Aw Pink Quotes

...hot pink with a star done in rainbow rhinestones on the front. It was god-awful. I bought it.

It is not the absence of sin but the grieving over it which distinguishes the child of God from empty professors

No verse of Scripture yields its meaning to lazy people.

When we complain about the weather, we are, in reality, murmuring against God.

It is not the absence of sin but the grieving over it which distinguishes the child of God from empty professors.

His lyrical whistle beckoned me to adventure and forgetting. But I didn't want to forget. Hugging my grudge, ugly and prickly, a sad sea urchin, I trudged off on my own, in the opposite direction toward the forbidding prison. As from a star I saw, coldly and soberly, the separateness of everything. I felt the wall of my skin; I am I. That stone is a stone. My beautiful fusion with the things of this world was over. The Tide ebbed, sucked back into itself. There I was, a reject, with the dried black seaweed whose hard beads I liked to pop, hollowed orange and grapefruit halves and a garbage of shells. All at once, old and lonely, I eyed these-- razor clams, fairy boats, weedy mussels, the oyster's pocked gray lace (there was never a pearl) and tiny white "ice cream cones." You could always tell where the best shells were-- at the rim of the last wave, marked by a mascara of tar. I picked up, frigidly, a stiff pink starfish. It lay at the heart of my palm, a joke dummy of my own hand. Sometimes I nursed starfish alive in jam jars of seawater and watched them grow back lost arms. On this day, this awful birthday of otherness, my rival, somebody else, I flung the starfish against a stone. Let it perish.

All outward actions are worthless while our hearts be not right with God.

Eliza sitting naked on a pink towel. So beautiful I could die. Concentrating, all focused in on her sketchbook, but aw, god ...her tail. Her cute little tail moving slowly back and forth, making a fan shape in the dirt. She's the one. She really is. I know that now.

A 'god' who's will is resisted, designs frustrated, and purpose checkmated, possesses no title to Deity.

I have an evening dress, pink mull over silk (I'm perfectly beautiful in that), and a blue church dress, and a dinner dress of red veiling with Oriental trimming (makes me look like a Gipsy), and another of rose-coloured challis, and a grey street suit, and an every-day dress for classes. That wouldn't be an awfully big wardrobe for Julia Rutledge Pendleton, perhaps, but for Jerusha Abbott - Oh, my!

He also ate every scrap of the cold meat she had cooked for him, and good gods, it was pretty awful. Somehow she had managed to wreck the simple task of browning chicken in a skillet. The outside was charred black, and the inside oozed juice that was still pink.

Nothing in all the vast universe can come to pass otherwise than God has eternally purposed. Here is a foundation of faith. Here is a resting place for the intellect. Here is an anchor for the soul, both sure and steadfast. It is not blind fate, unbridled evil, man or Devil, but the Lord Almighty who is ruling the world, ruling it according to His own good pleasure and for His own eternal glory.

Yeah, a lot more than he likes you," said Oh. It didn't look like Milo appreciated the joke very much. "That's debatable," said Milo. "Is not," said Oh. She leaned in and put her pink cast against my cheek, kissing me quickly on the lips. "That's incredibly unfair. If we were gay you'd be up a creek without a paddle. You wouldn't even be in the game." "He's right, you know," I said. "Aw. You guys are having a bromance. That's really cute.

Though poor in this world's goods, though grieving the loss of loved ones, though suffering pain of body, though harassed by sin and Satan, though hated and persecuted by worldlings, whatever be the case and lot of the Christian, it is both his privilege and duty to rejoice in the Lord.

I love people who play guitars on roofs!" said Rose, hopping along the pavement in one of her sudden happy moods. "Don't you?" "Never knew anyone else who did it!" "Don't you like Tom?" "Of course I do. But I don't know about all the other guitar-on-roof players! They might be really awful people, with just that one good thing about them. Playing guitars on roofs... or bagpipes... Or drums... Sarah would like that, and Saffy could have the bagpipes! Caddy could have a harp.... What about Mum?" "One of those gourds filled with beans!" said Rose at once. "And Daddy could have a grand piano. On a flat roof. With a balcony and pink flowers in pots around the edge! And I'll have a very loud trumpet! What about you?" "I'll just listen," said Indigo.

For the eyes of the LORD run to and fro throughout the whole earth, to show Himself strong in the behalf of them whose heart is perfect toward Him” (2Ch 16:9).

