Brake Change Quotes

I don't know. Maybe we're all chaos theorists. Lovers of pattern and predictability, we're scared shitless of explosive change. But we're fascinated by it, too. Drawn to it. Travelers tap their brakes to ogle the mutilation and mangled metal on the side of the interstate, and the traffic backs up for miles. Hijacked planes crash into skyscrapers, breached levees drown a city, and CNN and the networks rush to the scene so that we can all sit in front of our TVs and feast on the footage. Stare, stunned, at the pandemonium--the devils let loose from their cages.

Being praised essentially means that one is receiving judgment from another person as 'good.' And the measure of what is good or bad about that act is that person's yardstick. If receiving praise is what one is after, one will have no choice but to adapt to that person's yardstick and put the brakes on one's own freedom.

If we're open to it, God can use even the smallest thing to change our lives... to change us. It might be a laughing child, car brakes that need fixing, a sale on pot roast, a cloudless sky, a trip to the woods to cut down a Christmas tree, a school teacher, a Dunhill Billiard pipe...or even a pair of shoes. Some people will never believe. They may feel that such things are too trivial, too simple, or too insignificant to forever change a life. But I believe. And I always will.

A red traffic light loomed, and Cecilia slammed her foot on the brake. The fact that Polly no longer wanted a pirate party was breathtakingly insignificant in comparison to that poor man (thirty!) crashing to the ground for the freedom that Cecilia took for granted, but right now, she couldn’t pause to honor his memory, because a last-minute change of party theme was unacceptable. That’s what happened when you had freedom. You lost your mind over a pirate party.

small changes at a lower level of organization can lead to emergent changes at a higher level. A typical example is the effect of that one truck driver’s braking response, in Hitler’s nearly fatal traffic accident of 1930, on the lives of a hundred million people who were killed or wounded in World War II.

Life is too short to be trying to change water into wine. The goal is to find someone who (already is) what you want.

I'm thinking the only way to show I've really changed is for that guy to be Justin." My foot hits the brake, and I swerve to avoid hitting the curb. Waving a hand at the pissed-off driver behind me, I shake my head and clutch the wheel with both fists. "Aly, you can do a hell of a lot better than Justin." Her voice pitches in confusion. "But I thought Justin was your friend." "He is." I take a breath and change lanes. "Which is how I know you can do a lot better.

When animals make a stupid mistake, you laugh at them. A cat misjudges a leap. A dog looks overly quizzical about a simple object. These are funny things. But when a person doesn’t understand something, if they miscalculate and hit the brakes too late, blame is assigned. They are stupid. They are wrong. Teachers and cops are there to sort it out, with a trail of paperwork to illustrate the stupidity. The faults. The evidence and incidents of these things. We have entire systems in place to help decide who is what. Sometimes the systems don’t work. Families spend their weekend afternoons at animal shelters, even when they’re not looking for a pet. They come to see the unwanted and unloved. The cats and dogs who don’t understand why they are these things. They are petted and combed, walked and fed, cooed over and kissed. Then they go back in their cages and sometimes tears are shed. Fuzzy faces peering through bars can be unbearable for many. Change the face to a human one and the reaction changes. The reason why is because people should know better. But our logic is skewed in this respect. A dog that bites is a dead dog. First day at the shelter and I already saw one put to sleep, which in itself is a misleading phrase. Sleep implies that you have the option of waking up. Once their bodies pass unconsciousness to something deeper where systems start to fail, they revolt a little bit, put up a fight on a molecular level. They kick. They cry. They don’t want to go. And this happens because their jaws closed over a human hand, ever so briefly. Maybe even just the once. But people, they get chances. They get the benefit of the doubt. Even though they have the higher logic functioning and they knew when they did it THEY KNEW it was a bad thing.

After all, it’s actually relatively easy to drive a Formula One car. Throttle, Green, Green, Amber. Change. Brake, turn the wheel, point it at a corner, accelerate. Simple. It’s like an arcade game. The challenge is doing it faster than everybody else without losing control. That is an entirely different level.

A woman ran at our car screaming, a few of the shadow people chasing her, but before I could even touch the brake she must have changed her mind, because she had already turned into a shadow person herself. It's like, ugh, run from the shadow people or become one. Make up your mind, lady!

This one truth, that the few people you adore will die, is plenty difficult to absorb. But on top of it, someone’s brakes fail, or someone pulls the trigger or snatches the kid, or someone deeply trusted succumbs to temptation, and everything falls apart. We are hurt beyond any reasonable chance of healing. We are haunted by our failures and mortality. And yet the world keeps on spinning, and in our grief, rage, and fear a few people keep on loving us and showing up. It’s all motion and stasis, change and stagnation. Awful stuff happens and beautiful stuff happens, and it’s all part of the big picture.

A plane change in space is not unlike trying to hit the offramp of a freeway covered in black ice. Brakes do nothing. Accelerating spins the wheels. Regardless of what we do, the car’s going to continue sliding on down the lane, but with the steering turned hard and a whole lot of gas, we’ll gain a little sideways motion.

Very softly, but very swiftly, Last, the man with the grey face and the staring eyes, bolted for his life, down and away from the White House. Once in the road, free from the fields and brakes, he changed his run into a walk, and he never paused or stopped, till he came with a gulp of relief into the ugly streets of the big industrial town. He made hi way to the station at once, and found that he was an hour too soon for the London express. So, there was plenty of time for breakfast; which consisted of brandy.

Being praised essentially means that one is receiving judgement from another person as ‘good’. And the measure of what is good or bad about that act is that person’s yardstick. If receiving praise is what one is after, one will have no choice but to adapt to that person’s yardstick and put the brakes on one’s own freedom. ‘Thank you’, on the other hand, rather than being judgement, is a clear expression of gratitude. When one hears words of gratitude, one knows that one has made a contribution to another person.

XXIV. And more than that - a furlong on - why, there! What bad use was that engine for, that wheel, Or brake, not wheel - that harrow fit to reel Men's bodies out like silk? With all the air Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel. XXV. Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood, Next a marsh it would seem, and now mere earth Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth, Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood Changes and off he goes!) within a rood - Bog, clay and rubble, sand, and stark black dearth. XXVI. Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim, Now patches where some leanness of the soil's Broke into moss, or substances like boils; Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils. XXVII. And just as far as ever from the end! Naught in the distance but the evening, naught To point my footstep further! At the thought, A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom friend, Sailed past, not best his wide wing dragon-penned That brushed my cap - perchance the guide I sought. XXVIII. For, looking up, aware I somehow grew, Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place All round to mountains - with such name to grace Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view. How thus they had surprised me - solve it, you! How to get from them was no clearer case. XXIX. Yet half I seemed to recognise some trick Of mischief happened to me, God knows when - In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then Progress this way. When, in the very nick Of giving up, one time more, came a click As when a trap shuts - you're inside the den. XXX. Burningly it came on me all at once, This was the place! those two hills on the right, Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight; While to the left a tall scalped mountain ... Dunce, Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce, After a life spent training for the sight! XXXI. What in the midst lay but the Tower itself? The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart, Built of brown stone, without a counterpart In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf He strikes on, only when the timbers start. XXXII. Not see? because of night perhaps? - why day Came back again for that! before it left The dying sunset kindled through a cleft: The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay, Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay, - Now stab and end the creature - to the heft!' XXXIII. Not hear? When noise was everywhere! it tolled Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears Of all the lost adventurers, my peers - How such a one was strong, and such was bold, And such was fortunate, yet each of old Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years. XXXIV. There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met To view the last of me, a living frame For one more picture! In a sheet of flame I saw them and I knew them all. And yet Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set, And blew. 'Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came.

