Chasing Amy Quotes

People are their most beautiful when they are laughing, crying, dancing, playing, telling the truth, and being chased in a fun way.

I WOULD RATHER BE NUMB THAN STAND HERE IN THE LIGHT OF A SUN THAT CAN NEVER CHASE THE CHILL AWAY.

The thing about Magellan is the thing about all these explorers. Most of the time, they’re just determined to chase impossible things. And most of them are so busy looking at the horizon that they can’t even see what’s right in front of them.

He can’t take his eyes off the stars, but I can’t take mine off his face.

Before this moment, I have never wished to be something other than what I am. Never felt so keenly the lack of hands with which to touch, the lack of arms with which to hold. Why did they give me this sense of self? Why allow me the intellect by which to measure this complete inadequacy? I would rather be numb than stand here in the light of a sun that can never chase the chill away

See? The moment you quit chasing him, that’s when he wants you. He looks jealous. He thinks he’s been replaced.

God. No wonder it was so easy. He’s been bleeding since he was a baby. He just never told anyone. How do you even know it hurts after all that time?” Because you loved me, and I knew what it meant to feel.

All of my lower-middle-class Boston issues rose to the surface. I don’t like it when bratty, privileged old white guys speak to me like I am their mouthy niece. I got that amazing feeling you get when you know you are going to lose it in the best, most self-righteous way. I just leaned back and yelled, “FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK YOU.” Then I chased him as he tried to get away from me.

Miracles do not belong to religions. Miracles belong to the desperate, which is why every religion, every philosophy, and most importantly, every fairy tale always has a moment of salvation, a eureka, an enlightenment. We are all chasing and chasing tails, running and running in circles, until a wolf or the witch or the stepmother jumps out and trips us, and we fall flat, splat, and we lie bare and bleeding and breathless and finally, finally look and see whatever it is---salvation or eureka or enlightenment or a hunter or prince or a glass slipper---in front of us. And that's what miracles are. Not solutions, but catalysts. Not answers, but chances.

I felt foolish and tired, as if I had been running to escape someone chasing me, only to look behind to discover there was no one there.

You’ve ruined me,” she repeats, her voice quieting a little as it catches. “You’ve ruined me—you made me wake up. And now I can’t get rid of you.” Her voice surges again as I reach out, curling my hand around her arm, her skin flushed hot under my fingers. “You won’t leave me alone.

He watched in awe as she stacked up an enormous armload of music. "There," she finished, slapping Frank Zappa's Greatest Hits on top of the pile. "That should do for a start." "You are a music lover," said the wide-eyed cashier. "No, I'm a kleptomaniac." And she dashed out the door. He was so utterly shocked that it took him a moment to run after her. With a meaningful nod in the direction of the astounded Cahills, she barreled down the cobblestone street with her load. "Fermati!" shouted the cashier, scrambling in breathless pursuit. Nellie let a few CDs drop and watched with satisfaction over her shoulder as the clerk stopped to pick them up. The trick would be to keep the chase going just long enough for Amy and Dan to search Disco Volante. Yikes, she reflected suddenly, I'm starting to think like a Cahill.... And if she was nuts enough to hang around this family, it was only going to get worse.

Smoke is not chasing me and making my eyes sweat. My eyes are not burning. I am not crying. I am not standing behind my mother and she is not facing the wall and she is not saying, 'Smoke follows beauty.' Smoke follows beauty. Smoke follows beauty. Smoke follows beauty.

Watching the way he treats you made me realize that maybe I had set my sights too low. After chasing someone who didn’t give me the time of day… I just see how Vincent anticipates your every desire and tries to make it come true for you. How, when he sees you walk into a room, it’s like he’s transformed into this person who is bigger and better than the one he was just minutes before. I want to be that for someone. I think I deserve it. And I’m not going to pine away for a guy who feels that for someone else. So until my own chivalrous knight shows up, I’ve decided to live a full life and be happy with my lot.

Now about this turtle. I think I’m gonna name it Oliver.” “Why’s that?” “Because he’s leaving little turtle poop ‘Oliver’ his terrarium.

That night Tommy kissed him and eased his way into Chase’s body so gently that when Chase came, his vision washed in white, not red, and it did for him what sex with Tommy always did for him: set him free and let him fly.

