Chelsea Manning Quotes

Then a homeless man with a dog approached us and put his hand out. This happens to be something that I have a real problem with: homeless people with pets who approach you for food when they have a perfectly delicious dog standing right there?

Okay.” Nate took a deep breath. “Now that we’re all caught up on the new no-no’s of the house, what do you say we find a tarp and some duct tape and MacGyver ourselves a new window in the living room? Just, you know, to keep out the wind…and the leaves…and any sharp-toothed woodland creatures prone to attacking people in their sleep.” Tristan raised a brow. “What?” Nate shrugged. “Death by dragon? Awesome. Death by rabid forest squirrel? Not cool, man. Not cool.

Why is he still here?" she asked, pointing to Tristan. A muscle flexed in his scruffy jaw. Why did he always have sexy scruff. Did the man not own a razor?

He stood there, drinking her in like he was a thirsty man and she was water in the desert. Because his soul...his foolish and hopeful soul...wanted her just as much as she wanted him." ~ Anew: The Archers of Avalon

Don’t make me punch you again, because I swear to God, I will.” That elicited a smirk. His face still had a slight shadow where I’d gotten him. “I also have no qualms about going for your man bits again.” “I don’t doubt you for a second, Missy.

Get out of my room, you insufferable man.

Great, he was going to have PMS for at least a few days. Pissy Man Syndrome.

A homeless man with a dog approached us and put his hand out. This happens to be something I have a real problem with: homeless people with pets who approach you for food. How can they have the nerve to beg for food when they have a perfectly delicious dog standing right there? I didn't care if this guy understood English or not. "Tell me when you're out of dog, buddy. Then we can talk about splitting a falafel.

Let us suppose we are confronted with a desperate thing – say Pimlico. If we think what is really best for Pimlico we shall find the thread of thought leads to the throne of the mystic and the arbitrary. It is not enough for a man to disapprove of Pimlico; in that case he will merely cut his throat or move to Chelsea. Nor, certainly, is it enough for a man to approve of Pimlico; for then it will remain Pimlico, which would be awful. The only way out of it seems to be for somebody to love Pimlico; to love it with a transcendental tie and without any earthly reason. If there arose a man who loved Pimlico, then Pimlico would rise into ivory towers and golden pinnacles… If men loved Pimlico as mothers love children, arbitrarily, because it is theirs, Pimlico in a year or two might be fairer than Florence. Some readers will say that this is mere fantasy. I answer that this is the actual history of mankind. This, as a fact, is how cities did grow great. Go back to the darkest roots of civilization and you will find them knotted round some sacred stone or encircling some sacred well. People first paid honour to a spot and afterwards gained glory for it. Men did not love Rome because she was great. She was great because they had loved her.

There’s no such thing as luck. Luck is when opportunity meets preparation.

I’ve always considered myself a feminist, but there’s something so goddamn sexy about a man in a backwards hat that has me ready to drop to my knees for the patriarchy.

Okay." Nate took a deep breath. "Now that we're all caught up on the new no-no's of the house, what do you say we find a tarp and some duct tape and MacGyver ourselves a new window in the living room? Just, you know, to keep out the wind ... and the leaves ... and any sharp-toothed woodland creatures prone to attacking people in their sleep." Tristan raised a brow. "What?" Nate shrugged. "Death by dragon? Awesome. Death by rabid forest squirrel? Not cool, man. Not cool." "You're immortal, Nate," Gabriel said. "So? That doesn't mean I want rabies." Nate shook his head. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have medieval aliens to defeat.

Back to my midlife crisis. There is a line I had written down from Viktor Frankl’s memoir about surviving the Holocaust, Man’s Search for Meaning, that stopped me cold when I read it: “it did not really matter what we expected from life, but rather what life expected from us.” I had never thought about what life expected from me. I had only thought about what I expected from life. That was a book putter-downer. It was a look up at the sky and wonder Where the fuck have I been all my life? moment.

It’s such an intimate thing, to witness another’s death. Orgasms are a dime a dozen. Any old human woman can see a man orgasm. We so rarely get to see them die; it has been my greatest gift and my most divine privilege.