Athletes know. Artists know. Parents, lovers, passionate people of all kinds know that there's always more-- more to draw on, more to be, become, if you believe there's more, or even if you act as if the more is there. Your mind can protect you from taking that too far when it's not working, when it needs a course correction, when you need a rest, some nourishment, some care. But sometimes the mind can just be a glaring stop sign, a trigger warning sign, a demon red light in your head. And then ... when the red light turns to green, stops flashing, just goes away ... the brake is released, the impelling force is set free, and speed happens, magic happens, floods of possibility rush forth to fruition, breaking through the light barrier the sound barrier the barriers of body, mind, and heart, the barriers of spirit and soul, the beliefs so deeply embedded they seem to be fundamental truths. They were taught that way. They were learned that way. They are not that way. It's the right time, in the right place. The light is about to change. Break through.

The two researchers collaborated on a pilot study.32 What they found was that loneliness reprogrammed a person’s genes in the same way that fear of being outed altered the genes of closeted men. Loneliness changes the immune system. Specifically, feeling isolated turns on genes for inflammation—which are the first responders to tissue damage or bacterial threats—and it puts the brakes on genes that stop inflammation

There is a moment when you just know it and can’t deny it. It’s simply the irrefutable truth, and now you have to change the situation because it’s no longer working for you. Maybe you come to the realization gradually, or maybe you come to it like a nearly missed red light when you stomp on the brake, and it’s right there, unmistakable. It’s the moment when you realize there is only one cool person in the relationship or dating thingy, and it’s not the other person.

Telling a depressed person things like “Pull yourself out of it” is cruel and may reinforce the feelings of worthlessness, guilt, and failure already present as symptoms of the illness. Telling a manic person, “Slow down and get hold of yourself” is simply wishful thinking; that person is like a tractor trailer careening down a mountain highway with no brakes. So the first challenge facing family and friends is to change the way they look at behaviors that might be symptoms of the illness—behaviors like not wanting to get out of bed, being irritable and short-tempered, being “hyper” and reckless or overly critical and pessimistic. Our first reaction to these sorts of behaviors and attitudes is to regard them as laziness, meanness, or immaturity and to be critical of them. In a person with bipolar disorder, criticism almost always makes things worse: it reinforces the depressed patient’s feelings of worthlessness and failure, and it alienates and angers the hypomanic or manic patient. This is a hard lesson to learn. Don’t always take behaviors and statements at face value. Learn to ask yourself, “Could this be a symptom?” before you react.

So each night I tear off the old day from the calendar, and screw it tight into a ball. I do this vindictively, while Betty and Clara are on their knees. I do not pray. I revenge myself upon the day. I wreak my spite upon its image. You are dead now, I say, school day, hated day. They have made all the days of June — this is the twenty-fifth — shiny and orderly, with gongs, with lessons, with orders to wash, to change, to work, to eat. We listen to missionaries from China. We drive off in brakes along the asphalt pavement, to attend concerts in halls. We are shown galleries and pictures.

Through all these times and formative young years, Lara, my sister, was a rock to me. My mother had suffered three miscarriages after having Lara, and eight years on she was convinced that she wasn’t going to be able to have more children. But Mum got pregnant, and she tells me she spent nine months in bed to make sure she didn’t miscarry. It worked. Mum saved me. The end result, though, was that she was probably pleased to get me out, and that Lara finally got herself a precious baby brother; or in effect, her own baby. So Lara ended up doing everything for me, and I adored her for it. While Mum was a busy working mother, helping my father in his constituency duties and beyond, Lara became my surrogate mum. She fed me almost every supper I ate--from when I was a baby up to about five years old. She changed my nappies, she taught me to speak, then to walk (which, with so much attention from her, of course happened ridiculously early). She taught me how to get dressed and to brush my teeth. In essence, she got me to do all the things that either she had been too scared to do herself or that just simply intrigued her, such as eating raw bacon or riding a tricycle down a steep hill with no brakes. I was the best rag doll of a baby brother that she could have ever dreamt of.

Keep in mind a distinction that is being imported into more and more scientific thinking, that between ‘complicated’ and ‘complex’. ‘Complicated’ means a whole set of simple things working together to produce some effect, like a clock or an automobile: each of the components – brakes, engine, body-shell, steering – contributes to what the car does by doing its own thing, pretty well. There are some interactions, to be sure. When the engine is turning fast, it has a gyroscopic effect that makes the steering behave differently, and the gearbox affects how fast the engine is going at a particular car speed. To see human development as a kind of car assembly process, with the successive genetic blueprints ‘defining’ each new bit as we add them, is to see us as only complicated. A car being driven, however, is a complex system: each action it takes helps determine future actions and is dependent upon previous actions. It changes the rules for itself as it goes. So does a garden. As plants grow, they take nutrients from the soil, and this affects what else can grow there later. But they also rot down, adding nutrients, providing habitat for insects, grubs, hedgehogs … A mature garden has a very different dynamic from that of a new plot on a housing estate. Similarly, we change our own rules as we develop.

When it passes us, the driver tips his cap our way, eying us as if he thinks we're up to no good-the kind of no good he might call the cops on. I wave to him and smile, wondering if I look as guilty as I feel. Better make this the quickest lesson in driving history. It's not like she needs to pass the state exam. If she can keep the car straight for ten seconds in a row, I've upheld my end of the deal. I turn off the ignition and look at her. "So, how are you and Toraf doing?" She cocks her head at me. "What does that have to do with driving?" Aside from delaying it? "Nothing," I say, shrugging. "Just wondering." She pulls down the visor and flips open the mirror. Using her index finger, she unsmudges the mascara Rachel put on her. "Not that it's your business, but we're fine. We were always fine." "He didn't seem to think so." She shoots me a look. "He can be oversensitive sometimes. I explained that to him." Oversensitive? No way. She's not getting off that easy. "He's a good kisser," I tell her, bracing myself. She turns in her seat, eyes narrowed to slits. "You might as well forget about that kiss, Emma. He's mine, and if you put your nasty Half-Breed lips on him again-" "Now who's being oversensitive?" I say, grinning. She does love him. "Switch places with me," she snarls. But I'm too happy for Toraf to return the animosity. Once she's in the driver's seat, her attitude changes. She bounces up and down like she's mattress shopping, getting so much air that she'd puncture the top if I hadn't put it down already. She reaches for the keys in the ignition. I grab her hand. "Nope. Buckle up first." It's almost cliché for her to roll her eyes now, but she does. When she's finished dramatizing the act of buckling her seat belt-complete with tugging on it to make sure it won't unclick-she turns to me in pouty expectation. I nod. She wrenches the key and the engine fires up. The distant look in her eyes makes me nervous. Or maybe it's the guilt swirling around in my stomach. Galen might not like this car, but it still feels like sacrilege to put the fate of a BMW in Rayna's novice hands. As she grips the gear stick so hard her knuckles turn white, I thank God this is an automatic. "D is for drive, right?" she says. "Yes. The right pedal is to go. The left pedal is to stop. You have to step on the left one to change into drive." "I know. I saw you do it." She mashes down on the brake, then throws us into drive. But we don't move. "Okay, now you'll want to step on the right pedal, which is the gas-" The tires start spinning-and so do we. Rayna stares at me wide-eyed and mouth ajar, which isn't a good thing since her hands are on the wheel. It occurs to me that she's screaming, but I can't hear her over my own screeching. The dust wall we've created whirls around us, blocking our view of the trees and the road and life as we knew it. "Take your foot off the right one!" I yell. We stop so hard my teeth feel rattled. "Are you trying to get us killed?" she howls, holding her hand to her cheek as if I've slapped her. Her eyes are wild and glassy; she just might cry. "Are you freaking kidding me? You're the one driving!

