Conversations With A Killer Quotes

I'm somewhat socially inept. Slide me between two strangers at any light-hearted jamboree and I'll either rock awkwardly and silently on my heels, or come out with a stone-cold conversation-killer like, "This room's quite rectangular, isn't it?" I glide through the social whirl with all the elegance of a dog in high heels

Alone we were just one weird kid who talked to himself and one weird kid who never talked to anyone; together we were two weird kids having a semblance of a conversation. It wasn't much, but it made us look a little more normal. Two wrongs made a right.

It makes perfect sense that if human beings are raised in warm, loving households; if they are brought up to believe that the world is a secure and decent place, then they will grow up with a healthy relationship toward themselves and other people. - able to give love freely and receive it in return. Conversely, if a person is severely mistreated from his earliest years, subjected to constant psychological and physical abuse, he or she will grow up with a malignant view of life. To such a person, the world is a hateful place where all human relationships are based, not on love and respect, but on power, suffering, and humiliation.

Your eyes have a depth, and they invite the person having conversation with you. Your eyes invite the other person to explore you.

Had I catalogued the downsides of parenthood, "son might turn out to be a killer" would never have turned up on the list. Rather, it might have looked something like this: 1. Hassle. 2. Less time just the two of us. (Try no time just the two of us.) 3. Other people. (PTA meetings. Ballet teachers. The kid's insufferable friends and their insufferable parents.) 4. Turning into a cow. (I was slight, and preferred to stay that way. My sister-in-law had developed bulging varicose veins in her legs during pregnancy that never retreated, and the prospect of calves branched in blue tree roots mortified me more than I could say. So I didn't say. I am vain, or once was, and one of my vanities was to feign that I was not.) 5. Unnatural altruism: being forced to make decisions in accordance with what was best for someone else. (I'm a pig.) 6. Curtailment of my traveling. (Note curtailment. Not conclusion.) 7. Dementing boredom. (I found small children brutally dull. I did, even at the outset, admit this to myself.) 8. Worthless social life. (I had never had a decent conversation with a friend's five-year-old in the room.) 9. Social demotion. (I was a respected entrepreneur. Once I had a toddler in tow, every man I knew--every woman, too, which is depressing--would take me less seriously.) 10. Paying the piper. (Parenthood repays a debt. But who wants to pay a debt she can escape? Apparently, the childless get away with something sneaky. Besides, what good is repaying a debt to the wrong party? Only the most warped mother would feel rewarded for her trouble by the fact that at last her daughter's life is hideous, too.)

It may surprise you to know this, but there are children--some of them teenage boys, just like you--who actually carry on open, honest conversations with their mothers." "I find it very hard to believe that there are other teenage boys just like me." I finished my cereal and stood up. "I also find it a little terrifying.

But then you hear a scream and you decide it’s some teenagers playing around. A young man jumping a fence is taking a shortcut. The gunshot at three a.m. is a firecracker or a car backfiring. You sit up in bed for a startled moment. Awaiting you is the cold, hard floor and a conversation that may lead nowhere; you collapse onto your warm pillow, and turn back to sleep. Sirens wake you later.

Sloane?” Lia turned to her next. Sloane stared at Lia, a blush spreading over her cheeks. “I’m not undressing until we establish a conversion rate,” she informed us tartly, gesturing toward her mountain of chips. “Sloane,” Michael said. “Yes?” “How would you feel about a second cup of coffee?” Forty-five seconds later, Sloane was in the kitchen, and neither of the boys was wearing a shirt.

At the end of the conversation, look the individual right in the eye. Say his or her name and proceed to curl all ten toes with the Killer Compliment.

Bundy wasn't just a savage killer; he was a degenerate, too.

You want to know how to stop this killer? Forgive yourself, and he’ll disappear from your life forever.” “Thanks. I’ll be sure to do that.” And I know: 1. This is almost the same conversation I’ve had with myself many times before. 2. Gordon’s only trying to help. But it doesn’t matter. I: 1. Say, “See you later.” 2. Step outside. 3. Close the door. I don’t want to, really. I want to go back inside and believe Gordon’s words, like a child believing in a fairy tale, and I want to escape this nightmare forever. But I can’t. I realize now that it’s easy to tell the difference between a real problem and an imaginary one. It’s just the terror of facing the truth that’s hard.

I think it's interesting," he said, "that you used the word 'compulsions.' That kind of removes the issue of responsibility." "But I'm taking responsibility," I said. "I'm trying to stop it." "You are," he said, "and that's very admirable, but you started this whole conversation by saying that 'fate' wants you to be a serial killer. If you tell yourself that it's your destiny to become a serial killer, then aren't you really just dodging reponsibility by passing the blame to fate?

Kane couldn't remember the last time he'd had a real conversation with a female. His chats with women consisted of sentences like "Do you like that, babe?" or "Roll over, I want to screw you from behind.

If you left out the sadistic serial killer part of him, he was a great guy. He was clean and orderly. He was kind. He catered to the woman he loved. He was a great cook. He had high hopes for his career. He didn’t plop down in front of the television for hours at a time. He enjoyed playing games and great conversation. His sexual stamina was impressive. And he was a handsome man. It’s just that pesky habit of his where he raped, tortured, killed, and dismembered women that was a turn off.

