Dodge The Bullet Quotes

I don’t know what afflicts me now. Indecisiveness? Reluctance? Fear of being vulnerable? I am not a coward, at least. Fear isn’t equivalent to cowardice. Even a soldier deployed at the border fears bullet, which is exactly why he is able to dodge the enemy and eliminate them.

That's the funny thing about life. We're rarely aware of the bullets we dodge. The just-misses. The almost-never-happeneds. We spend so much time worrying about how the future is going to play out and not nearly enough time admiring the precious perfection of the present.

He raised a brow at another abrupt change in the conversation. “Are you disappointed I couldn’t dodge a couple bullets?” A real smile teased her lips as she lowered her coffee mug. “On the contrary, I’m a sucker for a guy with scars, so for your protection, we should probably stick to the case.

But you couldn’t touch this kid right now, bullets would have dodged him.

the key to success is not dodging every bullet but being able to recover quickly.

Like something happened to Preppy. That wasn’t your fault, dick slick. It was mine. I literally couldn’t dodge that bullet. See what I did there? Oh my shit I’m hilarious.

won’t.  If he doesn’t step up for you, accept the fact that you have dodged a bullet and be thankful you didn’t allow him to waste anymore of your precious time.

What were you asleep? Helen would say as I opened the door. "I've been up since five." In her hand would be aluminum tray covered with foil, either that or a saucepan with a lid on it. "Well," I'd tell her, "I didn't go to bed until three." "I didn't go to bed until three thirty." This was how it was with her: If you got fifteen minutes of sleep, she got only ten. If you had a cold, she had the flu. If you'd dodged a bullet, she'd dodged five. Blindfolded. After my mother's funeral, I remember her greeting me with "So what? My mother died when I was half your age." "Gosh," I said. "Thing of everything she missed." pgs. 86-87

It was amazing the things you could bring yourself to do when you felt insecure, when you were out to protect your heart. You could deny it what it wants most, just for the sake of saving your pride or dodging another bullet.

A careful man tries to dodge the bullets, while a happy man takes a walk.

My secret weapon is my anger. That's what stimulates me as an artist. I want change. I want it yesterday. I'm pissed off at America. Society. American movies. American TV. American culture. American politicians. Capitalism. I'm a little like my old man in that way only I'm a recovered drunk. He wasn't. I should have been dead years ago like my brother but somehow I dodged the bullet and it gave me something to say. Impatience and rage are always just beneath the surface for me.

Lesson number one: “Not my problem” is not a philosophy. It’s a mental illness. Right up there with pessimism. Other people’s problems are our problems. If your neighbor is laid off, you may feel as if you’ve dodged the bullet, but you haven’t. The bullet hit you as well. You just don’t feel the pain yet. Or as Ruut Veenhoven told me: “The quality of a society is more important than your place in that society.” In other words, better to be a small fish in a clean pond than a big fish in a polluted lake.

Ha. If given a choice of dodging a bullet or stepping in its way, I'll choose dodging when I can. Anyway, to face death, you only need a dram of courage. To face life you need a good deal more.

It's easy to be cynical about death when you're young. When you are young, death is an anomaly. It's not real. It only affects other people. It's a bullet you'll dodge easily. It's why young people can go into battle: they really will live forever. They know. As you stick around, as you go around the Earth, you realize that life is an ever-narrowing conveyor belt. Slowly, inexorably, it takes us all along with it, and one by one we tumble off the side of the conveyor belt into darkness. . . They fall off the conveyor belt into the darkness, our friends, and we cannot talk to them anymore.

You’ve got me confused with one of those women who needs a ring on her finger to feel complete. I don’t put those kinds of expectations on men. And I’d say I’m sorry things didn’t work out between you and Hugh, but based on your current amount of crazy, I’d say he dodged a bullet.

I speak this way because I know how perilous speech can be.... A saber might be stopped by a shield. A bullet might be dodged by a stroke of luck. But you can't dodge a word. If one is flung at you it will hit its mark unerringly. No Garritt there's nothing in the world more dangerous than talk.

I am care free by nature but that doesn't mean that I am careless or that I care less. I simply pass on passive-aggressive. Why dodge bullets? This world is not a place for cowards. If we are going to shoot then let's freaking shoot straight. Energy is easily recognized and understood. I don't make time anymore for people that I have to interpret beyond what they say and what they are really saying. It's not my Aspie nature. It is my angel nature. I know every thing isn't always black or white, but I am so over engaging with people who are 50 shades of grey. Be real with me or be gone....because if we aren't Really present with others then we are disconnected anyway.

with no idea of the bullet she’s just dodged; there but for the . . . We only think of the bad things that happen, rather than those that, through fortune, pass us by.

For a once renowned woman who loved telling tales of dodging bullets, wielding grenades and subverting dogs trained to kill, Christine's story is, surprisingly, little known today.

Life is like a war. There will always be people trying to shoot you down. But it's your choice whether you're going to surrender, fight back, or dodge the bullet.

War is always more complex. Economics, history, religion all have a role, but not for the ones dodging the bullets. They just get blown around like seeds in the wind until the city folk with calculators and Swiss bank accounts stop talking rot from a bunker under a mountain.

