Answer To Haters Quotes

A rose does not answer its enemies with words, but with beauty.

I write to find strength. I write to become the person that hides inside me. I write to light the way through the darkness for others. I write to be seen and heard. I write to be near those I love. I write by accident, promptings, purposefully and anywhere there is paper. I write because my heart speaks a different language that someone needs to hear. I write past the embarrassment of exposure. I write because hypocrisy doesn’t need answers, rather it needs questions to heal. I write myself out of nightmares. I write because I am nostalgic, romantic and demand happy endings. I write to remember. I write knowing conversations don’t always take place. I write because speaking can’t be reread. I write to sooth a mind that races. I write because you can play on the page like a child left alone in the sand. I write because my emotions belong to the moon; high tide, low tide. I write knowing I will fall on my words, but no one will say it was for very long. I write because I want to paint the world the way I see love should be. I write to provide a legacy. I write to make sense out of senselessness. I write knowing I will be killed by my own words, stabbed by critics, crucified by both misunderstanding and understanding. I write for the haters, the lovers, the lonely, the brokenhearted and the dreamers. I write because one day someone will tell me that my emotions were not a waste of time. I write because God loves stories. I write because one day I will be gone, but what I believed and felt will live on.

Friends ask you questions; enemies go around asking others about you looking for the answer they want to believe

So whenever that brittle voice of dissatisfaction emerges within me, I can say "Ah, my ego! There you are, old friend!" It's the same thing when I'm being criticized and I notice myself reaching with outrage, heartache, or defensiveness. It's just my ego, flaring up and testing its power. In such circumstances, I have learned to watch my heated emotions carefully, but I try not to take them too seriously, because I know that it's merely my ego that has been wounded--never my soul It is merely my ego that wants revenge, or to win the biggest prize. It is merely my ego that wants to start a Twitter war against a hater, or to sulk at an insult or to quit in righteous indignation because I didn't get the outcome I wanted. "At such times, I can always steady my life one more by returning to my soul. I ask it, "And what is it that you want, dear one?" "The answer is always the same: "More wonder, please." "As long as I'm still moving in that direction---toward wonder--then I know I will always be fine in my soul, which is where it counts. And since creativity is still the most effective way for me to access wonder, I choose it.

So what’s your story, Pidge? Are you a man-hater in general, or do you just hate me?” “I think it’s just you,” I grumbled. He laughed once, amused at my mood. “I can’t figure you out. You’re the first girl that’s ever been disgusted with me before sex. You don’t get all flustered when you talk to me, and you don’t try to get my attention.” “It’s not a ploy. I just don’t like you.” “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t like me.” My frown involuntarily smoothed and I sighed. “I didn’t say you’re a bad person. I just don’t like being a foregone conclusion for the sole reason of having a vagina.” I focused on the grains of salt on the table until I heard a choking noise from Travis’ direction. His eyes widened and he quivered with howling laughter. “Oh my God! You’re killing me! That’s it. We have to be friends. I won’t take no for an answer.

How many toes did I have when we left London, does anyone remember?" Jim asked, examining its feet. "I think one is missing." "Stop fussing about a missing toe. We have more important things to focus on, like finding Drake and saving him from whatever trouble he’s in," I answered, straightening my clothing and zipping up my heavy parka. "Oh, man, I am missing one! I know I had four on this foot! What sort of place was that company you used, demon-haters or something?" "Budget Teleporters is a perfectly good company. Didn’t you listen to their warning about keeping your arms and legs in the portal at all times?

