Don't Throw In The Towel Quotes

People always want to know what it feels like, so I’ll tell you: there’s a sting when you first slice, and then your heart speeds up when you see the blood, because you know you’ve done something you shouldn’t have, and yet you’ve gotten away with it. Then you sort of go into a trance, because it’s truly dazzling—that bright red line, like a highway route on a map that you want to follow to see where it leads. And—God—the sweet release, that’s the best way I can describe it, kind of like a balloon that’s tied to a little kid’s hand, which somehow breaks free and floats into the sky. You just know that balloon is thinking, Ha, I don’t belong to you after all; and at the same time, Do they have any idea how beautiful the view is from up here? And then the balloon remembers, after the fact, that it has a wicked fear of heights. When reality kicks in, you grab some toilet paper or a paper towel (better than a washcloth, because the stains don’t ever come out 100 percent) and you press hard against the cut. You can feel your embarrassment; it’s a backbeat underneath your pulse. Whatever relief there was a minute ago congeals, like cold gravy, into a fist in the pit of your stomach. You literally make yourself sick, because you promised yourself last time would be the last time, and once again, you’ve let yourself down. So you hide the evidence of your weakness under layers of clothes long enough to cover the cuts, even if it’s summertime and no one is wearing jeans or long sleeves. You throw the bloody tissues into the toilet and watch the water go pink before you flush them into oblivion, and you wish it were really that easy.

As if I didn't have enough to worry about. My kingdom is threatened by war, extinction, or both, and the only way to solve it is to give up the only thing I've ever really wanted. Then Toraf pulls something like this. Betrays me and my sister. Galen cant imagine how things could get worse. So he's not expecting it when Emma giggles. He turns on her. "What could be funny?" She laughs so hard she has to lean into him for support. He stiffens against the urge to wrap his arms around her. Wiping tears from her eyes, she says, "He kissed me!" The confession makes her crack up all over again. "And you think that's funny?" "You don't understand, Galen," she says, the beginnings of hiccups robbing her of breath. "Obviously." "Don't you see? It worked!" "All I saw was Toraf, my sister's mate, my best friend, kissing my...my..." "Your what?" "Student." Obsession. "Your student. Wow." Emma shakes her head then hiccups. "Well, I know you're mad about what he did to Rayna, but he did it to make her jealous." Galen tries to let that sink in, but it stays on the surface like a bobber. "You're saying he kissed you to make Rayna jealous?" She nods, laugher bubbling up again. "And it worked! Did you see her face?" "You're saying he set Rayna up." Instead of me? Galen shakes his head. "Where would he get an idea like that?" "I told him to do it." Galen's fists ball against his will. "You told him to kiss you?" "No! Sort of. Not really though." "Emma-" "I told him to play hard to get. You know, act uninterested. He came up with kissing me all on his own. I'm so proud of him!" She thinks Toraf is a genius for kissing her. Great. "Did...did you like it?" "I just told you I did, Galen." "Not his plan. The kiss." The delight leaves her face like a receding tide. "That's none of your business, Highness." He runs a hand through his hair to keep from shaking her. And kissing her. "Triton's trident, Emma. Did you like it or not?" Taking several steps back, she throws her hands on her hips. "Do you remember Mr. Pinter, Galen? World history?" "What does that have to do with anything?" "Tomorrow is Monday. When I walk into Mr. Pinter's class, he won't ask me how I liked Toraf's kiss. In fact, he won't care what I did for the entire weekend. Because I'm his student. Just like I'm your student, remember?" Her hair whips to the side as she turns and walks away with that intoxicating saunter of hers. She picks up her towel and steps into her flip-flops before heading up the hill to the house. "Emma, wait." "I'm tired of waiting, Galen. Good night.

But even while Rome is burning, there’s somehow time for shopping at IKEA. Social imperatives are a merciless bitch. Everyone is attempting to buy what no one can sell.  See, when I moved out of the house earlier this week, trawling my many personal belongings in large bins and boxes and fifty-gallon garbage bags, my first inclination was, of course, to purchase the things I still “needed” for my new place. You know, the basics: food, hygiene products, a shower curtain, towels, a bed, and umm … oh, I need a couch and a matching leather chair and a love seat and a lamp and a desk and desk chair and another lamp for over there, and oh yeah don’t forget the sideboard that matches the desk and a dresser for the bedroom and oh I need a coffeetable and a couple end tables and a TV-stand for the TV I still need to buy, and don’t these look nice, whadda you call ’em, throat pillows? Oh, throw pillows. Well that makes more sense. And now that I think about it I’m going to want my apartment to be “my style,” you know: my own motif, so I need certain decoratives to spruce up the decor, but wait, what is my style exactly, and do these stainless-steel picture frames embody that particular style? Does this replica Matisse sketch accurately capture my edgy-but-professional vibe? Exactly how “edgy” am I? What espresso maker defines me as a man? Does the fact that I’m even asking these questions mean I lack the dangling brass pendulum that’d make me a “man’s man”? How many plates/cups/bowls/spoons should a man own? I guess I need a diningroom table too, right? And a rug for the entryway and bathroom rugs (bath mats?) and what about that one thing, that thing that’s like a rug but longer? Yeah, a runner; I need one of those, and I’m also going to need…

While you desire lasting change with positive results, it will take commitment from you to transform your dreams into a reality. Be aware that there can be tough moments when you're ready to throw in the towel. Frustrating times when you may want to quit. When it gets rough or you hit a roadblock, you must forge ahead and keep going. Despite blood, sweat, and tears, do not give up on yourself. You are worth the fight for a brighter future!

My dad picked me up and rocked me in the chair. I felt small and weak and I wanted to hold him back but I couldn’t because there wasn’t any strength in my arms, and I wanted to ask him if he had held me like this when I was a boy because I didn’t remember and why didn’t I remember. I started to think that maybe I was still dreaming, but my mother was changing the sheets on my bed so I knew that everything was real. Except me. I think I was mumbling. My father held me tighter and whispered something, but not even his arms or his whispers could keep me from trembling. My mom dried my sweaty body with a towel and she and my dad changed me into a clean T-shirt and clean underwear. And then I said the strangest thing, “Don’t throw my T-shirt away. Dad gave it to me.” I knew I was crying, but I didn’t know why because I wasn’t the kind of guy who cried, and I thought that maybe it was someone else who was crying.

And what percentage of people take up the option to die off?’ She looked at me, her glance telling me to be calm. ‘Oh, a hundred per cent, of course. Over many thousands of years, calculated by old time, of course. But yes, everyone takes the option, sooner or later.’ ‘So it’s just like the first time round? You always die in the end?’ ‘Yes, except don’t forget the quality of life here is much better. People die when they decide they’ve had enough, not before. The second time round it’s altogether more satisfying because it’s willed.’ She paused, then added, ‘As I say, we cater for what people want.’ I hadn’t been blaming her. I’m not that sort. I just wanted to find out how the system worked. ‘So … even people, religious people, who come here to worship God throughout eternity … they end up throwing in the towel after a few years, hundred years, thousand years?’ ‘Certainly. As I said, there are still a few Old Heaveners around, but their numbers are diminishing all the time.

