, this is the longest you’ve stayed put in one place in your life and that’s only ‘cause they won’t let you out.” “I just want to do the right thing.” “Then do like I say. Leave her be. You think she’s going to be happy to see you again?” Spence pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders and watched a gray cloud puff from his mouth. “You still there, boy?” “Where else?” “Don’t take it too hard. Everybody does things they’re sorry for. Sometimes there’s just no way to make it right.” He leaned back against the wall and reviewed the stupid chain of events that had landed him in jail. Maybe Rufus was right and there was no way he could ever apologize for what he’d done to Amanda. He should let the whole thing slide and leave the woman in peace.

My hands, which for some reason keep ending up on his waist lately, curl into fists. Beta Sinta grabs one and holds on. “Let go,” I demand. “No.” My eyebrows snap together. “Why not?” “Because your gut reaction is always to punch, and I don’t like being tickled.” Tickled? Tickled! Indignation swamps me. I’ll show him a tickle. Before I can move, he drops the reins and captures my other hand, easily maneuvering both my hands into one of his. He picks the reins back up with the other. As usual, he gains the upper hand with disgustingly little effort, and I end up with both arms around him, my face buried in his back. Beta Sinta’s crisp, masculine scent of citrus and sunshine fills my nose. Hard muscle ripples under my cheek. I’m frighteningly aware of all the places his broad, powerful body touches mine, and I shiver despite the heat. “Let. Me. Go,” I grind out. “I. Said. No.” I open my mouth, teeth bared. “If you bite me, I swear to the Gods I’ll dumpyou off this horse and make you walk.” I close my mouth. The town is still miles away. “I won’t bite.” “Or punch.” I grit my teeth. “You’re asking a lot.” “Am I?” he drawls, tightening his grip on my wrists until I hiss. “Ow! Fine. Or punch.” His fingers loosen. “Is that your binding word?” My eyes widen. Beta Sinta says he needs me for information, but he already knows more about the ways of magic than is good for me. “Fine. It’s my binding word.” It’s like pulling my own teeth, but I’m desperate to stop hugging him. He’s too hot and…and…something. “Ever,” he stipulates. Something between a laugh and a snort explodes from me. “Don’t push your luck.” “A day, then. Starting now.” “Fine. A day,” I agree, fuming. He lets go of my wrists. I sit up so fast I almost tumble off the back of the horse. Beta Sinta’s chuckle is almost as irritating as the jolt of magic that seals the deal.

Kato’s expression shifts into something I could almost call a smile for the first time since I found him. He plucks the chordsagain in the beginnings of a tune I recognize, a ballad popular in southern Sinta. His fingers move with skill and subtlety over the strings. I had no idea he was musical. “Maybe we’re not meant to kill it.” He keeps playing. “Doesn’t music soothe the beast? I’ll play, you sing.” “I sound like a strangled Satyr when I sing.” He smiles. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.” “There’s no need for mudslinging,” I say with a huff. He chuckles softly. “I can carry a tune.” “Great!” I pat his arm. “That’ll be your job. I’ll stand back—waaaaay back—while you calm the beast. I’m confident you’ll sound as good as you look.” His chest puffs out. “How do I look?” “Terrible.” I grin. “You needed a bath, a shave, and a comb before we even set foot on the Ice Plains. Now, I can just barely make out your eyes and your nose. The rest is all”—I flap my hands around—“hair.” His chest deflates. He eyes me wryly. “I could say the same about you.” I gasp. “I grew a beard? Do you think Griffin will like it? I’ve been trying to keep it neat, but I may have picked up an eel.” Kato laughs outright, and he really is unbearably handsome. Some of the grimness evaporates from his eyes. “I was talking about this.” He gives one of my tousled waves a light tug. I once saw Griffin do that to Kaia. It’s brotherly. Affectionate. My heart squeezes in my chest. My love for Griffin is completely different, but Kato has a piece of me that no man ever had, not even Aetos. Kato sees me, and accepts. In that moment, I realize he’s slipped inside my soul right next to Eleni. They’re a blond-haired, blue-eyed, sunny pair—my light in the dark. Clearing my throat doesn’t drive away the thick lump in it, or dispel the sudden tightness, so I make a show of smoothing down my hair—a lost cause at this point. “Ah, that. It’s getting to the stage where it deserves a name. The Knotted Nest? The Twisted Tresses?” “What about the Terrible Tangle?” I nod. “That has serious possibilities.” “The Matted Mess?” he suggests. My jaw drops. “It’s not that bad!” Grinning, Kato pats my head. “Let’s get out of here.” Yes, please! “I have your clothes. They’re even dry, thanks to your Eternal Fires of the Underworld Cloak.” He quirks an eyebrow, taking the things I hand him. “That gets a name, too?” “I should think so,” I answer loftily.

