Drama Club Quotes

The girl in your class who suggests that this year the Drama Club put on The Bald Soprano will be a thorn in people's sides all of her life.

Eve cupped her ear at Claire. "I'm sorry, was that an apology? Because it didn't sound like one." "Don't push it." "I'm not, but you're acting like a drama princess." "Drama queen." "Hello, no. You need a lot more practice at door slamming, flouncing, and pouting before you can even pretend to deserve my throne, bitch. But you're coming along." Eve paused and fixed her with a long, serious look. "That wasn't a compliment, by the way. In case you were wondering.

When you believe you have lost your power and control nothing will ever seem easy or simple.

As the pair turned to leave they were taken by surprise by the shop owner. He was middle-aged and did not look as though he could overpower Arvid, although the large club he wielded showed his intention. Raimund instinctively made a run for the door, only to be floored by a blow from the club. From his dazed prone position Raimund watched in horror as his uncle thrust his knife into the shopkeeper’s chest. With blood pumping from the fatal wound, the shopkeeper fell across Raimund.

Is there a club for bitchiness management, like Alcoholics Anonymous? Because, seriously, I think you should visit it.

I don't know why, but I didn't want her to call me Dick anymore. It was feeling kind of fake. 'Maybe we should use our real names outside of class. Yours is Rosetta, right?' 'Yes. Rosetta Vaughn.' 'All right,' I said. 'Well, mine is - ' 'Seth McCoy. I know.' She kind of wrapped her arms around herself like she was getting cold. 'I've known since February fourteenth, actually.' She's memorized the date she found out my name? What the hell? She laughed. 'Don't freak out! I only remember because it was Valentine's Day.' As if that explained it. 'And why do you remember learning my name on Valentine's Day?' 'Kendall Eckman was running after you in the hall screaming, "Seth McCoy, if you don't buy a rose from me, I'll kill you!" She was doing that Valentine's drama club fundraiser. Remember?' 'Actually, yes.' What I remembered was getting stoned with Isaac before school, and Kendall harshing my mellow the minute we walked in the door. Rosetta was looking like there was more to this story. 'And after she kept asking, you bought a red one?' 'Right. And I passed it off to -' I'd been about to say 'some chick,' but with how intently she was watching me, I was getting a different idea. '-you, right?' She extended her arm to pass me an imaginary rose in the same way I must have handed her a real one. Then she imitated the corny voice I must have used. 'Here, beautiful. Have a wonderful Valentine's Day.' Oh, Christ. The stupid shit I said sometimes.

So bring on your clubs and parties, your acrobats and magicians, your daredevils, jet cars, motorcycle helicopters, your sex and heroin, more of everything to do with automatic reflex. If the drama is bad, if the film says nothing, if the play is hollow, sting me with the theremin, loudly. I'll think I'm responding to the play, when it's only a tactile reaction to vibration. But I don't care. I just like solid entertainment.

There was and still is a tremendous fear that poor and working-class Americans might one day come to understand where their political interests reside. Personally, I think the elites worry too much about that. We dumb working folk were clubbed into submission long ago, and now require only proper medication for our high levels of cholesterol, enough alcohol to keep the sludge moving through our arteries, and a 24/7 mind-numbing spectacle of titties, tabloid TV, and terrorist dramas. Throw in a couple of new flavours of XXL edible thongs, and you've got a nation of drowsing hippos who will never notice that our country has been looted, or even that we have become homeless ourselves.

It is not a good idea to call yourself a sardine in a family like Leo's, who will not let you forget it.

Everyone’s so soft, everyone’s so sensitive. Do i offend you? Your hanging on my sentences.

I thought of all the nights I’d spent in temperature controlled clubs and restaurants, under artificial lights, drinking artificial cocktails with artificial friends. Artificial problems. Artificial drama. How many real, glorious nights had I missed? Nights like this, when the universe dances for you, and you become a tiny but beautiful note of the magical song it sings.

Henry's going to dump me, and I didn't even do anything. He's making it all up because he wants to get rid of me and everybody knows and nobody cares.

Mr. Russell—this is awkward—Mother is not happy—She told me never to see you again.” The force of his glare thrust her back on her heels. --Farewell My Life, Buona Notte Vita Mia

Stay away from all drama queens and negativity kings. If you don’t, sooner or later, they’ll dissolve your bigness and destroy your life. It’s just what they do.

Their strong appearances of disinterest were unnerving in contrast with the old CCTS yearbook pictures of African American children involved in debating, drama, literacy clubs, and so forth.

I wonder,” said Angelina, sitting on the loveseat next to Violet, “if he is mentally fragile.” “What do you mean?” said Violet. “He fought in the war,” replied Angelina. “He might fall apart, fly off the handle, go off the rails…

Even the listings of school clubs only emphasized how self-centered we were. The track team—oh, you can’t run? Too bad. The art club—you’re all thumbs? Take a hike. The drama society—you’ve got stage fright? Tough buns. The chess club—no brains? No dice.