Her interest in true crime books and documentaries was a hobby turned obsession. It was her one escape from the dullness of her own reality, the emptiness of everyday life that suffocated women far stronger than she was. And personal closeness to such human atrocities brought excitement like a pulsing, electrical charge, a feeling she’d grown addicted to. In conversations with those who took life, Lori no longer felt dead inside. Killers, of all people, made her feel alive.

For you to be able to convert time into anything you want, you must first of all prevent it from time wasters and killers

Employment is the greatest time killer

So you went bike riding, then," she said. "Just around town? Out on the forest trails somewhere?" "Yes," I said, "we went out to Forman's place." Her face twisted, eyes widening, eyebrows curling, nostrils flaring. It was her "shocked" face, with a dash of "confused." "Really?" "Of course not," I said, "but the face you just made almost makes this conversation worth it.

Imagine the thoughts of serial killer and mutilator Jeffrey Dahmer when he ended up in prison. He felt great remorse, which he confessed on several occasions. He had ruined his life beyond repair. If Wisconsin had the death penalty, he would have earned it. Who could he turn to except God? Certainly no human would hear the cries of his heart and believe the depth of his sorrow. Only God could.

My years of struggling against inequality, abusive power, poverty, oppression, and injustice had finally revealed something to me about myself. Being close to suffering, death, executions, and cruel punishments didn't just illuminate the brokenness of others; in a moment of anguish and heartbreak, it also exposed my own brokenness. You can't effectively fight abusive power, poverty, inequality, illness, oppression, or injustice and not be broken by it. We are all broken by something. We have all hurt someone and have been hurt. We all share the condition of brokenness even if our brokenness is not equivalent. The ways in which I have been hurt - and have hurt others - are different from the ways Jimmy Dill suffered and caused suffering. But our shared brokenness connected us. Thomas Merton said: We are bodies of broken bones. I guess I'd always known but never fully considered that being broken is what makes us human. We all have our reasons. Sometimes we're fractured by the choices we make; sometimes we're shattered by things we would never have chosen. But our brokenness is also the source of our common humanity, the basis for our shared search for comfort, meaning, and healing. Our shared vulnerability and imperfection nurtures and sustains our capacity for compassion. We have a choice. We can embrace our humanness, which means embracing our broken natures and the compassion that remains our best hope for healing. Or we can deny our brokenness, forswear compassion, and, as a result, deny our own humanity. I thought of the guards strapping Jimmy Dill to the gurney that very hour. I thought of the people who would cheer his death and see it as some kind of victory. I realized they were broken people, too, even if they would never admit it. So many of us have become afraid and angry. We've become so fearful and vengeful that we've thrown away children, discarded the disabled, and sanctioned the imprisonment of the sick and the weak - not because they are a threat to public safety or beyond rehabilitation but because we think it makes us seem tough, less broken. I thought of the victims of violent crime and the survivors of murdered loved ones, and how we've pressured them to recycle their pain and anguish and give it back to the offenders we prosecute. I thought of the many ways we've legalized vengeful and cruel punishments, how we've allowed our victimization to justify the victimization of others. We've submitted to the harsh instinct to crush those among us whose brokenness is most visible. But simply punishing the broken - walking away from them or hiding them from sight - only ensures that they remain broken and we do, too. There is no wholeness outside of our reciprocal humanity. I frequently had difficult conversations with clients who were struggling and despairing over their situations - over the things they'd done, or had been done to them, that had led them to painful moments. Whenever things got really bad, and they were questioning the value of their lives, I would remind them that each of us is more than the worst thing we've ever done. I told them that if someone tells a lie, that person is not just a liar. If you take something that doesn't belong to you, you are not just a thief. Even if you kill someone, you're not just a killer. I told myself that evening what I had been telling my clients for years. I am more than broken. In fact, there is a strength, a power even, in understanding brokenness, because embracing our brokenness creates a need and desire for mercy, and perhaps a corresponding need to show mercy. When you experience mercy, you learn things that are hard to learn otherwise. You see things that you can't otherwise see; you hear things you can't otherwise hear. You begin to recognize the humanity that resides in each of us.

There’s a pause in my conversation with Holes, one I’ve come to anticipate in discussions about the case. It’s knockdown time. The verbal pivot is akin to the moment when you’ve talked too much about an ex, catch yourself, and stop to emphasize that the ex in question is, of course, a worthless piece of shit.

John Wayne Gacy is obsessively fond of defending his innocence, which is imaginary. On March 12, 1980, he was convicted in Chicago of killing thirty-three boys. The murders took place between 1972 and 1978, when he was caught and arrested. No one else in America has ever been convicted of killing so many people. Twenty-seven of the bodies were buried in a crawl space beneath the house where Gacy lived,

So why aren’t you dead?” The shooter was incredulous: “I know I was aiming right. I know that the bullet was a killer. So why aren’t you dead?”92 Dziwisz, standing a few yards away from the conversation, sensed that Agca was “terrified by the fact that there were forces bigger than he was.” The Muslim had found out that there was not just one Fátima—that is, Muhammad’s favorite daughter—but also another one, whom he called the “goddess of Fátima.” According to Dziwisz, Agca, who thought in terms of divine retribution, told John Paul II that he was afraid that this powerful “goddess” would avenge herself on him and “get rid of” him.