Most of Arbus's work lies within the Warhol aesthetic, that is, defines itself in relation to the twin poles of boringness and freakishness; but it doesn't have the Warhol style. Arbus had neither Warhol's narcissism and genius for publicity nor the self-protective blandness with which he insulates himself from the freaky nor his sentimentality. It is unlikey that Warhol, who comes from a working-class family, ever felt any ambivalence toward success which afflicted the children of the Jewish upper middle classes in the 1960s. To someone raised as a Catholic, like Warhol (and virtually everyone in his gang), a fascination with evil comes much more genuinely than it does to someone from a Jewish background. Compared with Warhol, Arbus seems strikingly vulnerable, innocent--and certainly more pessimistic. Her Dantesque vision of the city (and the suburbs) has no reserves of irony. Although much of Arbus's material is the same as that depicted in, say, Warhol's Chelsea Girls (1966)...For Arbus, both freaks and Middle America were equally exotic: a boy marching in a pro-war parade and a Levittown housewife were as alien as a dwarf or a transvestite; lower-middle-class suburbia was as remote as Times Square, lunatic asylums, and gay bars. Arbus's work expressed her turn against what was public (as she experienced it), conventional, safe, reassuring--and boring--in favor of what was private, hidden, ugly, dangerous, and fascinating. These contrasts, now, seem almost quaint. What is safe no long monopolizes public imagery. The freakish is no longer a private zone, difficult of access. People who are bizarre, in sexual disgrace, emotionally vacant are seen daily on the newsstands, on TV, in the subways. Hobbesian man roams the streets, quite visible, with glitter in his hair.

He’s cocky but wounded, charming but lonely, with the sureness of a wealthy man and the desperation of a pauper. I can’t figure him out, but one thing is certain. Daren is not as tough or undamaged as he lets on.

In fact, we'd discussed marriage on several occasions just because we seemed to get along so well, but after thinking long and hard, I realized it was not in my best interest to waste my first marriage on a gay man.

There's nothing more annoying than a man ordering wine at a bar when you're not eating.

I fear not the man who has practiced 10,000 kicks once, but I fear the man who has practiced one kick 10,000 times. —Bruce Lee

Kill one man and you’re an oddity. Kill a few and you’re a legend.

For me, at least, being trans is less about being a woman trapped in a man's body than about the innate incoherence between the person I felt myself to be and the one the world wanted me to be.

Women aren’t fragile, so don’t ever underestimate the strength found under those beautiful curves. They should know, however, that their man has their back. When you tell your women something, you stand by it.

I had never lain in bed next to a man and wanted to feel absorbed into his body, like a kit into the uterine wall of a rabbit - a gross metaphor, but love is rife with body parts, with wet hearts and thudding rib cages and heaving bosoms and salty loins and velvety genitals. You can't have erotic love without the rank grittiness of dirty bodies, and bodies, like desires are disgusting. Such was my love for Alex that I liked his morning breath.

What I know about transgender women comes from the media—from seeing and hearing Caitlyn Jenner and Laverne Cox and Chelsea Manning and Janet Mock. I haven’t really thought about what it means to be trans…because I have had the luxury of not having to think about it.

This man, this Casimir, which is the name of the young man in question - and it should have told me something, a dirty translation of it means "destroyer of peace" - was nothing to me, a single blip in the Morse code of my life, something too brief to read. He was a phoneme, a dangling modifier, a printer's orphan.

Tank, what's with the name, Button?" "You're always pushing my buttons." "Do I push your buttons?" "Baby, you could push the buttons on a dead man and bring him back to life. You push my buttons and stir my dick to life, but reality is, you couldn't handle what I would give you. So, give it your best shot, Button. I won't crack under the pressure.

Gah! It's never going to be safe. There will always be another monster. How am I supposed to grow up to be a bad ass... if you don't let me be brave?

It's the damnedest thing, a dying plant, and it makes a man want to give up. But that's the beauty of gardening, son. You can revive the things that wither.

Woman accomplishes what no man is capable of: a mind-blowing orgasm,’” Lace adds. “‘She was a vibrant woman.’” “‘She came, and she went.

I liked to imagine I could have both a life of my own and the love of a man but I had never seen such a combination turn out.

I enjoy a man who’s kissed with a yeasty beastliness.

And the people who would rather die than hear a grown man whisper “ever thine, ever mine, ever ours”—those would be Mirandas.

