Dirty Vans Quotes

I tried to convince the kids at the bus stop to climb up with me, even a little ways, but all of them said they didn't want to get dirty. Turn down a chance to feel magic for fear of a little dirt? I couldn't believe it.

I’m trying to be your dirty, kinky rebound from the boring, drab Van Helsing. I’m not trying to be your gay best friend. My answer is that he’s not worth it, but I am,” he says with a completely serious expression.

Jesper sniffed. “I thought it had a certain rustic elegance.” “No,” said Wylan. “He hasn’t been trained. He’s stubborn that way.” “Independent,” corrected Jesper. “Pigheaded.” “But stylish.” Kaz rapped his cane on the floor. “And now you know why I don’t visit more often.” Jesper folded his arms. “No one asked you to visit more often. And I don’t remember issuing an invitation for lunch.” “I have a job that requires both of your skill sets.” “Kaz,” Wylan said, carefully collecting some of the half-full glasses around the room. “We’d prefer not to do anything illegal.” “That’s not strictly true,” said Jesper. “Wylan would prefer it, and I want to keep Wylan happy.” He paused, unable to hide his interest. “Is it illegal?” “Highly,” said Kaz. “But the pay is excellent,” offered Nikolai. “We don’t need money,” said Wylan. “Isn’t it glorious?” Jesper sighed happily. Kaz smoothed a gloved hand over his lapel, looking at no one. “It’s for Inej.” Wylan set down the dirty glasses. “Why didn’t you say so? What do you need?

Talking about painful events doesn’t necessarily establish community – often quite the contrary. Families and organizations may reject members who air the dirty laundry; friends and family can lost patience with people who get stuck in their grief or hurt. This is one reason why trauma victims often withdraw and why their stories become rote narratives, edited into a form least likely to provoke rejection.

Dear brother, I feel what Pa and Ma instinctively think about me (I don’t say reasonably). There’s a similar reluctance about taking me into the house as there would be about having a large, shaggy dog in the house. He’ll come into the room with wet paws — and then, he’s so shaggy. He’ll get in everyone’s way. And he barks so loudly. In short — it’s a dirty animal. Very well — but the animal has a human history and, although it’s a dog, a human soul, and one with finer feelings at that, able to feel what people think about him, which an ordinary dog can’t do. And I, admitting that I am a sort of dog, accept them as they are. Vincent van Gogh to his brother Theo, Nuenen, 15 December 1883

I am shocked to find that some people think a 2 star 'I liked it' rating is a bad rating. What? I liked it. I LIKED it! That means I read the whole thing, to the last page, in spite of my life raining comets on me. It's a good book that survives the reading process with me. If a book is so-so, it ends up under the bed somewhere, or maybe under a stinky judo bag in the back of the van. So a 2 star from me means,yes, I liked the book, and I'd loan it to a friend and it went everywhere in my jacket pocket or purse until I finished it. A 3 star means that I've ignored friends to finish it and my sink is full of dirty dishes. A 4 star means I'm probably in trouble with my editor for missing a deadline because I was reading this book. But I want you to know . . . I don't finish books I don't like. There's too many good ones out there waiting to be found. Robin Hobb, author

A dirty text a day keeps the doc away." "You sure you're a virgin?" "I'm a virgin, not a priest." He rolled his eyes then went to the pantry to grab a few more marshmallows.

At seven o'clock, Noah pulled up in front of Mack's house in a dirty white van that couldn't have been more obvious in its nondescript creepiness if he'd spray painted "Free Puppies" on the side.

Natalie,” he murmurs, pulling my chin by his fingers back toward him. “I really just want to talk to you, so please don’t force me to play dirty because I have time to kill between gigs, and if you don’t get,” he bites his lip, “your perfect ass in my van, I’m going to bend you over Monday morning and bite it right in front of your daddy. Bet.

Manners flew out the window--along with tables, chairs, lamps and anything else that was of little obvious use and had the misfortune not to be nailed down.

Indeed, sometimes, if he was sufficiently shitfaced, Edward would even refer to me as Daddy.

Pull yourself together. Where are you right now?” “I’m in the van on the side of the road,” I said. “Are you crazy? Stick to the plan. Drive. Now.

I love you." He finally said. "Love me back?" "You're easy to love." I whispered on the cusp of another wave of pleasure. "You have it.

