Anti Heroin Quotes

I learned that it's okay to feel the way I do: that my life has no meaning unless I have a boyfriend. A real man is like the perfect vampire-boy and all the perfect guys in Twue Wuv.

If an author is going to put in a forbidden element in a storyline and actually have them doing things to protect their heroine then that's good. When these hero's end up sleeping with one woman after another all in the name of protecting their heroine's well then they come across as sleazy and not a character to admire or respect. Angst is fine for me if done the right way especially if I can feel the love they have for their women......but then it totally negates their love when you have explicit sex scenes with ow where they certainly do not appear to be in misery.

The novelist Umberto Eco famously kept what the writer Nassim Taleb called an “anti-library,” a vast collection of books he had not read, believing that one’s personal trove should contain as much of what you don’t know as possible. Some

I already know you, she told him, and I love what you are. Come! A bridge opened between them. He crossed over.

Don’t tell me my writing is misogynistic or anti-feminist just because I or my heroines like to be controlled in the bedroom and find great satisfaction and freedom with it. That is the most anti-feminist statement I have ever heard. Feminism is all about letting women be who THEY want to be. Not how YOU want them to be...I am both a feminist AND a submissive in my sexual fantasies and reality. You are the one who is anti-feminist who tells me I can’t be.

It looked as though it belonged in some kind of anti-Disneyland where Donald Duck had strangled Huey, Dewey, and Louie and Mickey shot Minnie Mouse full of heroin.

It was anti-Nazi Google.

Es sah aus, als gehörte es in irgendein Anti-Disneyland, in dem Donald Duck seine Neffen Tick, Trick und Track erwürgt und Micky Maus seine Minnie mit Heroin voll gepumpt hatte.

But then I read one where the hero is an anti-hero and kidnaps the heroine. He was, of course, a terrible cad, but a stunningly attractive cad, and of course, the heroine ends up falling completely in love with him. I thought about being her and all I could think about was slipping a knife between his ribs. But then I found myself thinking of the kidnapper as a woman, kidnapping me,

Fewer than one-quarter of heroin addicts who receive abstinence-only counseling and support remain clean two or more years. The recovery rate is higher, roughly 40 to 60 percent, among those who get counseling, support group, and medication-assisted treatment such as methadone, buprenorphine, or naltrexone. “We know from other countries that when people stick with treatment, outcomes can be even better than fifty percent,” Lembke, the addiction specialist, told me. But most people in the United States don’t have access to good opioid-addiction treatment, she said, acknowledging the plethora of cash-only MAT clinics that resemble pill-mill pain clinics as well as rehabs that remain staunchly anti-MAT.

Such anti-tobacco animus helps explain a glaring paradox within public-health circles: Many public-health experts avidly embrace harm reduction for other conditions—needle exchange and methadone for heroin addicts, “wet” public housing for people who continue to drink, condom distribution and HPV vaccination for sexually active adolescents—but, for nicotine addiction, they urge abstinence and downplay the importance of a less risky alternative.

More than being in poor taste, all that anti-glamour, minimalist, grungy heroin-chic was bad for business.

LaForche for his standing, understood Christina’s seditious intents, and for that, he monitored and hated the rude Vixen of Woe. Innumerable times they had quarresquabbled, sometimes very loudly, both during and after class. Christina’s wit, as fast as her blade, for the most part won the scathingly bitter, single-edged dialogues, much to the chagrin and embarrassment of LaForche. It was no big secret that trying to deal with his Anti-Mr. Spock logic was like trying to cross a baking salt-flat desert mid-summer with nothing to drink or eat except stale crackers and a big jar of out-dated defunct Peter Pan peanut butter, its original “crunch” now being only pasty sand mouth goo. She often asked herself how could you argue against no mind. It was an unassuming study in stupility to say the least. —Christina Brickley, The Lady and the Samurai

Stop the illegal drug epidemic by adding crap to drugs so that people won't think that they're cool anymore. Like, cut heroin with powdered milk and that way people who are lactose intolerant will think that heroin gives them explosive diarrhea. Also, maybe we run a series of anti-drug commercials of me shitting myself. Because you know what doesn't seem cool? A middle aged woman shitting herself.

Anti-Semitism has repercussions which will affect the whole world.

So many women have cancer now. Do you think a new esthetic can develop? Cancer beauty? I mean, if there could be heroin chic, the esthetic of the death-wishing drug addict? Will non-cancerous women be begging their cosmetic surgeons to give them fake node implants under their chins and around their necks? Under their arms? In their groins? So sexy, that fullness. And it works so well as an anti-aging technique, to fill out that sagging turkey neck. Who wouldn't want it? And the jewelry, the titanium pellets piercing those tits. So S&M/bondage." Dunja kept talking in Nathan's head as he segued into a parallel inner dialogue with her about health and evolution, about the theory that concepts of beauty were not just concepts, but perceptions of indicators of reproductive potential and therefore of youth, about selfish genes using our bodies as vehicles only to perpetuate themselves, about how perhaps cancer genes could begin to make their own case for reproductive immortality as well, and so they too would put immense pressure on cultural acceptance of formerly taboo concepts of beauty, concepts which used to indicate disease and nearness to death but now mesmerized and seduced and mimicked youth and ripeness and health, and so her little fantasy of a culture forming around her own dire straits could theoretically... Nathan could only just manage to keep looking into her searching eyes, feeling at that moment very sentimental and ordinary, and therefore mute. Could he really say anything about classical concepts of art, and therefore beauty, based on harmony, as opposed to modern theories, post-industrial-revolution, post-psychoanalysis, based on sickness and dysfunction? Could he make a case for her new, diseased self as the most avant-garde form of womanly beauty? He didn't dare, but she did.

