Don't Categorize Me Quotes

When you categorize something as “Not About Me,” it exits your affective niche and has less impact on your body budget. Similarly, when you are successful and feel proud, honored, or gratified, take a step back and remember that these pleasant emotions are entirely the result of social reality, reinforcing your fictional self. Celebrate your achievements but don’t let them become golden handcuffs. A little composure goes a long way.

I don't like categorizing stuff, but women's roles all through history have been to act as hierophant or someone who's guarded the secrets or guarded the temple. I'm a girl doing what guys usually did, the way that I look, the goals and kinds of things I want to help achieve through rock. It's more heroic stuff and heroic stuff has been traditionally male. Like Hendrix and Jim Morrison and all those people. I mean, Jim Morrison was trying to elevate the word; he was the poet in rock & roll before me. He was an academic poet. Lou Reed -- another academic poet. I'm more like down-to-earth than them guys

Can I ask how it impacts your relationships in a toxic way?” “I’m just noticing things. All the time. Bad behaviors. Like, I tend to categorize people as ‘safe’ or ‘unsafe.’ And when I don’t like somebody, I see them as unsafe and I can’t deal with them. And then whenever anybody’s upset, I’m not good with sitting with their discomfort. I’m always trying to help and fix. And some people have told me I have a tendency to make things about myself. And I’m negative and I’m always complaining about my life. And I always feel like I’m having a crisis because I’m still not good enough at self-soothing.

There was a muffled tap again, and I heard a familiar voice whisper faintly, “Kelsey, it’s me.” I unlocked the door and peeked out. Ren was standing there dressed in his white clothes, barefoot, with a triumphant grin on his face. I pulled him inside and hissed out thickly, “What are you doing here? It’s dangerous coming into town! You could have been seen, and they’d send hunters out after you!” He shrugged his shoulders and grinned. “I missed you.” My mouth quirked up in a half smile. “I missed you too.” He leaned a shoulder nonchalantly against the doorframe. “Does that mean you’ll let me stay here? I’ll sleep on the floor and leave before daylight. No one will see me. I promise.” I let out a deep breath. “Okay, but promise you’ll leave early. I don’t like you risking yourself like this.” “I promise.” He sat down on the bed, took my hand, and pulled me down to sit beside him. “I don’t like sleeping in the dark jungle by myself.” “I wouldn’t either.” He looked down at our entwined hands. “When I’m with you, I feel like a man again. When I’m out there all alone, I feel like a beast, an animal.” His eyes darted up to mine. I squeezed his hand. “I understand. It’s fine. Really.” He grinned. “You were hard to track, you know. Lucky for me you two decided to walk to dinner, so I could follow your scent right to your door.” Something on the nightstand caught his attention. Leaning around me, he reached over and picked up my open journal. I had drawn a new picture of a tiger-my tiger. My circus drawings were okay, but this latest one was more personal and full of life. Ren stared at it for a moment while a bright crimson flush colored my cheeks. He traced the tiger with his finger, and then whispered gently, "Someday, I'll give you a portrait of the real me." Setting the journal down carefully, he took both of my hands in his, turned to me with an intense expression, and said, "I don't want you to see only a tiger when you look at me. I want you to see me. The man." Reaching out, he almost touched my cheek but he stopped and withdrew his hand. "I've worn the tiger's face for far too many years. He's stolen my humanity." I nodded while he squeezed my hands and whispered quietly, "Kells, I don't want to be him anymore. I want to be me. I want to have a life." "I know," I said softly. I reached up to stroke his cheek. "Ren, I-" I froze in place as he pulled my hand slowly down to his lips and kissed my palm. My hand tingled. His blue eyes searched my face desperately, wanting, needing something from me. I wanted to say something to reassure him. I wanted to offer him comfort. I just couldn't frame the words. His supplication stirred me. I felt a deep bond with him, a strong connection. I wanted to help him, I wanted to be his friend, and I wanted...maybe something more. I tried to identify and categorize my reactions to him. What I felt for him seemed too complicated to define, but it soon became obvious to me that the strongest emotion I felt, the one that was stirring my heart, was...love.

