Bye July Quotes

A very wise dog woman once told me that dogs find owners, not the other way around. They pick you and they choose to stay with you. In that way, they are also giving you the end of their life. The deeper the bond, the harder it is to say good-bye. I know I’d rather have any amount of time with a dog I love and suffer the mourning than not have the time at all.

maybe you’re sleeping and I suppose I could just say this in the morning, but now I can’t sleep and I’m just lying here so I might as well get it over with, and well . . .I’m sorry about this afternoon, J.D. The first spill honestly was an accident, but the second . . . okay, that was completely uncalled for. I’m, um, happy to pay for the dry cleaning. And, well . . . I guess that’s it. Although you really might want to rethink leaving your jacket on your chair. I’m just saying. Okay, then. That’s what they make hangers for. Good. Fine. Good-bye.” J.D. heard the beep, signaling the end of the message, and he hung up the phone. He thought about what Payton had said—not so much her apology, which was question-ably mediocre at best—but something else. She thought about him while lying in bed. Interesting. Later that night, having been asleep for a few hours, J.D. shot up in bed He suddenly remembered—her shoe. Oops.

Don't go yet. Julie... If I could stay with you, I'd never leave. But you did leave. I know... I'm sorry. You never said good-bye...

I broke his heart though! When I refused to stay in his selfish New World, his stone heart broke into pieces!"..."I know it did because when he said good-bye, a splinter flew from his heart and pierced my own. And it's still there. I still feel it.

Will you date me when I ask you out? it asked. Yes. Even if I’m ugly and you don’t like my personality? Yes. No, you won’t. I will! You’re just saying that because you’re in a hurry. Well, it won’t be my fault if I miss the bus. Goodbye, sweetness. Bye! Where’s my backpack? It’s on the counter. Oh. Bye!

Sam’s voice comes through the phone. “Hey—so, I’m not sure if I should do this … Or if it will even work. I probably should have said this to you over the phone, but we ran out of time. Or maybe, the truth is, I was scared you would think of me differently … That is, if you knew why I picked up the phone that first time—” He pauses. “Before we hung up, you said something that made me feel a bit guilty. You said I picked up your call that night because you needed me. I guess part of that is true. But that isn’t the reason I answered.” A long pause. “The truth is … I picked up because—because I needed you. I needed to hear your voice again, Julie. Because I wanted to make sure you didn’t forget me. You see, I took you to all those places—like the fields, to see the stars that night—so that you’d always remember. So that whenever you looked up at the sky at night, you’d think of me. Because I didn’t want to let you go yet. I never wanted to say good-bye, Jules. And I[…]” Excerpt From You've Reached Sam Dustin Thao This material may be protected by copyright.

Her kiss was a good-bye and a promise and a dream.

Julie … if I could stay with you, I’d never leave.” “But you did leave.” “I know … I’m sorry.” “You never said good-bye…” “That’s because I never thought I had to…

Thank you … for not picking up the phone this time. Good-bye, Julie.