That summer, Lee Harvey Oswald handed out pro-Castro literature stamped with the address 544 Camp Street, a commercial building. This was a blunder because Oswald actually was under the control of an anti-Castro operation headquartered there. W. Guy Banister, his controller, had connections in military intelligence, the CIA and a section of the World Anti-Communist League set up by Willoughby and his Far Pacific intelligence unit in Taiwan. In The Great Heroin Coup, Henrik Krüger disclosed that the International Fascista was “not only the first step toward fulfilling the dream of Skorzeny, but also of his close friends in Madrid, exile Jose Lopez Rega, Juan Peron’s grey eminence, and prince Justo Valerio Borghesé, the Italian fascist money man rescued from justice at the hands of the World War II Italian resistance by future CIA counterintelligence whiz James J. Angleton.

From an early age I helped my mother clean them. We used a special cloth provided by the government, which could not be used for cleaning anything else. Even as a toddler I knew that the portraits were not like other household items. Once, when I pointed a finger at them, my mother scolded me loudly. ‘Never do that.’ Pointing, I learned, was extremely rude. If we needed to gesture towards them, we did so with the palm of the hand facing upward, with respect. ‘Like this,’ she said, showing me. They had to be the highest objects in the room and perfectly aligned. No other pictures or clutter were permitted on the same wall. Public buildings, and the homes of high-ranking cadres of the Party, were obliged to display a third portrait – of Kim Jong-suk, a heroine of the anti-Japanese resistance who died young. She was the first wife of Kim Il-sung and the sainted mother of Kim Jong-il. I thought she was very beautiful. This holy trinity we called the Three Generals of Mount Paektu. About once a month officials wearing white gloves entered every house in the block to inspect the portraits. If they reported a household for failing to clean them – we once saw them shine a flashlight at an angle to see if they could discern a single mote of dust on the glass – the family would be punished.

The cause of death is astounding, however. You’ll be surprised when you hear it. The man didn’t die as a result of his injuries.’ ‘Surprise me, Doctor. I’m waiting.’ ‘Heroin,’ Dr Schwartz said simply. ‘Heroin?’ ‘Respiratory failure, caused by an overdose of diacetylmorphine; that is, heroin.’ ‘The cough medicine?’ Schwartz nodded. ‘Cough tablets for morphine addicts. It used to be prescribed as an anti-asthmatic. Until people realised it was addictive.

Methamphetamines were sold in patent medicines and nasal decongestants, recommended for heroin addiction, and mass disseminated to troops to improve their performance. The police and prohibitionists hailed the drop in cocaine use as a success, demanded even more severe punishments and cited the large number of addicts in prison as proof that drugs made people commit crimes; after all, only criminals ended up in jail. With cocaine users scarce in the face of an expanding anti-drugs bureaucracy, the authorities moved onto potheads, where their focus remained for decades, which allowed Escobar to get cocaine into America unnoticed. In the following decades, the most famous cocaine abuser was Adolf Hitler.

But Yippie was already a gleam in Abbie Hoffman’s eye; some hard SDS theoreticians were already smoking a joint now and then with the dopers, hoping to become closer to them and gradually lead them into the correct Marxist paths; and the potheads who were busted and spent some time in jail tended to come out with more willingness to listen to radical agitprop, especially if it had a strong anti-cop bias to it. The Black Panther Party’s polemical panchreston, “pig,” was even beginning to appear in some white vocabularies. And then, Eldridge Cleaver, who was a god in those days, announced that although heroin was rejected by the Panthers, they had no objection to marijuana.

Your protagonist could spend their whole life in limbo, forever trapped in a state of constant discontent. If nothing comes along that forces them to change, you can bet they never will.

But then I read one where the hero is an anti-hero and kidnaps the heroine. He was, of course, a terrible cad, but a stunningly attractive cad, and of course, the heroine ends up falling completely in love with him. I thought about being her and all I could think about was slipping a knife between his ribs. But then I found myself thinking of the kidnapper as a woman, kidnapping me, and everything was different.

There is a certain personality type that demands living a life where boundaries aren't set by society but by the individuals. It's an outlook where making your own rules seems as natural as breath. There's nothing inherently evil about that type of personality; it's the same mindset that has spawned scientific discoveries and schools of thought that have made the Earth a much nicer place to live. Great heroes and heroines throughout human history have all shared a dissatisfaction with the status quo and the will to do something about it. Anti-fascists during the Spanish Civil War and WWII, as well as activists of the Civil Rights and anti-war movements were all inspirational examples of rebels who refused oppression and organized against it. But when that kind of person makes certain mistakes in certain circumstances, things as atrocious as the aforementioned things were wonderful can be set as in motion. Just as Buddha, Jesus of Nazareth, the Prophet Muhammad, Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. were all examples of people who made their own rules and who had a positive impact on society, there is unfortunately a perhaps even longer list of people who had horrific impacts on the world-stemming from that same core need to dictate reality and motivate others.

By the early summer of 1968, many of the hippies in the Sierra Madre Canyon were into Scientology. Either that, or they were into hard drugs. It was a fractured, confusing, disheartening time: in April, Martin Luther King Jr. had been assassinated, followed two months later by Robert Kennedy. Riots had erupted in Watts, and then at the Chicago Democratic Convention. The anti-war protests, bloody and embattled, now seemed futile. Increasingly, many young searchers who’d drifted to the Canyon, particularly those just back from Vietnam, were using heroin. Shady characters followed them, hanging around on the fringes, dealing drugs. The scene in the Canyon became increasingly tense. After one young man was killed in a gunfight near his house, Jeff Hawkins decided it was time to move on.