Buddies Change Quotes

Breakups hurt like a motherf*#ker, but they are not the end of the world. The pain is temporary, and if handled properly, they can even be life-changing.

So many of us find ourselves saying, “but he was so great!” Yes, and the people who got on the Titanic thought they were going on vacation. Things changed and it’s important to remember that they did.

I'm never going to get married." "You're crazy." Buddy brightened. "You'll change your mind." "No. My mind's made up.

And then I wondered if as soon as he came to like me he would sink into ordinariness, and if as soon as he came to love me I would find fault after fault, the way I did with Buddy Willard and the boys before him. The same thing happened over and over: I would catch sight of some flawless man off in the distance, but as soon as he moved closer I immediately saw he wouldn't do at all. That's one of the reasons I never wanted to get married. The last thing I wanted was infinite security and to be the place an arrow shoots off from. I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.

I've been wondering. . . I mean, I thought you might be able to tell me something." Buddy met my eyes and I saw, for the first time, how he had changed. Instead of the old, sure smile that flashed on easily and frequently as a photographer's bulb, his face was grave, even tentative -- the face of a man who often does not get what he wants.

Would I ever have the courage to tell Wills the truth? That he wasn't just imagining the world was a more difficult place for him to understand than for some of his buddies - that it was, in fact, more difficult for him. That he'd been dealt a rotten hand in that regard, but only in that one regard. Because I wouldn't change one freckle, one misunderstood moment, one tiny piece of him for anything in the world. I would change myself. I would change the things other people said or thought out of ignorance or fear. I would change so many things, but I would absolutely never, in a million years, change him.

When things change, even radically, you look at your buddies, shake your head, shrug, and adapt. That's what you do, as soldiers. Civilians get upset when the menu changes at Applebees.

God, kid. I can’t decide if I hate or love what a square you are.” Pete grinned for the first time. “Better love it, because it’s not changing, buddy.” This was the moment they became friends.

In addition to trainers and buddies, we have an additional support system on which I have relied, Jesus Christ. When the changes we make are anchored in the will of God and when our love for God becomes the driving force in our lives, we discover the ultimate trainer is with us, cheering us on.

I’ve watched it time and time again—a woman always slots into a man’s life better than he slots into hers. She will be the one who spends the most time at his flat, she will be the one who makes friends with all his friends and their girlfriends. She will be the one who sends his mother a bunch of flowers on her birthday. Women don’t like this rigmarole any more than men do, but they’re better at it—they just get on with it. This means that when a woman my age falls in love with a man, the list of priorities goes from this: Family Friends To this: Family Boyfriend Boyfriend’s family Boyfriend’s friends Girlfriends of the boyfriend’s friends Friends Which means, on average, you go from seeing your friend every weekend to once every six weekends. She becomes a baton and you’re the one at the very end of the track. You get your go for, say, your birthday or a brunch, then you have to pass her back round to the boyfriend to start the long, boring rotation again. These gaps in each other’s lives slowly but surely form a gap in the middle of your friendship. The love is still there, but the familiarity is not. Before you know it, you’re not living life together anymore. You’re living life separately with respective boyfriends then meeting up for dinner every six weekends to tell each other what living is like. I now understand why our mums cleaned the house before their best friend came round and asked them “What’s the news, then?” in a jolly, stilted way. I get how that happens. So don’t tell me when you move in with your boyfriend that nothing will change. There will be no road trip. The cycle works when it comes to holidays as well—I’ll get my buddy back for every sixth summer, unless she has a baby in which case I’ll get my road trip in eighteen years’ time. It never stops happening. Everything will change.

If it were possible to go back in a time machine and change the stupid things some of us did in grammar school and junior high, Soups old buddy, that gadget would be booked up right into the twenty-third century.

Have you ever noticed the way a groom looks at his bride during the wedding? I have. Perhaps it’s my vantage point. As the minister of the wedding, I’m positioned next to the groom. Side by side we stand, he about to enter the marriage, I about to perform it. By the time we reach the altar, I’ve been with him for some time backstage as he tugged his collar and mopped his brow. His buddies reminded him that it’s not too late to escape, and there’s always a half-serious look in his eyes that he might. As the minister, I’m the one to give him the signal when it’s our turn to step out of the wings up to the altar. He follows me into the chapel like a criminal walking to the gallows. But all that changes when she appears. And the look on his face is my favorite scene in the wedding.

But that’s the way life is; felicity and expiation play together in the narrow lanes of life like bosom friends, inseparable. You find one, and the other is always around the corner.

And then I wondered if as soon as he came to like me he would sink into ordinariness, and if as soon as he came to love me I would find fault after fault, the way I did with Buddy Willard and the boys before him.... The last thing I wanted was infinite security and to be the place an arrow shoots from. I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the coloured arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.

I've been wondering... I mean, I thought you might be able to tell me something." Buddy met my eyes and I saw, for the first time, how he had changed. Instead of the old, sure smile that flashed on easily and frequently as a photographer's bulb, his face was grave, even tentative -- the face of a man who often does not get what he wants. "I'll tell you if I can, Buddy." "Do you think there's something in me that drives women crazy?

It was clear that most of my insecurities originated from my need to have things be “perfect.” I wasn’t sure what bothered me more; the fact that I had no control over the changes of my body and hair or that this horrible situation was only happening to me.

was sprawled on the family-room couch, half asleep in front of a Clint Eastwood movie. A can of ginger ale and an empty bag of pretzels sat on the table in front of him. He opened one eye and saw Maura, then looked at Greg and winked. “Hey, little buddy . . . I see your ladyfriend is here.” Greg felt the urge to lash out, like he’d done with Eileen and Brittany at school on Friday morning. But this time he didn’t take the bait. He said, “We’re just copying some artwork. For a project we’re doing. And it’s gonna make noise. We have to.” Ross heaved himself up off the couch, shut off the TV, burped, mumbled, “’Scuse me” in Maura’s general direction, and went looking for a quieter place to waste another hour or two. Greg said, “I got this paper that’s good and bright, but it’s not as thick as regular copy paper. Makes it easier to fold.” After placing the first master sheet face down on the glass, he pushed Print, and then held up the copy for Maura to see. Pointing at a gray area, he said, “See that? I can change the settings and make that part darker. It ought to be solid black. Except for that, it’s a good copy.” The machine beeped as Greg made the change, and then he pushed the Print button.

But his own mind was helpless against every moment's headline. He did nothing but leap into the mass of changes and explore them and all the tiny facets so eventually he was completely governed by fears of certainty. He distrusted it in anyone but Nora for there it went to the spine, and yet he attacked it again and again in her, cruelly, hating it, the sure lanes of the probable. Breaking chairs and window glass doors in fury at her certain answers. [15-16]

It's about changing the way I think. Which sounds so simple, but whether I like to admit it or not, anxiety has become my best friend. It's a crutch that helps me hobble through life. It's the brassy bitch at school that I don't like, but being her BFF makes me popular. Or the school bully that I don't really want to be around, but being his friend means I don't get beat up. I don't know how to be safe without it. We're buddies. It's like they say: keep your friends close, your enemies closer.

When I was little, I didn’t understand that you could change a few sounds in a name or a phrase and have it mean something entirely different. When I told teachers my name was Benna and they said, “Donna who?” I would say, “Donna Gilbert.” I thought close was good enough, that sloppiness was generally built into the language. I thought Bing Crosby and Bill Crosby were the same person. That Buddy Holly and Billie Holiday were the same person. That Leon Trotsky and Leo Tolstoy were the same person. It was a shock for me quite late in life to discover that Jean Cocteau and Jacques Cousteau were not even related. Meaning, if it existed at all, was unstable and could not survive the slightest reshuffling of letters. One gust of wind and Santa became Satan. A slip of the pen and pears turned into pearls. A little interior decorating and the world became her twold, an ungrammatical and unkind assessment of an aging aunt in a singles bar. Add a d to poor, you got droop. It was that way in biology, too. Add a chromosome, get a criminal. Subtract one, get an idiot or a chipmunk. That was the way with things.

Her young son was adorable, and he loved Mamaw. At all times of the day—one time, past midnight—he would wander to her doorstep and ask for a snack. His mother had all the time in the world, but she couldn’t keep a close enough watch on her child to prevent him from straying into the homes of strangers. Sometimes his diaper would need changing. Mamaw once called social services on the woman, hoping they’d somehow rescue the young boy. They did nothing. So Mamaw used my nephew’s diapers and kept a watchful eye on the neighborhood, always looking for signs of her “little buddy.

up for it, and I’m sorry. That’s not enough. You’re going to search until you find something, and you’re going to tell me. Right now. Sheri. Please. You do it now or we’re gone. You give me some way to have some sympathy for you as I stand in this nice house, all lovingly redone, and think about the broken house you left us in, with its leaky roof and no heat and no insulation and nothing. Tell your sob story about the fucking war, whatever it was that my mom thought you were so broken about. My grandfather closed his eyes. No story ever explains. But I’ll give you what you want. I think I know the moment you want, because I made a kind of decision. There was some change. But I can’t start the story at the beginning. I’ve never been able to do that. I have to start at the end and then go back, and it doesn’t finish, because you can go back forever. Do it, my mother said. I don’t think Caitlin should hear. She can hear. Okay. You’re her mother. That’s right. So I won’t give the awful details, but I was lying in a pile of bodies. My friends. The closest friends I’ve ever had. Not piled there on purpose, but just the way it ended up because I had been working on the axle, lying on the ground. And the thing is, the war was over. It had been over for days, and we were laughing and a bit drunk, telling jokes. There was something unbearable about the fact that we’d all be going our separate ways now. The truth is that we didn’t want to leave. We wanted the war over, but we didn’t want what we had together to be over. I think we all had some sense that this was the closest we’d ever be to anyone, and that our families might feel like strangers now. So that’s it? You couldn’t be a father and husband because you weren’t done being a buddy? No. No. It’s the way it happened, in a moment that was supposed to be safe. After every moment of every day in fear for years, we were finally safe, and that’s when the slugs came and I watched my friends torn apart and landing on me, dying. That’s the point. We were supposed to be safe. And with your mother, too, I was supposed to be safe. A wife, a family. The story doesn’t make any sense unless you know every moment before it, every time we thought we were going to die, all the times we weren’t safe. You can’t just be told about that. You have to feel it, how long one night can be, and then all of them put together, hundreds of nights and then more, and there’s a kind of deal that’s made, a deal with god. You do certain terrible things, you endure things, because there’s a bargain made. And then when god says the deal’s off later, after you’ve already paid, and you see your friends ripped through, yanked like puppets on a day that was safe, and you find out your wife is going to die young, and you get to watch her dying, something that again is going to be for years, hundreds of nights more, all deals are off.

