Can't Be Bothered With Anyone Quotes

It bothers you, doesn’t it?” Mia said suddenly. “I think you can’t imagine. Why anyone would choose a different life from the one you’ve got. Why anyone might want something other than a big house with a big lawn, a fancy car, a job in an office. Why anyone would choose anything different than what you’d choose.

I am a sick man... I am a spiteful man. I am an unpleasant man. I think my liver is diseased. However, I don't know beans about my disease, and I am not sure what is bothering me. I don't treat it and never have, though I respect medicine and doctors. Besides, I am extremely superstitious, let's say sufficiently so to respect medicine. (I am educated enough not to be superstitious, but I am.) No, I refuse to treat it out of spite. You probably will not understand that. Well, but I understand it. Of course I can't explain to you just whom I am annoying in this case by my spite. I am perfectly well aware that I cannot "get even" with the doctors by not consulting them. I know better than anyone that I thereby injure only myself and no one else. But still, if I don't treat it, its is out of spite. My liver is bad, well then-- let it get even worse!

He shook his head again. 'I just can't figure out why anyone in his right head would bother these Virgin River women.' 'Yeah. Makes no sense.' Jack said.

To the most inconsiderate asshole of a friend, I’m writing you this letter because I know that if I say what I have to say to your face I will probably punch you. I don’t know you anymore. I don’t see you anymore. All I get is a quick text or a rushed e-mail from you every few days. I know you are busy and I know you have Bethany, but hello? I’m supposed to be your best friend. You have no idea what this summer has been like. Ever since we were kids we pushed away every single person that could possibly have been our friend. We blocked people until there was only me and you. You probably haven’t noticed, because you have never been in the position I am in now. You have always had someone. You always had me. I always had you. Now you have Bethany and I have no one. Now I feel like those other people that used to try to become our friend, that tried to push their way into our circle but were met by turned backs. I know you’re probably not doing it deliberately just as we never did it deliberately. It’s not that we didn’t want anyone else, it’s just that we didn’t need them. Sadly now it looks like you don’t need me anymore. Anyway I’m not moaning on about how much I hate her, I’m just trying to tell you that I miss you. And that well . . . I’m lonely. Whenever you cancel nights out I end up staying home with Mum and Dad watching TV. It’s so depressing. This was supposed to be our summer of fun. What happened? Can’t you be friends with two people at once? I know you have found someone who is extra special, and I know you both have a special “bond,” or whatever, that you and I will never have. But we have another bond, we’re best friends. Or does the best friend bond disappear as soon as you meet somebody else? Maybe it does, maybe I just don’t understand that because I haven’t met that “somebody special.” I’m not in any hurry to, either. I liked things the way they were. So maybe Bethany is now your best friend and I have been relegated to just being your “friend.” At least be that to me, Alex. In a few years time if my name ever comes up you will probably say, “Rosie, now there’s a name I haven’t heard in years. We used to be best friends. I wonder what she’s doingnow; I haven’t seen or thought of her in years!” You will sound like my mum and dad when they have dinner parties with friends and talk about old times. They always mention people I’ve never even heard of when they’re talking about some of the most important days of their lives. Yet where are those people now? How could someone who was your bridesmaid 20 years ago not even be someone who you are on talking terms with now? Or in Dad’s case, how could he not know where his own best friend from college lives? He studied with the man for five years! Anyway, my point is (I know, I know, there is one), I don’t want to be one of those easily forgotten people, so important at the time, so special, so influential, and so treasured, yet years later just a vague face and a distant memory. I want us to be best friends forever, Alex. I’m happy you’re happy, really I am, but I feel like I’ve been left behind. Maybe our time has come and gone. Maybe your time is now meant to be spent with Bethany. And if that’s the case I won’t bother sending you this letter. And if I’m not sending this letter then what am I doing still writing it? OK I’m going now and I’m ripping these muddled thoughts up. Your friend, Rosie

It is growing up different. It is extreme hypersensitivity. It is a bottomless pit of feeling you're failing, but three days later, you feel you can do anything, only to end the week where you began. It is not learning from your mistakes. It is distrusting people because you have been hurt enough. It is moments of knowing your pain is self inflicted, followed by blaming the world. It is wanting to listen, but you just can’t anymore because your life has been to full of people that have judged you. It is fighting to be right; so for once in your life someone will respect and hear you for a change. It is a tiring life of endless games with people, in order to seek stimulus. It is a hyper focus, so intense about what bothers you, that you can’t pay attention to anything else, for very long. It is a never-ending routine of forgetting things. It is a boredom and lack of contentment that keeps you running into the arms of anyone that has enough patience to stick around. It wears you out. It wears everyone out. It makes you question God’s plan. You misinterpret everything, and you allow your creative mind to fill the gaps with the same old chains that bind you. It narrows your vision of who you let into your life. It is speaking and acting without thinking. It is disconnecting from the ones you love because your mind has taken you back to what you can’t let go of. It is risk taking, thrill seeking and moodiness that never ends. You hang your hope on “signs” and abandon reason for remedy. It is devotion to the gifts and talents you have been given, that provide temporary relief. It is the latching onto the acceptance of others---like a scared child abandoned on a sidewalk. It is a drive that has no end, and without “focus” it takes you nowhere. It is the deepest anger when someone you love hurts you, and the greatest love when they don't. It is beauty when it has purpose. It is agony when it doesn’t. It is called Attention Deficit Disorder.

A long marriage is complicated. So complicated, in fact, that most people in one sometimes ask themselves: 'Am I still married because I'm in love, or just because I can't be bothered to let anyone else get to know me this well again?

Lost" they say that hell is crowded, yet, when you’re in hell, you always seem to be alone. & you can’t tell anyone when you’re in hell or they’ll think you’re crazy & being crazy is being in hell & being sane is hellish too. those who escape hell, however, never talk about it & nothing much bothers them after that. I mean, things like missing a meal, going to jail, wrecking your car, or even the idea of death itself. when you ask them, “how are things?” they’ll always answer, “fine, just fine…” once you’ve been to hell and back, that’s enough it’s the greatest satisfaction known to man. once you’ve been to hell and back, you don’t look behind you when the floor creaks and the sun is always up at midnight and things like the eyes of mice or an abandoned tire in a vacant lot can make you smile once you’ve been to hell and back.

Maxon, I hope you find someone you can't love without. I really do. And I hope you never have to know what it's like to have to try and live without them." Maxon's face was a shallow echo of my own pain. He looked absolutely brokenhearted for me. More than that, he looked angry. "I'm sorry, America. I don't..." His face shifted a little. "Is this a good time to pat your shoulder?" His uncertainty made me smile. "Yes. Now would be a great time." He seemed as skeptically as he'd been the other day, but instead of just patting my shoulder, he leaned in and tentatively wrapped his arms around me. "I only really ever hug my mother. Is this okay?" he asked. I laughed. "It's hard to get a hug wrong." After a minute, I spoke again. "I know what you mean, though. I don't really hug anyone besides my family." I felt so drained after the long day of dressing and the Report and dinner and talking. It was nice to have Maxon just hold me, sometimes even patting my hair. He wasn't as lost as he seemed. He patiently waited for my breathing to slow, and when it did, he pulled back to look at me. "America, I promise you I'll keep you here until the last possible moment. I understand that they want me to narrow the Elite down to three and then choose. But I swear to you, I'll make it to two and keep you here until then. I won't make you leave a moment before I have to. Or the moment you're ready. Whichever comes first." I nodded. "I know we just met, but I think you're wonderful. And it bothers me to see you hurt. If he were here, I'd...I'd..." Maxon shook with frustration, then sighed. "I'm so sorry, America." He pulled me back in, and I rested my head on his broad shoulder. I knew Maxon would keep his promises. So I settled into perhaps the last place I ever thought I'd find genuine comfort.

The result leaves my brain somewhere in orbit beyond Saturn, where it can't bother anyone, especially me.

We can't and don't know what others are thinking. We can't and don't know what motivations people have for doing the things they do. Ever. Not entirely. This was my terrifying youthful epiphany. We just never really know anyone. I don't. Neither do you. It's amazing that relationships can form and last under the constraints of never fully knowing. Never knowing for sure what the other person is thinking, never knowing for sure who the other person is. We can't do whatever we want. There are ways we have to act. There are things we have to say. But we can think whatever we want. Anyone can think anything. Thoughts are the only reality. It's true, I'm sure of it now. Thoughts are never faked or bluffed. This simple realization has stayed with me. It has bothered me for years and years. It still does.

You're so nice and so hot and so fun and funny, and you smell really good, and the brownies you made for last night were amazing." "And you love me," he says softly. "So much," I agree, "I feel like, why would anyone who can't date you even bother dating? And somehow, you like me." "Love," he corrects. "Somehow you love me." "I do," I tell him. I do. I am. Right now. Every muscle in my body is busy loving him.

You know this girl. Her hair is neither long nor short nor light nor dark. She parts it precisely in the middle. She sits precisely in the middle of the classroom, and when she used to ride the school bus, she sat precisely in the middle of that, too. She joins clubs, but is never the president of them. Sometimes she is the secretary; usually, just a member. When asked, she has been known to paints sets for the school play. She always has a date to the dance, but is never anyone’s first choice. In point of fact, she’s nobody’s first choice for anything. Her best friend became her best friend when another girl moved away. She has a group of girls she eats lunch with every day, but God, how they bore her. Sometimes, when she can’t stand it anymore, she eats in the library instead. Truth be told, she prefers books to people, and the librarian always seems happy to see her. She knows there are other people who have it worse—she isn’t poor or ugly or friendless or teased. Of course, she’s also aware that the reason no one teases is because no one ever notices her. This isn’t to say she doesn’t have qualities. She is pretty, maybe, if anyone would bother to look. And she gets good enough grades. And she doesn’t drink and drive. And she says NO to drugs. And she is always where she says she will be. And she calls when she’s going to be late. And she feels a little, just a little, dead inside. She thinks, You think you know me, but you don’t. She thinks, None of you has any idea about all the things in my heart. She thinks, None of you has any idea how really and truly beautiful I am. She thinks, See me. See me. See me. Sometimes she thinks she will scream. Sometimes she imagines sticking her head in an oven. But she doesn’t. She just writes it all down in her journal and waits. She is waiting for someone to see.

Did you seriously jerk off just now?” I demand. He nods as if it’s no biggie. “What, you think I can sit through a whole movie with blue balls?” I gawk at him. “So you can’t have sex with anyone while I’m in the house, but you can go upstairs and do that?” A wolfish grin stretches his mouth. “I could’ve done it down here, but then you would’ve been too tempted to take over for me. I was trying to be nice.” It’s hard not to roll my eyes. So I don’t bother fighting the urge. “Trust me, I would have kept my hands to myself.” “With my cock right there in the open? No way. You wouldn’t be able to help yourself.” He arches a brow. “I have a great cock.