Every single time I get sent to her, she asks me questions that sound like they came from some “How to Talk to Statistical Black Children Who Come to Your Office Often” handbook. How is your home life? (None of your business.) Have you witnessed any traumatic events lately, such as shootings? (Just because I live in the “ghetto” doesn’t mean I dodge bullets every day.) Are you struggling to come to terms with your father’s murder? (It was twelve years ago. I barely remember him or it.) Are you struggling to come to terms with your mother’s addiction? (She’s been clean for eight years. She’s only addicted to soap operas these days.) What’s good with you, homegirl, nah’mean? (Okay, she hasn’t said that, but give her time.)

Six feet two inches tall and built like he could punch through solid walls and dodge a bullet at the same time, Jim projected a concentrated promise to kick your ass. It emanated from him like heat from a sidewalk. He never actually threatened you, but when he entered a room full of hard cases, bigger men backed off, because when he looked at them, they heard their bones breaking.

She grabbed the half-filled bucket before Fisher could take a breathe, spun into a shadow and came out with an icy slash that sent Hunter's voice blooming. She flung the bucket at him and ran. "You had mud on your chest and soap in your hair!" she shrieked laughing, dodging him. "Tag, you're it… and oh, yeah, by the way—pay back is a bitch!

So am I, Reed.” I knew she wasn’t just referring to today. “Remember the first night I ever came to your apartment, when I said Allison dodged a bullet?

I’d dodged a bullet but fallen onto a knife.

Failure is inevitable, and that the key to success is not dodging every bullet but being able to recover quickly.

You want to get out?" He said. "Who doesn't?". "I can do well in the West". "Anyone can do well when they aren't dodging bullets.

at best, you are surviving, but you are often not thriving. You are getting through the days and trying to dodge bullets and insults and make sense of the inconsistent patterns.

Quit blowing smoke up my ass and tell me who’s got your balls in a vice.

I know enough to tell you that you’re a momma’s boy through and through, because you were even looking for her in the girl you wanted to marry.” He scoffed. “Thank God you dodged that bullet.

I was the one who dodged a bullet, Charlotte. I can’t imagine having gone on to marry her. I would have never known that my one true love was still out there. What I feel for you is beyond what I’ve ever felt in my life.

The Peacemaker Colt has now been in production, without change in design, for a century. Buy one to-day and it would be indistinguishable from the one Wyatt Earp wore when he was the Marshal of Dodge City. It is the oldest hand-gun in the world, without question the most famous and, if efficiency in its designated task of maiming and killing be taken as criterion of its worth, then it is also probably the best hand-gun ever made. It is no light thing, it is true, to be wounded by some of the Peacemaker’s more highly esteemed competitors, such as the Luger or Mauser: but the high-velocity, narrow-calibre, steel-cased shell from either of those just goes straight through you, leaving a small neat hole in its wake and spending the bulk of its energy on the distant landscape whereas the large and unjacketed soft-nosed lead bullet from the Colt mushrooms on impact, tearing and smashing bone and muscle and tissue as it goes and expending all its energy on you. In short when a Peacemaker’s bullet hits you in, say, the leg, you don’t curse, step into shelter, roll and light a cigarette one-handed then smartly shoot your assailant between the eyes. When a Peacemaker bullet hits your leg you fall to the ground unconscious, and if it hits the thigh-bone and you are lucky enough to survive the torn arteries and shock, then you will never walk again without crutches because a totally disintegrated femur leaves the surgeon with no option but to cut your leg off. And so I stood absolutely motionless, not breathing, for the Peacemaker Colt that had prompted this unpleasant train of thought was pointed directly at my right thigh. Another thing about the Peacemaker: because of the very heavy and varying trigger pressure required to operate the semi-automatic mechanism, it can be wildly inaccurate unless held in a strong and steady hand. There was no such hope here. The hand that held the Colt, the hand that lay so lightly yet purposefully on the radio-operator’s table, was the steadiest hand I’ve ever seen. It was literally motionless. I could see the hand very clearly. The light in the radio cabin was very dim, the rheostat of the angled table lamp had been turned down until only a faint pool of yellow fell on the scratched metal of the table, cutting the arm off at the cuff, but the hand was very clear. Rock-steady, the gun could have lain no quieter in the marbled hand of a statue. Beyond the pool of light I could half sense, half see the dark outline of a figure leaning back against the bulkhead, head slightly tilted to one side, the white gleam of unwinking eyes under the peak of a hat. My eyes went back to the hand. The angle of the Colt hadn’t varied by a fraction of a degree. Unconsciously, almost, I braced my right leg to meet the impending shock. Defensively, this was a very good move, about as useful as holding up a sheet of newspaper in front of me. I wished to God that Colonel Sam Colt had gone in for inventing something else, something useful, like safety-pins.