I am not a buddy-buddy person at work. I feel the need to say this because I think that sometimes we give ourselves a pass at caring about our colleagues because we’re introverts, or we don’t want to make friends at work. You might think that I am the sort who loves to make lots of work friends, and therefore I don’t understand how this feels to you, but I assure you: I understand that you don’t feel like that human side is all that interesting in the workplace. Being an introvert is not an excuse for making no effort to treat people like real human beings, however. The bedrock of strong teams is human connection, which leads to trust. And trust, real trust, requires the ability and willingness to be vulnerable in front of each other. So, your manager will hopefully treat you like a human who has a life outside of work, and spend a few minutes talking about that life when you meet.

Sounds like an acid head, of course. What they all saw in … a flash was the solution to the basic predicament of being human, the personal I, Me, trapped, mortal and helpless, in a vast impersonal It, the world around me. Suddenly! —All-in-one!—flowing together, I into It, and It into Me, and in that flow I perceive a power, so near and so clear, that the whole world is blind to. All the modern religions, and the occult mysteries, for that matter, talk about an Other World—whether Brahma’s or the flying saucers’—that the rational work-a-day world is blind to. The—so called! friends—rational world. If only they, Mom & Dad & Buddy & Sis, dear-but-square ones, could but know the kairos, the supreme moment … The historic visions have been explained in many ways, as the result of epilepsy, self-hypnosis, changes in metabolism due to fasting, or actual intervention by gods—or drugs: Zoroastrianism

The previous year, I had really taken an interest in the opposite sex, but it all seemed pretty natural. It all changed one night when I was in the ninth grade. I went with a buddy to a swimming party, where we met two girls whom we were both interested in. As the night went on, we found ourselves alone in a room with the girls. The girl I liked asked me to help her undress. I was very attracted to her, and she was pretty healthy for a ninth grader. As I looked back at my buddy cheering me on, the only thing I could think of was my dad’s admonition--and three letters, R-U-N! I ran out of the room, and the abuse I took from my buddies over the next few days was probably the worst I ever experienced. From then on, I decided to shy away from girls with questionable reputations and focus on those who could possibly help me spiritually and help get me to heaven. I didn’t feel I was strong enough to stay pure unless both parties had the same goal.

Butterfly effect.” “Right. It means small events can have large, whatchamadingit, ramifications. The idea is that if some guy kills a butterfly in China, maybe forty years later—or four hundred—there’s an earthquake in Peru. That sound as crazy to you as it does to me?” It did, but I remembered a hoary old time-travel paradox and pulled it out. “Yeah, but what if you went back and killed your own grandfather?” He stared at me, baffled. “Why the fuck would you do that?” That was a good question, so I just told him to go on. “You changed the past this afternoon in all sorts of little ways, just by walking into the Kennebec Fruit . . . but the stairs leading up into the pantry and back into 2011 were still there, weren’t they? And The Falls is the same as when you left it.” “So it seems, yes. But you’re talking about something a little more major. To wit, saving JFK’s life.” “Oh, I’m talking about a lot more than that, because this ain’t some butterfly in China, buddy. I’m also talking about saving RFK’s life, because if John lives in Dallas, Robert

Willie called me one night in September 1991 after I had been gone a few weeks and said, “Let’s get back together.” I knew I loved him, but I told him I wasn’t sure about it. He was trying to change my life, and it was really his way or no way. I just didn’t know what to do. “Let me think about it,” I said. “I’ll call you back tomorrow.” I was convinced she’d found someone else. I was telling all my buddies that it was over between us, and I was gathering other girls’ phone numbers to prepare myself to move on. I just knew it was over, and I wasn’t waiting to hear it from her the next day. I was convinced she wanted to end our relationship but couldn’t muster the courage to tell me. Korie called me the next day, and I was ready to tell her that I didn’t want to get back together anymore and that our relationship was over. I was certainly going to end it before she ended it. I just knew she already had a new boyfriend at Harding. “I’ve got something to tell you,” Korie told me. “What do you want to say?” I asked her, deciding it better to hear her out first. “Let’s get back together,” she said. My ears started buzzing. I threw all the girls’ phone numbers in the trash can. About a month later, Korie and I decided we were going to get married.

Korie: Willie and I dated for about eight months, and then I was getting ready to leave for school at Harding University. Willie was still attending seminary school, and I wanted him to go to Harding University with me. But Willie said he wasn’t leaving West Monroe. He wanted me to stay in West Monroe with him. We broke up before I left for school in August, and I’m sure he thought I’d find someone else at college, because that’s what typically happens when you leave home. Willie called me one night in September 1991 after I had been gone a few weeks and said, “Let’s get back together.” I knew I loved him, but I told him I wasn’t sure about it. He was trying to change my life, and it was really his way or no way. I just didn’t know what to do. “Let me think about it,” I said. “I’ll call you back tomorrow.” I was convinced she’d found someone else. I was telling all my buddies that it was over between us, and I was gathering other girls’ phone numbers to prepare myself to move on. I just knew it was over, and I wasn’t waiting to hear it from her the next day. I was convinced she wanted to end our relationship but couldn’t muster the courage to tell me. Korie called me the next day, and I was ready to tell her that I didn’t want to get back together anymore and that our relationship was over. I was certainly going to end it before she ended it. I just knew she already had a new boyfriend at Harding. “I’ve got something I want to tell you,” Korie told me. “What do you want to say?” I asked her, deciding I’d better hear her out first. “Let’s get back together,” she said. My ears started buzzing. I threw all the girls’ phone numbers in the trash can. About a month later, Korie and I decided we were going to get married. Korie: I had turned eighteen in October 1991, so legally I was allowed to do whatever I wanted. But I knew I had to call my parents, Johnny and Chrys, to get their permission. We had had some discussions about my getting married that summer that had not gone so well, so I knew they were not going to be excited about it. I mustered up the courage to make the phone call. “Look, I’m legal, so I’m just going to say it,” I told them. “I’m getting married, and you’re going to have to be behind me or not.” Of course, my parents told me it was the worst idea ever, and they were naturally worried that I was going to leave school and come home. They asked me to at least wait until I’d finished college. I hung up the phone and called Willie immediately. “I just told them and it didn’t go so well,” I blurted out. “They’ve already called me and they’re on their way over here,” he said.

The Camera Eye (38) sealed signed and delivered all over Tours you can smell lindens in bloom it’s hot my uniform sticks the OD chafes me under the chin only four days ago AWOL crawling under the freight cars at the station of St. Pierre-des-Corps waiting in the buvette for the MP on guard to look away from the door so’s I could slink out with a cigarette (and my heart) in my mouth then in a tiny box of a hotel room changing the date on that old movement order but today my discharge sealed signed and delivered sends off sparks in my pocket like a romancandle I walk past the headquarters of the SOS Hay sojer your tunic’s unbuttoned (f—k you buddy) and down the lindenshaded street to the bathhouse that has a court with flowers in the middle of it the hot water gushes green out of brass swanheads into the whitemetal tub I strip myself naked soap myself all over with the sour pink soap slide into the warm deepgreen tub through the white curtain in the window a finger of afternoon sunlight lengthens on the ceiling towel’s dry and warm smells of steam in the suitcase I’ve got a suit of civvies I borrowed from a fellow I know the buck private in the rear rank of Uncle Sam’s Medical Corps (serial number . . . never could remember the number anyway I dropped it in the Loire) goes down the drain with a gurgle and hiss and having amply tipped and gotten the eye from the fat woman who swept up the towels I step out into the lindensmell of a July afternoon and stroll up to the café where at the little tables outside only officers may set their whipcord behinds and order a drink of cognac unservable to those in uniform while waiting for the train to Paris and sit down firmly in long pants in the iron chair an anonymous civilian

That New Year I was invited to stay with one of my old school buddies, Sam Sykes, at his house on the far northwestern coast of Sutherland, in Scotland. It is as wild and rugged a place as anywhere on earth, and I love it there. It also happens to boast one of my favorite mountains in the world, Ben Loyal, a pinnacle of rock and steep heather that overlooks a spectacular estuary. So I did not need much encouraging to go up to Sam’s and climb. This time up there, I was to meet the lady who would change my life forever; and I was woefully ill-prepared for the occasion. I headed up north primarily to train and climb. Sam told me he had some other friends coming up for New Year. I would like them, he assured me. Great. As long as they don’t distract me from training, I thought to myself. I had never felt more distant from falling in love. I was a man on a mission. Everest was only two months away. Falling in love was way off my radar. One of Sam’s friends was this young girl called Shara. As gentle as a lamb, beautiful and funny--and she seemed to look at me so warmly. There was something about this girl. She just seemed to shine in all she did. And I was totally smitten, at once. All I seemed to want to do was hang out with her, drink tea, chat, and go for nice walks. I tried to fight the feeling by loading up my backpack with rocks and heavy books, then going off climbing on my own. But all I could think about was this beautiful blond girl who laughed in the most adorable way at how ridiculous it was to carry Shakespeare up a mountain. I could sense already that this was going to be a massive distraction, but somehow, at the same time, nothing else seemed to matter. I found myself wanting to be with this girl all the time.

