Deep Rant Quotes

But she was too deep into her rant to stop now.

He kissed me like I was the empire he was sworn to protect and would die a thousand deaths to keep secure. He kissed me like I was a woman with a deep dark wildness that needed to be fed and he knew just how to do it. He kissed me like he was dying and this was the last kiss he would ever taste. Then his kiss changed and his tongue was velvet and silk as he kissed me like I was fine bone china that needed exacting care and gentleness. Then the storm built in both of us and I ground myself against him, and he was searching with his kiss and his hands sliding down to my ass for the part of me that was a savage animal and so was he and we were going to forget the world and “become two primal, uncomplicated beasts fucking as if the universe depended on our passion to fuel it. And I was pretty sure we could. I felt something building in me, a hunger that was exhilarated to be alive and knew it could come out and play as hard as it wanted, because I could never break this man. Not even with all my superpowers. I could dump every bit of myself on him and never have to worry about giving him a heart attack or breaking a bone or giving him a black eye by accident. He could handle anything. My high temper, my need for adventure and stimulation, my intellect, rages, and rants, my sheer physical strength, even the darkness of my shadow-self. He was a broad-shouldered beast. He was hard and capable and permanent and had an immortal heart. A frenzy of lust exploded inside me and I met the savagery of his kiss with all the savagery in my soul, and there is one fuck of a lot of it.

Every time I visit, he sends me off to the Chicken Ranch to fetch dinner. Deep fried chicken, greasy potatoes, BBQ sauce. I can feel my arteries clogging just thinking about

If the universe was a cold mechanism, if life was a journey from one empty blackness to another, he could not rant at God, because to do so was no more effective than screaming for help in the vacuum of deep space where sound could not travel, or like trying to draw breath underwater.

And he made this all too rare journey with hard work and focus on his craft, any anger or disenchantment found not in a Twitter rant but in subtle and well-considered arguments in beautifully written prose, in deep work that allows us to enter into the minds of those often written out of history.

What? Am I to be a listener only all my days? Am I never to get my word in—I that have been so often bored by the Theseid of the ranting Cordus? Shall this one have spouted to me his comedies, and that one his love ditties, and I be unavenged? Shall I have no revenge on one who has taken up the whole day with an interminable Telephus or with an Orestes which, after filling the margin at the top of the roll and the back as well, hasn't even yet come to an end? No one knows his own house so well as I know the groves of Mars, and the cave of Vulcan near the cliffs of Aeolus. What the winds are brewing; whose souls Aeacus has on the rack; from what country another worthy is carrying off that stolen golden fleece; how big are the ash trees which Monychus hurls as missiles: these are the themes with which Fronto's plane trees and marble halls are for ever ringing until the pillars quiver and quake under the continual recitations; such is the kind of stuff you may look for from every poet, greatest or least. Well, I too have slipped my hand from under the cane; I too have counselled Sulla to retire from public life and take a deep sleep; it is a foolish clemency when you jostle against poets at every corner, to spare paper that will be wasted anyhow. But if you can give me time, and will listen quietly to reason, I will tell you why I prefer to run in the same course over which Lucilius, the great nursling of Aurunca drove his horses.

To instruct us in candid honesty, God gave us the book of Psalms — a worship manual, full of ranting, raving, doubts, fears, resentments, and deep passions combined with thanksgiving, praise, and statements of faith. Every possible emotion is catalogued in the Psalms. When you read the emotional confessions of David and others, realize this is how God wants you to worship him — holding back nothing of what you feel. You can pray like David: “I pour out my complaints before him and tell him all my troubles. For I am overwhelmed.” 6

it was Lily this and Lily that, they were proud of having a witch in the family!” She stopped to draw a deep breath and then went ranting on. It seemed she had been wanting to say all this for years.

It is a crisis caused by culture and character, and a deep change in personal consciousness is needed. Your fundamental attitudes toward the earth have become twisted. You have made only brutal contact with Nature; you cannot comprehend its grace. You must change. Have few desires and simple pleasures. Honor nonhuman life. Control yourself, become more authentic. Live lightly upon the earth and treat it with respect. Redefine the word progress and dismiss the managers and masters. Grow inwardly and with knowledge become truly wiser. Think differently, behave differently

Former secretary of defense James Mattis told colleagues he would often get late-night calls from Trump, in which the president fulminated about an issue, often threatening to carry out wildly irresponsible actions. These included, according to a source close to Mattis, the belief that we should immediately attack North Korea (during the early days of his intemperate Twitter campaign against that country). In each of these instances, the cerebral, seasoned Mattis would adopt what became an approach emulated by many in Trump’s cabinet. He would hear out the president’s late-night rant and then, to defuse the issue, promise to think about it and ask to meet the next day to discuss it. Often by then Trump’s “temperature had gone down a few degrees,” said one very senior Trump Pentagon official. “Or at least you could invite other people into the room—the calls late at night were often one on one—and ideally some of them were more rational and would help talk the president off the ledge.

