By Frenzy I Ruin Quotes

For the first time in my life, I fear death because it would mean I’d lose you.

I want the same, Rory. You are my forever.

I was in love, but I wasn’t blind.

But after all-- I say this as a kind of afterthought in conclusion-- why bother with success at all? I have observed that the successful people get very little real enjoyment out of life. In fact the contrary is true. If I had to choose-- with an eye to having a really pleasant life-- between success and ruin, I should prefer ruin every time. I have several friends who are completely ruined-- some two or three times-- in a large way of course; and I find that if I want to get a really good dinner, where the champagne is just as it ought to be, and where hospitality is unhindered by mean thoughts of expense, I can get it best at the house of a ruined man.

In my case love and hate were like toxic lovers dancing their destructive tango inside my body.

What do you see when you look at me?” “I see you,” he answered as if it was obvious. “It’s not like I see a place, or a time, or a name: just you. Your essence. Your soul. That’s how I find you every time you come back. I know it’s hard to understand, but your soul calls me…and I’m drawn to it. I couldn’t keep away if I tried.” Sage raised his hand to my cheek, cupping it gently. I closed my eyes, resting against the warmth of his palm. When I opened them he had moved closer. I closed the distance between us and kissed him. I felt dizzy and hot and floaty, like every cliché…but it was true. I couldn’t feel my feet. I finally felt like I was where my soul belonged. There was only one problem. The gearshift was digging into my side. “Ow!” I winced. “You okay?” “Yeah…it’s just…” I gestured down, feeling like an idiot for ruining the moment. Sage didn’t seem to mind. He reached down and moved his seat back to its maximum leg room, then held out his hand. I grabbed it and clambered over the center console, clumsily ducking and folding myself until I finally settled onto his lap, straddling his legs. It was the least coordinated act of seduction ever. “Better?” he asked. “Better.” He kissed me, sliding his hands up the back of my shirt. It felt incredible. Without breaking away from his lips, I reached underneath his tee and felt his bare, sleek chest. My breath came faster, caught up in the frenzy of finally letting go and doing what I’d been dying to do from the second I’d seen Sage on the beach. “Wait,” he said. He reached down and pulled a lever. I let out a little scream as his seat back dropped all the way and I fell on top of him. I loved the feel of his body under mine. I didn’t want a single part of us not touching. “Better now?” Sage murmured into my ear. It wasn’t fair of him to ask me a question when he was doing that. I could barely function, never mind put together an answer. “Much better,” I said. “It’s practically a bed.” “Is it?” Sage agreed, and in his eyes I saw exactly what that could mean. “Oh,” I said, suddenly nervous. “But…we can’t. I mean, we don’t have…” “I do,” he said, leaning down to kiss the hollow where my neck met my shoulder. “You do?” I tensed up. Why did he have one? For who? The corner of Sage’s mouth turned up. “For us, Clea. The drugstore in Rio? I kind of had a feeling…” He moved his lips back to my neck. He nibbled on my earlobe, and I whimpered. “Oh,” I managed. “Well…then…” “I love you, Clea.” Everything tunneled in, and I heard the words echo in my head. Sage loved me. Me. I didn’t even realize I’d stopped breathing until he said my name, concerned. “Clea?” I looked at him and immediately relaxed. “I love you, too.” We kissed, and I actually felt myself melting into him as my last coherent thoughts gave way to pure sensation.