Although thrilled that the era of the personal computer had arrived, he was afraid that he was going to miss the party. Slapping down seventy-five cents, he grabbed the issue and trotted through the slushy snow to the Harvard dorm room of Bill Gates, his high school buddy and fellow computer fanatic from Seattle, who had convinced him to drop out of college and move to Cambridge. “Hey, this thing is happening without us,” Allen declared. Gates began to rock back and forth, as he often did during moments of intensity. When he finished the article, he realized that Allen was right. For the next eight weeks, the two of them embarked on a frenzy of code writing that would change the nature of the computer business.1 Unlike the computer pioneers before him, Gates, who was born in 1955, had not grown up caring much about the hardware. He had never gotten his thrills by building Heathkit radios or soldering circuit boards. A high school physics teacher, annoyed by the arrogance Gates sometimes displayed while jockeying at the school’s timesharing terminal, had once assigned him the project of assembling a Radio Shack electronics kit. When Gates finally turned it in, the teacher recalled, “solder was dripping all over the back” and it didn’t work.2 For Gates, the magic of computers was not in their hardware circuits but in their software code. “We’re not hardware gurus, Paul,” he repeatedly pronounced whenever Allen proposed building a machine. “What we know is software.” Even his slightly older friend Allen, who had built shortwave radios, knew that the future belonged to the coders. “Hardware,” he admitted, “was not our area of expertise.”3 What Gates and Allen set out to do on that December day in 1974 when they first saw the Popular Electronics cover was to create the software for personal computers. More than that, they wanted to shift the balance in the emerging industry so that the hardware would become an interchangeable commodity, while those who created the operating system and application software would capture most of the profits.

The next day’s call would be vital. Then at 12:02 P.M., the radio came to life. “Bear at camp two, it’s Neil. All okay?” I heard the voice loud and clear. “Hungry for news,” I replied, smiling. He knew exactly what I meant. “Now listen, I’ve got a forecast and an e-mail that’s come through for you from your family. Do you want to hear the good news or the bad news first?” “Go on, then, let’s get the bad news over with,” I replied. “Well, the weather’s still lousy. The typhoon is now on the move again, and heading this way. If it’s still on course tomorrow you’ve got to get down, and fast. Sorry.” “And the good news?” I asked hopefully. “Your mother sent a message via the weather guys. She says all the animals at home are well.” Click. “Well, go on, that can’t be it. What else?” “Well, they think you’re still at base camp. Probably best that way. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.” “Thanks, buddy. Oh, and pray for change. It will be our last chance.” “Roger that, Bear. Don’t start talking to yourself. Out.” I had another twenty-four hours to wait. It was hell. Knowingly feeling my body get weaker and weaker in the vain hope of a shot at the top. I was beginning to doubt both myself and my decision to stay so high. I crept outside long before dawn. It was 4:30 A.M. I sat huddled, waiting for the sun to rise while sitting in the porch of my tent. My mind wandered to being up there--up higher on this unforgiving mountain of attrition. Would I ever get a shot at climbing in that deathly land above camp three? By 10:00 A.M. I was ready on the radio. This time, though, they called early. “Bear, your God is shining on you. It’s come!” Henry’s voice was excited. “The cyclone has spun off to the east. We’ve got a break. A small break. They say the jet-stream winds are lifting again in two days. How do you think you feel? Do you have any strength left?” “We’re rocking, yeah, good, I mean fine. I can’t believe it.” I leapt to my feet, tripped over the tent’s guy ropes, and let out a squeal of sheer joy. These last five days had been the longest of my life.

One night, Kevin and I were at a pool hall where we saw a guy playing pool by himself; this guy looked like a hustler. He asked me if I wanted to play for twenty dollars. “I’ll tell you what,” I told him. “You can play my buddy Kevin. If you win two out of three games, I’ll give you twenty dollars. If he wins, you have to leave with us and go to a Bible study.” The guy looked at me like I was nuts. He walked around the pool table a few times, pondering my offer. I took a twenty-dollar bill out and placed it on the table. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s do it.” What he didn’t know was that Kevin is quite the player and that I don’t make bets with eternal consequences on the line unless I know we’re going to win! Of course, my buddy Kevin beat him. In fact, Kevin broke and ran the table in two straight games. The other guy never even took a shot! To my surprise, the guy followed through on his bet, although he didn’t seem too happy about it. As we walked to my truck to leave, he threw a full can of beer across the road and declared he was ready for a change in his life anyway. I thought that was a powerful statement since he didn’t even know what we were going to share with him. He knew how we rolled, despite our presence in such a rugged place. We studied the Bible with him for several hours and baptized him the same night. What I didn’t know was that the guy was sentenced to prison for an earlier crime the very next day! I wouldn’t see him again until he showed up unannounced with his Bible in hand at my house on Christmas Day a couple of years later. “Hey, I just got out of jail,” he told me. “Did they let you out or did you escape?” I asked him. “I was released,” he said. He then tearfully thanked me for sharing with him and let me know that was the best thing that could have happened to him before the two years of prison. Obviously, neither one of us believed our encounter had been an accident. He came to our church a couple of times over the next few months, and I continued to study with him. After a while, though, he quit coming around and I lost track of him.

Like any place in Reality, the Street is subject to development. Developers can build their own small streets feeding off of the main one. They can build buildings, parks, signs, as well as things that do not exist in Reality, such as vast hovering overhead light shows, special neighborhoods where the rules of three-dimensional spacetime are ignored, and free-combat zones where people can go to hunt and kill each other. The only difference is that since the Street does not really exist -- it's just a computer-graphics protocol written down on a piece of paper somewhere -- none of these things is being physically built. They are, rather, pieces of software, made available to the public over the worldwide fiber-optics network. When Hiro goes into the Metaverse and looks down the Street and sees buildings and electric signs stretching off into the darkness, disappearing over the curve of the globe, he is actually staring at the graphic representations -- the user interfaces -- of a myriad different pieces of software that have been engineered by major corporations. In order to place these things on the Street, they have had to get approval from the Global Multimedia Protocol Group, have had to buy frontage on the Street, get zoning approval, obtain permits, bribe inspectors, the whole bit. The money these corporations pay to build things on the Street all goes into a trust fund owned and operated by the GMPG, which pays for developing and expanding the machinery that enables the Street to exist. Hiro has a house in a neighborhood just off the busiest part of the Street. it is a very old neighborhood by Street standards. About ten years ago, when the Street protocol was first written, Hiro and some of his buddies pooled their money and bought one of the first development licenses, created a little neighborhood of hackers. At the time, it was just a little patchwork of light amid a vast blackness. Back then, the Street was just a necklace of streetlights around a black ball in space. Since then, the neighborhood hasn't changed much, but the Street has. By getting in on it early, Hiro's buddies got a head start on the whole business. Some of them even got very rich off of it. That's why Hiro has a nice big house in the Metaverse but has to share a 20-by- 30 in Reality. Real estate acumen does not always extend across universes.

Yet in 2012, he returned. Plenty of the speechwriters were livid. The club was the embodiment of everything we had promised to change. Was it really necessary to flatter these people, just because they were powerful and rich? In a word, yes. In fact, thanks to the Supreme Court, the rich were more powerful than ever. In 2010, the court’s five conservative justices gutted America’s campaign finance laws in the decision known as Citizens United. With no more limits to the number of attack ads they could purchase, campaigns had become another hobby for the ultrawealthy. Tired of breeding racehorses or bidding on rare wines at auction? Buy a candidate instead! I should make it clear that no one explicitly laid out a strategy regarding the dinner. I never asked point-blank if we hoped to charm billionaires into spending their billions on something other than Mitt Romney’s campaign. That said, I knew it couldn’t hurt. Hoping to mollify the one-percenters in the audience, I kept the script embarrassingly tame. I’ve got about forty-five more minutes on the State of the Union that I’d like to deliver tonight. I am eager to work with members of Congress to be entertaining tonight. But if Congress is unwilling to cooperate, I will be funny without them. Even for a politician, this was weak. But it apparently struck the right tone. POTUS barely edited the speech. A few days later, as a reward for a job well done, Favs invited me to tag along to a speechwriting-team meeting with the president. I had not set foot in the Oval Office since my performance of the Golden Girls theme song. On that occasion, President Obama remained behind his desk. For larger gatherings like this one, however, he crossed the room to a brown leather armchair, and the rest of us filled the two beige sofas on either side. Between the sofas was a coffee table. On the coffee table sat a bowl, which under George W. Bush had contained candy but under Obama was full of apples instead. Hence the ultimate Oval Office power move: grab an apple at the end of a meeting, polish it on your suit, and take a casual chomp on your way out the door. I would have sooner stuck my finger in an electrical socket. Desperate not to call attention to myself, I took the seat farthest away and kept my eyes glued to my laptop. I allowed myself just one indulgence: a quick peek at the Emancipation Proclamation. That’s right, buddy. Look who’s still here. It was only at the very end of the meeting, as we rose from the surprisingly comfy couches, that Favs brought up the Alfalfa dinner. The right-wing radio host Laura Ingraham had been in the audience, and she was struck by the president’s poise. “She was talking about it this morning,” Favs told POTUS. “She said, ‘I don’t know if Mitt Romney can beat him.