When we get closer, he pushes out both of the chairs across from him. He nods at them and says, “Take a seat.” I raise an eyebrow at him. “Am I going to have to woo you before I get my slice?” He smiles over the pizza that he’s about to bite into. “Yeah, I do believe you’re going to have to.” With zero self-respect, Amanda takes a seat and says, “That’s no problem with me.” Honestly. Does she not know how to avoid showing all her cards at once? When I take a seat, he holds out his hand. “I’m Aaron.” I take his hand and notice how rough it is. It’s a working hand, one that experiences strenuous hours on the jobsite, day in, day out. “Amelia, and this is my friend, Amanda.” Aaron nods at Amanda. “Nice to meet you.” “Pleasure is mine and just so you know, Amelia is single and definitely on the market. Want me to give you her number?” “Amanda, what the hell are you—?” “I would love it,” Aaron says, leaning back in his chair while sipping his drink. Slowly turning toward him, a little stunned, I ask, “You would?” He nods with all the confidence in the world. “I would.” “But you don’t know me. I could be a shovel-wielding rabbit killer.” He leans forward, his chest flexing under his shirt with the movement. “I’ll take my chances.” Now feeling a little skeptical, I fold my arms over my chest and ask, “Why do you want it?” He bites down on his straw and studies me for a second before saying, “Can’t let a girl walk out the door without getting her number who’s that passionate about Buffalo chicken pizza. It’s just not physically possible.” “Aw, he likes you for your crazy; he’s a keeper,” Amanda chimes in with her mouth full of pizza. “It’s 607—” “Amanda, just be quiet for a second.” Looking at Aaron, I say, “Three Buffalo chicken pizza slices in exchange for three veggie and my phone number.” “No way.” He shakes his head. “You can’t take all my Buffalo.” “But I thought you wanted my number.” “I do.” He leans forward some more, his fresh scent hitting me hard in the chest. “But we both know if I give you three slices, you will have zero respect for me because no man in his right mind would give up three Buffalo slices. No matter how hot the chick is.” Eeep, he thinks I’m hot. “But I will counter you with one and a half slices and a number.” I sit back now, watching how his smile starts to spread. God, he’s just so . . . yum. He looks like he’s quite a few years older than me. Not just because of his face, but there is something in his eyes that makes him seem older. He’s definitely not in his second year of college like me. Not wanting to fold so quickly, I counter. “Two slices, my number, and a guaranteed date this Friday.” He sits back, his eyes widen, and that smile gets even bigger. “Fucking deal.” He holds his hand out and we shake.

I think as a general rule people don't think or question enough. This leaves their brain more susceptible to the relentless dumbing-down process of the media and the desire of an individual to escape from the pressures of everyday life by drinking alcohol and watching mind-numbing 'reality' shows, soaps or perhaps endless sport.