I can’t quite shake this feeling that we live in a world gone wrong, that there are all these feelings you’re not supposed to have because there’s no reason to anymore. But still they’re there, stuck somewhere, a flaw that evolution hasn’t managed to eliminate yet. I want so badly to feel bad about getting pregnant. But I can’t, don’t dare to. Just like I didn’t dare tell Jack that I was falling in love with him, wanting to be a modern woman who’s supposed to be able to handle the casual nature of these kinds of relationships. I’m never supposed to say, to Jack or anyone else, ‘What makes you think I’m so rich that you can steal my heart and it won’t mean a thing?’ Sometimes I think that I was forced to withdraw into depression, because it was the only rightful protest I could throw in the face of a world that said it was all right for people to come and go as they please, that there were simply no real obligations left. Deceit and treachery in both romantic and political relationships is nothing new, but at one time, it was bad, callous, and cold to hurt somebody. Now it’s just the way things go, part of the growth process. Really nothing is surprising. After a while, meaning and implication detach themselves from everything. If one can be a father and assume no obligations, it follows that one can be a boyfriend and do nothing at all. Pretty soon you can add friend, acquaintance, co-worker, and just about anyone else to the long list of people who seem to be part of your life, though there is no code of conduct that they must adhere to. Pretty soon, it seems unreasonable to be bothered or outraged by much of anything because, well, what did you expect?

He’s adorably high-handed where you’re concerned, isn’t he?” My eyes slide closed. “With anyone.” “No,” he says thoughtfully. “Only you. He really can’t be bothered with anyone else, unless they’re connected to you. You’re all he sees.

GO BACK TO DALLAS!” the man sitting somewhere behind us yelled again, and the hold Aiden still had on the back of my neck tightened imperceptibly. “Don’t bother, Van,” he demanded, pokerfaced. “I’m not going to say anything,” I said, even as I reached up with the hand furthest away from him and put it behind my head, extending my middle finger in hopes that the idiot yelling would see it. Those brown eyes blinked. “You just flipped him off, didn’t you?” Yeah, my mouth dropped open. “How do you know when I do that?” My tone was just as astonished as it should be. “I know everything.” He said it like he really believed it. I groaned and cast him a long look. “You really want to play this game?” “I play games for a living, Van.” I couldn’t stand him sometimes. My eyes crossed in annoyance. “When is my birthday?” He stared at me. “See?” “March third, Muffin.” What in the hell? “See?” he mocked me. Who was this man and where was the Aiden I knew? “How old am I?” I kept going hesitantly. “Twenty-six.” “How do you know this?” I asked him slowly. “I pay attention,” The Wall of Winnipeg stated. I was starting to think he was right. Then, as if to really seal the deal I didn’t know was resting between us, he said, “You like waffles, root beer, and Dr. Pepper. You only drink light beer. You put cinnamon in your coffee. You eat too much cheese. Your left knee always aches. You have three sisters I hope I never meet and one brother. You were born in El Paso. You’re obsessed with your work. You start picking at the corner of your eye when you feel uncomfortable or fool around with your glasses. You can’t see things up close, and you’re terrified of the dark.” He raised those thick eyebrows. “Anything else?” Yeah, I only managed to say one word. “No.” How did he know all this stuff? How? Unsure of how I was feeling, I coughed and started to reach up to mess with my glasses before I realized what I was doing and snuck my hand under my thigh, ignoring the knowing look on Aiden’s dumb face. “I know a lot about you too. Don’t think you’re cool or special.” “I know, Van.” His thumb massaged me again for all of about three seconds. “You know more about me than anyone else does.” A sudden memory of the night in my bed where he’d admitted his fear as a kid pecked at my brain, relaxing me, making me smile. “I really do, don’t I?” The expression on his face was like he was torn between being okay with the idea and being completely against it. Leaning in close to him again, I winked. “I’m taking your love of MILF porn to the grave with me, don’t worry.” He stared at me, unblinking, unflinching. And then: “I’ll cut the power at the house when you’re in the shower,” he said so evenly, so crisply, it took me a second to realize he was threatening me… And when it finally did hit me, I burst out laughing, smacking his inner thigh without thinking twice about it. “Who does that?” Aiden Graves, husband of mine, said it, “Me.” Then the words were out of my mouth before I could control them. “And you know what I’ll do? I’ll go sneak into bed with you, so ha.” What the hell had I just said? What in the ever-loving hell had I just said? “If you think I’m supposed to be scared…” He leaned forward so our faces were only a couple of inches away. The hand on my neck and the finger pads lining the back of my ear stayed where they were. “I’m not

I can do anything I believe I can do! I’ve got it, and every day I get more of it. I have talent, skills, and ability. I set goals and I reach them. I know what I want out of life. I go after it and I get it. People like me, and I feel good about myself. I have a sense of pride in who I am, and I believe in myself. Nothing seems to stop me. I have a lot of determination. I turn problems into advantages. I find possibilities in things that other people never give a chance. I have a lot of energy—I am very alive! I enjoy life and I can tell it and so can others. I keep myself up, looking ahead, and liking it. I know that I can accomplish anything I choose, and I refuse to let anything negative hold me back or stand in my way. I am not afraid of anything or anyone. I have strength, power, conviction, and confidence! I like challenges and I meet them head on, face to face—today especially! I am on top of the world and I’m going for it. I have a clear picture in my mind of what I want. I can see it in front of me. I know what I want and I know how to get it. I know that it’s all up to me and I know I can do it. Roadblocks don’t bother me. They just mean that I am alive and running, and I’m not going to stand still for anything. I trust myself I’ve got what it takes—plenty of it—and I know how to use it. Today, more than ever. Today I am unstoppable! I’ve got myself together and I’m getting more together every day. And today—look out world, here I come! Limitations? I don’t even recognize them as limitations. There is no challenge I can’t conquer; there is no wall I can’t climb over. There is no problem I can’t defeat, or turn around and make it work for me. I stand tall! I am honest and sincere. I like to deal with people and they like me. I think well; I think clearly. I am organized; I am in control of myself, and everything about me. I call my shots, and no one has to call them for me. I never blame anyone else for the circumstances of my life. I accept my failings and move past them as easily as I accept the rewards for my victories. I never demand perfection of myself, but I expect the very best of what I have to give—and that’s what I get! I never give myself excuses. I get things done on time and in the right way. Today I have the inner strength to do more than ever. I am an exceptional human being. My goals and my incredible belief in myself turn my goals into reality. I have the power to live my dreams. I believe in them like I believe in myself. And that belief is so strong that there is nothing that diminishes my undefeatable spirit.

To be honest, I keep wishing we could all talk. Chew the fat. And, yes, I know that wishing is another symptom of hope, but I can't help it. As we amble along, trudging over steaming brimstone beds of sulfur and coal, I want to ask if anyone else feels an intense sense of shame. By dying, do they feel as if they've disappointed everyone who ever bothered to love them? After all the effort that so many people made to raise them, to feed and teach them, do Archer or Leonard or Babette feel a crushing sense of having failed their loved ones? Do they worry that dying constitutes the biggest sin they could possibly commit?

Any time you’re having trouble with something, think of death. Let’s say you’re the jealous type, and you can’t stand anyone being close to your mate. Think about what will happen when you’re no longer here. Is it really all that romantic that your loved one should live alone with no one to care for them? If you can get past your personal issues, you’ll find that you want the person you love to be happy and to have a full and beautiful life. Since that is what you want for them, why are you bothering them now just for talking to someone? It shouldn’t take death to challenge you to live at your highest level. Why wait until everything is taken from you before you learn to dig down deep inside yourself to reach your highest potential? A wise person affirms, “If with one breath all of this can change, then I want to live at the highest level while I’m alive. I’m going to stop bothering the people I love. I’m going to live life from the deepest part of my being.

Why is it that, you can only truly love someone if you make out with them or if they are your family? Whatever happened to friendship love? Look. I have never have met anyone on this site. But the love here - that shit is real. I don't care if you're all some random perverted thirty-year old men just wanting to bang some chick. I love you all. You guys gave me the courage to move on in life. You taught me that its okay to cry and feel pity for myself as long as I got back up. And I'll always be greatful to you for that. Look. I don't know what you guys look like, but if its anything like what you're like on the inside - than you are all gorgeous, wonderful, beautiful people and the world just can't handle your awesomeness. Okay? So I just wanted to say thank you. And to anyone who doubts this love, screw you. Because these people saved me when no one else cared to even try. These people are my courage, my legs to stand on, my world. And trust me when I say this. These people are my soul mates. Not 'like my soul mates', no. These people are my soul mates. And this love can't simply be defined in a couple of make out sessions. It goes beyond that. Beyond your imagination. So shut the hell up and don't bother telling me that I can't possible love these people because I never met them. Some feelings reach through the screen, and don't need to have the interaction among one another. Some feelings surpass all. So shut up. I love these people.

On vacation you can be anyone you want Like a good book or an incredible outfit, being on vacation transports you into another version of yourself.
In your day-to-day life, maybe you can’t even bob your head to the radio without being embarrassed, but on the right twinkly-light-strung patio, with the right steel drum band, you’ll find yourself whirling and twirling with the best of them. On vacation, your hair changes. The water is different, maybe the shampoo. Maybe you don’t bother to wash your hair at all, or brush it, because the salty ocean water curls it up in a way you love. You think, Maybe I could do this at home too. Maybe I could be this person who doesn’t brush her hair, who doesn’t mind being sweaty or having sand in all her crevices. On vacation, you strike up conversations with strangers, and forget that there are any stakes. If it turns out impossibly awkward, who cares? You’ll never see them again!

While I can’t and I don’t even want to change anyone’s opinion and personal perspective on anything, I am bothered when I see a person judging something that they have no knowledge about.

You can’t possibly adopt stray French monsters; wherever would you put it?” “I have no idea,” she said. “It doesn’t appear to be in bad shape; honestly, I think someone’s been taking at least basic care of it—no mats or snarls, it’s a decent weight for its size, completely tame. It’s not a thoroughbred, though, which means either it’s an adopted stray or it’s been summoned, which is a little odd. God knows why anyone would bother doing that kind of magic, but whatever—I suppose Parisian monster fanciers have to get their jollies somehow. I think it’s come to visit, not to stow away in my suitcase.” “If this keeps up, you are going to be the most absurd Disney princess of all time,” Ruthven told her. “Instead of happy little bluebirds perching on your finger to sing duets, you will be hung about with monsters like a tree with monkeys, and it will thoroughly complicate your personal life.

long marriage is complicated. So complicated, in fact, that most people in one sometimes ask themselves: “Am I still married because I’m in love, or just because I can’t be bothered to let anyone else get to know me this well again?

Obama recognises that money is a problem in American politics, but I think I would still go further than him. It isn’t so much money that is the problem, but a problem with the American psyche in which, it seems from afar, the only measure for success and worth of anyone is how much money they have made. The US government appears to be little more than a rich man’s club, something else Obama talks about in his book – it is hardly surprising that so few ordinary people seem to be bothered to vote in what appears to be a popularity contest between the obscenely wealthy. 〓〓〓〓〓〓〓〓〓〓〓 텔 - KrTop "코리아탑" 〓〓〓〓〓〓〓〓〓〓〓 골드워시,도리도리,바오메이,블루위저드,섹스드롭,엑스터시판매,요힘빈 I have often wondered if societies have become too large to be properly governed as democracies. Plato put limits on the size of his ideal republic – I can’t remember what it is, but I think it might have been 30,000 people – something like that anyway. There are 300 million in the US – is it really a silly question to ask whether any nation so conceived and so dedicated can long endure? How ‘democratic’ it can be must surely be a question worth considering.