I’d gone through that phase in high school and no longer mistook a man’s obsession with his own greatness for actual greatness.

This is how I define man up: you are what you are, and the sooner you stop hating what makes you unique and start celebrating it and using it to make you stand out from the crowd, the better your life will be.

Any man living in complete luxury and security who chooses to write a play or a novel which causes a flutter and exchange of compliments in Chelsea and Chiswick and a faint thrill in Streatham and Surbiton, is described as "daring," though nobody on earth knows what danger it is that he dares. I speak, of course, of terrestrial dangers; or the only sort of dangers he believes in. To be extravagantly flattered by everybody he considers enlightened, and rather feebly rebuked by everybody he considers dated and dead, does not seem so appalling a peril that a man should be stared at as a heroic warrior and militant martyr because he has had the strength to endure it.

I wished his question was, Wanna know what it's like to be the one who enters? because I do and I wish that knowledge was as simple as holding a man in my hands. I want to see my desire as a protrusion leading me into dark rooms. If I can't have that, then I can attempt to reduce myself to the most vulnerable object possible. Either I await instruction on how to be a dutiful thing or I am the explorer leading this ship or I am a piece of luggage holding other belongings. I take up hardly any space at all.

Without ruining the ending, the gist is that he’s a gay reindeer who can’t afford a nose job, but he becomes a superstar in the end. It’s all very inspirational. It turns out that, just like Rudolph, what I initially considered to be such a negative is, in fact, the very thing that has made me stand out. Not to sound preachy, but accepting my voice has given me the confidence I’ve needed to pursue my dreams. And just like Seal rocks his facial scars, Cindy Crawford works her mole, and Barbra Streisand wins every race by a nose, I hope you’re inspired to make the most of your possibly less-than-perfect trademark, too.

Of course, my main concern was you. My only fear was that you could be hurt. I wanted to go out and fight for you, because I didn’t know what else to do. It’s just a protective instinct that parents have. I’d tell parents this: your job is to protect, support, and love your children no matter what, so just keep doing your job.

When I still lived in Arizona, I sat down on a tattered futon at the house party and my blond friend handed me a bottle of blue Gatorade. There's vodka in it, she said. She was the kind of woman that served drinks at other people's parties. The vodka gave strength to my desires. Everyone watched. I was the last person to leave the party. As I buttoned my coat, the host of the party touched his beard, laughed, and said, No no no. I wrapped my scarf around my neck, picked up my bike leaning against the living room wall and walked toward the door. Stay, he said, and he wasn't asking. ...Though he did force himself on me, the truth is I stayed at the party waiting for something to happen. Everyone at the party left, and still, nothing had happened. He wasn't a stranger―I knew he was a bad man, I'd known that for a long time. That's why I stayed. I spent so much of my youth waiting for something to happen. Unsupervised, I had my choice of dark rooms. I knew which rooms were bad and I entered then anyway. It was a sort of power.

Be men to be proud of. Actions speak louder than words, boys. When you do wrong, and believe me, you will do more wrong than right some days, you own up to it. Completely. You can’t take back the stone once it’s thrown. The reality is, you can never really right the wrong once it’s done. It will live on forever in one’s memory. You can atone for it. You can work hard to assure you never make the same mistake twice. But there is a time for freedoms and a time for life responsibilities. Be the man to handle his responsibilities. Be the man to take responsibility for his shortcomings and failures. Take pride in being humble enough to admit when you are wrong and when you have failed....“People will think many things of you. Some true, some complete lies. Their opinions don’t matter. The half-truths, the lies, the many things people will think of you throughout this life should never hold weight. It is what you see in the mirror looking back at you that should tell you the character and the man in which you are. Look in the mirror, boys, and be men to be proud of.” Excerpt From: Camaron, Chelsea. “Merciless Ride: A Hellions Novel.” Whiskey Girls Publishing, 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00. iBooks. This material may be protected by copyright.