Tom looked at St. Vincent. “I assume the editor at the Chronicle refused to divulge the writer’s identity?” St. Vincent looked rueful. “Categorically. I’ll have to find a way to pry it out of him without bringing the entire British press to his defense.” “Yes,” Tom mused, tapping his lower lip with a fingertip, “they tend to be so touchy about protecting their sources.” “Trenear,” Lord Ripon said through gritted teeth, “will you kindly throw him out?” “I’ll see myself out,” Tom said casually. He turned as if to leave, and paused as if something had just occurred to him. “Although … as your friend, Trenear, I find it disappointing that you haven’t asked about my day. It makes me feel as if you don’t care.” Before Devon could respond, Pandora jumped in. “I will,” she volunteered eagerly. “How was your day, Mr. Severin?” Tom sent her a brief grin. “Busy. After six tedious hours of business negotiations, I paid a call to the chief editor of the London Chronicle.” St. Vincent lifted his brows. “After I’d already met with him?” Trying to look repentant, Tom replied, “I know you said not to. But I had a bit of leverage you didn’t.” “Oh?” “I told him the paper’s owner would dismiss him and toss him out on the pavement if he didn’t name the anonymous writer.” St. Vincent stared at him quizzically. “You bluffed?” “No, that is what the business negotiations were about. I’m the new owner. And while the chief editor happens to be a staunch advocate for freedom of the press, he’s also a staunch supporter of not losing his job.” “You just bought the London Chronicle,” Devon said slowly, to make certain he hadn’t misheard. “Today.” “No one could do that in less than a day,” Ripon sneered. Winterborne smiled slightly. “He could,” he said, with a nod toward Tom. “I did,” Tom confirmed, picking idly at a bit of lint on his cuff. “All it took was a preliminary purchase agreement and some earnest money.

I also suspect that he loves you." Trying to suppress the anguished hope that flared in her heart, Lauren turned her face to the stained-glass window near their table. "What makes you think so?" "To begin with, he isn't treating you the way he normally treats the women in his life." "I know that. He's nice to the others," Lauren said bitterly. "Exactly!" Mary agreed. "He's always treated his women with an attitude of amused indulgence...of tolerant indifference. While an affair lasts he's attentive and charming. When a woman begins to bore him he courteously but firmly dismisses her from his life. Not once to my knowledge has any woman touched an emotion in him deeper than affection or desire. I've seen them try in the most inventive ways to make him jealous,yet he has reacted with nothing stronger than amusement, or occasionally exasperation. Which brings us to you." Lauren blushed at being correctly categorized with the other woen Nick had taken to bed,but she knew it was useless to deny it. "You," Mary continued quietly, "have evoked genuine anger in him.He is furious with you and with himself. Yet he doesn't dismiss you fro his life; he doesn't even send you downstairs. Doesn't it seem odd to you that he won't let you work for Jim,and simply have you come upstairs to act as translator when Rossi's call finally comes through?" "I think he's keeping me up there for revenge," Lauren said grimly. "i think he is too.Perhaps he's trying to get back at you for what you're making him feel.Or possibly he's trying to find fault with you,so that he won't feel the way he does any longer. I don't know. Nick is a complex man. Jim, Ericka and I are all very close to him, and yet he keeps each one of us at a slight distance. There's a part of himself that he will not share with others, not even us.

Who cares? If you people want to call me Zainichi, go ahead! You Japanese are scared of me. Can't feel safe unless you categorize and label it, right? But you're wrong. You know what-- I'm a lion. A lion has no idea he's a lion. It's just a random name that you people gave him so you can feel like you know all about him. See what happens when you try to get closer, calling my name. I'll pounce on your carotid artery and tear you to shreds. You understand? As long as you call me Zainichi, you're always going to be my victim. I'm not Zainichi or South Korean or North Korean or Mongoloid. Quit forcing me into those narrow categories. I'm me! Wait, I don't even want to be me anymore. I want to be free from having to be me. I'll go anywhere to find whatever thing will let me forget who I am. And if that thing isn't here. I'll get out of this country, which is what you wanted anyway. You can't do that, can you? No, you'll all die, tied down by your ideas about country, land, titles, customs, traditions, and culture. Well, that's too bad. I never had any of that stuff, so I'm free to go anywhere! Jealous? Say you're jealous! Damn it, what am I saying? Damn it, damn it....