People get scared when you try to do something, especially when it looks like you’re succeeding. People do not get scared when you’re failing. It calms them. That’s why the show Intervention is a hit and everyone loves “worrying about” Amanda Bynes. But when you’re winning, it makes them feel like they’re losing or, worse yet, that maybe they should’ve tried to do something too, but now it’s too late. And since they didn’t, they want to stop you. You can’t let them.

Which is why you need the tiniest bit of bravery. People get scared when you try to do something, especially when it looks like you’re succeeding. People do not get scared when you’re failing. It calms them. That’s why the show Intervention is a hit and everyone loves “worrying about” Amanda Bynes. But when you’re winning, it makes them feel like they’re losing or, worse yet, that maybe they should’ve tried to do something too, but now it’s too late. And since they didn’t, they want to stop you. You can’t let them. WE

I was pissed that I couldn’t go out and celebrate like someone turning twenty-one typically would, so I wore black hair to show my family just how pissed off I was.

Everyone loves him. I could see it from half a world away. If I showed up here, screaming that he was some sort of pedophile, I’d have just been the crazy ex‑girlfriend who wanted to ruin this perfect wedding. Don’t tell me you didn’t think that to begin with.

If the meaning of the mountain range overlooking the home’s peace is called the Quteniqua Mountains, which is rally made up of the Langeberg Range (northeast of Worcester) and the Tsitsikamma Mountains (east-west along The Garden Route), and if the collective name of the mountain range references the idea of honey, the honey that can be found at Amanda and Lena’s home starts with kindness, a type of kindness the touches the world’s core understanding of compassion. “I want to give you a used copy of my favorite book that I think helps to explain what exactly I love about this area. Out of all of her books, this is probably one of the least favorite books based off readers’ choice, yet it is my favorite book because I think it truly understands the spirit of this area.” Amanda handed me the book. “Da-lene Mat-thee,” I said. “Is that correct…” Before I could finish, she had already answered my question. “Yes, the author that I had spoken about earlier today. Although she is an Afrikaans author, this book is in English. The Mulberry Forest. My favorite character is Silas Miggel, the headstrong Afrikaans man who didn’t want to have the Italian immigrants encroaching onto his part of the forest.” She paused for a second before resuming, “Yet, he’s the one who came to their rescue when the government turned a blind eye on the hardships of the Italian immigrants. He’s the one who showed kindness toward them even when he didn’t feel that way in his heart. That’s what kindness is all about, making time for our follow neighbors because it’s the right thing to do, full stop. Silas is the embodiment of what I love about the people of this area. It is also what I love about my childhood home growing up in the shantytown. The same thread of tenacity can be found in both places. So, when you read about Silas, think of me because he represents the heart of both Knysna and the Storms River Valley. This area contains a lot of clones just like him, the heartbeat of why this area still stands today.” That’s the kind of hope that lights up the sky. The Portuguese called the same mountain range Serra de Estrellla or Mountain of the Star… If we want to change the world, we should follow in the Quteniqua Mountain’s success, and be a reminder that human benevolence is a star that lights up the sky of any galaxy, the birthplace of caring. As we drove away, for a second, I thought I heard the quiet whispers from Dalene Matthee’s words when she wrote in Fiela’s Child: “If he had to wish, what would he wish for, he asked himself. What was there to wish for…a wish asked for the unattainable. The impossible.” And that’s what makes this area so special, a space grounded in the impossibility held together through single acts of human kindness, the heart of the Garden Route’s greatest accomplishment. A story for all times…simply called, Hospitality, the Garden Route way…

By default, I like to be left alone. It's important to me for people to think I'm managing the ups and downs of life with competence and tenacity, and it's easiest to maintain this persona by keeping people at arm's length. Simply listening to someone's offer of comfort means having to show up emotionally to hear it and accept it. It requires you to admit struggle.