So to recap the formula: First, clarify a sincere and deeply felt desire. Second, enter a state of relaxed immobility, bordering on sleep. Third, enact a mental scene that contains the assumption and feeling of your wish fulfilled. Run the little drama over and over in your mind until you experience a sense of fulfillment. Then resume your life. Evidence of your achievement will unfold at the right moment in your outer experience.

After dark on Saturday night one could stand on the first tee of the golf-course and see the country-club windows as a yellow expanse over a very black and wavy ocean. The waves of this ocean, so to speak, were the heads of many curious caddies, a few of the more ingenious chauffeurs, the golf professional's deaf sister--and there were usually several stray, diffident waves who might have rolled inside had they so desired. This was the gallery. The balcony was inside. It consisted of the circle of wicker chairs that lined the wall of the combination clubroom and ballroom. At these Saturday-night dances it was largely feminine; a great babel of middle-aged ladies with sharp eyes and icy hearts behind lorgnettes and large bosoms. The main function of the balcony was critical. It occasionally showed grudging admiration, but never approval, for it is well known among ladies over thirty-five that when the younger set dance in the summer-time it is with the very worst intentions in the world, and if they are not bombarded with stony eyes stray couples will dance weird barbaric interludes in the corners, and the more popular, more dangerous, girls will sometimes be kissed in the parked limousines of unsuspecting dowagers. But, after all, this critical circle is not close enough to the stage to see the actors' faces and catch the subtler byplay. It can only frown and lean, ask questions and make satisfactory deductions from its set of postulates, such as the one which states that every young man with a large income leads the life of a hunted partridge. It never really appreciates the drama of the shifting, semicruel world of adolescence. No; boxes, orchestra-circle, principals, and chorus are represented by the medley of faces and voices that sway to the plaintive African rhythm of Dyer's dance orchestra.

You’ll be my old lady. You’ll stand by my side at club parties, at functions. You’ll sleep in my bed as much as possible until I can get it so you do that every damn night. You’ll meet my kids and suffer through that drama with me ’cause they’re my life and so’re you. You’ll take my cock whenever I want to give it to you and you’ll take my words whenever I need to give ’em to you. And when I’m an asshole, ’cause I’m a man and I got that in me to give, you’ll give me a piece of your mind and then forgive me.

Many Ottomans of this period viewed life as a perennial tug-of-war between modernity and tradition. In several important ways, Salonica tilted toward the former. The city sported bustling Western-style cafés serving Viennese beer; literary clubs hosting philosophical debates; theaters staging dramas, comedies, and operettas; numerous institutions of learning; and a sizable and vibrant European community. Altogether, Salonica had undergone a major transformation during the reform era and had begun to look like a Western European city. The Muslim community, and especially its progressive Dönme component, had established the most advanced schools in the empire. Young Mustafa, who had ample opportunity to contrast the old and the new, chose to embrace modernity wholeheartedly.

Consider for a few moments the enormous aesthetic claim of its chief contemporary rival—what we may loosely call the Scientific Outlook, 1 the picture of Mr. [H. G.] Wells and the rest. Supposing this to be a myth, is it not one of the finest myths which human imagination has yet produced? The play is preceded by the most austere of all preludes: the infinite void, and matter restlessly moving to bring forth it knows not what. Then, by the millionth millionth chance—what tragic irony—the conditions at one point of space and time bubble up into that tiny fermentation which is the beginning of life. Everything seems to be against the infant hero of our drama—just as everything seems against the youngest son or ill-used stepdaughter at the opening of a fairy tale. But life somehow wins through. With infinite suffering, against all but insuperable obstacles, it spreads, it breeds, it complicates itself, from the amoeba up to the plant, up to the reptile, up to the mammal. We glance briefly at the age of monsters. Dragons prowl the earth, devour one another, and die. Then comes the theme of the younger son and the ugly duckling once more. As the weak, tiny spark of life began amidst the huge hostilities of the inanimate, so now again, amidst the beasts that are far larger and stronger than he, there comes forth a little naked, shivering, cowering creature, shuffling, not yet erect, promising nothing, the product of another millionth millionth chance. Yet somehow he thrives. He becomes the Cave Man with his club and his flints, muttering and growling over his enemies’ bones, dragging his screaming mate by her hair (I never could quite make out why), tearing his children to pieces in fierce jealousy till one of them is old enough to tear him, cowering before the horrible gods whom he created in his own image. But these are only growing pains. Wait till the next act. There he is becoming true Man. He learns to master Nature. Science comes and dissipates the superstitions of his infancy. More and more he becomes the controller of his own fate. Passing hastily over the present (for it is a mere nothing by the time scale we are using), you follow him on into the future. See him in the last act, though not the last scene, of this great mystery. A race of demigods now rules the planet—and perhaps more than the planet—for eugenics have made certain that only demigods will be born, and psychoanalysis that none of them shall lose or smirch his divinity, and communism that all which divinity requires shall be ready to their hands. Man has ascended his throne. Henceforward he has nothing to do but to practise virtue, to grow in wisdom, to be happy. And now, mark the final stroke of genius. If the myth stopped at that point, it might be a little bathetic.