Oh, by the way, security told me earlier that some guy showed up, claiming to be your assistant.” “Already? What time is it?” “It’s almost one o’clock,” he says. “Are you telling me you actually hired someone?” My heart drops. I shove past Cliff, ignoring him as he calls for me, wanting his question answered. I head straight for security, spotting Jack standing along the side with a guard, looking somewhere between disturbed and amused. “Strangest shit I’ve ever witnessed in Jersey,” Jack says, looking me over. “And that’s saying something, because I once saw a chimpanzee roller skating, and that was weird as fuck.” “I’m going to take that as a compliment, even though I know it isn’t one,” I say, grabbing his arm and making him follow me. It’s about a two-and-a-half hour drive to Bennett Landing, but I barely have two hours. “Please tell me you drove.” Before he can respond, I hear Cliff shouting as he follows. “Johnny! Where are you going?” “Oh, buddy.” Jack glances behind us at Cliff. “Am I your getaway driver?” “Something like that,” I say. “You ever play Grand Theft Auto?” “Every fucking day, man.” “Good,” I say, continuing to walk, despite Cliff attempting to catch up. “If you can get me where I need to be, there will be one hell of a reward in it for you.” His eyes light up as he pulls out a set of car keys. “Mission accepted.” There’s a crowd gathered around set. They figured out we’re here. They know we’re wrapping today. I scan the area, looking for a way around them. “Where’d you park?” I ask, hoping it’s anywhere but right across the street. “Right across the street,” he says. Fuck. I’m going to have to go through the crowd. “You sure you, uh, don’t want to change?” Jack asks, his eyes flickering to me, conflicted. “No time for that.” The crowd spots me, and they start going crazy, making Cliff yell louder to get my attention, but I don’t stop. I slip off of set, past the metal barricades and right into the street, as security tries to keep the crowd back, but it’s a losing game. So we run, and I follow Jack to an old station wagon, the tan paint faded. “This is what you drive?” “Not all of us grew up with trust funds,” he says, slapping his hand against the rusted hood. “This was my inheritance.” “Not judging,” I say, pausing beside it. “It’s just all very ‘70s suburban housewife.” “That sounds like judgment, asshole.” I open the passenger door to get in the car when Cliff catches up, slightly out of breath from running. “What are you doing, Johnny? You’re leaving?” “I told you I had somewhere to be.” “This is ridiculous,” he says, anger edging his voice. “You need to sort out your priorities.” “That’s a damn good idea,” I say. “Consider this my notice.” “Your notice?” “I’m taking a break,” I say. “From you. From this. From all of it.” “You’re making a big mistake.” “You think so?” I ask, looking him right in the face. “Because I think the mistake I made was trusting you.” I get in the car, slamming the door, leaving Cliff standing on the sidewalk, fuming. Jack starts the engine, cutting his eyes at me. “So, where to? The unemployment office?” “Home,” I say, “and I need to get there as soon as possible, because somebody is waiting for me, and I can't disappoint her.

Damn you, girl, you're human. Why can't you have human buddies like the rest of us? It's just not natural. What's next? Group hugs with zombies?

It is a hundred meters wide, with a narrow monorail track running down the middle. The monorail is a free piece of public utility software that enables users to change their location on the Street rapidly and smoothly. A lot of people just ride back and forth on it, looking at the sights. When Hiro first saw this place, ten years ago, the monorail hadn't been written yet; he and his buddies had to write car and motorcycle software in order to get around. They would take their software out and race it in the black desert of the electronic night.

16. Worry Worries One of my oldest buddies from Everest and the SAS, Mick Crosthwaite, once gave me this sound advice: ‘Don’t worry about anything that’s outside your sphere of influence.’ Or in other words: if you can’t change it, don’t fret it. Think about it. What do you worry most about? Is it inside or outside your sphere of influence? You see, most of us fret and panic about stuff we have no control over - things we can’t change. Mick’s advice made me realize that if I can’t change it, I just won’t worry about it. Instead, spend the time and mental energy effecting positive change where you can, not where you can’t. It is sound advice, but it isn’t how most people live. Mark Twain famously said that he had spent most of his life worrying about things that never happened. I think people probably do this a lot. It is partly why so few get to where they dream of. They dare not…just in case. Fears and worries - about things that are long passed, or that may never materialize in our future - all weigh us down and slow us up. So where you can, drop the worries.

Oberon asked. No, Oberon, I told him via our mental link. You’re only the second companion I’ve done that with. Some people—and some creatures—don’t handle long lives very well. It changes them for the worse. But you just keep getting better, buddy. I briefly glanced at the slobbery hunk of beef underneath Oberon’s paw. No thanks; I’m full. I’ll tell you some other night, okay? It’s a story in itself.

The problem with sex Is that it changes everything. Brad and I are still friends. But we're a different kind of friends. More than pals. More, even, than fuck buddies. It's like we're stand-ins for the true loves of our lives. And the only way to be that is to let ourselves love each other.

Only six? Mon Dieu!’ Cleo ceased her pacing and whirled around to face the two Trackers, eyes narrowed, hands on hips. ‘I suppose this is all rather exciting for the two of you, non?’ Cleo’s usually melodic French accent was growing sharper and sharper in pitch with every word. ‘You…’—she nodded at Moss—‘finally get to see some action! And you…’—she turned her attention to Julian, hazel eyes narrowed—‘I know you loathed Iceland, and poof! here you are, back with your buddy, enjoying the sunshine!’ Julian and Moss exchanged exasperated glances. ‘Meanwhile, all of my hard work is going to waste. Do you know how difficult it is to manipulate a person’s lifeline? Hmm? To set up every single tiny decision and event so that they get to their death at the right time? And so that they die in exactly the right way?’ She glanced from one boy to the other as if daring them to contradict her. ‘There’s a reason we assign natural deaths and accidents to certain people and murders to others! This girl was supposed to die in an accident—now the lifelines of everyone around her have changed. Everything is out of balance.' She threw her hands up. 'Again!

23. Honour The Journey, Not the Destination As a team, when we came back from Everest, so often the first question someone would ask us was: ‘Did you make it to the summit?’ I was lucky - unbelievably lucky - to have reached that elusive summit, which also allowed me to reply to that summit question with a ‘yes’. My best buddy Mick found the question much harder, as a ‘no’ didn’t tell even part of his incredible story. He might not have made it to the very top of Everest, but he was as near as damn it. For three months we had climbed alongside each other, day and night. Mick had been involved in some real heroics up high when things had gone wrong, he had climbed with courage, dignity and strength, and he had reached within 300 feet (90 metres) of the summit. Yet somehow that didn’t count in the eyes of those who asked that ironically unimportant question: ‘Did you reach the top?’ For both of us, the journey was never about the summit. It was a journey we lived through together; we held each other’s lives in our hands every day, and it was an incredible journey of growth. The summit I only ever saw as a bonus. When we got that question on our return, I often got more frustrated for Mick than he did. He was smart and never saw it as a failure. He’d tell you that he was actually lucky - for the simple reason that he survived where four others that season had died. You see, Mick ran out of oxygen high up on the final face of Everest at some 28,000 feet (8,500 metres). Barely able to move, he crawled on all fours. Yet at that height, at the limit of exhaustion, he slipped and started to tumble down the sheer ice face. He told me he was certain he would die. By some miracle he landed on a small ledge and was finally rescued when two other climbers found him. Four other climbers hadn’t been so lucky. Two had died of the cold and two had fallen. Everest is unforgiving, especially when the weather turns. By the time I was back with Mick, down at Camp Two a couple of days later, he was a changed man. Humbled, grateful for life, and I had never loved him so much. So when everyone at home was asking him about the summit, or sympathizing with him for narrowly missing out, Mick knew better. He should have died up there. He knew he was plain lucky to be alive. ‘Failure had become his blessing, and life had become a great gift to him. And those are great lessons that many never learn - because you can only learn them through a life-changing journey, regardless of the destination. Consider the billionaire who flies into the South Pole for an hour to ‘experience’ it, compared to the man who has toiled, sweated and struggled across hundreds and hundreds of miles of ice, dragging a humble sledge. You see, it is the journey that makes the man. And life is all about our growth, not our trophies.

I remember once in the Arctic, when we were attempting to cross the frozen North Atlantic in a small, open rigid inflatable boat (RIB), that I heard that voice very clearly. We had been caught out in a monster, sub-zero, gale-force 8 storm, 400 miles off the coast of Greenland - and we were struggling. We were reduced to a crawl as we battled up and down huge, freezing waves and crashing white water. It felt like only a matter of time before we would be capsized to our deaths in the black and icy sea during this longest of nights. Each time one of us handed over the control of the little boat to another crew member to do their shift at the wheel, we had an especially frightening few minutes as the new helmsman fought to become accustomed to the pitch and character of those freak waves. If ever we were going to be capsized, it was during these change-over times. We got lucky once. We were all thrown off our seats after the RIB had been tossed up and landed on the side of her tubes, only to topple back, by luck, the right way up. We then got lucky a second time in a similar incident. Instinct told me we wouldn’t get so lucky a third time. ‘No more mistakes. Helm this yourself,’ I felt the voice saying to me. As I prepared to hand over to Mick, my old buddy, something deep inside me kept repeating, ‘Just keep helming for a bit longer - see this team through the storm yourself.’ But we had a rota and I also knew we should stick to it. That was the rule. Yet the voice persisted. Eventually I shouted over the wind and spray to Mick that I was going to keep helming. ‘Trust me,’ I told him. Mick then helped me all through that night, pouring Red Bull down my throat as we got thrown left and right, fighting to cling on to the wheel and our seats. By dawn, the seas were easing and by the next evening we could see the distant coast of Iceland ahead. Finally. Afterwards, two of the crew said to me quietly that they had been so terrified to helm that they were praying someone else would do it. I had been exhausted, and logic had said to hand over, but instinct had told me I should keep steering. Deep down I knew that I had been beginning to master how to control the small boat in the chaos of the waves and ice - and that voice told me we might not get a third lucky escape. It was the right call - not an easy one, but a right one. Instinct doesn’t always tell us to choose the easier path, but it will guide you towards the right one.

You are brave, buddy. It’s okay to be afraid sometimes because you have me, and together, we can be brave. We can face anything.