Things I Used to Get Hit For: Talking back. Being smart. Acting stupid. Not listening. Not answering the first time. Not doing what I’m told. Not doing it the second time I’m told. Running, jumping, yelling, laughing, falling down, skipping stairs, lying in the snow, rolling in the grass, playing in the dirt, walking in mud, not wiping my feet, not taking my shoes off. Sliding down the banister, acting like a wild Indian in the hallway. Making a mess and leaving it. Pissing my pants, just a little. Peeing the bed, hardly at all. Sleeping with a butter knife under my pillow. Shitting the bed because I was sick and it just ran out of me, but still my fault because I’m old enough to know better. Saying shit instead of crap or poop or number two. Not knowing better. Knowing something and doing it wrong anyway. Lying. Not confessing the truth even when I don’t know it. Telling white lies, even little ones, because fibbing isn’t fooling and not the least bit funny. Laughing at anything that’s not funny, especially cripples and retards. Covering up my white lies with more lies, black lies. Not coming the exact second I’m called. Getting out of bed too early, sometimes before the birds, and turning on the TV, which is one reason the picture tube died. Wearing out the cheap plastic hole on the channel selector by turning it so fast it sounds like a machine gun. Playing flip-and-catch with the TV’s volume button then losing it down the hole next to the radiator pipe. Vomiting. Gagging like I’m going to vomit. Saying puke instead of vomit. Throwing up anyplace but in the toilet or in a designated throw-up bucket. Using scissors on my hair. Cutting Kelly’s doll’s hair really short. Pinching Kelly. Punching Kelly even though she kicked me first. Tickling her too hard. Taking food without asking. Eating sugar from the sugar bowl. Not sharing. Not remembering to say please and thank you. Mumbling like an idiot. Using the emergency flashlight to read a comic book in bed because batteries don’t grow on trees. Splashing in puddles, even the puddles I don’t see until it’s too late. Giving my mother’s good rhinestone earrings to the teacher for Valentine’s Day. Splashing in the bathtub and getting the floor wet. Using the good towels. Leaving the good towels on the floor, though sometimes they fall all by themselves. Eating crackers in bed. Staining my shirt, tearing the knee in my pants, ruining my good clothes. Not changing into old clothes that don’t fit the minute I get home. Wasting food. Not eating everything on my plate. Hiding lumpy mashed potatoes and butternut squash and rubbery string beans or any food I don’t like under the vinyl seat cushions Mom bought for the wooden kitchen chairs. Leaving the butter dish out in summer and ruining the tablecloth. Making bubbles in my milk. Using a straw like a pee shooter. Throwing tooth picks at my sister. Wasting toothpicks and glue making junky little things that no one wants. School papers. Notes from the teacher. Report cards. Whispering in church. Sleeping in church. Notes from the assistant principal. Being late for anything. Walking out of Woolworth’s eating a candy bar I didn’t pay for. Riding my bike in the street. Leaving my bike out in the rain. Getting my bike stolen while visiting Grandpa Rudy at the hospital because I didn’t put a lock on it. Not washing my feet. Spitting. Getting a nosebleed in church. Embarrassing my mother in any way, anywhere, anytime, especially in public. Being a jerk. Acting shy. Being impolite. Forgetting what good manners are for. Being alive in all the wrong places with all the wrong people at all the wrong times.

Southern is a design element these days. A large craft market exists for this Decorative Southernness. Framed art and throw pillows saying – "I Love You Like Biscuits and Gravy" and "Bless Your Heart!" But I've yet to see a "You Don't Look Like You're From Around Here" dish towel. This was the phrase I heard most growing up in small town Florida.

Remain Healthy All Day: Drink a spoonful of oil every morning. Reach up with your arms and extend your body to its full height. Use a warm towel to dry the cat. Consider a philosophical idea larger than your area of expertise. Avoid getting cancer. Chalk up bad decisions to outside influences. Don't take your father too seriously. Play a game where you close your eyes very tightly, and when you open your eyes, you have amnesia and you must draw the details of your life from your surroundings. Give up smoking, drinking, and poetic verse. Remind yourself how important you are to your friends or at least your animals. Wax the floor in socks. Enter into a healthy, monogamous relationship. Consider briefly the idea of a soulmate. Light an entire box of matches and throw it into the sink. Hold a metal rod to the heavens and beg for whatever comes next.

Benny spent maybe thousands sending her to head-shrinkers. Even the famous one, the one can only speak German, boy, did he throw in the towel. You can’t talk her out of these”—he made a fist, as though to crush an intangible—“ideas. Try it sometime. Get her to tell you some of the stuff she believes. Mind you,” he said, “I like the kid. Everybody does, but there’s lots that don’t. I do. I sincerely like the kid. I’m sensitive, that’s why. You’ve got to be sensitive to appreciate her: a streak of the poet.

I know you are tired. I know you are hurting. I know that even among the crowds and or with your closest loved ones, you feel terribly alone in the world. I know that in the quietness, a thousand hell hounds are barking and snarling at your heels. They tell you, "Everything is wrong with you. You are a failure. You will never live to see your dreams and visions come to pass. You know you should just throw in the towel. No one would even miss you if you were gone. Exit from this cruel insane assylum you call home. We will even tell you how to end 'it'." But don't you dare entertain those hounds of hell, no, not even for one moment. See, you not only have the elixir of Life inside of your organs and your veins; you are the Elixir of Life of a Celestial domain. For every hell hound nipping at your ears, there are eight hundred angels rushing to you with every holy breath....you take. Every step you make fuels the fire of Love in your behalf. See, nothing is wrong with you. Every thing is right with you. You are cut from iron. You have long exchanged your velveteen fabric and cotton stuffing for blazen guts and a heart of gold. You are the head and not the tail. You are the water in the desert, the ripple in the steam, the sword AND the stone and you, glorious being, are not alone! We are one and we are many. We've known lack, but we are plenty. We are not on the cusp of a break through. We are the cusp and we are the break --- through. We are the old and we are the new. Who knew? You did. You do. And don't you ever forget that.

Oh shit, I wouldn’t use that towel if I were you,” Gavin mumbles. I ignore him scrubbing every inch of my face, hoping that maybe I can rub away the memory of the words my mother spoke to me. “Seriously dude, give me that thing,” Gavin says, Interrupting my thoughts. I pull the towel away and glare at his reflection in the mirror. He’s standing behind me with a look of disgust on his face and his hand out. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I just found out that my mom was a slut and has no idea who my dad is and all you’re worried about is your precious towel?” I ramble, my voice getting that hysterical squeak to it. “What’s wrong? Is this one of Charlotte’s ‘good’ towels, reserved for guests or some shit? Fuck, are you pussy whipped.” Gavin shakes his head at me and tries reaching over my shoulder to take the towel. I snatch it away and turn to face him. “What is your fucking deal? It’s a Goddamn towel!” I yell. “Yeah, it’s a jizz towel, dude.” I look at him in confusion, glancing down at the towel and back up at him when what he said finally sinks in. He’s biting his lip and I can’t tell if he’s trying not to laugh or if he’s trying to think of a way to run out of here as fast as he can. “Hey, what are you guys doing in the bathroom?” Charlotte asks, suddenly appearing in the doorway. “Oh, my God! Did you just use that towel, Tyler?” I quickly throw the towel away from me like it’s on fire and it lands in the toilet. “Dammit, don’t throw it in the toilet, you’ll ruin it!” Charlotte scolds. “I’m pretty sure you ruined it by putting jizz on it!” I scream. “Why the fuck would you leave a jizz towel on the sink where anyone could use it?” “I’d never use it. I knew it was a jizz towel,” Gavin replies with a shrug. “Oh, my God! I scrubbed my fucking face with a towel that had your dry, crusty jizz on it!” I can’t believe this is happening right now. My mom had a foursome, my dad isn’t my dad and now I have jizz face. Moving as fast as I can, I jump into the shower and turn on the water, not even caring that I’m fully clothed. “Do you want us to leave so you can take your clothes off?” Charlotte asks, as the water rains down on me, soaking my t-shirt and jeans. “I am NOT taking my clothes off. There could be trace particles of jizz on them! I’m going to have to burn these clothes!” I complain. I keep my face under the scalding hot water, taking in large mouthfuls, swishing and then spitting on the shower floor. “Eeew, don’t spit in our shower!” Charlotte scolds. “I HAVE GAVIN’S JIZZ ON MY FACE! I WILL SPIT WHEREVER THE FUCK I WANT!

