Cut Me Some Slack Quotes

All right. Here’s the deal. You’re eight,” he said. “I’m nine,” I said. “Do I look like I carry an abacus with your name on it? Cut me some slack here, son.

When I act politely, I build a reserve of goodwill in others. That reserve allows those people to cut me some slack when I do something annoying.

You don’t really think I’m going to let her yell at my wife, do you?” “You’re getting pretty comfortable with that term.” “I guess it’s time I admit it. I knew you were going to be my wife pretty much from the second I met you. I’m not going to lie and say I haven’t been waiting for the day I could say it…so I’m going to abuse the title. You should get used to it, now.” I laughed, squeezing his hand. “I don’t mind.” “You don’t?” I shook my head and he pulled me to his side, kissing my cheek. “Good. You’re going to get sick of it over the next few months, but just cut me some slack, okay?

I won’t forget that we kissed. Sorry”—Ethan tried to grin a little—“but you have to cut me some slack on that one. Because, I mean, come on, you’re you.” She nodded, not guilty at all. “But I promise not to think about it too much. I’ll save it for those really dark moments, when I look at everything wrong with the world and I feel helpless. When every good thing I’ve ever done, ever seen or heard about, pales against the garish human capacity for hate and corruption.” He bent forward quickly and kissed her cheek, lingering more than he should but less than he wanted to before pulling back.“I’ll think about it then, if it’s okay,” he said gently, “just for a few seconds, so I can remember what it was like to feel transcendent.

Nonetheless, when it finally ended and the hairdressers left and Tess insisted upon pulling her to the mirror, Fire saw, and understood, that everyone had done the job well. The dress, deep shimmering purple and utterly simple in design, was so beautifully-cut and so clingy and well-fitting that Fire felt slightly naked. And her hair. She couldn’t follow what they’d done with her hair, braids thin as threads in some places, looped and wound through the thick sections that fell over her shoulders and down her back, but she saw that the end result was a controlled wildness that was magnificent against her face, her body, and the dress. She turned to measure the effect on her guard - all twenty of them, for all had roles to play in tonight’s proceedings, and all were awaiting her orders. Twenty jaws hung slack with astonishment - even Musa’s, Mila’s, and Neel’s. Fire touched their minds, and was pleased, and then angry, to find them open as the glass roofs in July. ‘Take hold of yourselves,’ she snapped. ‘It’s a disguise, remember? This isn’t going to work if the people meant to help me can’t keep their heads.’ ‘It will work, Lady Granddaughter.’ Tess handed Fire two knives in ankle holsters. ‘You’ll get what you want from whomever you want. Tonight King Nash would give you the Winged River as a present, if you asked for it. Dells, child - Prince Brigan would give you his best warhorse.

I realize that the English language is sadly devoid of names for people like me. I try to cut the world some slack for this every day. All day. And the day after that, too. But the truth is that every time I am misgendered, a tiny little sliver of me disappears, A tiny little sliver of me is reminded that I do not fit ... I remember that the truth of me is invisible, and a tiny little sliver of me disappears. Just a sliver, razored from the surface of my very thick skin most days, but other times right from my soul, sometimes felt so deep and other days simply shrugged off, but still. All those slivers add up to something much harder to pretend around.

Jen was in turmoil; she was grappling with self-esteem issues and a failed attempt at anorexia. I was in the right place at the right time, and the gods were finally ready to cut me some slack.

ANOTHER CHILD CONCEIVED My mother bore me in late May, And I was peeking out the day, Or the night; she can’t recall, Daddy’s sitting home, appalled. Another child, another pain, Another mouth to feed, again. Dad ran away, did not look back, Perhaps to cut himself some slack. He couldn’t stand the dread received; Of yet another child, conceived.

Motherhood is hard, and no mom in the history of the entire world has been a perfect mama—no one. With that in mind, even in your worst mama moments, cut yourself some slack. God has used some of the hardest times I’ve had as a mom—times when I wasn’t sure if I would survive the day, much less eighteen years—to show me how to depend on Him. And in order for God to use these trials to help me learn and grow, I have to let go of them and give them to God. Only He can make our paths—and our children’s paths—straight.

