Cards You're Dealt Quotes

You don’t have a right to the cards you believe you should have been dealt with. You have an obligation to play the hell out of the ones you’re holding and my dear one, you and I have been granted a mighty generous one.

It's not about the cards you're dealt, but how you play the hand.

Life isn't fair, so you have to play the best game you can with the cards you're dealt.

You don't have a right to the cards you believe you should have been dealt. You have an obligation to play the hell out of the ones you're holding.

You got dealt some crappy cards. But you're the one who has to decide how to play them.

Life's tough," Mia said with a shrug. "You play the cards you're dealt or you fold.

You can’t influence fate, or change what’s out of your control. But you can choose what you yourself do with the cards you’re dealt.

You’re not responsible for the hand of cards you were dealt. You’re responsible for maxing out what you were given.

Sometimes I wonder how you can stand being just a dog..." "You play with the cards you're dealt... Whatever that means.

It's not about the cards you're dealt, but how you play the hand. - Randy Pausch “The Last Lecture

As far as I can see, in this world, you’re a fool for not using whatever gifts you’re given. It’s not as though you lied or cheated or stole to get Howard Marlowe as your father. That’s who he is; that’s who you are. You got dealt a bad card when you were bitten—so use one of the better cards you have in your hand to make up for it.

It’s not the hand you’re dealt that matters. It’s how you play the cards.

It’s not the cards you’re dealt, it’s all about how you play them. I just need to savour life more, try to fix less, laugh more and always remember to just be in the moment.

You don’t have a right to the cards you believe you should have been dealt. You have an obligation to play the hell out of the ones you’re holding.

Ah yes," Gabe said, "Pinter is ever the gallant when it comes to the ladies. He wouldn't risk leaving us alone with poor Miss Lake, for the fear one of us might spirit her off to our lair." "Why?" Miss Lake asked, with a lift of her brow. "Do you three make a habit of spiriting women off?" "Only on Tuesdays and Fridays," Masters said. "Seeing as how it's Wednesday, your safe." "Unless you're wearing a blue garter, madam," Gabe quipped. "On Wednesdays, Masters and I have a great fondness for blue garters. Are your gaters blue, Miss Lake?" "Only on Mondays and Thursdays." She dealt thirteen cards apiece to the two of them, then put the rest aside as the stock, turning the top card faceup. "Sorry gentlemen. I guess you'll have to spirit off some other woman.

No easy way out. No escape. From yourself. You had to LEARN to DEAL with the cards you were dealt. Had to learn the hard way that the world doesn't OWE you a fucking thing. Not a reason, nor excuse. No apologies. Had to learn that some forms of insanity run in the family, pure genetics, polluted lifelines, full of disease. Profanity. Addiction. Co-addiction. Inability to deal with reality, what the fuck ever that's suppose to mean when you're born into an emotional ghetto of endless abuse. Where the only way out is in...deep, deep inside, so you poke holes in your skin, thinking that if you could just concentrate the pain it wouldn't remain an all-consuming surround which suffocates you from the first breath of day to your last dying day. Day in. Day out. Day in. Day out. I knew all about it.

You don't have a right to the cards you believe you should have been dealt. You have an obligation to play the hell out of the ones you're holding.

There is no why. You don't have a right to the cards you believe you should have been dealt. You have an obligation to play the hell out of the ones you're holding.

You dont have the right to the cards you believe you should have been dealt. You have an obligation to play the hell out of the ones you're holding...

You play the cards you're dealt. Everyone does.

If I've taken anything from my life, it's this - you choose your family. It's not just blood, it's not just the cards you're dealt, life is about what you make for yourself, who you choose to spend your days with.

You don’t have a right to the cards you believe you should have been dealt. You have an obligation to play the hell out of the ones you’re holding. And, dear one, you and I both were granted a mighty generous hand.

.....youth dies when you stop believing that you can affect the hand you're dealt at birth. The reality is, sometimes you just draw shitty cards, and no matter how much you plan, and no matter how hard you work to be good and to go to church and to think the right thoughts, there's nothing in the world you can do to get a reshuffle.

There is no why. You don’t have a right to the cards you believe you should have been dealt. You have an obligation to play the hell out of the ones you’re holding. And, dear one, you and I both were granted a mighty generous hand.