I believe another one of the Song girls has a birthday coming up.” He sings, “You are sixteen, going on seventeen…” I feel a strong surge of love for him, my dad who I am so lucky to have. “What song are you singing?” Kitty interrupts. I take Kitty’s hands and spin her around the kitchen with me. “I am sixteen, going on seventeen; I know that I’m naïve. Fellows I meet may tell me I’m sweet; willingly I believe.” Daddy throws his dish towel over his shoulder and marches in place. In a deep voice he baritones, “You need someone older and wiser telling you what to do…” “This song is sexist,” Kitty says as I dip her. “Indeed it is,” Daddy agrees, swatting her with the towel. “And the boy in question was not, in fact, older and wiser. He was a Nazi in training.” Kitty skitters away from both of us. “What are you guys even talking about?” “It’s from The Sound of Music,” I say. “You mean that movie about the nun? Never seen it.” “How have you seen The Sopranos but not The Sound of Music?” Alarmed, Daddy says, “Kitty’s been watching The Sopranos?” “Just the commercials,” Kitty quickly says. I go on singing to myself, spinning in a circle like Liesl at the gazebo. “I am sixteen going on seventeen, innocent as a rose…Fellows I meet may tell me I’m sweet, and willingly I believe…” “Why would you just willingly believe some random fellows you don’t even know?” “It’s the song, Kitty, not me! God!” I stop spinning. “Liesl was kind of a ninny, though. I mean, it was basically her fault they almost got captured by the Nazis.” “I would venture to say it was Captain von Trapp’s fault,” Daddy says. “Rolfe was a kid himself--he was going to let them go, but then Georg had to antagonize him.” He shakes his head. “Georg von Trapp, he had quite the ego. Hey, we should do a Sound of Music night!” “Sure,” I say. “This movie sounds terrible,” Kitty says. “What kind of name is Georg?” We ignore her.

My feeling then was of forlornness, of the desperate inadequacies of this human linguistic apparatus that we employ to forestall, a little longer, aloneness, and of how futile these fumblings so often are. In the next lurch of solitude I began trying to add to the list of things not to say to someone in your marriage: Don’t ever use a pen while lying on the bed; don’t ever forget to put the cap back on a pen after using the pen; don’t ever use a pen if it’s new; put items in the refrigerator at ninety-degree angles; do not throw things in the bathroom trash if there are already a lot of things in the trash; don’t ever lie on the bed, made or unmade, in your clothes; don’t get into the bed without having showered; don’t put your bag on the bed, don’t put your bag on the chair, don’t put your bag on the counter, don’t put your bag on the table; don’t ever do the laundry; don’t bite your nails; don’t put the toilet paper facing out; don’t put the toilet paper facing in; don’t accelerate quickly; don’t wear those colors together, don’t wear those colors together, don’t wear a stripe and a plaid, don’t wear that shirt, that looks bad on you, that looks bad on you, and that looks bad on you, and that looks bad on you, and that looks bad on you too, are you sure you want to wear that, that looks bad on you; please stay out of the house one night a week, please stay out of the house a couple of nights a week so I can have some privacy; don’t put that there; don’t put that there; that plastic cup was given to me by my grandmother; don’t use my towel; don’t use my bathroom; you don’t understand your own family; you don’t understand your own role in your own family; you don’t understand what people think of you; you don’t understand other people; you don’t understand me, you don’t understand yourself; I need money for clothes, I need money for credit cards, I need money for school; don’t cut your meat on the plate, that sound is awful, cut your meat on the cutting board before putting it on your plate; don’t touch me. And when I was done

The rest of the house was perfectly in order, as it always is, thanks to my system. It doesn’t have a name—I just call it my system. Let’s say a person is down in the dumps, or maybe just lazy, and they stop doing the dishes. Soon the dishes are piled sky-high and it seems impossible to even clean a fork. So the person starts eating with dirty forks out of dirty dishes and this makes the person feel like a homeless person. So they stop bathing. Which makes it hard to leave the house. The person begins to throw trash anywhere and pee in cups because they’re closer to the bed. We’ve all been this person, so there is no place for judgment, but the solution is simple: Fewer dishes. They can’t pile up if you don’t have them. This is the main thing, but also: Stop moving things around. How much time do you spend moving objects to and from? Before you move something far from where it lives, remember you’re eventually going to have to carry it back to its place—is it really worth it? Can’t you read the book standing right next to the shelf with your finger holding the spot you’ll put it back into? Or better yet: don’t read it. And if you are carrying an object, make sure to pick up anything that might need to go in the same direction. This is called carpooling. Putting new soap in the bathroom? Maybe wait until the towels in the dryer are done and carry the towels and soap together. Maybe put the soap on the dryer until then. And maybe don’t fold the towels until the next time you have to use the restroom. When the time comes, see if you can put away the soap and fold towels while you’re on the toilet, since your hands are free. Before you wipe, use the toilet paper to blot excess oil from your face. Dinnertime: skip the plate. Just put the pan on a hot pad on the table. Plates are an extra step you can do for guests to make them feel like they’re at a restaurant. Does the pan need to be washed? Not if you only eat savory things out of it.

Let’s take the threshold idea one step further. If intelligence matters only up to a point, then past that point, other things—things that have nothing to do with intelligence—must start to matter more. It’s like basketball again: once someone is tall enough, then we start to care about speed and court sense and agility and ball-handling skills and shooting touch. So, what might some of those other things be? Well, suppose that instead of measuring your IQ, I gave you a totally different kind of test. Write down as many different uses that you can think of for the following objects: a brick a blanket This is an example of what’s called a “divergence test” (as opposed to a test like the Raven’s, which asks you to sort through a list of possibilities and converge on the right answer). It requires you to use your imagination and take your mind in as many different directions as possible. With a divergence test, obviously there isn’t a single right answer. What the test giver is looking for are the number and the uniqueness of your responses. And what the test is measuring isn’t analytical intelligence but something profoundly different—something much closer to creativity. Divergence tests are every bit as challenging as convergence tests, and if you don’t believe that, I encourage you to pause and try the brick-and-blanket test right now. Here, for example, are answers to the “uses of objects” test collected by Liam Hudson from a student named Poole at a top British high school: (Brick). To use in smash-and-grab raids. To help hold a house together. To use in a game of Russian roulette if you want to keep fit at the same time (bricks at ten paces, turn and throw—no evasive action allowed). To hold the eiderdown on a bed tie a brick at each corner. As a breaker of empty Coca-Cola bottles. (Blanket). To use on a bed. As a cover for illicit sex in the woods. As a tent. To make smoke signals with. As a sail for a boat, cart or sled. As a substitute for a towel. As a target for shooting practice for short-sighted people. As a thing to catch people jumping out of burning skyscrapers.