Dirty. Dead mice and all. And they call it a restaurant. Bah.” “You are still young,” Grijpstra said. “The world is held together by dirt. Don’t think of it or you’ll never eat again.

Olivia couldn't keep her eyes off Colin. All I wanted to do was throw myself around him and shout at her, "Yeah, that's right! This ones taken. You even sneak to him, I'll break your nose!

I took a deep breath and counted to seven so I wouldn’t rip his head off. Seven was a safe number, three wasn’t long enough, and ten just made people think you were senile and having a mild stroke.

Now, granted, Howard doesn't fit the conventional psychological profile of a rebounder - that of the no-nonsense, utilitarian "dirty work" specialist. Rather, this is a guy who sings Beyoncé at the free throw line, who quotes not Scarface but Finding Nemo, whose idea of humor is ordering 10 pizzas to be delivered to another player's hotel room, or knocking on teammates' doors and sprinting off down the hall, giggling. He goofs around during practice, during press conferences and during team shootarounds, for which Magic coach Stan Van Gundy has had to institute a no-flatulence rule because, as teammate Rashard Lewis says, "Dwight really likes to cut the cheese.

Will gritted his teeth as Will Junior and Nellie continued their debate. He loved his son, but he found him--and many members of his generation--ruthless in their pursuit of money and standing and harsh toward the less fortunate. He had reminded him on many occasions that both the McClanes and their mother's family--the Van der leydens--had at one time been immigrants. As had members of all the city's wealthy families. But Will's lectures made no difference to his son. He was an American. And those getting off the boat at Castle Garden were not. Italian, Irish, Chinese, Polish--nationality made no difference. They were lazy, stupid, and dirty. Their numbers spelled ruin for the country.

Rounding a bend, they almost ran into a flock of sheep, tended by a boy in a coat that was far too big for him and belted at the waist with a twist of yellow binder twine. Reck stopped the van and the two men sat stranded amid a moving sea of dirty gray fleece. Strafford idly studied the milling animals, admiring their long aristocratic heads and the neat little hoofs, like carved nuggets of coal, on which they trotted so daintily. He was struck too by their protuberant and intelligent-seeming shiny black eyes, expressive of stoical resignation tinged with the incurable shame of their plight, avatars of an ancient race, being herded ignominiously along a country road by a snot-nosed brat with a stick.

I made a gagging motion, shifted on my feet, then texted again. Me: Seriously! Trapped! And your dick can't be the sick of that python on your arm because that would mean you actually impale women on a daily basis! Colin: Just call me Dracula I frowned. Colin: Get it? The Impaler? Me: Look at that, Basement Dweller can joke. He's got jokes. Meanwhile I'm going to starve to death in this pantry! Colin: You mean, around all that food?

He was the one, however, with whom no one wanted his or her picture taken, the one to whom no one wanted to introduce his son or daughter. Louis and Gage knew him; they had met him and faced him down in New England, some time ago. He was waiting to choke you on a marble, to smother you with a dry-cleaning bag, to sizzle you into eternity with a fast and lethal boggie of electricity—Available at Your Nearest Switchplate or Vacant Light Socket Right Now. There was death in a quarter bag of peanuts, an aspirated piece of steak, the next pack of cigarettes. He was around all the time, he monitored all the checkpoints between the mortal and the eternal. Dirty needles, poison beetles, downed live wires, forest fires. Whirling roller skates that shot nurdy little kids into busy intersections. When you got into the bathtub to take a shower, Oz got right in there too—Shower with a Friend. When you got on an airplane, Oz took your boarding pass. He was in the water you drank, the food you ate. Who’s out there? you howled into the dark when you were frightened and all alone, and it was his answer that came back: Don’t be afraid, it’s just me. Hi, howaya? You got cancer of the bowel, what a bummer, so solly, Cholly! Septicemia! Leukemia! Atherosclerosis! Coronary thrombosis! Encephalitis! Osteomyelitis! Hey-ho, let’s go! Junkie in a doorway with a knife. Phone call in the middle of the night. Blood cooking in battery acid on some exit ramp in North Carolina. Big handfuls of pills, munch em up. That peculiar blue cast of the fingernails following asphyxiation—in its final grim struggle to survive the brain takes all the oxygen that is left, even that in those living cells under the nails. Hi, folks, my name’s Oz the Gweat and Tewwible, but you can call me Oz if you want—hell, we’re old friends by now. Just stopped by to whop you with a little congestive heart failure or a cranial blood clot or something; can’t stay, got to see a woman about a breach birth, then I’ve got a little smoke-inhalation job to do in Omaha. And that thin voice is crying, “I love you, Tigger! I love you! I believe in you, Tigger! I will always love you and believe in you, and I will stay young, and the only Oz to ever live in my heart will be that gentle faker from Nebraska! I love you . . .” We cruise . . . my son and I . . . because the essence of it isn’t war or sex but only that sickening, noble, hopeless battle against Oz the Gweat and Tewwible. He and I, in our white van under this bright Florida sky, we cruise. And the red flasher is hooded, but it is there if we need it . . . and none need know but us because the soil of a man’s heart is stonier; a man grows what he can . . . and tends it.