It was too much of a gear change back then in the half an hour desperately trying to put the brakes on my frantic overthinking only made things worse. So did the acute awareness that everyone else seem to be able to do something that I couldn’t. But in that moment in the scout hall with the sun streaming in, I touched a still, settled, vast, spacious, magnificent knowing at my core. It was only for a few delicate moments, but there was no going back. The scab was removed and the rawness - the “Something Else” I’d been looking for - was finally exposed. I call it the Something Else because there’s no other way of describing this yearning - this indescribable thing or place or energy I’d been looking for - that came before words. But now I’d touched it. And goddamn it I wanted to touch it again.

Kafuku had reached the conclusion that most female drivers fell into one of two categories: either they were a little too aggressive or a little too timid. Luckily—and we should all be grateful for this—the latter were far more common. Generally speaking, women were more cautious than men behind the wheel. Of course, that caution was nothing to complain about. Yet their driving style tended to irritate others on the road. Most of the aggressive women, on the other hand, seemed convinced they were great drivers. In most cases, they showed their timid sisters nothing but scorn, and were proud that they, at least, weren’t like that. They were oblivious to the gasps and slammed brakes that accompanied their sudden and daring lane changes, and to the less-than-complimentary words directed at them by their fellow drivers.

The learner’s beginning point, the basic level where everyone starts, is unconscious incompetence—that is, you’re ignorant and you don’t know it. The next level is conscious incompetence—now you know you don’t know. How do you find out? Usually somebody tells you, but occasionally you discover it for yourself. The third level is conscious competence—you have learned something, as when you first got the hang of driving a car, and you’re consciously aware of it as you do it. The final level is unconscious competence—you’re so competent you don’t even think about it anymore: You get in your car, turn the ignition key, release the brake, operate the gear shift, and go through a whole series of coordinated activities without ever thinking about them. In fact, most of your time driving is spent thinking about something other than driving.

Now the muted setting made sense: a neutral setting, soothing light, a book. The deep magic fed the beast within him. It took a monumental effort of will to restrain it. With the flare so close, Curran was a powder keg with a short fuse. I had to be careful not to light that fuse. Nobody outside the Pack, except for Andrea, knew I was here. He could kill me right now and they would never find my body. We shared a silence for a long moment. Magic blossomed, filling me with giddy energy. The short waves again. They would ebb in a minute, and then I’d be exhausted. Guilt gnawed at me. He could control himself in my presence, but I apparently couldn’t control myself in his. “Curran, up on the roof . . . That is, my brakes don’t work sometimes.” He leaned forward, suddenly animated. “Do I smell an apology?” “Yes. I said things I shouldn’t have. I regret saying them.” “Does this mean you’re throwing yourself at my feet?” “No. I pretty much meant that part. I just wish I could’ve put it in less offensive terms.” I glanced at him and saw a lion. He didn’t change, his face was still fully human, but there was something disturbingly lionlike in the way he sat, completely focused on me, as if ready to pounce. Stalking me without moving a muscle. The primordial urge to freeze shackled my limbs. I just sat there, unable to look away. A slow, lazy, carnivorous smile touched Curran’s lips. “Not only will you sleep with me, but you will say ‘please.’” I stared at him, shocked. The smile widened. “You will say ‘please’ before and ‘thank you’ after.” Nervous laughter bubbled up. “You’ve gone insane. All that peroxide in your hair finally did your brain in, Goldilocks.

The Soviet Union was the only nation involved in the Second World War to put women in the sky as fighter and bomber pilots, and what women they were! Products of the Soviet aviation drive of the 1930s, these young fliers were championed by Marina Raskova, the Amelia Earhart of the USSR. The day bombers and the fighter pilots (among the latter, Lilia Litviak, seen in cameo at the Engels training camp, was killed in an aerial dogfight during the war, but became history’s first female ace) eventually integrated with male personnel . . . but the night bombers remained all-female throughout their term of service and were fiercely proud of this fact. The ladies of the Forty-Sixth Taman Guards Night Bomber Aviation Regiment went to war in the outdated Polikarpov U-2, an open-cockpit cloth-and-plywood biplane, achingly slow and highly flammable, built without radio, parachute, or brakes. (It was redesignated the Po-2 after 1943; I was unable to pinpoint an exact date for the change, and continued to use the term U-2 for clarity.) The women flew winter and summer, anywhere from five to eighteen runs per night, relying on stimulants that destroyed their ability to rest once off-duty. They flew continuously under these conditions for three years, surviving on catnaps and camaraderie, developing the conveyor belt land-and-refuel routine that gave them a far more efficient record than comparable night bomber regiments. The women’s relentless efficiency waged ruthless psychological warfare on the Germans below, who thought their silent glide-down sounded like witches on broomsticks, and awarded them the nickname “die Nachthexen.” Such dedication took a toll: the regiment lost approximately 27 percent of its flying personnel to crashes and enemy fire. The Night Witches were also awarded a disproportionately higher percentage of Hero of the Soviet Union medals—the USSR’s highest decoration.

Everywhere power has to be seen in order to give the impression that it sees. But this is not the case. It doesn't see anything. It is like a woman walled up in a 'peepshow'. It is separated from society by a two-way mirror. And it turns slowly, undresses slowly, adopting the lewdest poses, little suspecting that the other is watching and masturbating in secret. The metro. A man gets on - by his glances, gestures and movements, he carves out a space for himself and protects it. From that space, he sets his actions to those of the neighbouring, approximate molecules. He becomes the centre of a physical pressure, sniffs out hostile vibrations and emanations, or friendly ones, on the verge of panic. He joins up with others out of fear. He innervates his whole body with a calculated indifference, wraps himself in a superficial reverie, created only to keep others at a distance. He deciphers nothing, protects himself from the crossfire of everyone's gazes and sets his own as a backhand down the line, staring at a particular face at the back of the carriage until the very lightness of his stare stirs the other in his sleep. When the train accelerates or brakes, all the bodies are thrown in the same direction, like the shoals of fish which change direction simultaneously. The marvellous underwater lethargy of the metro, the self-defence of the capillary systems, the cruel play of vague thoughts - all while waiting for the stop at Faidherbe-Chaligny. The crucial thing is not to have sweeping views of the future, but to know where to plant your primal scene. The danger for us is that we'll keep running up against the wall of the Revolution. For this is the source of our misery: our phobias, our prohibitions, our phantasies, our utopias are imbedded in the nineteenth century, where their foundations were laid down. We have to put an end to this historical coagulation. Beyond it, all is permitted. It will perhaps be the adventure of the end of the century to dissolve the wall of the Revolution and to plunge on beyond it, towards the marvels of form and spirit.

