Bombshell Quotes

british bombshell" -grant

[Think] of an experience from your childhood. Something you remember clearly, something you can see, feel, maybe even smell, as if you were really there. After all you really were there at the time, weren't you? How else could you remember it? But here is the bombshell: you weren't there. Not a single atom that is in your body today was there when that event took place. Every bit of you has been replaced many times over (which is why you eat, of course). You are not even the same shape as you were then. The point is that you are like a cloud: something that persists over long periods, while simultaneously being in flux. Matter flows from place to place and momentarily comes together to be you. Whatever you are, therefore, you are not the stuff of which you are made. If that does not make the hair stand up on the back of your neck, read it again until it does, because it is important.

You can't go through life striking out at people who hurt or scare you. All that does is show them that you're weak. It tells them that they've wounded you, and a strong woman never shows her wounds unless it serves a purpose.

It seems ironic that while they continue their pleas for privacy, Prince Harry ‘breaches’ Royal Family’s privacy in his Bombshell memoir. That can undermine his own future right to privacy.

I plan to let Lysander rip the garment off me, make love to me in the dirtiest way possible, and then, while he’s trying to catch his breath, drop the big, bad bombshell on him and run like hell. Bianka to Kaia

The new acts' major influences were movies and their curvy queens Brigitte Bardot and Marilyn Monroe. With their big blonde hair, ample breasts, and highly fertile hips, these bombshells inspired women everywhere to exxagerate their own voluptuousness.

My world had been fading to gray until she burst in like a bombshell of color and light...

Sylvie's sort of pregnant. Well not sort of. She is. Pregnant. Actually pregnant with a baby.' 'Oh Dexter! Do you know the father? I'm kidding! Congratulations, Dex. God, aren't you meant to space your bombshells out a bit. Not just drop them all at once?' She held his face in both hands, looked at it. 'You're getting married?-' 'Yes' -'And you're going to be a father?' 'I know! Fuck me a father!' 'Is that allowed? I mean will they let you?' 'Apparently' 'I think it's wonderful. Fucking hell, Dexter, I turn my back for one minute...!' She hugged him once again her arms high round his neck. She felt drunk, full of affection and a certain sadness too, as if something was coming to an end. She wanted to say something along these lines, but thought it best to do this through a joke. 'Of course you've destroyed any chance I had of future happiness, but I'm delighted for you, really.

Mike Hawk!” Bennett practically yelled at me, dropping his hand. His eyes were red from laughing. “How am I supposed to keep it together over that? That’s like meeting a fucking unicorn.

You are magnificent beyond measure, perfect in your imperfections, and wonderfully made.

You might not be a bombshell, but you are definitely a bullet, possibly even a small grenade.

People pleasing doesn't allow you to receive.

If you are in a bad relationship with anyone else, it is because you are in a bad relationship with yourself.

The Sacred Bombshell knows that her creative feminine energy is a catalyst. She remembers her womb wisdom.

Most of us know that the media tell us our bodies are imperfect - too fat, to smelly, too wrinkled, or too soft. And, even though we may know it’s horseshit, these messages still seep into our brains and mess with our self-esteem. In a media-saturated country where most images of women and men have been photoshopped to perfection, it’s hard to find a living supermodel (much less a computer programmer), who doesn’t wish she had sexier earlobes or a tighter ass. So, buck up, even the prettiest bombshell has body insecurities. You can spend your life thinking your butt’s too big (or your cock’s too small) or feeling sexy as hell. Make the choice to appreciate your body as it is.

A man does not try to find out what is inside. He does not try to scratch the surface. If he did he might find something much more beautiful than the shape of a nose or the color of an eye.

You wanted fire? Sorry, Cheryl Bombshell, my specialty is ice.

You lose your moonbeam hair, your bombshell shape and your sexual appetite, I don’t give a fuck. ’Cause I love your soul better than I love anythin’ else and that includes the fan-fuckin-tastic package it comes in. You got me, Lou?

Beautiful things should not be kept behind glass, they should be used. Just as beautiful women should live fully and not let herself turn into a hothouse flower, pampered and useless.

Knowledge is always worth more than innocence. Or ignorance.

There’s no way a person could have this much diarrhea and survive.

They have me singing in a reformatory. My singing would be enough to get me in, but I'd never be able to sing my way out.

A woman in love with herself is magnetic.

Shhhh. Don't cry, Ronnie. Just tell me what we like, so I can remember. Because I lost my way, baby.