In a conversation at the Rollins School of Public Health at Emory University in Atlanta, he told us how, after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, the entire country and much of the world seemed to come together overnight. Since then, he wondered, has there been anything that could trigger a similar coalition of the righteous and committed? The September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks did that initially, many would argue. But the reaction didn’t last long, muddled and dissipated as it was by military action that arguably had nothing to do with the attack or threat. An alien invasion, though, that threatened the entire planet and forced human beings to set aside their differences would do it, the Durants believed. “Infectious diseases turn out to be a surrogate for an alien invasion,” Bill declared. “It’s why we were able to do smallpox eradication in the midst of the Cold War. Both sides could see this was an important thing to do.” To take the alien invasion analogy one step further, we would first have to convince the public that extraterrestrials had, in fact, landed on earth. Look at climate change: The science is well established and yet a large percentage of the population refuses to believe it. The same holds true for infectious diseases. Our task is to convince world leaders, corporate heads, philanthropic organizations, and members of the media that the threat of pandemics and regional epidemics is real and will only continue to grow. Ignoring these threats until they blow up in our faces is not a strategy.

How do you decide what video game to choose in the vast ocean of online gaming nonsense? There are 100s if not thousands of options permeating the internet. They range from honestly free, pay to win, and all the way up to an actual subscription based model. One of the first decisions you need to make is quite simply, what kind of game do I enjoy? Are you more of a first person shooter type person? If so you will most likely want to ignore role playing games or real time strategies. conversely if you are more of a role playing or real time strategy fan perhaps first person shooters are not for you. Once you have the type of game you are looking for nailed down games the next step: do you want to pay money? This is a big one and a tricky one. So many games out there present themselves as 'free'. I assure you, they are most certainly not free. Think a simple little game like Candy Crush is free? Next time you are in the Google Play or iTunes store Improve WoW PvP check on top grossing apps. You will very quickly change your mind on that. On a more relevant note some games are both free and pay, but maintain a respectful balance. By this I mean you do not HAVE to fork out hard earned cash in order to compete. League of Legends is an amazing example of this. A player cannot obtain any upgrade which will make their character better through monetary expenditures. What you can do; however, is purchase cosmetic items or other no stat gain frill. On the other end of the spectrum you have a game such as the behemoth World of Warcraft. World of Warcraft has managed to maintain a subscription based model for 10 years now. Multiple 'WoW Killers' have risen up since the inception of World of Warcraft using the subscription base as well. Damn near every one of them is now free to play. Rift and Star Wars are the two that really stick out. Leading up to their release forums Wow XP Off PvP Stream across the internet proclaimed them the almighty killer of World of Warcraft. Instead Warcraft kept on trucking and both of those games changed style to f2p not long after their release. These are just a few different games and styles of games for you to choose from. Remember, you get what you pay for in almost every case. (LoL being the exception that proves the rule)

Wakey wakey, Vex. Aren’t you going to answer? It’s your mother, and this is the fourth time she’s called. Would you like me to tell her you’re indisposed?” Hold on a second. It didn’t take long for her bleary mind to grasp Leo was here. In her room. About to talk to her mother at— she squinted at her clock— seven in the morning. Eep. Her eyes shot open, but before she could flail an arm in his direction and demand the phone, he answered. “Meena’s phone. Can I help you?” She moaned, her super hearing meaning she heard her mother’s very polite, “Excuse me, but who are you, and why are you answering my daughter’s phone?” If this were Meena, she’d say something like “I’m a serial killer, and sorry, but your daughter is all tied up right now. Muahahaha.” Of course, the last time she did that, the SWAT team wasn’t impressed, and she wasn’t allowed to hang out with Mary Sue anymore. Trust her Pookie to stick to the truth. “I’m Leo.” “Hello, Leo. How are you today?” Her mother ever Miss Manners. “I am just purrrr-fect. Yourself?” “Um. Er. Would you mind passing the phone to Meena, please?” “I would, but she’s kind of… indisposed.” Did he just smirk at her as he said it? She frowned. He grinned. It was a sexy grin, a mischievous grin, but that still didn’t prepare her for him saying, “How about I get her to call you back once we’ve located her clothes? With my help, I’m sure I can get her dressed in no time. Or not.” How low and husky he said it, his eyes boring into hers, wicked promise within them. Of course, that wicked promise would have to wait, given what he’d just said to her mother! “Are you insane?” she mouthed. “If I’m insane, then it’s totally your fault,” he replied, aloud. Uh-oh. “Peter! I need you now!” Her mother forgot her manners and yelled for Meena’s dad. Not good. So not good. Poor Leo. And she liked him so much. Even if it was only going to be a verbal barrage, she still yanked the covers over her head so she wouldn’t have to witness the carnage as her daddy came on the line. Unfortunately, she could still hear it. “Who the fuck is this, and what are you doing with my daughter?” Daddy didn’t bother with niceties. “Hello, sir, I’m Leo, the omega for the pride harboring your daughter while her spot of trouble blows over. As to what I’m doing with your daughter, I am trying to keep her out of trouble, but not succeeding very well so far. She has a knack it seems for causing disasters.” Familiar laughter boomed. “That’s my baby girl.” At least her father didn’t see the havoc that followed her as a problem. Mother wailed she’d never get married if she didn’t start to act like a proper lady. “As to my presence with your daughter, just keeping an eye on her. We’ve run into a issue with an old beau following her here.” “That Russian prick showed up?” “Indeed. And events have escalated where I fear there is only one thing to do. It’s drastic, but inevitable. ” The click of the door cut off the rest of that conversation. What the hell? She poked her head out, only to note her bedroom was empty. While Meena hid under the covers, Leo had wandered away. Still talking to my father. That couldn’t bode well.