There were quite a few times in the weeks after my sister's death that I was cornered at the office, the grocery store, or at church by people who initially approached me to offer sympathy, but then went on to share in exhaustive detail their own grief story. By the end of the conversation, they were in tears and I was trying to comfort them. I don't always mind stepping into another person's pain with them, but in an attempt to show understanding, people often inadvertently ask the bereaved, still fresh off of a loss, to shoulder more than they are already carrying.

He cooks from his heart. From his soul." A pause, where I took in his words. "That is, when he is not drawing." That was a surprise. "Drawing?" "He draws little comics," the bartender said. He disappeared down below the bar again. This time when he popped up, he was holding what looked like an old menu. "Look." I took the menu and flipped through. Yes, it listed various dishes and their prices. But the artist---Luke---had doodled all over it, tiny pictures of the food, wavy lines of steam rising over bowls of rice specks and eggs, and slightly larger pictures of the people enjoying them as elaborate anime characters: their eyes enormous, little strings of drool slipping from the corners of mouth slashes, frizzled lines of movement showing their frenzy as they dove through the menu categories looking for more food. "This is adorable," I said with some surprise. I hadn't pictured Luke, with his posh accent that slipped out when he wasn't paying attention and his buttoned-up fancy restaurants, drawing cartoons. "Yes," the bartender said. "Adorable.

real boyfriend pays for dates. A real boyfriend doesn’t ignore you at school and hang out with his friends instead. A real boyfriend gives you compliments and tells you that you’re beautiful. A real boyfriend doesn’t dump you for some girl he doesn’t even know, after you’ve given him three years of your life. You let that guy get away with too much, and he never once thought it would be a good idea to show you how grateful he was to have you. And that’s why I feel sorry for you.

Briony had come here ready to tell the truth about them. But the truth was messy and complicated, and she knew the press wouldn’t care about that. They wanted a splashy headline, a brutal story. Victim or victor. Hero or villain. Today, Briony Thorburn would show the world just how villainous her family really was.

Briony had come here ready to tell the truth about them. But the truth was messy and complicated, and she knew the press wouldn’t care about that. They wanted a splashy headline, a brutal story. Victim or victor. Hero or villain. Today, Briony Thorburn would show the world just how villainous her family really was.

What I could do was be kind and try to develop their curiosities and interests. I could create a safe and loving space, surrounded by books, and mostly I succeeded, though I am certain my own implicit biases and naivete, impacted how I showed up to the community. I did my best with what I had, how and where I had been raised, and who I had become as an adult.

We used to be the Kings of Ravenwood. I guess I never realized until Briar Monroe showed up that we needed a Queen.

We each get our share of you,” he muses. “We protect you. Show you that sex can feel good again. Date you, fuck you, worship you…

(Research consistently shows that something like one in five CEOs has psychopathic tendencies.)

I think what I really want is to treat life less like a war. Wouldn't we have less Imposter Syndrome and fewer actual imposters if we just lowered our standards a bit? Modern productivity dogma encourages us to act fast, and milk our exceptionalism for all it's worth. Under that kind of pressure, perhaps the truest rebellion is to embrace our ordinariness. In everyday life, if we could not only tolerate the discomfort, but wholeheartedly embrace our own lack of expertise, then we might have a far better chance of showing others the same grace. Then perhaps life might feel, at the very least, less agitating, at most, we might even find peace. How’s this? Let’s stoop below average at 50% of all we do. We’ll relish it, the commonness. Next time we have a question, let’s hold our for as long as we humanly can before googling the answer. It’ll be erotic, like edging before a climax. It’s quite nice, I am learning, just to wonder indefinitely. To never have certain answers. To sit down, be humble, and not even dare to knowThe hormonal rewards of constantly checking our phones fatigue the mind just as much as the stressors do. Studies of phone addiction have found the little hits of dopamine that keep users jonesing for notifications come with a tragic side effect. They actually inhibit the amount of dopamine we feel when exposed to real-life novelty. Said another way, phone addiction decreases our ability to enjoy new experiences in the physical world. When you’re hooked on novelty in electronic form, new foods and flowers lose their magic.