Gödel’s taste ran in another direction: his favorite movie was Walt Disney’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, and when his wife put a pink flamingo in their front yard, he pronounced it furchtbar herzig—“awfully charming.

ah yes I know them well who was the first person in the universe before there was anybody that made it all who ah that they dont know neither do I so there you are they might as well try to stop the sun from rising tomorrow the sun shines for you he said the day we were lying among the rhododendrons on Howth head in the grey tweed suit and his straw hat the day I got him to propose to me yes first I gave him the bit of seedcake out of my mouth and it was leapyear like now yes 16 years ago my God after that long kiss I near lost my breath yes he said I was a flower of the mountain yes so we are flowers all a womans body yes that was one true thing he said in his life and the sun shines for you today yes that was why I liked him because I saw he understood or felt what a woman is and I knew I could always get round him and I gave him all the pleasure I could leading him on till he asked me to say yes and I wouldnt answer first only looked out over the sea and the sky I was thinking of so many things he didnt know of Mulvey and Mr Stanhope and Hester and father and old captain Groves and the sailors playing all birds fly and I say stoop and washing up dishes they called it on the pier and the sentry in front of the governors house with the thing round his white helmet poor devil half roasted and the Spanish girls laughing in their shawls and their tall combs and the auctions in the morning the Greeks and the jews and the Arabs and the devil knows who else from all the ends of Europe and Duke street and the fowl market all clucking outside Larby Sharons and the poor donkeys slipping half asleep and the vague fellows in the cloaks asleep in the shade on the steps and the big wheels of the carts of the bulls and the old castle thousands of years old yes and those handsome Moors all in white and turbans like kings asking you to sit down in their little bit of a shop and Ronda with the old windows of the posadas glancing eyes a lattice hid for her lover to kiss the iron and the wineshops half open at night and the castanets and the night we missed the boat at Algeciras the watchman going about serene with his lamp and O that awful deepdown torrent O and the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and the figtrees in the Alameda gardens yes and all the queer little streets and the pink and blue and yellow houses and the rosegardens and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.

The demands of justice must be met; the requirements of God’s holiness must be satisfied; the awful debt we incurred must be paid. And on the Cross this was done; done by none less than the Son of God; done perfectly; done once for all. “It is finished.

Man in his usual perversity turns the footstool into a throne from whence he would feign direct the Almighty as to what He ought to do, giving the onlooker the impression that if God had half the compassion that those who pray (?) have, all would quickly be right

to repudiate the election of God is to repudiate the God of election.

We walk up the sandy slope toward the dining terrace. I see Troy sitting at a table with some people I know. I look at Scottie to see if she sees him, and she is giving him the middle finger. The dining terrace gasps, but I realize it’s because of the sunset and the green flash. We missed it. The flash flashed. The sun is gone, and the sky is pink. I reach to grab the offending hand, but instead, I correct her gesture. “Here, Scottie. Don’t let that finger stand by itself like that. Bring up the other fingers just a little bit. There you go. That’s the cool way to do it.” Troy stares at us and smiles a bit. He’s completely confused. “All right, that’s enough.” I suddenly feel sorry for Troy. He must feel awful.

Okay, well, that sucks. But, Soph, guess what I saw today.” I flopped across my mattress, toeing my sneakers off. “We’re on a cursed island surrounded by killer fog, and ruled by two crazy-ass witches. I really can’t begin to guess, Jen.” “Lara, coming out of the cellar,” she said, blowing her pink stripe off her forehead. “And looking super secretive and suspicious. Well, I mean, more super secretive and suspicious than usual.” Ah, the cellar. A dank, creepy place full of magical artifacts that had a tendency to move around. Archer and I had spent an awful lot of quality time down there last year.

Lily Owens: If your favorite color is blue, why did you paint the house pink? August Boatwright: [chuckles] That was May's doing. When we went to the paint shop, she latched on to a color called, "Caribbean Pink." She said it made her feel like dancing a Spanish Flamenco. I personally thought it was the tackiest color I had ever seen, but I figured if it could lift May's heart, it was good enough to live in. Lily Owens: That was awfully nice of you. August Boatwright: Well, I don't know. Some things in life, like the color of a house, don't really matter. But lifting someone's heart? Now, that matters.

Suddenly, as Avis clung to her father’s neck and ear while, with a casual arm, the man enveloped his lumpy and large offspring, I saw Lolita’s smile lose all its light and become a frozen little shadow of itself, and the fruit knife slipped off the table and struck her with its silver handle a freak blow on the ankle which made her gasp, and crouch head forward, and then, jumping on one leg, her face awful with the preparatory grimace which children hold till the tears gush, she was gone — to be followed at once and consoled in the kitchen by Avis who had such a wonderful fat pink dad and a small chubby brother, and a brand-new baby sister, and a home, and two grinning dogs, and Lolita had nothing.

The delicate place. This pretty pink flower. The center of me. Secret spot. My thornless rose. The forbidden canal.   There must be fifty others. It’s Daisy’s wall of awful vagina euphemisms.   My forbidden garden. Her velvet slipper.   Yeesh.