We see cancer patients battling death as valiant, and we think that if they try hard enough, they’ll beat it. In truth, cancer is an equal-opportunity killer and is impervious to moral virtues and emotional strength. No amount of courage increases a patient’s likelihood of survival. For every courageous patient who survives, there is another courageous patient who does not. Of course you’d never know that from popular media, where patients wage battle against cancer and win, and where almost everyone survives CPR and looks remarkably good hooked up to a breathing machine.

they had all met their personal Whites, those who had committed criminal obscenities on their watch and then walked away untouched by justice, leaving their obsessed ex-WG hunters heading into retirement with pilfered case files to pore over in their offices and basements at night, still making the odd unsanctioned follow-up call: to the overlooked counterman in the deli where the killer had had a coffee the morning of the murder, to the cousin upstate who had never been properly interviewed about that last phone conversation he had with the victim, to the elderly next-door neighbor who left on a Greyhound to live with her grandchildren down in Virginia two days after the bloodbath on the other side of the shared living room wall—and always, always, calling the spouses, children, and parents of the murdered: on the anniversary of the crime, on the victims’ birthdays, at Christmas, just to keep in touch, to remind those left behind that they had promised an arrest that bloody night so many years ago and were still on it.

Sean slowly met her eyes. He knew damn well that now wasn’t the time to have this conversation, not when they were parked a hundred yards from the warehouse, but he couldn’t stop the confession. “I love you, you know.

purple pebble he is balancing on the back of his hand. It disappears. ‘What’s that?’ I ask. He turns over his hand and the pebble reappears on his palm. ‘I have no idea, but it would be a killer conversation starter with the ladies, don’t you think?

Among the people, it was believed, as late as the present century, that spirits were imprisoned in statues. The statue of Neptune by Ammanati in the fountain of the Piazza della Signoria is called 'Il Biancone' or 'The Great White Man' by the poor people, who used to say that he was the mighty river god of the Arno tuned into statue because, like Michelangelo, he spurned the love of women. When the full moon shines on him, so the story goes, he comes to life and walks about the Piazza conversing with the other statues. Michelangelo's 'David', before it became a statue, used to be known as 'The Giant'. It was a great block of marble eighteen feet high that had been spoiled by Agostino di Duccio; personified by popular fancy, it lay for forty years in the workshops of the Cathedral, until Michelangelo made the Giant-Killer, that is, into a patriotic image of a small country defeating its larger foes. Giants, it was related, had built the great Etruscan stone wall of Fiesole, and many stories were told in Florence of beautiful maidens being turned into pure white marble statues.

Well,” I said, and I realized that it was at least the third time I’d said “well” since Deborah arrived. Was I really so flustered that I couldn’t even manage basic conversation? “You caught the Hammer Killer. Congratulations, sis.

Don’t even go there,” he snapped, pushing his foot down on the accelerator. “Too much thought makes Oliver a cranky bastard. Being followed by a possible killer makes Oliver a frightened bastard.” “You talking to me, the victim, or yourself?” Langham asked. “Myself. Nothing unusual. Nothing to fret about.” “Right. Give me an update.

Hold Me Tight: Seven Conversations for a Lifetime of Love

I went to meetings, I joined the cult. I was baptized in blood. I made ground.

He just put his around me, drawing me closer to give me a quick kiss on the head, before releasing me again, as though he knew I was a hit-or-miss on physical contact. The problem was, though, that with Sam I was pretty much always 'hit'. I thought back to my conversation with Alison, the novel idea that if you wanted something sometimes all it took was to ask for it. But I couldn't bring myself to do it.

I think I might be like him," I said. "Closed off. Afraid. Unable to love." "You're not." I shrugged uncomfortably. If he only knew how that last conversation with Sam had gone, he'd know what a monster I was. I couldn't even think of it without spiraling back into some shame about the things I'd said, the way I'd hurt him. But I didn't know if anything I'd said was wrong. If anything, the fact that I could be cold enough to say it in the first place proved my point, that I wasn't cut out for that kind of connection.