On the TV screen in Harry's is The Patty Winters Show, which is now on in the afternoon and is up against Geraldo Rivera, Phil Donahue and Oprah Winfrey. Today's topic is Does Economic Success Equal Happiness? The answer, in Harry's this afternoon, is a roar of resounding "Definitely," followed by much hooting, the guys all cheering together in a friendly way. On the screen now are scenes from President Bush's inauguration early this year, then a speech from former President Reagan, while Patty delivers a hard-to-hear commentary. Soon a tiresome debate forms over whether he's lying or not, even though we don't, can't, hear the words. The first and really only one to complain is Price, who, though I think he's bothered by something else, uses this opportunity to vent his frustration, looks inappropriately stunned, asks, "How can he lie like that? How can he pull that shit?" "Oh Christ," I moan. "What shit? Now where do we have reservations at? I mean I'm not really hungry but I would like to have reservations somewhere. How about 220?" An afterthought: "McDermott, how did that rate in the new Zagat's?" "No way," Farrell complains before Craig can answer. "The coke I scored there last time was cut with so much laxative I actually had to take a shit in M.K." "Yeah, yeah, life sucks and then you die." "Low point of the night," Farrell mutters. "Weren't you with Kyria the last time you were there?" Goodrich asks. "Wasn't that the low point?" "She caught me on call waiting. What could I do?" Farrell shrugs. "I apologize." "Caught him on call waiting." McDermott nudges me, dubious. "Shut up, McDermott," Farrell says, snapping Craig's suspenders. "Date a beggar." "You forgot something, Farrell," Preston mentions. "McDermott is a beggar." "How's Courtney?" Farrell asks Craig, leering. "Just say no." Someone laughs. Price looks away from the television screen, then at Craig, and he tries to hide his displeasure by asking me, waving at the TV, "I don't believe it. He looks so... normal. He seems so... out of it. So... un dangerous." "Bimbo, bimbo," someone says. "Bypass, bypass." "He is totally harmless, you geek. Was totally harmless. Just like you are totally harmless. But he did do all that shit and you have failed to get us into 150, so, you know, what can I say?" McDermott shrugs. "I just don't get how someone, anyone, can appear that way yet be involved in such total shit," Price says, ignoring Craig, averting his eyes from Farrell. He takes out a cigar and studies it sadly. To me it still looks like there's a smudge on Price's forehead. "Because Nancy was right behind him?" Farrell guesses, looking up from the Quotrek. "Because Nancy did it?" "How can you be so fucking, I don't know, cool about it?" Price, to whom something really eerie has obviously happened, sounds genuinely perplexed. Rumor has it that he was in rehab.

Never. It's not an option for me. Do you know what a rook does in chess?" She shook her head and I wrapped my arms around her. "He protects the queen. He can't take her down, he can't win against her. He only protects her. If you want to be queen of it all, I will cut down anyone in your way. I won't stop you or lock you up and yes, I would happily kill anyone who bothers you.

Can't say I've ever been too fond of beginnings, myself. Messy little things. Give me a good ending anytime. You know where you are with an ending." "Now then, you mustn't say things like that. You know you don't mean them. Purl one, plain one, purl two together... Why, that's what I like about making things for people. You can start off in Birmingham and finish in, well Tanganyika or somewhere. That's not messy, my cherub. That's exciting." "Exciting my aunt banana! What's so exciting about it?" "Well, every one we make's unique. Never seen before. Never seen again." "Hmmph. I don't know why that's exciting. It's not like anyone notices what we do. Not like anyone cares. And they're always complaining: they don't like the fit of it; too loose-- too tight-- too different-- too much like everyone else's. It's never what they want, and if we give them what they think they want they like it less than ever. 'I never thought it would be like this.' 'Why can't it be like the one I had before?' I don't know why we bother.

Well,’ said Crowley, who’d been thinking about this until his head ached, ‘haven’t you ever wondered about it all? You know – your people and my people, Heaven and Hell, good and evil, all that sort of thing? I mean, why?’ ‘As I recall,’ said the angel, stiffly, ‘there was the rebellion and—’ ‘Ah, yes. And why did it happen, eh? I mean, it didn’t have to, did it?’ said Crowley, a manic look in his eye. ‘Anyone who could build a universe in six days isn’t going to let a little thing like that happen. Unless they want it to, of course.’ ‘Oh, come on. Be sensible,’ said Aziraphale, doubtfully. ‘That’s not good advice,’ said Crowley. ‘That’s not good advice at all. If you sit down and think about it sensibly, you come up with some very funny ideas. Like: why make people inquisitive, and then put some forbidden fruit where they can see it with a big neon finger flashing on and off saying “THIS IS IT!”?’ ‘I don’t remember any neon.’ ‘Metaphorically, I mean. I mean, why do that if you really don’t want them to eat it, eh? I mean, maybe you just want to see how it all turns out. Maybe it’s all part of a great big ineffable plan. All of it. You, me, him, everything. Some great big test to see if what you’ve built all works properly, eh? You start thinking: it can’t be a great cosmic game of chess, it has to be just very complicated Solitaire. And don’t bother to answer. If we could understand, we wouldn’t be us. Because it’s all – all—’ INEFFABLE, said the figure feeding the ducks. ‘Yeah. Right. Thanks.’ They watched the tall stranger carefully dispose of the empty bag in a litter bin, and stalk away across the grass. Then Crowley shook his head. ‘What was I saying?’ he said. ‘Don’t know,’ said Aziraphale. ‘Nothing very important, I think.

I don't think Nesta will ever forgive me for what happened in Hybern. To her- but mostly to Elain.' 'Your wings were shredded. You were barely alive.' For that was guilt- ravaging and poisonous- in each of Cassian's words. What the others had been fighting against in the loft. 'You were in no position to save anyone.' 'I made her a promise.' The wind ruffled Cassian's hair as he squinted at the sky. 'And when it mattered, I didn't keep it.' I still dreamed of him trying to crawl toward her, reaching for her even in the semi- unconscious state the pain and blood loss had thrown him into. As Rhysand had once done for me during those last moments with Amarantha. Perhaps only a few wing beats separated us from the broad landing veranda, but I asked, 'Why do you bother, Cassian?' His hazel eyes shuttered as we smoothly landed. And I thought he wouldn't answer, especially not when Rhys gracefully landed beside us and strode in ahead with a wink. But Cassian said quietly as we headed for the dining room, 'Because I can't stay away.

I am absolutely positive they’re wrong.” “Why?” “Because you belong to me, that’s why.” She swept out her free hand. “We’re perfect for each other. I love you. Why do you need arcanematch.com? What’s that woman they claim they found for you got that I don’t have?” The dangerous energy that had swirled around him shifted with disconcerting abruptness into sensual hunger. “Interesting question,” he said. “The answer is nothing. Zero. Zip. Nada. She’s got absolutely nothing that I don’t have. Don’t bother to set up a date with her because there will be three of us there and I don’t think she’s going to feel real comfortable chatting with me, do you?” “Don’t know,” he said. “It would certainly make for an unusual first date.” “Skip the snappy repartee. I am dead serious, Jake Salter Jones.” His mouth tweaked up at the corners. Heat burned in his eyes. “About me?” “About you. And me. We’re a match. Can’t you see that?” “Yes.” “What’s more, there’s no frickin’ way those arcanematch.com people could have found anyone who will love you more than I do.

Anna: Right. I can only imagine. Etienne: And what, exactly, ist hat supposed to mean? Anna: Forget it. Etienne: No. Let’s not forget it. I’m sick and tired of forgetting it, Anna. Anna: You’re tired of forgetting it? I’ve had to do nothing BUT forget it. Do you think it’s easy sitting in my room every night, thinking about you and Ellie? Do you think any of this has been easy for me? Etienne: I’m sorry. Anna: You tell me I’m beautiful, and that you like my hair and you like my smile. You rest your leg against mine in darkened theatres, and then you acta s if nothing happened when the lights go up. You slept in my bed for three nights straight, and then you jsut … blew me off for the next month. What am I supposed to do with that, St. Clair? You said on my birthday that you were afraid of being alone, but I’ve been here this whole time. This whole time. Etienne: Anna. I am so sorry that I’ve hur you. I’ve made terrible decisions. And I realize it’s possible that I don’t deserve your forgiveness, because it’s taken me this long to get here. But I don’t understand why you’re not giving me the chance. You didn’t even let me explain myself lad weekend. You just tore into me, expected the worst of me. But the only truth I know is what i feel when we’re together. I thought you trusted those feelings, too. I thought you trusted me, I thought you knew me … Anna: But that’s just it! I don’t know you. I tell you everything, St. Clair. About my dad, about Bridgette and Toph, about Matt and Cherrie. I told you about being a virgin. And what have you told me? Nothing! I know nothing about you. Not about your father, not about Ellie … Etienne: You know me better than anyone. Andi f you ever bothered to pay attention, you’d understand that things with my father are beyond shite right now. And I can’t believe you think so poorly of me that you’d assume I’d wait the entire year to kiss you, and then the moment it happened, I’d … I’d be done with you. OF COURSE I was with Ellie that night. I WAS BLODDY BREAKING UP WITH HER! You say that I’m afraid of being alone, and it’s true. I am And I’m not proud o fit. But you need to take a good look at yourself, Anna, because I am not the only one in this room who suffers this problem.

I’ve experienced all kinds of discrimination,” Oshima says. “Only people who’ve been discriminated against can really know how much it hurts. Each person feels the pain in his own way, each has his own scars. So I think I’m as concerned about fairness and justice as anybody. But what disgusts me even more are people who have no imagination. The kind T. S. Eliot calls hollow men. People who fill up that lack of imagination with heartless bits of straw, not even aware of what they’re doing. Callous people who throw a lot of empty words at you, trying to force you to do what you don’t want to. Like that lovely pair we just met.” He sighs and twirls the long slender pencil in his hand. “Gays, lesbians, straights, feminists, fascist pigs, communists, Hare Krishnas—none of them bother me. I don’t care what banner they raise. But what I can’t stand are hollow people. When I’m with them I just can’t bear it, and wind up saying things I shouldn’t. With those women—I should’ve just let it slide, or else called Miss Saeki and let her handle it. She would have given them a smile and smoothed things over. But I just can’t do that. I say things I shouldn’t, do things I shouldn’t do. I can’t control myself. That’s one of my weak points. Do you know why that’s a weak point of mine?” “’Cause if you take every single person who lacks much imagination seriously, there’s no end to it,” I say. “That’s it,” Oshima says. He taps his temple lightly with the eraser end of the pencil. “But there’s one thing I want you to remember, Kafka. Those are exactly the kind of people who murdered Miss Saeki’s childhood sweetheart. Narrow minds devoid of imagination. Intolerance, theories cut off from reality, empty terminology, usurped ideals, inflexible systems. Those are the things that really frighten me. What I absolutely fear and loathe. Of course it’s important to know what’s right and what’s wrong. Individual errors in judgment can usually be corrected. As long as you have the courage to admit mistakes, things can be turned around. But intolerant, narrow minds with no imagination are like parasites that transform the host, change form, and continue to thrive. They’re a lost cause, and I don’t want anyone like that coming in here.” Oshima points at the stacks with the tip of his pencil. What he means, of course, is the entire library. “I wish I could just laugh off people like that, but I can’t.