You got no one, then?' she asked. 'No one but enemies.' 'Why aren't you fighting them?' 'Fighting? It's got me everything I have.' And he held his big empty hands up to show her. 'Nothing but an evil reputation and an awful lot of men with a burning need to kill me. Fighting? Hah! The better you are at it, the worse off it leaves you. I've settled some scores, and that can feel grand, but the feeling don't last long. Vengeance won't keep you warm nights, and that's a fact. Overrated. Won't do on its own. You need something else.' Ferro shook her head. 'You expect too much out of life, pink.' He grinned. 'And here was me thinking you expect too little.' 'Expect nothing and you won't be disappointed.' 'Expect nothing and you'll get nothing.' Ferro scowled at him. That was the thing about talk. Somehow it always took her where she did not want to go. Lack of practice, maybe.

What…do I want?” Ruka put his hands to his awful face and closed his golden eyes, shuddering with what could have been a laugh, or a sob. “I want a world where love is not a crime, Priestess, a world where children are not doomed to misery because they are different. I want only laws with mercy, and justice, and wisdom...but I will settle for your pink insides in my palm, and your brains on a rock.

He roars, “What have you done?” I don’t answer. My heart beats crazy happy just to see her get across the iron. She’s not burned. She’s still human. “Zara.” His voice is measured. “I need her to maintain control.” “You don’t need to be in control. You’re all trapped. So there’ll be no more stealing boys, no more shooting arrows in the woods, getting people lost. It’s all over.” The metal is cold on my fingers. Devyn grabs more wire, starts another flight. A group of pixies leaps for him, screaming, a wild, chaotic mess. They start clawing at each other, lost in fear and hunger, angry. A pixie in a pink dress shrieks when another wearing a black gown lashes at her, slashing through the skin on her arm. “Zara?” The king tries to be calm and nice. He tries to look human. It doesn’t work. “Do you know what this means? Do you know the power that I’ll lose? The need? We will fight in here. We will kill each other.” “I know,” I say and my voice shakes as I stare at him, this man who is in my blood, but not me. He is not me. Still, I understand his need, his fear. He is stuck in this awful place where there is no moral way to move forward. “I’m so sorry.” And I am.

Aw, play it, Mister Benbow!” somebody cried. The earth rolls relentlessly, and the sun blazes for ever on the earth, breeding, breeding. But why do you insist like the earth, music? Rolling and breeding, earth and sun for ever relentlessly. But why do you insist like the sun? Like the lips of women? Like the bodies of men, relentlessly? “Aw, play it, Mister Benbow!” But why do you insist, music? Who understands the earth? Do you, Mingo? Who understands the sun? Do you, Harriett? Does anybody know—among you high yallers, you jelly-beans, you pinks and pretty daddies, among you sealskin browns, smooth blacks, and chocolates-to-the-bone—does anybody know the answer? “Aw, play it, Benbow!” “It’s midnight. De clock is strikin’ twelve, an’ … ” “Aw, play it, Mister Benbow!

Reade drew a deep breath. He said with resignation, "All right. I'll try to explain. But it's rather difficult. You see, I've devoted my life to the problem of why certain men see visions. Men like Blake and Boehme and Thomas Traherne. A psychologist once suggested that it's a chemical in the bloodstream—the same sort of thing that makes a dipsomaniac see pink elephants. Now obviously, I can't accept this view. But I've spent a certain amount of time studying the action of drugs, and taken some of them myself. And it's become clear to me that what we call 'ordinary consciousness' is simply a special, limited case. . . But this is obvious after a single glass of whiskey. It causes a change in consciousness, a kind of deepening. In ordinary consciousness, we're mainly aware of the world around us and its problems. This is awfully difficult to explain. . ." Fisher said, "You're being very clear so far. Please go on." "Perhaps an analogy will help. In our ordinary state of consciousness, we look out from behind our eyes as a motorist looks from behind the windscreen of a car. The car is very small, and the world out there is very big. Now if I take a few glasses of whiskey, the world out there hasn't really changed, but the car seems to have grown bigger. When I look inside myself, there seem to be far greater spaces than I'm normally aware of. And if I take certain drugs, the car becomes vast, as vast as a cathedral. There are great, empty spaces. . . No, not empty. They're full of all kinds of things—of memories of my past life and millions of things I never thought I'd noticed. Do you see my point? Man deliberately limits his consciousness. It would frighten him if he were aware of these vast spaces of consciousness all the time. He stays sane by living in a narrow little consciousness that seems to be limited by the outside world. Because these spaces aren't just inhabited by memories. There seem to be strange, alien things, other minds. . ." As he said this, he saw Violet de Merville shudder. He said, laughing, "I'm not trying to be alarming. There's nothing fundamentally horrible about these spaces. One day we shall conquer them, as we shall conquer outer space. They're like a great jungle, full of wild creatures. We build a high wall around us for safety, but that doesn't mean we're afraid of the jungle. One day we shall build cities and streets in its spaces.