The Dead Father was slaying, in a grove of music and musicians. First he slew a harpist and then a performer upon the serpent and also a banger upon the rattle and also a blower of the Persian trumpet and one upon the Indian trumpet and one upon the Hebrew trumpet and one upon the Roman trumpet and one upon the Chinese trumpet of copper-covered wood. Also a blower upon the marrow trumpet and one upon the slide trumpet and one who wearing upon his head the skin of a cat performed upon the menacing murmurous cornu and three blowers on the hunting horn and several blowers of the conch shell and a player of the double aulos and flautists of all descriptions and a Panpiper and a fagotto player and two virtuosos of the quail whistle and a zampogna player whose fingering of the chanters was sweet to the ear and by-the-bye and during the rest period he slew four buzzers and a shawmist and one blower upon the water jar and a clavicytheriumist who was before he slew her a woman, and a stroker of the theorbo and countless nervous-fingered drummers as well as an archlutist, and then whanging his sword this way and that the Dead Father slew a cittern plucker and five lyresmiters and various mandolinists, and slew too a violist and a player of the kit and a picker of the psaltery and a beater of the dulcimer and a hurdy-gurdier and a player of the spike fiddle and sundry kettledrummers and a triangulist and two-score finger cymbal clinkers and a xylophone artist and two gongers and a player of the small semantron who fell with his iron hammer still in his hand and a trictrac specialist and a marimbist and a maracist and a falcon drummer and a sheng blower and a sansa pusher and a manipulator of the gilded ball. The Dead Father resting with his two hands on the hilt of his sword, which was planted in the red and steaming earth. My anger, he said proudly. Then the Dead Father sheathing his sword pulled from his trousers his ancient prick and pissed upon the dead artists, severally and together, to the best of his ability-four minutes, or one pint. Impressive, said Julie, had they not been pure cardboard. My dear, said Thomas, you deal too harshly with him. I have the greatest possible respect for him and for what he represents, said Julie, let us proceed.

Ms. Fitzpatrick, I think you mean. Listen, Julie, I’m kind of in the middle of an eighteen-person orgy. I’m the only girl, so they’re waiting on me. It’s a real sausage fest up here and I’ve only got so many orifices to accommodate. So, unless you’re offering to come up here to help a sister out, I need to go. Kay, thanks. Bye bye now.

I love you more than you can ever know, Julie. I’ll never forget the time we had together. So please don’t forget me, okay? Try to think of me from time to time. Even if it’s only for a moment. It would mean so much. You have no idea.” A long pause, followed by static. “I should go now. Thank you … for not picking up the phone this time. Good-bye, Julie.

your weather like?” “A little snow, I think. We have a few inches already.” Julie knew that ‘a little snow’ to her aunt might well be enough to put the entire northeast into a state of emergency. Aunt Gwen was pushing hard for Julie to make it out to Vermont this year, and had extended an open invitation for the long weekend. It was a solid three-hour drive in good weather, and this was anything but. “I don’t know. Let me run and see what progress I can make on this mess. I’ll give you a call in a couple of hours,” she said, instantly regretting that she hadn’t simply said no. “Alright, Jules. Best of luck. I can’t wait to see you.” Julie cringed into the receiver. “Bye, Gwen.

The truth is … I picked up because—because I needed you. I needed to hear your voice again, Julie. Because I wanted to make sure you didn’t forget me. You see, I took you to all those places—like the fields, to see the stars that night—so that you’d always remember. So that whenever you looked up at the sky at night, you’d think of me. Because I didn’t want to let you go yet. I never wanted to say good-bye, Jules. And I never wanted you to, either. That’s why I stayed as long as I could. So don’t blame yourself for anything. It was me that was keeping you from your life. Maybe it was a bit selfish of me. But I was just so scared you’d forget. I realize now I made it a lot harder for you to move on. And I hope you forgive me for that.