We simply do not allow space in our hearts, minds, or souls for darkness. Instead, we choose faith. Faith in ourselves and the power of hard work. Faith in our God whose overwhelming love sustains us every single day. That's what we choose. We choose love. Our love for our children. Our commitment to leaving them a better world. Our love for our country which has given us so many blessings and advantages. Our love for our fellow citizens: parents working hard to support their kids, men and women in uniform who risk everything to keep us safe, young people from the toughest background who never stop believing in their dreams, some people like so many of you. That's what we choose. And we choose excellence. We choose to tune out all the noise and strive for excellence in everything we do. No cutting corners, no taking shortcuts, no whining. We give 120% every single time. Because excellence is the most powerful answer you can give to the doubters and the haters. It's also the most powerful thing you can do for yourself. Because the process of striving, and struggling, and pushing yourself to new heights, that's how you develop your God-given talent. That's how you make yourself stronger, and smarter, and more able to make a difference for others.

For everyone who has ever felt weird or abnormal. F@ck the haters. You’re perfect as you are.

There was knock on the door and I knew it was Romeo. Butterflies took flight in my stomach as I went to answer. I was so nervous about tonight. Romeo’s eyes widened when I pulled back the door. He whistled beneath his breath. “Holy shit, Smalls.” “Do I look okay?” I worried. “Think your mother will approve?” Romeo reached out and grabbed me by the waist. “You don’t have to impress her. I don’t want or need her approval. You’re my girl. The end.” “No take backs?” I whispered. He smiled. “No take backs.

You guys could handle this on your own. Why risk getting kicked out of your He-Man-Monster-Haters Club?" "Because we can't handle this on our own. At least I don't think we can." "You said yourself you already have some Prodigium working with you. Why not go to them?" "We have a handful," he said, frustration creeping into his voice. "And most of them suck. Look, just consider it a peace offering, okay? My way of saying I'm sorry for lying to you. And pulling a knife in your presence, even if it was just to open a damn window to get out before you vaporized me." Most girls got flowers. I got a dirt put used for demon raising. Nice. "Thanks," I replied. "But don't you want in on this?" He looked at me, and not for the first time, I wished his eyes weren't so dark. It would have been nice to have some idea of what was going on in his head. "That's up to you," he said. Mom always liked to say that we hardly ever know the decisions we make that change our lives,mostly because they're little ones. You take this bus instead of that one and end up meeting your soul mate, that kind of thing. But there was no doubt in my mind that this was one of those life-changing moments. Tell Archer no,and I'd never see him again. And Dad and Jenna wouldn't be mad at me, and Cal...Tell Archer yes, and everything suddenly got twistier and more complicated than Mrs. Casnoff's hairdo. And even though I'm a twisty and complicated girl, I knew what my answer had to be. "It's too much of a risk, Cross. Maybe one day when I'm head of the Council, and you're...well, whatever you're going to be for L'Occhio di Dio, we could work on some kind of collaboration." That brought up depressig images of me and Archer sittig across a boardroom table, sketching out battle plans on a whiteboard, so my voice was a little shaky when I continued. "But for now, it's too dangerous." And not just because basically everyone in our lives would want to kill us if they found out, I thought. But because I was pretty sure I was still in love with him, and I thought he might feel something similar for me, and there was no way we could work together preventing the Monster Apocalypse/World War III without that becoming an issue. Not that I could say any of that. Archer's face was blank as he said, "Cool. Got it." "Cross," I started to say, but then his eyes slid past me and went wide with horror. At the same time, I became aware of a slithering noice behind me. That just could not be good; in my experience, nothing pleasant slithers. Still, I was not prepared for the nightmares climbing out of the crater.

BIG BUTS: 5 OBSTACLES TO PROVIDING GREAT SERVICE Key Points: There are five reasons businesses and organizations do not answer every complaint, in every channel, every time. Each of these obstacles must be overcome to hug your haters effectively: There are too many channels. There is too much feedback. You take complaints personally. You fear getting scammed. You don’t have a customer service culture.