BACON, EGG, AND CHEDDAR CHEESE TOAST CUPS Preheat oven to 400 degrees F., rack in the middle position. 6 slices bacon (regular sliced, not thick sliced) 4 Tablespoons (2 ounces, ½ stick) salted butter, softened 6 slices soft white bread ½ cup grated cheddar cheese 6 large eggs Salt and pepper to taste Cook the 6 slices of bacon in a frying pan over medium heat for 6 minutes or until the bacon is firmed up and the edges are slightly brown, but the strips are still pliable. They won’t be completely cooked, but that’s okay. They will finish cooking in the oven. Place the partially-cooked bacon on a plate lined with paper towels to drain it. Generously coat the inside of 6 muffin cups with half of the softened butter. Butter one side of the bread with the rest of the butter but stop slightly short of the crusts. Lay the bread out on a sheet of wax paper or a bread board butter side up. Hannah’s 1st Note: You will be wasting a bit of butter here, but it’s easier than cutting rounds of bread first and trying to butter them after they’re cut. Using a round cookie cutter that’s three and a half inches (3 and ½ inches) in diameter, cut circles out of each slice of bread.   Hannah’s 2nd Note: If you don’t have a 3.5 inch cookie cutter, you can use the top rim of a standard size drinking glass to do this. Place the bread rounds butter side down inside the muffin pans, pressing them down gently being careful not to tear them as they settle into the bottom of the cup. If one does tear, cut a patch from the buttered bread that is left and place it, buttered side down, over the tear. Curl a piece of bacon around the top of each piece of bread, positioning it between the bread and the muffin tin. This will help to keep the bacon in a ring shape. Sprinkle shredded cheese in the bottom of each muffin cup, dividing the cheese as equally as you can between the 6 muffin cups. Crack an egg into a small measuring cup (I use a half-cup measure) with a spout, making sure to keep the yolk intact. Hannah’s 3rd Note: If you break a yolk, don’t throw the whole egg away. Just slip it in a small covered container which you will refrigerate and use for scrambled eggs the next morning, or for that batch of cookies you’ll make in the next day or two. Pour the egg carefully into the bottom of one of the muffin cups. Repeat this procedure for all the eggs, cracking them one at a time and pouring them into the remaining muffin cups. When every muffin cup has bread, bacon, cheese and egg, season with a little salt and pepper. Bake the filled toast cups for 6 to 10 minutes, depending on how firm you want the yolks. (Naturally, a longer baking time yields a harder yolk.) Run the blade of a knife around the edge of each muffin cup, remove the Bacon, Egg, and Cheddar Cheese Toast Cups, and serve immediately. Hannah’s 4th Note: These are a bit tricky the first time you make them. That’s just “beginner nerves”. Once you’ve made them successfully, they’re really quite easy to do and extremely impressive to serve for a brunch. Yield: 6 servings (or 3 servings if you’re fixing them for Mike and Norman).

DOC’S BRAN-OATMEAL-RAISIN COOKIES Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position. ¾ cup raisins (either regular or golden, your choice) ¾ cup boiling water 1 cup white (granulated) sugar ½ cup brown sugar (pack it down when you measure it) ¾ cup (1 and ½ sticks, 6 ounces) salted butter, softened to room temperature 2 large eggs ½ teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon baking soda 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon ¼ teaspoon grated nutmeg (freshly grated is best) 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 2 cups all-purpose flour (pack it down in the cup when you measure it) 1 and ½ cups dry quick oatmeal (I used Quaker Quick 1-Minute) 2 cups bran flake cereal Place ¾ cup of raisins in a 2-cup Pyrex measuring cup or a small bowl that can tolerate boiling water without cracking. Pour the ¾ cup boiling water over the raisins in the cup. Stir a bit with a fork so they don’t stick together, and then leave them, uncovered, on the counter to plump up. Prepare your cookie sheets by spraying them with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray, or lining them with parchment paper that you also spray with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray. Hannah’s 1st Note: This cookie dough is a lot easier to make if you use an electric mixer. Place the cup of white sugar in the bottom of a mixing bowl. Add the half-cup of brown sugar. Mix them together until they’re a uniform color. Place the softened butter in the mixer bowl and beat it together with the sugars until the mixture is nice and fluffy. Mix in the eggs, one at a time, beating after each addition. Add the salt, baking soda, cinnamon, nutmeg and vanilla extract. Beat until the mixture is smooth and well incorporated. On LOW speed, add the flour, one-half cup at a time, beating after each addition. Continue to beat until everything is well blended. Drain the raisins by dumping them in a strainer. Throw away any liquid that remains, then gently pat the raisins dry with a paper towel. With the mixer running on LOW speed, add the raisins to the cookie dough. With the mixer remaining on LOW speed, add the dry oatmeal in half-cup increments, mixing after each increment. Turn the mixer OFF, and let the dough rest while you prepare the bran flakes. Measure 2 cups of bran flake cereal and place them in a 1-quart freezer bag. Roll the bag up from the bottom, getting out as much air as possible, and then seal it with the bran flakes inside. Squeeze the bran flakes with your fingers, crushing them inside the bag. Place the bag on the counter and squash the bran flakes with your hands. Once they’re in fairly small pieces, take the bag over to the mixer. Turn the mixer on LOW speed. Open the bag and add the crushed bran flakes to your cookie dough, mixing until they’re well incorporated. Turn off the mixer, scrape down the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula, and give the bowl a final stir by hand. Drop the dough by rounded Tablespoonfuls (use a Tablespoon from your silverware drawer, not one you’d use for measuring ingredients) onto your prepared cookie sheet. There should be 12 cookie dough mounds on every standard-size cookie sheet. Hannah’s 2nd Note: Lisa and I use a level 2-Tablespoon scooper to form these cookies down at The Cookie Jar. Bake Doc’s Bran-Oatmeal-Raisin Cookies at 350 degrees F. for 13 to 15 minutes, or until golden brown on top. Remove the cookies from the oven, and let them cool on the cookie sheets for 2 minutes. Then remove them to a wire rack to cool completely. Yield: 2 to 3 dozen delicious cookies, depending on cookie size. Hannah’s 3rd Note: Doc had to warn the Lake Eden Memorial Hospital cooks not to let the patients have more than two cookies. Since they contain bran and bran is an aid to the digestive system, patients who eat a lot of these cookies could be spending a lot of time in the little room with the porcelain fixtures.

When one fall, there's an assurance from Law of Gravity that HE will rise. Don't quit, don't throw a towel just yet. Stand up, dust off then continue to try again. You are beautiful, if your mirror disagree - just change it or wipe the dust from your mirror coz you were made in the image and likeness of God

He'll walk into any room I'm sitting in, turn the lights down and walk out. He throws away everything I need. He starts a fight the day of every party. He takes off his shirt to poop. He insists on adjusting the color on the television when I'm trying to watch something — and I don't care about the color. He washes dark clothes with towels so all the nice black things are covered in lint. He notices when I'm low on windshield wiper fluid and refills me. He makes me coffee every morning and cooks practically every dinner. He gets nervous when he can't fix what I'm upset about. He loves animals so much it causes him pain. He'll run to the store at the drop of a hat. When my friend asked me what marriage was maybe I should have said marriage is when he's in the garage building me a new TV cabinet and I'm holding the flashlight while he looks for a drill bit. That would have been a better answer.

