Drake Questionable Quotes

The real question is, can you love the real me? Not the perfect person you want me to be, not that image you had of me, but who I really am.

You’ll have to turn your back.” He turned slowly. The view from the back was just as good as the view from the front. I could practically hear Lucy snickering in the back of my head. I might be the vampire daughter, but she was the one who was a bad influence. No question.

Why couldn’t we just lose ourselves in the fire again? When passion was enough, and the questions didn’t matter.

Use love as the only instrument to question the world around you.

It’s not a question of whether you could try to do it by yourself. You can always try it. But it can be dangerous, and it’s harder. Trying to buck yourself up is the tooth pliers of mental health.

I'm not going to say I can at least collect DNA samples," he muttered, "because every time I open my mouth, the evidence disappears." With a little sigh, he watched te droplets of blood absorb into the wood and the window reform. "I have to tell you, I've seen some freaky shit around you girls, but nothing like this. I have just one question. Have you told your fiancées about this? Because quiet frankly it scares the hell out of me." "You never have to be afraid, Jonas," Hannah assured. "The house judges intent." "Hannah. Honey. Half the time my intent is to strangle you. And I don't doubt whoever ends up with Joley or Elle will want to do worse than that.

Ian once suggested that in addition to the mystery stickers and the sci-fi and animal ones, there should be special stickers for books with happy endings, books with sad endings, books that will trick you into reading the next in the series. 'There should be ones with big teardrops,' he said, 'like for the side of Where the Red Fern Grows. Because otherwise it isn't fair. Like maybe you're accidentally reading it in public, and then everyone will make fun of you for crying.' But what could I affix to the marvelous and perplexing tale of Ian Drake? A little blue sticker with a question mark, maybe. Crossed fingers. A penny in a fountain.

Dr. Talco tapped her index fingers together. “Did you know it’s possible to remove your own teeth with pliers?” Evvie looked at her blankly. “That’s not what I thought you were going to say.” “No, no, probably not. But it’s true. If you have a bad tooth, you can take a pair of pliers, stick them in there, and pull as hard as you can. Is that something you would do?” “This feels like a trick question.” “Stay with it.” “No, I don’t think I would pull out my own tooth with pliers.” “That’s what I always tell people about therapy. It’s not a question of whether you could try to do it by yourself. You can always try it. But it can be dangerous, and it’s harder. Trying to buck yourself up is the tooth pliers of mental health.

But to your question, the introvert that is Grey Ackles the human being finds being around people exhausting. Even people I consider close friends or family.

From my novel "Broken Things" (Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas): Those eyes had haunted his dreams―and nightmares too―for over a quarter of a century. “I wanted to tell you Allie’s in town. Allie Drake. You remember her, don’t you?” Jack’s gaze shifted back to his brother’s grinning face and suddenly he wanted to pop Steve right in the nose. Did he remember Allie Drake? What a stupid question!

I elbowed him. "Some people are scared of me, you know, like that guy over there." The guy in question paled when I looked his way and tried to hide behind a banner half his size. Nicholas snorted. "Ten points if you can make him hide behind that creepy little girl over there.

Chloe's fingers flew over her keyboard. I raised an eyebrow at Hunter. "Is she Googling hunter-assholes? I doubt they have their own Web page." Chloe snorted. "You'd be surprised." "She's hacking the school files," Hunter said. "She does it all the time." "Don't they have security for that kind of thing?" Chloe snorted again. "Please." I knew that tone. Connor used it whenever someone called his computer mojo into question.

grin. “If I’m going to lay down a fortune for the privilege of experiencing your quivering virgin flesh, I think it goes without saying that I expect to do it without a barrier.” I sat back, clenching my teeth so hard that my head started to ache. My gaze was held fast by the challenge in his ebony eyes. He might have been the most gorgeous creature I’d ever laid my eyes on, but he was also an asshat. He tilted his head at me, puzzled. “Why is that a problem? If we are both cleared by a physician—” I unclenched my jaw just long enough to reply. “Recent medical clearance is not sufficient for me. I’d require celibacy for at least the previous six months, so—” “Then there isn’t a problem.” I highly doubted that. I opened my mouth to call him a liar when Heath leaned forward and put his hand on the table in front of me. Drake’s lawyer cleared his throat, throwing a bland look at me and turning to Drake. “We can work all these details out later in mediation. Mr. Drake does have a plane to catch later today.” Drake’s eyes darted to Heath and back to me. I could tell he was trying to gauge our relationship. It wasn’t the first time a person had looked at the two of us in that unsure, questioning way. Heath was not obviously gay in any way. He wasn’t “fabulous” or flamboyant. He was very masculine in his behavior and mannerisms, so he rarely set off people’s gaydar. My gaze turned back to Drake, drawn to him like a flame pulled into a hot, dry wind. I resented the heat on my cheeks. I was not a habitual blusher. Hardly ever, actually. But this man was bringing my Irish up, as my mother liked to say. And what was worse, the more annoyed I grew with him, the more amused he seemed to be. Drake flicked a glance at Heath and then his lawyer. “Gentlemen, could you excuse us for a moment? You’re free to wait just outside the door.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he glanced at me. “If, of course, that is okay with the lady?” My face flamed hotter and I folded my hands on my lap. “Fine,” I said, wondering if the thirty-something New Yorker was still interested in the