Sleep and I do not have a good relationship. We have never been good friends. I am constantly chasing sleep and then pushing it away. A good night's sleep is my white whale. Like Ahab, I am also a total drama queen about it. I love to talk about how little sleep I get. I brag about it, as if it is a true indication of how hard I work. But I truly suffer at night. Bedtime is fraught with fear and disappointment. When it is just me alone with my restless body and mind, I feel like the whole world is asleep and gone. It's very lonely. I am tired of being tired and talking about how tired I am.

Looking silly can be very powerful. People who are committing and taking risks become the king and queen of my prom. People are their most beautiful when they are laughing, crying, dancing, playing, telling the truth and being chased in a fun way.

She's gazing down at me, Stone-faced Chase, absolutely unforgiving, soot and ashes streaking her face like war paint.

He pressed his lips to Akira’s ear. “Hold on, lass, for hell has just made chase.

So, he, uhm, all ac/ac, or a little ac/dc?" she asked, blushing, and Chase's grin about swallowed his face. "He claims to be ac/dc," he said, watching her face light up completely.

You think I want to be here with you?" I reply, my voice hoarse. "You think if you walked out right now, I'd chase you?" She gazes back at me, her eyes a challenge. "Wouldn't you?" "You know I would," I snap, surrendering. "And I have no idea why that's such a problem." She jerks her arm free and backs up a step until she hits the door. "It's a problem because I'd let you!" she blurts. Then, after a harsh breath, she murmurs, "It's a problem because I'd want you to.

I thought this man had long ago drained everything from my heart. But now something strong and bitter flowed and made me feel another emptiness in a place I didn't know was there. I cursed this man aloud so he could hear. You had dog eyes. You jumped and followed whoever called you. Now you chase your own tail.

Bianca, Since you keep running away from me at school, and, if I remember correctly, the sound of my voice causes you to have suicidal thoughts, I decided a letter might be the best way to tell you how I feel. Just hear me out. I’m not going to deny that you were right. Everything you said the other day was true. But my fear of being alone is not the reason I’m pursuing you. I know how cynical you are, and you’re probably going to come up with some snarky reply when you read this, but the truth is, I’m chasing you because I really think I am falling in love with you. You are the first girl who has ever seen right through me. You’re the only girl who has ever called me on my bullshit. You put me in my place, but, at the same time, you understand me better than anyone ever has. You are the only person brave enough to criticize me. Maybe the only person who looks close enough to find my faults—and, clearly, you’ve found many. I called my parents. They’re coming home this weekend to talk to Amy and me. I was afraid to do this at first, but you inspired me. Without you, I never could have done that. I think about you much more than any self-respecting man would like to admit, and I’m insanely jealous of Tucker—something I never thought I’d say. Moving on after you is impossible. No other girl can keep me on my toes the way you can. No one else makes me WANT to embarrass myself by writing sappy letters like this one. Only you. But I know that I’m right, too. I know you’re in love with me, even if you are dating Tucker. You can lie to yourself if you want, but reality is going to catch up with you. I’ll be waiting when it does… whether you like it or not. Love, Wesley p.s.: I know you’re rolling your eyes right now, but I don’t care. Honestly, it’s always been kind of a turn-on.

I’m of the belief that in most industries, women have to work twice as hard to get half the credit. After putting in so much effort to make a good movie, it felt pretty demeaning when they called it a “female comedy.” This meaningless label painted me into a corner and forced me to speak for all females, because I am the actual FEMALE who wrote the FEMALE comedy and then starred as the lead FEMALE in that FEMALE comedy. They don’t ask Seth Rogen to be ALL MEN! They don’t make “men’s comedies.” They don’t ask Ben Stiller, “Hey, Ben, what was your message for all male-kind when you pretended to have diarrhea and chased that ferret in Along Came Polly?

'I don't know why you stuck with me. I just wanted to be worth it, that's all.'

Never chase people. Be you and the right people who belong in your life and deserve a place in your heart will come, find and appreciate you!

Rita has spent her whole life being chased by boys. Because of that, she never had a chance to stop running long enough to figure out who she was and what kind of guy she should let catch her.

You're the fantasy I never knew I had.

People spend all their lives chasing possessions and money and status, but in the end, what they desire most is to be seen. To Matter. In the end, basic need is all anyone wants

Repeat after me: I only invest my energy into people who invest in me. I only date people who intentionally want to get to know me. I do not chase people and try to convince them to like me.