I'm sorry.' I blinked. 'What do you possibly have to be sorry for?' 'His hands were shaking- as if in the aftermath of that fury at what Keir had called me, what he'd threatened. Perhaps he'd brought me here before heading home in order to have some privacy before his friends could interrupt. 'I shouldn't have let you go. Let you see that part of us. Of me.' I'd never seen him so raw, so... stumbling. 'I'm fine.' I didn't know what to make of what had been done. Both between us and to Keir. But it had been my choice. To play that role, to wear those clothes. To let him touch me. But... I said slowly, 'We knew what tonight would require of us. Please- please don't start protecting me. Not like that.' He knew what I meant. He'd protected me Under the Mountain, but that primal, male rage he'd just shown Keir... A shattered study splattered in paint flashed through my memory. Rhys rasped. 'I will never- never lock you up, force you to stay behind. But when he threatened you tonight, when he called you...' Whore. That's what they'd called him. For fifty years, they'd hissed it. I'd listened to Lucien spit the words in his face. Rhys released a jagged breath. 'It's hard to shut down my instincts.' Instincts. Just like... like someone else had instincts to protect, to hide me away. 'Then you should have prepared yourself better,' I snapped. 'You seemed to be going along just fine with it, until Keir said-' 'I will kill anyone who harms you,' Rhys snarled. 'I will kill them, and take a damn long time doing it.' He panted. 'Go ahead. Hate me- despise me for it.' 'You are my friend,' I said, and my voice broke on the word. I hated the tears that slipped down my face. I didn't even know why I was crying. Perhaps for the fact that it had felt real on that throne with him, even for a moment, and... and it likely hadn't been. Not for him. 'You're my friend- and I understand that you're High Lord. I understand that you will defend your true court, and punish threats against it. But I can't... I don't want you to stop telling me things, inviting me to do things, because of the threats against me.' Darkness rippled, and wings tore from his back. 'I am not him,' Rhys breathed. 'I will never be him, act like him. He locked you up and let you wither, and die.' 'He tried-' 'Stop comparing. Stop comparing me to him.' The words cut me short. I blinked. 'You think I don't know how stories get written- how this story will be written?' Rhys put his hands on his chest, his face more open, more anguished than I'd seen it. 'I am the dark lord, who stole away the bride of spring. I am a demon, and a nightmare, and I will meet a bad end. He is the golden prince- the hero who will get to keep you as his reward for not dying of stupidity and arrogance.' The things I love have a tendency to be taken from me. He'd admitted that to me Under the Mountain. But his words were kindling to my temper, to whatever pit of fear was yawning open inside of me. 'And what about my story?' I hissed. 'What about my reward? What about what I want?' 'What is it that you want, Feyre?' I had no answer. I didn't know. Not anymore. 'What is it that you want, Feyre?' I stayed silent. His laugh was bitter, soft. 'I thought so. Perhaps you should take some time to figure that out one of these days.' 'Perhaps I don't know what I want, but at least I don't hide what I am behind a mask,' I seethed. 'At least I let them see who I am, broken bits and all. Yes- it's to save your people. But what about the other masks, Rhys? What about letting your friends see your real face? But maybe it's easier not to. Because what if you did let someone in? And what if they saw everything, and still walked away? Who could blame them- who would want to bother with that sort of mess?' He flinched. The most powerful High Lord in history flinched. And I knew I'd hit hard- and deep. Too hard. Too deep. 'Rhys,' I said.

It's funny how you get under his skin.' At first, I'm not sure I heard him right. I almost ask whom he's talking about, because I can't quite believe he's admitting that high and mighty Cardan is affected by anything. 'Like a splinter?' I say. 'Of iron. No one else bothers him quite the way you do.' He picks up a towel and wets it, then kneels down beside me and carefully wipes my face. I suck in a breath when the cold cloth touches the sensitive part of my eye, but he is far gentler than I would have been to myself. His face is solemn and focused on what he's doing. He doesn't seem to notice my studying him, his long face and sharp chin, his curling red-brown hair, the way his eyelashes catch the light. Then he does notice. He's looking at me, and I'm looking back at him, and it's the strangest thing, because I thought Locke would never notice anyone like me. He is noticing, though. He's smiling like he did that night at the Court, as though we share a secret. He's smiling as if we're sharing another one. 'Keep it up,' he says. I wonder at those words. Can he really mean them? As I make my way back to the tournament and my sisters, I can't stop thinking of Cardan's shocked face, nor can I stop considering Locke's smile. I am not altogether sure which is more thrilling and which more dangerous.

Gays, lesbians, straights, feminists, fascist pigs, communists, Hare Krishnas — none of them bother me. I don’t care what banner they raise. But what I can’t stand are hollow people. When I’m with them I just can’t bear it, and wind up saying things I shouldn’t. With those women — I should’ve just let it slide, or else called Miss Saeki and let her handle it. She would have given them a smile and smoothed things over. But I just can’t do that. I say things I shouldn’t, do things I shouldn’t do. I can’t control myself. That’s one of my weak points. Do you know why that’s a weak point of mine?” “‘Cause if you take every single person who lacks much imagination seriously, there’s no end to it,” I say. “That’s it,” Oshima says. He taps his temple lightly with the eraser end of the pencil. “But there’s one thing I want you to remember, Kafka. Those are exactly the kind of people who murdered Miss Saeki’s childhood sweetheart. Narrow minds devoid of imagination. Intolerance, theories cut off from reality, empty terminology, usurped ideals, inflexible systems. Those are the things that really frighten me. What I absolutely fear and loathe. Of course it’s important to know what’s right and what’s wrong. Individual errors in judgment can usually be corrected. As long as you have the courage to admit mistakes, things can be turned around. But intolerant, narrow minds with no imagination are like parasites that transform the host, change form, and continue to thrive. They’re a lost cause, and I don’t want anyone like that coming in here.

Christina walks out, bumping me with her shoulder as she leaves. Tris lifts her eyes to mine. “We should talk,” I say. “Fine,” she says, and I follow her into the hallway. We stand next to the door until everyone else leaves. Her shoulders are drawn in like she’s trying to make herself even smaller, trying to evaporate on the spot, and we stand too far apart, the entire width of the hallway between us. I try to remember the last time I kissed her and I can’t. Finally we’re alone, and the hallway is quiet. My hands start to tingle and go numb, the way they always do when I panic. “Do you think you’ll ever forgive me?” I say. She shakes her head, but says, “I don’t know. I think that’s what I need to figure out.” “You know…you know I never wanted Uriah to get hurt, right?” I look at the stitches crossing her forehead and I add, “Or you. I never wanted you to get hurt either.” She’s tapping her foot, her body shifting with the movement. She nods. “I know that.” “I had to do something,” I say. “I had to.” “A lot of people got hurt,” she says. “All because you dismissed what I said, because--and this is the worst part, Tobias--because you thought I was being petty and jealous. Just some silly sixteen-year-old girl, right?” She shakes her head. “I would never call you silly or petty,” I say sternly. “I thought your judgment was clouded, yes. But that’s all.” “That’s enough.” Her fingers slide through her hair and wrap around it. “It’s just the same thing all over again, isn’t it? You don’t respect me as much as you say you do. When it comes down to it, you still believe I can’t think rationally--” “That is not what’s happening!” I say hotly. “I respect you more than anyone. But right now I’m wondering what bothers you more, that I made a stupid decision or that I didn’t make your decision.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “It means,” I say, “that you may have said you just wanted us to be honest with each other, but I think you really wanted me to always agree with you.” “I can’t believe you would say that! You were wrong--” “Yeah, I was wrong!” I’m shouting now, and I don’t know where the anger came from, except that I can feel it swirling around inside me, violent and vicious and the strongest I have felt in days. “I was wrong, I made a huge mistake! My best friend’s brother is as good as dead! And now you’re acting like a parent, punishing me for it because I didn’t do as I was told. Well, you are not my parent, Tris, and you don’t get to tell me what to do, what to choose--!” “Stop yelling at me,” she says quietly, and she finally looks at me. I used to see all kinds of things in her eyes, love and longing and curiosity, but now all I see is anger. “Just stop.” Her quiet voice stalls the anger inside me, and I relax into the wall behind me, shoving my hands into my pockets. I didn’t mean to yell at her. I didn’t mean to get angry at all. I stare, shocked, as tears touch her cheeks. I haven’t seen her cry in a long time. She sniffs, and gulps, and tries to sound normal, but she doesn’t. “I just need some time,” she says, choking on each word. “Okay?” “Okay,” I say. She wipes her cheeks with her palms and walks down the hallway. I watch her blond head until it disappears around the bend, and I feel bare, like there’s nothing left to protect me against pain. Her absence stings worst of all.

DITCHING SESSIONS AND OTHER DISRUPTIVE BEHAVIOR 5 out of 10 None. I’m not going to bother documenting all of the reports I’ve gotten about Keefe’s recent behavior (or any of the other prodigies currently acting up.) Nor am I allowing any punishment to be assigned. The plantings for Sophie Foster and Dex Dizznee were only a few days ago and everyone needs more time to process their shock and grief—particularly Keefe, who seemed inconsolable when I saw him in the Wanderling Woods. —Dame Alina LEVEL FIVE VIOLATION SERIOUSNESS SENTENCE PRINCIPAL’S COMMENTS DITCHING THE UNIVERSE According to a report from the gnomes, Keefe was found in the Mentors’ private cafeteria again, covered in butterblast crumbs. 2 out of 10 One detention assigned. First day of sessions and Keefe’s ditching again. I definitely should’ve tried to get him assigned to a different session. But the Council’s been busy since Sophie Foster and Dex Dizznee returned. I still can’t believe anyone would capture children—and I don’t want to think about what Sophie and Dex endured. Our world is changing.… —Dame Alina VIOLATION SERIOUSNESS SENTENCE PRINCIPAL’S COMMENTS DISRUPTING STUDY HALL According to a report from Sir Rosings, Keefe was talking to Sophie Foster during detention—and made a “sassy” reply when Sir Rosings called them out. When Keefe continued to talk, Sir Rosings gave them both detention. (Keefe apparently looked excited by the prospect. Sophie less so.) 1 out of 10 One detention detention assigned. Honestly, this seems a somewhat minor offense, considering the theatrics Keefe usually pulls. But I respect Sir Rosings’s decision. —Dame Alina Update: Keefe’s detention (and Sophie’s as well) was postponed a day after he injured his hand in Elementalism while trying to bottle a tornado. (Sophie apparently had some trouble in her inflicting session as well.)