Disillusioned words like bullets bark As human gods aim for their marks Made everything from toy guns that sparks To flesh-colored Christs that glow in the dark It's easy to see without looking too far That not much Is really sacred. While preachers preach of evil fates Teachers teach that knowledge waits Can lead to hundred-dollar plates Goodness hides behind its gates But even the President of the United States Sometimes must have To stand naked. An' though the rules of the road have been lodged It's only people's games that you got to dodge And it's alright, Ma, I can make it. Advertising signs that con you Into thinking you're the one That can do what's never been done That can win what's never been won Meantime life outside goes on All around you. Although the masters make the rules For the wise men and the fools I got nothing, Ma, to live up to. For them that must obey authority That they do not respect in any degree Who despite their jobs, their destinies Speak jealously of them that are free Cultivate their flowers to be Nothing more than something They invest in. While some on principles baptized To strict party platforms ties Social clubs in drag disguise Outsiders they can freely criticize Tell nothing except who to idolize And then say God Bless him. While one who sings with his tongue on fire Gargles in the rat race choir Bent out of shape from society's pliers Cares not to come up any higher But rather get you down in the hole That he's in. Old lady judges, watch people in pairs Limited in sex, they dare To push fake morals, insult and stare While money doesn't talk, it swears Obscenity, who really cares Propaganda, all is phony. While them that defend what they cannot see With a killer's pride, security It blows the minds most bitterly For them that think death's honesty Won't fall upon them naturally Life sometimes Must get lonely. And if my thought-dreams could been seen They'd probably put my head in a guillotine But it's alright, Ma, it's life, and life only.

The indifferent filler can keep the conversation moving, without giving the narcissist a hurtful target. He or she will likely find ways to insert some negativism here as well, perhaps mocking your opinion, calling you out for not being knowledgeable about a topic, or even labeling you as “dull.” Smile serenely and carry on. Your narcissist does not realize the triumph—you just dodged a bullet and did not play out the usual old patterns. He may even be frustrated, since he can’t get the same reactions out of you, and may have to find a new psychological punching bag.

A word is all it takes to put a man in prison, or to seize his property, or to end his life. A saber might be stopped by a shield. A bullet might be dodged by a stroke of luck. But you can't dodge a word. If one is flung at you, it will hit its mark unerringly. No Garritt, there's nothing in the world more dangerous than talk.

But the only revolution you can commit to is the one that lets you laugh and laugh and laugh, because the downfall of every revolution is when it loses its sense of absurdity. This, too, is the dialectic, to take the revolution seriously but not to take the revolutionaries seriously, for when revolutionaries take themselves too seriously, they cock their guns at the crack of a joke. Once that happens, it’s all over, the revolutionaries have become the state, the state has become repressive, and the bullets, once used against the oppressor in the name of the people, will be used against the people in their own name. That is why the people, if they wish to survive and to dodge those bullets, must be nameless.

We’ve all experienced the frustration of our 20s going nothing as planned, so why do we still feel like we’re the only ones who are struggling? This lie that we’re all alone in our struggle is a powerful magnifier of depression, anxiety, and confusion in our 20s. It’s vital we blow this ugly lie up. So right now, if you feel like you’re stuck between being adult and child, neither growing nor grown. —you’re not alone. If you feel like you’re struggling through a Quarter-Life Crisis you swore you’d never have. —you’re not alone. If you’re wondering when you’ll ever feel like yourself again. —you are not alone. If you’re searching for a place to hang up your coat because it actually feels like home again. If you’re staring at your gray, cubicle walls wondering how the heck you ended up here. If you’re wondering if God changed His number and forgot to pass the message on to you. —you know what I’m going to say. Call a friend. It’s up to you to make the first move. Share war stories and strategies for dodging bullets. You’re not alone. And just knowing that fact can be enough to breathe life into that which has felt suffocating.

Well Basel hadn't eaten all day and I assumed that you hadn't either, so I thought you might be hungry too. Besides I am no War Lord, no dictator, no terrorist, no militia group. I am a single mom, this is what I do. This......is what I do. I mean I don't normally dodge bullets or tie people up or any of those things. I am a mom and you know what? Sometimes that job is harder than any job that is out there. So do you want to food or not?! Piper, Diamonds in the Sea

The other New Age bullshit bullet to dodge is the constant aggressive sale of ‘wonder nature cures.’ Some are no better than snake oil, but others are true healing substances taken out of context, refined, and made into a supplement that you are told you must take every day (at great expense). Don’t get sucked into the bullshit. Learn about your own body, learn about substances and how they work, and do not get trapped in the endless New Age loop of pseudoscience.

Not my problem” is not a philosophy. It’s a mental illness. Right up there with pessimism. Other people’s problems are our problems. If your neighbor is laid off, you may feel as if you’ve dodged the bullet, but you haven’t. The bullet hit you as well. You just don’t feel the pain yet. Or as Ruut Veenhoven told me: “The quality of a society is more important than your place in that society.” In other words, better to be a small fish in a clean pond than a big fish in a polluted lake. Lesson

I'm a very smart guy. I haven't a feeling or a scruple in the world. All I have the itch for is money. I am so money greedy that for twenty-five bucks a day and expenses, mostly gasoline and whiskey, I do my thinking myself, what there is of it; I risk my whole future, the hatred of the cops and of Eddie Mars and his pals. I dodge bullets and eat saps, and say thank you very much, if you have any more trouble, I hope you'll think of me, I'll just leave one of my cards in case anything comes up.