Solitude is the worst of punishments. It’s like waiting in the Death Row for your last supper and the final blow, the chair or gas or whatever. The utter act of capital punishment, except it’s lasting an eternity. You'd say being alone, single, can have an array of possibilities, positive sides. You'd argue when being approached with such a statement! You'd mention how good it feels to be independent, to have a free choice, not depending on anyone else's opinion. The space in your life, the remote in your hand that is not wrestled for, the cookies, still present in the jar, waiting for you to eat them. The wide bed and the covers just for your own pleasure and usage. I can see you throwing your arguments at me, fighting passionately since you strongly believe that what you say, is the truth. And then, the night falls, devouring your clearly visible assumptions and postulates, making some room for doubt and fright. You hear the silence that grows around you, feel it possessing you from the inside and you don't have time to brace yourself for what's coming. The horrid feeling of incompletion and senseless existence catch you with overpowering force, making your throat shrink and your mind tight. You're scared so much that all seems so dark and eerie. Then, you ask yourself whether it was really you who chose this, who decided upon this unbearable state of utter loneliness. The answer is usually the same. It is always you, always me. Not consciously, but by our choices, we become the pariahs of our own pitiful life. The untouchables. We are the hater and the hated, the victim and the perpetrator in one body, lying to ourselves, blaming everybody else but us for each second of this unthinkable hell, praying in silence to be saved, to be spared from pain and suffering. In the end, you’d rather go barefoot through glowing coals than admit that you’re too scared to ask for love.

What do you have in here?” [the Archbishop] asked, pointing to one of the little bottles. “Quinine, Vladika,” answered the father confused. “Preparation against fever… How often must one take it per day and for how many days?” “Three, four times a day, depending on the gravity of the illness. One should take it until the fever breaks down.” “Therefore, in order to get rid of such a disease that, in fact, is a just trifle, one has to take this medicine three or four times a day and pay the doctor a few visits. Do the same with the Great Medicine that our Lord gave us. The Apostles and the first Christians would commune daily, spending their time in love and continuous praying. And we, the haters, the flatterers, always ready to trip someone, come to our Heavenly Doctor once a year and want immediate cure from all diseases, distresses and sufferings inherited from our ancestors; we want nature, which deteriorated over thousands of years, to instantly revive and we want ourselves to become new people. [Chapter IX]

Within minutes, I received a response with punctuation I had never seen before. “Hello (((Weisman))),” wrote “CyberTrump.” Nothing more. Just that. I was sitting at my desk at work. I had some time on my hands as an editor at the Times, since my responsibilities then centered on domestic policy—economics, the environment, poverty—and with the nation consumed in this strange presidential campaign, not a lot of policy making was going on. “Care to explain?” I answered, intuiting that my last name in those triple parentheses must somehow denote my Jewish faith. “What, ho, the vaunted Ashkenazi intelligence, hahaha!” “CyberTrump” came back. “It’s a dog whistle, fool. Belling the cat for my fellow goyim.” With the cat belled, the horde followed. What I didn’t know was that I had unwittingly exposed what was known in the alt-right as “echoes,” those three parentheses that practitioners of online harassment wrapped around Jewish-sounding names on social media. Unbeknown to, well, just about everyone, alt-right anti-Semites had created a Google plug-in that could be used to search double or triple parentheses, since ordinary search engines do not pick up punctuation marks. Haters would slap these “echoes” around Jewish-sounding names of people online they wanted to target. Once a target was “belled,” the alt-right anti-Semitic mob could download the innocuous-sounding Coincidence Detector plug-in from the Google Chrome store, track down targets like heat-seeking missiles, then swarm. “You’ve all provoked us. You’ve been doing it for decades—and centuries even—and we’ve finally had enough,” declared Andrew Anglin, the creator and mastermind of the neo-Nazi website the Daily Stormer. “Challenge has been accepted.” And swarm they did.

Self harm or suicide is never the answer. Don't let the haters win.