And all I can think about is that it's not over and I'm tired and I'm ready to go but I'm still here. And I have to do it again and again and again." He leaned back in his chair. "You think about that before you tell me I've got it easy." I stayed silent a while before speaking. "So why don't you end it?" "Suicide?" "If your life is such a hell," I asked, "why bother? Why go through it again and again and all those times?" "Because of..." He stopped and looked at the ceiling. After a moment he shrugged. "Because of children," he said, "because of smiles and sunshine and ice cream." "You've got to be kidding." "You don't like ice cream?" Elijah shook his head, "It's the best. Imagine how excited I was when someone finally invented it. " "Sunshine and smiles don't make all that other stuff go away." I said, "This isn't a fairy land." "No," he said. "It's the real world. And the real world is the most amazing thing any of us will ever experience. Have you ever climbed a mountain? Walked through a garden? Played with a child? This isn't exactly a revelation John. People have been praising the simple pleasures since even before I was born, and that's a very long time." "You don't do any of those things." "But I have my memories," Said Elijah. "And I have even simpler things. Music. Food. Everybody likes bacon." "I'm a vegetarian." "Asparagus then," said Elijah, "roasted in pan. A little olive oil and a little salt - you the get the most incredible flavor - almost like a nut. But deep and rich and the textures just perfect..." "I've tried it." "The world is more than sadness," said Elijah, "i have a hundred thousand memories in my head. I can't remember all of them, or maybe even most of them, but they are so much happier than sad. For every dead mother or brother or child there are a hundred breezes, a hundred sunsets, a hundred memories of falling in love. Have you ever kissed anyone, John?" "I don't see how that's any of your business." "A first kiss is important. Most people only get one. But I can remember a hundred thousand of them. How could I give that up?" he shook his dead, smiling for the first time. "The world never gets old, John.

you'll wonder again, later, why so many psychologists remain so vocal about having more and better training than anyone else in the field when every psychologist you've ever met but one will also have lacked these identification skills entirely when it seems nearly every psychologist you meet has no real ability to detect deception. You will wonder, later, why the assessment training appears to have been reserved for the CIA and the FBI is it because we as a society don't want to imagine that any other professionals will need the skills? And what about attorneys? What about training programs for guardian ad litems or anyone involved in approving care for all the already traumatized and marginalized children? You'll have met enough of those children after they grow up to know that when a small girl experiences repeated rapes in a series of households throughout her childhood, then that little girl is pretty likely to have some sort of "dysfunction" when she grows up. And you won't have any tolerance for the people who point their fingers at her and demand that she be as capable as they are it is, after all, a free country. We all get the same opportunities. You'll want to scream at all those equality people that you can't ignore the rights of this nation's children you can't ignore them and then get pissed when any raped and beaten little girls and boys grow up to be traumatized and perhaps hurtful or addicted adults. No more pointing fingers only a few random traumatized people stand up later as some miraculous example of perfectly acceptable societal success and if every judgmental person imagines that I would be like that I would be the one to break through the barriers then all those judgmental people need to go back in time and prove it, prove to everyone that life is a choice and we all get equal chances. You'll want anyone who talks about equal chances to go back and be born addicted to drugs in complete poverty and then to be dropped into a foster system that's designed for good but exploited by people who lack a conscience by people who rape and molest and whip and beat tiny little six year olds and then you will want all those people to come out of all that still talking about equal chances and their personal tremendous success. Thank you, dear God, for writing my name on the palm of your hand. You will be angry and yet you still won't understand the concept of evil. You'll learn enough to know that it's not politically correct to call anyone evil, especially when many terrible acts might actually stem from a physiological deficit I would never use the word evil, it's not professional but you will certainly come to understand that many of the very worst crimes are committed by people who lack the capacity to feel remorse for what they've done on any level. But when you gain that understanding, you still will not have learned that these individuals are more likable than most people that they aren't cool and distant that they aren't just a select few creepy murderers or high-profile con artists you won't know how to look for a lack of conscience in noncriminal and quite normal looking populations no clinical professors will have warned you about people who exude charm and talk excessively about protecting the family or protecting the community or protecting our way of life and you won't know that these types would ever stick around to raise kids you will have falsely believed that if they can't form real attachments, they won't bother with raising children and besides most of them will end up in prison you will not know that your assumptions are completely erroneous you won't understand that many who lack a conscience keep their kids close and tight for their own purposes.

Isn't someone's life more than a collecion of scenes? Isn't she more than the images I have compiled in my head? These questions may sound rhetorical, but I genuinely don't know. I can't tell whether this is as far as any human can understand another. The question that really bothers me is whether I know anyone else better than I know my mother. It seems I've always asked, with Lear, "Does any here know me?" but never "Do I know any here?" Trying to know another human being seems to me as impossible, and as ridiculous, as trying to grasp a swallow's shadow.

Some of the dominant characteristics of a silent son are: He keeps things that bother him to himself. He denies that unpleasant events occur. He fears letting people know him. He has difficulty interacting with his parents, spouse, or children. He has a strong fear of criticism. He is angry. He can’t express his feelings. He disproportionately fears failure. He is obsessively driven to succeed. He desperately wants his life to be better but doesn’t know how to change. A silent son is a man in pain, but he doesn’t want to admit it or allow anyone to see it. The pain is always present. He tries to ignore it. He tries to forget it. He becomes so involved in his career that he becomes convinced that the pain doesn’t matter anymore. He surrounds himself with people whom he won’t let get close to him, and he pretends that he belongs. But when he is alone or alone with his thoughts, he realizes the pain is still there.

After listening to everyone rumble with both their pain and their privilege, the white woman who wrote the “you don’t know me” note said, “I get it, but I can’t spend my life focusing on the negative things—especially what the black and Hispanic students are talking about. It’s too hard. Too painful.” And before anyone could say a word, she had covered her face with her hands and started to cry. In an instant, we were all in that marshy, dark delta with her. She wiped her face and said, “Oh my God. I get it: I can choose to be bothered when it suits me. I don’t have to live this every day.” I chose to use my social work

It’s Fae on Fae, man, what are you thinking?” he asked with a frown and I could only glower as I looked back to the fight, forcing myself to remain still. It might have made me ache to hold back but he was right, I couldn’t get involved in a fight between two Fae. And if it had been anyone else, I never would have considered it. But Roxy always made me want to break the rules. “You jumped up, crown touting, cock sucking, whore!” Mildred slammed her fist into Roxy’s face again, not even bothering to use magic as she screamed insults in her face which included way too many references to me being her beloved. “What’s the matter, Mildred?” Roxy snarled. “Is it just that you can’t suck cock properly with that mis-matched jaw of yours or is it that you know Darius is only marrying you because his father is forcing him to?” “When I take my beloved to the bedroom he will be screaming so loudly that he won’t even remember the name Vega!” Mildred howled as she punched Roxy again. “Yeah, screaming in horror,” Roxy spat and I almost fucking laughed aside from the fact that she was about to get her face smashed in by that beast of a girl. “We’ll see if he’s so tempted by you when I’m done pulverising that pretty face of yours and I cut your perky tits off for good measure!” Mildred howled. “Not the tits!” Tyler Corbin gasped from the other side of the crowd as he filmed the whole thing. My heart pounded. Roxy might have been tough, but Mildred was four times the size of her. She needed to fight back with magic if she was going to stand a chance, but as she swung her head forward and cracked the bridge of Mildred’s nose with a savage headbutt, I got the feeling she wasn’t going to use it. Roxy swung a fist into Mildred’s throat to follow it before driving her knee up between her legs as hard as she could. “Ooo right in the vag!” Tyler called and a laugh caught in my throat. “Yes, Tor!” Darcy screamed as she pushed her way to the front of the crowd. “Show her how we fight where we come from!” As Mildred reared back, Roxy lunged forward, rolling them over so that she was on top before swinging her fists down into Mildred’s ugly face with a brutality that made my heart race. She was wild and vicious, blood pissing down her face from her own injuries as she used my stolen rings to batter Mildred again and again. I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t end up with Dragons imprinted all over her face from her own injuries as she used my stolen rings to batter Mildred again and again. I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t end up with Dragons imprinted all over her face from the shape of the jewellery. Mildred gave as good as she got, punching Roxy in the sides, the chest, even trying to bite her fist as she punched her. “Holy shit,” Seth breathed as he nuzzled against my arm. “This would be so hot if it wasn’t, you know, Mildred. But if I imagine her being literally any other girl then I’d be so turned on right now.” I swallowed a lump in my throat as I refused to agree out loud, but he was right. There was something about Roxy as she fought like that, her lip curled back with determination and absolutely no mercy in her. They might have been fighting like mortals having a bar brawl, but with a crown on her head and blood painting her flesh, I didn’t think she’d ever looked more like the Savage King’s daughter before. She really was a Fae Princess. And I liked it. Mildred cursed and screamed, throwing fists like sledgehammers so hard that I was pretty sure I heard ribs cracking, but Roxy wasn’t going to give in. She swung her arm back one final time and with a scream of rage, she hit Mildred so hard in her pug face that she blacked out. A laugh tumbled from my lips before I could stop it and Roxy looked up at me with a wild determination in her eyes as she grinned like a damn warrior. (Darius POV)

A long marriage is complicated. So complicated, in fact, that most people in one sometimes ask themselves: “Am I still married because I’m in love, or just because I can’t be bothered to let anyone else get to know me this well again?

Life is hard enough with just one body. Why would anyone ever want to make another one? I can’t even imagine why anyone would bother, but people think it’s the best thing ever. Do they, though? I mean, have they ever really thought about it?

Harsh. Oblivious. Arrogant. Three words I never thought I’d use to describe the man before me. Unfairly confining me to my house, while not giving me the same option of knowing he’s safe… I can’t even put into words how pissed off I am. “You don’t even take the time to fire off a text that you’re okay,” I go on, keeping my tone even, refusing to show too much emotion. I don’t bleed for the world anymore. He saw more than anyone else, and he didn’t bother to care when it mattered the most.

What’s a Karen, by the way?” Julian smiled. “A monster native to my homeland. The scourge of anyone who has reasonable expectations for a task and anyone who is in a helper’s role. They’re vile, arrogant beasts. Best pacified by being shunted away from society where they can’t bother anyone else.