Found, Found the very shit I wasn’t looking for, Locked eyes and found myself stuck, Found when I’ve been hiding all my life, Now I’m exposed and all out in the open, Damn I’m found, Located by what I’ve tried to avoid, Dodged feelings like bullets, Nah, bee, I wasn’t ready, Dammit I’m found, And now I’m attached to him, Fearing the unknown, But intrigued by the thrill, ‘Cause baby, I’m caught up, Stuck in the very web I avoided for so long, Praying that this could be the very thing I avoided, I’m found,

She remembers rehearsals. Wrong notes turning to right ones, dissonance becoming harmony. She remembers “O Holy Night” sounding so perfect, in the end, her voice wrapping itself around Jonah’s like they were created just for this. She remembers his smile at her from across their shared mic. She remembers getting asked to reprise her duet with Jonah a year later. Just after everything happened with Luke. But then Mr. Boyden took her aside. Told her that Jonah had backed out. He’d said he was too busy for extra rehearsals, but she knew: it was because of her. She saw it in Jonah’s face, in the way he avoided her eyes. She saw it in everyone else’s faces too. She was a bullet he’d just dodged. She remembers standing up for the solo she was given instead—her last performance before she quit choir. She remembers opening her mouth, nothing coming out. She’d cleared her throat, tried again. Her voice emerged, but all wrong: small and shaky and sharp. With everyone looking at her, with the rumors still swirling, she felt exposed. She felt small and shaky and sharp. Vulnerable, but made of angles and thorns.

Why are so many of their faces disfigured, if you don’t mind me asking? Is it the explosive shells they’re using over there?” “I’m told it’s the machine guns. Curious soldiers will often lift their heads out of the trenches, thinking they can dodge bullets in time, but there’s no way they can possibly avoid the hail of machine-gun fire.” She glanced over her shoulder. “We tend to also see several missing left arms because of the way they position themselves for shooting in the trenches. Their bones shatter into tiny fragments and their wristwatches become embedded in their wounds. There’s no way to save the limbs.

The cliché “dodged the bullet” allows us to share the relief we feel when we are lucky enough to avoid a fate we certainly wouldn’t choose. “There but for the grace of God go I” seems to say the same thing, but in stark contrast to the camaraderie of the bullet remark, the implication here is that the other person has not merited grace, has offended God, is deserving of affliction. It is Job’s friends come to needle him into acknowledging his guilt, the reason for the death of his livestock, the demise of his children, the destruction of his world. In essence, the approved, acknowledged, acceptable state to be in is a state of grace; God has noticed us and bestowed grace upon us.

While she was enjoying this heady control, she decided to test a few minor spells on the werewolf—because it would be good practice, and by good practice she meant amusing for her. She caused a root to hike up directly in front of his feet. When he tripped, she folded her lips in, biting back a laugh. Magick . . . good. For the next hour, whenever his boots came untied just in time for the laces to collect bullet ants, or limbs whacked him across the face, or he scarcely dodged bird and monkey droppings, he always regarded her with narrow-eyed suspicion. She would casually glance over at him with a “Whaaa . . . ?” expression. But he hadn’t said anything, and as for her, well, she could do this all day— Out of the corner of her eye she spied movement. What looked like a vine suddenly uncoiled from the ground and came flying toward her. With a shriek, she attempted a pulse of energy to ward it off. But MacRieve had already snatched the snake; her magick caught him and sent him flying, his body crashing through the brush, felling the trees in his way. After landing one hundred feet away and angrily tossing the snake, he shot to his feet, charging back to her, eyes ice blue with fury. “Goddamn it, witch, no’ again!” “It was an accident!” the witch cried, and she might have been truthful, but Bowe was beyond caring. “All morning you’ve toyed with me, have you no’?” He stalked closer to her, letting her see a good glimpse of the beast within. Yet after swallowing loudly and retreating several steps, she seemed to force herself to stand her ground. He was dumbfounded that she wasn’t cowering. Battle hardened vampires recoiled in the face of a Lykae’s werewolf form, but she’d planted her boots, and she hadn’t budged. She even raised her chin. Cade had started hurrying down the embankment as if to protect her. The very idea made Bowe draw his lips back from his fangs. No doubt thinking his renewed fury was for her, she pulled magick into her hands.

It’s not that he disliked Tommy or felt threatened by the man who sat looking at

Why the hell would I want to do that?” Dodge stretched

to help Dodge back when nobody else in his hometown of Hailey,

What kind of person owns a cattle ranch and doesn’t know a damn thing about ranching?” Dodge asked. Tommy shifted in his chair

business opportunities are like buses; there’s always another coming around.” One meeting is nothing in a lifetime of meetings, one deal is just one deal. In fact, we may have actually dodged a bullet. The next opportunity might be better.

desire to appear. All the things he savored with that one breath captured everything he loved about the woods. Nobody understood why he chose to live alone tucked in the forest instead of in the free

In this life, one does not come to dodge bullets.