Christopher Cerf has been composing songs for Sesame Street for twenty-five years. His large Manhattan townhouse is full of Sesame Street memorabilia – photographs of Christopher with his arm around Big Bird, etc. ‘Well, it’s certainly not what I expected when I wrote them,’ Christopher said. ‘I have to admit, my first reaction was, “Oh my gosh, is my music really that terrible?” ’ I laughed. ‘I once wrote a song for Bert and Ernie called “Put Down The Ducky”,’ he said, ‘which might be useful for interrogating members of the Ba’ath Party.’ ‘That’s very good,’ I said. ‘This interview,’ Christopher said, ‘has been brought to you by the letters W, M and D.’ ‘That’s very good,’ I said. We both laughed. I paused. ‘And do you think that the Iraqi prisoners, as well as giving away vital information, are learning new letters and numbers?’ I said. ‘Well, wouldn’t that be an incredible double win?’ said Christopher. Christopher took me upstairs to his studio to play me one of his Sesame Street compositions, called ‘Ya! Ya! Das Is a Mountain!’ ‘The way we do Sesame Street,’ he explained, ‘is that we have educational researchers who test whether these songs are working, whether the kids are learning. And one year they asked me to write a song to explain what a mountain is, and I wrote a silly yodelling song about what a mountain was.’ Christopher sang me a little of the song: Oompah-pah! Oompah-pah! Ya! Ya! Das is a mountain! Part of zee ground zat sticks way up high! ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘forty per cent of the kids had known what a mountain was before they heard the song, and after they heard the song, only about twenty-six per cent knew what a mountain was. That’s all they needed. You don’t know what a mountain is now, right? It’s gone! So I figure if I have the power to suck information out of people’s brains by writing these songs, maybe that’s something that could be useful to the CIA for brainwashing techniques.’ Just then, Christopher’s phone rang. It was a lawyer from his music publishers, BMI. I listened into Christopher’s side of the conversation: ‘Oh really?’ he said. ‘I see . . . Well, theoretically they have to log that and I should be getting a few cents for every prisoner, right? Okay. Bye, bye . . .’ ‘What was that about?’ I asked Christopher. ‘Whether I’m due some money for the performance royalties,’ he explained. ‘Why not? It’s an American thing to do. If I have the knack of writing songs that can drive people crazy sooner and more effectively than others, why shouldn’t I profit from that?’ This is why, later that day, Christopher asked Danny Epstein – who has been the music supervisor of Sesame Street since the very first programme was broadcast in July 1969 – to come to his house. It would be Danny’s responsibility to collect the royalties from the military if they proved negligent in filing a music-cue sheet.

Welcome the distraction with a “Hello, restless mind” or “Hello, soreness,” and explore the present-moment experience. Chances are excellent that paying attention to it will lead to its disappearance. Find out for yourself. Play with distractions or have a conversation with them such as, “Hi, it’s you again. How about going on vacation for a while,” or “Bye-bye, off you go.

Without you I could never have done it,” she says. “Without you at my side these past few weeks, I would never have been brave enough to admit to myself what was coming for Hank. I never could have broken the rules of Hank’s room. I never could have said a proper good-bye. And I never could have brought him to the beach at dawn patrol.” I can feel her eyes on me, but I can’t look back.

That evening, when we parted with just a bye, as if we had thousands of encounters left - if only I knew that would be our last, I would have smiled a little more. I would have made you laugh a little more. I would have held onto your bag a little more tightly. I would have watched less of sceneries and more of you. I would have bravely held your hands. I would have told you how grateful I was, to be loved this way – innocent and warm. I would have told you how much I cherish all our little moments. Even though all we ever exchanged were toffees, how happy I was to receive them. I would have told you to live a happy life. I would have told you to miss me, just once in a while. Because I will be doing that, all the time. You would have smiled a little more then, my last image of you would have been a happier one.

JULIE YAWNED AGAIN. “Bye. I’m going to bed.” “Thank you for staying up with me,” George said. “No problem.” Julie gathered her blanket and went up the staircase. Something thudded. “I’m okay!” she called out. “I fell up, but I’m okay.” She thumped up the stairs, and then the sound of a door closing announced she had reached her bedroom.

Love one another…as members of one family…. —Romans 12:10 (AMP) I sometimes brood about my mothering days when my children were young. Observing other mothers with their children now, I realize how simple it would have been to have bent over to their level more, hugged more, and said to each of them more often, “I love you.” Now I was certain it was too late. Recently, my daughter Julie was going through a difficult day. As she left my house, we stood at the back door, saying good-bye. Suddenly, she threw her arms around me, and I grabbed her tight. “I love you, Mother.” “I love you too, Julie.” “It’s so good to hear you say it, Mother.” “I thought you were too old.” I tightened my grip. Julie shed her tears openly. Mine got stuck somewhere down inside of me. “You didn’t say it much when we were little,” she whispered so softly, I could have missed the words. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Julie. Can you forgive me?” She nodded, unable to speak. “Thank you, Julie Babe.” “I want to hear them, Mother. I always did.” Still holding my daughter, I spoke the words again. So did she. The powerful words went straight to my heart and rested there like a contented kitten. Now, each time we end a telephone conversation or say good-bye in person, we add “I love you,” simultaneously. Oh, my Father, I’ve neglected to speak the words to You too. Thank You that it's never too late to change. I love You. I love You. —Marion Bond West Digging Deeper: Lk 6:31; Eph 4:32, 6:4