While Mum was a busy working mother, helping my father in his constituency duties and beyond, Lara became my surrogate mum. She fed me almost every supper I ate--from when I was a baby up to about five years old. She changed my nappies, she taught me to speak, then to walk (which, with so much attention from her, of course happened ridiculously early). She taught me how to get dressed and to brush my teeth. In essence, she got me to do all the things that either she had been too scared to do herself or that just simply intrigued her, such as eating raw bacon or riding a tricycle down a steep hill with no brakes. I was the best rag doll of a baby brother that she could have ever dreamt of. It is why we have always been so close. To her, I am still her little baby brother. And I love her for that. But--and this is the big but--growing up with Lara, there was never a moment’s peace. Even from day one, as a newborn babe in the hospital’s maternity ward, I was paraded around, shown off to anyone and everyone--I was my sister’s new “toy.” And it never stopped. It makes me smile now, but I am sure it is why in later life I craved the peace and solitude that mountains and the sea bring. I didn’t want to perform for anyone, I just wanted space to grow and find myself among all the madness. It took a while to understand where this love of the wild came from, but in truth it probably developed from the intimacy found with my father on the shores of Northern Ireland and the will to escape a loving but bossy elder sister. (God bless her!) I can joke about this nowadays with Lara, and through it all she still remains my closest ally and friend; but she is always the extrovert, wishing she could be on the stage or on the chat show couch, where I tend just to long for quiet times with my friends and family. In short, Lara would be much better at being famous than me. She sums it up well, I think: Until Bear was born I hated being the only child--I complained to Mum and Dad that I was lonely. It felt weird not having a brother or sister when all my friends had them. Bear’s arrival was so exciting (once I’d got over the disappointment of him being a boy, because I’d always wanted a sister!). But the moment I set eyes on him, crying his eyes out in his crib, I thought: That’s my baby. I’m going to look after him. I picked him up, he stopped crying, and from then until he got too big, I dragged him around everywhere.

After years of living in New York and feeling depressed about its state, I finally decided to stop feeling sorry and start feeling activated. Recently I made a concerted effort to get to know my neighbors. I made sure to say hi in the halls. I emailed them when I had a question. I started offering people in the subway help with their heavy items. I filed a petition with the city to determine if the building I live in is meant to be rent-stabilized. It's unclear what the result of that will be, but it made me feel more connected to the place where I live. I began attending meetings about gentrification. These weren't just things I thought of as good deeds, but a way to help reorient myself in the city. Separately they felt insignificant, but together they helped me see myself, and my city, as connected entities that are capable of changing each other. I've begun to appreciate New York more now, and so I am more willing to fight for it. The question I still have is whether it will ever be enough. Or will the city keep changing so fast that it will not matter how many individuals attempt to put the brakes on that change or dictate how and why change happens?

Language too is a brake upon social change.

Positive transformation will not occur unless all members of the learning community are engaged and willing to move forward with the necessary changes. The negative energy of one individual in an organization is powerful enough to put the brakes on any efforts to improve the program.

The world is entering a period of stagnation, the new mediocre. The end of growth and fragile, volatile economic conditions are now the sometimes silent background to all social and political debates... A confluence of influences is behind the ignominious end of an era of unprecedented economic expansion. Since the early 1980's, economic activity and growth has been increasingly driven by financialisation - the replacement of industrial activity with financial trading, and increased levels of borrowing to finance consumption and investment. By 2007, US$5 of new debt was necessary to create an additional US$1 of American economic activity, a fivefold increase from the 1950s.... Ever-increasing amounts of debt now act as a brake on growth. These financial problems are compounded by lower population growth and ageing populations; slower increases in productivity and innovation; looming shortages of critical resources, such as water, food and energy; and man-made climate change and extreme weather conditions. Slower growth in international trade and capital flows is another retardant. Emerging markets that have benefited from and, in recent times, supported growth are slowing. Rising inequality has an impact on economic activity.

Sometimes change doesn’t require more horsepower. Sometimes we just need to unlock the parking brake.

This book is about finding the parking brakes. Discovering the hidden barriers preventing change. Identifying the root or core issues that are thwarting action and learning how to mitigate them.

Giving up is when you hold yourself back because your partner is holding himself back, because he’s fearful or proud or resistant to change, or because she’s run out of hope and is simply hunkering down. Giving up is when you put the brakes on your longing for a healthier, more vital relationship because conventional wisdom says one person shouldn’t have to do “more.

Speaking to Ohio Democratic Women in Akron in February 1946, he contrasted a conservatism that was “putting the brakes on progress” with the progressivism of Roosevelt and Truman. “Laws and institutions must go hand-in-hand with the progress of the human mind.” He warned that Republicans were “settling ever deeper into the mold of conservatism.” Instead Gore wanted to look forward; his populism led him to be pro-worker, but he was ambivalent about labor unions, at least in the first decades of his federal legislative service.

It’s easier to like animals than people, and there’s a reason for that. When animals make a stupid mistake, you laugh at them. A cat misjudges a leap. A dog looks overly quizzical about a simple object. These are funny things. But when a person doesn’t understand something, if they miscalculate and hit the brakes too late, blame is assigned. They are stupid. They are wrong. Teachers and cops are there to sort it out, with a trail of paperwork to illustrate the stupidity. The faults. The evidence and incidents of these things. We have entire systems in place to help decide who is what. Sometimes the systems don’t work. Families spend their weekend afternoons at animal shelters, even when they’re not looking for a pet. They come to see the unwanted and unloved. The cats and dogs who don’t understand why they are these things. They are petted and combed, walked and fed, cooed over and kissed. Then they go back in their cages and sometimes tears are shed. Fuzzy faces peering through bars can be unbearable for many. Change the face to a human one and the reaction changes. The reason why is because people should know better. But our logic is skewed in this respect. A dog that bites is a dead dog. First day at the shelter and I already saw one put to sleep, which in itself is a misleading phrase. Sleep implies that you have the option of waking up. Once their bodies pass unconsciousness to something deeper where systems start to fail, they revolt a little bit, put up a fight on a molecular level. They kick. They cry. They don’t want to go. And this happens because their jaws closed over a human hand, ever so briefly. Maybe even just the once. But people, they get chances. They get the benefit of the doubt. Even though they have the higher logic functioning and they knew when they did it THEY KNEW it was a bad thing.