And an even worse example, I think, than the cheapening of the word CHARITY is the new newspaper cheapening of the word COURAGE. Any man living in complete luxury and security who chooses to write a play or a novel which causes a flutter and exchange of compliments in Chelsea and Chiswick and a faint thrill in Streatham and Surbiton, is described as "daring," though nobody on earth knows what danger it is that he dares. I speak, of course, of terrestrial dangers; or the only sort of dangers he believes in. To be extravagantly flattered by everybody he considers enlightened, and rather feebly rebuked by everybody he considers dated and dead, does not seem so appalling a peril that a man should be stared at as a heroic warrior and militant martyr because he has had the strength to endure it.

This felt like a golden opportunity to alert Dan to some non-negotiables I had regarding men. "Bear with me," I told Dan. "This is going to be a long list. I don't like strong scents, so that kind of prohibits waking up next to someone of the opposite sex, or any sex, really. I'm extremely sensitive to smell. I have a problem with smelling anyone's breath. I'm not the kind of person who can get past that. I get turned off very easily. It could be anything. It could be finding out they have a cat, or seeing their apartment, or they could love room temperature water...Feet are tricky. That's why I like to lead with them. When I meet a guy I like, I take out a foot and show him what he'll be dealing with if things go any further. Put your worse foot forward. That's how I like to start a conversation. And then, when they're gracious enough to tolerate me and my feet, God forbid they have a weird foot or a double-decker toe - I can't deal with it...Also, I have too many questionable habits that no man would be cool with, and by the way, if there was a guy that was cool with them, I'm not sure I'd be interested in him..I can get icked out so easily. I'm aware this behavior is unreasonable and immature, and I'd like it to stop. I don't want to get turned off so easily, but I just don't know how to get past a bad pair of shoes, or...male jewelry.

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea, There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me; For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say: "Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!" Come you back to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay: Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay ? On the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay! 'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green, An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat - jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen, An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot, An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot: Bloomin' idol made o' mud Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud! On the road to Mandalay... When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow, She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "Kulla-lo-lo! With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin my cheek We useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak. Elephints a-pilin' teak In the sludgy, squdgy creek, Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak! On the road to Mandalay... But that's all shove be'ind me - long ago an' fur away An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay; An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells: "If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else." No! you won't 'eed nothin' else But them spicy garlic smells, An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells; On the road to Mandalay... I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones, An' the blasted English drizzle wakes the fever in my bones; Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand, An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand? Beefy face an' grubby 'and - Law! wot do they understand? I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land! On the road to Mandalay... Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst, Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst; For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea; On the road to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay, With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay! O the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay !

What are you going to do?” I asked. “Throw his things off the balcony.” She started gathering up his clothes, tossing them onto the bed into a pile. “I’ll show him, I’ll—” She let out a bloodcurdling scream. I snapped my head around to look where she was looking—at the balcony door. Noah was pressed up against it. “Come on, babe, let me explain.” Chelsea glared at me accusingly. “I thought you said only Spider-Man could climb onto the balcony.” “I guess if he backed his truck up, climbed in the bed of it, it would give him enough height—

376-6591.

But, sometimes the most important part of learning who you are is discovering who you aren’t.

I was getting fatter. It was no wonder, considering I was eating enough deep-fried food to feed everyone at a Midwestern county fair. Eventually one of my favorite coworkers, Veronica—a sassy, tell-it-like-it-is Chola mom of cinco—told me one day, “You face is good. But why you so fat for?

I wore my visor proudly alongside the unflinchingly honest Veronica. “Why you wear girl hat for?” “Because, Veronica, this is America and, male or female, hat hair doesn’t discriminate.

Excusing myself to the restroom, I decide Coal could use a little fun in his life. Returning to the table, I’m nervous, thinking he may not like my surprise after all. Before I can think of a way to back out, though, the waitress comes out with two more following her and a whole pecan pie lit up with candles burning. Approaching our table, they begin to sing as Ice, Hammer, Coal, Des, and Morgan all look around in surprise. They sit the pie in front of Coal who looks wide-eyed. I give his thigh a squeeze, and his eyes meet mine. “Happy birthday,” I say barely above a whisper. “Today is your new day.” He smiles. A real, genuine smile crosses his face before a laugh escapes. “Pixie, what the fuck am I supposed to do with you?” I shrug. “Make a wish.” Coal laughs again, and I feel an invisible weight lift off my shoulders. When the waitresses leave, Hammer is the first to comment. “You two have obviously learned the art of silent communication.” “Ethan,” Des interrupts him. “What? They shared a look, and suddenly, Coal knows she got him good and laughed. Coal never fuckin’ laughs. They obviously got something goin’ on.” “Drop it,” Coal tells Hammer, and they share a look. Then I lick my lips and lean into him. Surprising even myself, I press my lips against his. With a slight opening, I slide my tongue in. Coal’s hands cup either side of my face as he takes control. He’s gentle in a way I didn’t imagine would come from a large man like him. Just when I think we will untangle ourselves from each other, we are somehow in deeper than before.