He said, “Many of your newspapers are speaking of war with the Soviet Union. Do the American people want war with the Soviet Union? “We don’t think so,” we answered. “We don’t think any people want war, but we don’t know.” He said, “Apparently the only voice speaking loudly in America against war is that of Henry Wallace. Can you tell me what his following is? Has he any real backing among the people?” We said, “We don’t know. But this we do know, that in one speaking tour Henry Wallace collected in paid admissions an unprecedented amount of money. We do know that this is the first time we have ever heard of that people paid to go to political meetings. And we do know that many people were turned away from these meetings, because there was no place for them to sit or stand. Whether this has any emphasis on the coming elections we have no idea. We only know that we, who have seen a little bit of war, do not favor it. And we feel that there are a great many people like us. We feel that if war is the only answer our leaders can give us, then we indeed live in a poverty-stricken time.” And then we asked, “Do the Russian people, or any section of them, or any section of the Russian government, want war?” At that he straightened up, put down his pencil, and said, “I can answer that categorically. Neither the Russian people, nor any section of them, nor any section of the Russian government, wants war. I can go further than that—the Russian people would do almost anything to avoid war. Of this I am certain.” And he took up his pencil again and made round doodles on his pad.

It’s that lack of faith in the public that always results in an erosion of the level of public discourse. A faithlessness in the public is a self-fulfilling prophecy. Remove complexity, and the capacity for complexity degrades farther. I think people can be trusted to handle a complicated truth. Plants are not omnipotent, otherworldly creatures. They are also not just like us. But neither are they neither of these things. There are elements of reality in both images, and fallacy in both too. This is hard stuff: one needs to welcome ambiguity and delight in the lack of easy tropes. Complexity is the rule in nature, after all. Thinking through this requires occupying a mental space of in-betweenness rarely tolerated in our contemporary world concerned with linear narratives and known entities. Báyò Akómoláfé, a Yoruba poet and philosopher, wrote about this in-betweenness, contemplating the way all creatures are in fact composite organisms. The state of nature is one of interpenetration and mingling that defies easy categorization. It occupies a middle place, both in the material reality of the world and in our understanding of it. “The middle I speak of is not halfway between two poles; it is porousness that mocks the very idea of separation,” he writes. Akómoláfé outlines our collective biological reality as a state of “brilliant betweenness” that “defeats everything, corrodes every boundary, spills through marked territory, and crosses out every confident line.” It reminds me of Trewavas, telling me in his living room outside Edinburgh that scientists don’t know enough about plants to say anything dogmatic about them.

I’m reminded of my college days when I watch these specialists, each with a pet theory, each contorting the evidence to fit. I’m even less convinced by them now than I was back then; they still have nothing to teach me. None of their categorizations are fruitful in analyzing my performance, since – there’s no point in denying it – I’m equally good at everything. I could be studying a new class of equation, or the grammar of a foreign language, or the operation of an engine; in each case, everything fits together, all the elements cooperate beautifully. In each case, I don’t have to consciously memorize rules, and then apply them mechanically. I just perceive how the system behaves as a whole, as an entity. Of course, I’m aware of all the details and individual steps, but they require so little concentration that they almost feel intuitive. Penetrating

You have to tell him at some point. It’s like a Band-Aid—you should just rip it off. If you don’t, it’ll haunt you forever. Or he’ll find out from someone else, which is worse.” Mom comes in then with a tray of tea for all of us. “I couldn’t have put it any better myself, Beth.” “What?” I ask, almost spilling the hot tea onto my precious laptop. “Beth’s right. You need to just ’fess up and take things from there.” She blows on her tea, calm as a spring breeze. “I knew it had to have something to do with a boy. You never get sick. A broken leg or a concussion I would’ve believed, but not a virus. And I could tell by your demeanor that this was a sickness of the heart, not the body.” “There you go again with your romance novel logic.” I shake my head. She points a scolding finger at me. “Don’t discount romance novels. What do you think that stuff you write for your blog is? You call it ‘fanfic’ but it could absolutely be categorized as romance. Love, finding that other person who understands you, is a part of everyone’s life. Some of the most beautiful and poignant words I’ve ever read have been in romance novels.” “Okay, first off,” Beth says, “we’ll talk about your fanfiction another time. Secondly, your mom is totally right. ’Fess up already.