Such a shame that I didn’t get to say good-bye to my fellow inmates,” he said sarcastically. “Actually, Puchalski was the only guy I liked. I still can’t figure out what got into him.” As Jordan used her chopsticks to pick up a piece of hamachi, she decided it was best to get her brother off that topic as fast as possible. “Sounds like he just snapped.” “But why would he have a fork in his shoe?” Kyle mused. “That makes me think he was planning the attack, which doesn’t make sense.” Let it go, Kyle. She shrugged. “Maybe he always keeps a fork in his shoe. Who understands why any of these felon types do what they do?” “Hey. I am one of those felon types.” Grey tipped his glass of wine. “And who would’ve thought you would do what you did?” “It was Twitter,” Kyle mumbled under his breath. Maybe we should change the subject,” Jordan suggested, sensing the conversation could only spiral downward from there. “Okay. Let’s talk about you instead,” Grey said. “I never asked—how did Xander’s party go?” Now there was a potential land mine of a topic. “It went fine. Pretty much the same party as usual.” Except for a little domestic espionage. She threw Kyle a look, needing help. Change the subject. Fast. He stared back cluelessly. Why? She glared. Just do it. He made a face. All right, all right. “Speaking of wine, Jordo, how was your trip to Napa?” Great. Leave it to her genius of a brother to pick the other topic she wanted to avoid. “I visited that new winery I told you about. We should have a deal this week so that my store will be the first to carry their wine in the Chicago area.” Grey’s tone was casual. “Did you bring Tall, Dark, and Smoldering with you on the trip?” Jordan set down her chopsticks and looked over at her father. He smiled cheekily as he took a sip of his wine. “You read Scene and Heard, too?” she asked. Grey scoffed at that. “Of course not. I have people read it for me. Half the time, it’s the only way I know what’s going on with you two. And don’t avoid the question. Tell us about this new guy you’re seeing. I find it very odd that you’ve never mentioned him.” He fixed his gaze on her like the Eye of Sauron. Jordan took a deep breath, suddenly very tired of the lies and the secret-agent games. Besides, she had to face the truth at some point. “Well, Dad, I don’t know if you have to worry about Tall, Dark, and Smoldering anymore. He’s not talking to me right now.” Kyle’s face darkened. “Tall, Dark, and Smoldering sounds like a moron to me.” Grey nodded, his expression disapproving. “I agree. You can do a lot better than a moron, kiddo.” “Thanks. But it’s not that simple. His job presents some . . . challenges.” That was definitely the wrong thing to say. “Why? What kind of work does he do?” her father asked immediately. Jordan stalled. Maybe she’d overshot a little with the no more lies promise. She threw Kyle another desperate look. Do something. Again. Kyle nodded. I’m on it. He eased back in his chair and stretched out his intertwined hands, limbering up his fingers. “Who cares what this jerk does? Send me his e-mail address, Jordo—I’ll take care of it. I can wreak all sorts of havoc on Tall, Dark, and Smoldering’s life in less than two minutes.” With an evil grin, he mimed typing at a keyboard. Their father looked ready to blow a gasket. “Oh no—you do not get to make the jokes,” he told Kyle. “Jordan and I make the jokes. You’ve been out of prison for four days and I seriously hope you learned your lesson, young man . . .

Ralph's people in Washington were not as bad as he had always thought. The drunkard had found God a week after a Fourth of July and had said good-bye to the bottle for good. Washington was good to the old man's bones.