Heather was convinced Scarlet needed to see Nate. Scarlet was not. After leaving a tall, thick trail of dust, Heather parked her car at a haphazard angle in front of the cabin. Bursting through the front door with Scarlet beside her, Heather dramatically announced, “Scarlet is broken!” Scarlet shook her head. “I’m not broken.” “What?” Gabriel met them in entryway, looking at Scarlet in concern.“What’s wrong?” “Nothing. I’m fine.” Scarlet slowly walked into the living room, her body aching with every movement as she laid down on one of the large couches. “You are notfine, Scarlet. You are broken.” Heather turned to Gabriel with big eyes. “She was wheezing and coughing and moaning during sixth period. Moaning! Do you know how hard it is to explain to your economics teacher why your best friend is moaning during his supply-and-demand lecture?” She shrugged. “Someone needs to fix her.” Heather looked around. “Where’s the nerdy, little immortal?” Nate entered the living room from the back hallway and shot Heather a dirty look. “I’m not little. I’m average-sized. And five hundred years ago I was actually considered a large man. But then humans started eating well and evolving and, suddenly, I’m no longer the tallest guy in the room—” “I don’t care about the evolution of Nate!” Heather snapped. “I care about Scarlet

Cuz honey, if you’ve got it, don’t camouflage it, camou-flaunt it!

He thinks he's the man of the house. And, really he is. But he's also fourteen.

In Russia, a man knew to whom he was speaking: boyar or peasant. Unless, by taking orders, a moujik turned into a clerk, a man in Russia kept his station, and his son after him through the generations. With this nation of madmen, where were you? They laughed at the stake, and boasted of relatives hanged: if you had no kinsmen quartered that you knew of, it was because you were not a gentleman, they remarked. They might well go to war, the other ambassadors said with resignation, for no other reason than a sheer love of novelty. And the Queen claimed she was poor, but where in Russia would you find such ostentation in living: the palaces of Whitehall and Westminster, Nonesuch, Chelsea and Oatlands, Richmond and Greenwich. And the clothes…

She stood in the doorway looking down at him. “Why’d you keep it?” He drew in a breath. “They were looking for a man with one arm. So I pinned this to my jacket. It’s going bad-I can’t use it much longer. He paused a moment, then finished, “I can’t get any further without help.

I felt certain at times I loved Marco, and I felt very warmly about Gil. But these were shadow loves, the ambient feelings without the palpating passions. I never lost myself with any man before Alec, and I've never lost myself after. I had never breathed with anticipation like a pet, counting minutes until I'd see him. I had never lain in bed next to a man and wanted to feel absorbed into his body, like a kit into the uterine wall of a rabbit--a gross metaphor, but love is rife with body parts, with wet hearts and thudding rib cages and heaving bosoms and salty loins and velvety genitals. You can't have erotic love without the rank grittiness of dirty bodies, and bodies, like desires, are disgusting.

It's such an intimate thing, to witness another's death. Orgasms are a dime a dozen. Any old human woman can see a man orgasm. We so rarely get to see them die; it has been my greatest gift and my most divine privilege

There’s so much grief over wasted time. So much disappointment from years spent with a man who never looked at me the way my friends’ partners look at them: like they hang the moon. Like they’re grateful to even breathe the same air as them. I wonder if I’m too late to ever have that again.

It’s not the woman you want to be within the moment with who is the one for you. No, boys, the woman you want to be with is the one you can’t be without. Wants, desires, needs, and dreams change over time. What you want today may not be what you want five years from now. “The person who impacts your world in a way that won’t ever let go, that’s the woman for you—the woman who has such a hold you can’t imagine being without her. Finding someone to get by with, to settle with, is easy. Finding the one you can’t let go of, finding the one who challenges you to be a better man, that’s the one you make your wife.” Excerpt From: Camaron, Chelsea. “Innocent Ride.” Whiskey Girls Publishing, 2015-02-19T05:00:00+00:00. iBooks. This material may be protected by copyright.