So, you’re Maxime,” Aunt Mimi said, once they were in the living room. “You hate Americans?” Aria rolled her eyes in despair and looked to her father for help. Aunt Mimi had heard of a notion called tact, but had never deemed it to be compatible with honesty, her main motivation in life. “I used to …?” Maxime answered uncertainly. “I’m a man hater,” Aunt Mimi declared staunchly. “Are you a man?” “Absolutely not,” Maxime answered with a hint of a smile in Aria’s direction. “That’s why I changed my mind about Americans. A full grown man never changes his mind. Mine is still capable of hearing reason.” Aria

A pessimistic orientation does not seek accommodations with the system. We share the goal of the undercommons, which “is not to end the troubles but to end the world that created those particular troubles as the ones that must be opposed” (Halberstam 2013, 9). Moten and Harney don’t play the liberal game of reform; they are constantly reframing the problems at hand. What questions we ask are crucial—for bad questions yield worse answers, ones that compound the problem. On prison abolition, their intervention is decisive and reconfigures the coordinates of the debate: for them, it is “not so much the abolition of prisons but the abolition of a society that could have prisons, that could have slavery” (Moten and Harney 2013, 42). How do you abolish a society? How do you fight state power? Is anti-statism, ethical (that is, nonviolent) anarchism, the only solution? Is it a solution? Or do you dare to seize power, as with the example of Morales? A universal politics takes these questions to heart. For this reason, its skeptical negativity is put into the service of a more virtuous end: locating antagonisms, rather than settling for conflicts or pseudo-struggles. Its challenge is to sustain the antagonistic logic of class struggle, and avoid the comfort of static oppositions. The cultural Left has its enemies (Trump, Putin, Le Pen, Erdoğan, Modi, Duterte, Netanyahu, Orbán, Bolsonaro, Suu Kyi, MBS, etc.)—and, conversely, notorious leaders blame liberal media, demonizing bad press with the “enemy of the people” charge—but nothing really changes; the basic features or coordinates of the current society remain the same. Worse, the liberal capitalist system is legitimized (only in a free democracy can you, as a citizen, criticize tyrants abroad and, more importantly, express your outrage at the president, politicians, or state power without the fear of retribution) and the cultural Left is tacitly compensated for playing by the rules—for practicing non-antagonistic politics, for forgoing class insurgency and not engaging in class war (Žižek 2020f)—rewarded with “libidinal profit” (Žižek 1997b, 47), with what Lacan calls a “surplus-enjoyment” (2007, 147), an enjoyment-in-sacrifice. That is to say, cultural leftists, with their “Beautiful Souls” intact, enjoy not being a racist, a misogynist, a transphobe, an ableist, and so on. Hating the haters, the morally repulsive, the fascists of the world, is indeed an endless source of libidinal satisfaction for “woke” liberals. But what changes does it actually produce?

As if I conjured him into being, Braeden materialized nearby and shouted, “Rome! Where you been hiding?” The crowd parted slightly to make room for Romeo’s best friend, and he grinned when he saw me standing there. “Ah,” he said, “tutor girl is back.” I sighed dramatically. Was he ever going to stop calling me that? Braeden pushed into the center of the small crowd and put his arm around me, and Romeo let go of my hand as Braden tugged me into his side. “He’s been unbearable while you were gone,” he said. I was aware of everyone watching the easy affection he showed me. It made me slightly uncomfortable, even if I did enjoy it. “I doubt it,” I said, poking him in the ribs. “You were probably just annoying.” People around us laughed, and Braeden hooted. “Rome, I need to borrow your girl. She knows all about books and I can’t seem to find the one I need.” He shoved his wrinkled paper beneath my nose and steered me out of the crowd so I would help him. I found the book in like three seconds and handed it to him with an are you for real? look on my face. “Looked like it was getting a little crowded over there,” he said, taking the book. His eyes held a knowing look. He’d done that on purpose. He knew almost as well as Romeo how uncomfortable I could get. “Thanks,” I said, and I meant it. “Anytime, tutor girl.” “I do have a name, you know?” I said. “I know.” He grinned. It was the only answer I got. He definitely didn’t say he was going to start using it. -Braeden & Rimmel

But cricket did have one supreme advantage over football. it could be stopped by rain. Every morning at prayers, devout cricket-haters put up a plea for a downpour. As we were in England, our prayers were quite frequently answered, but nothing, nothing but the death of the headmaster could stop football. We could hardly pray for the headmaster, a nice man, to die. In rain, sleet, hail and lightining, shivering and shuddering and soaked to the skin, we battled on. Even in dense fog we kept at it, a shining example to Dartmoor working parties. But cricket was another matter, cricket was a more sensitve affair altogether and if, as I fear, there is cricket in heaven, there will also, please God, be rain.