My own adventures are confined chiefly to making swift progress toward growing into a little old man - you know, with wrinkles, a tough beard and a number of false teeth, and so on. But what does all that matter? I have a dirty and difficult trade - painting, and if I were not as I am, I should not paint; but being as I am, I often work with pleasure and can visualize the vague possibility of one day doing paintings with some youth and freshness in them, even though my own youth is one of the things I have lost.

Nadežda Mandel’štam si chiedeva continuamente se aveva fatto capire al marito con sufficiente chiarezza quanto lo amava e quanto lui fosse importante per lei. «Non so se sei vivo, ma da quel giorno ho perso ogni tua traccia», scrisse in chiusura delle sue memorie. «Non so dove sei. Se mi senti. Se sai quanto ti amo. Non ho fatto in tempo a dirti quanto ti amo. E non so dirlo nemmeno adesso. Dico solo: per te, per te… Sei sempre con me, e io, selvaggia e cattiva, io che non ho mai saputo piangere, adesso piango, piango, piango.»

Even so, little separation between the soteriological and the humanitarian motifs was in evidence during the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. The missionaries persisted in the pre-Enlightenment tradition of the indissoluble unity of “evangelization” and “humanization” (cf van der Linde 1973), of “service to the soul” and “service to the body” (Nergaard 1988:34–40), of proclaiming the gospel and spreading a “beneficent civilization” (Rennstich 1982a, 1982b). For Blumhardt of the Basel Mission this clearly included “reparation for injustice committed by Europeans, so that to some extent the thousand bleeding wounds could be healed which were caused by the Europeans since centuries through their most dirty greediness and most cruel deceitfulness” (quoted by Rennstich 1982a:95; cf 1982b:546). And Henry Venn, famous General Secretary of the British CMS, urged missionaries to take their stand between the oppressor and the oppressed, between the tyranny of the system and the morally and physically threatened masses of the people to whom they went (cf Rennstich 1982b:545).

You can never trust the deceptive, manipulative and abusive financial solicitors/beggars of political funds of handsome putschists who commit defamation, calumny, polemics mongering, gossip-mongering, mob lynching, group bullying, cyber libel, threats, blackmail, digital aggression, character assassination, mudslinging and Machiavellian manipulators who habitually commit various crimes: forgery, fraud, libel, slander, identity theft, racketeering, and malversation of funds. ~ Angelica Hopes, an excerpt from Sfidatopia Book 2, Stronzata Trilogy Genre: Inspirational, political literary novel © Ana Angelica Abaya van Doorn

Wiser and more capable men than I shall ever be have put their findings before you, findings so rich and so full of anger, serenity, murder, healing, truth, and love that it seems incredible the world were not destroyed and fulfilled in the instant, but you are too much for them: the weak in courage are strong in cunning; and one by one, you have absorbed and have captured and dishonored, and have distilled of your deliverers the most ruinous of all your poisons; people hear Beethoven in concert halls, or over a bridge game, or to relax; Cézannes are hung on walls, reproduced, in natural wood frames; van Gogh is the man who cut off his ear and whose yellows became recently popular in window decoration; Swift loved individuals but hated the human race; Kafka is a fad; Blake is in the Modern Library; Freud is a Modern Library Giant; Dovschenko’s Frontier is disliked by those who demand that it fit the Eisenstein esthetic; nobody reads Joyce any more; Céline is a madman who has incurred the hearty dislike of Alfred Kazin, reviewer for the New York Herald Tribune book section, and is, moreover, a fascist; I hope I need not mention Jesus Christ of whom you have managed to make a dirty gentile. However