Sedgwick’s death came in dramatic fashion in May 1864 near Spotsylvania. As he positioned his troops, Confederate sharpshooters began finding their range. When his men dodged the bullets, Sedgwick chided them, saying, “They couldn’t hit an elephant at this distance.” Shortly afterward, a sharpshooter proved Sedgwick wrong as his bullet found its mark, striking the general just under his left eye and killing him instantly. H-21: George Weikert Farm 39º48.127’N, 77º14.072’W On July 2, Brigadier General John C.

oaks, the forest opened up and we flew in an oval pattern around the scene. The grille of a blue Mustang was nosed up against an earthen barrier, the vehicle’s doors open. Two bodies, both male, were sprawled nearby in the grass. Between the long drying sheds, three gray, refrigerated semitrailers were lined nose to tail like elephants on parade. The truck windows and windshields were shot through and spiderwebbed. Behind the last semi was a black Dodge Viper with two dead men in the front seat. The pilot landed out by the highway, where a perimeter had been established. After checking in with the Virginia State Police lieutenant and the county sheriff, we went to the crime scene on foot. It was hot. Insects buzzed and drummed in the forest around the tobacco facility. Truck engines idling swallowed the sound of blowflies gathering around the Viper. “They’ve swept their way out again,” Mahoney said when we were ten yards from the Dodge. I looked at the glistening dirt road between the Viper and us. I saw faint grooves in the moist dirt and said, “Or raked.” The door to the muscle car was ajar. The window was down. The driver had taken a slug through the back of the skull, left occipital. Blood spattered the windshield and almost covered two bullet holes, one exiting, and one entering. The passenger in the Viper had been rocked back, his left eye a bloody socket and a spray of carnage behind him.

I open my car door and start to slide in, but I start to think that Bob might want my phone number in case something changes before Saturday. I jot it down really quickly on the back of a receipt and go to give it to him. I hear one of the men he’s with as I walk closer. “Who was that on your bike?” He laughs sharply. It’s not like the laughter I heard from him today at all. “Just a girl.” Just a girl? A girl I have a date with on Saturday, or my name would have been better. But apparently, I am just a girl. “She got a name?” one of them asks. “I never can remember their names,” he says. “Too many of them.” He laughs sharply again and lights a cigarette. “That one is no different from the rest. Just something to do.” My heart sinks all the way down to my toes. I crumple my phone number up and drop it to the ground. At least I won’t have to get dressed up on Saturday. Maybe I just dodged a bullet.

Afterward, she told me she was having cramps and bleeding. It was a terrible feeling for her. This is serious when you're pregnant, and I was stressing because she was ready to pop. I took her to the hospital right away. After hours of pacing back and forth, the doctor finally came out with some GOOD news. It turns out it was just a miscarriage. Boy, I dodged a bullet there! So I broke up with her then and there and I lived happily ever after. I guess the point to my story is sometimes life gives us problems that we don't know how to deal with, but if we hold on long enough, they have a way of sorting themselves out. :)

From the perspective of the dead, life was a dangerous thing: a world of bullets, with everyone dodging everyone else, and no one to blame but God or the cosmos, contingency or fate, whoever had fired the gun.

Gratitude for bullets dodged is much healthier than self-pity or regret.

Adjusting the public record in the West was certainly more complicated than it was at home, and vastly more expensive. Tony Blair guarded the financial details of his consultancy work as jealously as Nazarbayev guarded the details of his kickbacks, but the three-term prime minister’s services were said to cost Kazakhstan $13 million a year. Blair understood when to use light, when darkness. Back in 2006, investigators from the Serious Fraud Office chasing down bribery related to the sale of British fighter jets to Saudi Arabia had tried to inspect the middlemen’s Swiss accounts. The House of Saud had sent word that such interference in their affairs would cause them to cancel the next multibillion-dollar batch of planes from BAE Systems, formerly British Aerospace. Blair’s government halted the SFO investigation, on the grounds of Saudi Arabia’s invaluable assistance in heading off attacks by adherents of the jihadism the kingdom itself sponsored. For Sir Dick Evans, a lifelong arms dealer who had risen to the chairmanship of BAE and been questioned by the SFO’s bribery investigators as they homed in on their targets, this represented a bullet dodged at the last second. His next profitable course would lead to Kazakhstan, to set up an airline, Astana Air.

and if it rains this week, you might ought to practice running between the raindrops.” “Why would I do that?” Nick asked. “So that you can be really good at dodging bullets. Bye now.” Harry ended the call.

Uh-huh. I’m a very smart guy. I haven’t a feeling or a scruple in the world. All I have the itch for is money. I am so money greedy that for twenty-five bucks a day and expenses, mostly gasoline and whiskey, I do my thinking myself, what there is of it; I risk my whole future, the hatred of the cops and of Eddie Mars and his pals, I dodge bullets and eat saps, and say thank you very much, if you have any more trouble, I hope you’ll think of me, I’ll just leave one of my cards in case anything comes up. I do all this for twenty-five bucks a day—and maybe just a little to protect what little pride a broken and sick old man has left in his blood, in the thought that his blood is not poison, and that although his two little girls are a trifle wild, as many nice girls are these days, they are not perverts or killers. And that makes me a son of a bitch. All right. I don’t care anything about that. I’ve been called that by people of all sizes and shapes, including your little sister. She called me worse than that for not getting into bed with her. I got five hundred dollars from your father, which I didn’t ask for, but he can afford to give it to me. I can get another thousand for finding Mr. Rusty Regan, if I could find him. Now you offer me fifteen grand. That makes me a big shot. With fifteen grand I could own a home and a new car and four suits of clothes. I might even take a vacation without worrying about losing a case. That’s fine. What are you offering it to me for? Can I go on being a son of a bitch, or do I have to become a gentleman, like that lush that passed out in his car the other night?