The Neimoidian gave a long, gurgling sigh. “You’re right, Des. The decision is made. Grim fate and ill fortune have conspired against you. It’s not like sabacc; you can’t fold a bad hand. In life you just play the cards you’re dealt.

The truth that people are only as good as the world lets them be. You’re not inherently good and I’m not inherently bad. We’re just working through the cards life dealt us. So putting you in this position, dealing you these cards—what does a good guy do now? It’s not about the crash, Bill. It’s about the choice. It’s about good people seeing they’re no different from bad people.” He looked from Bill to Carrie. “You’ve just always had the luxury of choosing to be good.

Never believe it, Hal. Never believe your own lies. Because superstition was a trap—that was what she had learned, in the years of plying her trade on the pier. Touching wood, crossing fingers, counting magpies—they were lies, all of them. False promises, designed to give the illusion of control and meaning in a world in which the only destiny came from yourself. You can’t predict the future, Hal, her mother had reminded her, time and time again. You can’t influence fate, or change what’s out of your control. But you can choose what you yourself do with the cards you’re dealt. That was the truth, Hal knew. The painful, uncompromising truth. It was what she wanted to shout at clients, at the ones who came back again and again looking for answers that she could not give. There is no higher meaning. Sometimes things happen for no reason. Fate is cruel, and arbitrary. Touching wood, lucky charms, none of it will help you see the car you never saw coming, or avoid the tumor you didn’t realize you had. Quite the opposite, in fact. For in that moment that you turn your head to look for the second magpie, in the hope of changing your fortune from sorrow to joy—that’s when you take your attention away from the things you can change, the crossing light, the speeding car, the moment you should have turned back. The people who came to her booth were seeking meaning and control—but they were looking in the wrong place. When they gave themselves over to superstition, they were giving up on shaping their own destiny.

Bruce has wrestled with his moods, and a psyche genetically prone to extremes, for most of his adult life. Decades of psychotherapy helped reveal and cast light on some of his most primal traumas and conflicts, but his raw moods, and occasional descents into full-blown depression, never quite went away. "You go through periods of being good, then something stimulates it," he says. "The clock, some memory. You never know. The mind wants to link all your feelings to a cause. I'm feeling that because I'm doing this, or because that happened." Eventually Bruce realized that his worst moods had nothing to do with what was actually taking place in his life. Awful, stressful things could happen - conflicts, stress, disappointments, death - and he'd be unflappable. Then things would be peaceful and easy and he'd find himself on his knees. "You're going along fine, and then boom, it hits you. Things that just come from way down in the well. Completely noncasual, but it's part of your DNA, part of the way your body cycles." Bruce knows his particular brain chemistry will never leave him completely in the clear. "You manage it, you learn and evolve, but another recognition you gotta have is that these are the cards you were dealt," he says. "These things are never going to be out of your life. You gotta be constantly vigilant and realistic about these things.

Never believe it, Hal. Never believe your own lies. Because superstition was a trap—that was what she had learned, in the years of plying her trade on the pier. Touching wood, crossing fingers, counting magpies—they were lies, all of them. False promises, designed to give the illusion of control and meaning in a world in which the only destiny came from yourself. You can’t predict the future, Hal, her mother had reminded her, time and time again. You can’t influence fate, or change what’s out of your control. But you can choose what you yourself do with the cards you’re dealt. That was the truth, Hal knew. The painful, uncompromising truth. It was what she wanted to shout at clients, at the ones who came back again and again looking for answers that she could not give. There is no higher meaning. Sometimes things happen for no reason. Fate is cruel, and arbitrary. Touching wood, lucky charms, none of it will help you see the car you never saw coming, or avoid the tumor you didn’t realize you had. Quite the opposite, in fact. For in that moment that you turn your head to look for the second magpie, in the hope of changing your fortune from sorrow to joy—that’s when you take your attention away from the things you can change, the crossing light, the speeding car, the moment you should have turned back. The people who came to her booth were seeking meaning and control—but they were looking in the wrong place. When they

Wait, sweetheart, you're not gonna card me?" He looked, bright eyed, at his table mates to join in the joke. "What, do I look old or something?" She'd dealt with this before. "No, you look honest." The guy to his left- this time central casting's Joseph (as in Jesus, Mary, and)- slapped his back and crowed at her response. "You thought you had her! She got you good, buddy!

