Cement Pad Quotes

you're the fly on the wall hearing all, seeing all ears of a wall hearing all the secrets perhaps you're the vines creeping over the old abandoned mansion walls dusty, soulless and dead bringing a certain curious life to rubble and I think you're the jewel-eyed gecko sneaking around the warm summer walls between jasmine and olive branches sticky pad toes, clinging to the walls peeking in at lonely summer spicy love-making through silk curtains from the bright orient breathing in incense and tasting decadence climbing the sharply barbed walls the smooth cemented white-washed walls because walls breathe too

Kit wore a smile that stretched across the harbor. “I have asked Whitney to be my wife.” My stomach leaked through my shoes. Whitney started clapping like a six-year-old. “And I said yes!” It’s happening. It’s really, really happening. I don’t think I moved a muscle. My brain shorted. My eyes locked in place. A corner of my mind agreed with Whitney. They really should’ve let me get more settled. “Kiddo?” Kit seemed equally paralyzed. Grin cemented in place, he held Whitney’s hand and watched me like a hawk. His fiancée’s hand. I’ll have to get used to that. I couldn’t speak. The awkward moment stretched. Three people, staring in silence across a tiny dining room. Sensing the tension, Coop padded to my side. I ignored him. Ignored everything. This is what Kit wants. This is what makes him happy. He was here first. “That’s . . . that’s . . .” Don’t blow this. Don’t ruin the moment for your father. “I’m really . . . very . . .” Whitney took a small step forward. Don’t. Stop. I can’t screw this up. “Tory?” Whitney spoke softly and sincerely. “Please know that I love your father very much, and—” Abruptly she cut off, eyes widening in alarm. “Sweetheart, you’re filthy.” Nose crinkling, Whitney reached for my mussed, tangled hair. “There’s dirt on your sleeves, and I can smell—” She’d crafted the perfect escape. Like a release valve forcing open. “Mind your own business!” Batting her hands away. “Ben’s car got stuck in the mud. Is that okay?” Laced with all the sarcasm I could muster. A part of my brain understood what was happening, but those cells weren’t driving. “God, you’re always butting in!” I stormed past them both, pounding up the stairs with Coop on my heels. “I don’t need a replacement mother!

A day came in healing summer on which I got up to run and the bottom of my right foot hurt so intensely that I couldn’t stand on it. It was on the bottom right pad. Doctors call this neuroma or neuropathy, but it clearly is not. I laughed at this point, almost feeling sorry for the TMS in me. I no longer feared the pain. I can only describe the pain on the bottom of my foot as a golf ball on the right pad of my foot (no, I know what you’re thinking, I checked the shoe, it wasn’t a golf ball). I dressed to run. As I started down my driveway I slammed that foot into the cement as hard as I could slam it. The first few hits were excruciating and sent a tingling through my face, but by the end of my driveway, the foot pain was gone. I focused my attention on a part of my back that felt great and continued running. Some mornings the pain would be in my heels so I began slamming my heels on the ground as hard as I possibly could without breaking my foot. Too many people whose feet hurt begin to placate their pain, they let their foot pain hold their attention by babying their feet, needlessly controlling their lives because doctors erroneously diagnose them as having foot neuropathy (there are over 100 types of so-called neuropathies). I have helped several people get rid of their foot pain and know another individual who has gone from trouble walking, to jogging, through TMS healing. Never yield to pain—if you do, then you give in to your unconscious motivation for it.

Pompano Beach, the central landing pad for snow birds, is marked by high-rise apartment buildings that look like they're constructed of cement Legos, decorated inside with plaques etched with the Residents Rules Of Conduct, a list to rival the Magna Carta.