You have to let go of the fear that if you exert your standards and boundaries that he will be turned off or go away. He will not. He will feel safer with you because he can trust that you will keep it real with him. But if for some reason he does leave, then you dodged a bullet. The right man will never leave you for being true to yourself and your boundaries. Men love standards.

On her way to work the next morning, she is certain this will be one of her last days in Sarajevo. Looking around, she sees how the normal rhythm of the city has been broken and is amazed she didn’t make up her mind to leave before now. Bosnian Serb snipers lie behind sandbags on the tops of buildings and take aim at people in the streets below as if they are sparrows. Sarajevans - old, young, men, women, Muslim, Croat, Serb - dart across the roads in zigzags in an attempt to dodge the bullets. On the tram, passengers duck their heads in a wave when they pass in front of the Jewish Cemetery, where a snipers’ nest is known to be located. Disembarking, a series of blasts sound nearby and she freezes on the tram steps. The man behind pushes her off. They run to take cover in the stone-arched entrance of a locked-up carpet shop. Perhaps a dozen people press up against each other, coffee breath, perfume and the smell of their sweat intermingling. Each explosion sends a collective tremor through them. When they pull apart some twenty minutes later, they don’t look at each other. They brush down their clothes, straighten their shoulders and move off quickly. Zora stares after them, in shock. It’s a quarter to ten on a Tuesday morning. She can’t live like this.

I know that what God is calling us to here is countercultural in the extreme. Today’s culture makes fun of virginity. Hollywood makes comedy movies entirely based on the seemingly absurd idea of not having sex.j If you commit to God’s way, there will be those who don’t understand. Some people will think you’re crazy. Remaining pure may even cost you a relationship or two with people who think sex is a necessary part of dating (in which case, you can be thankful you’ve successfully dodged a bullet). But we are called to be different. We are to “not conform to the pattern of this world” (Rom. 12:2). We are to be “children of God without fault in a warped and crooked generation” who “shine among them like stars in the sky” (Phil. 2:15). So be different. Even if it were possible to avoid all the consequences of sexual sin—it’s not, but even if it were—we should still strive to follow God’s design for sex and marriage. We should do so both because it is his design and also because it is different. It’s an opportunity to reclaim his world from fallen culture and serve as a living example that he makes people new. Start today. Be different.

There’s nothing quite so exhilarating as being shot at without effect.

For the last seven years, we set out on a thousand dream adventure—mostly mine—and not once has she complained. We fought as often as we fucked. We moved twelve times, dodged bullets, lost friends, fought the good fight, together, and mostly side by side—which was the biggest fight of all. We struggled, felt defeated, rallied, and came back swinging. We utilized our position in every imaginable way, going head-to-head with the biggest threats, mostly corrupt corporations and media conglomerates controlled by deep state.

I’d say Brixton dodged a bullet but he’s so broken, I doubt a bullet would have done any worse damage.

the division. Hundreds and hundreds plunged into the fighting with their major at the head. All around James and his men, the new Lewis machine guns ratter-tattered incessantly. Cannon boomed. Tanks rolled. The air was thick with smoke from the smoke bombs thrown by the Royal Engineers into no-man’s land to screen the soldiers now entering the area. The smell of cordite, blood and human waste floated around them. But all were unaware, determined as they were to win. Defeat was not a word in their vocabulary. Many of the men were killed instantly. Two hours into the battle, James was hit in both legs by machine-gun fire. He fell, still clutching his baton. He felt the bullets hit him and the pain was intense, unbearable. He wanted to touch his legs but couldn’t sit up. He groaned, and at that moment he knew he was going to die. What a way to go, he thought … on a foreign field because of a useless war. He closed his eyes as a wave of agony gripped him. Half an hour later, it was Lieutenant Stead who found him and pulled him as far away from the fighting as he could. James was unconscious, his skin clammy. The lieutenant felt for a pulse and was relieved that the major had one, weak as it was. A few seconds later, Captain Allan Lister was on the scene to assist him, along with two stretcher-bearers and a stretcher. Together, dodging through the crowds of fighting soldiers, they carried James to the Casualty Clearing Station, a large medical tent. A team of army doctors took over at once. They could give no reassurance to the lieutenant and the captain that their major would live, despite their efforts.

If Jack had followed him instead of trying to reclaim his car, he would undoubtedly have voiced his disappointment that they were not yet shooting laser cannons. Frankly, Richard thought dodging the police’s bullets would be problematic enough.

kissed her again. “Say it back.” Sarah held on to him with everything

The bullet with our name will get us no matter what. It is the bullet with the inscription, "To whom it may concern", must be dodged.

