Awful Senior Quotes

He was one of the lucky ones. He would follow operational orders, but he spoke out if he believed a senior officer was wrong in a moral sense. At a number of points his career might have been truncated because a senior considered him an impertinent malcontent.

As an associate at McKinsey & Company, my first assignment was on a team that consisted of a male senior engagement manager (SEM) and two other male associates, Abe Wu and Derek Holley. When the SEM wanted to talk to Abe or Derek, he would walk over to their desks. When he wanted to talk to me, he would sit at his desk and shout, "Sandberg, get over here!" with the tone one might use to call a child or, even worse, a dog. It made me cringe every time. I never said anything, but one day Abe and Derek started calling each other "Sandberg" in that same loud voice. The self-absorbed SEM never seemed to notice. They kept it up. When having too many Sandbergs got confusing, they decided we needed to differentiate. Abe started calling himself "Asian Sandberg," Derek dubbed himself "good-looking Sandberg," and I became "Sandberg Sandberg." My colleagues turned an awful situation into one where I felt protected. They stood up for me and made me laugh. They were the best mentors I could have had.

But here’s the thing,” says Paul. “I would bet that if someone did a study and asked, ‘Okay, your kid’s three, rank these aspects of your life in terms of enjoyment,’ and then, five years later, asked, ‘Tell me what your life was like when your kid was three,’ you’d have totally different responses.”   WITH THIS SIMPLE OBSERVATION, Paul has stumbled onto one of the biggest paradoxes in the research on human affect: we enshrine things in memory very differently from how we experience them in real time. The psychologist Daniel Kahneman has coined a couple of terms to make the distinction. He talks about the “experiencing self” versus the “remembering self.” The experiencing self is the self who moves through the world and should therefore, at least in theory, be more likely to control our daily life choices. But that’s not how it works out. Rather, it is the remembering self who plays a far more influential role in our lives, particularly when we make decisions or plan for the future, and this fact is made doubly strange when one considers that the remembering self is far more prone to error: our memories are idiosyncratic, selective, and subject to a rangy host of biases. We tend to believe that how an episode ended was how it felt as a whole (so that, alas, the entire experience of a movie, a vacation, or even a twenty-year marriage can be deformed by a bad ending, forever recalled as an awful experience rather than an enjoyable one until it turned sour). We remember milestones and significant changes more vividly than banal things we do more frequently.

Do you want to do this thing? Sit down and do it. Are you not writing? Keep sitting there. Does it not feel right? Keep sitting there. Think of yourself as a monk walking the path to enlightenment. Think of yourself as a high school senior wanting to be a neurosurgeon. Is it possible? Yes. Is there some shortcut? Not one I’ve found. Writing is a miserable, awful business. Stay with it. It is better than anything in the world. (

There comes a point in one's life where the people whom we grew up admiring begin to die, leaving a great chasm in the world. This is awful enough to deal with without having anything so annoying as feelings getting in the way of personal equanimity. And then, possibly even more horribly, there comes a time in one's life when the people whom we grew up with or the people who are in our same age group begin to die. I have had the disagreeable business of having to watch colleagues only a few years my senior perish without warning, though premonition would not soften the blow. I am now realizing that I am entering this time, the dreadful gateway of existence, the one that leads to watching the ebb and flow of time, the great rote and sussuration of life and death, and being able to do nothing but welter in misery and pine over the dregs of hideous mortality. Death is an unaccountable business, one that robs the living of the peace we believe to be --perhaps mistakenly-- our birthright, one which asks the living to pay for the departed in the currency of feelings, leaving us to wallow in emotional debt. There is a loneliness about behind left behind as is there a thrill of horror for what lies beyond. The sum total of living is to sacrifice peace in favour of finding it, which makes little sense at all. I often wonder if the dead know we grieve for them, as the penury of pity only disconcerts ourselves. It is poor comfort, the business of mourning, for what is there really to mourn about excepting our own desire for reconciliation, something which no one, not even the dead, can furnish?