You want to know why I’ve never once been tempted to cheat on my wife when most guys wouldn’t think twice? Because I don’t want to. There ain’t nothing out there that’s better than what I’ve got at home. No one who could ever compare.

I can't wait for that one girl to come in and kick your feet from under you. You think you have things organized, sorted. [...] When that one girl comes along, I'm going to say I told you so, and give you no bloody sympathy when you've turned into a lovesick strop.

Because how she looked didn’t matter. How I treated her did.

Sincerity charged her every word like a bombshell that she launched in numbers amounting to a blitzkrieg he was powerless to withstand. She blew him all to pieces.

Friendships-in-God are not found by seeking friendship, but by seeking God. Those who draw closer to God find such friendships simply burst upon them. These bombshells of intense affection explode without warning in our lives. But they are good surprises.

Much to the confusion of small-minded people, confidence does not equate arrogance.

Do your best in the day, for the day, and then work on tomorrow when it comes. Show yourself grace and laugh at yourself.

I am still bullied occasionally. However, none of my current bullies really exist. They’re all in my head. Be your own best friend instead of your worst enemy.

Dishonoring what we feel is an epidemic that has us self-medicating as a culture and trying to numb ourselves.

We were taught to be good, and we were taught to be careful. But in this world, sometimes, I do not think we can be the two at once.

Forget the accent, I’m a fucking American citizen, you arseholes—I know my rights. If you’re going to start talking about getting violent, get a fucking cop or lawyer in here.

That's something you'll have to learn about humans. We love talking about what we'd do in another person's shoes.

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Kate was the ultimate bad influence. One-hundred percent sexy confidence wrapped in a blonde bombshell package.

He reached for her, his big hand cupping her cheek, his fingers sliding into her hair, scattering hairpins, threatening the quick work she’d done to put it to rights earlier. She didn’t care. Let them fall. Let them rust in the soil to be found two hundred years from now.

Mike Hawk!” Bennett practically yelled at me, dropping his hand. His eyes were red from laughing. “How am I supposed to keep it together over that? That’s like meeting a f***ing unicorn.

Americans want beauties, not me. I'm not the Parisian bombshell they expected. Can you see me as a chorus girl? Where's my feather up the ass? They think I'm sad, they're dumb. I don't connect to them.

But today, the AHA is saying something quite different. In their massive 2015 report Heart Disease and Stroke Statistics, they buried a bombshell in the text.8 It says that five huge randomized controlled trials have demonstrated that total fat consumption does not affect rates of coronary heart disease or stroke.

Why do women say "I'm sorry" so much? One of my favorite self-love sermons is this: Resist saying 'I'm sorry' so often. You are not "sorry." You are magnificent beyond measure, perfect in your imperfections, and wonderfully made.

Like my old mentor would always say, "Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice and I’ll be dead.’’ Okay, she wasn’t a good poet, but that lady could handle her whiskey.

Before you can decide on your brand fonts, colors or imagery, let alone your messaging, you need to know who you're trying to attract first.

I can’t wait for you to become Mr. Bennett Mills.

Customer service has everything to do with consistency, systems, training, and the habits you and your team create.

Exceptional customer service proactively manages your brand and reactively can turn upset customers into raving fans based on how you handled their complaint.

Creating a company culture is the first operational step in becoming a bold, brave fempreneur. It creates certainty, a road map and stability.

Men are ridiculous." "For wanting to keep you safe?" "For believing that you aren't the thing from which we are most in danger.

You're really beautiful, you know that, Tones?" "I was just thinking the same thing about you." We both smiled.   "What are two gorgeous bombshells like us doing out here in this fucked up forest full of messed up creatures, anyway?" I asked.

He was folding up his napkin, pushing back his plate, and I wondered how it was he spoke so casually, as thought the matter was of little consequence, a mere adjustment of plans. Whereas to me it was a bombshell, exploding in a thousand tiny fragments.