It’s shocking to me that boys are where your thoughts are focused at this time in the morning, so unlike you.” Ami laughed off my sarcasm. “No need to be so grumpy, just get some make-up on those bags and you’ll be fine.” “Sure, sure,” I agreed without enthusiasm. “Oh! I know what I wanted to tell you – you’ll never guess who Thomas is chasing after now…” Hmmm, never guess or can’t be bothered to guess – it was a hard call. I yawned again, glancing at the bed, which was inviting me to clamber back inside and pull the sheet over my head. So tempting, but not practical.

I felt as if I were running in a labyrinth, chasing after something I could not see yet knew was important. I sensed it was just ahead, and then it would go around a corner, and I would be lost. I would have to decide what to do next, where to go, and what I needed to get out of that confusing place. If I stopped running and stood still, I would be accepting that what I had was all I would ever have. And then I would no longer be lost, because there would be nowhere else to go.

You nervous about doing this on camera?” Chance tilted his head a little, considering. “Well, yeah, of course. You don’t know what you look like when you come—for all I know, I’m hella ugly or something. But at the same time....” He trailed off and shuddered, and his eyes got half-lidded. One hand went unconsciously to his stomach, then slid up to his nipples, which were still pointy and puckered. “It’s sort of cool. It’s making my stomach all jumpy, and....” His other hand slid down under the waistband of his shorts, as he made obvious kneading motions on his groin. “It’s turning you on?” “Mmmm....” “Take the shorts off, Chance, and show us.

The (Anna's Hummingbird) males are deadbeat dads that contribute nothing to making the nest, or to feeding either the female or the nestlings. They are off to find other females they can impress with their deep dives, chasing skills, and commandeering of feeders.

Chase was gone then, and Donnie was back, alone in his room, wondering about those pictures from an art book he'd so admired. Because it felt like he'd just lived one, and it had been beautiful, so beautiful, and he'd been able to reach out and touch the lines of it, but it still hurt.

This is the ultimate narcissistic white-girl game. I would picture how I would handle the attack differently. Or the same. Inevitably, I'd think about my own death, which next to staring at your face in a magnifying mirror is probably the worst thing you can do for yourself. The ambulance-chasing aspect combined with the Monday-morning quarterbacking of it all is the luxury afforded to those of us left untouched by trauma. Sometimes I would use these tragedy-porn shows to unlock deep feelings or cut through the numbness. I would read terrible stories to punish myself for my lucky life. Some real deep Irish Catholic shit. Either way, it was all gross and all bad for my health.

I particularly recommend," [Dain] went on, his eyes upon the female, "that you resist the temptation to count if you are contemplating a gift for your chère amie. Women deal in a higher mathematical realm than men, especially when it comes to gifts." "That, Bertie, is a consequence of the feminine brain having reached a more advanced state of development," said the female without looking up. "She recognizes that the selection of a gift requires the balancing of a profoundly complicated moral, psychological, aesthetic, and sentimental equation. I should not recommend that a mere male atetmpt to involve himself int he delicate process of balancing it, especially by the primitive method of counting.

Our wedding programs included the Yeats quote, “Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy.

it's your own fears that give them the power to chase you.

Japanese chase-away juice.” And

Brooke was meant to avoid stress because of her migraines, not chase it, but she’d always been a martyr. Amy remembered Brooke as a little girl, high pigtails and reflective sunglasses.

God is the one who puts dreams inside you. So you'd better chase them fast, before He decides to let them chase you instead....Because sometimes He does that, just to get your attention.

And what does Jubilee Chase want to do with her life, if she’s not hunting down rebel leaders and skinning them alive?” “I don’t know. Something extremely boring. I could go to night school and learn dentistry.” That makes him laugh, a quick burst of a chuckle that makes my own lips curve. “Oh, God no. No way could you be a dentist.” “I could! I’d be a damn good dentist.

You will never climb Career Mountain and get to the top and shout, "I made it!" You will rarely feel done or complete or even successful. Most people I know struggle with that complicated soup of feeling slighted on one hand and like a total fraud on the other. Our ego is a monster... Ambivalence can help tame the beast. Remember, your career is a bad boyfriend. It likes it when you don't depend on it. It will reward you every time you don't act needy. It will chase you if you act like other things (passion, friendship, family, longevity) are more important to you. If your career is a bad boyfriend, it is healthy to remember you can always leave and go sleep with somebody else.