Harley, if you’re asking me to marry you, I’m afraid I must say no,” he joked. “I mean, we hardly know each other, and you haven’t even bothered to ask my parents for my hand.” “Will you shut up?” As much as I didn’t want to laugh, I failed. That was the good thing about Drake. He could be annoying, sure, but he knew how to lighten the mood when things became tense. “I’m being serious, Drake.” “Okay, then shoot.” “Are you like me?” As the words escaped my lips, I felt a weight lift off my shoulders. “What do you think?” “Answering a question with a question doesn’t work,” I answered. “And I think you are.” “Well, then, you can rest assured knowing you’re right.” He shrugged as he turned the chair around to properly face me. “Although, I do believe I wasn’t supposed to tell you as much just yet.” “Was my father behind this?” Drake shook his head no. “The League—more specifically, the Council—had nothing to do with my arrival,” he assured me. “I came here for you, yes, but only because the clan of the vampire you killed is looking for you. And while you might not believe it, I’m your best chance at survival.

End note to The Day of Glory The Hammer's Slammers series isn't in any sense a future history. It's made up of individual stories exploring one aspect or another of what war means to the men and women at the sharp end. In these stories I've been translating into an SF setting what I learned in 1970 with the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment in Viet-Nam and Cambodia. We—the Blackhorse—were an elite unit. I was very fortunate to have been assigned to a regiment in which you never had to worry if the guy next to you was going to do his job: he was, and so were you—whatever you thought of war or The War or our Vietnamese allies. (Generally the answer to all those questions was, "Not much.") The flip side was that the distinction between the categories Not Blackhorse and Enemy got blurred. We didn't view our job as winning hearts and minds: we were there to kill people and then go home. And we didn't much care about the cost of victory so long as somebody else was paying it. That's something civilians ought to consider long and hard before they send tanks off to make policy. Because I can tell you from personal experience, it isn't something the tankers themselves are likely to worry about.

I also kept wondering, throughout that week in the summer of 2016, what if all I wanted to do was bang Nick Jonas (a question still) and maybe wrote a fifteen-hundred-word ode, talking about his chest and his ass and his dumb-sexy face and the fact I didn’t really like his music—would that have been a dis on Nick? Or what if a woman wanted to write about how she really hated Drake’s music but found him so physically hot and desirable that she was lusting for him anyway? Where would that put her? Where would that put me? Would either of these pieces raise any eyebrows? Were we then equal? No, not even close, because in our culture social-justice warriors always prefer women to be victims. The responses from Jezebel and Flavorwire and Teen Vogue all recast Ferreira as a victim, reinforcing her (supposed) violation at the hands of a male writer—the usual hall-of-mirrors loop people find themselves in when looking for something, anything, to get angry about, and one where they can occasionally, eventually, get tripped up. The reality is that men look at women, and men look at other men, and women look at men, and women especially size up other women and objectify them. Has anybody who’s ever been on a dating app recently not seen how our Darwinian impulses are gratified by a swipe or two?

You don’t understand it now, but I am keeping you safe,” he insisted. “Trust me, if it wasn’t for me, you would have been dead by now. They’ve also kept you alive because they knew I would kill them if they hadn’t.” “Oh, I’m sorry, is that supposed to make me feel better?” I wanted to hate him. My goodness did I want to hate him. The problem was, no matter how much he had pissed me off, I couldn’t bring myself to write him off. He was a piece of crap for allowing me to be captured. But I had to believe there was still good beneath the boy who stood before me. It couldn’t have all been a façade, could it? Don’t be an idiot, Harley. I just wanted to be happy, and Drake had presented a possibility of something I had wanted for so long but refused to admit aloud. For so long, the idea of wanting to be with someone terrified me. Heck, a future with someone seemed to be a novel idea. Then this frustrating and wonderful boy had entered my life and threw it into utter chaos. It was exciting, and I hadn’t wanted to consider my life without him. But I also knew I had to question how much of what he’d displayed with me was real.