After my shower, I found him shuffling cards he bought at the convenience store we stopped at before the hotel. Grinning, I sat across from him. “You told me that you’re good at cards,” Judd said, recalling my reaction to passing a casino on the drive. “I said I liked cards. I never claimed to be good.” “The only people who like cards are gambling addicts and those who are good at it. You’re not an addict.” “Do you like cards?” I asked while he dealt. “Sure.” “Do you like me?” I asked softly, looking over my cards. Judd never looked up from his hand. “I’m playing cards, ain’t I?

Well, imagine you are alone in a room. The lights are down low, you’ve got some scented candles going. Soothing New Age tunes, nothing too druid-chanty, seep out of the hi-fi to gently massage your cerebral cortex. Feel good? Are you the best, most special person in the room right now? Yes. That’s the gift of being alone. Then a bozo in a CAT Diesel Power cap barges in. What’s the chance that you are the best, most special person in the room now? Fifty-fifty. If you both were dealt two cards, those would be your odds of holding the winning hand. Now imagine ten people are in the room. It’s cramped. You’re elbow to elbow, aerosolized dandruff floats in the air, and the candle’s lavender scent is complicated by BO tones, with a tuna sandwich finish. What are the chances you’re the best, most special person in the room? If you were handed cards, you might expect to be crowned one time out of ten. People, as ever, are the problem. The more people there are, the tougher you have it. Just by sitting next to you, they fuck you up, as if life were nothing more than a bus ride to hell (which it is). But what if you moved to another seat? Changed position? Your seat is everything. It can give you room to relax, to contemplate your next move. Or it might instigate your unraveling.

Your grandmother thought--no, she believed, it was like a faith for her. She believed it the way some people believe in God or science. She believed that it was the rules that made her life so easy. She thought life was about the rules people make for it, as if life was some kind of a board game and if you had a little luck, and you kept to the rules, you'd end up winning. Or maybe she thought it was like a game of solitaire and once the cards had been shuffled and laid out, if you had a good draw you were safe, as if it was arranged for you to win. Or to lose, although Grandmother considered herself someone who had won, since all she had to do once she was born was follow the rules. But really, life's like a game of bridge: You're dealt a hand and it can be a winning hand or a losing one, but that doesn't necessarily mean that you'll win or lose because there are other people at the table, your partner for one, and the other ream for another, that's three people...playing too, and people make mistakes, multiply that times three too, or you can just be smarter than they are. And luckier too, because anybody who sits down to play bridge or life without figuring out how much luck is involved is making a Big Mistake. I don't want you girls doing that.

And remember, life’s not about what you’re dealt, but rather what you do with what you’re dealt. Like a deck of cards.

We’re taught to believe that some people are simply born lucky, when in reality, that’s just a convenient excuse to lean back and take it easy, rather than try to apply some control over our destiny. After all, if you aren’t one of the “chosen” ones, what can you possibly do about it? Quite a lot, actually. The fact is, more and more psychologists are finding out that it isn’t the hand you’re dealt that’s important in life but how you play your cards. Let me put it in another way: We’re all capable of making our own luck. What appears to be luck is really the result of perceptions, personality traits, choices and actions. All of that is within your control. People who consider themselves lucky actually tend to be - it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. That’s because positive thinkers are always keeping their eyes peeled for fortunate situations and they’re more likely to grab on them when they arise. So instead of telling yourself: “There’s not a chance in hell that’s going to happen”. Tell yourself: “That looks kind of cool, maybe I should check it out.” Amanda Oosthuizen

It’s not the cards you’re dealt, it’s all about how you play them.” I just need to savour life more, try to fix less, laugh more and always remember to just be in the moment.

It’s not so much about the cards you’re dealt; it’s a whole lot more about whether you play them well, or play them at all.

When you feel prosperous, you have an abundance mentality that recognizes that you have good luck and you’re going to play whatever cards you’re dealt to the best of your ability.

Life isn't about getting the perfect hand of cards - it's about taking the cards you're dealt and making the most of them!