Maybe you have either found yourself in the similar dark place or are currently there. I want you to know that you are not alone and you still have power in your choice. You have the choice to throw in the towel or use it to wipe the sweat off of your face. If you don’t like your harvest, change your seed. So, GET UP & GROW!

Persistence - This is another way to relieve her of any responsibility for what is happening. Of course, don't confuse persistence with begging, arguing, or being pushy, needy, or creepy. All it means is don't give up too easily. Girls may test you to find out how easily you throw in the towel—they want to gauge your self-confidence. Just assume that she is giving a little token resistance, and continue. If she didn't resist at least a little bit, she would feel like a slut—and that's not going to happen. And if you can't take her crap, how in the world are you going to protect her from other people's crap? This can be tricky—an overly aggressive man might misinterpret all resistance as being merely token and could eventually find himself facing a rape charge. However, a man who isn't persistence enough will acquiesce every time a women resists, when in may cases she was secretly hoping he could be a little more forceful.

I don’t know if you feel conflict when you hear the phrase “new reality,” or if it makes you want to throw in the towel. When you realize that the only thing to be counted on is the shifting and reestablishing of proximity, do you ever feel like, why did I bother searching in the first place? We have to rewrite ourselves again and draw all new maps. What

Never feel sorry or down on your luck when life knocks you down. Do your best to get up. Don't throw in the towel never say that's enough you can get through it. This you just have to be tough and believe in the greatness and perseverance you have in YOU.

He had a mouth full of toothpaste when the door opened and Emma walked in, rubbing her face. She was carrying a bundle of clothes and squinting against the light, even though in her half-asleep state she still slapped her hand at the wall switch—and almost walked into him before she noticed his presence. “Oh.” She stopped and blinked at him. “I thought you were still in bed.” He spit out the toothpaste and grabbed the hand towel to wipe his mouth. “I usually make a bigger lump.” “I don’t look, because you throw the covers off and—” She broke off as her eyes drifted south to the towel, where bigger lump took on a whole new meaning. He’d thrown miles of punishment at his body for no reason. “Oh.” Rather than dwell on deciphering the tone of that oh, he took her by the shoulders and guided her far enough to the left so he could get by her. Once he was free, he closed the door behind him and swore under his breath. The only way that could have been more awkward was if his towel had slipped off in front of her. After getting dressed in record time, he flopped back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. This was the kind of story a woman would share with her best friend. And her best friend was married to his cousin. His cousin had a big mouth. The story would be embellished. It was only a matter of time before one of his brothers called, asking why he was naked with the woman he wasn’t supposed to be naked with. With a sigh, he pushed himself off the bed and headed downstairs. One, he wanted coffee. And, two, he didn’t want to be sprawled on the bed when Emma got around to leaving the bathroom. The only thing more awkward than being caught in a towel that didn’t do much to hide an erection was talking about it.

It needs to be said. I didn’t have the strongest stomach. I wasn’t the type of guy who could hold your hair while you puked and not be affected. Did that make me the worst possible boyfriend ever? Maybe. It’s entirely possible I’d throw you a towel and run out of the room gagging. I know it’s romantic to women—oh, my gosh, he’s so sweet he held my hair while I puked up last night’s hot dog and enough rum and Diet Coke to kill Captain Jack Sparrow! Seriously? What do you women read? How the hell is that romantic? Give me one reason. One. Just one. I don’t even need three. Oh, wow, silence, big shock. You wanna know why? Because it’s gross. Because if I had long hair and I were leaning over the toilet, God, you would not, ever, in your right mind waltz into the bathroom, put it in a ponytail, rub my back, wipe my mouth, and think, Wow, I really love this guy, oh, look a cracker!

The truth is, I don't need a great-leader highlight reel. I need the pain, the struggle, the Saturday nights when I just want to throw in the towel. I need to hear all the feels--anger, yes; jealousy, yep; but also numbness. I need this when the pain is too much, the problems too big, and the world too broken to feel like I can do a thing about it. Okay, I don't want a mentor who bleeds all over the place, but I don't want one that's totally polished either. I like my mentors just like I like my Bible characters: human, very human.

12:55 a.m.: i’m ready to go. At this point in the evening, the liquor fairy alights gently upon my shoulder and coos sweetly in my ear, “BITCH, YOU CAN’T AFFORD TO PARTY LIKE THIS,” and the gears in my brain slowly grind into motion, trying to recall exactly how many drinks I’ve had, and how much those drinks cost apiece, and whether or not anyone would notice if I tried to squeeze myself out of the tiny bathroom window and hitchhike home. I don’t feel stupid until I’m locked in a bathroom stall doing drunk calculus on a paper towel to determine if I can pay both my bar tab and my card payment that month. It was cute to throw that flimsy piece of plastic with 67% APR at the bartender two hours ago, but now I can’t find my friends and I know they’ve been running up my bill all night. What if I actually get my cell phone shut off because these bitches are too stuck up for well liquor? “Three vodkas divided by the light bill times the minimum payment plus cab fare back to my hotel—shit, I gotta go!!

We’ve always managed to bring the Reds into the line,’ said Schultes. ‘They tried to stage a revolution ten years ago and what became of it? The minute things get serious, they throw in the towel.’ ‘Let’s hope so,’ said Wolter and made a concerned face. ‘At any rate, we can’t allow this rabble to take over the streets.’ ‘No,’ Schultes replied, ‘but the Nazis with their brownshirts aren’t much better. Better marchers perhaps.’ ‘They don’t shoot police officers.’ Schultes fixed his gaze on Uncle. ‘Law and order must be maintained at all times. You’re right there, DCI Wolter.’ ‘That’s the job of uniform, not CID,’ said Rath. ‘I for one am happy that we have nothing to do with politics, only criminals.’ ‘Politicians, criminals – who said they aren’t one and the same?’ Schultes replied and everyone laughed.

