Cover Photo God Quotes

Well, I know you don’t want to talk about it anymore, but I signed you up for that computer match thingy.” Why is it that so many people over the age of sixty refer to everything on the Internet as some sort of “computer thing”? Helen was trying to contain her laughter. “Laura, do you mean Match.com?” My father was groaning audibly now. “Yes, that’s it. Charles helped me put up her profile.” “Oh my god, Mother. Are you kidding me?” Helen jumped out of her seat and started running toward the computer in my dad’s home office, which was right off the dining room. “Get out of there, Helen,” my dad yelled, but she ignored him. I chased after her, but she stuck her arm out, blocking me from the monitor. “No, I have to see it!” she shouted. “Stop it, girls,” my mother chided. “Move, bitch.” We were very mature for our age. “This is the best day of my life. Your mommy made a Match profile for you!” “Actually, Chuck made it,” my mother yelled from across the hall. Oh shit. Helen typed my name in quickly. My prom picture from nine years ago popped up on the screen. My brother had cropped Steve Dilbeck out of the photo the best he could, but you could still see Steve’s arms wrapped around my purple chiffon–clad waist. “You’re joking. You’re fucking joking.” “Language, Charlotte!” my dad yelled. “Mom,” I cried, “he used my prom photo! What is wrong with him?” I still had braces at eighteen. I had to wear them for seven years because my orthodontist said I had the worst teeth he had ever seen. You know how sharks have rows of teeth? Yeah, that was me. I blame my mother and the extended breastfeeding for that one, too. My brother, Chuck the Fuck, used to tease me, saying it was leftovers of the dead Siamese twin I had absorbed in utero. My brother’s an ass, so it’s pretty awesome that he set up this handy dating profile for me. In case you hadn’t noticed, our names are Charlotte and Charles. Just more parental torture. Would it be dramatic to call that child abuse? Underneath my prom photo, I read the profile details while Helen laughed so hard she couldn’t breath. My name is Charlotte and I am an average twenty-seven year-old. If you looked up the word mediocre in the dictionary you would see a picture of me—more recent than this nine-year-old photo, of course, because at least back then I hadn’t inked my face like an imbecile. Did I forget to mention that I have a tiny star tattooed under my left eye? Yes, I’d been drunk at the time. It was a momentary lapse of judgment. It would actually be cute if it was a little bigger, but it’s so small that most people think it’s a piece of food or a freckle. I cover it up with makeup. I like junk food and watching reality TV. My best friend and I like to drink Champagne because it makes us feel sophisticated, then we like to have a farting contest afterward. I’ve had twelve boyfriends in the last five years so I’m looking for a lifer. It’s not a coincidence that I used the same term as the one for prisoners ineligible for parole. “Chuck the Fuck,” Helen squeaked through giggles. I turned and glared at her. “He still doesn’t know that you watched him jerk off like a pedophile when he was fourteen.” “He’s only three years younger than us.” “Four. And I will tell him. I’ll unleash Chuck the Fuck on you if you don’t quit.” My breasts are small and my butt is big and I have a moderately hairy upper lip. I also don’t floss, clean my retainer, or use mouthwash with any regularity. “God, my brother is so obsessed with oral hygiene!” “That’s what stood out to you? He said you have a mustache.” Helen grinned. “Girls, get out of there and come clear the table,” my dad yelled. “What do you think the password is?” “Try ‘Fatbutt,’ ” I said. “Yep, that worked. Okay, I’ll change your profile while you clear the table.

There are little white flashes off in the distance, over the grasslands, like photos being taken by God. Though it is night, you see the sky turn a bluish-green, with white circles floating and circling around the cloud cover, dancing with each other. Unearthly groans are carried forth and the wind picks up. You watch, feeling at the same time that the storm is both beautiful and terrifying.

Most major media outlets covered the story, and people around the world began immediately to respond with prayers and good wishes on social media. When Jep heard what was going on, he jumped on Twitter and tweeted this on Saturday from his hospital bed: Well, I about died this past Sunday…I’m doing much better now. Thanks for all the prayers! #seizuresuck #gladtobealive As if that wasn’t enough, he also posted a side-by-side photo of himself and a bearded Steven Seagal, both unconscious in a hospital bed and wrapped in a white sheet. “Just like Steven Seagal, I’m hard to kill,” it said in a caption at the bottom. It’s always a good sign when you get your sense of humor back.

Most major media outlets covered the story, and people around the world began immediately to respond with prayers and good wishes on social media. When Jep heard what was going on, he jumped on Twitter and tweeted this on Saturday from his hospital bed: Well, I about died this past Sunday…I’m doing much better now. Thanks for all the prayers! #seizuresuck #gladtobealive As if that wasn’t enough, he also posted a side-by-side photo of himself and a bearded Steven Seagal, both unconscious in a hospital bed and wrapped in a white sheet. “Just like Steven Seagal, I’m hard to kill,” it said in a caption at the bottom. It’s always a good sign when you get your sense of humor back. Monday morning, most of Jep’s doctors said he could go home. One of his doctors wanted him to stay for a month, but Jep wanted out. I didn’t blame him. We walked out of the hospital together. Jep could walk, but he was very weak and wobbly. One the way home we stopped to check out the house we were remodeling, and then I got him home to rest. The next day he asked, “When are we going to go look at the house?” “We went yesterday,” I told him. He didn’t remember. I let the kids stay home from school that Monday, and we had a wonderful time just being together. There were lots of hugs and smiles, and Jep played cards with River. I noticed he was talking a little slower than normal, but he was talking. And I knew everything was going to be okay.