Americans,” Kuzis spat. “You have it so easy, and then you come to us and preach that we should act as you act. But we’re not holding aces.” “Like I said, Kuzis, you haven’t seen my hand.” “I don’t need to.” “Let me tell you something,” Lance said, “not that it will do you much good now, but the difference between you and me isn’t that I was dealt four aces, and you weren’t.” “What is it then?” “It’s that I play like I was dealt four aces.” Kuzis let out a hollow laugh. “Oh, I see. You’re just bluffing your way to victory then.” “I’m saying, it isn’t the same as a card game, Kuzis. You’re only dealt one hand in life. One hand. And that’s the hand you play.

So, you’re perfectly fine—” “Other than the stab wound.” “Ah yes, ha ha. Sorry.” He actually said ‘ha ha’ in a way that Paul found irritating. “Still though, you and I have dealt with some difficult information and now look – we are making jokes! This has gone very well.” He resumed beaming at Paul. “Which brings me to the next issue we must address. There appears to have been an issue with the emergency contact details the nurse took from you when you were admitted.” “Oh?” “It happens all the time. People are rushing about—” “I’d been stabbed.” “You’d been stabbed. We rang the number you gave us and, apparently, it is a Chinese takeaway called the Oriental Palace.” “It’s not just a takeaway. They’ve recently expanded to include an in-dining area with ambiance.” Mrs Wu would’ve been proud. She had been answering the phone ‘Hello Oriental Palace, now including an in-dining area with ambiance’ for nearly three months. She clearly didn’t know what ambiance meant, but somebody must’ve told her the place had it, and she was damn sure going to sell it. “I see,” said Dr Sinha. “And do you have a relative working at the Oriental Palace?” “No, not as such.” Or at all. “Ask for Mickey.” “OK. Mickey who?” Paul had been dreading that question. Who really knew the second name of their regular delivery guy? Sure, Mickey had come in and nabbed the occasional smoke or life-threateningly cheap Eastern European beer on a slow Tuesday. He’d even stayed to watch half of Roxanne on DVD once, but a second name seemed like a very personal question. Mickey had told him he was not from China, and how annoyed he got when people assumed he was. Unfortunately, Paul had forgotten where Mickey was from, so that was another no-go area. “Just Mickey.” “So, no relatives you’d like us to call?” “Nope. None.” Dr Sinha was clearly uncomfortable at this. “Well, as someone from a very large family, may I say, I envy you. I spend half of my salary on birthday cards alone.

It can be daunting to capture in one location, at one time, all the things that don’t belong where they are. It may even seem a little counterintuitive, because for the most part, most of that stuff was not, and is not, “that important”; that’s why it’s still lying around. It wasn’t an urgent thing when it first showed up, and probably nothing’s blown up yet because it hasn’t been dealt with. It’s the business card you put in your wallet of somebody you thought you might want to contact sometime. It’s the little piece of techno-gear in the bottom desk drawer that you’re missing a part for, or haven’t had the time to install properly. It’s the printer that you keep telling yourself you’re going to move to a better location in your office. These are the kinds of things that nag at you but that you haven’t decided either to deal with or to drop entirely from your list of open loops. But because you think there still could be something important in there, that stuff is controlling you and taking up more of your energy than it deserves.