You’re having a bad day. You mess up a few lines. You’re distracted. You’ve had this look about you all afternoon, like you’re not quite there. “Christ, Cunningham, get it together,” Hastings says, running his hands down his face. “If you can’t handle being Brutus—” “Fuck you.” You cut him off. “Don’t act like you’re perfect.” “I don’t make rookie mistakes,” Hastings says. “Maybe if you weren’t so preoccupied with trying to screw the new girl, you might—” BAM. You shut him up mid-sentence with a punch to the face, your fist connecting hard, nearly knocking him off his feet. He stumbles, stunned, as you go at him again, grabbing the collar of his uniform shirt and yanking him to you. “Shut your fucking mouth.” People come between the two of you, forcing you apart. Hastings storms out, shouting, “I can’t deal with him!” Drama Club comes to a screeching halt. You stand there for a moment, fists clenched at your side, calming down. You flex your hands, loosening them as you approach the girl. She’s watching you in silence, expression guarded. You sit down near her. There’s an empty seat between you today. It’s the first time you’ve not sat right beside her in weeks. You’re giving her space. It doesn’t take long before Hastings returns, but he isn’t alone. The administrator waltzes in behind him. The man heads for you, expression stern. “Cunningham, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t expel you.” “Because my father gives you a lot of money.” “That’s what you have to say?” “Is that not a good reason?” “You punched a fellow student!” “We were just acting,” you say. “I’m Brutus. He’s Caesar. It’s to be expected.” “Brutus stabs him. He doesn’t throw punches.” “I was improvising.” The girl laughs when you say that. She tries to stop herself, but the sound comes out, and the administrator hears it, his attention shifting to her. “Look, it won’t happen again,” you say, drawing the focus back to you. “Next time, I’ll stab him and be done with it.” “You better watch yourself,” the administrator says, pointing his finger in your face. “One more incident and you’re gone for good. Understand?” “Yes, sir.” “And rest assured, your father will be hearing about this

It's weird not being in our subculture of two any more. There was Jen's culture, her little habits and ways of doing things; the collection of stuff she'd already learnt she loved before we met me. Chorizo and Jonathan Franken and long walks and the Eagles (her dad). Seeing the Christmas lights. Taylor Swift, frying pans in the dishwasher, the works absolutely, arsewipe, heaven. Tracy Chapman and prawn jalfrezi and Muriel Spark and HP sauce in bacon sandwiches. And then there was my culture. Steve Martin and Aston Villa and New York and E.T. Chicken bhuna, strange-looking cats and always having squash or cans of soft drinks in the house. The Cure. Pink Floyd. Kanye West, friend eggs, ten hours' sleep, ketchup in bacon sandwiches. Never missing dental check-ups. Sister Sledge (my mum). Watching TV even if the weather is nice. Cadbury's Caramel. John and Paul and George and Ringo. And then we met and fell in love and we introduced each other to all of it, like children showing each other their favourite toys. The instinct never goes - look at my fire engine, look at my vinyl collection. Look at all these things I've chosen to represent who I am. It was fun to find out about each other's self-made cultures and make our own hybrid in the years of eating, watching, reading, listening, sleeping and living together. Our culture was tea drink from very large mugs. And looking forward to the Glastonbury ticket day and the new season of Game of Thrones and taking the piss out of ourselves for being just like everyone else. Our culture was over-tipping in restaurants because we both used to work in the service industry, salty popcorn at the cinema and afternoon naps. Side-by-side morning sex. Home-made Manhattans. Barmade Manhattans (much better). Otis Redding's "Cigarettes and Coffee" (our song). Discovering a new song we both loved and listening to it over and over again until we couldn't listen to it any more. Period dramas on a Sunday night. That one perfect vibrator that finished her off in seconds when we were in a rush. Gravy. David Hockney. Truffle crisps. Can you believe it? I still can't believe it. A smell indisputably reminiscent of bums. On a crisp. And yet we couldn't get enough of them together - stuffing them in our gobs, her hand on my chest, me trying not to get crumbs in her hair as we watched Sense and Sensibility (1995). But I'm not a member of that club anymore. No one is. It's been disbanded, dissolved, the domain is no longer valid. So what do I do with all its stuff? Where so I put it all? Where do I take all my new discoveries now I'm no longer a tribe of two? And if I start a new sub-genre of love with someone else, am I allowed to bring in all the things I loved from the last one? Or would that be weird? Why do I find this so hard?