Six Simple Listening Tips Here are six simple tips for not only practicing good listening in your customer conversations but also for creating a high-impact customer experience by showing them that you’re engaged. 1. Don’t speak: This is easy to say but sometimes hard to do. You simply cannot listen if you’re speaking or poised on the edge of interrupting the other person. So what should you do? Just shut up and pay attention to what your customer is saying. 2. Make eye contact: Since a majority of our communication is non-verbal, looking at a person is one of the best ways to clearly demonstrate focus and attention. Even when you’re on a video call, customers can often tell (by the way your eyes dart around) if you’re looking at them on the screen or if you are distracted. Keep that gaze locked! (But a nice, friendly gaze… not a creepy one.) 3. Use visual/auditory cues: Smiling, nodding, and appearing pensive are all great ways to communicate understanding and acknowledgment. Even small auditory cues like the occasional “yes” or “uh-huh” can show your customer that you’re following along. 4. Write things down: Writing things down not only helps you remember key pieces of information later on, but it also demonstrates to the customer that you’re interested enough in their insights to memorialize them in writing. But what if they can’t see you taking notes, for example, on a phone or video call? No problem. Just tell them you are! After your customer finishes telling you something, simply pause for a moment and say “I’m just writing this down” to produce the same effect. 5. Recap: Nothing illustrates great attention to detail like repeating back or summarizing the insights the customer shared with you. This is especially powerful when the insights were shared earlier in the conversation. For extra impact, quote them directly using their exact words, prefaced by the phrase “What I heard you say was… ” Echoing someone’s exact words is a powerful and scientifically proven persuasive technique (we’ll be exploring this tactic in more detail as it relates to handling customer objections in chapter 7). 6. Ask good follow-up questions: When a customer answers your question, resist the temptation to say, “That’s great” or “Awesome!” and then move on to the next question. Asking killer follow-up questions like “Tell me more about that,” “Can you give me an example?” or “How long has that been going on?” is a great way to demonstrate your interest in the customer’s perspective and leave the call with high-impact insights. In fact, when it comes to addressing customer objections, a study by Gong.io found that top performers ask follow-up questions 54 percent of the time, versus 31 percent for average performers.6

Whereas the physiology of the arousal response is to optimize fight or flight, the physiology of dissociation is to help us rest, replenish, survive injury, and tolerate pain. Where arousal increases heart rate, dissociation decreases it. Where arousal sends blood to the muscles, dissociation keeps blood in the trunk, to minimize blood loss in case of injury. Arousal increases adrenaline; dissociation releases the body’s own pain killers, enkephalins and endorphins. And dissociation was the only adaptive option available to four-year-old Jesse in abusive moments-the ability to emotionally flee to his inner world.

Osama Bin Laden, an alleged killer of Americans, caused eleven years of war to kill him, killing uncountable innocents; conversely, the Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi, an obvious murderer of Indian and Kashmiri Muslims, became honourable of the White House, welcoming by the US President Joe Biden. In such a scenario, does the world honestly expect global peace?

What makes you think you're not nice to me?" he asked finally, his voice so casual that I almost didn't connect his words back to our previous conversation. I shrugged. I didn't want to enumerate all the ways I was probably a bitch, to remind him of the few he may have already forgotten about. "Nice is a bullshit word, anyway" he said. "Nice is just surface politeness. Screw being nice.

Is that who you're gonna ask to marry?" Marcus asked, glancing over at me. I hadn't even clocked that the kid was aware I was standing there, and I was startled to be drawn into the conversation. "We can do the dance again. This time I'll do the right count, I promise." Sam turned his head to look at me. "Someday," he said, his gaze still on mine.

Sure, I could see proposing to you. Not like this - something tells me you wouldn't appreciate the public spectacle. Somewhere quiet, just us. I'd go down on one knee and tell you how I feel about you. I know that's a ways off, but it's nice to think about." I felt like I was missing about a thousand pieces to this conversation to make it make sense. "I don't even know if I want to get married. Ever." Sam shrugged, like that was no big deal, either. "Then we don't.

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

In a great market—a market with lots of real potential customers—the market pulls product out of the startup. This is the story of search keyword advertising, Internet auctions, and TCP/IP routers. Conversely, in a terrible market, you can have the best product in the world and an absolutely killer team, and it doesn’t matter—you’re going to fail.3

Joe, who’s doing his best to redirect the focus of conversation away from us, continues.  “I’m thinking about switching to Fermentation Sciences.  I want to learn how to make beer without poisoning anyone.

With today's technology, conversations that used to be limited to basements and meeting halls, the kinds of words and places that first helped radicalize Franklin, now have tens of thousands of participants online. Corrosive ideas, hate speech, conspiracies, and even potential crimes have a home online unlike any they have ever known.

Honestly? I think when you find someone you really want to be with, you don’t need to have ‘the talk.’ If you find the right woman, it would kill you to hook up with anyone else.” She shrugs. “Maybe I want someone who is certain about me and doesn’t need to wait for that kind of conversation to commit to me. Because in his heart, he knows what he wants and goes for it.” God, she’s beautiful. I love this woman’s spirit. Suddenly, he spies me in the background. “What the fuck? Are you dating Kingston now?” He glances at me. “No offense, man. Great game yesterday, by the way. Killer second half.” Christ. This guy. Gabby shakes her head. “Who I’m dating is really none of your business, but he and I are neighbors.” He must see something in my eyes because his narrow. “How can you be with him and not me? He probably fucked a different girl every night last week.” Excuse me, dickhead. I fucked my hand every night last week, thank you very much.