So to hack the system, what I need to be paying attention to is the stuff that’s hitting the brakes, because once those are off, the accelerator will take over. Is that what you’re saying?” “Yes. You’ve got it,” I said. “I think she wrote a list of stuff that hit her brakes—” “She did,” he said. “I’ve seen it. I didn’t know what to do with it, but now…” He stared at me for a moment, then shook his head and said, “This really changes everything. What this says is that the sexiest thing I can do isn’t some crazy erotic thing. The sexiest thing I can do is take away as many of the brakes as I can, which is… I mean, I can do that. Just… why did no one tell me this before?

5. Finally, when in doubt, go back to the beginning: What is it that I want when I want sex? What is it that I like? What activates my accelerator and what hits my brakes? Your answers are probably changing as your household, relationship, bodies, and internal experiences change. Keep talking to each other. If you can talk about another human’s bodily fluids, you can talk to each other about your sex life.

Gratitude isn’t just a fancy way to pat yourself on the back or feel smug about saying “thank you” to the barista who spelled your name wrong. Nope, it’s a full-on life upgrade that doesn’t require a subscription or Wi-Fi. It’s a mindset, a way to see life that makes even a cold cup of coffee feel like a small win. When we show gratitude, we’re not just hoarding all the good vibes; we’re actually tossing them back out into the world like confetti, starting a chain reaction of positive energy. But let’s be honest—when was the last time you truly asked yourself: What am I grateful for? And no, your Wi-Fi signal doesn’t count. Life’s a busy, chaotic mess. Between trying to remember your passwords, dodging traffic, and figuring out what’s for dinner (again), it’s no wonder we forget to appreciate the little things. That’s where gratitude comes in, giving us a chance to hit the brakes on our runaway thoughts and realize that, hey, maybe we do have it pretty good. That shift from “Ugh, my life is a series of unfortunate events” to “Wow, I have a roof over my head and socks without holes” can do wonders for your outlook. Gratitude is like the mental equivalent of putting on glasses—suddenly, everything comes into focus. It grounds you in the now, making you realize that even during your worst “can’t-even” moments, there are still little gems worth celebrating. Whether it’s your friend’s cheesy joke, your pet’s goofy antics, or the sheer joy of finding that one comfy spot on the couch, these snippets of life, when recognized, add up to a sense of well-being that no amount of scrolling through social media can match. The magic of practicing gratitude is that it turns “not enough” into “more than enough.” It’s like discovering you’ve been living in a treasure chest all along. And here’s the kicker: gratitude isn’t just about feeling warm and fuzzy; it’s also about spreading that warmth to others. Your good vibes become a beacon, making people wonder, “What’s their secret?” Spoiler: It’s not a miracle supplement. But let’s talk about giving back. What does it mean to share gratitude with the world? It’s not complicated. It’s about realizing that by being aware of what we’re thankful for, we create an atmosphere where appreciation becomes a thing. That sincere “thank you” you offer to the overworked delivery driver or the moment you pause to notice the sunset—those actions radiate positivity more than you know. Gratitude is the gift that keeps on giving, even when you’re not keeping tabs on it. If you want to research this more, Google is full of studies and numbers. But the real takeaway? Life experience shows us that gratitude is more than just a practice; it’s a game-changer. It shifts our focus to what we have, building mental resilience and helping us find peace and strength in the present. It’s a reminder that life’s value isn’t in towering achievements or shiny things but in the love, laughter, and moments that make us human.

My cousins come out of the house after changing their clothes.  They don’t get out of the house one by one, like you’d expect human beings to do.  Instead, they fight each other, pushing and shoving in the narrow space of the doorway and then burst out as if some brake inside their bodies has been released. 

The amygdala is the driving force (accelerator) of defensive responses and supporting physiological responses in the brain and body. The ventromedial prefrontal cortex (PFCVM) regulates (applies the brake to) the amygdala, thus adjusting the occurrence and intensity of defensive reactions as situations change. This mechanism is often impaired in people who suffer from problems with fear and anxiety (not because the amygdala is the source of feelings of fear or anxiety but because amygdala-dependent brain and body responses contribute ingredients that are assembled into a feeling of fear or anxiety).

by 2008 the arithmetic of climate change presented an almost unimaginable challenge. If the world were to stay within the range of carbon emissions that scientists deemed reasonable in order for atmospheric temperatures to remain tolerable through the mid-century, 80 percent of the fossil fuel industry’s reserves would have to stay unused in the ground. In other words, scientists estimated that the fossil fuel industry owned roughly five times more oil, gas, and coal than the planet could safely burn. If the government interfered with the “free market” in order to protect the planet, the potential losses for these companies were catastrophic. If, however, the carbon from these reserves were burned wantonly without the government applying any brakes, scientists predicted an intolerable rise in atmospheric temperatures, triggering potentially irreversible global damage to life on earth.

It had all started with a suggestion that was put forward in just within the inner circle. Liv had immediately seen the potential. She had explained to John and the others that it might be possible to bring about a change swiftly, a change that otherwise might take more than a generation. In the course of one night, they would start a revolution, mobilizing Swedes in a battle against the enemies who had wormed their way into the country and were in the process of braking down society. She had presented a logical argument, and the price had been deemed reasonable. A single bomb. Plaed in the middle of the Sture Gallery during rush hour. Afterwards, all evidence collected by the police would point to Muslim terrorists. . . People would be frightened, and their fear would make them angry. Then the Friends of Sweden would step forward, gently take them by the hand, and confirm their fears. They would tell the people what they needed to do in order to feel safe again. In order to live as Swedes.

Think of yourself as a ‘57 Chevy that just turned over two-hundred thousand miles. I know you love that car. It’s still got original equipment. You’ve changed the oil, lubed it and maintained it well all these years. Now it needs a valve job. Our bodies are like that car. Stuff wears out. You put it in the shop for a week, get the valves ground, a new set of brake pads and fan belts and you’re good to go for another hundred-thousand miles.

Throttle, Green, Green, Amber. Change. Brake, turn the wheel, point it at a corner, accelerate. Simple. It’s like an arcade game. The challenge is doing it faster than everybody else without losing control. That is an entirely different level.

Steps to change your tire: Find a safe place to pull over. Turn on your hazard lights. Put on your emergency brake. Get all your materials ready. Tire changing supplies should be in your trunk. Loosen the lug nuts. Jack the car off the ground. Remove lug nuts and tire. Place the spare tire on the car. Replace the lug nuts. Lower the car so that the tires just touch the ground. Tighten every other lug nut. Completely lower the vehicle. Tighten the lug nuts the rest of the way.

Listen to me Rey, they might have given you a car with brakes only. But if you want to be known as a legendary racer you must customize your car, change the double brakes for a very steamy speed pedal." "Yes, but I can get in trouble." "Listen if you want to be a legendary racer you don't drive with your customized car on the highway, you drive it on the protected map of your allies, away from the mainstream people in the private sector. We are those allies.