Well, you’re not in the water and that means you’re not Amanda’s best friend anymore. What kind of person shows up to her best friend’s birthday party and refuses to play with everyone else?

if they treat you as anything less than royalty, then show them exactly what a mermaid-witch-queen like yourself can accomplish.

show gratitude to one part of you every single day. if you have legs, thank them for carrying you. if you have arms, thank them for lifting you. if you have a stomach, thank it for filling you. if you have eyes, thank them for showing you.

when they drag you through hell, do not simply accept it. do not just give in. go on & reign over the very flames that were meant to be your end. wear them as a crown.” —show them who’s queen.

dance show.  What’ya reckon, Dad?’   The dance show that she may not have

Censorious: Always finding fault, criticizing. Despot: Person who treats those under his control in any way he cares to, cruel or unjust. Fastidious: Not easy to please. Very particular. Impenitent: Not feeling shame or regret. Not sorry for what he’s done. Imperious: Like a dictator, arrogant. Impolite. Impudent: Not showing respect, shamelessly rude.

I remember one day I heard people on TV talking about sociopaths. I had never heard that word before, but the description fit him so perfectly that I wrote the word down and later looked it up in the dictionary: a person whose behavior lacks a sense of moral responsibility or social conscience. And I thought: That’s him! I started going through the whole dictionary to find other words to describe him and wrote some of them in my diary: Censorious: Always finding fault, criticizing. Despot: Person who treats those under his control in any way he cares to, cruel or unjust. Fastidious: Not easy to please. Very particular. Impenitent: Not feeling shame or regret. Not sorry for what he’s done. Imperious: Like a dictator, arrogant. Impolite. Impudent: Not showing respect, shamelessly rude. Sadist. He is all those things.

All age is a kind of tiredness, I think. When you’re young, the lines never show. Every morning you wake unmarked, wiped clear by sleep. One day, though, you see lines that itch, as though some crumb of existence has been creased into your skin. They can never be smoothed away, and after a while you forget that this heavy, irritable feeling wasn’t always there.

genetic workup showed I had a BRCA1 mutation, I chose to undergo chemo and have my breasts removed. (That was an aggressive course of action, and I had no regrets. My

Sumerian was not the only language spoken in southern Mesopotamia (the region known as Sumer). Akkadian, the Semitic language of central Mesopotamia, showed up in subtle ways as well.

That was the only reason I let her stay extra time at the park the next day. We were not waiting for anyone in particular to show up or hoping for anyone in particular to show up. I mean, she’s a dog. She didn’t care if she was wrestling a stick from another mutt or a Pug or a Dachshund or whatever. Neither of us cared a bit who was or was not there. I was simply letting her make up for the time she missed the previous day.