At one point during his second term, agents say Clinton managed to lose the plastic authenticator card with the codes he would need to verify his identity to launch nuclear weapons. “He has to keep those codes with him at all times, at all costs,” says a former agent. “With the codes, the White House Communications Agency can set up communications through the nuclear football and hit the satellites.” Retired general Hugh Shelton, the former chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, confirmed in his book Without Hesitation: The Odyssey of an American Warrior that in Clinton’s last year in office, the required codes for launching a nuclear strike were missing for months. “This is a big deal—a gargantuan deal—and we dodged a silver bullet,” Shelton wrote. As the Secret Service sees it, Hillary and Bill Clinton have a business relationship, not a marriage.

With our black-eyed reflections and love-marked bodies, we looked criminal. I found myself admiring us. We dodged a bullet last

a team of suspected terrorists had boarded an aircraft in London that they were going to hi-jack.  Their target aircraft was a new 747 Jumbo Jet.  The terrorists didn’t realize the aircraft had been switched to a smaller 707 until after they were aboard and the aircraft was taxing.  Airline officials said they had planted a note in the first class bathroom notifying the Captain of their intent to take over the plane.  Sources also revealed that once they realized the aircraft wasn’t a 747 they tried to retrieve the note but it was too late, a stewardess had accidentally discovered it during the climb out while the fasten seat belt lights were still on and people weren’t allowed to move around the cabin.  The aircraft had been diverted to Shannon, and British authorities had taken ten suspected terrorists into custody.  After a slight delay, the aircraft had continued to the United States without further incident.      Marguerite and I looked at one another for several seconds.  She broke into a grin and said, “Well, looks like we sure dodged the bullet on that one and it will make a great story for our grandchildren.”      “Yes, it will.  I wonder if we’d ever known what happened if we hadn’t just happened to catch that news broadcast.

Ty Bloodworth had been in a daze for the better part of three months. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes while he waited for the object of his desire to appear. All the things he savored

about the woods. Nobody understood why he chose to live alone tucked in the forest instead of in the free wheeling dorms near the fly shop, but at

to be adjusting just fine. She’s a real nice lady,

smoke up my ass and tell me who’s got your balls in a vice.” “Senator Burwick called

No science and no analysis of the future consequences of various actions taken today can in itself tell us what to do. We need, in addition, to factor in what kind of future we value, and to what extent we care at all about the future compared to more immediate concerns here and now. The later aspect is usually modeled and economics by the so-called discount rate, which has played a prominent role in discussions of climate change on a decadal and centennial time scale, but hardly at all in the context of longer perspectives or the various radical technologies[.] We are less used to thinking about ethical issues on long time scales, so our intuitions trying to fail us and lead to paradoxes. These issues need to be resolved, because dodging the bullet would in my opinion be unacceptably irresponsible.

Mr. Jennings?” Ty asked. Gary Jennings assessed Ty from toe to head. Ty stood at least half a foot

lifted his shoulder. “Running?” The nurse returned and told Gary he could follow her through the double doors.

Ants have a powerful caste system. A colony typically contains ants that carry out radically different roles and have markedly different body structures and behaviors. These roles, Reinberg learned, are often determined not by genes but by signals from the physical and social environment. 'Sibling ants, in their larval stage, become segregated into the different types based on environmental signals,' he said. 'Their genomes are nearly identical, but the way the genes are used—turned on or off, and kept on or off—must determine what an ant "becomes." It seemed like a perfect system to study epigenetics. And so Shelley and I caught a flight to Arizona to see Jürgen Liebig, the ant biologist, in his lab.' The collaboration between Reinberg, Berger, and Liebig has been explosively successful—the sort of scientific story ('two epigeneticists walk into a bar and meet an entomologist') that works its way into a legend. Carpenter ants, one of the species studied by the team, have elaborate social structures, with queens (bullet-size, fertile, winged), majors (bean-size soldiers who guard the colony but rarely leave it), and minors (nimble, grain-size, perpetually moving foragers). In a recent, revelatory study, researchers in Berger’s lab injected a single dose of a histone-altering chemical into the brains of major ants. Remarkably, their identities changed; caste was recast. The major ants wandered away from the colony and began to forage for food. The guards turned into scouts. Yet the caste switch could occur only if the chemical was injected during a vulnerable period in the ants’ development. [...] The impact of the histone-altering experiment sank in as I left Reinberg’s lab and dodged into the subway. [...] All of an ant’s possible selves are inscribed in its genome. Epigenetic signals conceal some of these selves and reveal others, coiling some, uncoiling others. The ant chooses a life between its genes and its epigenes—inhabiting one self among its incipient selves.

Brian joking that if there was one place in the city where the locals didn’t need help learning how to shoot—or dodge—bullets, it was Dorchester.

The Starbucks date she’d shared with Sam seemed like days ago, not just this morning. She’d managed to put aside all the emotions from her two-day roller-coaster ride during the afternoon, but seeing the Starbucks brought the news, or non-news, back in a flash. Talk about dodging a bullet. She

Okay, why couldn’t he just be drinking right now? Still, bassinet jockeying one of these pooping machines had to be better than dodging bullets. Right? V glanced at the matched set of milk addicts. Fine, maybe the goo-goo, gaga/Glock assessment was more of a fifty-fifty.