It was worth repeating, because it constituted the First Law of Sentient Ordnance: Thou shalt not blow up the wrong planet. On that point the programmers had been insistent to the point of fussiness. Accordingly,

Well. Um. The thing is…” I inhale, then continue with rapid-fire speed. “Imnotahockeyfan.” A wrinkle appears in his forehead. “What?” I repeat myself, slowly this time, with actual pauses between each word. “I’m not a hockey fan.” Then I hold my breath and await his reaction. He blinks. Blinks again. And again. His expression is a mixture of shock and horror. “You don’t like hockey?” I regretfully shake my head. “Not even a little bit?” Now I shrug. “I don’t mind it as background noise—” “Background noise?” “—but I won’t pay attention to it if it’s on.” I bite my lip. I’m already in this deep—might as well deliver the final blow. “I come from a football family.” “Football,” he says dully. “Yeah, my dad and I are huge Pats fans. And my grandfather was an offensive lineman for the Bears back in the day.” “Football.” He grabs his water and takes a deep swig, as if he needs to rehydrate after that bombshell. I smother a laugh. “I think it’s awesome that you’re so good at it, though. And congrats on the Frozen Four win.” Logan stares at me. “You couldn’t have told me this before I asked you out? What are we even doing here, Grace? I can never marry you now—it would be blasphemous.” His twitching lips make it clear that he’s joking, and the laughter I’ve been fighting spills over. “Hey, don’t go canceling the wedding just yet. The success rate for inter-sport marriages is a lot higher than you think. We could be a Pats-Bruins family.” I pause. “But no Celtics. I hate basketball.” “Well, at least we have that in common.” He shuffles closer and presses a kiss to my cheek. “It’s all right. We’ll work through this, gorgeous. Might need couples counseling at some point, but once I teach you to love hockey, it’ll be smooth sailing for us.” “You won’t succeed,” I warn him. “Ramona spent years trying to force me to like it. Didn’t work.” “She gave up too easily then. I, on the other hand, never give up

You ever been eaten out by a southern boy?” I had to think. There hadn’t been many, but no one from Los Angeles was from Los Angeles. “Southern England.” “Doesn’t count.” He hooked his fingers under my jeans and started peeling them off. “You’re in for a treat, sweetheart. Us southern boys eat pussy like pie. And I like pie.” Yes. Yes and yes. S’il vous plaît and thank you too.

I was pretty sure I looked like an idiot. Will and Henry continued to sip their drinks and pore over the menu, oblivious to the fact that I was sitting across from them, damn near giggling and randomly breaking into the widest, goofiest grins imaginable.

In his dream, George Stetchkin was in the dock at the Central Criminal Court, accused of the murder of nine million innocent brain cells. The usher was showing the jury the alleged murder weapon, an empty Bison Brand wodka bottle. Then the judge glared at him over the rims of his spectacles and sentenced him to the worst hangover of his life.

We drove in silence for a while. Then out of nowhere, Nancy quietly said, 'I'm going to die very soon. Before my twenty-first birthday. I won't live to be twenty-one. I'm never gonna be old. I don't ever want to be ugly and old. I'm an old lady now anyhow. I'm eighty. There's nothing left. I've already lived a whole lifetime. I'm going out. In a blaze of glory.' Then she was quiet. Her words just lay there like a bombshell. No one wanted to touch them. She hadn't issued a threat, simply made a flat statement. We all believed her. Even Sid. [...] 'I honestly can't understand her,' David [Nancy's brother] said as we drove home. 'She's dying. She knows it. Why won't she stop herself?' 'She doesn't want to,' Frank [Nancy's father] ]said sadly. 'She wants to die. She has for a long, long time. It's been her goal.' 'But why?' asked David. 'She hates being alive,' I said. 'She hates her pain. She hates herself. She wants to destroy herself.' 'Isn't there anything you guys can do?' asked David. 'Yes,' I said. 'What?' 'Watch her die.

Yeah, but will it hurt?”’ I asked. “This is science, Zach,” Randy said, reassuringly, as he tilted my head back and lowered the lens to my eye. “Of course it will hurt.

She now represents the Western United States, thus proving politics is even more accepting of the strange, unusual, and mostly useless than the music industry.

So, what you’re basically telling me is death is boring but no worse than hanging out with family.

Mama called us her fallen stars - we are not falling bombs.

...it's unsportsmanlike to engage in a battle of wits with anyone who is obviously unarmed.

There is a self-love solution for every challenge.

Understanding who isn’t your ideal customer sometimes helps you better clarify who is.

You’re in for a treat, sweetheart. Us southern boys eat pussy like pie. And I like pie.” Yes.

I suppose you think you’re one of these new, clever girls.

And wherever women held power, be it a throne, a club, or a labyrinth, there were men wishing to seize it.

Luke is my neighbor,” I said. “In case you’re wondering why he’s acting like an insane person right now.