natural personality, or maybe he was simply capable of greater perspective than everyone else. Maybe he wasn’t quite as addled by drugs and alcohol. For whatever reason, Michael stayed on the sidelines as the rest of the band fought like a pack of starving wolves who have come across a carcass in the wilderness. Previous tours, especially in the first couple of years, had always featured a fair amount of ball-busting and the occasional argument that was required simply to clear the air. For the most part, though, we had a blast on the road. It was a nonstop party punctuated by spectacularly energetic concerts. There had been a lightness to it all, a sense of being part of something special, and of wanting to enjoy every minute. But now the levity was gone. Even though they spent hardly any time together offstage, the boys were at each other’s throats constantly, either directly or through a conduit—usually me. Two more quick stories, both involving Al. We were all sitting outside by the hotel pool one day. A guy named Mike had been flown in for a couple days to take care of the boys’ grooming needs. Mike was a hairdresser or stylist or whatever you want to call him. Point is, he was really good at his job, an artistic

When you have an honest heart, you do not get engaged nor get involved with any smear campaigns nor black propaganda! When you have an honest heart, you do not malign nor take advantage of generous people who helped and trusted you! When you have an honest heart, you do not shit on people whom you used and abused for three years! Do not fall into a political naïvety and become a victim or a doormat nor have your generosity and honest heart be used and abused by unscrupulous political movers, abusive, aggressive political harridans who scam gullible generous hearts by asking donations, funds, services, foods, urgent favours, and after using you and abusing your generosity, trust, and kindness; whereby these unscrupulous and deceptive political movers, abusive, aggressive political harridans intentionally and maliciously create forged screenshots of evidence convincing their audience or political groups that you are a mentally ill person, a brain-damaged person as they even brand you as "Sisang Baliw," or crazy Sisa, a threat, a risk, a danger, they maliciously and destructively red-tag your friends as communists, and they resort to calumny, libel and slander against you, to shame you, defame you, discredit you, blame you, hurt you, make you suffer for having known the truth of their deceptive global Operandi, and for something you didn’t do through their mob lynching, calumny, polemics mongering, forgery, and cyberbullying efforts. Their character assassination through libel and slander aims to ruin your integrity, persona, trustworthiness, and credibility with their destructive fabricated calumny, lies, identity theft, forged screenshots of polemics mongering, and framing up. Amidst all their forgery, fraud, libel and slander they committed: you have a right to defy and stop their habitual abuse without breaking the law and fight for your rights against any forms of aggression, public lynching, bullies, threats, blackmail, and their repetitive maltreatment or abuse, identity theft, forgery, deceptions fraud, scams, cyber libel, libel, and slander. When you defend human rights, you fight against corruption and injustice, help end impunity: be sure that you are not part of any misinformation, disinformation, smear campaigns and black propaganda. Do not serve, finance, or cater directly or indirectly for those dirty politicians. Those who are engaged in abusively dishonest ways do not serve to justify their end. Deceiving and scamming other people shall always be your lifetime self-inflicted karmic loss. Be a law-abiding citizen. Be respectful. Be honest. Be factual. Be truthful. You can be an effective human rights defender when you have clean and pure intentions, lawful and morally upright, and have an honest heart." ~ Angelica Hopes, an excerpt from Calunniatopia Book 1, Stronzata Trilogy Genre: inspirational, political, literary novel © 2021 Ana Angelica Abaya van Doorn

Why do most people write poems about nature? For the same reason that every community center is propped up with industrious, self painted landscapes: you have no need of any imagination to simply describe what is around you, and the amateur naturally thinks an idyllic picture is best, not the dirty city around him. What makes van de Waarsenburg special is that he crams a hundred idyllic scenes into a single poem, as if he does not trust a single boathouse would be poetic enough for the reader.

I said, "Just so the message is clear" - at this, he looked like I had slapped him in the face with a dirty dish towel - "I intend to prolong this ridiculous habit of living just long enough to examine the landscapes we traversed during our long and brutal exodus. After that, there is no knowing what I will do.

Mindig is jobban éreztem magam egyedül. Amikor az ember egyedül van, az egyetlen problémája önmaga. Jobb úgy. Mert elkerül a baj. Én rendes ember vagyok. Ezt tudtam magamról.

