Attached Birthday Quotes

She thought of running through the forest on her birthday, the fierce desire deep in her gut to live. That’s what she felt from the sentinel, from the Wilderwood it was attached to. A deep, reckless determination to live.

More than 2,000 books are dedicated to how Warren Buffett built his fortune. Many of them are wonderful. But few pay enough attention to the simplest fact: Buffett’s fortune isn’t due to just being a good investor, but being a good investor since he was literally a child. As I write this Warren Buffett’s net worth is $84.5 billion. Of that, $84.2 billion was accumulated after his 50th birthday. $81.5 billion came after he qualified for Social Security, in his mid-60s. Warren Buffett is a phenomenal investor. But you miss a key point if you attach all of his success to investing acumen. The real key to his success is that he’s been a phenomenal investor for three quarters of a century. Had he started investing in his 30s and retired in his 60s, few people would have ever heard of him. Consider a little thought experiment. Buffett began serious investing when he was 10 years old. By the time he was 30 he had a net worth of $1 million, or $9.3 million adjusted for inflation.16 What if he was a more normal person, spending his teens and 20s exploring the world and finding his passion, and by age 30 his net worth was, say, $25,000? And let’s say he still went on to earn the extraordinary annual investment returns he’s been able to generate (22% annually), but quit investing and retired at age 60 to play golf and spend time with his grandkids. What would a rough estimate of his net worth be today? Not $84.5 billion. $11.9 million. 99.9% less than his actual net worth. Effectively all of Warren Buffett’s financial success can be tied to the financial base he built in his pubescent years and the longevity he maintained in his geriatric years. His skill is investing, but his secret is time. That’s how compounding works. Think of this another way. Buffett is the richest investor of all time. But he’s not actually the greatest—at least not when measured by average annual returns.

Just as we habitually hoard old birthday cards and souvenirs, bank statements and receipts, clothes, broken appliances and old magazines, we also hang on to pride, anger, outdated opinions and fears. If we’re so attached to tangible things, imagine how difficult letting go of opinions must be (let alone opening our minds to new ideas, perspectives, possibilities and futures). Our beliefs inevitably solidify to be the only truth and reality that we know, which puts a greater distance between us and anyone whose beliefs are different. This distance not only segregates us, it feeds our pride.

For eight years I dreamed of fire. Trees ignited as I passed them; oceans burned. The sugary smoke settled in my hair as I slept, the scent like a cloud left on my pillow as I rose. Even so, the moment my mattress started to burn, I bolted awake. The sharp, chemical smell was nothing like the hazy syrup of my dreams; the two were as different as Carolina and Indian jasmine, separation and attachment. They could not be confused. Standing in the middle of the room, I located the source of the fire. A neat row of wooden matches lined the foot of the bed. They ignited, one after the next, a glowing picket fence across the piped edging. Watching them light, I felt a terror unequal to the size of the flickering flames, and for a paralyzing moment I was ten years old again, desperate and hopeful in a way I had never been before and never would be again. But the bare synthetic mattress did not ignite like the thistle had in late October. It smoldered, and then the fire went out. It was my eighteenth birthday.

You are getting a wooden leg for your birthday, and you are going to love it. Incidentally, this means removing your leg below the knee. You’ll make lots of friends. You can even attach a bundle of straw at the end, like a broom, and apply to be a janitor.

Experiments in attachment. My friend has just had his PC wired for broadband. I meet him in the cafe; he looks terrible - his face puffy and pale, his eyes bloodshot... He tells me he is now detained, night and day, in downloading every album he ever owned, lost, desired, or was casually intrigued by; he has now stopped even listening to them, and spends his time sleeplessly monitoring a progress bar... He says it's like all my birthdays have come at once, by which I can see he means, precisely, that he feels he is going to die.

You are a thoughtless person with no consideration for the feelings of others. Your best quality is someday you’re gonna die. If you were a planet in the solar system among millions of beautiful heavenly bodies, you’d still choose to revolve around yourself. If every day was Christmas, you’d give yourself 366 gifts, two on your birthday. If you thought about looking into your soul to become a better person, you’d change your mind because there’s no mirror attached and you couldn’t admire your face or flexed muscles. If rulers could measure a man’s character, you’d be a centimeter. And if you ever again decide to call me a name, next time try Liz.

inbox. It was from Ogden Morrow. The subject line read “We Can Dance If We Want To.” There was no text in the body of the e-mail. Just a file attachment—an invitation to one of the most exclusive gatherings in the OASIS: Ogden Morrow’s birthday party. In the real world, Morrow almost never made public appearances, and in the OASIS, he came out of hiding only once a year, to host this event. The invitation featured a photo of Morrow’s world-famous avatar, the Great and Powerful Og. The gray-bearded wizard was hunched over an elaborate DJ mixing board, one headphone pressed to his ear, biting his lower lip in auditory ecstasy as his fingers scratched ancient vinyl on a set of silver turntables. His record crate bore a DON’T PANIC sticker and an anti-Sixer logo—a yellow number six with a red circle-and-slash over it. The text at the bottom read Ogden Morrow’s ’80s Dance Party in celebration of his 73rd birthday! Tonight—10pm OST at the Distracted Globe ADMIT ONE I was flabbergasted. Ogden Morrow had actually taken the time to invite me to his birthday party. It felt like the greatest honor I’d ever received. I called Art3mis, and she confirmed that she’d received the same e-mail. She said she couldn’t pass up an invitation from Og himself