Reaching the door of his mother’s apartments, Marcus found it locked. He rattled the handle violently. “Open it,” he bellowed. “Open it now!” Silence, and then a maid’s frightened reply from within. “Milord… the countess bade me to tell you that she is resting.” “I’ll send her to her eternal fucking rest,” Marcus roared, “if this door isn’t opened now.” “Milord, please—” He drew back three or four paces and hurled himself against the door, which shook on its hinges and partially gave with a splintering sound. There were fearful cries in the hallway from a pair of female guests who happened to witness the astonishing display of raging frenzy. “Dear God,” one exclaimed to the other, “he’s gone berserk!” Marcus drew back again and lunged at the door, this time sending chunks of paneling flying. He felt Simon Hunt’s hands grasp him from behind, and he whirled with his fist drawn back, ready to launch an attack on all fronts. “Jesus,” Hunt muttered, retreating a step or two with his hands raised in a defensive gesture. His face was taut and his eyes were wide, and he stared at Marcus as if he were a stranger. “Westcliff—” “Stay the hell out of my way!” “Gladly. But let me point out that if our positions were reversed, you would be the first to tell me to keep a cool—” Ignoring him, Marcus swerved back to the door and targeted the disjointed lock with a powerful, accurately aimed blow of his boot heel. The housemaid’s scream shot through the doorway as the ruined portal swung open. Bursting into the receiving room, Marcus charged toward the bedchamber, where the countess sat in a chair by a small hearth fire. Fully dressed and swathed in ropes of pearls, she stared at him with amused disdain. Breathing heavily, Marcus advanced on her with bloodlust racing through his veins. It was certain that the countess had no idea that she was in mortal danger, or she would not have received him so calmly. “Full of animal spirits today, are we?” she asked. “Your descent from gentleman to savage brute has been accomplished so very quickly. I must offer Miss Bowman my compliments on her efficacy.” “What have you done with her?” “Done with her?” Her expression taunted him with its innocent perplexity. “What the devil do you mean, Westcliff?” “You met with her at Butterfly Court this morning.” “I never walk that far from the manor,” the countess said haughtily. “What a ridiculous asser—” She let out a strident cry as Marcus seized her, his fingers wrapping around the pearl ropes and tightening them around her throat. “Tell me where she is, or I’ll snap your neck like a wishbone!” Simon Hunt seized him from behind once more, determined to prevent a murder from occurring. “Westcliff!” Marcus closed his hand in a harder grip around the pearls. He glared without blinking into his mother’s face, not missing the flicker of vindictive triumph that lurked in her eyes. He did not take his gaze from hers even as he heard his sister Livia’s voice. “Marcus,” she said urgently. “Marcus, listen to me! You have my permission to throttle her later. I’ll even help. But at least wait until we’ve found out what she’s done.” Marcus tightened the tension of the pearls until the elderly woman’s eyes seemed to protrude from their shallow sockets. “Your only value to me,” he said in a low tone, “is your knowledge of Lillian Bowman’s whereabouts. If I can’t obtain that from you, I’ll send you to the devil. Tell me, or I’ll choke it from you. And believe that I have enough of my father in me to do it without a second thought.

You shouldn’t ask that of me.” “Why not? “Because for you, I might actually do it. For you, I’ll try.

I think I’ve said enough. The rest is only for Aurora’s ears. I respect you Fabiano, but that doesn’t mean I’ll pour my heart out to you.” “I’m still not convinced you have one,” “For a long time, I wasn’t either.

The tattoo for Battista would be simple. A red B over my wrist because he was my blood.

You should figure them out with the help of people who care about you.” “Does that include you?” “It does, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to strangle you for the pain you’re causing your Mom and everyone else. Your strength, your dedication to the Camorra and your fight skills have made me incredibly proud in the past, but nothing would make me prouder than seeing you become a good father to your son, and a good man for Aurora.

I don’t know if I can be happy without him,

I need you. I want you. And I will stop at nothing until I get you. Until I’ve proven to you that I deserve you. At absolutely nothing.” His eyes darted to Battista. “And I’ll prove that I can be a good father for my son too.

Almost dying changed me.

He doesn’t know. Nobody does. Alvize was too scared of Dad’s reaction, so he was happy to keep it a secret when I asked him. When I lay there in my own blood, I realized that I’d missed so many opportunities, not to kill and torture, but to spend time with you and Battista, to show you what you mean to me, and I realized I needed to go home to you and my family.

Thank you for giving me a chance I didn’t deserve.

You know what I want,” she whispered. “I want commitment. I want love and fidelity. I want forever.” “I want the same, Rory. You are my forever.

t. “For the first time in my life, I fear death because it would mean I’d lose you.” “Then you better try not to get yourself killed in one of your crazy adventures.