Tell your story, and listen to someone else's.

And I hated her at that moment because she was so beautiful that it hurt to look at her. Like waking up in the morning to find the sun aimed straight at me when I wasn’t prepared for it.

Blonde movie stars in the 1950s seem to have been pretty much divided between breathy bombshells (Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield) and slim, elegant swans (Grace Kelly, Eva Marie Saint). Producers didn’t really know what to do with Judy Holliday, a brilliant, versatile actress who simply didn’t fit into any easy category. Though she left behind a handful of delightful films, one can’t help feeling a sense of waste that her gifts were not better handled by Hollywood (or, for that matter, by Broadway). Perhaps, like Lucille Ball, Judy Holliday would have blossomed with a really good sitcom; but, unlike Lucy, she never got one.

Sesily Talbot you court trouble. You disappoint me Mr Calhoun. I would have thought after what you witnessed tonight, I've no need to court trouble. ...And why is that? ...Haven't you noticed, American? I AM trouble.

Oh really?’ said Mayes raising a mocking eyebrow which put Rob in mind of a poor man’s Roger Moore. ‘And what on earth makes you think that you of all people would be allowed anywhere near our board meeting? Rob’s smile widened as he realised that he was about to have one of those golden bombshell moments of the type he’d been on the receiving end of all too frequently over the last few days. ‘Because Mr. Mayes, I’m your new chairman.

My point is this: times change and people change, but celebrities are not allowed to leave the box that we’ve been painted into. There are a few exceptions that everyone allows, like the sinner who becomes a saint—usually after having respectable children—or the sexpot who ages gracefully into a bombshell octogenarian, but for the most part, if the world says you’re a five-foot-one, petite, rosy-cheeked, lovable woman, you remain one for as long as you can.

You lose your moonbeam hair, your bombshell shape and your sexual appetite, I don’t give a fuck. ’Cause I love your soul better than I love anythin’ else and that includes the fan-fuckin-tastic package it comes in. You got me, Lou?” I couldn’t breathe because he held my breath, couldn’t think because he’d rewritten my thoughts into ones of his own making. He controlled me but only to love me, to make me understand how I could love myself better than I already did. Suddenly, I understood that I’d insulted him by being heartbroken about my hair. Of course, Z would never care if I were bald or pink-haired or blonde. “Sorry,” I whispered. He cupped his hands around my face and pressed a kiss to the tip of my nose. “Love you even when you don’t.

How do you know if someone loves herself? No hairstyle, religion, or ethnicity has ownership of self-love or a greater propensity toward self-hatred. The best way to tell if a woman loves herself is by how she treats herself and others. She makes self-loving choices.

Your mission statement, vision statement, core values, and service standards provide a clear focus for all while keeping your team humble and hungry. It creates that family environment in which your employees enjoy coming to work and dealing with the challenges they face each day.

Old Glory Knock ’em dead, big guy. Go in there guns blazing, buddy. You crushed at the show. No, it was a blowout. No, a massacre. Total overkill. We tore them a new one. My son’s a beast. A lady -killer. Straight shooter, he knocked her up. A bombshell blonde. You’ll blow them away. Let’s bag the broad. Let’s spit-roast the faggot. Let’s fuck his brains out. That girl’s a grenade. It was like Nam down there. I’d still slam it though. I’d smash it good. I’m cracking up. It’s hilarious. You truly murdered. You had me dying over here Bro, for real though, I’m dead.

Stupid Ape: I had to quantify this with the word “stupid” so as not to offend the ape community. Large of limb, impotent of intellect, he was the kind of guy who lettered in leg-breaking at thug school but flunked the written exam because he didn't know which end of the e-pencil to use.

And as the bombshells of my daily fears explode I try to trace them to my youth And then you had to bring up reincarnation Over a couple of beers the other night And now I'm serving time for mistakes Made by another in another lifetime How long till my soul gets it right Can any human being ever reach that kind of light I call on the resting soul of galileo King of night vision, king of insight ... But then again it feels like some sort of inspiration To let the next life off the hook But she'll say "look what I had to overcome from my last life I think I'll write a book

However, in 1930 (published in 1931), Godel produced his bombshell, which eventually showed that the formalists' dream was unattainable! He demonstrated that there could be no formal system F, whatever, that is both consistent (in a certain 'strong' sense that I shall describe in the next section) and complete-so long as F is taken to be powerful enough to contain a formulation of the statements of ordinary arithmetic together with standard logic. Thus, Godel's theorem would apply to systems F for which arithmetical statements such as Lagrange's theorem and Goldbach's conjecture, as described in 2.3, could be formulated as mathematical statements.