Leo! Scusi, Nonna." But he still managed to get a good, quiet curse or two out as he backed his way gingerly through the swinging door. "Here.I got it." Tina took the beer and glass from me. "Ya know them?" I nodded. "She looks like butter wouldn't melt.But her kid..." She pursed brilliantly pink lips. "All that and a bag of baked tofu chips?" I had to smile a little at the image. "No.He's not...He doesn't act like..." I wasn't entirely sure why I was defending him.He hadn't exactly been the Prince Charming of Dinner Orders. Come to think of it, I couldn't completely vouch for Alex Bainbridge being Prince Charming of Anything. Except my own little Villink fantasy. "Maybe." "Cute,though." "Yeah." "Yeah?" I have no idea what is was Tina saw in my face. Something. "Aw, sweetie." She sighed. "Want me to shake up Daddy's beer a little?" "No," I answered. "but thanks for the offer.

On Claud, though, the look is very cool.) For example, today she was wearing a neon green tank top under a white oversized man’s shirt and fuschia pink stirrup pants. The shirt was rolled at the sleeves and belted with a colorful woven belt. Claud finished the outfit with dangly ceramic-bead earrings she’d made herself in pottery class. She’s super artistic. She paints, sketches, draws, sculpts. You name it! Besides art and cool clothing, Claudia loves junk food. Her parents disapprove of Ho-Ho’s and Twinkies and stuff like that, so she hides them all over her room. You never know when you’re going to pick up a pillow and find a bag of potato chips or something behind it. The other thing she stashes away are her Nancy Drew books. Her parents don’t approve of those, either. They don’t think the mysteries are “intellectual” enough. Claudia couldn’t care less if the books are “intellectual.” One thing Claud is not interested in is school work. Although she can’t spell for anything, she’s definitely not dumb. She just doesn’t like school. And, unfortunately, her grades show it. She’s the complete

The cosmetics, the clothes, the hair, the shaved and lotioned skin, the anointing oils, the posture, the dazzling bright colors and pleasing patterns: these were all the lampshades we settle over our light hoping to cast a hue and color others will find acceptable. We hope we'll find it acceptable, too. But others don't even see that color, for they view us through their own lenses, filtering our already-filtered light in ways we can only guess. Nor do we see ourselves true, for we wear our own lenses, and sometimes the eye itself is dark, and how great the darkness! Kip had been so certain for so long that there was nothing he could do to make himself acceptable that he'd hidden his light altogether. The mirror had been an enemy who, overwhelming in his might, had simply needed to be avoided. But the mirror is ever a liar: when you yourself cut out half the light by which you see, how can the mirror be anything but? 'Let me see my skin, but with no pink tones.'...'Oh, how awfully pale and ugly I am.' We see others not as they are but as we see. We see ourselves not as we are but as we see-and as we are seen, for we each cast our light on each other, too. Surrounded by those who cast only brutal light, we see some truth, and sometimes necessary truth, but a lie if we think it all the truth. Kip had been shedding filters and lampshades for the last few years now. Being stripped of drafting was different, though. It not only changed his sight, but it changed the very light he cast into the world. It certainly was changing how people saw him.

The car ploughed uphill through the long squalid straggle of Tevershall, the blackened brick dwellings, the black slate roofs glistening their sharp edges, the mud black with coal-dust, the pavements wet and black. It was as if dismalness had soaked through and through everything. The utter negation of natural beauty, the utter negation of the gladness of life, the utter absence of the instinct for shapely beauty which every bird and beast has, the utter death of the human intuitive faculty was appalling. The stacks of soap in the grocers’ shops, the rhubarb and lemons in the green-grocers’! the awful hats in the milliners’! all went by ugly, ugly, ugly, followed by the plaster-and-gilt horror of the cinema with its wet picture announcements, “A Woman’s Love!”, and the new big Primitive chapel, primitive enough in its stark brick and big panes of greenish and raspberry glass in the windows. The Wesleyan chapel, higher up, was of blackened brick and stood behind iron railings and blackened shrubs. The Congregational chapel, which thought itself superior, was built of rusticated sandstone and had a steeple, but not a very high one. Just beyond were the new school buildings, expensive pink brick, and graveled playground inside iron railings, all very imposing, and mixing the suggestion of a chapel and a prison. Standard Five girls were having a singing lesson, just finishing the la-me-do-la exercises and beginning a “sweet children’s song.” Anything more unlike song, spontaneous song, would be impossible to imagine: a strange bawling yell that followed the outlines of a tune. It was not like savages: savages have subtle rhythms. It was not like animals: animals mean something when they yell. It was like nothing on earth, and it was called singing... What could possibly become of such a people, a people in whom the living intuitive faculty was dead as nails, and only queer mechanical yells and uncanny will power remained?

