Cute Initiative Quotes

The scene is reputed to be acrawl with adorably amoral bunnies to whom sex is a pleasant social favor. The new culture. And they are indeed present and available, in exhausting quantity but there is a curious tastelessness about them. A woman who does not guard and treasure herself cannot be of very much value to anyone else. They become a pretty little convenience, like a guest towel. And the cute little things they say, and their dainty little squeals of pleasure and release are as contrived as the embroidered initials on the guest towels. Only a women of pride, complexity and emotional tension is genuinely worth the act of love.

And then there was the illogical art of female friendship itself, the way it seemed to demand an ability to both keep and reveal secrets using precise timing. Whenever she moved to a new town, girls would take her aside at Sunday school and breathlessly confide their crushes on certain boys. She listened to these confessions, faithfully promising she would never tell. And she didn’t. Which was all wrong because it turned out she was supposed to tell. Her job as confidante was to break that confidence by telling Boy X that Girl Y thought he was cute, thus initiating a chain reaction of interest between the two parties. “Why don’t you just tell him yourself?” she’d say to these would-be friends. “He’s right there.” The girls would draw back in horror.

Once people believed her careful documentation, there was an easy answer—since babies are cute and inhibit aggression, something pathological must be happening. Maybe the Abu langur population density was too high and everyone was starving, or male aggression was overflowing, or infanticidal males were zombies. Something certifiably abnormal. Hrdy eliminated these explanations and showed a telling pattern to the infanticide. Female langurs live in groups with a single resident breeding male. Elsewhere are all-male groups that intermittently drive out the resident male; after infighting, one male then drives out the rest. Here’s his new domain, consisting of females with the babies of the previous male. And crucially, the average tenure of a breeding male (about twenty-seven months) is shorter than the average interbirth interval. No females are ovulating, because they’re nursing infants; thus this new stud will be booted out himself before any females wean their kids and resume ovulating. All for nothing, none of his genes passed on. What, logically, should he do? Kill the infants. This decreases the reproductive success of the previous male and, thanks to the females ceasing to nurse, they start ovulating. That’s the male perspective. What about the females? They’re also into maximizing copies of genes passed on. They fight the new male, protecting their infants. Females have also evolved the strategy of going into “pseudoestrus”—falsely appearing to be in heat. They mate with the male. And since males know squat about female langur biology, they fall for it—“Hey, I mated with her this morning and now she’s got an infant; I am one major stud.” They’ll often cease their infanticidal attacks. Despite initial skepticism, competitive infanticide has been documented in similar circumstances in 119 species, including lions, hippos, and chimps. A variant occurs in hamsters; because males are nomadic, any infant a male encounters is unlikely to be his, and thus he attempts to kill it (remember that rule about never putting a pet male hamster in a cage with babies?). Another version occurs among wild horses and gelada baboons; a new male harasses pregnant females into miscarrying. Or suppose you’re a pregnant mouse and a new, infanticidal male has arrived. Once you give birth, your infants will be killed, wasting all the energy of pregnancy. Logical response? Cut your losses with the “Bruce effect,” where pregnant females miscarry if they smell a new male. Thus competitive infanticide occurs in numerous species (including among female chimps, who sometimes kill infants of unrelated females). None of this makes sense outside of gene-based individual selection. Individual selection is shown with heartbreaking clarity by mountain gorillas, my favorite primate. They’re highly endangered, hanging on in pockets of high-altitude rain forest on the borders of Uganda, Rwanda, and the Democratic Republic of the Congo. There are only about a thousand gorillas left, because of habitat degradation, disease caught from nearby humans, poaching, and spasms of warfare rolling across those borders. And also because mountain gorillas practice competitive infanticide. Logical for an individual intent on maximizing the copies of his genes in the next generation, but simultaneously pushing these wondrous animals toward extinction. This isn’t behaving for the good of the species.

The world doesn’t care about one more African boy being forced to kill his parents as initiation into a tragic life as a child soldier. It doesn’t care about one more little African girl being kidnapped and forced into bondage as a sexual plaything for warlords four times her age. What the world cares about are cute baby mountain gorillas losing their jungle homes.

I’ve seen too many people spill their guts in group therapy believing that this will make them feel better, only to discover that revealing their deepest, darkest secrets invariably makes things a thousand times worse. Once you know that someone’s uncle molested her while her stepfather recorded it so they could sell the videos on the dark web, or that the cute guy you had a crush on when you were fourteen spent the first seven years of his life believing he was a girl because that’s how his mother dressed and treated him and at sixteen he was still struggling with gender issues, or that your new roommate’s parents tracked every morsel of food that passed her lips and if she gained so much as half a pound, she had to work out for hours in an exercise room that was more like a torture chamber, it’s hard to forget. I remind myself I want to do this. Trevor may have initiated this interview, but I am here by choice.