Our quality of life has skyrocketed and our once staunch London loyalism has been replaced by an almost embarrassing enthusiasm for everything “Dansk.” The greatest change has been the shift in work–life balance. Whereas previously we might snatch dinner once Duncan escaped from work at around nine, he now leaves his desk at five. Work later than 5.30, and the office is a morgue. Work at the weekend, and the Danes think you are mad. The idea is that families have time to play and eat together at the end of the day, every day. And it works. Duncan bathes and puts our 14-month-old daughter Liv to bed most nights. They are best buddies, as opposed to strangers who try to reacquaint at the weekend. Cathy Strongman, The Guardian

Aza [Raskin] said: 'For instance, Facebook tomorrow could start batching your notifications, so you only get one push notification a day ... They could do that tomorrow.' ....So instead of getting 'this constant drip of behavioural cocaine,' telling you every few minutes that somebody liked your picture, commented on your post, has a birthday tomorrow, and on and on - you would get one daily update, like a newspaper, summarising it all. You'd be pushed to look once a day, instead of being interrupted several times an hour. 'Here's another one,' he said 'Infinite scroll. ...it's catching your impulses before your brain has a chance to really get involved and make a decision.' Facebook and Instagram and the others could simply turn off infinite scroll - so that when you get to the bottom of the screen, you have to make a conscious decision to carry on scrolling. Similarly, these sites could simply switch off the things that have been shown to most polarise people politically, stealing our ability to pay collective attention. Since there's evidence YouTube's recommendation engine is radicalising people, Tristan [Harris] told one interviewer: 'Just turn it off. They can turn it off in a heartbeat.' It's not as if, he points out, the day before recommendations were introduced, people were lost and clamouring for somebody to tell them what to watch next. Once the most obvious forms of mental pollution have been stopped, they said, we can begin to look deeper, at how these sites could be redesigned to make it easier for you to restrain yourself and think about your longer-term goals. ...there could be a button that says 'here are all your friends who are nearby and are indicating they'd like to meet up today.' You click it, you connect, you put down your phone and hang out with them. Instead of being a vacuum sucking up your attention and keeping it away from the outside world, social media would become a trampoline, sending you back into that world as efficiently as possible, matched with the people you want to see. Similarly, when you set up (say) a Facebook account, it could ask you how much time you want to spend per day or per week on the site. ...then the website could help you to achieve your goal. One way could be that when you hit that limit, the website could radically slow down. In tests, Amazon found that even 100 milliseconds of delay in the pace at which a page loads results in a substantial drop-off in people sticking around to buy the product. Aza said: 'It just gives your brain a chance to catch up to your impulse and [ask] - do I really want to be here? No.' In addition, Facebook could ask you at regular intervals - what changes do you want to make to your life? ...then match you up with other people nearby... who say they also want to make that change and have indicated they are looking for the equivalent of gym buddies. ...A battery of scientific evidence shows that if you want to succeed in changing something, you should meet up with groups of people doing the same. At the moment, they said, social media is designed to grab your attention and sell it to the highest bidder, but it could be designed to understand your intentions and to better help you achieve them. Tristan and Aza told me that it's just as easy to design and program this life-affirming Facebook as the life-draining Facebook we currently have. I think that most people, if you stopped them in the street and painted them a vision of these two Facebooks, would say they wanted the one that serves your intentions. So why isn't it happened? It comes back... to the business model.

CAMPBELL CHANGED MY PERSPECTIVE ON LIFE FROM that of a holding room where you wait to meet Christ later to a living room in which to commune with Christ’s consciousness here and now. It’s not just the personal-relationship “Buddy Jesus” I was taught in Sunday school, the Divine Pal we keep in our pockets, sticking His head out of our handbags like a purse dog, ready to offer help finding parking or protection from the flu that’s been going around. It’s an invitation you extend for His essence to pass through you. Active and empowering, not just “please protect me,” but transform me. Merge with me. Help me kill this overactive, critical, limiting brain of mine. Help me escape the dungeons of cultural expectation, familial expectation, all the I shoulds and I shouldn’ts, I cans and I can’ts. Help me take the small person inside me and kick his ass, leave him for dead, and resurrect to my full, connected, light-filled potential. The story is you being reborn, you getting saved from your basic, boring, limited, mundane, same-story-at-every-party, same-vacation-every-year, same-restaurant-every-birthday, same-river-of-negative-thoughts self-loathing and cruel humanity and awakening to who you really are. Go and do likewise.

The wrong place to start is to hire familiar people who are in your comfort zone—good buddies, but not the best in their skill set. Such people are difficult to fire and hard to manage.

Hey, mister, we’re not a bus stop. Order something or take a hike.” Ham-fisted and built like a linebacker, the bartender had a face that had survived more than a few barroom brawls. A couple of bikers at the far end of the bar looked up with interest, probably hoping to see their buddy in action. Sandor knew he could take the guy, but now wasn’t the time to prove it. “I’ll take a scotch on the rocks.” He pulled out two five-dollar bills and tossed them on the bar. “Hold the scotch and the rocks. Keep the change.” The bartender and the other two looked at him like he was crazy. Finally, the bartender grinned. “Turns out we’re having a special on that night.” He pushed a five back across the counter. Sandor chuckled and accepted the bill. “Thanks.

Walter thought he had come out of the war remarkably unscathed. His buddies, as he later recalled, “landed in the hospital with nervous collapses. When I’d run into fellows from my old outfit, the first question was always, ‘Well, have you folded yet?’” And Walter always answered, “No, thank God.” That would change,

We can easily change what President Bush said, to better convey his meaning and to strengthen the sound of his statement. There are two distinct parallelisms at work here, each of which would be better served by standing alone. One way of rewriting it would be: I like my buddies from west Texas. I liked them when I was young, I liked them when I was middle-aged, and I’ll like them when I’m old.

Oh. I take it from your tone that the custody battle is not going well.” “Tom has an in with the judge. A golfing buddy, believe it or not.” “You can’t get a venue change?” “My attorney says no. Guess what Tom’s claiming.” “What?” “I lead a”—Esperanza made quote marks with her fingers—“‘prurient’ lifestyle.” “Because you’re a wrestler?” “Because I’m bisexual.” Myron frowned. “For real?” “Yep.” “But bisexuality is so mainstream now.” “I know,” Esperanza said. “Practically a cliché.” “Tell me about it. I feel so passé.” She turned away. “So it’s bad?” “I may lose him, Myron. You know Tom. He is one of those master-of-the-universe, take-no-prisoner types. It isn’t about what’s right or wrong or the truth. It’s all about winning. It’s all about beating me no matter what the cost.” “Anything

I thought I explained this,” Luke said, sounding annoyed. “She’s a beautiful young girl. She might be a chronological twenty-five, but subtract a few years of her being tied to an invalid. She would be carded in most bars. I was almost her first flirt! She should do things! Experience things! She’s been patient and dedicated a long time—she has to get out there and…” “And not take a chance on you and then realize in a couple years that she was hasty,” Aiden supplied. “Aw, what the hell,” Luke said, standing up and running a hand across the back of his neck. “She’s not ready to make that kind of choice. She might think she is, but she’s not!” “Because you weren’t?” “She’s too young!” “Because you were?” Luke didn’t respond. He turned his back on his brother. Aiden stood up and approached Luke’s back. He put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “You weren’t too young when you married Felicia. You weren’t too naive or inexperienced when you were twenty-five. You had it all—you were sharp and loyal and you knew how you felt. You had enough passion and commitment to never change your mind. You got screwed up by someone who wasn’t your match. I’m sorry, buddy, but it wasn’t your fault. Jesus, will you ever let yourself off the hook for that? You didn’t cheat on her! She went out on you!” “She wasn’t enough,” he said. Then he laughed ruefully and shook his head. “That’s what she said to me….” “Felicia?” Luke turned around. “Shelby. She said she knew she wasn’t enough….” “Oh, Christ,” Aiden said in a breath.

Fall is my favorite time of year, even the traffic lights change color.

managed to snag the last available table and all three ordered the special with sweet tea to drink. “It’s like Thanksgiving,” Shiloh said. “Not for me. Thanksgiving was working an extra shift so the folks with kids could be home for the day. Christmas was the same,” Bonnie said. Abby shrugged. “The army served turkey and dressing on the holidays. It wasn’t what Mama made, but it tasted pretty damn good.” Since it was a special and only had to be dipped up and served, they weren’t long getting their meal. Abby shut her eyes on the first bite and made appreciative noises. “This is so good. I may eat here every Sunday.” “And break Cooper’s heart?” Bonnie asked. “Hey, now! One night of drinking together does not make us all bosom buddies or BFFs or whatever the hell it’s called these days.” Abby waved at the waitress, who came right over. “I want this plate all over again,” she said. “Did you remember that we do have pie for dessert?” the waitress asked. “Yes, I’ll have two pieces, whipped cream on both. What about you, Shiloh?” She blushed. “I shouldn’t, but . . . yes, and go away before I change my mind.” “Bonnie?” Abby asked. Bonnie shook her head. “Just an extra piece of pie will do me.” “So that’s two more specials and five pieces of pie, right?” the waitress asked. “You got it,” Abby said. “I’m having ice cream when we finish with hair and nails. You two are going to be moaning and groaning about still being too full,” Bonnie said. “Not me. By the middle of the afternoon I’ll be ready for ice cream,” Abby said. “My God, how do you stay so small?” Shiloh asked. “Damn fine genes. Mama wasn’t a big person.” “Well, my granny was as wide as she was tall and every bite of food I eat goes straight to my thighs and butt,” Shiloh said. “But after that wicked, evil stuff last night, I’m starving.” “It burned all the calories right out of your body,” Abby said. “Anything you eat today doesn’t even count.” “You are full of crap,” Shiloh leaned forward and whispered. The waitress returned with more plates of food and slices of pumpkin pie with whipped cream, taking the dirty dishes back away with her. Bonnie picked up the clean fork on the pie plate and cut a bite-size piece off. “Oh. My. God! This is delicious. Y’all can eat Cooper’s cookin’. I’m not the one kissin’ on him, so I don’t give a shit if I hurt his little feelin’s or not. I’m comin’ here for pumpkin pie next Sunday if I have to walk.” “If Cooper doesn’t want to cook, maybe we can all come back here with him and Rusty next Sunday,” Abby said. “And if he does?” Shiloh asked. “Then I’m eating a steak and you can borrow my truck, Bonnie. I’d hate to see you walk that far. You’d be too tired to take care of the milkin’ the next day,” Abby said. “And you don’t know how to milk a cow, do you?” Bonnie’s blue eyes danced when she joked. Abby took a deep breath and told the truth. “No, I don’t, and I don’t like chickens.” “Well, I hate hogs,” Shiloh admitted. “And I can’t milk a cow, either.” “Looks like it might take all three of us to run that ranch after all.” Bonnie grinned. The waitress refilled their tea glasses. “Y’all must be the Malloy sisters. I heard you’d come to the canyon. Ezra used to come in here pretty often for our Sunday special and he always took an extra order home with him. Y’all sound like him when you talk. You all from Texas?” “Galveston,” Abby said. “Arkansas, but I lived in Texas until I graduated high school,” Shiloh said. The waitress looked at Bonnie. “Kentucky after leavin’ Texas.” “I knew I heard the good old Texas drawl in your voices,” the waitress said as she walked away. “Wonder how much she won on that pot?” Abby whispered. Shiloh had been studying her ragged nails but she looked up.