(I scream) 'Do you see my teardrops, that splash out of my blue eyes? Do you see everything I do? Do you see my brown hair that covers them and hides my true emotions in class? Do you even care? Do you feel what I felt right now? Can you feel my hurting insides? Nope, no one can feel that unless they exist!' 'Have you ever had to feel just like I do? Can you see my makeup mixing with my teardrops, as it all falls to the ground like my emotions, passions, and caring? If not you're just as heartless as them!' 'No one is born condemning another soul because of the sensuality of or skin or their background or their faith, it just seems that everything in my life is like trickling down my body, and away from me in every way imaginable.' 'As a result, the only thing I can do is get up and raise my hands to the heavens in the rain. While shouting the question- 'Why did you let this happen to me?' 'I hear that small voice in my head again it's a small whisper saying: 'End it! End it! As I was looking into the glow of the light of the envisioned angel of death.'' 'I have nothing but my split thoughts rushing in my head. Like a screaming bolt of lightning cracking in the sky above me.' ''Hum, should I just end it all?' I mean I'm only fourteen years old. Though there is not one person around here for me. Not one which is going to miss me at all.' 'I proceeded to that gloomy conclusion a long time ago. I would not be remembered. Would anyone remember me? Would anyone care? I should end it all right now?' 'I reminisce about me clutching my uniform, and how I would achieve my departure. The same awful uniform that I tugged, unsnapped, and ripped off myself, an hour ago, I see it over there like it's staring me down with a glint of evil.' 'Calling out as it's lying in the mud. I crawl over on my hands and knees, grabbing my minor skirt away from the button-down top, pulling the tie out of the collar. To do what must be fulfilled obeyed.' 'Holding the tie in my small hands. I pause and glance at my fingernails, which are painted lime green with pink straps, knowing this would be the last time I will.' ''Curse them all!' I say, will make the undone dark blue tie into a noose, looping, twisting, and coiling it through itself making it snugger around my neck.' 'Notwithstanding that pain is nothing like what they put me through. Just like chivalry is dead, just like everything I do is mainly felonies attached, by trying to live.' 'Notwithstanding that pain is nothing like what they put me through. Just like chivalry is dead, just like everything I do is mainly felonies attached, by trying to live.

Meanwhile back at the mailbox, the plot was thickening. The valentine pace was rapidly quickening. Still another valentine Awaited Brother there. It first caught the eye of small Sister Bear. It was flowery and pink and smelled of perfume. It increased Brother’s feeling of Valentine’s doom. It was even mushier than the one before. As far as he was concerned, this thing called “love” was a terrible, awful, sickening bore. “And as I said before in no uncertain terms, when it comes to mush, I would rather eat worms.

Ten minutes into the shift, the cheap polyester whites we all wore would be soaked through with sweat, clinging to chest and back. All the cooks' necks and wrists were pink and inflamed with awful heat rashes; the end-of-shift clothing change in the Room's fetid, septic locker-rooms was a gruesome panorama of dermatological curiosities. One saw boils, pimples, ingrown hair, rashes, buboes, lesions, and skin rot of a severity and variety you'd expect to see in some jungle backwater. And the smell of thirty not very fastidious cooks their sodden work boots and sneakers, armpits, cologne, fungal feet, rotten breath — and the ambient odor of moldering three-day-old uniforms, long-forgotten pilfered food stashes hidden in lockers to which the combination was unknown, all combined to form a noxious, penetrating cloud that followed you home, and made you smell as if you'd been rolling around in sheep guts.

Until we really behold the horror of the pit in which by nature we lie, we can never properly appreciate Christ's so-great salvation. In man's fallen condition we have the awful disease for which divine redemption is the only cure, and our estimation and valuation of the provisions of divine grace will necessarily be modified in proportion as we modify the need it was meant to meet.

The words "peace be multiplied" intimate that there are degrees of assurance concerning our standing with God,

This writer was once present at a service where a hymn was sung, the chorus of which ran, "Oh, how I love Jesus." But I could not conscientiously join in singing it. None in heaven are guilty of lauding themselves or magnifying their graces, nor should any Christians do so here upon earth.