Is everything okay?” Joe asks. “Yes!” I agree quickly. “I was just checking out the light fixtures,” I say, nodding to the Starbucks decor. “They’re nice, don’t you think?” Not a total lie. I’ve always appreciated the ambiance here. “They must have them custom-made,” I muse. Brilliant conversational skills, Chloe. “I guess.” Joe shrugs. “I mean, it’s not like you can buy them just anywhere,” I add, because I never quit when I should. “I imagine not,” he agrees. “They don’t want just anyone to get their hands on their exclusive light fixtures.” He says it kindly, like he’s not bothered by my inane light fixture observations. “Right.” I nod. Joe is really so nice. And he’s really good-looking. He’s got beautiful thick dark hair. “Are you Italian?” “No.” He shakes his head. “Well, I don’t think so. I’m adopted so I’ve got no idea. My parents are of Scottish and German descent.” Oh. “I love Italian food,” I respond. Because that’s an appropriate response to sticking your foot in your mouth. “I hate Italian.” Joe frowns and shakes his head, then laughs. “Just kidding. Who doesn’t love Italian food?” Why is Boyd watching? Is this some sort of payback for pretending not to know him the other day at the hospital? I’m sure I can’t be the only girl questioned by the FBI who didn’t want her friends to know about it. Sheesh. Oh, my God. Is he on a stakeout? Is he investigating this date too? No. I mentally shake my head. Not possible. “Have you ever been to Serafina? On 18th? My friend went into labor there last week.” “Um, wow. Okay.” He pauses. “Congratulations to your friend,” he adds slowly, because he’s probably unsure what the correct response is to that tidbit of information.

When you’re in the middle and stuck, you need to know when to back out and call for help. If that person is someone you live with, set up your signals as Molly and her husband did. Use expressions or words that clearly signify “I need your help now!” It is imperative that parents of spirited children work together. It is not a sign of failure to let others assist you. It is a recognition and acceptance of your own intensity and limits. Blaming or ridiculing only fuels the intensity levels. Teamwork is essential. You have to talk about how you react when your child is upset. You have to decide how you can help and support each other. By working together, you take the sting out of your child’s strong responses. You create a lifeline that keeps you from falling into the abyss of the red zone. If it seems impossible for you and your partner to work together, seek counseling, and make weekly dates a priority so that you can work together. Researchers at the Gottman Institute have found that children of unhappily married parents are chronically aroused physiologically and it takes them much longer to recover from emotional arousal. Your children need you to work together so that they can stay in the green zone, where they are calm and open to your guidance. If you are a single parent, you might think that you can’t ask someone else for help. Single parents often say, “What if I call and interrupt their meal or family time?” Or, “I don’t want to bother anyone.” But good friends don’t mind being bothered. They appreciate the opportunity to help and the joy of giving. Look for someone you know who likes your child and won’t be critical of him or you. You have to be able to trust that they’ll support you, and then feel free to call. As the parent of a spirited child, you have to know and use your resources well. Step Away from It Of course there are times when your kids are plummeting into the red zone and you are all alone, with no one to help. If you realize you’re going over the edge with them, give yourself permission to step out of the fire. It’s much better to take a breather than to have two bulls charging head to head into each other.

How many piercings do you have?” I ask. He starts to count on his fingers. He stops at seven. “Seven?” “Where?” He points to each nipple, then his ears, then the shell of his ear. And then his gaze goes down to his crotch. He’s not smiling, and his eyes narrow as though he’s waiting to see my reaction. I gasp and nearly choke on my inhale. “Down there?” I whisper, a grin tugging at my lips. He nods, taking a sip of his root beer. “Did they hurt?” I suddenly have the most obnoxious desire to see every last one. He shrugs. “Can you do one for me?” I ask. Then I rush on to say, “Not today. Or any time soon. I don’t have enough money.” “Where would you want it?” he asks. I’ve only had my ears pierced and never thought of doing any other part of my body. My nipples go hard just thinking about it. “Did your nipples hurt?” I whisper. Then I realize he can’t tell I’m whispering, since he’s just reading my lips. “It hurts a little when you do it, but it goes away. Just like any other piercing.” I can’t stop thinking about the one down there. Heat creeps up my cheeks again. “I could pierce you. Anywhere you want,” he says. This time his face floods with color. “Anywhere?” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he opens them, he only opens one, and he looks at me like he’s wincing when he says carefully, “Anywhere.” He looks at my boobs again and licks his lips. “Take your pick.” Suddenly, I’m curious. “You do a lot of those?” I don’t know why that bothers me. “The… ones…down there?” He shrugs. I don’t like the idea of him touching anyone’s private places. Not at all. Although the idea of him touching mine… I squirm in my seat, and he arches an eyebrow at me. “Something wrong?” he asks. He’s smirking. I shake my head, biting my lips together. “Can anyone get a piercing like that?” I point toward my lap. I don’t know why I’m being so bold about this, but I’m curious. “Most people can.” He plays with the salt shaker. “We’d have to take a look to see what type of piercing would be best for you.” My face flames at the thought of him taking a look down there. He pushes my root beer toward me and says, “Drink. Before you pass out.” He’s grinning, though, and I’ve never seen such a look of confidence on a man. The awkwardness of a moment before has passed. And he’s enjoying making me squirm.

Why him Harper?” “What do you mean?” “Why Brandon? You’d never been kissed, why’d you choose him to change that?” It was weird to have him not making fun of me, I almost didn’t know how to respond. “Why not Brandon?” I replied simply. He snorted a laugh but didn’t say anything. “Why does that bother you so much Chase?” “Because you deserve someone who realizes how amazing you are. You shouldn’t have just let the first guy who gave you the time of day kiss you.” “You’re acting like I gave him everything and all we’ve done is kissed!” I unwrapped my arms and sat down on the bed. “And who are you to judge who I do and do not kiss?” “Please don’t. Don’t give him everything.” He placed a hand on either side of my body and brought his face back to mine. “He doesn’t deserve you Harper.” My breath was coming faster, and though I knew I should lean away, I couldn’t make myself actually do it. “And who does Chase … you?” My voice was barely above a whisper. His eyes flashed before he closed them and hung his head. “No. I don’t deserve you either. You need someone who will cherish you, protect you and take care of you. Someone that realizes they’d never be able to find another you in the world, no matter how hard they looked.” He looked back up into my eyes and we just stared at each other. I was blown away, the emotion in his voice when he’d said that was unlike anything I’d ever heard. But we barely knew each other, there was no way he could think all this about me. He moved until his lips were hovering just above mine, and I thought my heart would stop. “Chase …” His voice was husky, and I could feel his breath against my lips. That alone was enough to make my eyelids flutter shut and my mouth open slightly. “That first night, I did realize I would never meet another girl like you. But you deserve someone who has waited for you as long as you have waited for them. And no matter how much I wish I could be that guy, I can’t Harper.” I had to bite back a frustrated groan when he moved his face away from mine. My arms gave out and I flopped down to the bed, trying to control my erratic breathing. It couldn’t be healthy to feel this way for someone. A whimper escaped my mouth when he pressed his full lips to my throat. “You’re amazing Harper. There will never be anyone good enough for you.” I secured my fingers in his hair, but didn’t pull him closer. To be honest, I was a little terrified of what would happen when I did. If I kissed him right now, I don’t know if I’d be able to stop. And what would that say about me? I finally had my first kiss just last night, and not fifteen minutes ago Brandon had me pushed up against the wall. The way my heart would pound for each guy separately was already frustrating me to no end, I didn’t want to complicate things further by kissing Chase. And even though I hadn’t known Brandon long, I couldn’t stomach the thought of hurting him. Before I could move my arms back, Chase skimmed his nose up the inside of my forearm and kissed my wrist and palm before setting down my hands and walking out the door. I

When I got closer I heard Brandon’s warm animated voice and slowed, trying to hear whatever he was telling our son. I was already smiling to myself when I peeked around the slightly ajar door, he was talking to him about one of his surfing days. No … he was talking to him about one of Chase’s surfing days. And he had the scrapbook of Chase’s life on the dresser below them, pointing to one of the pictures. A soft gasp escaped my chest and I tried to slow my breathing so I could continue to listen without Brandon knowing I was here. “… he was always doing crazy stuff like that, it’s why everyone loved him, but it got him in trouble more times than not. No one else would have continued to surf after that, and we were all trying to get him to come in. Brad and I rode out to force him to, since he had this huge cut on his eyebrow from where that guy punched him, but by the time we got out there he was already catching another wave and riding it in. I swear he knew how to piss us off too, because those guys weren’t happy we started coming back out. Your dad could out-surf those guys, and I could fight them, but just a warning son, don’t ever try to fight someone while on your surfboard out in the ocean. It doesn’t really work out for anyone, and you look stupid trying to throw punches while treading water. We ended up laughing too hard and inviting them to the party that night, calling a truce.” Brandon flipped to the next page and chuckled lightly, pointing at one of the pictures again, “Like I said, he was crazy and always doing stupid crap,” flipping the page again he pointed to one and said softly, “but your mom changed that.” I froze and tilted my head in even further. “The day I met your mom, I knew she would be in my life forever. There was something about her and I knew I was already falling in love with her that first day. She made you want to be better, to attempt to be worthy of her love. Unfortunately your dad felt the same way; no one understood why he drastically changed, except for me. Even though she was with me, he stopped drinking, stopped sleeping with other girls, it’s like she made him instantly mature into the guy he eventually wanted to be so he could have an opportunity with her. I was always afraid I’d lose her to him someday, it’s like I knew it was a matter of when, not if. But your mom was different, I’d dated plenty of girls, but I hadn’t really cared if they were there or not. It was just someone to try to fill the ache of losing my dad. So when I met her and realized my feelings, I fought to keep her as long as I could. Don’t tell your momma, but Chase and I were constantly fighting over her when she wasn’t around. Hell, we even fought over her when she was around. We knew either of us could have any girl we wanted, but we both only wanted Harper. So of course, being us, words were used and fists flew whenever we were alone. I didn’t tell her this, but I already knew what had happened with your dad before she told me. When I got home from break, and Chase never bothered me again, I knew something had happened. I just didn’t know what yet. But you know what little man? I can’t even be mad about it anymore, because if it hadn’t happened, you wouldn’t be here right now.” He gently kissed our three month old son who was completely enthralled in his stories and pointed to the last picture in the book. “And he loved you and your mom, so much. I’ll always remind you of that, but I wish you could have met him.” I

Probably even something of a good life, if it’s the life you want, but who would? Anyone with a SIN is ripe for overwatch. The whole concept of freedom got trumped by the demand for security decades ago. It started with communication taps and bled into everyday existence from there. Maybe you aren’t being watched all the time, but it always bothered me that no one seemed to mind it meant anyone could clock into your freqs simply by pulling up your SIN. Granted, most couldn’t read the SIN without illegal tech, but that stuff is only illegal for the people who can’t afford it. I guess if you like power with strings and a leash, being a sinner isn’t so bad.