When I say that grief is a kind of learning, I don’t mean learning something easy. This is not like mastering a specific skill such as riding a bike, learning how to keep our balance and how to use the brakes. This type of learning is like traveling to an alien planet and learning that the air cannot be breathed, and therefore you need to remember to wear oxygen all the time. Or that the day has thirty-two hours, even though your body continues operating as though it has twenty-four. Grief changes the rules of the game, rules that you thought you knew and had been using until this point.

The second, published in 2013, is “The Hallmarks of Aging,” and enumerates nine changes which fit three criteria. First, they need to increase with age: if they don’t, how could they be causing aging? Second, accelerating a hallmark’s progress should accelerate aging, and, third, slowing one should improve it—these two criteria are an attempt to separate things which are merely associated with aging from things that are actually contributing to it. Finally, these hallmarks also come with suggested interventions which could slow or reverse their progression, thus slowing or reversing that aspect of aging, and hopefully putting the brakes on the process overall.

Behaviors are like bicycles. They can look different, but the core mechanisms are the same. Wheels. Brakes. Pedals.

Family is only the tribe in microcosm. Long ago Thoacdiens realized—since their business is information, and information is not static—that, technology aside, the prime source of their capital was the unbridled imagination of each individual in each successive generation. The family is not only an inefficient system, it is a cruel one. The whole object of the family is to repeat itself, to create the future in the image of the past. Consequently it is a very effective brake on change because it keeps all children within the boundaries of cultural tradition. In the family learning is a process of psychological brutality at the end of which a child knows nothing but what is permissible to the tribe. There is no future, and no joy in the family—only the long, agonized, destructive groan of the continual death of the past. Once in a while there is friendship, but that is the exception, not the rule.

MR Automotive is a family owned and operated auto repair and maintenance facility servicing the GTA since 2013. At our automotive shop we take great pride in the auto services and repairs we provide our clientele. We specialize in maintenance services, fluid changes, brake, power steering, transmission, brake repairs and alignments. At our shop we specialize in keeping your vehicle safe and reliable for you and your family.

Sometimes a request to pump the brakes comes from a legitimate need to give our nervous systems a chance to recalibrate and integrate all the new changes. And sometimes the ask to slow down is a strategy to postpone exposure to the discomfort of seeing our partner with other people.

If I went back in time and did everything over, I would just change lanes or cut the wheel or slam on the brakes and everything would still be okay.

The game had only two rules. The first was that every statement had to have at least two words in which the first letters were switched. “You’re not my little sister,” Shawn said. “You’re my sittle lister.” He pronounced the words lazily, blunting the t’s to d’s so that it sounded like “siddle lister.” The second rule was that every word that sounded like a number, or like it had a number in it, had to be changed so that the number was one higher. The word “to” for example, because it sounds like the number “two,” would become “three.” “Siddle Lister,” Shawn might say, “we should pay a-eleven-tion. There’s a checkpoint ahead and I can’t a-five-d a ticket. Time three put on your seatbelt.” When we tired of this, we’d turn on the CB and listen to the lonely banter of truckers stretched out across the interstate. “Look out for a green four-wheeler,” a gruff voice said, when we were somewhere between Sacramento and Portland. “Been picnicking in my blind spot for a half hour.” A four-wheeler, Shawn explained, is what big rigs call cars and pickups. Another voice came over the CB to complain about a red Ferrari that was weaving through traffic at 120 miles per hour. “Bastard damned near hit a little blue Chevy,” the deep voice bellowed through the static. “Shit, there’s kids in that Chevy. Anybody up ahead wanna cool this hothead down?” The voice gave its location. Shawn checked the mile marker. We were ahead. “I’m a white Pete pulling a fridge,” he said. There was silence while everybody checked their mirrors for a Peterbilt with a reefer. Then a third voice, gruffer than the first, answered: “I’m the blue KW hauling a dry box.” “I see you,” Shawn said, and for my benefit pointed to a navy-colored Kenworth a few cars ahead. When the Ferrari appeared, multiplied in our many mirrors, Shawn shifted into high gear, revving the engine and pulling beside the Kenworth so that the two fifty-foot trailers were running side by side, blocking both lanes. The Ferrari honked, weaved back and forth, braked, honked again. “How long should we keep him back there?” the husky voice said, with a deep laugh. “Until he calms down,” Shawn answered. Five miles later, they let him pass. The trip lasted about a week, then we told Tony to find us a load to Idaho. “Well, Siddle Lister,” Shawn said when we pulled into the junkyard, “back three work.” — THE WORM CREEK OPERA HOUSE announced a new play: Carousel. Shawn drove me to the audition, then surprised me by auditioning himself. Charles was also there, talking to a girl named

Let’s look at the backstory of the elements. The Ancient Greeks, among others, believed that the Earth was made up of the four elements: earth, air, fire, and water. Aristotle believed in a divine, but essentially dull and dormant cosmos. He imagined a two-tier, geocentric universe. The Earth, mutable and corruptible, was placed at the center. The sublunary sphere, essentially from the moon to the Earth, was subject to the transmutations of the four elements. This sphere alone was subject to the horrors of change, death, and decay.

The casting away of things is symbolic, you know. Talismanic. When you cast away things, you're also casting away the self-related others that are symbolically related to those things. You start a cleaning-out process. You begin to empty the vessel." Larry shook his head slowly. "I don't follow that." "Well, take an intelligent pre-plague man. Break his TV, and what does he do at night?" "Reads a book," Ralph said. "Goes to see his friends," Stu said. "Plays the stereo," Larry said, grinning. "Sure, all those things," Glen said. "But he's also missing that TV. There's a hole in his life where that TV used to be. In the back of his mind he's still thinking, At nine o'clock I'm going to pull a few beers and watch the Sox on the tube. And when he goes in there and sees that empty cabinet, he feels as disappointed as hell. A part of his accustomed life has been poured out, is it not so?" "Yeah," Ralph said. "Our TV went on the fritz once for two weeks and I didn't feel right until it was back." "It makes a bigger hole in his life if he watched a lot of TV, a smaller hole if he only used it a little bit. But something is gone. Now take away all his books, all his friends, and his stereo. Also remove all sustenance except what he can glean along the way. It's an emptying-out process and also a diminishing of the ego. Your selves, gentlemen--they are turning into a window-glass. Or better yet, empty tumblers." "But what's the point?" Ralph asked. "Why go through all the rigmarole?" Glen said, "If you read your Bible, you'll see that it was pretty traditional for these prophets to go out into the wilderness from time to time--Old Testament Magical Mystery Tours. The timespan given for these jaunts was usually forty days and forty nights, a Hebraic idiom that really means 'no one knows exactly how long he was gone, but it was quite a while.' Does that remind you of anyone?" "Sure. Mother," Ralph said. "Now think of yourself as a battery. You really are, you know. Your brain runs on chemically converted electrical current. For that matter, your muscles run on tiny charges, too--a chemical called acetylcholine allows the charge to pass when you need to move, and when you want to stop, another chemical, cholinesterase, is manufactured. Cholinesterase destroys acetylcholine, so your nerves become poor conductors again. Good thing, too. Otherwise, once you started scratching your nose, you'd never be able to stop. Okay, the point is this: Everything you think, everything you do, it all has to run off the battery. Like the accessories in a car." They were all listening closely. "Watching TV, reading books, talking with friends, eating a big dinner ... all of it runs off the battery. A normal life--at least in what used to be Western civilization--was like running a car with power windows, power brakes, power seats, all the goodies. But the more goodies you have, the less the battery can charge. True?" "Yeah," Ralph said. "Even a big Delco won't ever overcharge when it's sitting in a Cadillac." "Well, what we've done is to strip off the accessories. We're on charge." Ralph said uneasily: "If you put a car battery on charge for too long, she'll explode." "Yes," Glen agreed. "Same with people. The Bible tells us about Isaiah and Job and the others, but it doesn't say how many prophets came back from the wilderness with visions that had crisped their brains. I imagine there were some. But I have a healthy respect for human intelligence and the human psyche, in spite of an occasional throwback like East Texas here--" "Off my case, baldy," Stu growled. "Anyhow, the capacity of the human mind is a lot bigger than the biggest Delco battery. I think it can take a charge almost to infinity. In certain cases, perhaps beyond infinity." They walked in silence for a while, thinking this over. "Are we changing?" Stu asked quietly. "Yes," Glen answered. "Yes, I think we are.