Moreover he did it without saying a word to anyone, which is perhaps even more uncommon, and even the Saint did not hear about it until after the crime had been committed. “Next time you’re thinking of being rude to me,” said Peter Quentin, on that night of revelation, “please remember that you’re talking to a budding novelist whose work has been compared to Dumas, Tolstoy, Conan Doyle, and others.” Simon Templar choked over his highball. “Only pansies bud,” he said severely. “Novelists fester. Of course, it’s possible to be both.” “I mean it,” insisted Peter seriously. “I was keeping it quiet until I heard the verdict, and I had a letter from the publishers today.” There was no mistaking his earnestness, and the Saint regarded him with affectionate gloom. His vision of the future filled him with overwhelming pessimism. He had seen the fate of other young men—healthy, upright young men who had had a book published. He had seen them tread the downhill path of pink shirts, velvet coats, long hair, quill pens, cocktail parties, and beards, until finally they sank into the awful limbos of Bloomsbury and were no longer visible to the naked eye.

Those who defy Him, who break His laws, who have no concern for His glory, but who live their lives as though He existed not, must not suppose that, when at the last they shall cry to Him for mercy, He will alter His will, revoke His word, and rescind His awful threatenings. No, He has declared, “Therefore will I also deal in fury: Mine eye shall not spare, neither will I have pity: and though they cry in Mine ears with a loud voice, yet will I not hear them” (Eze 8:18). God will not deny Himself to gratify their lusts. God is holy, unchangingly so. Therefore God hates sin, eternally hates it. Hence the eternality of the punishment of all who die in their sins.

Unfortunately, I knew exactly what I was suffering from. LIPID (Last Idiot Person I Dated) syndrome: a largely undiagnosed but pervasive disease that afflicts single women. My roommates and I had come up with the term in college, to explain the baffling phenomenon of nostalgia for one’s most recent ex. No matter how absolutely awful that person had been at the time, after a few weeks, the relationship would take on a rosy tint, and wistful little phrases would begin to creep into conversation, like, “I know he cheated on me with three people at the same time, but he was such a fabulous dancer,” or “All right, so he was a raging alcoholic, but when he was sober he did such sweet things! Remember those flowers he bought for me that one time?” Inexplicable, but inevitable. A few weeks of singledom render even the most inexcusable ex charming in retrospect. Hence, LIPID syndrome. As everyone knows, lipids are fats, and fats are bad for you, and therefore ex-boyfriends must be avoided at all costs. This is what comes of having a bio major as a roommate for four years. The one sure way to fight off LIPID syndrome was to distract oneself. True, the only foolproof cure is a new relationship, thus knocking the LIPID back down the dating chain into harmless obscurity, but there are other, temporary diversions. Reading a novel, watching a movie, or delving into the private lives of historical characters. With an anticipatory

But did not the Lord Jesus tell His disciples, "Verily, verily, I say unto you, Whatsoever ye shall ask the Father in My name, He will give it you" (John 16:23)? He did; but this promise does not give praying souls carte blanche. These words of our Lord are in perfect accord with those of the apostle John "If we ask anything according to His will He heareth us." What is it to ask "in the name of Christ"? Surely it is very much more than a prayer formula, the mere concluding of our supplications with the words "in the name of Christ." To apply to God for anything in the name of Christ, it must needs be in keeping with what Christ is! To ask God in the name of Christ is as though Christ Himself were the suppliant. We can only ask God for what Christ would ask. To ask in the name of Christ, is therefore, to set aside our own wills, accepting God s!

You’re awfully quiet,” Mark observed. “I was just wondering,” I said. “Wondering if he’ll ever tell her.” Mark cocked his head to one side, his eyes on Elaine and Alex. “I doubt it,” he said after a moment. “Crawford strikes me as the true-blue type. Now that Jo O’Connor’s dead…” He let his voice trail off. “Pretty much what I was thinking,” I said. “Of course,” Mark said promptly, “if he knew that Jo was still alive…” “You never give up, do you?” I asked. He gave me his devil’s grin. “Nope. So whaddaya think, Calloway? Do I get that dance?” “Let’s see the cummerbund.” His expression blandly agreeable, Mark stood up. I laughed before I could help myself. Mark’s cummerbund was black with hot pink polka dots. “I believe I specified plaid,” I said. “Give me a break here, will you Calloway? I got the ugliest one I could find.” “You definitely did do that,” I said. I looked up, meeting his eyes. “One dance,” I said. “We’re supposed to be working, you know.” “One dance,” he agreed as the first dance ended and the crowd applauded. He held out a hand. I took it and let him ease me out onto the dance floor. The band settled into its first slow number and Mark London pulled me slowly but surely into his arms.