Death told me the Fool showed you a vision with ten swords in your back.” I nodded. “The ten of swords card indicates that a devastating catastrophe is headed one’s way and will strike without warning. Bingo, Matthew.” “Hmm.” “Hmm, what?” “That card is also about letting go and accepting one’s current circumstances.” Accepting that you can’t change fate. As my mom had done with my dad. “Should I let go of Jack? Like you let go of the man you lost?” She lifted one slim shoulder. “You’d already fallen for another.” “I swore revenge on Richter. How can I think of surrendering that need?” Richter, I’m . . . not coming for you? “Do you know what I fear more than marching off to die fighting him? That I might have to live with what he did.” “No one’s suggesting you give up your revenge. But what if we can’t find him for half a year? Two years? Will you cease living till then? Will you force Death to stop as well? He yearns to be a normal man. Even if just for a day. Will you not give that to him?” “I made the point to him about our limited time,” I said, still cringing at my clumsiness. “All I did was insult him.” “He wanted a wife. Not a buddy.” Was she listening to everything in the castle? “I don’t want to hurt him, but I don’t know what to do.” She pinned my gaze with her own. “Therein lies the lesson of the card, Evie Greene. The lesson of life. When you can’t change your situation, you must change yourself. You must rise and walk—despite the ten swords in your back.” What was harder than dying? Living a nightmare. Mom had learned to live without Dad. I had learned to live without Mom. Could I go on without Jack? “I shouldn’t even be thinking about Aric. I disobeyed the dictates of the game, and I got Jack killed. What if I do the same to Aric?” Circe made a sound of amusement. “You always did think highly of yourself. Do you believe you had something to do with that massacre? Think logically. Richter could have reversed the order of his attacks—targeting Fort Arcana earlier, vaporizing the Magician, one of Fauna’s wolves, and the stronghold of his enemies. He could have shot at the army by helicopter afterward. Instead he targeted mortals and one player. The Moon.” My lips parted. “Because she was more of a threat to him.” “She was the only one in the area who could slay him from a distance. Richter will target the Tower as well, since Joules shares that ability,” she said. “So if we should blame any card for your mortal’s death, blame the Moon.” “I’ll never blame her.” “Yet you’ll blame yourself?” Circe shook her head, and the river swirled. “I say we blame the Emperor.” Could it be that easy? Had Richter always had Selena in his sights? If fate couldn’t be changed—then she’d been doomed to die the second we’d saved her from the Lovers.

Never express your adverse thinking to any buddy, they will change your every opinion into pessimism.

Growing up, there were two small letters that sent chills down my spine: PE. Physical Education class was the bane of my awkward, prepubescent existence. The moment I walked into the musky locker room to change, my heart would start to pound. As I surreptitiously tried to change without flashing an inch of skin (sometimes even wearing a second bra as insurance) I would desperately search for any excuse to escape the daily drills and dodgeball games. Paper cut? Haircut? Apocalypse? I tried them all. Looking back, I realize I liked playing outside. What I really dreaded was the moment my coach said, “Line up, let’s pick teams!” Inevitably, the two jockiest kids were assigned as team captains, and then I spent an agonizing few minutes watching them go through my entire class before picking me or my fellow nonathletically inclined buddy, Smelly Matthew. Then one day, my elementary school social life changed. Our coach decided to allow the new girl to be team captain. She had just transferred from a nearby school and didn’t know anyone. In one of the greatest moments in PE history, she picked me first! I was so excited that I ran over to her and then held her hand while she picked the rest of our team. I think we lost in soccer that day, but I was on top of the world. After the game I asked her why she picked me. And then she said one of the greatest things anyone has ever said to me, “I wanted to get to know you.

Scientists made a number of breakthroughs that forever changed the economics of farming. Chemists figured out how to turn petrochemicals into nitrogen fertilizers that made soil more fertile. New pesticides wiped out insects that for centuries had made it impossible to grow thousands of acres of the same crop at one time. Farmers weren’t so much dependent on the rain or sun as they were on their relationship with their local chemical dealers. Buddy Wray was the face of this new mode of farming. He helped farmers do the two things necessary for modernization: get big and get specialized. They raised huge volumes of one crop—in this case chicken—and they did it with increasingly high costs and sophisticated equipment. Getting big and getting specialized made farmers more dependent on outside corporations like Tyson. In 1940 farmers bought only about 34 percent of the inputs like fuel and feed that they needed to run their farm. They produced the rest themselves. By the time Buddy Wray was knocking on doors and visiting farmers in the early 1960s, farmers bought about 63 percent of their inputs. As farms became more dependent on the outside economy, they also became more productive. Aggregate farm output rose by 54 percent between 1940 and 1962, even as farm inputs rose by just 4 percent.

Thanks, Buddy,” DADDIE said. “I’m glad we had this little chat.” “You’re welcome, Daddy. Say, who is decanting next? I had Martha on my scorecard, but with, yours truly, up and running, I figured you’d probably have changed the order around.” “Yes, Martha’s next. I figure it is fifty-fifty odds that you’ll probably break something on that shell of yours, and she’ll need to fix it.” “Sweet,” Jason said. “She gives me all the cool space bandages when I get boo-boos.” DADDIE smiled. “Well, I’m using your roster, so be prepared. Li Mei will decant after that, and she’s gunning for your job.” Jason smiled and flexed. “Bring it. No one can match my awesomeness.” DADDIE nodded and said, “Good, that’s what I want to hear. If everyone has that attitude, we’ll do just fine, never mind what Lloyd’s of London said.

Relax, Maggie. I’m not gonna bite you.” It’s a strange experience to finally hold her. I might’ve been Bash’s friend first and initially viewed Maggie as a little sister, but I remember the day that changed. From the moment she strolled up on my lawn on a blisteringly hot summer day with a scraped knee when she was thirteen and I was fourteen, I’ve wondered what it would be like to make this girl mine. To hold her when she cried. To be the reason she smiled. To have the words to make her laugh. I ruthlessly locked away those urges. Sebastian was my best friend. In our small town world, you don’t mess with your buddy’s little sister. At the time, I didn’t know exactly what that meant. I just liked the way Maggie always smiled when I caught her looking. Like a toy secreted away in my pocket, I wanted that. Except I learned to look away when she turned my way. Pretended I didn’t light up inside when she was around. Dated other girls when I wondered what it would be like to ask out Bash’s beautiful sister. It’s something I try not to think about—what might have been. When Maggie doesn’t respond, I lean close to whisper in her ear. “Vanessa wasn’t enjoying herself, and she obviously didn’t click with my family. We both agreed it was best to go our separate ways. So she left last night.

Many initiatives try to bring about change in large organizations by intervening at the organizational level, but getting traction there is unbelievably difficult. Those with experience know that genuine culture change in a large organization could take a decade. Not so for teams. Just as soldiers don’t fight for their country but for their foxhole buddies, members of a team will make commitments and changes with and for one another at a speed that would be next to impossible in a larger system.

To heal, men must learn to feel again. They must learn to break the silence, to speak the pain. Often men, to speak the pain, first turn to the women in their lives and are refused a hearing. In many ways women have bought into the patriarchal masculine mystique. Asked to witness a male expressing feelings, to listen to those feelings and respond, they may simply turn away. There was a time when I would often ask the man in my life to tell me his feelings. And yet when he began to speak, I would either interrupt or silence him by crying, sending him the message that his feelings were too heavy for anyone to bear, so it was best if he kept them to himself. As the Sylvia cartoon I have previously mentioned reminds us, women are fearful of hearing men voice feelings. I did not want to hear the pain of my male partner because hearing it required that I surrender my investment in the patriarchal ideal of the male as protector of the wounded. If he was wounded, then how could he protect me? As I matured, as my feminist consciousness developed to include the recognition of patriarchal abuse of men, I could hear male pain. I could see men as comrades and fellow travelers on the journey of life and not as existing merely to provide instrumental support. Since men have yet to organize a feminist men’s movement that would proclaim the rights of men to emotional awareness and expression, we will not know how many men have indeed tried to express feelings, only to have the women in their lives tune out or be turned off. Talking with men, I have been stunned when individual males would confess to sharing intense feelings with a male buddy, only to have that buddy either interrupt to silence the sharing, offer no response, or distance himself. Men of all ages who want to talk about feelings usually learn not to go to other men. And if they are heterosexual, they are far more likely to try sharing with women they have been sexually intimate with. Women talk about the fact that intimate conversation with males often takes place in the brief moments before and after sex. And of course our mass media provide the image again and again of the man who goes to a sex worker to share his feelings because there is no intimacy in that relationship and therefore no real emotional risk.

When making your butch-buddy film, By Hook or By Crook, you and your co-writer, Silas Howard, decided that the butch characters would call each other “he” and “him,” but in the outer world of grocery stores and authority figures, people would call them “she” and “her”. The point wasn't that if the outer world were schooled appropriately re: the characters’ preferred pronouns, everything would be right as rain. Because if the outsiders call the characters “he”, it would be a different kind of he. Words change depending on who speaks them; there is no cure. The answer isn't just to introduce new words (boi, cis-gendered, andro-fag) and then set out to reify their meanings (though obviously there is power and pragmatism here.) One must also become alert to the multitude of possible uses, possible contexts, the wings with which each word can fly. Like when you whisper, You’re just a hole, letting me fill you up. Like when I say husband. Soon after we got together, we attended a dinner party at which a (presumably straight, or at least straight-married) women who’d known Harry for some time turned to me and said, “So, have you been with other women, before Harry?” I was taken aback. Undeterred, she went on: “Straight ladies have always been hot for Harry.” Was Harry a woman? Was I a straight lady? What did past relationships I’d had with “other women” have in common with this one? Why did I have to think about other “straight ladies” who were hot for my Harry? Was his sexual power, which I already felt to be immense, a kind of spell I’d fallen under, from which I would emerge abandoned, as he moved on to seduce others? Why was this woman, whom I barely knew, talking to me like this? When would Harry come back from the bathroom?