The lovers, indeed, were wholly wrapped up in their fixed idea, and for them one thing only had changed. Whereas during those months of separation time had never gone quickly enough for their liking and they were always wanting to speed its flight, now that they were in sight of the town they would have liked to slow it down and hold each moment in suspense, once the brakes went on and the train was entering the station. For the sensation, confused perhaps, but none the less poignant for that, of all those days and weeks and months of life lost to their love made them vaguely feel they were entitled to some compensation; this present hour of joy should run at half the speed of those long hours of waiting.

Unknown to most Americans, nearly one-third of all vehicles on the road today (and 64 percent of the 2005 models) contain small chips and sensors known as event-data recorders (EDRs) that can retain up to 20 seconds of data prior to an accident. This information includes speed, braking, acceleration, and seat belt usage in cars.31

Do you have a driver's license?" "Of course," she said, not knowing if it was true or not. She was already sitting behind the steering wheel. He tossed her the keys and she turned the ignition as he climbed into the car. She pressed hard on the gas pedal and the car shrieked away from the curb. The back end fishtailed. She needed to get to school quickly and find some answers. She had a feeling that Catty wasn't going to last long in that place. The light turned yellow ahead of her. "Slow down!" Derek shouted as the car in front of them stopped for the light. She didn't let up. "You're going to rear-end it!" Derek cried, and his foot pressed the floor as if he were trying to work an invisible brake. She jerked the steering wheel, swerved smoothly around the car, and blasted through the intersection, ignoring the flurry of horns and screeching tires. Derek snapped his seat belt in place. "Why are you in such a hurry to get to school?" "Geometry test," she answered, and buzzed around two more cars. At the next junction she needed to make a left-hand turn, but the line of traffic waiting for the green arrow would delay her too long. She continued in her lane, and when she reached the intersection, she turned in front of the car with the right-of-way. Angry honks followed her as she blasted onto the next street. "We've got time, Tianna!" Derek yelled. "School doesn't start for another fifteen minutes." Would fifteen minutes give her enough time to get the answers she needed? She didn't think so. She pressed her foot harder on the accelerator. The school was at least a mile away, but if she ignored the next light and the next, then maybe she could get there with enough time to question Corrine. She didn't think her powers were strong enough to change the lights and she didn't want to chance endangering other drivers, but she was sure she could at least slow down the cross traffic. She concentrated on the cars zooming east and west on Beverly Boulevard in front of her without slowing her speed. "Tianna!" Derek yelled. "You've got a red light!" She squinted and stalled a Jaguar in the crosswalk. Cars honked impatiently behind the car, and when a Toyota tried to speed around it, she stopped it, too. She could feel the pressure building inside her as she made a Range Rover and a pick-up slide to a halt. She shot through the busy intersection against the light. Derek turned back. "You've got to be the luckiest person in the world.

In the early 1990s, a pair of physicists showed that below a critical density of cars on the highway, traffic flow is stable. Small disruptions—drivers tapping their brakes when squirrels run by—have no effect. Traffic engineers call that a smooth flow state. But above that threshold, traffic flow suddenly becomes unstable. Small disruptions grow exponentially. That’s a jammed flow state. The sudden change between smooth and jammed flow is a phase transition.

Our need is not for brakes to social change... -our lack of trained manpower and capital resources, and even our climate, act too effectively already

Thus, while demonstrating that authoritarianism is indeed the principal determinant of intolerance of difference worldwide, I also provide definitive evidence regarding what it is not. It is not a desire to preserve the status quo whatever that may be. It does not preclude support for social change, so long as we are changing together in pursuit of common goals. And it is not preference for laissez-faire economics. It does not necessitate opposition to government interventions that might serve to enhance oneness and sameness. As I noted at the close of Chapter 4, apart from confusing theory and confounding evidence for half a century, these common misconceptions create needless skepticism and resistance among those (quite reasonably) reluctant to accept that distaste for change implies distaste for other races, or that commitment to economic freedom somehow suggests an interest in moral regulation and political repression. This confusion --- among both scholars and political elites --- has significant political and social implications. It can drive those who are merely averse to change into unnatural and unnecessary political alliances with the hateful and intolerant, when they could be rallied behind tolerance and respect for difference under the right conditions. These conditions would include authoritative reminders of how privileged are those ideals in one's national tradition; reassurances regarding established brakes on the pace of change, and the settled rules of the game to which all will adhere; and confidence in the leaders and institutions managing social conflict, and regulating the extent and rate of social change. I find compelling indications that status quo conservatives, if properly understood and marshaled, can be a liberal democracy's strongest bulwark against the dangers posed by intolerant social movements. Those by nature averse to change should find the "shining path" to the "glorious future" far more frightening than exciting, and can be expected to defend faithfully any established order --- including one of institutionalized respect for difference and protection of individual freedom --- against "authoritarian revolution." (p.326--327)