‘Foo Kyu’ is just a very unfortunate cultural coincidence." "Just think about his poor son, ‘Foo Kyu Two.’

You bastard, stop that whistling and fight me like a man!

Great Gates almighty,” HARV said inside my brain. “I go off-line for a few nanos and the whole world goes to DOS.

Carol, I thought you didn't liked playing with the minds of normal people.” “Yes, but the press don't count as normal.” “She’s got you there,” HARV added.

Forget it,” I said. “Opie could be bloodthirsty, rabid, radioactive, and selling life insurance and he’d still be preferable to listening to the two of you.

How bad is it?” “The story is only just now being reported, but let's put it this way,” HARV said. “The bag is now clearly catless, and there’s a very foul odor coming from the fan.

Ava was blessed with amazing beauty but was academically challenged. Angelina tried to give her a quick introduction to computers but was horrified at Ava’s lack of knowledge and complete failure to understand. Ava called the CD drawer the cup holder and honestly thought it was her holding her coffee or drink when typing. She thought the monitor was the telly and the mouse was the roller. She kept exiting programmes instead of closing documents and kept deleting items and forgetting to save things. Things happened Angelina’s computers that never happened before: programs failed to respond and the computer kept crashing. She typed e-mails and then printed them and put them in an envelope to post them, Angelina was speechless. She even killed a machine by constant abuse for the week. It just died the screen went blank and a message came up of fundamental hard drive failure, the monitor went black and the keyboard and mouse went dead and could not be restored. It went to the computer scrap yard, RIP. Angelina ran her out of the IT dept in their firm terrified she’d cause any more mayhem. She was the absolute blonde bombshell when it came to computers

You know nothing about me. You know nothing about the type of person I am. I’ll treat you with the respect you deserve as the team quarterback, but you sure as hell better do me the same courtesy as the team owner. I may still be getting my footing, but I bet I could make all sorts of trouble for you if you ever felt the need to remind me what women who look like me usually do or say in your obnoxious, golden boy presence.

No thanks,” I answered, “I never take rides from strangers, thugs who've tried to kill me or people with poor personal hygiene. Congratulations, by the way, for being the first person to qualify in all three categories.

I focused the power from my armor into my leg and kicked the door in. The metal and plastic fibers splintered and the hinges ripped free from the wall. “By the way, boss,” HARV said. “I believe that the door was unlocked.

I smiled, reached into my pockets and pulled out a pair of ultrapowerful earplugs, the kind that are standard issue for skyway construction workers, artillery soldiers, and roadies for the thirty-five most popular teen boy bands.

As a matter of fact, Ona spent more credits on the window shades alone than you will make in your entire lifetime and that’s if you live to be 185.” “And that’s meant to make me feel better?” I said. “No, that is meant to inform you. I am your computer not your nanny.

I can tell you that she's not breathing,” he said. “She has no heartbeat and all organ function and brain activity have stopped. Also her body temperature is now at seventy-three degrees.” “So you’re saying that she’s dead,” I said. “Well, I can't prove it, but, yes, I am leaning that way.

In 1994 another bombshell was dropped. Edward Witten of Princeton's Institute for Advanced Study and Paul Townsend of Cambridge University speculated that all five string theories were in fact the same theory-but only if we add an eleventh dimension. From the vantage point of the eleventh dimension, all five different theories collapsed into one! The theory was unique after all, but only if we ascended to the mountaintop of the eleventh dimension. In the eleventh dimension a new mathematical object can exist, called the membrane (e.g., like the surface of a sphere). Here was the amazing observation: if one dropped from eleven dimensions down to ten dimensions, all five string theories would emerge, starting from a single membrane. Hence all five string theories were just different ways of moving a membrane down from eleven to ten dimensions. (To visualize this, imagine a beach ball with a rubber band stretched around the equator. Imagine taking a pair of scissors and cutting the beach ball twice, once above and once below the rubber band, thereby lopping off the top and bottom of the beach ball. All that is left is the rubber band, a string. In the same way, if we curl up the eleventh dimension, all that is left of a membrane is its equator, which is the string. In fact, mathematically there are five ways in which this slicing can occur, leaving us with five different string theories in ten dimensions.)