In the Westerville, Ohio, school district, for example, a union contract provision stipulated that a coin flip would be used to determine seniority if two teachers were hired on the same day. One might be a great teacher, the other awful; it makes no difference. That is how much importance unions place on teacher quality.

Of course, some young people dislike the conformity and yearn for a sense of choice and exploration. One college senior at Princeton remarked to me, “Once you’re here, you become awfully risk-averse. It’s more about not failing than doing anything in particular.” Another said, “I’m so busy here. I’d love some time to think,” as if thinking and college didn’t belong in the same sentence.

I can’t stand Martin in PR. He says things like, “Let’s action that” in meetings, and clicks his fingers at Ruby, who is a marketing exec, but who Martin seems to think is his personal assistant. He’s only twenty-three but has decided it will further his merciless pursuit of seniority if he can seem older than he is, so he always puts on this awful jocular voice and tries to talk to our managing director about golf.

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.

Anise Dinos.” “What?” “Anise Dinos,” Hadjar repeated. “That’s the name of the former senior heiress of the Predatory Blades clan.” “What about her?” Orune chewed on a bone. “Did she refuse to fuck you and now you’re suffering? Or did she fuck you so well that you can’t forget it?” Hadjar smiled. Now that he’d gotten used to it, Orune’s rudeness was somewhat pleasant, like a cold shower after a hard day’s work. It brought him back to reality, which was sometimes as crude as the great swordsman himself. “Neither.” Orune froze for a moment with the bone between his teeth. “Do you prefer boys?” “I don’t.” “How can it be neither, then? Look, I have a New Creek Pill if you need it… Hadjar choked on his food. A New Creek Pill was worth a dozen of the Leafy Peace Pills, because a New Creek Pill couldn’t be recreated by any alchemist in the seven Empires. They could only be bought in the Dragon Lands, which meant that ordinary citizens believed they could only be found in ancient tombs. It was rumored that a New Creek Pill was able to regrow the lost limbs of cultivators, even ones at the Nameless level. “Thank you, but I still have all my… appendages.” “Great!” Orune exhaled in relief. “A eunuch disciple would’ve been awfully embarrassing. My forefathers would’ve laughed at me!

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(Back to our halls) Like a dumb ass I went to college, (assuming I pass all my boards. Senior year is almost over, and the calculation is the final test I will take. For the past four months, I’ve had all my various board exams-math, science, oral magic, and written proficiency, sociology and psychology, and photography (a specialty elective)-and I must be getting my scores one-time in the next few weeks ago it was not long ago or so it seems to me. Solitary of them will become my husband after I graduate, girls who don’t pass get paired and married right out of high school.) The evaluators will do their best to match me with people who received a similar score in the evaluations. As much as possible they try to avoid any huge disparities in intelligence, temperament, social background, and age. Of development you do hear occasional horror stories: cases, where a poor seventeen-year-old girl is given to a wealthy old man, is the delirium dream, which is dumb, dumb, dumb. The stairs let out their awful moaning, Jenny, appears before me. She is nine and tall for her age, but very thin: all angles and elbows, her chest caving in like a warped sheet pan. It’s terrible to say, but I don’t like her very much. She has the same pinched look as her mother did. The assessment is the last step, so I can get paired, paid, and laid, in the coming months, the evaluators will send me a list of four or five approved matches.

there wasn't enough room on the narrow trail to go around them: to his left was the sheer rock wall of the escarpment; to his right the abyss of the ravine. If he plowed into the senior citizens at that speed, he'd kill them for sure. But if he veered off the trail, he'd fly down the ravine and kill himself. The women saw him—he tried to wave them off the trail—but they stood frozen in place, like deer caught in headlights, terrified at the bike and rider hurtling at them at high speed. One screamed. She looked like his mother. Andy said, "Aw, shit," cut the handlebars hard to the right just a split second before impact, and rode straight off the trail—and the Earth. He caught big air. He was now flying through the blue sky and enjoying an incredible panoramic view