Right! You see me as superhuman! That’s some serious pressure.” Amelia laughs a little. “Sometimes it feels good, yeah, that people like how I look and act. But sometimes it’s just so much. I already have a ton of pressure on me from my parents and from myself, so it’s extra hard coming from you. Because we’re equals, me and you. Imperfect equals. And you’ve seen my struggles and you’ve been there right alongside me for the ride. I mean, I was a hot mess when I was trying to figure out if I wanted to have sex with Sid. I couldn’t face my parents over a dinner with my new girlfriend. I sometimes don't have the courage to stick up to people or for myself.” “But those are just normal human things.” “Yeah, exactly! This is my point! You look at me and you see me struggle through things and you root for me regardless, thinking I’m, like, killing it out there in the world, but when it’s you, you don’t cut yourself any slack and you beat yourself up. But I’m a regular person, and so are you,” she says. “And a pretty badass one, too. You’re so good at everything. You get amazing grades and you’re an incredible writer and you’re so smart-sometimes so smart that teachers assume I am, too, just because I’m around you. When I nearly failed my bio test earlier this semester, Mr. O'Donnell told me I should try to be more like you. And you know what? Maybe that’s a shitty thing to say to a student, but I do find myself wishing I could be more like you all the time. Not because I’m inadequate as a person but because humans yearn! Humans want to be better than they are! Humans feel jealous! And I think it’s okay if sometimes I want to be more like you. Who wouldn’t? You’re smart and hilarious and fashionable and fierce and you would do anything for the ones you love. You put up with a lot of shit and you let it light a fire in you and I admire the hell out of that, babe.

to,” Maggie said, her irritation growing. “But by the way, you can’t tell me what to do.” “Bon. As long as we agree, I do not need to.” Maggie counted to ten and reminded herself that Laurent had a lot on his mind these days and the way he was processing Roger’s death was such that it would probably be a miracle if he didn’t end up killing someone soon. She would cut him some slack. “I had no idea that Roger’s family life was so horrible,” Maggie said. “Anastasia is a piece of work.” Laurent frowned. “Roger had no family life.” “I don’t mean family in the sense that you and I have family,” Maggie said. She sat down on the bed next to Laurent and kicked off her shoes.

God must have wanted my Frederick for a higher purpose,” she said at the press conference. I hate this sort of justification. I hate it even more when it’s reversed, if you will—when a survivor of a tragedy claims something to the effect that “God spared me because I’m special to Him,” the subtle implication being that God didn’t give a damn about those who perished. In this case, however, Vanessa Hogan was a young widow who had just lost her only child, so perhaps I should cut her some slack.

I’m just tryin’ to do right by you both. Years of not havin’ ya in my arms, my lips on yours, my dick in that sweet pussy, sharin’ a bed and ownin’ your heart, it does somethin’ to me. Alright? Ya gotta cut me some damn slack. I’m makin’ up for lost time.” He sighed. “Now, open this motherfuckin’ door, so I can eat that pussy.” A