There was no point in saying it again. Either he believed me, and--I swallowed painfully--I’d given him no particular reason to, or he didn’t. Begging, pleading, arguing, ranting--none of them would make any difference, except to make a horrible situation worse. I should have made amends from the beginning, and now it was too late. He took a deep breath. I couldn’t breathe, I just stared at him, waiting, feeling sweat trickle beneath my already soggy clothing. Then he smiled a little. “Brace up. We’re not about to embark on a duel to the death over the dishes.” He paused, then said lightly, “Though most of our encounters until very recently have been unenviable exchanges, you have never lied to me. Eat. We’ll leave before the next time-change, and part ways at the crossroads.” No “You’ve never lied before.” No “If I can trust you.’” No warnings or hedgings. He took all the responsibility--and the risk--himself. I didn’t know why, and to thank him for believing me would just embarrass us both. So I said nothing, but my eyes prickled. I looked down at my lap and busied myself with smoothing out my mud-gritty, wet gloves.

The Familiar Squatter by Stewart Stafford Stranger at a ranting roundabout, Changeling deep in a cranial fog, An infant brooked with abandon, The frail bitterness fumed within. Another dawn, the lid loosens more, Recognition dims, pleading for hints, Let me see my reflection in full now, Squatter with a thousand-yard stare. A planet downsized to an asteroid belt, Leave, and I surrender to disintegrate, Core melts inside this atrophying shell, Beyond repair, a journey of light ahead. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.

He ranted at me while I put out the next course: a dish of boiled pigeons enveloped in a blancmange, the best I had ever made, with pulverized chicken, rose water, almonds, sugar, capon broth, ginger, verjuice and cinnamon. I had them placed in a deep dish, poured on the blancmange and scattered the snow-white surface with a thick covering of poppy seeds until the silver dish seemed to hold nothing but tiny black grains. Over this I arranged stars cut out of fine silver foil. There was a breast of veal, stuffed with cheese, eggs, saffron, herbs and raisins, upon which I scattered the darkest rose petals I could find at the flower market. There was a soup of black cabbage; boiled calves' feet with a sauce of figs and black pepper; and boiled ducks with more sliced black truffle.

Fear runs deep throughout the Agency and inhabits every fiber of its soul. I started to see and sense that the first time I passed through the door. I saw it in the type of people they recruited, and the ideas that were drilled in our heads. It created a culture of risk aversion, which proved to be a huge impediment in the field. It doesn’t help that the Agency has become a media kick toy. One day you’ll see some so-called expert calling us inhumane torturers on CNN, and the next some congressman who can’t find Afghanistan on a map ranting about how we are incompetent. Conversely, conspiracy theorists worldwide talk about us as though we have omnipotent power. We’re blamed for constantly screwing up, and for planning and carrying out the most complex and nefarious plots imaginable. It makes everyone inside defensive.

The chance of her name being drawn is very slim compared to those of us who live in the Seam. Not impossible, but slim. And even though the rules were set up by the Capitol, not the districts, certainly not Madge’s family, it’s hard not to resent those who don’t have to sign up for tesserae. Gale knows his anger at Madge is misdirected. On other days, deep in the woods, I’ve listened to him rant about how the tesserae are just another tool to cause misery in our district. A way to plant hatred between the starving workers of the Seam and those who can generally count on supper and thereby ensure we will never trust one another. “It’s to the Capitol’s advantage to have us divided among ourselves,” he might say if there were no ears to hear but mine. If it wasn’t reaping day.

Deep in the heart of any rant there stirs a passion. And if that passion were to shed the bane of lesser things, and if it were to submit its fullest energies to the rule of principled ethics, it could empower a cause so impassioned that it would supplant the energy of a thousand rants.

As a tech geek, I'm proud to be on the bleeding edge. So when I stored my Bitcoin in a "quantum-resistant" wallet, I was sure I was invincible, a Nostradamus of the modern age predicting the coming quantum computing apocalypse. "Hack-proof," the website had promised. "A fortress against the future." And then irony struck. A bug in the firmware shut me out altogether. No access. No backups. Only a chilly, machine-like error message mocking me like a bad guy in a sci-fi flick: "Invalid Signature. Please Reset." Reset? That would mean erasing my $860,000 in Bitcoin. Not exactly a pleasant choice. Furious, I did what any geek does when something is not right, I tweeted about it. My rant at the irony of a quantum-proof wallet crashing due to a widespread bug went viral. That is when a DM appeared. Digital Tech Guard Recovery's CTO had seen my tweet. "Let's fix this," he typed. Now, I’ve dealt with tech support before, but this was something else. Within hours, their engineers were deep in my wallet’s firmware, analyzing the cryptographic flaw. They approached the problem like time travelers fixing a paradox, reverse-engineering the bug to develop a workaround. It was a challenge. The wallet's special "quantum security" had locked it up so tightly that debugging tools couldn't even access it. But these guys were not your average IT support personnel; they were crypto Digitals. For ten days, I monitored their progress like a scientist awaiting a space probe signal. Finally, the breakthrough: a hacked firmware update, specifically tailored for my wallet model. With cautious steps, I executed their recovery protocol, and voilà, my money was restored. But they didn't leave it at that. Digital Tech Guard Recovery not only restored my Bitcoin but moved it to an even more secure, battle-tested storage system. No more cutting-edge vulnerabilities. Just solid, proven cryptography. The irony? My Bitcoin is now safer than ever, not because it's quantum-resistant, but because of the individuals who came to my aid. Lesson that was learned: The future is unpredictable, but having the right experts on speed dial? That's real security. WhatsApp: +1 (443) 859 - 2886 Email @ digitaltechguard.com Telegram: digitaltechguardrecovery.com Website link: digitaltechguard.com