They buried their dead and submitted to the Law. From that day on Moses too seemed a cleft man. At last he told them they were going to the Ancestral Land. Sadly he spoke to them of blessings, of curses-all, all of which they accepted as though it were his daily bread and they, his day laborers, were hangdoggedly taking it from his hands. They could hardly look each other in the eye. He talked on about olives, about grapes, about pomegranates, about figs, and wearily they answered yes, yes, anything you say as long as we don't all have to drop dead in this desert, amen. No, they would make more statues or graven images. Yes, they would not murder. They would not bear false witness. Whatever he told them, amen. But Eshkar knew none of this. He had struck out so far on his own that the pillars of smoke and of fire were no longer in sight, nor did he wish them to be. The camp could go its way and he would go his. He had no notion of where it was headed for, if it was headed anywhere at all. For many years, perhaps ten, perhaps more, he wandered by himself in the desert, alone with his flock. If the others crossed it once, he did so dozens of times. And he knew things that they did not: that the desert was inhabited, that it had limits, that it could be crossed from end to end in a matter of weeks. The deception of miracles was keeping them purblind and lost.

From God there came no accounting, neither by day or by night, when the huge stars hung in their orbits overhead. Sometimes he thought he was god himself. Once he traveled far to the east and knew without being told that he was in the Ancestral Land. He asked for the name of an old well and was answered Beersheba, the Well of the Oath. When he went southward from there, descending more and more until he felt sure that he had reached the bottom of the world, he found a slate-colored sea whose odd waters smelled of sulfur. Marveling greatly, he returned. And yet that too was not the world's end.

tucked an arm around the back of Prophet’s neck and Prophet buried his face in Doc’s shoulder as Doc said, “It’s not fair. I know it’s not. But before you do anything else, you have to tell Tom.” “How do you know I haven’t?” “How do I know the sun rises in the morning?” “Fucker,” Prophet muttered against Doc’s shoulder. “Disability-hater.” Doc rubbed the back of his neck but didn’t make a move to let him go. And Prophet was okay with that. “Do you want me to tell him?” Doc asked finally. “Yeah. But you can’t.” God, it was safe right here, with Doc. And Prophet wanted it to be this safe with Tommy . . . and it was, except for this issue. Which he hadn’t given Tommy the chance to deal with. “I can be there with you. I’ll answer the questions he’ll have, so you don’t have to.” Prophet lifted his head. “Yeah, I get you’re trying to make it easier on me, but fuck, it’s not going to be at all. I can’t pretend anything will help.” “Not pretending is the first step.