You have absolutely no respect for my privacy. Now that I know you absolutely are very much capable, you lost all credibility with me. I don't know why I have any respect for yours, after your absolute disdain for mine since day 0. I guess I am not an asshole. I haven't had liquor in a long time, and I'm not an angry drunk. I begged you to clear the air, many a time. Begged, and begged some more. Made sure you knew it was fucking me up mentally, that it was tearing me apart, 'till it made me sick! I backed off early this year to cut you some slack. Hoped you'd extend something I could actually grasp, but nope, there was something better to do. Name one thing you've done for me that wasn't destructive. What you say and do to others can absolutely have a dramatic effect on them. It is written in books and autobiographies. Many celebrated people have died as a result of the evil or harmful acts of others. Let's not forget that you haven't said one nice thing to me all this time. Try doing what you did to me to someone else, how would they react? That's right, fucking run. For years I held the benefit of the doubt, but I know now that you are a fraud. Your own actions and willful lack thereof prove it. You destroyed my mind, my heart, my body, turned everything against me, even fucked with my financials. Yes I let you in for that to happen. But that's still no excuse for YOU to willfully do it. Each step I take forward gets smashed to pieces, every time. Because I don’t know things. That was on you to fix. It's not because you were incapable. You could have changed the trajectory anytime. You chose to do something else instead, every time. Even a sliver of what you give to others would've made a world of difference. You most certainly could have. You chose not to. You chose to let me suffer. There was something better to do. Yes, that is a fact, if that were not true, I would not be here writing this. And you did me this way why? because I desperately sought some sense of community, of which I was in dire need of. Don't ever pretend that you cared for me, ever. It's an insult. A direct contradiction to your own actions. The only thing you care about is the pleasure you get knowing people who suffer and die. That's exactly what this is, and always been. After your handywork, my own life means nothing anymore. I have nothing left because I let you mangle it all to gore. Yeah, I'm a dumb shit for letting you delve deep inside me only to leave behind a grenade. I do not believe I will be alive much longer. No doubt this pleases you. Murderer. I curse you.

Loving you means I have to trust you with all my secrets from here on out, and I’m pretty sure I’ll fuck that up.” “You’re a work in progress, so I’ll cut you some slack,

Well, in retrospect, maybe he could have phrased it differently. But, hell, she had to cut him some slack—he hadn’t had an ounce of blood left in his brain. Her

Cool. I know an awesome spot called Henry’s. They have the absolute best beer selections and the wings are great. They also have darts and pool.” Furi stopped talking when he noticed Syn looking a little pale. “Hey, what’s up?” “Uh, nothing.” They were in Syn’s old faithful truck and Furi sat silently watching the man next to him. “We going or what?” Furi narrowed his eyes, staring at the side of Syn’s face. His jaw was clenched and his neck was flushed. What the hell? “Yeah. Let’s go.” “Okay.” Syn thought he was going to be sick. It was just his goddamn luck that Furi would suggest the one place where half the department liked to hang out. Hell, even his Lieutenants frequented this place. It would be cruel to subject Furi to Day’s inappropriateness so soon. Syn wasn’t necessarily afraid of being with a man; he just wasn’t the type to make his personal life public. Or am I scared? Fuck. Syn didn’t think Furi would go for keeping them a secret. The man had made that quite clear when they were in the alley. Syn gripped the steering wheel and willed his foot to press the accelerator. Maybe … just maybe, there wouldn’t be anyone familiar there. Syn drove under the speed limit and felt Furious’ probing eyes on the side of his face. He tried to smile and keep his jaw from showing his nervous tick. Despite his efforts, they got there in what felt like record time. Furious got out and waited for Syn to slowly make his way toward the entrance. “Are you sure everything is alright?” Furious asked, annoyed. “I’m good. Really. Good. Perfect,” Syn said, mentally kicking himself for sounding like an idiot. Furi took his hand in his and it took every ounce of Syn's willpower not to pull his hand back. Of course he’d be into PDA. Furious pulled open the door and walked in as if he hadn’t a care in the world. It was almost nine p.m. and the though it wasn’t packed, there were quite a few people there. Syn tried not to look around, keeping his eyes on the back of Furious’ head as he led them to a booth; thankfully located in the back of the bar, where it was a little bit darker. Syn made sure to sit so he was facing the door while Furi sat opposite of him. Furi didn’t speak. He picked up one of the menus and started to look through it. “First time out with a man?” Syn's head snapped his up from hiding behind his menu. “Uh. Yeah, but ya know.” “No, I don’t know,” Furi answered quickly. “If you didn’t want to come out, why didn’t you just say so? You look like you're about to pull a disguise out of your coat. Or do you plan to just stay hidden behind your menu all fucking evening?” “Furious.” “Although that’s going to make eating really difficult. Should I be prepared for you to fake a stomach ache?” “Enough,” Syn barked, Furious’ dark eyes widening at his tone. “Look, cut me some slack alright? I am not new to dating men. I’m new to dating: period. Just about all of my adult life I’ve focused on being a cop, a damn good cop. I had little time for anything else in my life including dates. Dating takes time and patience, two things I didn't have. I was prepared to accept being alone the rest of my life until I saw you. I wanted you, and I was more than willing to take the time and effort to be with you. So forgive me if I don’t do everything exactly right on our first date.” “I’m not expecting you to. I haven’t dated in years myself. But one thing I’m not concerned about is being ashamed.” Furi looked Syn dead in the eye. Syn didn’t have a chance to respond, the waitress came to set a pail of peanuts on the table. Speaking in a cheerful voice: “What can I get you guys to drink?