Should I take your silence to be an opening?” He brushed his lips against my ear. “You ask far too many questions.” Drake released me from his grasp and climbed on top of me. “You have full control over what happens, Harley. Do you understand? If at any point you’re not comfortable, I need you to tell me.” “Understood.” Drake looked down at me with a teasing smirk on his lips. “Now, will you just stop procrastinating and kiss me already before I change my mind?” He leaned in and gently pressed his lips to mine as though testing my reaction. But slow was not how I preferred to roll. I reached up and ran my fingers through his hair. Drake seemed to understand what I was doing and pressed his body against mine. I knew I should have stopped it. I should have stopped him. But I couldn't. This was what I wanted. Drake pulled away slowly. An amused grin pulled at his lips. "What?" I asked. He shook his head. "You, Harley Sanders, will be my undoing.

Suddenly, another set of words appeared.   What is your character's name?   Rob stared at the question. Character? What character?   Annoyed, he swiped at the words, but they only wiggled a little and stayed in place. He did this several times to no avail. The question remained.   “What the hell?” he said.   The prompt changed.   Your character's name is What The Hell.   Keep this name?   “No,” Rob said with frustration. He just wanted to move, not answer moronic floating questions.   The

Training was everything in the art of fighting, and Drake’s was returning faster than a politician could dodge a key question. Instantly,

Why do they have Christmas every single year?" she asked. "Oh, boy," he said with a smile. "Where's this going?" "I think it's a very fair question," she said, tipping the rest of her drink into her mouth and making the little kuh! noise she always did when she swallowed liquor. "Nobody has enough time for it. Nobody wants to go through the whole..." She waved the had without the glass in it. "I don't think they need to have it every year." "How often do you think?" "Every four years, like the Olympics." "The Olympics are every two years now." "Okay, every four years like the Winter Olympics, you lawyer.

You ask a great many questions, Doctor Bruno,’ Thomas Drake mutters.

Can I ask a question?” Kino watched the centaur leave, then smiled at the Prime. “If it is: 'can I sit on the throne?', my answer is the same as the other nine hundred and eighty-six times you asked.

On her back in the wet sand, winded and dazed, Harper stared at the animal. It stared back, watching with a soulful gaze before nudging its wet nose at her cheek. Something unknown possessed her right then, or fear left her. Rationalising was irrelevant. She wrapped the giant dog in a tight hug, astounded at his size but undeterred; he was so big that her hands couldn't meet. Blissfully warm and soothed, she naturally found his ears to scratch, and he relaxed against her hold, sighing in a way that begged the question: had he actually wanted her to hug him like a huge teddy bear?

Fate, I have a question," Max began. "Err, it's a bit awkward right now, but okay?" I squirmed beneath Verga, my face still shoved against the dirt. "What are you?" Max asked me this while holding Verga in his stare, ensuring the blue dragon didn't move. "I'm...a dragon?" I didn't see the point of this, and Max sighing with impatience was new to me. "Urgh, no. You're an idiot." Max huffed. "What are dragons famed for?" "I dunno. Being cryptic old bastards?!" I roared angrily, sick of this shit. "Lady Fate, what is your greatest weapon?" Max frowned. "My extensive fucking vocabulary and razor-sharp wit!" I wanted to cry. This was stupid. "Oh, for fuck’s sake, kid." Max roared. "BURN THE FUCKER!

That’s what I always tell people about therapy. It’s not a question of whether you could try to do it by yourself. You can always try it. But it can be dangerous, and it’s harder. Trying to buck yourself up is the tooth pliers of mental health.

Yes, we have solved The Drake Equation, The Fermi Paradox and whether or not Humans are alone. We just need to accept there is no division. Division does NOT exist in the Kingdom of God. God is One without a second. There is NO division in God. The answer to the question - is Human alone in the Universe? - is Yes. The Universe is Human. Human is One. One is alone but desires not to feel alone. Aloneness is the cause and Companionship is the purpose. There where otherness is perceived is One desiring to experience togetherness. Togetherness can only be experienced through the perception of otherness. There is in truth no otherness. There is only One. One perceives itself as Two not to be alone. That which is Two verily is One perceiving itself as Two not to be alone, for Companionship, To Love and Be Loved in return. There is no division. Division does not exist. All there is is One perceiving itself as diverse. Diversity exists for Companionship. Companionship being synonymous with Love. Love is all that matters, all that matters is Love. Finally, it must be understand that One is not external. One is Self. Self is One. Oneself Is. It is a high realization and not easy to accept but it is necessary for Humankind to go forward. As such the following is conclusive. Life is Self experiencing itself as itself. Self perceives itself as variegated not to be alone. The purpose of Self is Companionship. There where otherness is perceived is Self perceiving itself as otherness in the current for the very purpose to negate is own alOneness. So it is. One is alone but desires not to feel alone. Hence the purpose of Life. Hence the purpose of Human. The purpose of Human is Love. Love one another, there is no other, truth is Self desiring not to be alone, truth is Self desiring Companionship, truth is Self desiring Love. Human should not fight for it is One. Human should embrace itself for it perceives itself as variegated for the very purpose not to be alone, for Companionship, for Love. Love is the primordial motivation. Always return to Love when in doubt. Do not get swayed by the illusion of divisiveness and remember that there is in reality no division; there is only the perception of diversity which exists for the purpose not to feel alone, to experience Companionship, to Love and Be Loved in return. Bless you all, all of you are Blessed.