I’m trying to make a profit. I’m using batteries, toilet paper, and paper towels as currency. Each is something that will eventually be in short supply.” “You’re trying to get all the toilet paper in town?” Astrid shrilled. “Are you kidding?” “No, Astrid, I’m not kidding,” Albert said. “Look, right now, kids are playing with the stuff. I saw little kids throwing rolls of it around on their lawns like it was a toy. So—” “So your solution is to try and take it all away from people?” “You’d rather see it wasted?” “Yeah, actually,” Astrid huffed. “Rather than you getting it all for yourself. You’re acting like a jerk.” Albert’s eyes flared. “Look, Astrid, now kids know they can buy their way into the club with it. So they’re not going to waste it anymore.” “No, they’re going to give it all to you,” she shot back. “And what happens when they need some?” “Then there will still be some left because I made it valuable.” “Valuable to you.” “Valuable to everyone, Astrid.” “It’s you taking advantage of kids dumb enough not to know any better. Sam, you have to put a stop to this.” Sam had drifted away from the conversation, his head full of the music. He snapped back. “She’s right, Albert, this isn’t okay. You didn’t get permission—” “I didn’t think I needed permission to give kids what they want. I mean, I’m not threatening anyone, saying, ‘Give me your toilet paper, give me your batteries.’ I’m just playing some music and saying, ‘If you want to come in and dance, then it’ll cost you.’” “Dude, I respect you being ambitious and all,” Sam said. “But I have to shut this down. You never got permission, even, let alone asked us if it was okay to charge people.” Albert said, “Sam, I respect you more than I can even say. And Astrid, you are way smarter than me. But I don’t see how you have the right to shut me down.” That was it for Sam. “Okay, I tried to be nice. But I am the mayor. I was elected, as you probably remember, since I think you voted for me.” “I did. I’d do it again, man. But Sam, Astrid, you guys are wrong here. This club is about all these kids have that can get them together for a good time. They’re sitting in their homes starving and feeling sad and scared. When they’re dancing, they forget how hungry and sad they are. This is a good thing I’m doing.” Sam stared hard at Albert, a stare that kids in Perdido Beach took seriously. But Albert did not back down. “Sam, how many cantaloupes did Edilio manage to bring back with kids who were rounded up and forced to work?” Albert asked. “Not many,” Sam admitted. “Orc picked a whole truckload of cabbage. Before the zekes figured out how to get at him. Because we paid Orc to work.” “He did it because he’s the world’s youngest alcoholic and you paid him with beer,” Astrid snapped. “I know what you want, Albert. You want to get everything for yourself and be this big, important guy. But you know what? This is a whole new world. We have a chance to make it a better world. It doesn’t have to be about some people getting over on everyone else. It can be fair to everyone.” Albert laughed. “Everyone can be equally hungry. In a week or so, everyone can starve.

Reagan looks like she could use some cooling off, don’t you think?” She winks at me. Gonzo is suddenly a man on a mission. He hides the gun down by his leg and rolls around to where Reagan is sitting. He stops below her and claps his hands together. She looks down at him, smiles, and says something, but I can’t hear what she’s saying. He grins, pulls out the squirt gun and proceeds to soak her. He doesn’t hit her in the face, but he gets the rest of her pretty well. She puts her hands up to shield herself, and it’s really pretty amusing. Suddenly, his pistol runs out of water, and she climbs down the ladder of her chair. She has a wet towel in her hand, which she proceeds to flick at him until it cracks against his knee. “Ouch!” I whisper to myself, wincing. But he fucking loves it. He grins and throws his gun to someone in the pool to fill up. The whole time, she’s chasing him around the edge of the pool with the towel, until her dad has to come and send her back to the stand. Mr. Caster points his finger, and she pretends to pout. Then she flicks him on the ass with the towel too. He turns around, picks her up, and tosses her into the water. She floats to the surface and sputters.

Sky pulls her arm back, right as I turn back to walk to the couch, and suddenly the controller flies out of her hand and smacks directly into my nose. “Ugh!” I grunt out. Sky puts her hand over her mouth and gasps. But then she runs toward me when she sees the blood dripping down my face. I walk into the kitchen because I don’t want to get blood on the carpet. “Oh thit,” I swear, when I see that the kids didn’t follow us. She sits me down in a chair and puts a towel under my nose. “That hurts wike a mudder fudder.” I sound like I’m all stopped up with a cold, but the blood is still dripping, so I pinch my nose closed. “I’m so sorry,” she says as she drops down in front of me. She rests her forearms on my thighs. I can smell the pizza she just ate on her breath, and I really, really want to kiss her, but I have blood all over my face and hands. “I’m so sorry,” she says again. “I didn’t know it would fly out of my hand like that.” “You hab ta wap it awound your wist,” I say. “I have to wrap it around my wrist?” she repeats. “To keep it fwom fwying.” “Crap,” she says again. “I am so sorry.” She already said that. She gets up and goes to get a wet towel. She cleans my hands and wipes gently beneath my nose. My nose hurts like a son of a bitch. I jerk my head back, but she just follows, probing and prodding. “I think the bleeding has stopped,” she says. But I let her continue to fuss over me, just because I like it. “Do you want some ice?” she asks. Yeah, but I need it for my dick and not for my nose. “Pwease,” I say. Her face is only inches from mine. But then she goes to the fridge. She comes back with a small bag of ice. She’d probably get offended if I shoved it in my pants, so I lay it against my nose, instead. I brace my chin with one hand and hold the ice with the other. “I really didn’t mean to hit you,” she says. She looks so worried that I have to let her off the hook. Hell, I lived with four brothers. I have had more nosebleeds than I could ever begin to count. “I’ll wiv,” I say. She leans close and kisses my cheek. I want to turn my head and press my lips to hers, but I don’t. “You in lub wif me yet?” I ask. She laughs and turns her head away, closing her eyes. Her giggle is so damn cute. She winces. “I gwess dats a no,” I say. I lift my shirt and wipe the edge of my nose, since she took my wet towel. When I do, her eyes go to my frog prince, and she leans forward and presses her lips to him. She looks up at me, her blue eyes wide, as she holds her lips there for a second. Then she makes a loud smacking noise and pops back up, grinning. “There. All better?” Fuck no. We’re just getting started. Seth sticks his head into the room. He smirks at me and shakes his head. “Dude,” he says. He laughs. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.” I throw down the ice. “Dat’s it. I’m going to kick your ath at bow’ing, Seth. You are going down.” I follow him into the other room, take a controller, and try to pretend like she didn’t just rock my world.

if you’re not proud of it now, if you don’t think it’s “good enough” for someone else to read/look at/use/etc., know when to cut your losses and throw in the towel. 

Unfortunately, we often have shallow relationships because we have paper towel friends. We use them up and then throw them away when we don't need them anymore.

They understand that mistakes have the potential to offer them as much, if not more, than success in the way of both data and experience. They don’t take failure as a sign to stop and set their sights on something new. Instead, they manage to regulate their emotional response to it, place errors in the proper context, and learn what they can from those mistakes to better reach their ultimate goal. Each of us has the power to do the same. Instead of making a mistake and throwing in the towel, we can review the circumstances around the failure. We can ask ourselves what we might have missed—or what factors we should have given more credence to. And instead of wallowing in our ineptitude, we can put those errors in the context of our larger goals. And then, if we let them, our mistakes can show us how to do better next time.

This neighborhood was mine first. I walked each block twice: drunk, then sober. I lived every day with legs and headphones. It had snowed the night I ran down Lorimer and swore I’d stop at nothing. My love, he had died. What was I supposed to do? I regret nothing. Sometimes I feel washed up as paper. You’re three years away. But then I dance down Graham and the trees are the color of champagne and I remember— There are things I like about heartbreak, too, how it needs a good soundtrack. The way I catch a man’s gaze on the L and don’t look away first. Losing something is just revising it. After this love there will be more love. My body rising from a nest of sheets to pick up a stranger’s MetroCard. I regret nothing. Not the bar across the street from my apartment; I was still late. Not the shared bathroom in Barcelona, not the red-eyes, not the songs about black coats and Omaha. I lie about everything but not this. You were every streetlamp that winter. You held the crown of my head and for once I won’t show you what I’ve made. I regret nothing. Your mother and your Maine. Your wet hair in my lap after that first shower. The clinic and how I cried for a week afterwards. How we never chose the language we spoke. You wrote me a single poem and in it you were the dog and I the fire. Remember the courthouse? The anniversary song. Those goddamn Kmart towels. I loved them, when did we throw them away? Tomorrow I’ll write down everything we’ve done to each other and fill the bathtub with water. I’ll burn each piece of paper down to silt. And if it doesn’t work, I’ll do it again. And again and again and— — Hala Alyan, “Object Permanence