Can’t you go faster?” Ashley pleaded. “Any faster, and we’ll be the ones needing a rescue.” Etienne gripped the wheel even tighter. He hunched his shoulders and took another angry swipe at the windshield. Miranda leaned in close to his ear. “Don’t worry. Gage will be fine, too.” For just a brief instant, Etienne’s defenses seemed to crumble. For just a brief instant, she caught a glimpse of emotions--both panic and hope. And then, just as fast, his jaw set in a determined line, and he cast her a smooth, sidelong glance. “Is that you, smelling like an old cheeseburger?” Startled, she couldn’t help laughing. “That is not me--that is something, somewhere, in this disgustingly dirty truck of yours.” “No, I don’t think so. No, I definitely think it’s--Hey, that’s Aunt Jules’s van over there.” “Where?” Leaning across Miranda, Parker squinted out Etienne’s window. “Are you sure?” “As sure as I am that it’s stuck in the mud,” Etienne grumbled. “And as sure as I am that Gage is gonna be grounded for the rest of his life.

Lots of traffic heading into town. One dirty, smoke-belching van makes me so angry that if I’d been alongside I think I would have had a go at the driver. I’d rather see pollution wardens than parking wardens but I suppose there’s no money in pollution prevention.

Van Gogh’s paintbrush captured, like a Q-tip swabbing a germ-filled throat culture, a sample of the dirty darkness loose in the air at the end of 1888.

The whole place is now beginning to close down. At some of the booths the flares have been extinguished, and the occupants are busy packing up their wares and taking down their tents and wooden stalls. Huge vans have appeared upon the scene, and men in shirt sleeves are busily engaged in packing them. We accost a small dirty youth and ask him if the fair is moving. ‘We’ll be on the road in twa hours,’ he replies briefly. ‘What a life!’ ejaculates Tony. ‘Aye, it’s a fine life,’ echoes the boy. ‘Ye get seeing the wurrld in a fair.’ All mystery has departed from the fortune teller’s tent; it is merely a heap of dirty canvas. A large, fat woman with greasy black hair, and a red shawl pinned across her inadequately clad bosom, is dancing about with a flaming torch in her hand, directing operations in a shrill shrewish voice. ‘Guthrie’s sybil!’ says Tony sadly. ‘I’m afraid we’ve stayed too long at the party.’ ‘I think it is rather fun,’ I reply. ‘I like seeing things that I’m not meant to see

El pánico es un torbellino, Cobra vida en su cerebro como un remolino, ganando velocidad a medida que va en un embudo al resto del cuerpo. Vueltas y vueltas van, haciendo a tu corazón latir con fuerza. Vueltas y vueltas torciéndose, anudando y enfermando el estómago. Vueltas y vueltas, golpeando tus rodillas, debilitándolas antes de crear un pozo negro en los dedos de tus pies. Encojes tus dedos, tomas unas cuantas respiraciones profundas, y te agarras del anillo que mantiene tu vida de cuerda antes de que el pánico te pueda absorber.

I wear a dirty hat, can you imagine.

Never make friends with cheaters, liars, deceivers, agitators, saboteurs, traitors, evildoers, slanderers, backstabbers, scoundrels, dishonest collectors of funds with their tricksters wearing elegant clothes pretending like good samaritans, who use the donations collected for their partisan politics, political patronage, and for their frequent intercontinental travels. Don't accept friendship from unscrupulous political movers, fraudulent propagandists, dishonest consultants serving political candidates, slanderers and pedlars of disinformation, aggressive inciters of hate and divisiveness, scammers, swindlers, cons, manipulators serving failed putschists, the instrumental bitches and assholes of dirty politicians. They don't make true friends because they only use you for their self-interests and vileness. ~ Ana Angelica Abaya van Doorn writing as Angelica Hopes Sfidatopia Book 2, Solo la verità è bella Trilogy © Ana Angelica Abaya van Doorn

Life’s scary, Blaire. It’s not fair. Shit happens. You deal with it, you make choices, don’t sit on the bleachers because you’re afraid you’re going to strike out. Better to at least swing and miss than sit and let the game finish without you.

I shoved my feet into my Vans,

Panel vans were working vans. There were no windows behind the front seats, and the rear bay was a dirty metal box smelling of pesticide and grease. Angelo Buono and Kenneth Bianchi had used an identical van as a place to torture and murder their victims, and record their screams. Wander

Scientists were earnestly trying to elucidate the spontaneous generation of mice as late as the seventeenth century, when Jean Baptista van Helmont reported that “if one presses a dirty shirt into the opening of a vessel containing grains of wheat, the ferment from the dirty shirt does not modify the smell of the grain but gives rise to the transmutation of the wheat into mice after about twenty-one days.”11 He also had a recipe for creating scorpions by carving a hole into a brick, filling it with dried basil, and placing it in the full sun.