Adam Real-Last-Name-Unknown may be the enemy of polite society, a menace to any happy kitchen, a security risk and a potential serial killer, but the man can bake. He's an idiot-savant with whom God has serious, frequent and intimate conversations.

In conversations with those who took life, Lori no longer felt dead inside. Killers, of all people, made her feel alive.

With increasing stress or threat, the dissociative response takes a person deeper and deeper into a protective mode. Whereas the physiology of the arousal response is to optimize fight or flight, the physiology of dissociation is to help us rest, replenish, survive injury, and tolerate pain. Where arousal increases heart rate, dissociation decreases it. Where arousal sends blood to the muscles, dissociation keeps blood in the trunk, to minimize blood loss in case of injury. Arousal releases adrenaline; dissociation releases the body’s own pain killers, enkephalins and endorphins. And dissociation was the only adaptive option available to four-year-old Jesse in abusive moments—the ability to emotionally flee to his inner world.

Your visitors are used to a certain way e-commerce sites work. In total, they spend way more time on other sites than on your site. So don’t try to be different in the way your site works, because then they have to figure out and learn how your site works.

As Coates explains, hedges like these “are used to respect the face needs of all participants, to negotiate sensitive topics, and to encourage the participation of others.” These interpersonal tools are especially handy for women, who almost always dive into sensitive territory at some point during their discussions. Coates collected some enlightening data on how women hedge with one another from a group discussion among female friends about Britain’s notorious Yorkshire Ripper case of the early 1980s. The speakers were recalling how, during the hunt for the perpetrator, the police asked the public to consider their family members as suspects. At one point, a woman named Sally revealed that she once thought for a second that the killer might have been her husband. The hedges in her statement are underlined: “Oh god yes well I mean we were living in Yorkshire at the time and I—I mean I. I mean I did/ I sort of thought well could it be John?” These hedges here are not representative of Sally’s indecision—she isn’t hedging or breaking off her sentences due to, as Otto Jespersen said, “talking without having thought out what [she is] going to say.” Sally knows exactly what she wants to get across. But because the topic at hand is so sensitive, she needs the wells and I means so she doesn’t come off as brusque and unfeeling. “Self-disclosure of this kind can be extremely face-threatening,” Coates explains. “Speakers need to hedge their statements.” This is true in so many situations. For instance, saying something along the lines of, “I mean, I just feel like you should maybe, well, try seeing a therapist” is a gentler, easier-to-hear way of saying, “You should see a therapist.” The latter statement, though direct, could come across as cold in the context of a heart-to-heart conversation. The hedged version is more tactful and open, inviting of the listener’s point of view, and leaves space for them to interject or share a different perspective (unlike “You should see a therapist,” which is closed off and doesn’t make room for anyone else’s input).

Brandolini’s Law states that it always takes more energy to refute bullshit than it does to produce it. And, without fail, every conversation I had with Agent Wicklow proved that law to be true.

Being a victim justifies revenge, not just on one person, but on the whole world.

We are continually moulded throughout our lives by our own idea of ourselves. Our selves - our sense of who we are in the world - are being shaped by the secret engines of our stories.

Digging into other people's stories leaves traces on you. You can't reflect on narrative, the stories humans tell, without reflecting on your own.

*** We we happy despite the war. *** There are people who talk about the war like it happened in another country. Like the've forgotten everything. *** There's place fpr evryone: for the person who wants to forget and the person who wants to remember. *** The country is devided between killers and killers. *** I've often believed that our destinies are linked to these dates that describe our lives, the link mysterious, hard to untangle or reveal. *** Roots are something that we ourselves re-fabricate and completele modify, just as when we prepare food, we add spices according to our tastes. *** Intimates conversations are easier when we're moving from one place to another. *** We houldn't need so many reasons to love a place and call it a homeland.

Not until you separate yourself from time wasters and killers that you can effectively convert time

For half a moment, I toyed with the idea of telling her that Patrick was not sneaking into anything except possibly decomposition. And in a rational world, why wouldn’t I? What reasonable person could object to the removal of a brutal killer who did appalling things to human beings and liked doing them? But on sober reflection, it occurred to me that if I told her, Jackie might realize that this was an apt description for me, too, so it might not be a good idea to tell her. And after all, rotting flesh was hardly a suitable topic of conversation for the breakfast table. So I settled for more pedestrian reassurance. “There’s a chain on the door,” I said. “And a heavily armed and deadly Dexter on the couch.

By Saturday night we still didn’t have Jeb’s body. Mom and I ate dinner quietly, letting the shared pizza and the noise of the TV substitute for the companionship and conversation of a real relationship. The Simpsons was on, but I wasn’t really watching—I wanted that body. If the police kept it much longer, we wouldn’t be able to embalm it at all, just seal it in a bag and hold a closed-casket funeral.