He would never change, that man. And I really hoped he didn't. I loved the way he was.

My mother ran when she was pregnant with Chelsea. She realized she didn’t want her daughters being raised by a monster. She paid a man to smuggle the two of us out of the country. We lived in North Carolina for ten years. She thought he’d forgotten about us. He hadn’t. He killed my mother and took my sister and me back to Russia. I was a bit rebellious, to say the least. He realized that Chelsea was his best method of controlling me so he broke her legs one day. I did what he asked after that.

At the time of our conversations, Chelsea Manning was 22 years of age - my own age when I made the choice to surrender to federal authorities ... I saw someone very familiar that day, and suddenly felt very old.

As for Sturridge, he comes across as quite possibly the most likable man to ever wear the Liverbird. The chicken teriyaki enthusiast has been defying expectations and unfounded prejudice since he arrived at the club to a lukewarm fan response. He was a troublemaker, you see. He had a poor attitude and was a he Big Time Charlie, don't you know? The Chelsea guys said so and Jose Mourinho has never been anything other than ethical and sincere, right? Right? "The England front man was quick to disabuse dubious fans of their misguided assumptions. From his first interview he spoke with a candour and earnest enthusiasm that were utterly endearing. His performance on the pitch has been nothing short of remarkable and his prodigious tally of 35 goals in 49 appearances to date is worthy of far more adulation than he has received. Doubtless the dancing striker has suffered by comparison with the frankly unequalled brilliance of a certain now-departed flesh gourmand, but the Birmingham native is worthy of so much more praise and, with time on his side, he has the potential to become the nonpareil of Liverpool's recent strikers.

I want them to come get us right now.” The little girl drew her mouth down in a pout. “I’m all dirty and hungry. I’m cold too.” “Poor little princess,” her brother mocked. “I’ve got something you can eat.” Kobie’s smile brightened before he dashed across the small clearing to retrieve his backpack. “Just how long are we going to be stuck here?” Wade demanded. He took a step toward the others who were gathered around the fire, then coughed as a wave of thick smoke hit him. “I have important business in Chicago.” “Oh yeah, real important,” Bryan sneered. “You’re just afraid your girlfriend might find someone else before you get back.” “Bryan!” Chelsea spoke in a warning voice. Wade took a step toward his son, his fists clenched and fury showing on his face. Web shifted his weight, prepared to intercede should Wade attempt to strike his son. “Look! M&Ms!” Kobie stepped between the combatants, waving a large package of the candy-coated chocolate pieces over his head, oblivious to the confrontation between Bryan and Wade. He hurried to Rachel’s side. “My grandma gave them to me, but you can have some.” “Perhaps you can share with everyone,” Shalise said. “I think we’re all hungry.” “And thirsty,” Emily added. “Don’t you think it’s ironic that we spent all that time and effort escaping water, and now we don’t have any to drink?” “Actually we do.” It was Cassie’s turn to retrieve her backpack. From its depths she produced a plastic bottle of water and three granola bars, which she quartered and passed around. The tiny squares of breakfast bars and a handful of candy were soon washed down with a squirt of water from the plastic bottle. Web listened for more planes as he munched on his share of the meager rations. Occasionally he caught the drone of the small plane that had flown over earlier, but it seemed to be concentrating its attention on the other side of the main canyon. He wished he could communicate with the sheriff or the pilot of that plane, but his radio and supplies had been left behind in his cruiser. He wouldn’t even have been able to light a fire last night if Bryan hadn’t slipped him a cigarette lighter when his mother wasn’t looking. Gage walked up beside him.“How bad is the slide?” the younger man asked. Web knew he was referring to the slide blocking the trail out of the canyon. “There’s no way we can cross it.” “And there’s no way a chopper can set down here.” Gage answered back, gesturing at the small clearing where they sat dwarfed by towering pines. “By now the water will have receded a great deal, but it will be days before we’ll be able to walk out.” Gage hadn’t heard Cassie approach, but he nodded his head at her words, acknowledging that her judgment was correct. “That means we’ve got to find a spot where the rescuers can reach us.” Gage stared thoughtfully at the steep mountain towering above them. “There is a place . . .” Gage paused and Web turned to him, anxious to hear what he might suggest that could possibly lead them out of this nightmare. CHAPTER 5 Shalise sat beside Chelsea Timmerman on one of the logs near the fire pit. They changed position each time a fickle breeze shifted the plume