Now I am standing, yet I feel so woozy and woosy. My belly cramps in knots, worse than when I am on my period. I stumble to the bathroom bumping into everything down the hallway, the bathroom is by my mom and dad’s bedroom, I am holding my mouth. My legs trembling over what I have done, certainly, I’m going to throw up or shut myself, or both… I didn’t even think about closing the door when I got there or turn on the light… I barfed in the scarp can while side-saddling one leg on either of the toilets, as it runs coming out of me from both ends at the same time. I reached for the sink after I thought it was all over and brushed my teeth and then shower to wash off. My shower is way too hot and there’s thick steam everywhere, fogging up the mirror, drops are budding upon the tiles. I hear voices in the hallway, but the water rushing down on me, and it feels wonderful, it’s falling so hard on my head and body I can’t make them out, yet I'm sure if the mother says nasty things to me, dad. I stop the water flow overhead. I hear dad looking in at me saying: ‘Get out of the shower, and get going, your friend is out there waiting for you. I said- What? Oh my god, close the door dad, and don’t look at me. Yet he did not remember to close the door all the way. I step out of the shower stall dripping wet, I blot the remainder off with a towel, and there is no time for makeup or doing my hair. Jenny, early I thought… it has to be a miracle. I feel there is like an electric current running through my body, coming deep inside me when I look up and see my little sis looking up at me, saying- ‘Are you okay?’ Her fingers brushed against my lower back skin, as I was staring at her without expression on my face. My eyes widen in the phenomenon, yet I hide no idea why it was in such utter shock to me. She is always sneaking up on me. Yet you would think I saw a ghost by the look within my unconscious feeling eyes. I look into my hand mirrors, pulling it off the countertop, and- I see that my irises are surrounded by a jade green- a glowing circle of light, let me know that I have made it… the powers at be are letting me have my do-overs. My eye was always green but never like this, they're so alluring now, almost like glowing the light of the other universe above, letting me know that I am echoing the final days of my life.

She was okay,” I say. Ryot roars. “You’re such a goddamn liar.” I shrug. “I mean, yeah, she had a nice eyeball.” Ryot throws a towel at me from his locker, still laughing. “Fuck you. A nice eyeball. Just one of her eyeballs is nice?” “If I hit the ball tonight, it’s because of her right eyeball. Really got my juices flowing,” I deadpan. “You’re such a shithead.” “Nah, if I hit the ball tonight, it’s for one reason and one reason alone—because I worked my ass off in the cages today.” Ryot rolls his eyes. “Always so fucking serious. Why don’t you romanticize your story a bit? Think about the media coverage you could get.” Ryot steals my bat, holds it up to his mouth like a microphone, and then clears his throat. “Walker Rockwell, you went three for four today with a homerun and three RBIs. What can you attribute to your success today?” He turns his hat around and scratches his jaw. Is that supposed to be me? “Her name is Kate, and her right eyeball enticed me so much, I found myself inspired to find my bat again. Shout-out to Kate Chapman and her spherical sense receptor for vision.” He winks and then shoots a gun at the “camera.” “Now that’s a story.” I stare at him blankly. Blink. Shake my head. “You need fucking help.” I turn toward my locker, where I start mentally preparing for the game.

Maa! I'm not a kid! I've spent every last minute in these past four days thinking through every single potential obstacle. I've predicted all the smart-arse comments people can throw at me. Nappy-head, tea-towel head, camel jockey. and all the rest. Yeah, I'm scared. OK, there, happy? I'm petrified. walked into my classroom and wanted to throw up from how nervous I was. But this decision, it's coming from my heart. I can't explain or rationalize it. OK, I'm doing it because I believe it's my duty and defines me as a Muslim female but it's not as . . . I don't know how to put it.. it's more than just that

You were really upset the other night. I know you were trying to put on a brave face, but it was obvious Darcy hurt you. Worse than you let on. Now “You were really upset the other night. I know you were trying to put on a brave face, but it was obvious Darcy hurt you. Worse than you let on. Now you’re agreeing to fake a relationship with her? Because of your family? Elle, if they can’t see how amazing you are . . . this isn’t worth it.” Elle ground the toe of her boot into the rug, tracing the singe mark in the paisley pattern from the Birthday Sparkler Incident of 2017. “I don’t really know what I’m doing,” she admitted. The lump inside her throat grew, forcing her to swallow to keep her voice from cracking. “I’m just tired of falling short, Mar.” Margot’s face crumpled. “Elle—” She jerked her chin and sniffed hard, blinking away the film of tears blurring her vision. She smiled and shrugged. “If I can get my family to take me seriously about one thing, see that I have my life together in a way that makes sense to them, maybe they’ll come around to the rest.” Margot shook her head. “So you’re throwing in the towel? You’re going to be like Lydia now? Dating the sorts of people your parents want and shrinking yourself down to be palatable to people who don’t get you? Who don’t even try?” No. God no. Elle wasn’t going to actually compromise who she was or how she lived her life. No, this was a blip on Elle’s radar, a pit stop, a means to an end. Elle wasn’t settling. She just wanted her parents to be proud of her for who she was. If she had to speak their language for a brief bit of time, what was the harm? “No way. This is fake. I just want them to understand I’m not the letdown they think I am. Maybe hearing how awesome I am from someone else, someone like Darcy who’s the sort of person who satisfies their whole nine-to-five I’m a serious adult vibe, will help.” Margot stuck out her tongue, eyes rolling. “Boring, you mean?” Elle shrugged. “Besides, it’s cuffing season and Lydia’s got a boyfriend. Jane’s got Gabe and Daniel has Mike and I’m just—Elle. I’m not exactly jazzed about spending another holiday alone as the black sheep of the family.” “Just Elle is pretty great.” Margot smiled. “But I get it. I mean, I might not be in your shoes, but I understand where you’re coming from. I just want you to remember that you deserve someone you don’t have to fake it with.” Both her brows rose. “And I mean that in all ways.” Elle cracked a smile. “Thanks.

Many studies have shown that children who are able to postpone gratification are more successful in life. This really doesn’t require a study to realize. Look around you and you will see that people who succeed are people who patiently persist in achieving their goals. They do not throw in the towel when they don’t get what they want right away. They don’t lose touch with or deny their wants and wishes just because life doesn’t give them what they want when they want it. They bounce back from life’s setbacks with renewed energy and enthusiasm.

He wanted to know if we weren't doing something bad in the name of progress." Baer sat on the desk and began taking kinks out of the telephone cord. he was thinking very hard, and from the man's expression Paul could only conclude that the question had never come to Baer's attention before. Now that it had, he was giving it his earnest consideration. "Is progress bad? Uh-huh - good question." He looked up from the cord. "I don't know, don't know. Maybe progress is bad, eh?" Kroner looked at him with surprise. "Look, you know darn good and well history's answered the question a thousand times." "It has? Has it? You know; I wouldn't. Answered it a thousand times, has it? That's good, good. All I know is, you've got to act like it has, or you might as well throw in the towel. Don't know, my boy. Guess I should, but I don't. Just do my job. Maybe that's wrong.