You know, the kind of person who gets this tattoo is probably the kind that should keep it very quiet,” she says, looking at me from the corner of her eye. “Or else someone will start thinking they’re Divergent.” “Divergent?” “That’s a word we have for people who are aware during simulations, who refuse categorization,” she says. “A word you don’t speak without care, because those people often die in mysterious circumstances.” She has her elbows resting on her knees, casual, as she sketches the tattoo I want on transfer paper. Our eyes meet, and I realize: Amar. Amar was aware during simulations, and now he’s dead. Amar was Divergent. And so am I. “Thanks for the vocabulary lesson,” I say. “No problem.” She returns to her drawing. “I’m getting the feeling you enjoy putting yourself through the wringer.” “So?” I say. “Nothing, it’s just a pretty Dauntless quality for someone who got an Abnegation result.

There's no pride for me in my skin being white. I was born this way, I had no choice, I had no say. There was no test of worthiness before I was bestowed with white skin. My mom and dad were white, and they fucked, and their kid was white, so fucking what? And people say to me when I make this argument, "Well, what about cultural pride? You know, what about pride in where you came from, what about pride in your fucking pedigree?" Like I'm supposed to get all misty-eyed thinking about the accomplishments of the white race. "We invented wax paper! So beautiful! Hahaha!" No, Thomas Edison invented it, or knowing what a piece of shit he was, he probably stole it from some poor sap. But whoever invented wax paper, it wasn't me, I wasn't there. But let's say I did decide to take pride in that. Let's say I looked at the long history of what the white race had done and took it as my own and said, "Yeah, I'm part of this!" Well, in that case, then I probably SHOULD pay reparations to black people, right? Because if I'm going to own the accomplishments, I also have to own the fucking atrocities. But you know what? I don't want either. I want to be an individual, with my own drives, and convictions, and principles, not just a cultural unit, not just a series of superficial identity categorizations.

Here’s the trick to significantly improving your SaaS email marketing skills—you have to become a student of it. This means you should: Start collecting great email copy, CTAs, and designs. Understand the objective behind each and every email that businesses send. Try to understand the rationale behind copy, link, and design decisions. There are great websites like Really Good Emails11, Good Email Copy12, and Good Sales Emails.com13 that you can use for your research. These sites categorize email copy and designs by types. As well as this, you should sign up to receive emails from some of the leading SaaS brands. Those include, among others: Drift MailChimp Pipedrive Shopify SurveyMonkey Trello Wistia Zapier You should also sign up to competing products and mailing lists from companies in your sector. I personally signed up to thousands of products and newsletters. It’s great for benchmarking and research. At the time of writing, I’ve already passively collected more than 60,000 emails. Obviously, don’t sign up to your competitors’ products with a business email address! I have a special email address I use for this. This account allows me to get data, understand what other organizations are doing, and find good copy ideas. For example, here’s what a search for ‘Typeform’ gives me: Figure 18.1 – Inbox Inspiration It’s not uncommon for me to sign up several times to the same product or newsletter. This allows me to see what they have learned and to track the evolution of their email marketing program. At LANDR, we created a shared document to keep track of subject lines, offers, and copy we wanted to test. Our copywriter was even going through his junk mail folder to find ideas and inspiration. There are tests we ran that were inspired by copy found in his spam folder. Some of them turned out to be really successful too—so keep your eyes open for inspiration. You can use Evernote, Paper, or any other platform to collaborate on idea generation. Alternatively, you can subscribe to paid services like Mailcharts14 or Mailody15. These services will help you track and understand your competitors’ email programs. Build processes to find and access copy and design ideas. It will help you create better emails, faster. In the next chapter we’ll get started creating our first email sequences.

most other psychiatric illnesses, personality disorders are generally considered to develop in early adulthood and to persist for extended periods. These personality traits tend to be enduring and change only gradually over time. However, the categorical system of definitions may result in an unrealistically abrupt diagnostic change.