He knew in that moment that if they chased this connection, there would be no writing it off as casual. No “getting it out of their systems” or “seeing where things went.” Ethan didn’t know the right words to ask for what he wanted. “I think I could be good at loving you,” he said, “if you let me.” Adrenaline raced under the surface of his skin, urgent and electric. “That’s a lot. It’s a big thing to say, and it’s a bigger thing to deliver. I promise that I know that, but I still want you to give me a shot.” “Ethan.” She leaned her cheek into his palm, kissed the thin skin of his wrist. Was she telling him to stop? Telling him good-bye? Her lips were just as hard to diagnose as her words. He took a step back toward the beach, reaching for her hand, wanting space to think, to get the words out, but needing to stay tethered to her at the same time. “Say the word, and we can forget this ever happened. I’ll pretend that I never thought about loving you.” Ethan searched for the seam of the horizon. “I’ll look at you less, and without so much longing.” He took a deep breath. Giving speeches was part of his job, but no amount of reading Torah had prepared him for this. “I won’t forget that we kissed. Sorry”—Ethan tried to grin a little—“but you have to cut me some slack on that one. Because, I mean, come on, you’re you.” She nodded, not guilty at all. “But I promise not to think about it too much. I’ll save it for those really dark moments, when I look at everything wrong with the world and I feel helpless. When every good thing I’ve ever done, ever seen or heard about, pales against the garish human capacity for hate and corruption.” He bent forward quickly and kissed her cheek, lingering more than he should but less than he wanted to before pulling back. “I’ll think about it then, if it’s okay,” he said gently, “just for a few seconds, so I can remember what it was like to feel transcendent.

So you want me to be mad at all of your friends?” Grady asked. “No—I want to know why you’re so much harder on Keefe. Now that you know what he’s been through . . . why won’t you cut him some slack?” Grady let out a sigh that seemed to drain all the air from his body. “Okay, if you want to have this conversation, I guess we can.” “What conversation?” Sophie asked. Grady raised an eyebrow. “About boys.

So anyway, we took our seats, and I can’t remember how far we’d got through the meal when we became aware of a kerfuffle at the door and turned to see that His Royal Highness Sir Richard Branson was arriving. And he was very, very drunk. Now, by this time we’d already had our fill of Sir Richard, because earlier in the day he’d arrived at the circuit with all the pomp and ceremony of a returning hero. With a bevy of flag-bearing dolly birds in his wake, he’d marched up and down the paddock, waving, grinning and giving the thumbs up to his adoring public, who were, in fact, wondering what he was doing there in the first place. The reason, of course, was that he had a couple of stickers on our car. A million bucks’ worth of sponsorship, which is a lot of money but in F1 sponsorship terms, chicken feed. And yet he was behaving as though he had bank-rolled the whole thing. I can’t say he’d won a lot of admirers with that stunt, but at the end of the day he’s national treasure Sir Richard Branson, famous publicity seeker, so you cut him some slack. It’d be like hating a dog for barking at the telly. They can’t help it. It’s just what they do. What he did in the restaurant was less excusable. However, before I go on, it’s only right and proper for me to point out that he apologised for what happened that night, and even said that he gave up drinking for months afterwards. Not only that, but the press had a field day at the time and no Branson blush was spared. With all that penance paid you might think that he’s done his time and by rights I should leave out this story.