He extended his hands, his brow smoothing and his lips curving into a smile when Abigail placed her hands in his. His hands were warm and comforting, his smile the one she had dreamt of so often. If dreams came true, soon he would say the words she longed to hear: I love you. Ethan’s smile faded slightly as he said, “I know you dislike the West and Army life, but there’s no way around it. I owe the Army another year. Will you wait for me?” Those weren’t the words she had expected. “Wait for what?” Abigail wouldn’t make the mistake of assuming she knew what Ethan meant. Though the look in his eyes, a look that mirrored her own, spoke of love, she needed the words. Why wouldn’t he say them? Ethan rolled his eyes. “There I go again, putting the cart before the horse. It’s your fault, you know. I was never this way before I met you.” He tightened his grip on her hands. “I love you, Abigail. I love your smile, your kind heart, your impulsive nature. I love everything about you.” Ethan paused, and she sensed that the man who had faced death without flinching was afraid of her reaction. “Is it possible that you love me?” Her dream had come true. Her heart overflowing with happiness, Abigail smiled at the man she loved so dearly. She had longed for three special words, and Ethan had given them to her. Not once but three times. And if that weren’t enough, the momentary fear she’d seen had shown her the depth of his love. Ethan loved her. He loved her, and now she could tell him of her own love. “Of course I love you.” Abigail infused her words with every ounce of sincerity she possessed. Ethan must never, ever doubt how much she loved him. “I think I’ve loved you from the first time I saw you, although I didn’t recognize it at the time. I thought God brought me to Wyoming to help Charlotte, but as the weeks passed, it seemed that he had more in store for me. Now I know what it was. He brought me to you.” “And used you to show me what love is.” Ethan rose, tugging Abigail to her feet. “Will you make my life complete? Will you marry me when my time with the Army is ended?” There was only one possible answer. “No.” As Ethan’s eyes widened, Abigail saw disbelief on his face. “You won’t? I don’t understand. If you love me, why won’t you marry me? Don’t you want to?” Again, there was only one answer. “I do want to marry you, Ethan. More than anything else.” His confusion was endearing, and Abigail knew they’d speak of this moment for years to come. “Then why did you refuse me?” “It wasn’t your proposal I refused; it was the timing. Why should we wait a year?” “Because you hate Army life. I don’t want to start our marriage knowing you’re miserable.” “Oh, you silly man.” Abigail smiled to take the sting from her words. “How could I be miserable if I’m with you? The only thing that would make me miserable is being apart. I love you, Ethan. I want to spend the rest of my life as your wife . . . starting now.” Ethan’s smile threatened to split his face. “That’s the Abigail I love: headstrong and impulsive, with a heart that’s bigger than all of Wyoming. I wouldn’t have you any other way.

In the United States and other countries, we’d put off this reckoning, convinced that our kids would always get second and third chances until well into adulthood. We had the same attitude toward teachers: Anyone and everyone could become a teacher, as long as they showed up for class, followed the rules, and had good intentions. We had the schools we wanted, in a way. Parents did not tend to show up at schools demanding that their kids be assigned more challenging reading or that their kindergarteners learn math while they still loved numbers. They did show up to complain about bad grades, however. And they came in droves, with video cameras and lawn chairs and full hearts, to watch their children play sports.

They had heard that many, many miles away, but not so many as before they started, on the other side of the mountains, was the ocean. Constant rain. Greenness. Maybe that's where they were going, thought Talmadge. Sometimes--but how could he think this? how could a child think this of his mother?--he thought she was leading them to their deaths. Their mother was considered odd by the other women at the mining camp; he knew this, he knew how they talked about her. But there was nothing really wrong with her, he thought (forgetting the judgement of a moment before); it was just that she wanted different things than those women did. That was what set them and his mother apart. Where some women wanted mere privacy, she yearned for complete solitude that verged on the violent; solitude that forced you constantly back upon yourself; even when you did not want it anymore. But she wanted it nonetheless. From the time she was a small girl, she wanted to be alone. The sound of other people's voiced grated on her: to travel to town, to interact with others who were not Taldmadge or Talmadge's father or sister, was torture to her: it subtracted days from her life. And so they walked: to find a place that would absorb and annihilate her, a place to be her home, and the home for her children. A place to show her children, you belong to the earth, and the earth is hard.

When people say "Oh wow, you're so lucky" ... I always wonder how they define luck. I can assure you people don't achieve their dreams because their lucky; they work day and night, with little sleep, investing their own money and working extremely hard. You don't get lucky in this life, you work hard and show people that luck is something YOU create. So, if you want to chase your own passion start listening to your own little voice, but more than anything, don't wait on getting lucky or your dream will be as misguided as your definition of success! Anyone can change their life and anyone can achieve their dreams. So work hard, get inspired and go out there and do it!

...you need the tiniest bit of bravery. People get scared when you try to do something, especially when it looks like you're succeeding. People do not get scared when you are failing. It calms them. That's why the show Intervention is a hit and everyone loves "worrying about" Amanda Bynes.