I'm at your service," he said, surprised by the question, but trying not to show it.

End note to The Day of Glory The Hammer's Slammers series isn't in any sense a future history. It's made up of individual stories exploring one aspect or another of what war means to the men and women at the sharp end. In these stories I've been translating into an SF setting what I learned in 1970 with the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment in Viet-Nam and Cambodia. We—the Blackhorse—were an elite unit. I was very fortunate to have been assigned to a regiment in which you never had to worry if the guy next to you was going to do his job: he was, and so were you—whatever you thought of war or The War or our Vietnamese allies. (Generally the answer to all those questions was, "Not much.") The flip side was that the distinction between the categories Not Blackhorse and Enemy got blurred. We didn't view our job as winning hearts and minds: we were there to kill people and then go home. And we didn't much care about the cost of victory so long as somebody else was paying it. That's something civilians ought to consider long and hard before they send tanks off to make policy. Because I can tell you from personal experience, it

Guys, I’m not in labor. I just moved too quickly, OK?’’ Aisling said. ‘‘Take your hands off her,’’ Drake said in a low voice that sounded very much like a growl. Jim sucked in its breath, sitting up to watch. ‘‘I’m not hurting her,’’ Gabriel answered, bending over her belly as he continued to gently prod her. ‘‘I’m simply trying to ascertain if she’s in labor or not. Aisling, is the pain sharp or dull?’’ The door opened, and Gabriel’s two bodyguards, Tipene and Maata, entered. Behind them came one of Drake’s men, a thick-necked, redheaded man named István. The latter picked up on Gabriel’s question. ‘‘Aisling is in pain? She is having the baby?’’ ‘‘I should examine you more fully,’’ Gabriel said, smiling at Aisling as he took her hand. ‘‘Do not worry, Aisling. I have delivered many dragons over the centuries. My mother is a very good midwifeand has taught me well.’’ Drake snatched up her other hand. ‘‘You will not examine my mate any further! We have an excellent green-dragon midwife who is attending her. Now, get away from her before I have you removed!’’ Aisling looked perfectly fine to me. She rolled her eyes, casting a pleading look skyward. I might not have experience in this area, but it was clear to me that she was not in labor. I shot a glare at Gabriel, grinding my teeth just a little at the stupidity of what was normally such a bright man, my fingers itching to pry his hand from Aisling’s. ‘‘I will tell you once more—remove your hands from her!’’ Drake’s voice got even more menacing. ‘‘Gabriel, I think she would know if she was in labor,’’ I said, nudging the dragon of mydreams a bit more forcefully. ‘‘A voice of reason at last,’’ Aisling said, giving me a smile. ‘‘Guys, I’m not—’’ István turned in the doorway and bellowed out of it. ‘‘Pál! Call the midwife! Aisling is in labor! I will call Nora and Rene. They wish to be here, yes? Should I boil water?’’ He evidently asked the last bit of Maata, who, as the female member of Gabriel’s attendants, was obviously expected to know the answer. Maata looked surprised. ‘‘Would it make you feel better to boil water?’’ she asked. István nodded his head vigorously. ‘‘It is done, is it not? The boiling of water? It is important. I saw it in a movie.’’ ‘‘Then, by all means, boil water,’’ she answered. István nodded again, announced to the room in general, ‘‘I boil water!’’ and rushed out to suit action to word. Pál, the second of Drake’s two redheaded bodyguards, slammed into István as he was leaving, scattering apologies as he dashed into the room, a cell phone in his hand. ‘‘The midwife’s phone is busy!’’ he said, offering the phone to Drake as proof. ‘‘Oh, man, if there’s going to be baby juice and blood and guck, I’m getting out of here,’’ Jim said, sidling around the clutch of people that surrounded Aisling. ‘‘I’m going to Amelie’s to be with Cecile. Someone tell me when it’s all over.’’ ‘‘Hello, can anyone hear me? I’m not in labor!’’ Aisling said. ‘‘What should I do?’’ Pál asked Drake, shaking the phone at him. ‘‘It is busy! Busy! How can it be busy?’’ A little wisp of smoke escaped Drake’s nose as he glared at the phone. ‘‘It should not be busy. Go fetch her. There is no business she can have as important as this.’’ Pál didn’t stop to answer; he just bolted from the room. ‘‘Oh, for the love of Pete! I’m not in pain! And unless dragons have some sort ofpainless labor, a notion your mother vehemently says is false, then I’m not having the baby,’’ Aisling said, but was drowned out by Maata asking if Gabriel needed help at the same time Tipene offered to take overmidwife phone duty.