replied, and thought of Cathy Jones. “Touch that door handle, and I’ll let go,” she’d said, whilst balancing herself on the extreme edge of a chair, her fingers tucked beneath a noose she’d fashioned from torn bedsheets. It had taken ninety minutes to talk her out of it, he recalled, and when he’d finally left the room, he’d vomited until there was nothing but acid left in his stomach. Acid, and the burning shame of knowing that a part of him had wanted her to die. Even while he’d talked her out of it, employing every trick he knew to keep her alive, the deepest, darkest part of his heart had hoped his efforts would fail. Connor watched some indefinable emotion pass across Gregory’s face, and decided not to press it. “Briefing’s about to start,” he said, and left to join his brother at the front of the room. Casting his eye around, Gregory could see officers from all tiers of the Garda hierarchy, as well as various people he guessed were support staff or members of the forensics team. At the last minute, an attractive, statuesque woman with a sleek blonde bob flashed her warrant card and slipped into the back of the room. Precautions had been taken to ensure no errant reporters found their way inside, and all personnel were required to show their badge before the doors were closed. Niall clapped his hands and waited while conversation died down. “I want to thank you all for turning out,” he said. “It’s a hell of a way to spend your weekend.” There were a few murmurs of assent. “You’re here because there’s a killer amongst us,” he said. “Worse than anything we’ve seen in a good long while—not just here, but in the whole of Ireland. There’s no political or gang-related motivation that we’ve found, nor does there seem to be a sexual motivation, but we can’t be sure on either count because the killer leaves nothing of themselves behind. No blood, no fingerprints, no DNA that we’ve been able to use.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “Contrary to what the press have started calling him, the ‘Butcher’ isn’t really a butcher at all. It’s our view that the murders of Claire Kelly and her unborn child, and of Aideen McArdle were perpetrated by the same person. It’s also our view that this person planned the murders, probably weeks or months in advance, and executed their plans with precision. There was little or no blood found, either at the scene or on the victims’ bodies, which were cleaned with a careful eye for detail after the killer dealt one immobilising blow to the head, followed by a single knife wound to the heart. These were no frenzy attacks, they were premeditated crimes.” One of the officers raised a hand. “Is there any connection between the victims?” she asked. “Aside from being resident in the same town, where they were casual acquaintances but shared no immediate family or friends, they were both female, both married homemakers and both mothers.” “Have you ruled out a copycat?” another one asked, and Niall

That’s what every adult has said when I’ve told them something wasn’t fair. You’ve probably heard the same thing. Oh, nothing’s fair. You have to play the cards you’re dealt. Well, why are we even playing cards? I don’t even like card games! Anyway…

As we’ve seen earlier, the hallmark of an admirable poker player is that he plays the best regardless of his hands. In the end, not the one with the objectively best cards, but the one who plays his cards the best, wins. You don’t get to choose the hands you’re dealt, only how you want to play them. Your hands in poker as in life are indifferent, learn to accept them equally, without judging. If you can do that, if you can accept rather than resist what happens, then you will no longer be dependent upon things being in a certain way.

I’m not ready for any of these choices. But I’ve known for a long time that you only get to play the hand you’re dealt, and these are my cards today.

You don't have a right to the cards you believe you should've been dealt. You have an obligation to play the hell out of the ones you're holding.

He met Ray’s eyes. He knew it was hard to believe but Sergi did believe it. Believe in him. He knew how strong Ray was, and if he’d ever doubted it, his resilience in the face of the shitty cards he’d been dealt would have been more than enough. He didn’t know how to say it so Ray would believe him, though. "I spent a lot of time fighting with you,” he said in the end. “I figure I know what you're made of by now." He couldn’t tell if Ray believed him, but sometimes all you could do was offer your faith. Again and again, a prayer and an offering, and hope someone was listening.

You feel so overwritten you're like a palimpsest; the original girl almost lost under years of scrawling yet you nurture an illusion of beauty, brush your hair in the dark so when your reflection finally catches up with you you stare straight past that older woman to the skateboard dancers behind hitting the frosty air with exuberant grace. On the loose in the morning city reminds you of lovers, catching the tram to work in last night's laddered stockings, the sharp-edged day already intruding like a hangover. It's not the sex you miss or the hotel mornings but the reassurance of strangers and that wild card. Now everything's played out the same, no surprises in the pack except those dealt by disaster. Early this morning such certainty dragged on your thoughts they stumbled flat-footed through the breakfast silence and you knew neither the apples orchard fresh, crisp as snow nor the blue bowl they posed in were enough. People disappear all the time, emerge like summer snakes newly marked and glittering into a clean desert. Without the photo of a child you carry in your wallet which reminds you who you have become you'd catch a train to Musk or Mollymook, some place your fingers have strayed over. Even thinking that, you turn your face into the wind, keep walking that same old line in your new flamboyant shoes. Oh my treacherous heart.

Would it be life-changing? You take the cards you’re dealt in life, I guess. Yeah,

You got dealt some crappy cards. But you're the one who has to decide how to play them.

This whole time, I thought it was some kind of prophecy. Like I was special, unique, and the universe had picked me for some reason. But that’s not really true. It’s like these cards. You get what you’re dealt, but it’s how you play them that matters.