Was I brave? I hoped so. I gazed back at him, his thick ivory bracelets, the native-looking piece of bone on a leather thong around his neck, his shirt the colour of the sea when everyone wore khaki. He was such a character, really, but he was here. And I knew he wanted me. I had a split second to consider what I was doing before I reached for his cigarette and put it out against the pale-pink wall. He leaned into me, opening my mouth with his, his tongue smooth and hot. I didn’t think of resisting him or about anything else. One of his hands grazed the front of my blouse. The other slipped between my knees with a warm pressure I couldn’t help responding to. A hunger for touch, for this, seemed to be coming up from the bottom of me. Maybe it had always been there, sleeping like an animal. I had no idea. I ran my hand along his thigh, twisting into him, and pressed my lips and teeth against his neck. “You’re dangerous.” He whispered it. “You mean Jock?” “And you’re awfully young.” “Do you want to stop?” “No.” We

The severest self-denials and the most lavish gifts are of no value in God's esteem unless they are prompted by love.

One look at her this morning with her big, trusting jade-colored eyes, pouty pink lips, and messy golden hair and I was gone for. I didn’t just want to provide for her—a home, a safe place, a loving environment. No, me being the sick bastard I am, had other ideas. Safe in my bed, beneath me, with my dick deep inside her.

What if the real Minu was out there in the world somewhere? And here I was, trapped in this awful life I wasn’t supposed to be living.

While observing the methods employed by present-day "evangelists" and "personal workers," we are made to wonder what place the Holy Spirit has in their thoughts; certainly they entertain the most degrading conception of that miracle of grace which He performs when He moves a human heart to surrender truly unto the Lord Jesus. Alas, in these degenerate times few have any idea that saving faith is a miraculous thing. Instead, it is now almost universally supposed that saving faith is nothing more than an act of the human will, which any man is capable of performing: all that is needed is to bring before a sinner a few verses of Scripture which describe his lost condition, one or two which contain the word "believe," and then a little persuasion, for him to "accept Christ," and the thing is done. And the awful thing is that so very, very few see anything wrong with this—blind to the fact that such a process is only the Devil’s drug to lull thousands into a false peace. So many have been argued into believing that they are saved. In reality, their "faith" sprang from nothing better than a superficial process of logic. Some "personal worker" addresses a man who has no concern whatever for the glory of God and no realization of his terrible hostility against Him. Anxious to "win another soul to Christ," he pulls out his New Testament and reads to him 1 Timothy 1:15. The worker says, "You are a sinner," and his man assenting he is at-once informed, "Then that verse includes you." Next John 3:16, is read, and the question is asked, "Whom does the word ‘whosoever’ include?" The question is repeated until the poor victim answers, "You, me, and everybody." Then he is asked, "Will you believe it; believe that God loves you, that Christ died for you?" If the answer is "Yes," he is at once assured that he is now saved. Ah, my reader, if this is how you were "saved," then it was with "enticing words of man’s wisdom" and your "faith" stands only "in the wisdom of men" (1 Cor. 2:4, 5), and not in the power of God!

he opened his clothing and took out his hard, eager sex, and mounting her he let it rest against her thigh as he continued to stroke her and work her. She was twisting from one side to the other, her hands gathering up the soft sheets at her sides into knots, and it seemed her whole body grew pink, and the nipples of her breasts looked as hard as if they were tiny stones. He could not resist them. He bit at them with his teeth, playfully, not hurting her. He licked them with his tongue, and then he licked her sex, too, and as she struggled, and blushed and moaned beneath him, he mounted her, slowly. Again she arched her back. Her breasts were suffused with red. And as he drove his organ into her, he felt her shudder violently with unwilling pleasure. An awful cry was muffled by the hand over her mouth; she was shuddering so violently it seemed she all but lifted him on top of her. And then she lay still, moist, pink, with her eyes closed, breathing deeply as the tears flowed silently.

I got Jeremiah and me both Slurpees, half Coke and half cherry, a combination I had perfected over the years. When I got back to the car, I climbed in and handed Jeremiah his Slurpee. His whole face lit up. “Aw, thanks, Bells. What flavor did you get me?” “Drink it and see.” He took a long sip and nodded appreciatively. “Half Coke, half cherry, your specialty. Nice.” “Hey, remember that time—,” I started to say. “Yup,” he said. “My dad still doesn’t want anyone touching his blender.” I put my feet up on the dashboard and leaned back, sipping on my Slurpee. I thought to myself, Happiness is a Slurpee and a hot pink straw. From the back, Conrad said, irritably, “Where’s mine?” “I thought you were still asleep,” I said. “And you have to drink a Slurpee right away or it’ll melt, so… I didn’t see the point.” Conrad glared at me. “Well, at least let me have a sip.” “But you hate Slurpees.” Which was true. Conrad didn’t like sugary drinks, he never had. “I don’t care. I’m thirsty.” I handed him my cup and turned around and watched him drink. I was expecting him to make a face or something, but he just drank and handed it back. And then he said, “I thought your specialty was cocoa.” I stared at him. Did he really just say that? Did he remember? The way he looked back at me, one eyebrow raised, I knew he did. And this time, I was the one to look away. Because I remembered. I remembered everything.