Gray walked over to Robinson’s car and began repeating what he had just told Schultz, reiterating the fears he had for his own safety. The conversation was interrupted when Gacy returned from the restaurant. “Let’s go,” he told Gray. Robinson jumped into his car, which was parked in front of Gacy’s, and twisted around to see which way Gray would be going. Gray pulled out and went straight ahead, and Robinson fell in behind him. “Stick

I often had thoughts of vengeance, but I never felt they consumed me. In the days after our conversation, I thought about what Lee had said about Lydia’s killer having a new beginning in a different life. I didn’t want it to get in the way of justice, but didn’t everyone deserve a chance to begin again and become a better person? I think Lee knew he could reach my spirit of fairness, and as a human being –or near enough to one, it seemed unfathomable that someone should be made to pay for their past-life transgressions in a future life. I suppose that’s what karma was, in a way, just very different from an avenging fae. It didn’t mean I wouldn’t punish him, of course, if I had the chance.

A trial published in January 2010 in the American Journal of Cardiology found that statin medications actually increased the risk of death. Researchers in Israel followed nearly 300 adults diagnosed with heart failure for an average of 3.7 years, and in some cases up to 11.5 years. Those who were taking statin drugs and had the lowest levels of low-density lipoprotein (LDL) were found to have the highest rates of mortality. Conversely, people with higher levels of cholesterol had a lower risk of death.

Kind of a conversation killer. Hello, I'm a Red spy.

change. I’m sure we’ll need your help from time to time, and maybe one of these days we’ll be able to return the favor.” Higgins felt that bubble of word vomit rise in his throat and spill out of his mouth before he could help himself. “Beirut,” he said. There was a change in the atmosphere as soon as the word slipped out, but he hammered on. “You lost a lot of Marines.” “Higgins.” Zyga’s voice was sharp. Stokes’ voice was colored with sadness as he said, “I keep telling myself we could’ve done something to prevent it.” “That’s why you’re here,” Higgins said. “When Director Thatcher told me about this program, I jumped at the chance to help build a better relationship between the Marine Corps and the CIA. My colleagues aren’t thrilled at the idea of getting into bed with your lot, but I have a great deal of respect for what you do. That’s why I’m here. Like the CIA, some of us in the Marine Corps are planning for the future. Terrorism will only grow in the coming years. Beirut was just the beginning. Lucky for me, your bosses and I agree.” He looked from one team member to another. “I heard about your first mission, and I’m glad it was a success. I’m glad you all made it out of there alive.” “Major Stokes will be stopping by every so often to check on our progress and offer additional advice and support,” Decker said. “I know it’s a bit unorthodox, but this man has seen it all. Don’t let his dumb grunt act fool you. His help will be invaluable to us as we move forward.” “Now we just need to get the Feds on board.” Stokes laughed, and the room joined him. “Good luck with that,” Abrams called out. “They hate us more than you do.” “That they do,” Stokes said. “They’ve been working on their program since the late ‘70s. Same sort of deal. If you can get into the mind of a killer, really understand how your enemy works, then you have a better chance of catching him before he hurts anyone else. We’re usually sent in after it’s too late. I want to change that.” “Might put you out of a job,” Higgins joked. Stokes laughed again. “Honestly, I don’t think that’d be so bad. Maybe I’ll join up with you. Maybe in a perfect world.” “In a perfect world, there wouldn’t be a need for any of us,” Higgins said. “You’re exactly right, Mr. Higgins.” “Doctor,” Higgins corrected automatically. His face flushed. “Ignore him,” Abrams said, reaching across Spencer to whack Higgins in the stomach. “He thinks just because he has two doctorates that he’s better than us.” “I do not,” Higgins mumbled. He felt his face grow even hotter. Stokes held up a hand in surrender. “You earned those degrees, Dr. Higgins. Wear them with pride.” Higgins shot a look at Abrams while the rest of the room continued to chuckle. Thatcher looked down at his watch. “It seems my time is up here,” he said. “I assume you can find your way back, Major?” “I’ll try not to steal any secrets on the way out.” “See that you don’t,” Thatcher said, shaking Stokes’s hand again before exiting the room. Everyone took their turn introducing themselves to Major Stokes, except Higgins, who hung back to observe how this new player interacted with everyone in the room. Where Higgins lacked interpersonal skills, Stokes excelled in the area. He could joke with Abrams in one breath and rein it in to speak in serious undertones with Spencer in the next. He and Johnson exchanged battle scars, and when it came to York, Stokes found a fellow intellectual to converse with. Higgins detected no condescension or disrespect in his voice even though she was the only woman in the room. As the personal introductions were finishing up, Stokes broke off from the group and walked over to where Higgins was still seated at the front of the room and sat down next to him. “More of an observer than a talker, right?” “You could say that.” “Should I be worried?” Higgins smiled.

A killer whale surfaced next to the boat, and Percy struck up a mental conversation with him. It wasn’t exactly like talking, but it went something like this: Could you give us a ride north, Percy asked, like as close to Portland as possible? Eat seals, the whale responded. Are you seals? No, Percy admitted. I’ve got a man satchel full of macrobiotic beef jerky, though. The whale shuddered. Promise not to feed me this, and I will take you north. Deal.

When you are in a conversation with someone, be totally in the conversation. Make the other person feel as though he or she is the most important person in the world in that moment.

The thing that few people appreciated about Ed Gein was his skill as a seamstress.

Content drives conversations. Conversation engages your customers. Engaging with people is how your company will survive and thrive in this newly social world.