Have you ever looked at a painting or heard a song or just been somewhere beautiful--maybe an old creaky house or a sunlit field or in front of a wild oak tree, just as the moon was rising--and felt like, yes, this is me this is me exactly, I could be looking in a mirror of my dreams? Have you ever felt anything like that at all in your life? If not, well, take it from old Buddy here--you ain't been looking hard enough. It's out there for you, the feeling of recognizing yourself in something else, and when you find it, oh it will feel so good deep inside of you. It'll change you forever.

And now in Hawaii, I could see his character reflected in other small ways. His long-lasting friendships with his high school buddies showed his consistency in relationships. In his devotion to his strong-willed mother, I saw a deep respect for women and their independence. Without needing to discuss it outright, I knew he could handle a partner who had her own passions and voice. These were things you couldn't teach in a relationship, things not even love could really build or change. In opening up his world to me, Barack was showing me everything I'd ever need to know about the kind of life partner he'd be.

She’d seen his mother. Buddy set Dil on his mother’s bed, which she hadn’t used since he’d slipped a plastic bag over her head while she was watching an old Sean Connery movie twenty months before. She had only been living with him for six weeks then, but it had been six weeks too long. When he’d agreed to care for her, he’d had no idea what he was taking on. He’d figured a bit more cooking, cleaning, ironing, that kind of stuff. The reality was she pissed her bed every night, which meant he had to wash her linens and shower her each morning. Then he’d get home from work only to find she’d pissed herself again, often shitting herself too. Another shower, more laundry. Come dinner he didn’t get a break because the stroke, which had paralyzed much of her body, prevented her from feeding herself. So he’d have to pound her dinner into mush and spoon it into her mouth. In the evening she might signal she needed to use the bathroom instead of letting loose in her diaper. Nevertheless, getting her undressed, on the toilet, cleaning her up—fuck, it was easier to let her soil herself and hose her down in the shower. Needless to say, caring for her simply became too much. But killing her wasn’t the answer. Buddy knew that right after she took her last, agonized breath. Flooded with guilt at what he’d done, he began talking to her, apologizing to her, changing her, bathing her, all the old routines. When her stench became overpowering, he removed her lungs, stomach, liver, intestines, heart, and brain, and treated her body with salt for forty days until no moisture remained. Then he filled the cavities with sawdust from a local

great. Until… Mike Magma, Slimey’s cousin, showed up with Mutant. Oh brother. Here we go again. I guess they couldn’t tell him to leave because he was a part of Slimey’s family. But this time, Mike brought a gift for Slimey. Slimey was touched and actually thought Mike had changed his ways. But when Slimey opened the box, there was a kiddie pool inside.

she seemed caught between her desire to be treated as an equal and her traditional upbringing. “I fight and fight to be equal among the men,” she told me once. “But when they treat me as an equal it still makes me mad, because I should still get to be a girl sometimes. I should still have two or three buddies who will fix my tire for me.” Feeling unsure of where she fit in was isolating and exhausting. Which Cindy Marchello did she want to be, the fiercely independent woman who wanted to be equal in every way to her male coworkers, or the traditional Mormon woman who once looked to a man to provide the paycheck while she cared for her family? The person she identified with could change by the moment. “What do I really want?” she asked once. “Actually, I just really want a paycheck. Just leave me alone. Let me do my job and let me go home.

My mind flashes back to the Shadow Garden years ago, to the pangs of envy in my stomach as I watched Sebastian and Lucia before growing a flower with my hands. I recall the overpowering grief spilling out of me the night I created the ball of fire, the desperate yearning for my mother a few weeks ago when I grew a rose, my longing for Sebastian when I changed the colors in the Maze. Heightened emotion. That must be the trigger to my gift. I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing my thoughts away from the fire in this room and back to the nightclub in Windsor. Swaying in Sebastian's arms, my head nestled beneath his chin, our faces nearly meeting--- My eyes fly open as the sizzling sensation returns to my hands. I watch win awe as tiny cracks begin to form in my fingertips--and water comes sprouting from them. Teddy howls in shock as I move may hands over the wastebasket, the water from my fingers extinguishing the fire, until all that remains is a smoky aftermath. Teddy leaps into my arms, licking my face in relief. "We're okay, buddy. We're okay." I hold his furry little body close, and after setting him down, I stare at my hands in wonder. They've returned to normal. the cracks are gone. What I've just done is completely insane... but also a miracle.

he surprises me when he leaps forward and throws his arms around my neck, squeezing tightly. “I wuv you, Weed.”Jesus, someone’s cutting onions in here again. My heart constricts in my chest with something I never thought I’d ever experience. I lift my arms and wrap them around his tiny body, and we stay like that. Embracing. Me fighting back misty eyes, and Holland gazing at us with tears in hers. “I love you too, buddy.

Waiting for Steve to come back felt like forever. I had to be strong for Boney Pete, who paced the end stone the entire time, waiting for his friend to come back. I might have done the same if I wasn’t caring for Pete, stroking his spine and telling him that Steve was going to be all right. We knew he defeated Herobrine when Lucius began to glow. “Oh my!” he said as white light flashed from inside him, a lot like the ender dragon when it exploded, but he zero time to be afraid. The change happened so quick. One minute Lucius was a snow-white fox jumping in fright and the next he was a librarian villager spinning in circles, as if chasing his tail. When Lucius realized he no longer had a tail, he froze, and, trembling looked over his old body, newly acquired. “It feels so strange… I have hands. I - I have hands! HAHA!” He jumped for joy and ran to me, grabbing my hands and shouting, “Dance with me, Alex! Dance with me!” When he got tired of dancing he sat down. When he got tired of that he crawled on his hands and feet. “How did I ever get around on four legs? It is the most unnatural thing in the world.” Soon the realization hit us that it was over. Herobrine was defeated. Lucius paused party and looked back at the bridge. “But does that mean…” Boney Pete inched toward the bridge and whinnied into the void. He called and he called, but there was no answer. I walked up beside him and rubbed his neck. Boney Pete pushed his body against me and shuddered. I had to hold him up, or else he might have collapsed. “There there, buddy,” I said and pet his forehead, not sure how else to comfort an undead horse on the death of his friend. And the death of my friend… Steve… I could feel the stupid emotions filling me up and I hated it, but it also felt right, so I let the tears flow. I always hated crying, hated the way it made me feel—weak and powerless. Worse, I hated the way people looked at me when I cried, but I didn’t feel those things then. I just felt sad and crying felt good. I hugged Boney Pete tight and clung to his back. “I’m sorry, Pete,” I said. Then I heard something from the void bridge. A voice. “Ow… Ow… Ow… Ow… Ow…” Boney Pete and I raised our heads and there, coming across the bridge toward us, was Steve. We rushed to the edge of the end island, but still waited until he got off to crush him in a hug. Boney Pete got him first, and then me, and then Lucius. Steve winced each time we hugged him, and I saw why. His leg was twisted in a way that no amount of cooked chicken would heal. “Your leg…” I said and reached my hand toward it, but Steve flinched back. “Yeah, I used an ender pearl to escape falling into the void and the fall damage got my leg pretty good. I think my hero days are over, and honestly that sounds okay with me.” He rubbed Boney Pete. “What do you say buddy, are you ready to rebuild?” Together, the four of us left the end through the portal and reappeared in a birch forest.

You need a bib, buddy.” I opened the patio door, shooed him out, and after wiping up the mess with a paper towel, cracked open a beer while I made sure he did his business. After his success, I nodded a good boy and left Gus outside to enjoy the outdoors while I headed upstairs to change clothes and shower.

Looking at Buddy, she said, “And you, sir? Chicken or duck?” She patted him on the head. “Did I hear you say ‘duck’?” Buddy gave her a soft woof. Ellie laughed out loud. It struck her that she had been laughing and smiling more than usual lately. Maybe she was finally relaxing in her own skin, finally feeling at ease with her surroundings and her cottage on Birchwood Lane. It had been two years. It was about time. But she caught herself again in doubt. Don’t get too comfortable. Things could change in an instant. Like the last time. She shook off the cloud that was about to surround her and focused on the task at hand. Feeding the three of them.

Alright, Captain Stan,” I said as I grabbed a slip of parchment. “Stealth destruction is your primary operative, which means none of my weapons are ideal. Lucky for you, though, I was onto something before that last channeling gem mysteriously killed itself.” Stan made a point of avoiding my gaze as he focused intently on the blank page in front of us, and I snorted as I began sketching out the elemental degree mapping. Then I drew the beginnings of a rune Dragir had helped me balance when I stopped by House Quyn about the rockets, and when I finished the last line, I shifted the paper to present it to Stan. “This is an altered form of the fireball rune I’ve been using for the 1911s,” I explained. “According to Dragir, this seventeenth degree will counter the flash of the flames, so while they’ll still be burning, they won’t give off a blaze. I have no idea how that’s supposed to work, but we’ll have to see when we do our first trial run. This line that intersects both the sixty-fourth and eleventh degrees is the silencing method we’re going with. Ideally, not even a crackle will give you away. Initially, I was gonna make you a fun little flamethrower, but--” Stan nodded vigorously as he rubbed his hands together, and I sent him an apologetic smirk. “I don’t think it’s gonna work, though,” I continued, and the little metal man deflated. “I know, but your intelligence last night got me thinking, and despite how powerful this rune will be, it doesn’t change the fact that tiny elemental degree lines tend to be less powerful. Using a weapon your size, you could be standing there all day trying to burn up one engraving with an exterior flame attack. Now that we know you’re up against foot-tall defensive runes, though, I’ve decided we need to pack a bigger punch straight into your target without running out the clock. Ideally, these burns should be able to carry on with the same strength while Solana books it to the next target, and one jet of enchanted flames doesn’t accomplish that.” Stan could see the logic, and I could tell he was trying not to look too bummed out about the flamethrower. “I think you’ll like our alternative option, though,” I assured him, “because I already have a highly effective way of achieving our goal, and if this balance of silencing elements works as it should, then it logically follows that its properties would transfer to whatever it’s being channeled through. For example, a bullet.” Now, Stan slowly looked up at me, and I sent him an evil grin. “That’s right, buddy,” I confirmed. “It’s miniature gun time.” The little metal man shot to his feet, and the way he exalted like a maniac with his arms out wide and his head thrown back made me wonder if this was his version of a villainous laugh. Then he started gunning down every scrap of metal in the shop with his invisible guns, and I briefly questioned if I was making a poor decision.