Anyway,” Beau—clearly eager to change the subject—pointed down the hall, “let’s talk about the color Jethro decided to paint the second bedroom.” “What’s wrong with green?” Jethro grinned slyly. His poker face had always sucked. “Nothing is wrong with green, but that’s a very odd shade of green. What was it called again?” “Sweet pea,” Duane supplied flatly for his twin. “It was called sweet pea and I believe it was labeled as nursery paint.” “Nursery paint, huh? You have something to tell us, Jethro?” Beau teased, mirroring Jethro’s grin. “No news to share? No big bombshell to drop?” Jethro glanced at me. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell them yet.” “Why would I? I’m good at keeping secrets.” I shoved my hands in my pockets, making sure I looked innocent. “And I’m not the one who’s pregnant.” “I knew it!” Beau attacked Jethro, pulling him into a quick man-hug. Jethro’s grin widened to as large as I’ve ever seen it. “How could you possibly know?” Duane clapped Jethro on the back as soon as Beau released him. “Because you’ve always wanted kids, and weren’t one to futz around once you made up your mind.” “You should have painted it vomit green, to disguise all the baby vomit you’re going to have to deal with,” Beau suggested. “And shit brown,” Duane added. “Don’t forget about the shit.” “Y’all are the best.” Jethro placed his hands over his chest. “You warm my heart.” “Make sure the floor is waterproof.” Beau grabbed a beer and uncapped it. “Don’t tell me, to catch the vomit and poop?” “No,” Beau wagged his eyebrows, “because of all the crying you’re going to do when you can’t sleep through the night or make love to your woman anymore.” “Ah, yes. Infant-interuptus is a real condition. No cure for it either.” Duane nodded and it was a fairly good imitation of my somber nod. In fact, how he sounded was a fairly good imitation of me. You sound like Cletus.” Drew laughed, obviously catching on. Duane slid his eyes to mine and gave me a small smile. I lifted an eyebrow at my brother to disguise the fact that I thought his impression was funny. “Y’all need to lay off. Babies are the best. Think of all the cuddling. This is great news.

W turned on his heel and began walking toward the door at the far wall. And by walking I mean, of course, not moving at all, at least not to the naked eye, because his strides could only be measured in micrometers. His creaky legs made barely the tiniest of forward steps, so he’d taken four strides before I noticed any lateral movement at all. “I'll be right back.” “Geologically speaking, of course,” HARV said.

How I Got That Name Marilyn Chin an essay on assimilation I am Marilyn Mei Ling Chin Oh, how I love the resoluteness of that first person singular followed by that stalwart indicative of “be," without the uncertain i-n-g of “becoming.” Of course, the name had been changed somewhere between Angel Island and the sea, when my father the paperson in the late 1950s obsessed with a bombshell blond transliterated “Mei Ling” to “Marilyn.” And nobody dared question his initial impulse—for we all know lust drove men to greatness, not goodness, not decency. And there I was, a wayward pink baby, named after some tragic white woman swollen with gin and Nembutal. My mother couldn’t pronounce the “r.” She dubbed me “Numba one female offshoot” for brevity: henceforth, she will live and die in sublime ignorance, flanked by loving children and the “kitchen deity.” While my father dithers, a tomcat in Hong Kong trash— a gambler, a petty thug, who bought a chain of chopsuey joints in Piss River, Oregon, with bootlegged Gucci cash. Nobody dared question his integrity given his nice, devout daughters and his bright, industrious sons as if filial piety were the standard by which all earthly men are measured. * Oh, how trustworthy our daughters, how thrifty our sons! How we’ve managed to fool the experts in education, statistic and demography— We’re not very creative but not adverse to rote-learning. Indeed, they can use us. But the “Model Minority” is a tease. We know you are watching now, so we refuse to give you any! Oh, bamboo shoots, bamboo shoots! The further west we go, we’ll hit east; the deeper down we dig, we’ll find China. History has turned its stomach on a black polluted beach— where life doesn’t hinge on that red, red wheelbarrow, but whether or not our new lover in the final episode of “Santa Barbara” will lean over a scented candle and call us a “bitch.” Oh God, where have we gone wrong? We have no inner resources! * Then, one redolent spring morning the Great Patriarch Chin peered down from his kiosk in heaven and saw that his descendants were ugly. One had a squarish head and a nose without a bridge Another’s profile—long and knobbed as a gourd. A third, the sad, brutish one may never, never marry. And I, his least favorite— “not quite boiled, not quite cooked," a plump pomfret simmering in my juices— too listless to fight for my people’s destiny. “To kill without resistance is not slaughter” says the proverb. So, I wait for imminent death. The fact that this death is also metaphorical is testament to my lethargy. * So here lies Marilyn Mei Ling Chin, married once, twice to so-and-so, a Lee and a Wong, granddaughter of Jack “the patriarch” and the brooding Suilin Fong, daughter of the virtuous Yuet Kuen Wong and G.G. Chin the infamous, sister of a dozen, cousin of a million, survived by everbody and forgotten by all. She was neither black nor white, neither cherished nor vanquished, just another squatter in her own bamboo grove minding her poetry— when one day heaven was unmerciful, and a chasm opened where she stood. Like the jowls of a mighty white whale, or the jaws of a metaphysical Godzilla, it swallowed her whole. She did not flinch nor writhe, nor fret about the afterlife, but stayed! Solid as wood, happily a little gnawed, tattered, mesmerized by all that was lavished upon her and all that was taken away!