Inside the white screen of the mosquito net, bathed in the sunlight streaming through the windows, she felt as if she were in her own little oasis. Isolated from the rest of the world and its hostility. Although she could barely see past the bright, sunlit cloth, a movement in the shadows behind the net caught her eye. She frowned, straining her eyes to see what it was when, slowly, the net parted to reveal a gigantic figure. The light shone on his body and face to reveal what turned out to be a dark-eyed, broad-shouldered man. A strange feeling was born in Bianca’s chest. A mixture of panic and embarrassment left her body in the shape of a scream. With no clear thoughts in mind, she yelled for someone to help her, until it dawned on her that she was in an unfamiliar apartment, in a town where no one knew about her, and where there was no one who could help her. She was alone, and the pervert in front of her undoubtedly wanted to take advantage of the situation. Stopping just enough to breathe and continue screaming, she got on her knees in the bed and kept on yelling at him, who then seemed to fall off whatever disgusting trance he was, and took a surprised step back. His fingers, still tangled in the mosquito net, ripped the fabric from the ceiling, exposing her further. Bianca knew she was on her own. She could not count on anyone else to save her. When that realization hit, an unknown instinct made its way inside her and all the accumulated frustration caused by the situation with the paparazzi, the betrayal of her husband and losing her company concentrated inside her like a laser to focus on a single aim: the man in front of her. Feeling powerful, she grabbed the sheet tight around her with one arm to cover the front of her body, set one foot on the ground, and grabbed the closest thing to her: the purse. Her screams, which initially were meant to ask for help, transformed into a sound of pure rage. Without taking her eyes off him, Bianca reached into her bag and threw everything she found inside it: a phone, an agenda, a bottle of water, a lipstick, a tissue, the box of condoms, a book. Even a small toiletry bag. When the bag was empty, she used it as a projectile too.

Somebody told me once that it only takes a few minutes to know if you like someone. That our initial impression is usually the right one. I liked her.

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Who are we taking?” Ed straightens, catching the cork in his palm. “Why can’t we all go together?” “Because it’s not junior prom,” Chris says. “We can’t just go solo?” “I mean, you could,” Chris says, “but this is gonna be a big deal with dancing and coupley stuff. Go solo and be the loner, go in a group and we’re the table of dudes—and Mills—sitting there awkwardly. We should get dates.” Reid rolls his dice and begins counting out his turn. “I call Millie.” “You call me?” “Whoa, whoa.” Derailed from his initial argument, Chris turns to Reid with a frown. “If we’re just going to pair up, why’d you pick her?” Reid shrugs and gives a vague nod in my direction. “She looks better in a ball gown.” Ed seems genuinely insulted. “You have obviously never seen me in one.” “I took you to the Deans’ Banquet last year,” Chris reminds Reid. “We had an awesome time.” His turn completed, Reid drops the dice onto the center of the board and picks up his drink. “We did. I’m just being fair and going with someone else this time.” Ed smacks Chris’s shoulder. “I’m more Reid’s type. Remember that cute bartender he liked? The one with the curly hair?” He makes a show of pointing to his head and the mass of auburn curls there. “Tell me we wouldn’t look great together.” “I can beat that.” Alex brings up a foot to rest on the table and rolls up the hem of his jeans, flexing his calf muscle. “Reid is a leg man. Just look at these stems. I could spin you all around that dance floor.” Reid watches each of them, bemused. “I mean, technically speaking, Millie is my type. Being female and whatnot.” “Is it weird to anyone that this roomful of straight men is fighting over Reid and not me?” I ask. Chris, Alex, and Ed seem to give this fair consideration before answering “No” in unison. I lift my glass of wine and take a deep swallow. “Okay, then.” Finally, Reid stands, carrying his empty glass into the kitchen. “Millie, you need anything?” “Other than tips on how to develop an alluring female presence?” I ask. “I’m good. Thanks.

Our early training in the alphabet is mainly about submitting for the first time to an arbitrary discipline. The implacable order of letters will not be rearranged to please the child; no cute pleas or frightening howls will change it. Memorizing the order of the letters is an induction into the child’s inherited culture, a set of rules that initially appear equally arbitrary, but which make human society possible.

It used to be a place of refuge,' he said. 'Now, it's become a place of nightmares. But it can only stay that way if you let it.' 'If I let it? How do I change the fact that Rylan died out there?' 'You don't.' I stared up at him. 'I'm not following where you're going with this.' He stepped closer, dipping his chin. 'You can't change what happened in there. Just like you can't change the fact that the courtyard ued to give you peace. You just replace your last memory- a bad one- with a new one- a good one- and you keep doing that until the initial one no longer outweighs the replacement.' I opened my mouth, but then I really thought about what he'd said. My gaze travelled to the darkness beyond the door. What he's said actually made sense. 'You make it sound so easy.' 'It's not. It's hard and uncomfortable, but it works.' He extended his bare hand, and I looked down, staring at it as if a dangerous animal rested in his palm- a fluffy, cute one that I wanted to pet. 'And you won't be alone. I'll be there with you, and not just watching over you.

These are the playmate years, and they are demonstrably fraudulent. The scene is reputed to be acrawl with adorably amoral bunnies to whom sex is a pleasant social favor. The new culture. And they are indeed present and available, in exhausting quantity, but there is a curious tastelessness about them. A woman who does not guard and treasure herself cannot be of very much value to anyone else. They become a pretty little convenience, like a guest towel. And the cute little things they say, and their dainty little squeals of pleasure and release are as contrived as the embroidered initials on the guest towels. Only a woman of pride, complexity and emotional tension is genuinely worth the act of love, and there are only two ways to get yourself one of them. Either you lie, and stain the relationship with your own sense of guile, or you accept the involvement, the emotional responsibility, the permanence she must by nature crave. I love you can be said only two ways.