I am shocked to find that some people think a 2 star 'I liked it' rating is a bad rating. What? I liked it. I LIKED it! That means I read the whole thing, to the last page, in spite of my life raining comets on me. It's a good book that survives the reading process with me. If a book is so-so, it ends up under the bed somewhere, or maybe under a stinky judo bag in the back of the van. So a 2 star from me means,yes, I liked the book, and I'd loan it to a friend and it went everywhere in my jacket pocket or purse until I finished it. A 3 star means that I've ignored friends to finish it and my sink is full of dirty dishes. A 4 star means I'm probably in trouble with my editor for missing a deadline because I was reading this book. But I want you to know . . . I don't finish books I don't like. There's too many good ones out there waiting to be found.

We figured that if a promoter took the time to remove all the brown M&M’s from the bowl before putting them in our dressing room, it was far less likely he’d screwed up any of the other, really important stuff. It

There’s an old saying in the music business: We want the girls in the audience to want to be with the boys in the band, and we want the guys in the audience to wish they were in the band.

Unfortunately, Candace wasn't the one who'd stood out last night. And hell, did Thea stand out. I'd felt her potential before she'd even parked her van. She exhibited open fascination with Marcel's paintings, and the way she relished every bite on her plate made me remember a time when things could still be new and fascinating. And this wasn't even faerie food--- I wondered what expression she would make if that crossed her lips. She breathed life and pleasure with her every movement. Liveliness--- was that the nature of a fae from the Summer Court, or was that simply Thea?

Kleptocracy, corruption, injustice, dirty politics, unscrupulous political movers, patronage politics, destructive and corrupt political dynasties, and impunity have found perpetual happiness in the Pearl of the Orient Seas. There are so many endless questions: What have you done? What are you going to do? Will silence, apathy, vindictiveness, emotional abuse, verbal abuse, psychological abuse and economic abuse go on? Will you just go with the flow of kleptocracy, corruption, injustice and impunity? When will you ever genuinely decolonise your mind from colonial mentality? Will you live and work upholding truth and honesty as you continue to help strengthen the country's collective memory of various factual incidents in history without being politically biased? Are you one of those who committed revisionism, cancelling out, discrediting others, peddled disinformation, calumny, gossip-mongering, fear-mongering, destructive lies, group political narcissist bullying, harassing, blaming, gloating, provoking, sabotaging, intimidating, threatening, abusing others as you are more loyal to a political party than the truth? Will there be honest public servants and honest lawmakers? Because with honesty as a top living value, you can find effective solutions to many issues in society. Are you willing to help minimise, stop and eliminate corruption, violence, injustice and impunity? Are you going to be one of those honest voices for the voiceless without breaking the law? Are you going to help hold accountable those thieves, perpetrators, scammers, and corrupt members of society without breaking the law? I have so many nagging questions, but I shall always end it with these: Will you be honest in every deal? How hard is it to be truthful? Will you uphold the truth and justice? Do the fact and truth whisper to your conscience? Then, are you willing to honestly listen to it and move toward the right, lawful and humane actions? ~ Ana Angelica Abaya van Doorn writing as Angelica Hopes Onestopia Book 3, Solo la verità è bella Trilogy

The excessive greedy players of endless power play, corruption, megalomania, injustice, impunity, and kleptocracy continue to reign for how many succeeding decades? When will the country stop being corrupted by revisionism, kleptocratic political dynasties, dirty politics, Machiavellian manipulations, political patronage, destructive lies, and a lack of genuine collective memory of the past and the erosion of truth? This is a long life work-in-progress for honest public servants, marginalised sectors, and the concerned hard-working citizens with the right moral compass: How to effectively triumph against the oligarchs, kleptocrats, Machiavellian manipulators, megalomaniacs, and the unscrupulous benefactors of corruption, injustice and impunity? ~ Ana Angelica Abaya van Doorn writing as Angelica Hopes an excerpt from Onestopia Book 3, Solo la verità è bella Trilogy Genre: political, inspirationa, literary novel © 2022 Ana Angelica Abaya van Doorn

And my dirty little secret? I am always on the verge of drowning, no matter how hard I work to keep myself afloat. And the only way I know to stay afloat—to survive—is to find a savior.