Why can't you call me Alex?" I ask, my head down while I stare at the food in front of me. "If I wanted to call you Alex, I wouldn't have bothered to name you Alejandro. Don't you like your given name?" My muscles tense. I was named after a father who is no longer alive, leaving me the responsibility of being the designated man of the house. Alejandro, Alejandro Jr., Junior . . . it's all the same to me. "Would it matter?" I mumble as I pick up a tortilla. I look up, trying to gauge her reaction. Her back is to me as she cleans dishes in the sink. "No." "Alex wants to pretend he's white," Carlos chimes in. "You can change your name, bro, but nobody'd mistake you for anythin' other than Mexicano." "Carlos, collate la boca," I warn. I don't want to be white. I just don't want to be associated with my father. "Por favor, you two," our mother pleads. "Enough fighting for one day." "Mojado," Carlos sings, egging me on by calling me a wetback. I've had enough of Carlos's mouth; he's gone too far. I stand, my chair scraping the floor. Carlos follows and steps in front of me, closing the space between us. He knows I could kick his ass. His overblown ego is gonna get him in trouble with the wrong person one of these days. "Carlos, sit down," mi'ama orders. "Dirty beaner," Carlos drawls at me in a fake deep accent. "Better yet, es un Ganguero." "Carlos!" mi'ama reprimands sharply as she comes forward, but I get in between them and grab my brother's collar. "Yeah, that's all anyone will ever think of me," I tell him. "But you keep talkin' trash and they'll think that of you, too." "Brother, they'll think that of me anyway. Whether I want them to or not." I release him. "You're wrong, Carlos. You can do better, be better." "Than you?" "Yeah, better than me and you know it," I say. "Now apologize to mi'ama for talkin' smack in front of her." One look in my eyes and Carlos knows I'm not kidding around. "Sorry, Ma," he says, then sits back down. I don't miss his glare, though, as his ego got knocked down a peg.

tug her hand in mine and guide her to the lower deck. She follows, practically walking on my heels in her excitement. As soon as we reach the downstairs and her eyes fall on her present, she stops walking, her smile growing bigger. “Where’d you get this?” she asks. “It was actually a favor called in from a friend. Apparently, this one has raped numerous girls up and down the coast, but his father’s diplomatic immunity status has prohibited anyone from being able to touch him. They were in the process of getting that status revoked when his father sent him back to Columbia.” Her eyes flash with excitement, as Juan Alvarez’s eyes widen, and he struggles, cursing us through his gag. Lana tilts her head, watching him as he jerks against the chains. “And you trust the source?” she asks, looking Juan over, her fingers itching to take action. “Leonard’s the one who called. The last girl was just fifteen, and he slit her throat. I trust Leonard, and I reviewed the file myself. They have enough physical evidence to prove it, and he hasn’t bothered denying it. They just can’t touch him.” She gets up on her toes, smiling as she kisses me. Juan continues to struggle in vain. “Thank you,” she murmurs as I hand her the knife.

Staff meal." The words are sweet relief, and I untie the apron Roberto gave me, hanging it up on the hook by the entrance. Sure, I ate here last night. But there were so many things on the menu I didn't order. The open-faced duck confit sandwich with red wine aioli, the almond-crusted salmon with zucchini puree, tempura vegetables, chipotle oil. I wonder how this works, if we get to choose whatever we want. Or maybe it's some new creation, some experimental dish that Chef tries out on the staff before adding it to the menu. To think that I might try one of her dishes before anyone else is all the reward I need for today's scrubbing, for the hot water that has splashed all over me throughout the day. What I find instead is a sheet tray of charred burger patties, most of them covered in toxic-yellow American cheese. There's another sheet tray with toasted buns and matchstick fries. Morris and Boris are leaning against the coffee station, taking huge bites in sync. I try to hide my disappointment, follow Elias's lead and grab a plate. I'm shocked that some people are eating it just like that, munching down as quickly as possible without bothering with the condiments. I'm starving too, but it's crazy to me that Chef Elise's food is at their fingertips and everyone's just letting it sit there. There's a whole line of deli containers right in front of us, and I can't even tell what's in them, but the mere thought is making my mouth water. Whispering so that no one can laugh and/or yell at me, I ask Elias if it's cool to use some of the mise to spruce up the burger. He shrugs. "Do your thing." It mellows the disappointment a little: pickled red jalapeños, cilantro aioli, Thai slaw.

Hildy. You don't want anyone who 'just wanders away.' This is a potential lover, not an Alzheimer's patient. If you dangle your fruit and he can't be bothered to --" "Don't say 'danger my fruit.' That's revolting." "Okay. If he's not into you enough for a little flirtatious back-and-forth, he doesn't deserve you." "But --" "Just no. Seriously. What are you? Boneless chicken that's passed its best-before date? You don't have to mark yourself down for quick sale.

We can't and don't know what others are thinking. We can't and don't know what motivations people have for doing the things they do. Ever. Not entirely. This was my terrifying, youthful epiphany. We just never really know anyone. I don't. Neither do you. It's amazing that relationships can form and last under the constraints of never fully knowing. Never knowing for sure what the other person is thinking. Never knowing for sure who a person is. We can't do whatever we want. There are ways we have to act. There are things we have to say. But we can think whatever we want. Anyone can think anything. Thoughts are the only reality. It's true. I'm sure of it now. Thoughts are never faked or bluffed. This simple realization has stayed with me. It has bothered me for years and years. It still does. "Are you good or are you bad?" What scares me most now is that I don't know the answer.

A monster native to my homeland. The scourge of anyone who has reasonable expectations for a task and anyone who is in a helper’s role. They’re vile, arrogant beasts. Best pacified by being shunted away from society where they can’t bother anyone else.

We try to outrun the longings, try to forget about our wants, try to silence every deep doubt and deeper dream. Or we reach for whatever might numb the feelings we can’t silence. Because sometimes seeking out the answers becomes too painful, especially when we think we have to ask them in the shadows where we won’t bother anyone. Where no one can hear that we’re actually admitting we’re not happy or that life hasn’t turned out how we thought it would.

What are you reading, Nanny?’ ‘Pride and Prejudice. Such a stupid book. I’ve read it twice. Can’t see why anyone bothers with it.

When anger rises, think of the consequences. —Confucius LANA Harsh. Oblivious. Arrogant. Three words I never thought I’d use to describe the man before me. Unfairly confining me to my house, while not giving me the same option of knowing he’s safe… I can’t even put into words how pissed off I am. “You don’t even take the time to fire off a text that you’re okay,” I go on, keeping my tone even, refusing to show too much emotion. I don’t bleed for the world anymore. He saw more than anyone else, and he didn’t bother to care when it mattered the most.

It bothers you, doesn’t it?” Mia said suddenly. “I think you can’t imagine. Why anyone would choose a different life from the one you’ve got. Why anyone might want something other than a big house with a big lawn, a fancy car, a job in an office. Why anyone would choose anything different than what you’d choose.” Now it was her turn to study Mrs. Richardson, as if the key to understanding her were coded into her face. “It terrifies you. That you missed out on something. That you gave up something you didn’t know you wanted.” A sharp, pitying smile pinched the corners of her lips. “What was it? Was it a boy? Was it a vocation? Or was it a whole life?” Mrs.

Cassian watched Rhys's face carefully as Nesta and Emerie spoke, and Gwyn drifted over to join them. Promises of books to be swapped filled the air. Rhys said to him, This is an interesting development. Cassian didn't bother to make his face look pleasant. I could have done without you giving Nesta a mental warning. Rhys's brows narrowed. How did you know I did that? The bastard didn't even try to deny it. I noticed the way she tensed. And I know you well, brother. You saw Gwyn and thought the worst of Nesta. She's treated her- and Emerie- with kindness. That's what pissed you off? I'm pissed off that you can't seem to believe even one good thing about her. That you refuse to fucking believe one good thing about her. Was it necessary to bait her like that? Regret glimmered in Rhys's eyes. Cassian went on. You're not making it easier. Let her build these bonds, and stay the hell out of it. Rhys blinked. I'm sorry. I will. Cassian blew out a breath. Rhys added. Did you really feel you had to put your arm around her shoulders to restrain her. I don't want the two of you within three feet of each other. You have a pregnant mate, Rhys. You'll kill anyone that presents a threat to Feyre. You're a danger to all of us right now. I'd never harm someone Feyre loves. You know that.

Same reason they always use female defence barristers in rape cases – so the jury thinks, well if that pretty young woman is defending the bloke in the box then he can’t be all bad otherwise she wouldn’t be doing it.’ He takes a sip of coffee. ‘It’s a remarkably successful strategy, I have to say.’ I am unable to keep the ice out of my voice. ‘And if you know this, and everyone in chambers knows it, then presumably the young pretty barristers also know it when they are assigned to defend rape cases?’ I take my own sip. ‘That doesn’t bother anyone?

Craig wants to be intimate physically, which feels odd and icky to me when I don;t feel like we're being intimate anywhere else. If we are not connecting in the kitchen, in the family room... we're not really going to connect in the bedroom either. We're just going through the motions, But it seems to me like going through the motions is good enough for Craig. Like just get the job done sufficient. And that bothers me, a whole lot. I want more in every room of our house. And if I can't have real intimacy, then I don't want to fake it... ...An intimate friend is someone who notices when I'm saying something important and never forgets it... ...I've told him all these important things in the past. I've offered him these gifts before, but he loses them. It makes me feel like he's being careless, because these stories matter to me. They make up who I am. They make me different from anyone else Craig knows, and they make our relationship different from any other relationship he has. I have to ask: If you don't know my stories, if you don't know me, why do you love me? Mr, personally. Not just your wife, but me? Sometimes Craig really tries. He focuses and listens hard to what I'm saying. But even then, his replies seem canned to me. Flat... the dangerous result of all the forgetting and canned responses is that I stopped sharing important things with Craig. I stopped offering him special gifts because the offerings felt like a waste of my time and breath... Is wanting more too demanding? Am I asking my husband to communicate like a woman? Or is it sexist to suggest that a man can't get as deep and true as a woman can? And if it's not fair for me to expect Craig to be intimate with me mentally and emotionally, is it fair for him to expect physical intimacy from me? Because going through the motions in the bedroom, it's not working for me. It makes me feel used and resentful and angry.

No one in town really knows this boy, Maya. He showed up with his sister, and moved into a cabin that doesn’t even have electricity. People have been concerned about them, but he’s made it very clear that he doesn’t want anyone’s help. It bothers some people, the way they just appeared.” My eyes rounded. “You’re right. Do you remember the night they arrived? That big flying saucer hovering over the park?” He shook his head and pushed his chair back. “I know you’re serious, Dad, but I’m okay. Really.” “I just…I understand you might want to start dating more seriously, and that means dating someone from town. But if you’re going to do that…” This time he took a long drink of coffee, and the mug was still at his lips when he said, “I like Daniel. He takes care of you.” I blinked. “Oh my God. Did you really just say that? He takes care of me?” Dad flushed. “I didn’t mean it like--” “Takes care of me? Did I go to sleep and wake up in the nineteenth century?” I looked down at my jeans and T-shirt. “Ack! I can’t go to school like this. Where’s my corset? My bonnet?” Dad sighed as Mom walked in with her empty teacup. “What did I miss?” she said. “Dad’s trying to marry me off to Daniel.” I looked at him. “You know, if you offer him a new truck for a dowry, he might go for it.” “Apparently, I said the wrong thing,” Dad told Mom. “Again.” “Never hard with our daughter.” She walked over and slid my sandwich into a bag. “Leave your father alone and get going before you miss your ride.

Reasons for wanting to write are multiple of course, but the structurally simplest option may also be the most pervasive: we write because there is no one in the vicinity who will listen. We start to long to set down our memories and emotions on a page and to send them out into the wider world because our friends can’t be bothered to hear us, because our partners are preoccupied and because it’s been agonisingly long since anyone gave us an uninterrupted stretch of time in which we could be attended to with respect and attention – in short, because we are very lonely.