Domestic Where's the wisdom in erasing a loved one's mess, so akin to his signature? Your honor, I only meant to strew the immaculate in his wake. To wipe the path ahead and behind reasonably clean. Futile, yes, but weren't such gestures essential to love's discipline once upon a time? Daily, I harvested dropped fruit peels and socks. I chased him through life with dustpan and broom, smoothed his body dents from the bed, soothed the mud tramped floors. Did I sin in this? Better to leave the habitat sweetly reeking of him than to spend years scrubbing up evidence of his existence. Archaelogists centuries hence may marvel at such relics: his mustard stained napkins, toothpicks chewed to splinters. Never let it be said that in my zeal to clean I robbed the future's museums. Who am I to call what flies to either side of the trail he blazes--half read magazines, cups of scummed over coffee and mashed out cigarettes--dirt?

Oh, Bonny. That’s funny. That’s a funny one. ‘I want the world to accept her,’” he said, pitching his voice a little higher, mimicking me. “Well go on then, woman. Go chase acceptance. When you find it, let me know. ’Cause there’s a few African folk who’d really like to know where it is.

The German deli was run by a distant cousin of Kaiser Wilhelm and the Great Neck Jews loved the place; they flocked to Kuch's. They said to one another, What a character he is, Otto, strictly old country, I'm telling you. Gus didn't think that Negroes would rush to shop in a store run by some retired slave owner, eager to share memories of fun times on the plantation, praising Massa's old-fashioned Mississippi charm. Jews were still chasing that absurd, wishful feather. Eventually, Jews would become like everybody else. They'd elevate small grievances; they'd cherish hurt feelings and ill treatment like they were signs of virtue.

The last week of shooting, we did a scene in which I drag Amanda Wyss, the sexy, blond actress who played Tina, across the ceiling of her bedroom, a sequence that ultimately became one of the most visceral from the entire Nightmare franchise. Tina’s bedroom was constructed as a revolving set, and before Tina and Freddy did their dance of death, Wes did a few POV shots of Nick Corri (aka Rod) staring at the ceiling in disbelief, then we flipped the room, and the floor became the ceiling and the ceiling became the floor and Amanda and I went to work. As was almost always the case when Freddy was chasing after a nubile young girl possessed by her nightmare, Amanda was clad only in her baby-doll nightie. Wes had a creative camera angle planned that he wanted to try, a POV shot from between Amanda’s legs. Amanda, however, wasn’t in the cameramen’s union and wouldn’t legally be allowed to operate the cemera for the shot. Fortunately, Amy Haitkin, our director of photography’s wife, was our film’s focus puller and a gifted camera operator in her own right. Being a good sport, she peeled off her jeans and volunteered to stand in for Amanda. The makeup crew dapped some fake blood onto her thighs, she lay down on the ground, Jacques handed her the camera, I grabbed her ankles, and Wes called, “Action.” After I dragged Amy across the floor/ceiling, I spontaneously blew her a kiss with my blood-covered claw; the fake blood on my blades was viscous, so that when I blew her my kiss of death, the blood webbed between my blades formed a bubble, a happy cinematic accident. The image of her pale, slender, blood-covered legs, Freddy looming over her, straddling the supine adolescent girl, knife fingers dripping, was surreal, erotic, and made for one of the most sexually charged shots of the movie. Unfortunately it got left on the cutting-room floor. If Wes had left it in, the MPAA - who always seemed to have it out for Mr. Craven - would definitely have tagged us with an X rating. You win some, you lose some.

Hi, Amy, it's mom. Well, by the time you see this, I won't be here anymore, and I know how much that sucks, for both of us. So seeing as how I won't be around to thoroughly annoy you, I thought I would give you a little list of the things that I wish for you. Well, there's the obvious. An education. Family. Friends. And a life that is full of the unexpected. Be sure to make mistakes. Make a lot of them, because there's no better way to learn and to grow, all right? And, um, I want you to spend a lot of time at the ocean, because the ocean forces you to dream, and I insist that you, my girl, be a dreamer. God. I've never really believed in God. In fact, I've spent a lot of time and energy trying to disprove that god exists. But I hope that you are able to believe in god, because the thing that I've come to realize, sweetheart... is that it just doesn't matter if god exists or not. The important thing is for you to believe in something, because I promise you that that belief will keep you warm at night, and I want you to feel safe always. And then there's love. I want you to love to the tips of your fingers, and when you find that love, wherever you find it, whoever you choose, don't run away from it. But you don't have to chase after it either. You just be patient, and it'll come to you, I promise, and when you least expect it, like you, like spending the best year of my life with the sweetest and the smartest and the most beautiful baby girl in the world. You don't be afraid, sweetheart. And remember, to love is to live.