You can dodge the bullet but never gunpower.

Do you remember me?” she tilted her head as she zeroed in on Clarice, producing a handgun from her waistband. Clarice took a defensive stance and I followed suit as the hairs on the back of my neck rose to attention. “Diana?” Clarice questioned. “Dina!” she hissed, and bloody spittle flew from her mouth. “Do you know how many dayth I roamed the ruinth alone?” She raised her gun, aiming it at Clarice's face. “You were outcast for your crimes,” Clarice said in a deadly tone, not seeming remotely concerned about the gun pointed at her. But I sure as shit was. “You bit a courtier. You got what you deserved.” My heart juddered at her words and my hands curled into fists. This vampire had bitten one of the girls brought to the castle in the past. I recalled the fear of first arriving in the city. I'd been helpless once, but not anymore. Although, I didn't know if I was fast enough to dodge a bullet. “We hath the right to bite,” Dina growled, revealing the gaps in her mouth where her fangs had once been. “But now you'th taken efen that from uth!

Or better yet, identify yourself as a person who works for the Property Manager. This powerful, stuck-in-the-middle position allows you a boatload of flexibility to dodge all kinds of bullets. These two words give you an easy out to avoid making rash “shoot from the hip” decisions that may be emotionally charged or you may regret later.

hate to say the obvious, but we should not want to be spiritual cowards, growing in our ability to dodge conviction bullets. Girl, you need to do a lot more than wash your face. This mess is bigger than you can handle, and it’s not even cute.

I couldn’t understand how they had lost so much money. When you bought stock in one of these companies, what were you buying? A manufacturing company or a derivatives speculator? How could you tell the difference? In each case, the DPG salesmen vowed that they had not sold any of the exploding derivatives. In each case, rumors bounced throughout the firm, then died. It appeared that Morgan Stanley had dodged these bullets, too.

I thought it was odd no one mentioned Lucy, other than a few folks saying horrible things like Alex dodged a bullet and it was too bad they didn't get any cake." My eyes went wide. "I know. She didn't make the best impression in the year she lived here. I mean, surely there are those that must've liked her. You know me, I don't like to talk bad about anyone, and I think it's dreadful what happened to the girl. On her wedding day, no less. But she could've done well to take a lesson in manners and etiquette. To be so pretty, some ugly things came out of her mouth. And you know what mama used to say." "'Ugly words shouldn't come out of pretty mouths. No matter how much paint you put on the barn, the ugly taints the whole structure,'" we said in unison.

Stupid moments, inconsequential ones that wouldn’t mean anything to anyone who wasn’t me. Those were the ones that would make me miss a step while I hurried to a lunch date or away from a class. A turn of phrase, or a voice from a stranger while standing in the store and you can’t see them. A momentary reflection of a mother and child doing something as innocuous as holding hands that threw me back. Those incidents were what made me crazy. They were also the ones Stanley called landmines. Hidden emotional ordinance that triggered a sharp rush of adrenaline in an effort to dodge the phantom bullets. But more often, they were laden with shrapnel and it only took one piece to pierce something vital. We couldn’t see the landmines, so the chances of realizing we were on a minefield were slim if at all, before we found one of those devices buried in some innocuous location.

say I’m sorry things didn’t work out between you and Hugh, but based on your current amount of crazy, I’d say he dodged a bullet.

We spend a lot of time worrying about what other people are thinking, concerned that they can tell we are freaking out inside, feel underprepared, or don’t know what we’re talking about. Most of the time, people are so preoccupied with some combination of the same fears that they don’t have enough time left to psychoanalyze a person they just met who replied, “Thanks, you too!” when they’ve said “Enjoy your latte.” You have dodged a bullet, and in fact the bullet doesn’t exist at all. Everyone is awkward. Everyone is scared. Everyone is going to die eventually. Everyone just wants to make some friends and memories before that happens. Everyone is trying to figure it out.

During my time in Iraq and Afghanistan, I watched the great generals (and the colonels, majors, captains, lieutenants, and senior enlisted personnel) and how they interacted with their troops. The good ones spent time at the front lines, dodging bullets in Fallujah, riding in a Humvee on Route Irish, flying in a helo over the Hindu Kush, or just talking to the soldiers who manned the watchtowers. This engagement was not only important to understanding the troops, and thereby making better decisions; it was also vitally important for the troops to see their leaders getting sweaty and dirty right beside them.

He’d crossed up a lot of people along the way and always got away with it, but then that’s usually the way it works. You dodge all the bullets but the last one.

Bullets he could dodge. Love, on the other hand, snuck up on a fellow when he wasn’t looking, and he very much feared he’d already taken a lethal hit.

Every masked Autistic person has a litany of experiences like this. Most maskers dodge the massive psychological bullet that is ABA therapy, but we still receive endless conditioning that says our unfiltered selves are too annoying, unusual, awkward, nonconforming, and cold to fit in. We also witness how other nonconforming bodies and minds are treated. When the entire world shames people for being into “childish” things, having odd mannerisms, or simply being irritating, you don’t need ABA to program you into compliance. Everyone around you is already doing it.