I brought her food, but it stayed untouched on the plate no matter how I tried to cajole her into eating. When I caught her taking twenty minutes to eat a single almond, I began wondering if there was some kind of Watsonian guide for the care and keeping of Holmeses. When I sent my father an email to that effect (subject line I Need Your Help, postscript Still haven't forgiven you and won't). he responded that, yes, over the years he'd written down an informal series of suggestions in his journal; he'd do his best to adapt and type them up for me. When the list arrived the next day, it was twelve pages long, single-spaced. The suggestions ran from the obvious (8. On the whole, coaxing works rather better than straightforward demands) to the irrelevant (39. Under all circumstances, do not allow Holmes to cook your dinner unless you have a taste for cold unseasoned broth) to the absurd (87. Hide all firearms before throwing Holes a surprise birthday party) to, finally, the useful (1. Search often for opiates and dispose of as needed; retaliation will not come often, though is swift and exacting when it does - do not grow attached to one's mirrors or drinking glasses; 2. During your search, always begin with the hollowed-out heels of Holmes's boots; 102. Have no compunctions about drugging Holmes's tea if he hasn't slept; 41. Be prepared to receive compliments once every two to three years; 74.) (underlined twice) (Whatever happens, remember it is not your fault and likely could not have been prevented, no matter your efforts).

Jamie guessed he wasn’t sure if calling it a homeless shelter when it was filled with homeless people was somehow offensive. He’d had two complaints lodged against him in the last twelve months alone for the use of ‘inappropriate’ language. Roper was a fossil, stuck in a by-gone age, struggling to stay afloat. He of course wouldn’t have this problem if he bothered to read any of the sensitivity emails HR pinged out. But he didn’t. And now he was on his final warning. Jamie left him to flounder and scanned the crowd and the room for anything amiss.  People were watching them. But not maliciously. Mostly out of a lack of anything else to do. They’d been there overnight by the look of it. Places like this popped up all over the city to let them stay inside on cold nights. The problem was finding a space that would house them. ‘No, not the owner,’ Mary said, sighing. ‘I just rent the space from the council. The ceiling is asbestos, and they can’t use it for anything, won’t get it replaced.’ She shrugged her shoulders so high that they touched the earrings. ‘But these people don’t mind. We’re not eating the stuff, so…’ She laughed a little. Jamie thought it sounded sad. It sort of was. The council wouldn’t let children play in there, wouldn’t let groups rent it, but they were happy to take payment and let the homeless in. It was safe enough for them. She pushed her teeth together and started studying the faded posters on the walls that encouraged conversations about domestic abuse, about drug addiction. From when this place was used. They looked like they were at least a decade old, maybe two. Bits of tape clung to the paint around them, scraps of coloured paper frozen in time, preserving images of long-past birthday parties. There was a meagre stage behind the coffee dispenser, and to the right, a door led into another room. ‘Do you know this boy?’ Roper asked, holding up his phone, showing Mary a photo of Oliver Hammond taken that morning. The officers who arrived on scene had taken it and attached it to the central case file. Roper was just accessing it from there. It showed Oliver’s face at an angle, greyed and bloated from the water.  ‘My God,’ Mary said, throwing a weathered hand to her mouth. It wasn’t easy for people who weren’t exposed to death regularly to stomach seeing something like that.  ‘Ms Cartwright,’ Roper said, leaning a little to his left to look in her eyes as she turned away. ‘Can you identify this person? I know it’s hard—’ ‘Oliver — Ollie, he preferred. Hammond, I think. I can check my files…’ She turned and pointed towards the back room Jamie had spotted. ‘If you want—’ Roper put the phone away.

All I want for my birthday is to get fucked unconscious with no strings attached.” Not a lie. “What a coincidence. I’ve got a big dick, a bar tab, and the local cab company’s number on speed dial.” The guy’s eyes bore into me from behind the dark lenses, and I have a momentary lapse in vaginal secretion control. Clean up on aisle twelve, stat!