Draw a line in the sand As you get going, keep in mind why you’re doing what you’re doing. Great businesses have a point of view, not just a product or service. You have to believe in something. You need to have a backbone. You need to know what you’re willing to fight for. And then you need to show the world. A strong stand is how you attract superfans. They point to you and defend you. And they spread the word further, wider, and more passionately than any advertising could. Strong opinions aren’t free. You’ll turn some people off. They’ll accuse you of being arrogant and aloof. That’s life. For everyone who loves you, there will be others who hate you. If no one’s upset by what you’re saying, you’re probably not pushing hard enough. (And you’re probably boring, too.) Lots of people hate us because our products do less than the competition’s. They’re insulted when we refuse to include their pet feature. But we’re just as proud of what our products don’t do as we are of what they do. We design them to be simple because we believe most software is too complex: too many features, too many buttons, too much confusion. So we build software that’s the opposite of that. If what we make isn’t right for everyone, that’s OK. We’re willing to lose some customers if it means that others love our products intensely. That’s our line in the sand. When you don’t know what you believe, everything becomes an argument. Everything is debatable. But when you stand for something, decisions are obvious. For example, Whole Foods stands for selling the highest quality natural and organic products available. They don’t waste time deciding over and over again what’s appropriate. No one asks, “Should we sell this product that has artificial flavors?” There’s no debate. The answer is clear. That’s why you can’t buy a Coke or a Snickers there. This belief means the food is more expensive at Whole Foods. Some haters even call it Whole Paycheck and make fun of those who shop there. But so what? Whole Foods is doing pretty damn well. Another example is Vinnie’s Sub Shop, just down the street from our office in Chicago. They put this homemade basil oil on subs that’s just perfect. You better show up on time, though. Ask when they close and the woman behind the counter will respond, “We close when the bread runs out.” Really? “Yeah. We get our bread from the bakery down the street early in the morning, when it’s the freshest. Once we run out (usually around two or three p.m.), we close up shop. We could get more bread later in the day, but it’s not as good as the fresh-baked bread in the morning. There’s no point in selling a few more sandwiches if the bread isn’t good. A few bucks isn’t going to make up for selling food we can’t be proud of.” Wouldn’t you rather eat at a place like that instead of some generic sandwich chain?

Key Points: Satisfaction among people who complain about business hasn’t improved at all since the 1970s. Haters are not your problem. . . . Ignoring them is. Not responding is a response. A response that says “I don’t care about you.” Answering complaints increases customer advocacy. Not answering complaints decreases customer advocacy.

Civil Discourse (The Sonnet) Be a friend to the just, But a parent to the unjust. There is no place for hate, Restrain the hater, but do not hurt. The paradigm of revolution needs reform, We must make it grow out of cruelty, For cruelty is not the cure for cruelty, We must treat it with the light of sanity. It is a sad state of affairs when, Violence becomes a part of civil discourse. How can we possibly call ourselves civilized, If mere disagreement breaks out into violent uproars! So I repeat, cruelty is not the answer to cruelty. Work to destroy hate without destroying the human spirit.

The races, and all their race-wars. Oh, could I drag every mortal historian down here, to this shore, so that they could look upon our true roll, our progression of hatred and annihilation. How many would seek, desperate in whatever zealotry gripped them, to hunt reasons and justifications? Causes, crimes and justices— Oh, these messengers would earn so much... displeasure. And vilification. And these dead, oh how they'd laugh, understanding so well the defensive tactic of all-out attack. The dead mock us, mock us all, and need say nothing... All those enemies of reason - yet not reason as a force, or a god, not reason in the cold, critical sense. Reason only in its purest armour, when it strides forward into the midst of those haters of tolerance, oh gods below, I am lost, lost in all of this. You cannot fight unreason, and as these dead multitudes will tell you - are telling you even now - certitude is the enemy. "These," Ganath whispered, "these dead have no blood to give you, Ganoes Paran. They will not worship. They will not follow. They will not dream of glory in your eyes. They are done with that, with all of that. What do you see, Ganoes Paran, in these staring holes that once were eyes? What do you see?" "Answers," he replied.

excellence is the most powerful answer you can give to the doubters and haters

I suddenly realised one day that love is the answer. Silent, obscure, never-noticed, but boundless love is the answer for everything I do, and every person I meet---haters and lovers alike! Love, yeah! Love! That's the answer!

I've honed my approach overtime to make sure I don't stoke the hater's rage. I am sure these are often women broken with grief for their old lives, powder kegs packed with fury at the terrible injustice of motherhood. They explode at me-not their husbands, not their health visitors, not the friends who inquire politely how they're doing with a newborn but don't really want to know the answer-because it doesn't matter if I know that they're not coping.

Consciously ending the transference of prejudice, and educating haters out of existence is the answer. Not fighting prejudice itself as a collective is the problem!