Regrettably, all that happened was that Blake became another man over whom Amy sought control but who ended up controlling her. Blake clearly loved Amy but I don’t believe he was ever emotionally there for her. That the media built Blake up to be an evil monster was laughable to me. He was a baby boy who had never grown up himself and who demanded unhealthy amounts of attention. Every time he pulled away from Amy, she chased him. It was infatuation. As far as I could see, their relationship had very little to do with kindness or care at that stage and everything to do with co-dependency.

I move toward her, unable to resist; her eyes are wet, her face flushed, and I can finally look at her, want her, let myself touch her without grief turning everything to ashes in my mouth. “You’ve ruined me,” she repeats, her voice quieting a little as it catches. “You’ve ruined me—you made me wake up. And now I can’t get rid of you.” Her voice surges again as I reach out, curling my hand around her arm, her skin flushed hot under my fingers. “You won’t leave me alone.” I scan her features, my eyes trying to make up for too much time spent trying not to look at her. I can’t look away. “You think I want to be here with you?” I reply, my voice hoarse. “You think if you walked out right now, I’d chase you?” She gazes back at me, her eyes a challenge. “Wouldn’t you?” “You know I would,” I snap, surrendering. “And I have no idea why that’s such a problem.” She jerks her arm free and backs up a step until she hits the door. “It’s a problem because I’d let you!” she blurts. Then, after a harsh breath, she murmurs, “It’s a problem because I’d want you to.

In fourth grade, I had a talk with the school psychologist about all the things that actively terrified me . . . After our session, he handed my mom a list of all my fears . . . Highest (and most memorable) on the list was the specific fear that I'd accidentally churn myself into butter. This was inspired by a creepy antique children's book called Little Black Sambo, which is one of those stories from the simpler, more racist times of yore when people wrote frightening, insulting tales to help children fall asleep at night. It was highly popular back in the day and has since been rightly banned or taken out of circulation. But my mom had a copy lying around. It's about a boy who goes on an adventure and ends up getting chased by tigers, who circle and circle around a tree so fast that they churn themselves into a pool of butter, which the boy then takes home for his mother to use to make pancakes. Like ya do. Anyway, I was always riddled with fear that I'd somehow be transformed into melted butter, which now doesn't really sound like that much of a bummer. It sounds more like how I'd like to spend my last twenty-four hours on this earth.

There were three great comedians in my formative years—Bill Cosby, Bill Murray, and Richard Pryor—and they wrecked comedy for a generation. How? By never saying anything funny. You can quote a Steve Martin joke, or a Rodney Dangerfield line, but Pryor, Cosby, and Murray? The things they said were funny only when they said them. In Cosby’s case, it didn’t even need to be sentences: “The thing of the thing puts the milk in the toast, and ha, ha, ha!” It was gibberish and America loved it. The problem was that they inspired a generation of comedians who tried coasting on personality—they were all attitude and no jokes. It was also a time when comedy stars didn’t seem to care. Bill Murray made some lousy movies; Richard Pryor and Eddie Murphy made even more; and any script that was too lame for these guys, Chevy Chase made. These were smart people—they had to know how bad these films were, but they just grabbed a paycheck and did them. Most of these comic actors started as writers—they could have written their own scripts, but they rarely bothered. Then, at the end of a decade of lazy comedy and half-baked material, The Simpsons came along. We cared about jokes, and we worked endless hours to cram as many into a show as possible. I’m not sure we can take all the credit, but TV and movies started trying harder. Jokes were back. Shows like 30 Rock and Arrested Development demanded that you pay attention. These days, comedy stars like Seth Rogen, Amy Schumer, Kristen Wiig, Melissa McCarthy, and Jonah Hill actually write the comedies they star in.