I knew this trailer park well. It was a part of my childhood. I came to a stop in front of Beaus’ trailer. It would be easier to believe that this was the alcohol talking, but I knew it wasn’t. We hadn’t been alone in over four years. Since the moment I became Sawyer’s girlfriend, our relationship had changed. I took a deep breath, then turned to look at Beau. “I never talk in class. Not to anyone but the teacher. You never talk to me at lunch, so I have no reason to look your way. Attracting your attention leads to you making fun of me. And, at the field, I’m not looking at you with disgust. I’m looking at Nicole with disgust. You could really do much better than her.” I stopped myself before I said anything stupid. He tilted his head to the side as if studying me. “You don’t like Nicole much, do you? You don’t have to worry about her hang-up with Sawyer. He knows what he’s got, and he isn’t going to mess it up. Nicole can’t compete with you.” Nicole had a thing for Sawyer? She was normally mauling Beau. I’d never picked up on her liking Sawyer. I knew they’d been an item in seventh grade for, like, a couple of weeks, but that was junior high school. It didn’t really count. Besides, she was with Beau. Why would she be interested in anyone else? “I didn’t know she liked Sawyer,” I replied, still not sure I believed him. Sawyer was so not her type. “You sound surprised,” Beau replied. “Well, I am, actually. I mean, she has you. Why does she want Sawyer?” A pleased smile touched his lips making his hazel eyes light up. I realized I hadn’t exactly meant to say something that he could misconstrue in the way he was obviously doing. He reached for the door handle before pausing and glancing back at me. “I didn’t know my teasing bothered you, Ash. I’ll stop.” That hadn’t been what I was expecting him to say. Unable to think of a response, I sat there holding his gaze. “I’ll get your car switched back before your parents see my truck at your house in the morning.” He stepped out of the truck, and I watched him walk toward the door of his trailer with one of the sexiest swaggers known to man. Beau and I had needed to have that talk, even if my imagination was going to go wild for a while, where he was concerned. My secret attraction to the town’s bad boy had to remain a secret. The next morning, I found my car parked in the driveway, as promised, with a note wedged under the windshield wipers. I reached for it, and a small smile touched my lips. “Thanks for last night. I’ve missed you.” He had simply sighed it “B.

You have to deal with your nightmares, you have to deal with the memory of the sixteen hands that groped you, you have to deal with the pain and shame and loneliness that you are going through, because you can’t talk to anyone. If you tell anyone they will always say you asked for it. I don’t feel my face needs to be blurred: I think the men who did this to me should hide their faces. But what bothers me is from the time this happened to me twenty-four years ago till this moment, the attitude of our society has not changed.

Nassun can't see his face, and must gauge his mood by his broad shoulders. (It bothers her that she does this, watching him constantly for shifts of mood or warnings of tension. It is another thing she learned from Jija. She cannot seem to shed it with Schaffa, or anyone else.)

Helen will never admit what she wants. She’s spent her entire life trying not to be a bother to anyone. She’d marry the devil himself if she thought it would help the family--and she’s well aware that Eversby Priory would stand to benefit.” “She’s not a child. She’s a woman of one-and-twenty. Perhaps you didn’t notice just now that she behaved with far more composure than you or I.” On a callous note, he added gently, “And although it might surprise you, a lifetime of living under your thumb may not appeal to her." Kathleen stared at him, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to find words. When she was finally able to speak, her voice was thick with loathing. “I can’t believe I ever let you touch me.” Unable to bear being in the same room with him for another minute, she fled the study and rushed upstairs.

Did anyone bother to cook dinner? I’m starving.” There was another burst of laughter. He scowled at them. “What?” “You always ask that, every single time,” Hannah explained. “You’re always hungry, Jonas.” He bent down and skimmed a kiss down Hannah’s cheek, right over the fading wounds as if they weren’t there. His kiss ended at the corner of her mouth. “They’re being mean to me, baby. Can’t you turn them all into toads or something?

shower in five days. “Are you serious?” His smile grew wider, literally ear to ear, making his face look like one big blob of silly putty. “Feeling a little cranky?” “You cannot be for real, you fucking asshole.” He shook his head at her as if she were five. “You haven’t read the pamphlets I left for you, have you?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “If you don’t eat at least five small well-balanced meals with plenty of protein and healthy fats, your hormones will get out of whack, and one of the symptoms is crankiness.” “Fuck you.” He went to the kitchen. She could hear cupboards being opened and closed. She could already smell Lysol. The man was cleaning the kitchen. She couldn’t believe he expected her to pay him fifteen thousand dollars to be restrained, deprived, and tortured. Unlike others who might think this a grand plan, she had come to terms with her weight long ago. All she wanted to do was lose a few pounds. She had put down five thousand dollars as a deposit, promising to pay the rest upon reaching her goal weight. She had only spent the money in hopes of finding Diane. Sure, it was a lot of money, but she knew that Diane would have done the same for her had the situation been reversed. She slid off the bed and went to stand just outside the kitchen. He was on his hands and knees scrubbing the floor just like her mother used to do. “I want out,” she said. “I will sign anything you want me to, declaring to all of your lawyers and the world that the decision was mine. I don’t want a refund. I don’t want anything from you. I just want you to unlock me and let me go.” He kept scrubbing, didn’t even bother to look at her when he answered. “Sorry. Can’t do.” “Why not?” “What you’re experiencing right now is just part of the process. Everybody goes through it. You just happened to get to stage three faster than most. In fact, you skipped stages one and two altogether.” Vivian didn’t care about stage one or two, or even three. She only cared about getting out of here. “You’ve done your job. I’ve lost over sixty pounds. I want to go home.” That got his attention and he looked at her, his eyes narrowing as he scanned her body from head to toes. She hated him—hated him more than she’d ever hated anyone in her life. “I’m impressed.” “Great. So can you unlock this cuff around my ankle?” “No. Sorry.” “Why not?” He stood, put the rag and bottle of cleanser under the sink, and then walked past her. In the top drawer of her bedside table, he pulled out a ledger

He shifts in his seat, stalls. “If I can’t get an erection, how could I ejaculate?” “Sometimes in sleep, you’re able to … without really … also, it is possible to ejaculate while having a flaccid penis.” “You’ll have to teach me that trick. What’s occasionally again?” “Anywhere from one time on,” I say. He hears my impatience, pouts. “Write down occasionally.” Danny used to be quick to joke, according to his friends, but the accident triggered another man’s temper. He yells at Clover, the kid, the dog. He doesn’t even walk the same, Clover told me. This personality change is why certain lawyers present brain injury cases as fatalities. The client’s first life has ended. “Are you able to go to the bathroom without assistance from anything or anyone?” He waits for a truck commercial to finish before answering. My phone vibrates in my pocket with messages, e-mails. “I’m able to piss but not the other thing,” he says. “You’re able to urinate,” I say. “All the time, occasionally—” “All the time.” He lifts the waistband of his jeans to show me a diaper. “How do you relieve yourself of fecal matter?” He points to a stack of medical supplies in the corner. “I use gloves to remove what I need. Six or seven times a day. I don’t know when I have to go, that sensation or whatever is gone. I keep checking.” He slumps into himself on the chair. He’s crying, shoulders shaking, holding the remote like a sword. I want to tell him that tears are a bother and a waste of time. “This is normal for someone with your injury,” I say. “Most of my clients can’t achieve erections at all.

Tavish, working hard all weekend, despite the summer heat, cleared the storage area underneath the stairs, painted it, and cleaned up his mess from the previous Friday. Tuesday, he began moving in. After watching him for quite a while, Aggie pulled him aside for a little chat. “Tavish, why did you go to all this work? What is wrong with your room upstairs?” The boy ducked his head and was quiet. He didn’t answer until Aggie, obviously concerned, urged him again. “Aunt Aggie, I just like to be alone. The noise bothers me, and I can’t think. I like to read and think, and try to figure things out, and it’s just a lot easier when I don’t have anyone around. Our room isn’t just my room, it’s Ian’s too. I can’t tell him to be quiet or go away when it’s not all mine, and he has to take naps in there and stuff.” With that, he turned back to making his little corner of the house “home.

That’s the problem with being human. We have brains capable of figuring out the universe to a thousand decimal places, we can build machines as tall as mountains or as tiny as specks of dust, we can prise open atoms like walnuts, we can calculate the weights of distant stars, manipulate nature, ride on super-sophisticated fireworks out beyond the atmosphere, we could blow up our own planet in the time it takes to blow your nose; there’s practically nothing we can’t do, except choose our relatives. Everything else: no bother, piece of cake. But the one thing that’d do more to alleviate stress and grief and give us a head start in the pursuit of happiness is entirely beyond us, further than the Andromeda galaxy, more elusive than the Higgs-Boson. No wonder there isn’t a Nobel prize for putting up with your family. They wouldn’t be able to find anyone to give it to.

He held a hand out to her. “Will you give me a chance to redeem myself, Sweet Katie?” “I told you not to call me that.” She objected more out of embarrassment than true indignation. He sat down next to her in the seat Biddy had vacated. “Does the name really bother you?” “It doesn’t make a lick of sense is all.” She dropped her gaze to her clasped hands, hating that she was about to admit a failing in herself. “You can’t honestly say I’ve been ‘sweet’ to you.” Or to anyone else. “I’ve a feeling, Katie, that underneath it all, you really are sweet.

She frowned at him and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “You’re pretty damned stubborn, aren’t you?” He thought that was evident and not worth answering, so he just let himself disappear into her eyes. She had beautiful eyes. He loved how liquid and soft they were. She started to move away and he caught her arm. “Don’t go.” “I don’t like people touching me.” He should have let go of her, but instead he rubbed the pads of his fingers up and down her bare arm. Her shirt was still half buttoned, and he was tempted to stroke her flat belly just to know the texture of her. “I don’t like it either,” he said. And it was true. Funny. He’d never admitted that to anyone. It didn’t particularly matter, he did what had to be done, but he didn’t like it— maybe not in the same way she meant. His was a matter of personal space, a natural avoidance of closeness with others. But Rikki . . . He studied her face. “I don’t think my touch bothers you that much.” She blinked. She rarely blinked, but he’d struck home. She compressed her lips and then narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re pretty arrogant for a man who can’t move with a pile of weapons sitting next to him.” “You have such a penchant for violence.” She looked outraged. “I do? You’re the one being hostile. I’m Mother Teresa here. And I don’t like sick people.” “Do you like anyone?” Amusement was creeping in again. He was beginning to like the feeling. “Anything?” “Not particularly.

This can’t be the hangover that all the films talk about. It just can’t. It’s too terrible. If this is the result of drinking, then why would anyone bother?

Why would anyone who can’t date you even bother dating?

most people in one sometimes ask themselves: “Am I still married because I’m in love, or just because I can’t be bothered to let anyone else get to know me this well again?

A long marriage is complicated. So complicated, in fact, that most people in one sometimes ask themselves: 'Am I still married because I'm in love, or just because I can't be bothered to let anyone else get to know me this well again?