All the famous people had had an awful time. One of them had had a drunken father. Another had a stammer. Another had to wash hundreds of dirty bottles. They had all had what was called a difficult childhood. Clearly you had to have one if you wanted to become famous.

Emotional extremes,” I clarify, trying to articulate who my sister was. “She couldn’t deal with the really awful stuff, or the really good stuff, if that makes sense. Like, one Christmas, Daddy and Momma got her the pink bike with the yellow basket that she was talking about for a whole year. She was ecstatic, Ace. I’m talking over-the-moon, pure joy, best-day-in-her-entire-life kind of happiness. And instead of jumping on the bike and riding it up and down the street, she spent all of Christmas Day sobbing in her bedroom.

SUGARBELLES Despite their name, the nectar from these pink flowers is anything but sweet. But sugarbelles have potent healing qualities that make their awful taste well worth utilizing.

against the walls of the machine. After being slid in, I began to feel the first tremors of panic. In an instant, my world had gotten a lot smaller and darker and weirder. It seemed inevitable that in moments I’d be squealing for someone to get me the hell out of there and flailing my limbs (though to little effect, because one can only move so much in an MRI scanner only fifty-five centimeters wide). But just as quickly as the panic came, it vanished upon being lulled into boredom by the groan of the scanner. After two hours, the technologist pulled me out pink-faced and squinty-eyed. I sat on the scanner bed for a moment, trying to reorient myself to real life. That was awful. I told myself that I’d never do another MRI session, but after she handed me $50, I found myself asking how to sign up for more. I also interviewed to become a tutor at an inner-city elementary school for a work-study program called America Reads. I showed up in my least-wrinkled dress shirt and a pair of slacks that I’d worn

Is that what other weres smell like to vampires?” I frowned. “I guess. They smelled like normal weres to me.” “But not like you,” Taylor said. “Your smell… you smell so good.” “You smell good to me too, baby,” I murmured, squeezing her hand lightly. I wanted to add that she smelled hot—like she was in need. All evening her scent had been driving me crazy—that warm feminine spice that let me know her pussy was wet and ready to be fucked—to be bred. But I held back—I wanted her to come to me, not the other way around. She blushed, her pale cheeks going pink. “Oh, I didn’t mean it like that. I just… I wonder why you smell and taste so different from other weres.” I shrugged. “Who knows? So you didn’t like that guy’s blood?” She made a face. “It was awful. Like tasting dirty motor oil and sweat mixed together.” “What’s mine like?” I asked curiously. She’d been drinking from me for almost a month but this was the first time we’d really had this conversation. Her face lit up. “It’s amazing. Like some kind of really rare, delicious liquor—it warms me up from the inside out. It’s kind of like drinking liquid sunshine.” I barked a laugh. “You’re making me think I should sell the stuff. If everybody liked it as much as you I’d be a millionaire inside a month.” “Don’t you dare,” she said with mock severity. “You’re mine—I don’t want anyone else drinking from you. Ever.” The possessiveness in her voice sent a thrill through me and made my cock even harder. God, I loved to hear her talk like that—like we belonged to each other. Like we would be together forever. “I’m all yours,” I promised her, squeezing her hand again. “As long as you remember you’re mine too.

Their springs, which is love. Far too little emphasis has been placed upon their Divine preface: “And God spake all these words, saying, I am the LORD thy God, which have brought thee out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage.” Whatever of awful grandeur and solemn majesty attended the promulgation of the Law, nevertheless it had its foundation in love, proceeding from God in the character of their gracious Redeemer as well as their righteous Lord, which of course embodied the all important principle that redemption carries in its bosom a conformity to the Divine order.

Dr. A. W. Pink observed that this command—to make the cake for Elijah first and then for her and her son—was one of the hardest commandments ever given. And, yet, for her to grant it was equally hard. It meant both of them going outside their comfort zones. Elijah wanted to confirm beyond all doubt that she was truly the widow God had chosen to supply his needs. He was gentle with her: “Don’t be afraid,” he said. In the process, then, Elijah put obstacles in her way in order to be sure. He might have

How completely grace sets aside every thought of personal desert, may be seen from a single quotation of Scripture: "Being justified freely by His grace" (Rom. 3:24). The word "freely" gives intensity to the term "grace," though the Greek does not convey the thought of abundance, but rather emphasizes its gratuitousness. The same word is rendered "without a cause" in John 15:25. There was nothing whatever in the Lord Jesus to deserve such vile treatment from the hands of His enemies, nothing whatever that He had done warranting such awful enmity on their part. In like manner, there is nothing whatever in any sinner to call forth the favorable regard of a holy God, nothing done by him to win His love; instead, everything to the contrary. Grace, then, is gratis, a free gift.