It was the time of the change… no longer a little one, the time when, I was starting to see things happening, to me that I did not want to see. Like- passion pink braces on my unperfected overbite teeth along with ‘Pimples, periods, hips and boobs- oh my… I just want to cry or die.’ Moreover, I was utterly feeling all kinds of things that I didn’t want to feel. I was feeling too old for toys and wanted to feel up one of the older boys. I was an 8th grader, Yes, I was at that stage of my life… it feels strangely good and yet very weird too. ‘Oh yes- Live's through middle school all over again.’ All the days off. All the days on… all the days- I was turned off, to all of them. And yes, all the days, I was turned on! Yet, really can anyone stand to relive that day… I mean really! Let’s not forget I had to spend time with the family, on the brakes, then to come home and do all the pointless homework like advanced mathematics. When I got most of that crap done sitting in long study halls not able to move or say a sound, with period cramps, yeah- I know fun right! Kissing with open mouths, like breath sucking and tugs brushing Frenching. As well as thinking about what boy, I want to have sizzling, exhilarating, desiring sex with is all I thought about! Plus- when, where, and how! Yes, I have had some really bad kisses, make-outs, and hookups… who hasn’t? So much so, I barely survived through them the primary time it happened. Just like the world keeps going around, this was not my first go-around either. Frankly, I thought I would not have minded living through all that again. What I thought were the ultimate times of all. Like the time I made out with a girl in the hallway slammed upon her locker, she was touching me in all the right places, let us just say. Anyways her name is Jenny Stevenson. She is the type of girl that is a friend to try things with. Yes, I have been with a girl too. Mostly, I just wanted to see what being in a lesbian world feels like. It was okay, it feels just as good. Though, I knew boys were my thing. However, I am the type, I will try anything once, even sex-wise! Though I thought, my paramount triumphs were with Ray Raymond, and like when we first hooked up underneath the football stadium bleachers. I knew everyone could see us doing it with his pants down, and my bare butt sticking out and up, as the game was going on. Still, we were in the moment, we did not care. The PDA was half the fun of doing it, it was all about getting some. I remember being wasted too, with my friends like Jenny, Kenneth, and Madeline. Yet we just called her Maddie. Like- I said we got so drunk and high, that we went skinny dipping in like old man’s pool weather thirdly two degrees, and then made messed up looking snowman, and running around the street somewhat ass naked flashing whomever we would get to look at us.

In honor of the new-guy-cooks rule, I made breakfast for the crew on C shift. A Mexican egg skillet, my specialty. I was on probation—the probie. Even though I was five years into the job, I was only five shifts into this station. That meant I was the last one to sit down to eat and the first one to get up and do dishes. I was practically a servant. They had me cleaning toilets and changing sheets. All the grunt work. Sloan and Kristen opted to help me, and Brandon took pity on me, so they all stood in the kitchen wiping counters and scraping food off plates while I washed the dishes and Shawn and Javier played cribbage at the table. Kristen had glared all through the meal, but only when she didn’t think anyone was watching. It was kind of funny, actually. I kept ribbing her. From what I gathered through my prodding, she’d told everyone the shirt was her boyfriend’s. I wasn’t going to say anything. Brandon didn’t need to have the thunder stolen from his new truck by learning it had already been defiled, but I was drawing untold amounts of enjoyment from giving Kristen shit. And she didn’t take any of it lying down either. She matched me tit for tat. “So, Josh, you drive the fire truck, huh?” Kristen asked casually, wiping down the stove. “I do.” I smiled. “Are you any good at it? No problems stopping that thing when you need to?” She cocked her head. “Nope. As long as someone doesn’t slam on the brakes in front of me, I’m good.” Glare. Smirk. Repeat. And Sloan and Brandon were oblivious. It was the most fun I’d had in weeks. Sloan handed me the cutting board to wash. “You’ll be walking Kristen down the aisle at the wedding.” She smiled at her friend. “She’s my maid of honor.” “I hope you walk better than you drive,” Kristen mumbled under her breath.

There is a moment when you just know it and can’t deny it. It’s simply the irrefutable truth, and now you have to change the situation because it’s no longer working for you. Maybe you come to the realization gradually, or maybe you come to it like a nearly missed red light when you stomp on the brake, and it’s right there, unmistakable. It’s the moment when you realize there is only one cool person in the relationship or dating thingy, and it’s not the other person.

There is a moment when you just know it and can’t deny it. It’s simply the irrefutable truth, and now you have to change the situation because it’s no longer working for you. Maybe you come to the realization gradually, or maybe you come to it like a nearly missed red light when you stomp on the brake, and it’s right there, unmistakable. It’s the moment when you realize there is only one cool person in the relationship or dating thingy, and it’s not the other person.

Noether proved mathematically that equations will only exhibit this symmetry if they are associated with a quantity whose value does not change. In other words, for time translation symmetry to exist in the laws of mechanics, something must be conserved. That something is what we call energy. Noether’s theorem goes far beyond energy conservation. It shows that whenever equations contain a symmetry, some quantity must be conserved. For example, the laws of mechanics do not regard one location in space as being more special than any other. Billiard balls follow these laws irrespective of where in the universe they are. This means the laws of mechanics have a spatial symmetry as well as a temporal one. For this to happen, a quantity called momentum is conserved. This is linked to the idea of inertia—the familiar feeling of being thrown forward when the vehicle you’re in brakes suddenly. Put another way, this happens to ensure the laws of mechanics are the same everywhere in the universe. Other conserved quantities linked to symmetries include angular momentum and electrical charge.

As you finish your training, the "Push to Stop" automated braking system may bring the bike to a halt promptly, preventing harm. These indoor bike caged pedals protect your foot from slipping as you work out. You may move the equipment with the help of the front transportation wheels. The triangular construction is highly loaded for stability and strength, and it can support up to 100kg of user weight. With the tension adjustment, you may change the intensity of your workout.

Seventeen years. Seventeen years since I pressed replay on my soul. Seventeen years of tears and ecstasies, lessons and experiences, dreams, disappointments, reality checks, and missed opportunities. Seventeen years of life. I have fallen in love with love, fell out of it, been repulsed by it, and fell back into it. Traveled the world, cultured my ignorant woes. Cruised to success, made wrong turns, slammed on my brakes, and speed to my temporary finish line. I have overflowed with rage and injustice, coping with my demons by burying my sorrows in worlds made of prose. I’ve created art from the lessons within those worlds and have laid my creations to rest. Learned the past is as terrifying as the future, but the future shines bright fore it can hold change in its’ palms. It’s been seventeen years since I pressed replay on my soul. Seventeen years full of guidance, love, heartbreak, joy, connections, and I still have a lifetime to fare.

If we are not able to say no in the first place, we’ve set ourselves up for failure and burnout. When we allow ourselves to use that brake and say no, we can slow down, stop, and when needed, change directions. We no longer need to turn to food for relief because we feel more in control of our lives.

Jeremy George Lake Charles The Fast Track C3 Corvette chassis is the ultimate aftermarket chassis for the Corvette 68-82. The development team at Art Morrison Enterprises worked with leading manufacturers to develop the latest addition to the Ames series of GT-Sport bolt-on chassis for C2 applications. In order to simplify assembly, the C3 chassis has been designed to use the factory mounting points for bumpers, core and support bearings. Jeremy George Lake Charles We offer a C-4 conversion, which includes a tailor-made front frame section that accepts crossbeams from 1984-96. Viper Super 44 / 9 QuickChange IRS diffusers are mounted on custom axles. If you move the 500-pound V-8 engine 75 feet to the rear and the 300-pound automatic transmission 28 feet to the rear, you get a Corvette with a different weight distribution. Jeremy George Lake Charles The bearings, in turn, improve acceleration and traction by shortening the braking distance, and all four tires are able to do their share of braking performance.

I'll say this for Captain Deladrier: they don't make any better pilots. A rendezvous, boat to ship in orbit, is precisely calculated. I don't know how, but it is, and you don't change it. You can't. Only she did. She saw in her scope that the boat had failed to blast on time; she braked back, picked up speed again--and matched and took us in, just by eyes and touch, no time to compute it. If the Almighty ever needs an assistant to keep the stars in their courses, I know where he can look.