Ask me why I never joined a sorority. I went to college in Georgia. Still... never tempted. Why?" *lady in leather making speech with man tided to alter* "That's why. Delta Delta Delta. Kiwanis. Girl Scouts. They all lead here-- to the basement of the Hellfire Club.

She can cut a man down with her words just as easily as with her knives.

The fantasy of clean warfare is deeply cherished by so much of the Western center-left, the great dream that military violence can be surgical, humanitarian, therapeutic, an instrument of human rights. This has rarely, if ever, proven to be the case.

Villains have suppressed some important piece of knowledge and this is causing grave harm; the protagonist after many struggles retrieves the intelligence, brings it to light, and the system rights itself in the nick of time, often thanks to the press. The plot is pure escapist fantasy, and a conservative one at that as it reaffirms faith in the normal political system and its institutions, whose essential goodness always wins out over some "abuse" or "rogue element.

Mark is just the kind of man I always pictured myself marrying. And nothing was going to stand in the way of that and then you... You fucked up everything, Layne. Completely fucked my plan.

Outside an airport one evening in Charlotte, as I waited by the curb for an Uber, a stranger approached me and said in a soft, conspiratorial tone: “You’re Adam Schiff, right?” The man was in his midthirties, short, and with a pronounced Southern accent. “Yes.” “You can tell me—there’s nothing to this ‘collusion’ stuff, is there?” “Let me ask you a question,” I responded. “What if I was to tell you that we had evidence in black and white that the Russians approached the Clinton campaign and offered dirt on Donald Trump, then met secretly with Chelsea Clinton, John Podesta, and Robby Mook in the Brooklyn headquarters of the campaign to deliver it. Then Hillary lied about it to cover it up. Would you call that collusion?” “I think I see where you’re going here,” he said, hesitantly. “Now, what if I also told you that after the election, former National Security Advisor Susan Rice secretly talked with the Russian ambassador in an effort to undermine U.S. sanctions on Russia after they interfered to help Hillary win. Would you call that collusion?” He paused for a moment, thinking it over, then said: “You know, I probably would.” His car arrived and he took off, leaving me at the curb. It had been one of those “eureka” moments, and I remember thinking, “Now, if I can only speak to a couple hundred million people.

I looked at him and arched a brow. “Well, wait until you see it in full fucking action, little man.” Later, though not much later, I’d explore the inside of this young man’s mouth with my tongue and my fingers; it would taste of bourbon and ennui. His mouth would explore the lemon and salt of my pussy; it would taste of multiple orgasms and poor judgment.

With enough grief, adrenaline, and fear we can all become amoral- even malevolent.

she died doing what she loved most... taking care of herself" "woman accomplishes what no man is capable of: a mind-blowing orgasm" "she was a vibrant woman" "she came and she went

Any old human woman can see a man orgasm. We so rarely get to see them die.

You put on the right makeup, and you look invincible. You feel like a warrior. You will still be a woman, but you will wear this on the outside so that on the inside you will stand tall as a man.

Chung served me my coffee—but who chose what type of coffee I drank? Who selected my daily blend from the tens of thousands of varieties across the globe? The answer to that takes me one step back on the chain to a man named Ed Kaufmann, head of buying at Joe Coffee Company, which now has nineteen stores in New York and Philadelphia. Ed agrees to meet me at the Joe Coffee Company headquarters in Chelsea.

She had been the “muse” of a writer for a while. You hardly heard his name anymore. He was quite famous at the time, although possibly more famous for his lifestyle than his works. He was unfaithful and drank from breakfast to bedtime. Boozing and whoring, he said, the Rights of Man. She had been one of his trophies, “muse” a fancy word for mistress. He lived in Chelsea but had a wife and three small children tucked away in the country somewhere.