I remember the time on the school bus back before anyone could drive, Jenny bet me a dollar, to put my hand down her jeans to prove she wears thong undies. Saying that I am such a baby, for not knowing, that’s how that all started, she felt like she had to teach me everything. Anyways back then I was still where Mickey Mouse Briefs and did even think about what was underneath. She beat me to feel that she was not a virgin, that she was all open and smooth, unlike me at the time. I didn’t even shave my legs yet. So, I did, I went for it. The rush here was touching a girl inappropriately, with everyone looking, and hoping the driver didn’t see. I’ll never forget Danny Hover looking over the site with Andrea Doeskin smelling, like little perv’s, and Shy saying- ‘Oh my God’- snickering at the fact, from the set accordingly. Yeah, it’s that kind of rush I get, over and over being with them. Just like Jenny got Liv fixed up with Dilco, it’s all about the rush in the end. Jenny can be a hell of a lot of fun, and it’s that fun that keeps me coming back for more, the same way Liv and Maddie do, and other girls keep trying to be like us, it’s all about the craziness. I don’t know why but when I am with them- I want to be so naughty! I remember Marcel smacking my butt, just to be cute, every time he would see me in the hallways of a school. -Yeah, he’s weird, but I couldn’t stop thinking about him as I was- well… doing me. Yet Ray’s photo was looking at me on my nightstand. ~*~ In my bed, I snap the bright light off when I hear my little sis coming down the hall, everyone goes back to being fuzzy, like I’m not looking at my room but only at a blurry photo of my room that was taken with a shaky hand incorrectly and nothing match up with the real thing. My sis went into the bathroom next door to tinkle, so I snapped on my nightlight, and then that light modifies everything, so it looks somewhat ordinary again. If my sis sees my light on from the crack at the bottom of my door, she will come bursting in. I have learned to keep it as dark as I can when I hear her coming run down the hallway. I love her, yet I want my privacy. All at once it comes back to me, like a hangover rush all my blood starts going back up into my head: the party, my sis getting laid, the argument with Ray, falling to Marcel, all the sex, all the drinking, and drugs, it’s all thumping hard in my brain, like my covered button was a few moments ago, on cam. I am still lying here uncovered, with everything still out in the open. ‘Kellie!’ My door swings open, hammering the door handle against my wall, and sis comes bolting across my room, jumping in my bed, pacing over my textbook's notebooks, love notes, and pills of dirty tops and bottoms and discarded jeans, I panic thinking my Victoria’s Secret Heritage Pink nighty way over there on the floor, where I thought it off and left it the night before. Yet it’s not liked my sis has not seen me naked before… but is wired when this happens. Something is not right, something seems very wrong and oggie; something skirts the edges of my memory, but then it is gone as my head pounds and sis is bouncing on my bed on top of me, throwing her arms and legs around my nude torso. Saying- ‘So what are you going to show me today?’ I am thinking to myself- girl you already got it down, doing what you’re doing now, I don’t need to teach you anything. Kellie- she is so hot… (Oh God not in that way, she’s- my sis.) She is like a little furnace with her worth coming from her tiny body. It’s not too long before her nighty rides up, and I can see it all in my face like she wants to be just like me, and then she starts asking her questions.

Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here! —2 Corinthians 5:17 (NIV) It’s amazing what a few gallons of butter-yellow paint can do for your soul. As I stepped out of a difficult year that included financial hardship and a painful divorce, I wanted my home to reflect not only my survival, but also my hope and renewed joy. I got rid of every painting and hung up blank white canvases waiting for colors and inspiration. Old photos were taken down and new ones were framed. My dingy linoleum floors were covered by bright laminate wood, and the dining room chairs were newly dressed in dark, childproof upholstery. As my home was undergoing its slow rebirth, I asked advice from carpenters who had come to my church on a missions trip from North Carolina. “I’m thinking of building a loft bed for my boys,” I said. I wanted them to have space for all their toys. “Is it safe to use my old bed frame to build it?” “Why don’t you wait till we get back to New York City next month?” they responded. I waited and painted my sons’ walls the color of sunny skies, and when the team finally returned they had a surprise waiting for me: the loft bed! I was overwhelmed by their generosity and love. As they installed the bed, I could feel God’s hand in it. He’d done so much to transform me on the inside and now He was helping me transform everything else. Lord, thank You for the gift of renewal. —Karen Valentin Digging Deeper: Rom 12:2; 1 Pt 1:13

Suddenly my screen filled with a vivid color photo of muscular, curved thighs covered in just the right amount of dark hair. Nestled at the top of the gorgeous thighs was god’s gift to genital lovers everywhere: full balls and a long, hard cock with that mesmerizing hand stroking it.