Honourable Breeze - a behavioural haiku from the chapter, “Poetic Justice” Honourable Heart? You were spreading smear campaigns. Is that honesty? Honourable mind? You committed forgery. Your cyber libel. Honourable soul? You intentionally hurt, Con, scam, and slander. Honourable mouth? Your habitual offenses Fraud, lies, bullying. Dishonourable. Politicians’ instrument: Machiavellian. Justify your end? with your Machiavellian ways? Note: crime does not pay! Crowned thorny cactus, you pretend to be “yellow,” Ask funding from them. Thorny toxic lies, You discredit whom you scammed. Your: libel, slander. Manipulator, Fraud, bully, provocateur, Machiavellian! Politicians served: You’re a very good person. Thorny irony. People you slandered, Scammed, libeled, deceived, abused. Forgery you did. Your former victim, From twelve or ten years ago: said, “you’re a devil.” “Move away from her,” Your past victims had warned me. I thanked their warning. Warning was too late. Thorny, toxic harridan: you used and abused! Honourable Breeze? For people who benefit from your deceptions. Honourable Breeze? For dirty politicians, Donations and votes. Honourable Breeze? for needy politicians: delivered service. Delivered service? At the expense of others, you manipulate. Manipulations, your catch-me-if-you-can games, Your confidence games! Politicians’ smears, means won’t justify your end, Machiavellian bitch! ~ Angelica Hopes, an excerpt from Life Unfolds © 2021 Ana Angelica Abaya van Doorn

Als je een vrouw ziet lopen, als je haar rustig naar huis ziet wandelen, als je haar op straat voorbij ziet zweven. Als je haar broze botten wilt breken, en het wanhopige gesmeek wilt aanhoren, en het roze vlees wilt voelen kneuzen, en de bloedende, strakgespannen huid wil proeven. Als je haar werkelijk ziet en haar wilt. Bedenk je dan, Raak haar niet aan. Laat haar gewoon voorbijlopen. Leg niet je hand over haar mond en trek haar niet op de grond. Want in ontwetendheid, in onnadenkendheid, in je onopzettelijkheid, heb je misschien je zware hand op Bella gelegd. En zij is vannochtend wakker geworden met het besef dat ze er eindelijk genoeg van heeft.

Wat Bella wil. Wat Bella wil is wat ze niet kan krijgen. Wat zij wil is open ramen tijdens zomernachten. Lange strandwandelingen. Geen angst om met autopech langs de weg te staan. Geen vrees voor het donker. Geen schrik voor straatbende. Geen commentaar op straat. Geen vluchtige aanrakingen in de ondergrondse. Geen gestreel meer van hun ego's uit beduchtheid voor de vuist in het gezicht, de gebroken neus, het bloed en het snot die in haar mond lopen. Bella werd als vrij mens geboren en is nu aan alle kanten getekend. Usurpators hebben haar erfenis gestolen, en die moet ze terugeisen. 'Het is niet eerlijk,' zei ze. 'Dat weet ik.

It was you who built the foundation for enabling lying snitches to do their dirty work. That's why.

I’m trying to be your dirty, kinky rebound from the boring, drab Van Helsing. I’m not trying to be your gay best friend. My answer is that he’s not worth it, but I am

Turns out I was the lost prince and she saved me with glitter Vans and a sword crafted from love and selflessness.

Ever been arrested?" Bill leaned forward, his expression impossible to read. Yes, actually. But it wasn't my fault. "No, sir!" Was it Sir? Lord? Lady? I shouldn't have done the accent! Fantastic! He pulled out a small, black folder and an ink pad from the front pocket of his pants. "I'll just need your prints here and here, so we can do a background check. The questionnaire is pretty straight forward." I had a sudden vision of getting found out and my escape including dodging bullets and trees, while narrowly making it through a crack in the shrubs, only to get hit by a car. I started the slow process of inking my fingers and pressing them to the paper with Bill's help. They stuck, then came up. I was going to prison. That's where honesty got me! Prison!