While reading some old articles to jog my memory for this book, I came across an article in the Chicago Sun-Times by Rick Kogan, a reporter who traveled with Styx for a few concert dates in 1979. I remember him. When we played the Long Beach Civic Center’s 12,000-seat sports arena in California, he rode in the car with JY and me as we approached the stadium. His recounting of the scene made me smile. It’s also a great snapshot of what life was like for us back in the day. The article from 1980 was called, “The Band That Styx It To ‘Em.” Here’s what he wrote: “At once, a sleek, gray Cadillac limousine glides toward the back stage area. Small groups of girls rush from under trees and other hiding places like a pack of lions attacking an antelope. They bang on the windows, try to halt the driver’s progress by standing in front of the car. They are a desperate bunch. Rain soaks their makeup and ruins their clothes. Some are crying. “Tommy, Tommmmmmmmmy! I love you!” one girl yells as she bangs against the limousine’s window. Inside the gray limousine, James Young, the tall, blond guitarist for Styx who likes to be called J.Y. looks out the window. “It sure is raining,” he says. Next to him, bass player Chuck Panozzo, finishing the last part of a cover story on Styx in a recent issue of Record World magazine, nods his head in agreement. Then he chuckles, and says, “They think you’re Tommy.” “I’m not Tommy Shaw,” J.Y. screams. “I’m Rod Stewart.” “Tommy, Tommmmmmmmmy! I love you! I love you!” the girl persists, now trying desperately to jump on the hood of the slippery auto. “Oh brother,” sighs J.Y. And the limousine rolls through the now fully raised backstage door and he hurries to get out and head for the dressing room. This scene is repeated twice, as two more limousines make their way into the stadium, five and ten minutes later. The second car carries young guitarist Tommy Shaw, drummer John Panozzo and his wife Debbie. The groupies muster their greatest energy for this car. As the youngest member of Styx and because of his good looks and flowing blond hair, Tommy Shaw is extremely popular with young girls. Some of his fans are now demonstrating their affection by covering his car with their bodies. John and Debbie Panozzo pay no attention to the frenzy. Tommy Shaw merely smiles, and shortly all of them are inside the sports arena dressing room. By the time the last and final car appears, spectacularly black in the California rain, the groupies’ enthusiasm has waned. Most of them have started tiptoeing through the puddles back to their hiding places to regroup for the band’s departure in a couple of hours.” Tommy

In my case, love and hate were like toxic lovers, dancing their destructive tango inside my body.

Is it so bad that I want you, Rory? I thought that’s what you wanted all along.

I had a loving home, the fucking best family one could wish for in our world and beyond, but nothing is okay, trust me.” “Maybe you just tell yourself it’s not because it’s easier than working on yourself.” “Maybe,

I picked Battista up and pressed him to my chest. Funnily enough, I had absolutely no trouble building a connection with this little boy. Just like his father, he’d captured my heart.

I can’t exactly pop off with, “Hey, so Knight broke into our dorm room, fucked me into a frenzy where I may or may not have seen literal stars exploding all around us, left, and then I woke up with him on top of me again, only to find out, it wasn’t actually him, but a twin brother I didn’t even know he had…who I may or may not have been screwing around with this entire time, who also may not be his twin at all, but some weird freaky magical doppelgänger shit like in The Vampire Diaries when that brunette bitch pops out of nowhere and ruins everything.

rickcarufel Monday, September 23, 2013 This is more like death throes than growing pains. When all is said and done Goodreads is nothing more than a glorified forum. Like other forums when the trolls are allowed to rule the roost they fail and close. All the complaints blaming authors is a smoke screen for the stalker trolls who don’t even know what a book review is. They think a book review is a weapon to be used against writers destroy their reputations, careers, livelihood and dreams. They are reacting in a frenzied exodus at the thought they will have be limited to using book reviews to review book and not to destroy writers. The goodreads site has been dominated by a stalker troll gang and is in ruins. Add to that the fact the API they sell is a total fraud. The trolls are going through goodreads and leaving hundreds if not thousands of 1-star ratings because they are angry they will no longer be allowed to use reviews for personal attacks on authors. Aside from the 1-star, no-read attack reviews from the trolls they also have a list of top reviewers posted on the site. The top six reviewers are posting over 1200 reviews a week. That means each of these people are reading and reviewing almost 30 books a day. How is that even possible? As a result they are under investigation for fraud by the FTC. I know that many complaints about the fraudulent API have been filed. So Goodreads is not growing it is dying, going the route of myspace and other social media sites that failed due to troll infestations that were allowed to get out of hand.

12 Days of Christmas (Sonnet 1900) On the first day of Christmas my ode to thee, promise of messy love only sweetens by indignity. On the second day of Christmas my ode to thee, pocketful of moments become memories through amity. On the third day of Christmas my ode to thee, Christ ain't a cult but a voice against animosity. On the fourth day of Christmas my ode to thee, each act of hate is the same old crucifixion frenzy. On the fifth day of Christmas my ode to thee, intolerance is the desecration of sanctity. On the sixth day of Christmas my ode to thee, reason doesn't ruin, but enhances divinity. On the seventh day of Christmas my ode to thee, true miracle unfolds in everyday acts of empathy. On the eighth day of Christmas my ode to thee, save sermon on the mount all else is triviality. On the ninth day of Christmas my ode to thee, faith ought to enhance not degrade humanity. On the tenth day of Christmas my ode to thee, every stream reflects the same aspiring piety. On the eleventh day of Christmas my call to thee, every heart is a living church, from river to the sea. On the twelfth day of Christmas I entrust to thee, season of love and peace transcends ethnicity.