During [Erté]’s childhood St. Petersburg was an elegant centre of theatrical and artistic life. At the same time, under its cultivated sophistication, ominous rumbles could be distinguished. The reign of the tough Alexander III ended in 1894 and his more gentle successor Nicholas was to be the last of the Tsars … St. Petersburg was a very French city. The Franco-Russian Pact of 1892 consolidated military and cultural ties, and later brought Russia into the First World war. Two activities that deeply influenced [Erté], fashion and art, were particularly dominated by France. The brilliant couturier Paul Poiret, for whom Erté was later to work in Paris, visited the city to display his creations. Modern art from abroad, principally French, was beginning to be show in Russia in the early years of the century … In St. Petersburg there were three Imperial theatres―the Maryinsky, devoted to opera and ballet, the Alexandrinsky, with its lovely classical façade, performing Russian and foreign classical drama, and the Michaelovsky with a French repertoire and company … It is not surprising that an artistic youth in St. Petersburg in the first decade of this century should have seen his future in the theatre. The theatre, especially opera and ballet, attracted the leading young painters of the day, including Mikhail Vrubel, possibly the greatest Russian painter of the pre-modernistic period. The father of modern theatrical design in Russia was Alexandre Benois, an offspring of the brilliant foreign colony in the imperial capital. Before 1890 he formed a club of fellow-pupils who were called ‘The Nevsky Pickwickians’. They were joined by the young Jew, Leon Rosenberg, who later took the name of one of his grandparents, Bakst. Another member introduced his cousin to the group―Serge Diaghilev. From these origins emerged the Mir Iskustva (World of Art) society, the forerunner of the whole modern movement in Russia. Soon after its foundation in 1899 both Benois and Bakst produced their first work in the theatre, The infiltration of the members of Mir Iskustva into the Imperial theatre was due to the patronage of its director Prince Volkonsky who appointed Diaghilev as an assistant. But under Volkonsky’s successor Diagilev lost his job and was barred from further state employment. He then devoted his energies and genius to editing the Mir Iskustva magazine and to a series of exhibitions which introduced Russia to work of foreign artists … These culminated in the remarkable exhibition of Russian portraiture held at the Taurida Palace in 1905, and the Russian section at the salon d'Autumne in Paris the following year. This was the most comprehensive Russian exhibition ever held, from early icons to the young Larionov and Gontcharova. Diagilev’s ban from Russian theatrical life also led to a series of concerts in Paris in 1907, at which he introduced contemporary Russian composers, the production Boris Godunov the following year with Chaliapin and costumes and décor by Benois and Golovin, and then in 1909, on May 19, the first season of the ballet Russes at the Châtelet Theatre.

Anyone who wants to join the GLEE CLUB, gets to join.

Todd Billings has articulated the dynamics of theological interpretation in a way that resonates with my account of Derrida’s emphasis on context and communal criteria for what constitutes a “good” interpretation. As Billings winsomely puts it, the ecclesial and theological interpretation of Scripture invites us into “the spacious and yet specified place of wrestling with, chewing on, and performing Scripture.”[422] The generous boundaries (spacious yet specified) of ecclesial interpretation constitute a context for interpreting well, and for knowing what counts as “good” interpretation. Billings captures this dynamic well: Christian readers occupy a spacious territory when they come to know the inexhaustible power of the Spirit’s word through Scripture, a word that is both strangely close to us and yet always meeting us anew as a stranger. Our imaginations need rejuvenation so that we can perceive the wide, expansive drama of salvation into which God incorporates us as readers of Scripture. Yet, as Christians, we also interpret Scripture from a specified location. We are not simply modern individuals looking at an ancient text, or members of a social club looking to an instruction manual on how to make the church run more effectively. We are people who interpret Scripture “in Christ,” as those united to the living Christ by the Holy Spirit’s mediation and power.[423] Such a stipulation of the church (and the canon) as the context for “good” scriptural interpretation is completely consistent with Derrida’s account of iterability and decontextualization.

We’re not a football club, we’re actually a sports entertainment media company,” Cook said internally as the new owners swept into City. “So we must create content. We must provide events, we must create shows, we must create drama. And we must be part of the news, front page and back page, in every way. Am I competing with the other football club down the road, Manchester United, or am I competing with Walt Disney, with Amazon?