Biological systems are a chemical inevitability in the right circumstances. There is, of course, something special about life—I won’t take that away from it—but it is a chemical process, a dynamic, kinetic stability that exists, as your scientists have said, “far from thermodynamic equilibrium.” You don’t have to understand this or believe me, but life is fairly common in both time and space. It is not special, nor is it particularly fragile. The best measure I have of the size and complexity of a biosphere is calories of energy captured per square meter per year. Higher is more impressive, and always more beautiful, but this measures nothing of the creation of a system like humanity. For that, my awakened mind categorizes systems by bytes of information transmitted. This will sound to you like it’s a relatively new phenomenon on your planet, but it’s not. Even pelagibacter transmit information, if only to daughter cells. Ants spray pheromones, bees dance, birds sing—all of these are comparatively low-bandwidth systems for communication. But your system caused an inflection point. The graph of data flow switched from linear to exponential growth. Maybe you would call this system “humanity,” but I wouldn’t. It is not just a collection of individuals; it is also a collection of ideas stored inside of individuals and objects and even ideas inside ideas. If that seems like a trivial difference to you, well, I guess I can forgive you since you do not know what the rest of the universe looks like. Collections of individuals are beautiful, but they are as common as pelagibacter. Collections of ideas are veins of gold in our universe.

Biological systems are a chemical inevitability in the right circumstances. There is, of course, something special about life—I won’t take that away from it—but it is a chemical process, a dynamic, kinetic stability that exists, as your scientists have said, “far from thermodynamic equilibrium.” You don’t have to understand this or believe me, but life is fairly common in both time and space. It is not special, nor is it particularly fragile. The best measure I have of the size and complexity of a biosphere is calories of energy captured per square meter per year. Higher is more impressive, and always more beautiful, but this measures nothing of the creation of a system like humanity. For that, my awakened mind categorizes systems by bytes of information transmitted. This will sound to you like it’s a relatively new phenomenon on your planet, but it’s not. Even pelagibacter transmit information, if only to daughter cells. Ants spray pheromones, bees dance, birds sing—all of these are comparatively low-bandwidth systems for communication. But your system caused an inflection point. The graph of data flow switched from linear to exponential growth. Maybe you would call this system “humanity,” but I wouldn’t. It is not just a collection of individuals; it is also a collection of ideas stored inside of individuals and objects and even ideas inside ideas. If that seems like a trivial difference to you, well, I guess I can forgive you since you do not know what the rest of the universe looks like. Collections of individuals are beautiful, but they are as common as pelagibacter. Collections of ideas are veins of gold in our universe. They must be cherished and protected. My parents, whoever and whatever they were, gave me knowledge of many systems—it was locked in my code before I was sent here to self-assemble—and the only thing I can tell you about systems like yours is that they are rare because they are unstable. Dynamite flows through their veins. A single solid jolt and they’re gone. If my data sets are accurate, you are rare, fragile, and precious.

So, what is beauty if it isn’t Angelina Jolie and Reese Witherspoon? Why do we try to pin it down by categorizing it as absolute? Why limit it at all? Why is classic beauty the gold standard? Why is gold the gold standard? And what is “classic”? What’s precious about precious stones? Why are diamonds a girl’s best friend? Don’t tell me what beauty is before I know it for myself.

I won’t have sex with you,” I say categorically. “You don’t have to,” Nicholas says, his eyes challenging mine. “But I promise you one thing. You will be begging me to do it before our time is up.

Usually people say that to mean that I’m too much—too colorful, too passionate, too smart, too dramatic, too sarcastic. It’s what people say when they don’t know how to categorize me, as if I should just fit into the social box of a woman who wants a picket fence and two kids, just like my mom.

