Dunno What To Do Quotes

I believe there's a hand that guides us. It just isn't always a gentle one. Or one that seems fair at the time. But I dunno, I try to trust in it now. When I freak, I just try to... shit, I guess trust in it. Because at the end of the day, what else can you do? Choice only gets you so far. Reasoning and planning too. The rest... it's up to someone else. Where we end up, who we know, what happens to the people we love... we don't have a lot of control over any of it.

Could you do a glamour and turn into something smaller?" I asked it. "Preferably not a chain, since it's no longer the 1990s?" The sword didn't reply (duh), but I imagined it was humming at a more interrogative pitch, like, Such as what? "I dunno. Something pocket-size and innocuous. A pen, maybe?" The sword pulsed, almost like it was laughing. I imagined it saying, A pen sword. That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard.

I was in Nashville, Tennessee last year. After the show I went to a Waffle House. I'm not proud of it, I was hungry. And I'm alone, I'm eating and I'm reading a book, right? Waitress walks over to me: 'Hey, whatcha readin' for?' Isn't that the weirdest fuckin' question you've ever heard? Not what am I reading, but what am I reading FOR? Well, goddamnit, ya stumped me! Why do I read? Well . . . hmmm...I dunno...I guess I read for a lot of reasons and the main one is so I don't end up being a fuckin' waffle waitress.

What do I taste like?” “Well, like honey and cream and … I dunno, bread?” I scrunched up my nose. “Bread?” “Yes. Sexy bread that I could eat all the time because you are so delicious and full of wholegrain goodness.

Use your head, Sep. Loads of wolverines. Hanging around waiting for super. Gtting excited. eating mint blasts. so what do you think they do?' it must be here. they can't have eaten that... i dunno, Nik, what do they do?' POO.

It doesn't have any effect on your life. What do you care?! People try to talk about it like it's a social issue. Like when you see someone stand up on a talk show and say, "How am I supposed to explain to my children that two men are getting married?... I dunno. It's your shitty kid. You fuckin' tell 'em. Why is that anyone else's problem? Two guys are in LOVE and they can't get married because you don't want to talk to your ugly child for five fuckin' minutes?

War, Nobby. Huh! What is it good for?" he said. "Dunno, Sarge. Freeing slaves, maybe?" "Absol—well, okay." "Defending yourself against a totalitarian aggressor?" "All right, I'll grant you that, but—" "Saving civilization from a horde of—" "It doesn't do any good in the long run is what I'm saying, Nobby, if you'd listen for five seconds together," said Fred Colon sharply. "Yeah, but in the long run, what does, Sarge?

Check this out,” Nine says. He holds up a small purple stone and then places it on the back of his hand. The stone slides into his hand—through it. Nine turns his hand over just as the stone pops out in his palm. “Pretty cool, right?” he asks me, waggling his eyebrows. “Uh, but what is it supposed to do?” Eight asks, looking up from his own Chest. “I dunno. Impress girls?” Nine looks over at me. “Did it work?” “Um . . .” I hesitate, trying not to roll my eyes too hard. “Not really. But, I’ve seen guys teleport so I’m kind of hard to impress.” “Tough crowd.

Could you do a glamour and turn into something smaller?” I asked it. “Preferably not a chain, since it’s no longer the 1990s?” The sword didn’t reply (duh), but I imagined it was humming at a more interrogative pitch, like, Such as what? “I dunno. Something pocket-size and innocuous. A pen, maybe?” The sword pulsed, almost like it was laughing. I imagined it saying, A pen sword. That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.

Young Noah: Will you go out with me? Young Allie: What? No. Young Noah: No...? Young Allie: No. Young Noah: Why not? Young Allie: I dunno, because I don't want to. Young Noah: OK, then you leave me no other choice. Young Allie: AHHHH Young Noah: I'm gonna ask you one more time, will you or will you not go out with me? I think my hand's slipping. Young Allie: OK, OK. Fine I'll go out with you Young Noah: No, don't do me any favors. Young Allie: No, no I want to. Young Noah: Say it. Young Allie: I wanna go out with you. Young Noah: Say it again. Young Allie: I WANNA GO OUT WITH YOU! Young Noah: All right, all right we'll go out.