Nesta, it should not have come out as it did.' 'Did Cassian tell you that?' He'd gone to Feyre, rather than here? 'No, but I can guess as much. He didn't want to keep anything from you.' 'My issue isn't with Cassian.' Nesta levelled her stare at Amren. 'I trusted you to have my back.' 'I stopped having your back the moment you decided to use that loyalty as a shield against everyone else.' Nesta snarled, but Feyre stepped between them, hands raised. 'This conversation ends now. Nesta, go back to the House. Amren, you...' She hesitated, as if considering the wisdom of ordering Amren around. Feyre finished carefully, 'You stay here.' Nesta let out a low laugh. 'You are her High Lady. You don't need to cater to her. Not when she now has less power than any of you.' Feyre's eyes blazed. 'Amren is my friend, and has been a member of this court for centuries. I offer her respect.' 'Is it respect that she offers you?' Nesta spat. 'It is respect that your mate offers you?' Feyre went still. Amren warned, 'Don't you say one more fucking word, Nesta Archeron.' Feyre asked, 'What do you mean?' And Nesta didn't care. Couldn't think around the roaring. 'Have any of them told you, their respected High lady, that the babe in your womb will kill you?' Amren barked, 'Shut your mouth!' But her order was confirmation enough. Face paling, Feyre whispered again, 'What do you mean?' 'The wings,' Nesta seethed. 'The boy's Illyrian wings will get stuck in your Fae body during the labour, and it will kill you both.' Silence rippled through the room, the world. Feyre breathed, 'Madja just said that the labour would be risky. But the Bone Carver... The son he showed me didn't have wings.' Her voice broke. 'Did he only show me what I wanted to see.' 'I don't know,' Nesta said. 'But I do know that your mate ordered everyone not to inform you of the truth.' She turned to Amren. 'Did you all vote on that, too? Did you talk about her, judge her, and deem her unworthy of the truth? What was your vote, Amren? To let Feyre die in ignorance?' Before Amren could reply, Nesta turned back to her sister. 'Didn't you question why your precious, perfect Rhysand has been a moody bastard for weeks? Because he knows you will die. He knows, and yet he still didn't tell you.' Feyre began shaking. 'If I die...' Her gaze drifted to one of her tattooed arms. She lifted her head, eyes bright with tears as she asked Amren, 'You... all of you knew this?' Amren threw a withering glare in Nesta's direction, but said, 'We did not wish to alarm you. Fear can be as deadly as any physical threat.' 'Rhys knew?' Tears spilled down Feyre's cheeks, smearing the paint splattered there. 'About the threat to our lives?' She peered down at herself, at the tattooed hand cradling her abdomen. And Nesta knew then that she had not once in her life been loved by her mother as much as Feyre already loved the boy growing within her. It broke something in Nesta- broke that rage, that roaring- seeing those tears begin to fall, the fear crumpling Feyre's paint-smeared face. She had gone too far. She... Oh, gods. Amren said, 'I think it is best, girl, if you speak to Rhysand about this.' Nesta couldn't bear it- the pain and fear and love on Feyre's face as she caressed her stomach. Amren growled at Nesta, 'I hope you're content now.' Nesta didn't respond. Didn't know what to say or do with herself. She simply turned on her heel and ran from the apartment.