Thoreau left a record of his beachcombing for the “waste and wrecks of human art”. His gleanings and those of my student are protoarcheology, glances at cultural artifacts from two times. Cape Cod, 1849, 1850, 1855 Logs washed from the land (many) Wrecked boat lumber (abundant) Pebbles of brick (a few) Castile soap bars (not counted) Sand filled gloves (one pair) Rags (not counted) Arrowhead (one) Water soaked nutmegs (boatload) Items in fish stomachs (snuff boxes, knives, church membership cards, “jugs, jewels and Jonah” Box or barrel (one) Bottle, half full of ale (one) … St. Catherines Island wrack line, 2013-14, 160 square meters Blocks of buoyant plastic foam (163) Plastic drink bottles (12) Plastic pill bottle (1) Balloons, deflated, happy birthday (2) Just married (1) Air filled latex glove (1) Plastic 2 gallon juice jug with 75 barnacles attached (1) Flip flops, unmatched (2) Jar of may, half full, (1) Fishing buoy (1) Fragments of hard plastic (42) …

We expose our most sensitive personal information any time we Pick up a phone, respond to a text, click on a link, or carelessly provide personal information to someone we don’t know; Fail to properly secure computers or devices; Create easy-to-crack passwords; Discard, rather than shred, documents that contain PII; Respond to an email that directs us to call a number we can’t independently confirm, or complete an attachment that asks for our PII in an insecure environment; Save our user ID or password on a website or in an app as a shortcut for future logins; Use the same user ID or password throughout our financial, social networking, and email universes; Take [online] quizzes that subtly ask for information we’ve provided as the answers to security questions on various websites. Snap pictures with our smartphone or digital camera without disabling the geotagging function; Use our email address as a user name/ID, if we have the option to change it; Use PINS like 1234 or a birthday; Go twenty-four hours without reviewing our bank and credit card accounts to make absolutely sure that every transaction we see is familiar; Fail to enroll in free transactional monitoring programs offered by banks, credit unions, and credit card providers that notify us every time there is any activity in our accounts; Use a free Wi-Fi network [i.e. cafés or even airports] without confirming it is correctly identified and secure, to check email or access financial services websites that contain our sensitive data.

So here’s the dealio; I was trying to think of what I could get for your birthday that would mean something, not just the usual Barbie crap. And I was thinking—you and me are Indian. Your mom’s not, but we are. And I’ve always liked Indian symbols. Know what a symbol is?” She shook her head. “Shit that stands for shit. So let’s see if I remember this right.” Sitting on the bed, he plucked the bird card out of her hand, turning it around in his fingers. “Okay, this guy is magic. He’ll protect you from bad spells and other kinds of weirdness you might not even be aware of.” Carefully he unwound the wire ties that attached the small charm to its plastic card and placed the bird on her bedside table. Then he picked up the teddy bear. “This fierce animal is a protector.” She laughed. “No, really. It may not look like it, but appearances can be deceiving. This dude is a fearless spirit. And with that fearless spirit, he signals bravery to those who require it.” He freed the bear from the card and set it on the table next to the bird. “All right. Now the fish. This one might be the best of all. It gives you the power to resist other people’s magic. How cool is that?” She thought

At the time of his second birthday, for example, a healthy child whose mother is resting on a garden seat will make a series of excursions away from her, each time returning to her before making the next excursion. On some occasions, when he returns, he simply smiles and makes his number; on others he leans against her knee; on yet others he wants to climb on her lap. But never does he stay for long unless he is frightened or tired or thinks she is about to leave.

Henry has an attachment disorder. He doesn’t even like it when I cut my hair. If my mom had allowed it, he would be the biggest pack rat in the world. But hoarding and blindness don’t mix. Everything has to be in its place or the house becomes a landmine. So he wears the same clothes until they’re threadbare, won’t cut his hair, still sleeps with his Dragon Ball Z sheets he got for his eighth birthday, and has every toy he has ever been given stored in plastic bins in the basement. I don’t think he’ll go through with the hair cut. He’s only let Robin cut it twice since my mom died, and both times he cried the entire time, and she had to put the clippings in a Ziplock bag and let him keep them, just to get him to calm down.” I was slightly repulsed, and I was glad Millie couldn’t see my expression. “So he has bags of hair in his room?” “I’m assuming he does though he won’t tell me where. I pay my next-door neighbor to come in and clean once a week, and she hasn’t found it either

He steps closer, dangling a delicate, gold chain from his fingers. “Happy birthday,” he says, dropping it in my outstretched palm. I glance down and run my finger across the cool metal of the attached charm—golden birds nestled, side by side. “I love it.” “They’re turtle doves. My mom used to tell me the story of the two turtle doves when I was a kid.” He reaches in and separates the charm, holding one of the doves in his hand. “Legend says, they’re a symbol of friendship. As long as you have one, and I have the other, then we’ll be friends forever. No matter what your father does.

We fell into a dreamy assonance. I drifted on the couch cushions down on the floor, attached to a warm baby limpet who was nearing his first birthday. Pollux’s breathing evened out and grew deeper. He was asleep. I stared at my husband’s face, the new cheekbones of a skinny man, his surprising beauty, and I decided to live for love again and take the chance of another lifetime.