TB: You have that period where he swore to himself that he’d never do it again. That was the end of it. That he felt he had it under control. It was the deceptive fashion, you might say, in which that psychopathology withdrew into this dormant stage that (led) the individual (to the) erroneous belief that he got it out of himself. (..) he would try to indulge himself in normal activities. (..) a state of mind, that was without the fear, the terror, and the harm. But slowly, the pressures, tensions, dissatisfactions which, in the very early stages, fueled this thing, had an effect. (Yet) it was more self-sustaining and didn’t need as much tension or as much disharmony externally as it had before. (..) this condition would generate its own needs.

TB: The overexcited, overaroused, driven, compulsive state this person was in… could in no way be integrated with what we characterize as the moral, ethical, law-abiding part of the individual. We’d probably be more accurate if we stated that this normal self had been repressed… to such a degree that even the encounter with the first victim did not sufficiently arouse it… so it could take predominance.

I've written about self-esteem and about confidence and about embracing the person you are (versus the person you think you should be), and how liberating it is to say "I AM ON MY OWN TRAJECTORY, BUT THANKS FOR THE FEEDBACK JK I DO NOT CARE." I know that trying to be another person is doing a disservice not just to yourself, but to the human you're attempting to emulate. And I know that doing this sets us all up to lose because we usually only attempt to emulate a very specific part of a stranger's life, which we've interpreted subjectively. Sitting here, writing this, I tell myself I get it. And sitting there, reading this, you probably think you do too. But then fast-forward to tomorrow, next week, or sometime next month, and I will inevitably find myself caught in a "Why do I always bring up serial killers during small talk?" mental cyclone. And then I will play and replay everything I said and the looks I got and the tone someone used when they said they'd email me, and I'll fixate on all of the worst parts until I find out five months later that nobody but me even remembers having had that conversation at all.

He remembered one time watching this crime-solving vid set on Titan – Murder on the Silver Sea – where some characters were at a fancy restaurant having this crazy smart conversation where the investigator and the informant both think the other one’s the killer and they were saying it but they’re not really saying it – and also they kind of wanted to bang each other? That scene had layers, seriously – and when the conversation was done, they just . . . left their food. Like, let the server come get it while they walked out of the place. The scene would’ve made sense if one of them wasn’t hungry or had a stomach ache or something, but if that were the case, then the other one would’ve reached over and eaten the leftovers. But no. Both of them left. They left half-plates of food on the table. It was the weirdest shit. He

Bet you never thought I’d save your skin.” “What?” “Just makin’ small talk. Got to distract myself from the pain, y’know? Life has a funny way of workin’ out, don’t it? Take your friend, for example. The sword-lady.” “Tanith?” “First time we met, we were tryin’ to kill each other, remember that? But every time subsequent to that there’s been a kind of a frisson between us.” “A what?” “Frisson. It’s French for … To be honest I don’t really know what it’s French for, but I know what it means in American. A sort of electrical undercurrent of emotion.” “I know what frisson means, but I really don’t think Tanith would share your view.” “You’re a kid. You don’t know the ways of menfolk and womenkind. All those threats she fires my way? That there is the mark of flirtation.” “Oh, dear God,” Valkyrie said, the colour draining from her face. “You fancy Tanith.” “I don’t fancy her, I—” “You have a crush on Tanith. That is disgusting.” “What? Why would it be disgustin’?” “Because you’re a hired killer.” “That don’t make it disgustin’, just makes it … unusual. Does she talk about me? “Somebody shoot me.” “What does she say? I’m a formidable foe, right? Does she say anythin’ in a kind of a more … wistful voice?” “I don’t want to talk about this.” “Does she ever say, ‘If only he were good …’?” “Stop your talking. Stop it right now. Stop it. She has a boyfriend.” His face fell. “Someone I know?” he asked morosely. “He may have punched you a few times, yes.” “She’s not … She’s not datin’ the skeleton, is she? How would that be even possible, let alone … nice? He’s got no skin, or lips, or … or nothin’. And he talks. Good God, he talks and he never shuts up.” “It’s not Skulduggery.” “Well then, who else could it …? It’s not the ugly fella, is it? It couldn’t be the ugly fella.” “Don’t call him ugly.” “It is him! But he’s all scars! I mean, I know I ain’t got no eyes, but once you get past that, you got my face. And my face is all right. Better’n his. His is a mess, like he was dropped head first into a blender as a kid. Seriously? She’s with him?” “Seriously, and you’re not going to break them up. Not because you won’t try, but because you won’t be able to. Look, are you ready yet? Can we move now?” “I’m ready,” he snapped. “But this conversation stays between us, understand? My romancin’ ain’t gonna work if she knows it’s comin’.” “Believe me, I never want to speak to anyone about this ever again.

Conversely, when Bartal gave her rats an anxiety-reducing drug, turning them into happy hippies, they still knew how to open the little door to reach the chocolate chips, but in their tranquil state, they had no interest in the trapped rat. They couldn’t care less, showing the sort of emotional blunting of people on Prozac or pain-killers. The rats became insensitive to the other’s agony and ceased helping. This outcome fits far better with the idea of empathy-based helping, or sympathy, than with explanations based on immediate self-interest.

And yet, is there a more crucial phrase used in the criminal trial process?