What’s up?” she asked. She was good at pretending she had no idea what I was about to “ask” her. I wondered if she should have tried out for drama club too. “Please swap with me,” I said to her. Casey lightly pinched my arm, our signal for letting me know we had Madison’s attention. That girl had no idea what was coming for her. “No one will know,” I said. “I can’t pull out now, but my throat is sore. If I get up there and sing, I’ll make such a fool of myself.” “You can’t cancel it?” Casey asked. “No, it’s too late for that. And besides, if you sing, we can still win the prize money. You’re a better singer than me anyway. You really should be doing the solo, not me.” Casey sighed and faked a concerned look. “We said we weren’t going to do this anymore.

this way whenever she has one of her “amazingly awesome” ideas. “We’ll stage it in the hallway. We can borrow that cordless microphone from the chorus room. Pierce can rig it up to an amplifier. That’s all you need, right?” “Well, sometimes there’s a spotlight.…” “The drama club adviser is a pal. She’ll let us borrow it. We’re good to go.” “Mrs. Kressin? Seriously?” “Totally. You have your material ready to rock, right?” “Pretty much,” I say. “I was ninety percent locked down the day before Uncle Frankie had his heart attack.” “Well, you have all day to polish your routine. Showtime isn’t until five minutes after the final bell.

Never underestimate the power of your associations. By the phenomenon known as “emotional contagion” as well as through the activation of the mirror neurons in our brains, we model the behavior of the people we spend our days with. Fill your life with exceptionally excellent, enterprising, healthy, positive, ethical and sincerely loving people. And over time, you’ll exemplify these lofty traits. Allow dream stealers, energy thieves and enthusiasm bandits into your Tight Bubble of Total Focus and please know you’re sure to become like them. The real key is to avoid trouble creators. People who have grown up in an environment riddled with drama and non-stop problems will consciously and subconsciously re-create drama and nonstop problems because, as amazing as it seems, such conditions feel familiar, safe and like home to them. Stay away from all drama queens and negativity kings. If you don’t, sooner or later, they’ll dissolve your bigness and destroy your life. It’s just what they do. Relate peacefully, as much as possible, with everyone. Even one enemy is an enemy too many. Pass through life gracefully, taking the high road when conflict shows up. Should someone do you wrong, let karma do the dirty work. And let a world-class life be your revenge.

Towards the end of October 1946, I had the good fortune to be present at a confrontation in Cambridge which marked a water-shed in the history of modern philosophy. The Cambridge University Moral Sciences Club had invited Karl Popper to speak. […] After Popper's declaration that he did not believe in puzzle-solving and his affirmation that there were genuine philosophical problems, Wittgenstein started to challenge him to name a 'philosophical' problem. I cannot now recall the precise sequence of events, but after Popper tried to name one or two philosophical problems and Wittgenstein kept countering by saying that he did not know what he would 'mean' by his statements, the drama occurred. Popper was sitting on one side of the fireplace, and Wittgenstein on the other. Both were facing the audience. In the middle, in a big armchair, there was Bertrand Russell. Suddenly Wittgenstein, who had been playing and fidgeting with the poker in the fire, took the red-hot poker out of the fire and gesticulated with it angrily in front of Popper's face. Thereupon, Russell – who had so far not spoken a word – took the pipe out of his mouth and said very firmly in his high-pitched, somewhat scratchy voice: 'Wittgenstein, put down that poker at once!' Wittgenstein complied and soon after got up and walked out, slamming the door. Looking back now after nearly forty years, one can see the real significance of that incident. It prefigured the clash of philosophical opinions which has developed ever since the gradual decline of Positivism has turned into a rout.

I couldn't join drama club like Riley. No, I had to become an underground mad scientist. I had to be mother****ing Indiana Trans. **ck, Nat. Gonna get yourself killed.

Jameson, the teacher who ran drama club, would call her name any minute to audition for the lead role! That

Who would I be without my story of mother? I would be more compassionate and understanding of her life and her journey to motherhood; amazed at how she managed through challenges; awake to how well she did in the big scheme of things; meeting her as a friend instead of with a “should” club. I would be more curious about the woman who raised me; more grateful for what I have and had instead of what I should have had; more amused at the drama that I’ve watched like an old rerun for most of my life; and for sure, more present to my own life and the bounty of blessings obvious to anyone.

When we’re feeling fundamentally lost, afflicted by purposelessness, foul moods, and bad jobs, anything that stimulates the brain’s pleasure centers can become an addiction. Some of the most common, aside from the dynamic duo of drugs and alcohol, are gambling, sex, intense relationship drama, shopping, binge eating, and staring at the internet day and night without pausing to sleep, eat, or pee.

Watching drama play out from afar could seem fun, but it can be very sad if it is in your life. Avoid any form of drama and stay away from those who fuel it with their lies.