Do you remember the time we tied a lasso to a tree limb and decided to swing across the creek like Tarzan?" Wyatt tipped up his frosty bottle and took a long pull. "Yeah." Zane was already laughing. "As usual,you two decided that I'd be the one to try it out first.That way,if it broke,I'd be the one tossed into the creek." "It stands to reason." Jesse chuckled. "You were the youngest. That's just the price you had to pay to hang out with us." "And," Wyatt added, "you were always willing to go along with whatever we decided." Zane shook his head. "Not when I used it to fly across the creek." "And not when I followed him," Wyatt said with a laugh. "But Jesse, assured that it was safe,grabbed hold and was flying through the air when the branch snapped." Amy looked over at her husband. "You landed in the creek?" "Yeah? On the day after one of our biggest storms,with the water spilling over its banks and rushing so fast it carried me downstream half a mile or more." She put a hand to her mouth to cover her shock and saw Cora do the same. Wyatt laughed. "He was lucky Zane and I had our horses tethered nearby.We chased along the banks of the creek until we could get far enough ahead to toss him a tree branch to catch. By the time we hauled him out,he looked like a drowned rat and was spitting mad." "I had a right to be.I swallowed half the creek." Zane laughed. "But think how lucky we were that it happened to you instead of me. At least you could swim." Marilee's eyes rounded. "They had you test the rope when they knew you couldn't swim?" Wyatt was laughing even harder. "We figured it was one way for him to learn." "How old were you?" They thought a minute before Wyatt answered. "I was eight,so that would make Jesse ten and Zane seven." "You could have all drowned." "Yeah.Looking back,we were lucky to have surrived so many foolish adventures. But," Wyatt added, "I wouldn't have missed a single one of them." of them

You have to let me go, Hudson. Release me.

You've lost a lost these past few weeks, but Hudson doesn't have to be part of that list. Can't you give him another chance?

Hudson Chase had clearly taken Chicago by storm. It was only a matter of time until he'd turned the country's third-largest city into his own personal Monopoly board.

The man was evil. Pure, sexy as hell, evil.

1. You can NEVER read too many romance novels. 2. How are you texting with your hands cuffed to a headboard?

The man standing in front of her, looking unbelievably sexy in dark jeans, a black leather jacket, and perfectly mussed hair, wanted to take her home and fuck her senseless and she was negotiating shopping time?

I'll be fine. Besides, it will give you a chance to miss me." "I've spent a lifetime missing you." "The you'll survive one more night.

As much as she loved when he was gentle and romantic, she couldn't deny the effect it had on her when Hudson took total control. When he was like this he was the ultimate bad boy, every dirty fantasy brought to life.

If we can hear them, then... that means they heard..." Hudson's blue eyes gleamed as he nodded slowly. Allie felt her face heat. "This is mortifying." He dipped his head to press a soft kiss to her shoulder "Perhaps they just think you're very religious." She felt him smile against her skin as his lips drifted up her neck. "All those shouts to God and whatnot." He chuckled.

The rules you've lived by, the ones you had no say in creating no longer apply, Alessandra. If you continue to allow people to lead you down a predetermined path, then you're not the woman I think you are.

He should let her go. He had to let her go. But he already knew he wasn't going to.

His stare shifted to the Prada-wearing prick whose fingers were caressing her wrist. Hudson was already in a foul mood, and the more Mr. Touchy got feely, the more he wanted to cut the guy’s hand off with a butter knife. Slowly. Painfully. Hudson’s body warmed and he grounded his weight to keep from hurdling over the tables to do just that. Christ, he was acting like a jealous boyfriend.

„You’re right. A lot has changed in ten years. You’ve turned into a bitter asshole. Good-bye, Hudson.

Hudson was Allie’s past. Julian was her future. They might not share the same blazing passion she felt when she was with Hudson, but it was safe. It was smart. And there was certainly nothing about being with Hudson Chase that was safe. Or smart. The feelings he’d awoken in her ten years ago had been like a wildfire, hot and all-consuming. But in the end she’d been burned and no high was worth that low. Calm and steady had suited her just fine since then, and that was exactly what she had with Julian. They were compatible, they were content. Everything was exactly as it should be.

Hudson Chase doing the walk of shame. That was a first.

„That is so romantic, like Romeo and Juliet,” Harper said. “You do know they died in the end, don’t you?

SLEEP AND I DO NOT HAVE A GOOD RELATIONSHIP. We have never been friends. I am constantly chasing sleep and then pushing it away.