The officiant was a prominent Cambridge hacker, one of the ones they’d hauled in when they were after Chelsea Manning. She’d been a kid then, but now she looked older, her wife holding their kids on her lap off to one side. She wore a colander on her head, because she was ordained in the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, which was frankly too much.

At the other end of the train car, the middle-aged man opens his coat to reveal a red supervillain outfit underneath. His chest has the letters TB on it, plus a picture of jacks. Not the kind you use on a car, but the kind kids play with. And the TB doesn’t stand for tuberculosis, either. This is Jack the Toy Boy. Erg. His name makes him sound more like a porn star than a supervillain.

1. My name is THE INVISIBLE MAN. 2. I am secretly in love with THE UNDERWATER ACROBAT. 3. My weapon is a CAMERA because I WILL EXPOSE EACH ONE OF YOU. 4. My greatest secret is I WOULD KILL TO BE POPULAR.

ask Bill Binney, or Thomas Drake, or Chelsea Manning, or Diane Roark, or Coleen Rowley, or Jeffrey Sterling, or Thomas Tamm, or Russell Tice, or Kirk Wiebe. And look what they’d done to John Kiriakou—for exposing torture,

doubled over and an old bobble-hat was hanging down between his knees.  Jamie took another look to see if he was okay, and spotted an empty vodka bottle between his heels against the curb.  She sighed and dragged her eyes back to the man and woman sitting by the fence. They looked up at Roper and Jamie and stopped talking.  As they drew closer the pair got up and walked away quickly without another word, keen to avoid any questions that might have been directed at them. Jamie and Roper didn’t bother calling out, and neither were prepared to chase them down.  They were both in their forties, and neither of them were Grace.  Roper paused at the fence and put his foot on it, craning his neck to see under the bridge beyond.  Long green tendrils looped their way down the bank, the jagged bramble leaves twisting gently in the autumn air.  The sky overhead had turned turbulent and grey, bruised raw by the incoming winter.  Jamie shivered and stepped past Roper, who didn’t seem inclined to make his way onto the loose bank in his old slick-bottom Chelsea boots. Jamie didn’t have that trepidation. She looked back as she stepped over the stained blanket, her deeply-teased heel crunching in the loose stone.  Roper was grimacing, staring down at the bridge and the tents under it.  Jamie could see by the look on his face that he was hoping she’d not ask him to follow. Sounds of conversation were echoing up and a thin blanket of smoke was clinging to the girders above. Someone was warming themselves. Some faces had already appeared in the openings to the little makeshift huts and shelters, peering out at the two newcomers — at the two outsiders.

This was an order. Freddy enjoyed giving orders, but Sebastian could not oblige her. “I’ll have the coach brought around instead, the weather being unpredictable. The press of business is such that—” Tante advanced on him, hands on her hips. A line of Shakespeare flitted through his head, about the lady being small but fierce. “She has lost her only friend, Sebastian. Miss Danforth’s aunt, her only supporter in this world, has gone to her reward, and the girl buried her other aunt only three months past. She is alone, but for what kindness we can show her.” An aunt. Merde. It would be an aunt. “John Coachman knows the roads—” She jabbed him in the sternum with a bony, surprisingly painful finger. “You are competent to get the girl to Chelsea. John Coachman’s gout is acting up, and the undercoachman takes a half day today, along with the footmen. Call. For. Your. Phaeton.” Four more jabs right to the sternum. Sebastian had never had any call to jab a man in the breastbone before, but if he were still in the interrogation business, he would have added it to his repertoire of torments.

She jabbed him in the sternum with a bony, surprisingly painful finger. “You are competent to get the girl to Chelsea. John Coachman’s gout is acting up, and the undercoachman takes a half day today, along with the footmen. Call. For. Your. Phaeton.” Four more jabs right to the sternum. Sebastian had never had any call to jab a man in the breastbone before, but if he were still in the interrogation business, he would have added it to his repertoire of torments.

all that got stolen was my Billy Joel CD!” “Piano Man?” Miss May asked. “The Stranger.” Miss May shook her head, “How could I forget. That’s even worse.

We were greeted by a dark-skinned man who introduced himself as Truth. We introduced ourselves as Honesty, Happiness, Honor, Witness, Serengeti , and Schnitzeldoodle. We didn't find out until later, when we met our tracker called Life, that Truth wasn't joking with us about his name.