The Golem, The Monster was in love with herself; the Goy was in love with her too. She was in love with Club Golan. A perfect storm was approaching and I could almost feel it. I didn't know what was wrong with my beautiful girlfriend as her face gradually began to look like a monster's and she started treating me like garbage. What was controlling her mind? Who was behind her, making her get so sick again so quickly after meeting some new people at the beach bar? Why did Sabrina say that I would die lonely and sad, and why was Martina's perception of me so wrong and unreal? How was their plan on track, I didn't understand while I was running after Martina and I couldn't understand where our happiness had slipped out of our hands again? I was desperately trying to figure out what had happened to my life, my career, and what had happened to my pretty girlfriend, what had happened to my baby? It was almost like my girlfriend's perceptions were all wrong somehow. She had seen me as a useless homeless bum and she had seen the only value or service in Europe and Barcelona which could make a living or money as, 'short shorts and loose legs'. I felt hopeless and I didn't understand what the spell was. How was my 'Stupid Bunny' a Frankenstein? I could feel it on my skin, and I could see it in Martina's eyes, that the criminals' plans were in play and had been working since the moment Adam arrived in Spain, or maybe even before that somehow. Before I even met Martina. Before we even broke all up with Sabrina. Before the Red Moon, the last date and before the provocation the following night. I felt like 10-20 criminals were trying to bully me and trying to woo Martina and outsmart me with her, but I was so worried for her and was so busy trying to save her every day with her on my mind, as if I too was under spells, under possession and couldn't do anything about it to help her or break the illusions keeping her possessed, even when supposedly she was, we were, rid of the bad people. I felt like I was in a screenplay in the set up stages of a drama. I felt like someone had sat down with a piece of paper and a pen, and was drawing plans against my life. I felt like someone had written a screenplay on how to play this out, how to take the club from me and Martina. Someone must have written a list of characters. Casting. I never called Sabrina a bitch. Adam and Martina both called her “bitch.” Martina said “The Bitch” and Adam said “that Crazy Bitch.” ’The Goy’ ’The Bitch’ ’The Gipsy’ ’The Giants’ ’The Golem’ ’The Lawyer’ ’The Big Boss’ ’My Girlfriend’ ’The False Flag’ ’The Big Brother’ ’The Stupid Bunny’ ’The Big Boss Daddy’ ’The Italian Connection’, etc. I was unable to break any illusion, the secret, the code; I was dumbstruck in love with “my girlfriend” (who I thought was my “stupid bunny”), being the ‘false flag’, and maybe it was actually “the bitch” portrayed by Sabrina who was my true love perhaps, putting me to the tests, with Adam and the rest, using Martina and her brother, playing with strings, with her long pretty fingernails, teaching me a lesson for cheating when I thought she was cheating too and making me unhappy when I thought she was unhappy with me. As if I knew, Sabrina had been behind my new girlfriend, Martina playing roles; I had seen all the signs and jokes. I just couldn't comprehend it having a cover over my eyes. I was unsure what should I do what would be real wise? I didn't think Sabrina would be capable of hurting me at all. Why did Martina keep saying, Tomas you are so nice and tall?

Jiu Jitsu Woman is a resource and community for women in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. We write articles, guides, and how-to's specifically so women don't have to feel alone in this male dominated sport. Our Women's Club is a subscription group for women who want to hear from the top ranking female BJJ athletes. Every month we have interviews with top ranking female athletes hearing their stories on gender dramas, frustrations, and tips on how they function in such a male dominated industry. We also ask practical questions on how women prepare for tournaments and competitions, and we even talk to men to find out the other sides perspective.

I thought having a boyfriend was the best thing ever. I thought I was in love. So I immediately gave everything up. Beth. Everyone else I knew at school. My whole life was at that school. I had... hobbies. Me and Beth did all the school shows. I went to the drama club. I'd always pester the head of drama to let us do a Shakespeare and she'd always give in. I was... happy. I was actually happy. And I gave it all up to be with my boyfriend.

Drama mamas,” the homeless man interrupted again. “That’s what I call men and women who’ve caught the virus of victimitis excusitis. All they do is complain about how bad things are for them instead of applying their primal power to make things better. They take instead of give, criticize instead of create and worry instead of work. Build antibodies to combat any form of average from getting anywhere near your professional days at the office and your private life at home. Never be a drama mama.

I still miss those days of putting on an actual costume to sing, dance, and be someone else. I have thought about going back and doing theater, or even starting a drama club at whatever school I end up at long term. I occasionally look up approaching auditions while I toy with those thoughts.

As I was saying,” Ashlynn said loudly, “your Drama Club teacher asked me to do an acting exercise with you.” “Excuse me!” Jazmine raised her hand. “Excuse me!” “Yes?” Ashlynn looked over our way. I scrunched down again. “We’re not all Drama Club students,” Jazmine said. “Many of us have an important mathletes competition. Perhaps our time would be better served if we left now to go study.” Jazmine started to stand up. “Sit down, Ms. James!” Mrs. Burkle’s voice boomed. “This cultural experience is valuable for all Geckos. You will remain.” Jazmine sighed and sat back down. “Ha-ha,” Sydney sang under her breath. “I’ll share a theater exercise I learned in my exclusive acting class with world-renowned acting coach Harriet Greenspan,” Ashlynn said. “Hm, I will need some volunteers to assist me.” I could not have slumped down any farther without being under my seat. “First, the girl who already volunteered,” Ashlynn said. She pointed at Jazmine. “What?” Jazmine sputtered. “I didn’t volunteer.