Political winds change . . .' Signor Stronzo Troia indicated. Those “political winds” stir to feed their financially hungry pockets. Those “political winds” stir toward where they can extract or beg funds, and strongest political backings to serve their political agenda most especially even years before an upcoming election. Would you trust power player dishonest politicians who hide under a halo of magnetising advocacy but at the same time who cover up unscrupulous political movers, black propagandists, Machiavellian manipulators, digital aggressors, political bullies, smear campaigns, and finance smear campaigners through their global strings of unscrupulous, habitually abusive, financial political parasites? Follow their money trail and you will discover their endless dishonesty, and their hidden, darker true characters: unscrupulous, vindictive, destructive, invasive, intrusive, offensive, and habitually abusive, greedy power players, Machiavellian manipulators with impaired conscience. ~ Angelica Hopes, an excerpt from "Sfidatopia" Book 2, Stronzata Trilogy Genre: inspirational, political, literary novel © Ana Angelica Abaya van Doorn

Noel, I want you to see if you can get me paternity insurance,” he said not long after Edward’s troubles. “Paternity insurance? David, I don’t think there is such a thing.” “Well, there should be. Look into it. I need to protect my penis.

Tell her how much she means to you. Tell her you were with someone else before you met her—that’s very important—and unfortunately you contracted something. Be polite and discreet and very apologetic. Remember, she likes you. She doesn’t know you’re a whore.

By ’82 we were grossing a quarter of a million dollars every night in merchandise. Every . . . single . . . night.

Appearances to the contrary notwithstanding, most relationships do not end suddenly. This is true of friends, romantic partners, and business associates alike. When someone claims to be blindsided, it’s usually because they had their eyes closed.

the real Van Halen died with the departure of David. I say that as both a compliment and a condemnation, for David’s exit brought about the wreckage of a band that was at the height of its powers and popularity and could have dominated the music scene for another decade had common sense and reason prevailed.

After all, the band was being paid a relative pittance for their efforts: $750 per show, split four ways. Oh, and twenty-five dollars per diem to cover meals and other sundries. Think about that: each night when Van Halen went onstage, each band member earned approximately $187 to perform. Given

Talking about painful events doesn’t necessarily establish community—often quite the contrary. Families and organizations may reject members who air the dirty laundry; friends and family can lose patience with people who get stuck in their grief or hurt. This is one reason why trauma victims often withdraw and why their stories become rote narratives, edited into a form least likely to provoke rejection.

I dropped the bomb. "I'm a PI." Colin burst out laughing and when my silence said it all, he choked out. "Oh! Shit! You're serious?" I pinched the bridge of my nose, counted like I always when I was stressed, and said, "Yes. Dead serious. His wife is having him investigated and i'm meeting with her in a few hours and I have no dirt on him! I need more info than what I currently have, which is that he hates cats and danced like the Beebs!" "The man has hips." "Right!?" "Your lack of focus is extremely disappointing. He can dance. So what?" Colin sounded like he was yawning.

In The Archangel Raphael Leaving Tobias' Family, Rembrandt leaves dirt on the shadowed soles of Raphael's feet as he flies off, illuminated in glory. Passing by the painting, one sees the dramatic action, the melodramatic emotions, and the re-created narrative events of the Bible. Slowed down a bit, the viewer sees light across a large muscular calf, a strong and sharply shaped ankle, and then dirty feet. The angel who tells us he only pretended to eat - this to explain away all traces of his apparent earthliness as a fallen creaturely being - is here on the canvas with dirty feet, carrying soil, the created, to the creator. Van Gogh had rightly said there are mysteries in these paintings. They are mysteries of device and design, not of messianic significance. They require a docent and not a priest, a creative critic to guide the view of specific images, not a guardian of mysteries and master of their enigmatic authority. Dirty feet on the soles of an archangel famous for his annunciations give the viewer a point of view on the inescapably human nature of the narrated God. Raphael may no eat. He may believe he creates an illusion to satisfy the religious desire for mythological consistency, but even archangels deceive themselves as well as others. Humans sometimes do the same in inventing the transcendence they need or think they want - creating a regime from which the priestly classes rule, even theorizing the alienation of the divine. Deceit is an essential device of cultural adaptation. It constructs needed beliefs that at high and low levels of thought or action complement their existence with modes of self-defense, which protect them from not only needed analysis but also the importance of failure.

Margate’s never been easy, always hard. ‘If you want a dirty weekend, go to Margate,’ I always say. You can be as dirty as you like. Van Gogh and Turner, Ronnie Biggs and the Krays all went there. Romans, Vikings, Hell’s Angels, teds, mods, rockers and punks, they all fought there.

PFC Robert Van Dyke IV (age 21) of Delphos, Ohio, was the driver of the second vehicle.