I got that amazing feeling you get when you know you are going to lose it in the best, most self-righteous way. I just leaned back and yelled, “FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK YOU.” Then I chased him as he tried to get away from me. “You rich motherfucker! Who do you think you are? You’re not better than me. Fuck you and your fucking opinions, you piece of shit.

Toto, Toto! Where are you?” I said, pretending to look for my lost dog in the fearsome storm. The dog froze and played it perfectly. I got laughter and some light applause for my efforts. I had improvised and it had worked. One could argue that it worked because of the dog. A good straight dog can really help sell a joke. Whatever. I have been chasing that high ever since.

Our ego is a monster that loves to sit at the head of the table...Ambivalence can help tame the beast. Remember, your career is a bad boyfriend. It likes it when you don't depend on it. It will reward you every time you don't act needy. It will chase you if you act like other things...are more important to you. If your career is a bad boyfriend, it is healthy to remember you can always leave and go sleep with somebody else.

Ambivalence can help tame the beast. Remember, your career is a bad boyfriend. It likes it when you don’t depend on it. It will reward you every time you don’t act needy. It will chase you if you act like other things (passion, friendship, family, longevity) are more important to you. If your career is a bad boyfriend, it is healthy to remember you can always leave and go sleep with somebody else.

I want to shift and chase him down, swat him into an oak tree with the flick of a paw like he flung me across the bed. I want to break his spine. I want to watch the understanding dawn in his soulless gray eyes that I am not insignificant—I’m not a hole to fuck or a womb to seed or an itch to scratch or whatever he thinks I am—I want to see him realize what I really am the instant before I bite his head off and crunch his skull between my teeth like a soft-boiled egg in its shell.

•​Developing mental strength isn’t about chasing happiness. Being mentally strong will help you to be more content in life, but it isn’t about waking up every day and trying to force yourself to feel happy. Instead, it’s about making the decisions that will help you reach your full potential.

That was what you got when you stayed up all night, talking to a teenager about his beloved older brother, who actually had succeeded in killing himself with his own fucking valor. That was what you got when you wandered around in a hospital, chased relentlessly by ghosts who all moaned terrible messages about being alone, forever alone, locked in a box, submerged in your own bitterness.

Because I’m supposed to be straight. I can’t be gay, or stupid, or a failure. I can’t. If I’m gay or stupid or a fuck-up, that means she left me and not him!

It was a bike. He had to be careful, so careful how he rode it, but it was a bike, and they were going to go zooming downhill and through this world with the neon throbbing on the black of the February night like a hallucinogenic trompe l’oeil.

What if the zombies come back?” “They won't. I promise.” “But how do you know?” “I just do.” He closes his eyes. “If the zombies ever come back, you can wake me up and I'll help you chase them away. But I promise, they won't come, because they're not real in the first place. And if you keep telling yourself that, then you never need to be scared again, do you?” He rolls onto his side, facing away from his daughter. “Just remember that,” he adds,

Emmy loves every aspect of mowing – the shoes, the rev of the engine, the pats on her furry head, chasing sticks and getting extra attention – but most of all, she loves the company. I seldom enjoy mowing – it is tedious, and often hot and grueling – but thanks to our dog Emmy, I do love one thing about it, the joy it brings to each other! – David Warren in the story My Dog Mows Best

I need to tell my story, General. I want to tell it. Even if no one wants to hear a woman speak. Even if I am run off the stage and chased out of town. I need to tell my story because it is not just my story. It is Dorothy’s. And Elizabeth’s. And Mrs. Thomas’s. It is my mother’s story and your daughters’ story.

And what does a single feather mean except the love we treasure, or a butterfly mean except the dreams we chase, the way those doves chased whatever called them from beyond the park, something beyond words, beyond the sky that gives away nothing except the longing to discover how love creates its own endless skies. — Richard Jackson, from “Poem for Amy,” Broken Horizons (Press 53, 2018)

If only one of twelve pulls of the Andon Cord stops the assembly line for a genuine problem, you might think the company would be upset by wasting supervisors’ time chasing the eleven false alarms. It turns out that the opposite is true. A pulled Andon Cord that does not identify an actual error is framed as a useful drill. The false alarm is instead experienced as a valuable learning moment, a welcome education on how things go wrong and how to adjust so as to reduce that possibility. This is not a cultural nuance. It’s a practical approach. Every Andon Cord pull is seen as a valuable episode that in the long run saves time and promotes quality.