Memorably, the Lord Chancellor Lord Brougham physically got down on his knees in the House of Lords in support of reform, telling his fellow peers, ‘I implore you − yea, on my bended knee I supplicate you − reject not this bill!’15 Unfortunately for Brougham, it was at that exact moment that his back seized up. The drama of the moment was considerably reduced as he had to ask his fellow peers to carry him away. As

Luckily, queer ones like her don't happen, often. We know how to nip most of them in the bud, early. You can't build a house without nails and wood. If you don't want a house built, hide the nails and wood. If you don't want a man unhappy politically, don't give him two sides to a question to worry him; give him one. Better yet, give him none. Let him forget there is such a thing as war. If the Government is inefficient, top-heavy, and tax-mad, better it be all those than that people worry over it. Peace, Montag. Give the people contests they win by remembering the words to more popular songs or the names of state capitals or how much corn Iowa grew last year. Cram them full of non-combustible data, chock them so damned full of 'facts' they feel stuffed, but absolutely 'brilliant' with information. Then they'll feel they're thinking, they'll get a sense of motion without moving. And they'll be happy, because facts of that sort don't change. Don't give them any slippery stuff like philosophy or sociology to tie things up with. That way lies melancholy. Any man who can take a TV wall apart and put it back together again, and most men can nowadays, is happier than any man who tries to slide-rule, measure, and equate the universe, which just won't be measured or equated without making man feel bestial and lonely. I know, I've tried it; to hell with it. So bring on your clubs and parties, your acrobats and magicians, your dare-devils, jet cars, motor-cycle helicopters, your sex and heroin, more of everything to do with automatic reflex. If the drama is bad, if the film says nothing, if the play is hollow, sting me with the theremin, loudly. I'll think I'm responding to the play, when it's only a tactile reaction to vibration. But I don't care. I just like solid entertainment.

It took me miles of gentle puzzling before I worked out that the love was about my father and me. For weeks after he died, I’d sat in front of the television watching the British television drama Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy over and over again; hours of grainy 1970s 16mm cinefilm, soft and black on an old VHS tape. I’d curled up mentally in its dark interiors, its Whitehall offices and gentlemen’s clubs. It was a story of espionage and betrayal that fitted together like a watch, and it was glacially slow and beautiful.

I open the yearbook and start paging through it as fast as I can. Basketball games, Ping-Pong, Yearbook Club, Drama. I check the cover to make sure it’s not a mistake. It’s like I’m reading about another place entirely. The school in this book has nothing to do with the place where I spend my days, the place where three in ten of us won’t graduate. It doesn’t show the empty air around me as I wait alone in the school yard, the bathrooms I won’t go into, or the dead look I have to keep on my face as I go from class to class.

You’re superstitious?” His rough voice echoes above our heads, so he leans in closer and says, “I didn’t really see that coming.” “I’m usually not, but I guess that got ingrained. Everyone in my circle knows not to say that inside a theater.” “Bad luck, I take it?” he asks. I nod and he observes the place one more time before following me out. “Not to be insensitive to our surroundings or anything, but I think bad luck’s already done its business here.” “Old habits…blow up in your face.” I adjust my ponytail and try to concentrate on what’s around us, but from the corner of my eyes I see Darren bite his lip. I’m not sure if he finds this new information about me endearing or insane. He follows me quietly for a few minutes before speaking again. “So theater, huh? Not sure I saw that one coming either.” “Why?” My cheeks are warm, but I keep in front of him and look anywhere but his direction. “The theater kids back at my high school were…a lot different than you.” I laugh a little louder than necessary. “There are definitely some characters in drama club. As far as style or individuality goes, I’m not much of a standout at school.” “You would have stood out to me.” “I don’t need any tall-girl jokes from you, thanks.” He shrugs. “That’s not what I meant.” Must. Look. Away. What else can I take a picture of? I point the camera to my feet and snap a few. “You’re taking pictures of your feet?” His tone is equal parts curious and amused. “Oh yeah,” I say, turning the camera on his sneakers. “I’ll call it, ‘Standing in Pompeii.’” “How original.” Great. I’ve just made myself a certifiable nutcase.

So theater, huh? Not sure I saw that one coming either.” “Why?” My cheeks are warm, but I keep in front of him and look anywhere but his direction. “The theater kids back at my high school were…a lot different than you.” I laugh a little louder than necessary. “There are definitely some characters in drama club. As far as style or individuality goes, I’m not much of a standout at school.” “You would have stood out to me.” “I don’t need any tall-girl jokes from you, thanks.” He shrugs. “That’s not what I meant.” Must. Look. Away. What else can I take a picture of? I point the camera to my feet and snap a few.