Hops and despair hung in the air. The floodwaters reached three feet and turned my craft brewery into a swamp, the kegs bobbing like tipsy buoys. Amid the ruins damp grain bags, shattered fermentation tanks, I saw the real victim: my hardware wallet, soggy but still, the USB port crusty with dirt. And contained? $275,000 of Bitcoin, my sole chance at redemption. I had jokingly named the wallet "Barley Vault." Now, the joke was on me. Insurance adjusters snapped photos and shrugged. "Acts of God aren't covered," they told me, as if divine intervention equated to a ruptured riverbank and a malfunctioning sump pump. My head brewer, Jess, salvaged what she could a water-damaged recipe book, a warped mash paddle and handed me a business card so soggy, the ink seeped like a watercolor. "Called these people," she said. "FUNDS RECLIAMER COMPANY. They recover crypto disasters. Or at least the internet claims.". I called, half-hoping for a scam. In its place, a voice arrived, as calm as fermenting lager: "Water damage? We've handled worse." They instructed me to mail the remains of the wallet, wrapped in rice like a vile pho ingredient. I restored the brewery through hand pressure-cleaning of mold, re-wiring circuits as Wizard's engineers conjured their own sorcery, for ten days. They disassembled the wallet's rusty interiors, toasting circuit boards in laboratory ovens, coaxing information from charred chips like alchemists breaking down an infested recipe. The call was at dawn. "Your seed phrase made it," the engineer said. "Stashed in a memory chip. Your Bitcoin's safe." I was in the skeleton of the brewery, sunrise glinting off just-installed stainless steel, and logged in. There it was: $275,000, resurrected. I bought three new fermenters that afternoon. FUNDS RECLIAMER COMPANY didn't just recover crypto, they recovered a legacy. Now, the faucets at the brewery flow again, featuring a special stout called "Hardware Wallet Haze." The flavor descriptions? "Roasted resilience, with a dash of existential relief." If your cryptocurrency ever becomes washed out by life's flood waters, skip the freakout. Call a SOS for the Wizards. They will drain the mire dry and restore the treasure to you. Just maybe keep your backups above sea level next time. Email: fundsreclaimer(@) c o n s u l t a n t . c o m OR fundsreclaimercompany@ z o h o m a i l . c o m WhatsApp:+1 (361) 2 5 0- 4 1 1 0 Website: h t t p s :/ / funds reclaimer company . c o m

Hops and despair hung in the air. The floodwaters reached three feet and turned my craft brewery into a swamp, the kegs bobbing like tipsy buoys. Amid the ruins damp grain bags, shattered fermentation tanks, I saw the real victim: my hardware wallet, soggy but still, the USB port crusty with dirt. And contained? $275,000 of Bitcoin, my sole chance at redemption. I had jokingly named the wallet "Barley Vault." Now, the joke was on me. Insurance adjusters snapped photos and shrugged. "Acts of God aren't covered," they told me, as if divine intervention equated to a ruptured riverbank and a malfunctioning sump pump. My head brewer, Jess, salvaged what she could a water-damaged recipe book, a warped mash paddle and handed me a business card so soggy, the ink seeped like a watercolor. "Called these people," she said. "FUNDS RECLIAMER COMPANY. They recover crypto disasters. Or at least the internet claims.". I called, half-hoping for a scam. In its place, a voice arrived, as calm as fermenting lager: "Water damage? We've handled worse." They instructed me to mail the remains of the wallet, wrapped in rice like a vile pho ingredient. I restored the brewery through hand pressure-cleaning of mold, re-wiring circuits as Wizard's engineers conjured their own sorcery, for ten days. They disassembled the wallet's rusty interiors, toasting circuit boards in laboratory ovens, coaxing information from charred chips like alchemists breaking down an infested recipe. The call was at dawn. "Your seed phrase made it," the engineer said. "Stashed in a memory chip. Your Bitcoin's safe." I was in the skeleton of the brewery, sunrise glinting off just-installed stainless steel, and logged in. There it was: $275,000, resurrected. I bought three new fermenters that afternoon. FUNDS RECLIAMER COMPANY didn't just recover crypto, they recovered a legacy. Now, the faucets at the brewery flow again, featuring a special stout called "Hardware Wallet Haze." The flavor descriptions? "Roasted resilience, with a dash of existential relief." If your cryptocurrency ever becomes washed out by life's flood waters, skip the freakout. Call a SOS for the Wizards. They will drain the mire dry and restore the treasure to you. Just maybe keep your backups above sea level next time. Email: fundsreclaimer(@) c o n s u l t a n t . c o m OR fundsreclaimercompany@ z o h o m a i l . c o m WhatsApp:+1 (361) 2 5 0- 4 1 1 0 Website: h t t p s :/ / funds reclaimer company . c o m