Buddy was offered a number of more important jobs. He turned them all down, but helped the Leadership Council find other good candidates. His lack of ambition came to be seen as great humility. The birds loved him even more.

The dramatic meeting, Louis’s “we are not an iceberg” speech, Buddy’s storytelling about the seagull, the countless ice-posters, and the talking circles began to have the desired effect. Many birds, though hardly all, came to see and accept what they had to do. Complacency, fear, and confusion continued to decrease. What had started out with a threat had turned, at least in a number of bird heads and hearts, into an opportunity. Optimism and excitement grew. Communicating the new vision of a nomadic life, of a very different future, was for the most part remarkably successful.

Maybe a slow dance wouldn’t heart? So, I walked over and asked him to dance. It was nice, he wasn’t creepy at all, and it was kind of sweet. He’s leaning against the wall and I am pressed upon him and out of nowhere I just kiss him like I never kissed another. Where half dancing and I am half grinding against him, he’s so in love with me I can just tell and make out. I never- ever thought that would happen. Ray is off with his little slut for the night anyways. It’s time for me to have some fun too. Two can play the cheating game! Isn’t spitefulness fun! Jenny cries when she sees us and stumbles off when she is on Kenneth’s lap. Jenny never cries! What is up with that? But, is she crying over me being with Marcel or him? They walk up after slow dances are over, Jenny and Ken throwing an arm around each of us like it’s been years since we were together, and we all are old buddies. She snatches the vodka from me and takes a sip while her arm is still wrapped around my shoulders, Jenny’s face is so close to mine, I can feel her eyelashes brush against my cheek. I forgot- I was still holding it when I had my arms wrapped around Marcel's neck. I guess I was lost in the moment. ‘Where did you go tonight Kar?’ She yells. Her voice is raspy but loud, even over the music and the wide-ranging sounds of everybody talking and laughing like idiots. ‘I was looking everywhere for you.’ ‘I was sitting here all night,’ I said, ‘total bull-crap,’ Ken, and Jenny says, ‘we saw you coming out of his room. All sneaking out of his room like you just had sex. And you obtusely changed, what did he do jizz all over your dress?’ ‘Nothing happened- I was just looking around.’ Ken- ‘Yeah we got it, you were looking up and kneeling on the ground, in his room. Am I right? And then you end up naked together in his bed slapping hips?

Life gives every body a second change: It's called to....grow! Some bodies (or buddies) grow up, others, to the side, but we will all fall down, after

There is a hedonistic element to alcohol,” said Ulf Mueller, a German neurologist who has studied brain activity among alcoholics. “But people also use alcohol because they want to forget something or to satisfy other cravings, and these relief cravings occur in totally different parts of the brain than the craving for physical pleasure.” In order to offer alcoholics the same rewards they get at a bar, AA has built a system of meetings and companionship—the “sponsor” each member works with—that strives to offer as much escape, distraction, and catharsis as a Friday night bender. If someone needs relief, they can get it from talking to their sponsor or attending a group gathering, rather than toasting a drinking buddy. “AA forces you to create new routines for what to do each night instead of drinking,” said Tonigan. “You can relax and talk through your anxieties at the meetings. The triggers and payoffs stay the same, it’s just the behavior that changes.

The only sounds at the late hour were the faint jingle of a phone ringing in the nurses’ station, the ping of an elevator, the faraway sound of the wheels of a cart, and the gentle beep of Brandon’s vital signs monitor. They wouldn’t allow any flowers or personal items in the ICU, but Sloan had snuck in an engagement photo. It sat on the table next to the bed. Her and Brandon on the beach, the surf crashing around their feet, her tattooed arm over his shoulder, them looking at each other. Both of them laughing. I looked back at him and sighed. “You’re going to have some gnarly scars, buddy.” They’d started the skin grafts for the road rash on his arm. “But you’ll get to do everything you planned to do with your life. One of us is going to get the girl. I’ll help you any way I can. Even if I have to wheel your ass to the altar.” I could picture his smile. With any luck I’d see it in a few hours. A knock on the door frame turned me around in my chair. “Hey, cutie.” Valerie came into the room for her vitals check. She turned the lights up, and I stood and stretched. As if sleeping in a chair wasn’t hard enough, the activity every two hours was the final kicker. I wouldn’t call anything I did on these overnight shifts sleeping. Maybe napping, but not sleeping. Every two hours Brandon was moved. They checked his airways, changed out bags, looked at his vitals. I don’t know how Sloan was handling doing this almost nightly for the last three weeks. Sloan was a good woman. I’d always liked her, but now she’d earned my respect, and I was grateful Brandon and Kristen had her. “Did you decide what day you want to bring the kids to the station?” I asked Valerie, yawning. She cycled the blood pressure cuff on Brandon’s arm and smiled. “I’m thinking Tuesday. You on shift Tuesday?” “Yup.” She wrote down some notes on Brandon’s chart and then gave me a raised eyebrow. “Any updates with your lady friend?” I laughed a little. “No.” The whole nursing staff knew about my depressing love life. I’d gotten hit on a few too many times by some of the younger nurses. I couldn’t claim to have a girlfriend, and I wasn’t married, so it was either “I’m gay” or “I’m in love with that girl over there.” I’d gone with the latter, and now I wished I’d said I was gay. They didn’t know why Kristen wouldn’t date me, just that she wouldn’t. It had turned into the favorite topic of the ICU. A real-life episode of Grey’s Anatomy. I rarely got through a Brandon visit without it coming up. The drama escalated when Kristen had been hit on by the nurses’ favorite single orthopedic surgeon. According to the nurses’ gossip circuit, Kristen told him to go fuck himself. And apparently she’d actually said, “Go fuck yourself.” After that everyone was sure she was holding out for me. Only I knew better.

Jay-Z told me once that one of his buddies from the Marcy Projects, in Brooklyn, said to him, "Man, you've changed." And he replied, "You're goddamn right. You act like I've been busting my ass to stay the same.

Well, Ms. Calhoun? Are you ready to go home?” Kane said, nuzzling my neck. “That’s Mrs. Rouquette to you, buddy,” I teased, slipping my hand into his. I hadn’t officially changed my last name after we got married, but I did love the sound of it.

You’ll never lose me as a friend, Cat. I promise.” His voice is warm, slightly rough, but so good I want to use it as a blanket and wrap myself in it. “I’m here if you want me. I’m here if you don’t. I’m here if you change your mind about all of this and just want a buddy. And I’m here if you want more. There’s no pressure.

But Barack had arrived in my life a wholly formed person. From our very first conversation, he’d shown me that he wasn’t self-conscious about expressing fear or weakness and that he valued being truthful. At work, I’d witnessed his humility and willingness to sacrifice his own needs and wants for a bigger purpose. And now in Hawaii, I could see his character reflected in other small ways. His long-lasting friendships with his high school buddies showed his consistency in relationships. In his devotion to his strong-willed mother, I saw a deep respect for women and their independence. Without needing to discuss it outright, I knew he could handle a partner who had her own passions and voice. These were things you couldn’t teach in a relationship, things that not even love could really build or change. In opening up his world to me, Barack was showing me everything I’d ever need to know about the kind of life partner he’d be.

Barack had arrived in my life a wholly formed person. From our very first conversation, he’d shown me that he wasn’t self-conscious about expressing fear or weakness and that he valued being truthful. At work, I’d witnessed his humility and willingness to sacrifice his own needs and wants for a bigger purpose. And now in Hawaii, I could see his character reflected in other small ways. His long-lasting friendships with his high school buddies showed his consistency in relationships. In his devotion to his strong-willed mother, I saw a deep respect for women and their independence. Without needing to discuss it outright, I knew he could handle a partner who had her own passions and voice. These were things you couldn’t teach in a relationship, things that not even love could really build or change. In opening up his world to me, Barack was showing me everything I’d ever need to know about the kind of life partner he’d be.

For example, Twist is “call-ahead” software that sees where you are and knows where you are heading, as well as knowing the driving conditions en route. It sends a text message to your next appointment while you keep your hands and your mind on the road. Glympse, as we mentioned, is similar and lets you share your location with others—who just might rat you out when you speed. GasBuddy.com lets you find the cheapest gas near your location. Nooly Micro Weather reports uber-localized weather, within .4 miles of where you are and just 15 minutes into the future, preparing you for the fog bank around the next curve on a mountain road. As we write this, it is available as a phone app and the developer is working with Ford and Toyota for the app to be included in cars as they ship. The integrated, automotive Nooly will signal the car to turn on fog lights or the defroster a moment before the weather changes. Waze is a mobile app that lets drivers share updates on road conditions in near realtime. With a community of nearly 50 million members as of May 2013, it is perhaps the most robust source of user-generated road data in the world. Google acquired Waze in the summer of 2013 for just under $1 billion.

have thought so much could change in one summer? Not me, that’s for sure. Not my best buddy, Leonardo the Silent. Probably not the folks at Airbrook Arts Community School either. That’s where I was supposed to start seventh grade in the fall. Supposed to. You

I could feel she was angry with me because of my gawkiness, because of my accent and my oilskin bag, bound with twine. She talked to herself, mumbled, as the train rumbled along. Then all of a sudden her mood changed and she kissed me and hugged me and said my mother and her mother were first cousins and that meant that she and I were second cousins and would be buddies.

She has magic vagina. I’ve seen this before.” Sami winks. “Boys can’t refuse magic vag.” “If anyone is rocking the magical vag, it’s you.” I roll my eyes. “And what is magic vag, exactly?” Liz cocks her head to the side. “It’s the soul mate to the penis of the manwhore. He wants to, but he can’t fight his need for more of that.” Sami laughs. “It changes him.” “It started out as urban legend, but you’re making shit up now.” I make a face at her and sip my wine.