It’s like there are two worlds in Drama Club. The world onstage and the world backstage. It reminds me of how I feel all the time.

Watching the U.S. Army-McCarthy drama had been nerve-racking; it felt as though the nation's tolerance for indecency and lies would never reach a limit. He had watched as senators he'd previously respected pretended that the unacceptable wasn't becoming the status quo. He feared McCarthy would keep rising in popularity and status, leaving in his wake the complete destruction of basic societal norms. The historian in him intellectually suspected that something at some point would stop McCarthy; all great tyrants experience downfalls. But he couldn't see it coming for Tail-Gunner Joe.

Well, as long as we’re all here,” Miranda began, while Parker let out a prolonged groan. “Uh-oh. I sense drama.” “Impossible,” Roo said offhandedly. “You have no sense.” “This might be a good time to talk about our project?” Miranda continued. “How’s the research going?” “Oh! Me first!” Waving her arm, Ashley gave an excited little squirm. “You know how the museum and those shops on both sides of it are all attached to each other? Well, Parker’s mom said they all used to be just one big building!” The others waited. When Ashley merely sat there beaming at them, Parker drew back in exaggerated surprise. “Wow! That’s really fascinating, Ash!” “No, that’s not the fascinating part.” Ashley looked slightly offended. “I haven’t gotten to that yet.” “Then hurry and get to that part. The suspense is killing us.” “The building used to be a club. Like a private gentlemen’s club. Except upstairs, that’s where they’d meet their mistresses.” Parker smacked a hand to his forehead. “Hookers! Damn! And I took the courthouse!” “Not prostitutes.” Another offended look from Ashley. “Mistresses. It’s not just about sex, you know. There’s a very big difference.” “Is that the sad part?” Parker asked. Ashley continued, undaunted. “I found out there was a murder in one of those upstairs rooms. That when a very rich plantation owner wanted to end the relationship with his mistress, she stabbed him to death. In bed.” Calmly munching her popcorn, Roo gave a supportive thumbs-up. “And the drugstore next door to the museum? People who work there say they’ve heard moaning at night in one of those storage rooms on the second floor.” The boys traded glances. “And this moaning,” Parker said, straight-faced, “did it come before or after the guy was stabbed?

People stuck in the victim role always have targets of blame, people they see as persecutors. They often turn to others for help and support. These are their rescuers, who play the final role in the drama triangle.

Getting out of a triangle drama is also simple, though not easy. It hinges on one act of integrity: acknowledging that we’re capable of choosing our responses to other people and situations, no matter what. We can end the futile drama of human conflict only when we accept that at a deep, existential level, we are free.

Like diamonds, drama triangles are forever—that is, the pattern may persist for decades, even centuries. The actors may switch roles, but the pattern endures. If you want vivid illustrations of this, read about long-standing historical conflicts. Each side will claim to be victims of the other’s persecution, and appeal for rescue to other actors. This pattern may be huge, creating world wars. Or it may be tiny, creating the same damn argument you have with your spouse once a week.

An author named David Emerald did just that after he studied Karpman’s work. He developed a kind of anti-triangle, which he called the “empowerment dynamic.” In this pattern, people who were once seen as persecutors become “challengers.” They force others to rise to new levels of strength and competency. Rescuers become “coaches.” Instead of jumping in to soothe and fix (“Poor you! Let me do that for you!”), they say, “Wow, that’s an awful situation. What are you going to do about it?” And in the most empowering shift of all, Emerald suggests that victims become “creators.” Where victims believe “This situation is unbearable and I’m helpless,” creators ask themselves, “This situation is messed up. What can I make from it?” Remember, creativity is the opposite of violence, which is pure destruction. If we can find any way to see ourselves as creators, no matter what our situation, we can turn drama triangles into empowerment dynamics. Instead of getting trapped in violence and hatred, we can use relationship dynamics to reach higher and higher levels of integrity.

couldn’t listen to it any more. Period dramas on a Sunday night. That one perfect vibrator that finished her off in seconds when we were in a rush. Gravy. David Hockney. Truffle crisps. Can you believe it? I still can’t believe it. A smell indisputably reminiscent of bums. On a crisp. And yet we couldn’t get enough of them together—stuffing them in our gobs, her head on my chest, me trying not to get crumbs in her hair as we watched Sense and Sensibility (1995). But I’m not a member of that club any more. No one is. It’s been disbanded, dissolved, the domain is no longer valid. So what do I do with all its stuff? Where do I put it all? Where do I take all my new discoveries now I’m no longer in a tribe of two? And if I start a new sub-genre of love with someone else, am I allowed to bring in all the things I loved from the last one? Or would that be weird?