She never liked Amy, but now she cries. I don’t think she’s faking. The family has spent money it could not afford to get the police involved to try to find the killer. I suspect that the only good this will do will be to chase away the people who live on the sidewalks and streets nearest to our wall. Is that good? The street poor will be back, and they won’t love us for sicking the cops on them. It’s illegal to camp out on the street the way they do—the way they must—so the cops knock them around, rob them if they have anything worth stealing, then order them away or jail them. The miserable will be made even more miserable. None of that can help Amy.

Pop said not to trust anyone, and I didn’t trust anyone. But I couldn’t do what I needed to do all by myself. I just hoped if I kept moving, the thing that was chasing us wouldn’t catch up. Or even better, that we’d be too big to take down.

Those stories seemed like foolish risk-taking scenarios I could successfully avoid by never going outside. No, I would watch the horrible pieces on women who had been assaulted and left for dead. First-person accounts of people being attacked by strangers or stabbed by boy-friends. This is the ultimate narcissistic white-girl game. I would picture how I would handle the attack differently. Or the same. Inev-itably, I'd think about my own death, which next to staring at your face in a magnifying mirror is probably the worst thing you can do for yourself. The ambulance-chasing aspect combined with the Monday-morning quarterbacking of it all is the luxury afforded to those of us left untouched by trauma. Sometimes I would use these tragedy-porn shows to unlock deep feelings or cut through the numbness. I would read terrible stories to punish myself for my lucky life. Some real deep Irish Catholic shit. Either way, it was all gross and all bad for my health.

my mind muddled day now night night now day i chase time past and ruin what is gained

The scene is grim, a dank corridor rising out of Elysium, back to human climes and textures. I feel the man sensing what he’s done and the catastrophic change in the air around him. Grief as swift as a blade that cuts the cord of your innocence but leaves you stranded, still alive and pulsing while she stays stuck in death. Or did she? Now I’m chasing down Eurydice as she disappears into that tunnel. The story of Orpheus no longer interests me; I’ve been there, done that. What I want to know is how she took it, what she wanted to happen in that moment.

Her tame words chase into midair any semblance of animal nature.

Watching him, Amy shuddered. She hoped he’d fall over and crack his head open.

In a way, Trump’s mistreatment of the media had done Hillary a favor by freeing her of the decorum of a traditional campaign. But it also meant the reporters who spent their days trying to cover and explain Hillary to the American public never got to bridge, as one reporter who traveled with the first lady in the 1990s put it, the “disconnect between the kind of person you could convey or are in private and amongst us on these trips, so much sense of humor, very warm and engaging in what we see on television or in the news.” How could we communicate Hillary’s “funny, wicked, and wacky” side to voters if we never saw it for ourselves?

Scoops are not my forte. I prefer lunch-based reporting. I usually hear something newsy, let it percolate through a dessert course, and then sit on it for several days as I craft a feature around it.

is-a-rapist meme ratcheting up, I emailed Trump to ask if he was an imperfect messenger, given his own very public infidelities and his ex-wife, Ivana, recently denying rumors of assault charges against him. “I believe that I am the perfect messenger,” Trump replied, “because I fully understand life and all of its wrinkles.” I forwarded his response to my editors with the very professional subject line “OMG.

I woke up an hour later, and my phone was exploding. I had hundreds of new Twitter followers and a stream of text messages. The texts came from second cousins and high school friends in Texas, from at least two senators, one sitting cabinet secretary, and a former Wall Street Journal colleague in Hong Kong. My first thought was that I must’ve inserted a terrible mistake in our story. My career was over. Then I saw @RealDonaldTrump’s tweet: “Third rate reporters Amy Chozick and Maggie Haberman of the failing @nytimes are totally in the Hillary circle of bias. Think about Bill!

But, once again, Hillary’s biggest missteps of 2016 stemmed from trying to prove she’d learned from mistakes made in 2008.

I was pretty focused and stoic about another week without Bobby until my Glow app sent me the super-helpful pastel-purple alert, “Your fertile window is closing . . .” This led to my sobbing to Maggie Haberman over a chardonnay in the hotel lobby. She looked up from Twitter, over her glasses. “Okay, you need to take that app off your phone immediately,” Mags said.

The traveling press had become the province of what one prickly print reporter (on his way to a buyout) called “the Human Tripods,” the young network embeds who’d never covered a campaign before and who had to capture everything the candidate did on video.