My favorite chapter is about dogs. In it the author explains that dogs are not animals. According to him, or her (I don't know what sex authors are in the same way I don't know their names), dogs are a concept. A Doberman is not much like a Cocker Spaniel which shares few characteristics with a Chihuahua; a Saint-Bernard can meet a Pekingese and, theoretically, they can mate, but does that ever happen and would it be a good thing? Because, although zoologically they belong to the same species, in practical terms it's blindingly obvious they're not made for each other. The author went on to say how amazed he (or she) was that his three-year-old daughter (the tendency to mix personal life with reasoning makes me incline towards an Anglo-Saxon writer) could always recognize a dog when she saw one in the street, even though the animals she pointed at so enthusiastically- delighted by an opportunity to display her combined mastery of language and categorization- didn't look anything like each other. If a cat appeared, even a big beefy one, she would not be fooled. If a pony turned up, even the smallest of its lineage, smaller at the wither than a Great Dane, she would not cry 'Dog! Dog!' She knew. Even if they don't bark, have their ears trimmed so they prick up, or are bundled into miniature anoraks to protect them from inclement weather, dogs maintain their conceptual integrity.

I've ordered ice-cold ficoide in truffle vinaigrette. Ficoide is a rare kind of salad with thick fleshy leaves prettily arranged round a delicious pulpy stem. I don't know where you buy the stuff. At Chez moi I have ordinary lettuce and romaine lettuce, and also rocket which I toss into gravy because I've got an idea rocket is a meat-like plant: I'm keen to reconcile it with its animal tendencies. It's a waste because most people leave it on the side of the plate, shriveled and pathetic as if it were a failed garnish. Still, I press on with my attempted trans-categorization: I feel it's what the various foodstuffs expect of me, what I'm supposed to give to the world. Rocket with meat. Avocados with fruit. White wine with cheese. I realign friendships, cheat at Happy Families.

He doesn’t abuse me.” She fell into silence for a beat or two. Then she added, “Maybe I shouldn’t say that, though. I’m categorizing abuse as only physical abuse. There’s also emotional abuse and verbal abuse, and they call it abuse for a reason, right? Years ago I had a friend, somebody I don’t see anymore, and she told me something I’ll never forget. She said we’ll let people abuse us as much as we’re willing to abuse ourselves. But once they start treating us worse than we treat ourselves, then we know they have to go.” “So . . . are you worried that when you start to be better to yourself, there might be no room left for Stan?

…the literary world is filled with kooks and fanatical people obsessed with writers but they don’t write themselves or are afraid to. I can always tell who writes for a living by what they want to discuss with me. Anyone who makes a living or earns money writing has shared their works etc; likes to discuss life itself ie: anything except writing. And if it’s discussed it’s usually in terms of endearment, writers who influenced us to attempt to make money writing. Anyone who fantasizes about writing or being a writer and maybe just writes casually and privately, oddly wants to talk about authors. To critique them categorize them and talk about their interpretations of their works and other various judgments on why they are good or not. If you ask them why they haven’t published they tend to have a list of cowardly reasons why they can’t bring themselves to completing or showing anything they have written or published themselves …

My aim for this archaeological project is twofold. Contrary to what many think, diagnoses are helpful but by no means necessary for the work of psychotherapy. They are crucial if one is to prescribe medication or bill an insurance provider, of course, but they don't play nearly as large of a role in two people talking to one another. When a client comes to me and tells me that they have bipolar disorder, depression, or the like, I file it away as necessary data. However, that categorization is far less interesting or meaningful to me than exploring what gives their life purpose and how they could better live into their values. To paraphrase the British psychoanalyst Donald Winnicott, the business of therapy is really just two people playing together. I have found that the fear of diagnosis, what it might mean to be labeled as "depressed" or "anxious," much less "psychotic," prevents many people from consulting a therapist when they need help. A label that isn't all that useful to my work serves as an impediment to those in need. Perhaps it's time to rethink the utility of those labels, or at least how we relate to them. Once I know the person sitting in front of me has schizophrenia, the focus becomes fixed on treating their hallucinations and delusions, on helping them best integrate into society. We thus exempt ourselves from considering everything that came before they entered our office. What if it was possible to both acknowledge their suffering while also condemning the injustices and inequalities that have helped lead them here? That is the task that I have set for myself in the following pages.