The Wistful A shirt is for unbuttoning. A name is for forgetting. Drunk is for getting. And hillocks are for sitting on and sighing, when, struck numb by the sun’s delinquent shining, you resign to a strychnine indecisiveness that’s meant to discredit you. You don’t know what to do. Or how. Or who. Or if it even matters, now, to boot. And it suits you absolutely, this languor, this drag. Such as they were, your lusts have been scissored in half. And your heart. That blood-blue slab of vena cava and ventricle, receptacle of kept loves, villain, vile, and trivial— it will take a final beating then throw in its towel. Then brake. Then coast. Then slow to an almost stock-still throb. Then— if you’re lucky—it stops.

And because I’d begged my mom for the damn cat, guess who got stuck picking up after her?” I poked both of my thumbs hard into my chest. “This girl. But that wasn’t the worst of it.” “Should I pull over for this?” Jamie teased. “This is serious, Jamie Shaw!” I smacked his bicep and he chuckled, holding the steering wheel with his thumbs but lifting the rest of his fingers as if to say “my bad.” “Anyway,” I continued. “So, Rory would always find small ways to torture me. Like she would eat her string toys and then throw up on my favorite clothes. Or wait until I was in the deepest part of sleep and jump onto my bed, meowing like an alleycat right up in my ear.” “I think I like this Rory.” I narrowed my eyes, but Jamie just grinned. “You think you’re hilarious, don’t you? Do you just sit around and laugh at your own jokes? Do you write them down and re-read them at night?” Jamie laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “As I was saying,” I voiced louder. “She was a little brat. But for some weird reason, she always loved to be in the bathroom with me when I took my baths.” “You take baths?” “You’re seriously missing the point of this story!” “There’s a point to this story?” I huffed, but couldn’t fight the smile on my face. “Yes! The point is, I thought that was our bonding time. Rory would weave around my legs while I undressed and she’d hang out on the side of the tub the entire time I was in the bath, meowing occasionally, pawing at the water. It was kind of cute.” “So you bridged your relationship with your cat during bath time?” “Ah, well see, one would think that. But, one night, that little demon hopped onto the counter and just stared at me. I couldn’t figure out why, but she just wouldn’t stop staring. She kept inching her paw up, setting it back down, inching it up, setting it down. And finally I realized what she was going to do — and she knew I did — because as soon as realization dawned, Rory smiled at me — swear to God — and flipped the light off in the bathroom.” Jamie doubled over that time, and I spoke even louder over his laughter. “I’m terrified of the dark, Jamie! It was awful! And so I jumped up, scrambling to find a towel so I could turn the light back on. But because I’m a genius, I yanked on the shower curtain to help me stand up, but that only took it down and me along with it. I fell straight to the floor, but I broke my fall with my hands instead of my face.” “Luckily.” “Oh,” I chided. “Yeah. So lucky. Except guess where Rory’s litter box was?” Jamie’s eyes widened and he tore his eyes from the road to meet mine. “No!” Ohhh yeah.

You don’t throw in the towel when it turns out that your old way of seeing things is contradicted by the data. That’s not when you stop. That’s when you begin.

The thing is . . . what most people don’t get . . . when you let go, you can’t do it partway. You’ve got to pry off every finger. Surrender. Raise the white flag. Throw in the towel. Give up all preconceived notions as to how things might work out. And that’s when God moves in. Not my will, but thine, be done. Not my will, but thine.

Pulling off my cover-up, chucking it on the stone flags, I dive in, the shock of the cool water on my overheated skin exactly what I need to stop me thinking. I do a length underwater as fast as I can, and when I come up, gasping and shaking my head, I realize that everyone’s staring at me. “Wow,” Evan says, looking over his guitar, which is propped on his lap as he sits cross-legged on a towel. “You in a race with the Invisible Man?” I giggle at this image. “Violet,” he sings, strumming a chord. “Running a race with a serious face--so did you win? Or was it him? Don’t forget, Vio-let--Dive in!” He ends on a high falsetto note, grinning at me. “That doesn’t make much sense,” he adds. “But hey, at least I rhymed your name.” “Violet’s pretty easy,” I say, propping my arms on the edge of the pool and smiling back at him. “Regret, forget, net, jet, yet, set, bet--” “Try Evan,” he suggests. “Apart from numbers and heaven, which gets old very quickly, there’s practically nothing.” “Numbers? Oh! Eleven…seven…” I furrow my brow. “Devon,” Kelly calls over. “That’s a county in England.” “Leaven,” I add. “You do it to bread.” Evan’s expression is comical, his blue eyes stretched as wide as they’ll go as he plucks a string and, in a singsong nursery-rhyme voice, intones: “From the age of seven to eleven Before he tragically went to heaven Evan leavened bread in Devon.” He throws his hands wide. “See? Not much to work with.

Try Evan,” he suggests. “Apart from numbers and heaven, which gets old very quickly, there’s practically nothing.” “Numbers? Oh! Eleven…seven…” I furrow my brow. “Devon,” Kelly calls over. “That’s a county in England.” “Leaven,” I add. “You do it to bread.” Evan’s expression is comical, his blue eyes stretched as wide as they’ll go as he plucks a string and, in a singsong nursery-rhyme voice, intones: “From the age of seven to eleven Before he tragically went to heaven Evan leavened bread in Devon.” He throws his hands wide. “See? Not much to work with.” “At least you don’t have rude stuff that rhymes with you,” Kelly says gloomily. “They called me Smelly Jelly Belly at school for years.” “And Kendra isn’t that great either. It sort of sounds like bend-ya,” Kendra adds. I can’t help smiling that Kendra and Kelly are competitive in everything, even down to whose name rhymes with worse stuff. “Kendra,” Evan sings, playing a chord, “I would never bend ya, or lend ya or send ya… Oh, the words I can engender thinking about Kendra…” “‘Engender’!” Kelly exclaims. “That’s really good!” I pull myself out of the pool and walk over to a lounger, picking up a towel and wrapping it around myself; I sit on one side of Evan, Kelly on the other. Even cool-as-a-cucumber Kendra has sat up to watch Evan playing his guitar. “What about Paige?” I ask, looking over at his sister, the only one uninterested in her brother’s talent. She’s got a moisturizing pack on her hair--her head is wrapped in the special leopard-skin towel she uses when she’s doing a hair treatment--pink headphones on her ears, and a magazine in her hands as she reclines on her lounger. “Paige goes into a rage when you tell her she’s not yet legal drinking age--” Evan sings immediately, and Paige, who must have been listening after all, promptly throws her magazine at his head. He ducks easily, and it flies past and lands on the tiles.

Don't give up on your writing! Remember you can throw in the towel or use it to wipe the well earned sweat from your face!!!!

Don't just throw in the towel if it gets hard.

Yeah, she’s pissed. That much is fucking obvious, and not only because she’s now adding periods at the end of her texts. If she were any other woman, I would tell her to piss off and move on with my life. I don’t do drama. Yet I can’t bring myself to throw in the towel when it comes to Grace. If she’s hurt, I want to take her pain away and reassure her that everything is fine. I’m not lying to her nor am I seeing anyone behind her back.

Yet, so many students throw in the towel if things don't come instantly and easily. They close their eyes to meditate and give up at the first distraction, forgetting that recognizing and releasing yourself from distraction is what meditation is about at the start. They say the words to an evocation, then rage quit if spirit doesn't instantly appear in the crystal, forgetting that it can take significant effort on both sides to make a bridge between worlds.