We live in a society in which mediocrity is the norm. Many people do as little as they can to get by. They don’t take pride in their work or in who they are. If somebody is watching, they may perform one way, but when nobody is watching they’ll cut corners and take the easy way out. If you are not careful, you can be pulled into this same mentality where you think it’s okay to show up late to work, to look less than your best, or to give less than your best. But God doesn’t bless mediocrity. God blesses excellence. I have observed that the fifth undeniable quality of a winner is a commitment to excellence. When you have a spirit of excellence, you do your best whether anyone is watching or not. You go the extra mile. You do more than you have to. Other people may complain about their jobs. They may go around looking sloppy and cutting corners. Don’t sink to that level. Everyone else may be slacking off at work, compromising in school, letting their lawns go, but here’s the key: You are not everyone else. You are a cut above. You are called to excellence. God wants you to set the highest standard. You should be the model employee for your company. Your boss and your supervisors should be able to say to the new hires, “Watch him. Learn from her. Pick up the same habits. Develop the same skills. This person is the cream of the crop, always on time, great attitude, doing more than what is required.” When you have an excellent spirit like that, you will not only see promotion and increase, but you are honoring God. Some people think, “Let me go to church to honor God. Let me read my Bible to honor God.” And yes, that’s true, but it honors God just as much to get to work on time. It honors God to be productive. It honors God to look good each day. When you are excellent, your life gives praise to God. That’s one of the best witnesses you can have. Some people will never go to church. They never listen to a sermon. They’re not reading the Bible. Instead, they’re reading your life. They’re watching how you live. Now, don’t be sloppy. When you leave the house, whether you’re wearing shorts or a three-piece suit, make sure you look the best you possibly can. You’re representing the almighty God. When you go to work, don’t slack off, and don’t give a halfhearted effort. Give it your all. Do your job to the best of your ability. You should be so full of excellence that other people want what you have. When you’re a person of excellence, you do more than necessary. You don’t just meet the minimum requirements; you go the extra mile. That phrase comes from the Bible. Jesus said it in Matthew 5:41--“If a soldier demands you carry his gear one mile, carry it two miles.” In those days Roman soldiers were permitted by law to require someone else to carry their armor.

I unbuttoned the top of my shirt as I looked at the Tongue & Buckle. I wasn’t used to button-up shirts. I only owned two. The one I had on was new, a gift from my sister. Just thinking about her made my fingers worry nervously at the next button. The shirt was black, short-sleeved with tiny little skulls on the pocket. On the back, a Day of the Dead style Virgin Mary. Haley has a wicked sense of humor.   James didn’t insist on much, but he did insist on dressing up for meetings. Ridiculous, since one of the members had a hard time wearing pants. Wait, what was I thinking? James insisted on tons of things. I undid another button.   “You’re one away from a nice seventies look.” Sean put his feet up on the dash.   “I’d need chest hair for that. And gold chains.”   “True.” He leaned farther back into the passenger seat, if that was even possible. Sean, at least, never bitched about my Subaru. “You know, you’re going to have to go in eventually. And the longer you wait, the longer you’re in those clothes.”   I flicked a piece of lint off the black slacks James had dug up for me. He’d grunted at inspection. That grunt probably meant he’d be taking me shopping soon. Or it might have been directed at my Cons. You never knew. He needed to cut me some slack. My last job had been flipping burgers. You didn’t buy dress shoes for a job like that. With a job like that, you couldn’t even afford dress shoes. Or clothes. You couldn’t afford anything, really.   Sean looked over at the pub. “What did Groucho Marx say about being aware of any job that requires new clothes?”   “The quote is that we should ‘beware of all enterprises that require new clothes,’ and it’s Thoreau, not Groucho Marx.”   “Oooh, listen to you. ‘It’s Thoreau.’ Well, we didn’t all go to college for a quarter.”   “I went for a year, not a quarter, and shut up.

Didn’t you create it?” “Cut me some slack, I did it in my sleep!” I must have, because there was absolutely NO reason why I wanted a giant blowup duck in my room. Or outside my room. Read that as anywhere, okay?