I read the first chapter of A Brief History of Time when Dad was still alive, and I got incredibly heavy boots about how relatively insignificant life is, and how compared to the universe and compared to time, it didn't even matter if I existed at all. When Dad was tucking me in that night and we were talking about the book, I asked if he could think of a solution to that problem. "Which problem?" "The problem of how relatively insignificant we are." He said, "Well, what would happen if a plane dropped you in the middle of the Sahara Desert and you picked up a single grain of sand with tweezers and moved it one millimeter?" I said, "I'd probably die of dehydration." He said, "I just mean right then, when you moved that single grain of sand. What would that mean?" I said, "I dunno, what?" He said, "Think about it." I thought about it. "I guess I would have moved one grain of sand." "Which would mean?" "Which would mean I moved a grain of sand?" "Which would mean you changed the Sahara." "So?" "So? So the Sahara is a vast desert. And it has existed for millions of years. And you changed it!" "That's true!" I said, sitting up. "I changed the Sahara!" "Which means?" he said. "What? Tell me." "Well I'm not talking about painting the Mona Lisa or curing cancer. I'm just talking about moving that one grain of sand one millimeter." "Yeah? If you hadn't done it, human history would have been one way..." "Uh-huh?" "But you did do it, so...?" I stood on the bed, pointing one of my fingers at the fake stars, and screamed: "I changed the course of human history!" "That's right." "I changed the universe!" "You did." "I'm God!" "You're an atheist." "I don't exist!" I fell back onto the bed, into his arms, and we cracked up together.

After a while the Senior Wrangler said, "Do you know, I read the other day that every atom in your body is changed every seven years? New ones keep getting attached and old ones keep on dropping off. It goes on all the time. Marvelous, really." The Senior Wrangler could do to a conversation what it takes quite thick treacle to do to the pedals of a precision watch. "Yes? What happens to the old ones?" said Ridcully, interested despite himself. "Dunno. They just float around in the air, I suppose, until they get attached to someone else." The Archchancellor looked affronted. "What, even wizards?" "Oh, yes. Everyone. It's part of the miracle of existence." "Is it? Sounds like bad hygiene to me," said the Archchancellor. "I suppose there's no way of stopping it?" "I shouldn't think so," said the Senior Wrangler, doubtfully. "I don't think you're supposed to stop miracles of existence." "But that means everythin' is made up of everythin' else," said Ridcully. "Yes. Isn't it amazing?

It wouldn't be a unicorn without a horn. That's what the word means! Uni, for one. And then corn for, you know, horn. One-horned." "Yeah, but they're supposed to be all peaceful and nice. Why would a unicorn need a horn? What's it do with it?" Mini turned red. "I dunno. For shooting off magic and stuff." "Or they use it to maul things." "Thats horrible, Aru" They're unicorns. They're perfect.

It doesn't have any effect on your life. What do you care?! People try to talk about it like it's a social issue. Like when you see someone stand up on a talk show and say, 'How am I supposed to explain to my child that two men are getting married?' ... I dunno, it's your shitty kid, you fucking' tell 'em. Why is that anyone else's problem? Two guys are in love but they can't get married because you don't want to talk to your ugly child for fuckin' five minutes?

I dunno, Ralph. We just got to go on, that’s all. That’s what grown-ups would do.

Nobody looks like what they really are on the inside. You don’t. I don’t. People are much more complicated than that. It’s true of everybody.' I said, 'Are you a monster? Like Ursula Monkton?' Lettie threw a pebble into the pond. 'I don't think so,' she said. 'Monsters come in all shapes and sizes, Some of them are things people are scared of. Some of them are things that look like things people used to be scared of a long time ago. Sometimes monsters are things people should be scared of, but they aren't.' I said, 'People should be scared of Ursula Monkton.' 'P'raps. What do you think Ursula Monkton is scared of?' 'Dunno. Why do you think she's scared of anything? She's a grown-up, isn't she? Grown-ups and monsters aren't scared of things.' Oh, monsters are scared," said Lettie. "That's why they're monsters. And as for grown-ups...' She stopped talking, rubbed her freckled nose with a finger. Then, 'I'm going to tell you something important. Grown-ups don't look like grown-ups on the inside either. Outside, they're big and thoughtless and they always know what they're doing. Inside, they look just like they always have. Like they did when they were your age. Truth is, there aren't any grown-ups. Not one, in the whole wide world.

What do you think, little dhampir? I was pretty badass with that plant, wasn’t I? Of course, it would have been more badass if I’d, I dunno, helped an amputee grow a limb back. Or maybe separated Siamese twins. But that’ll come with more practice.

You're just not a soldier. You're a...you're a nerd. I mean, even the way you work out is nerdy. You don't have like a killer—" "What do you mean the way I work out is nerdy?" "How many calories have you burnt in the last five minutes?" "Um, I dunno. 17 or 18 probably." "Abe, that's not something normal people know.

Question." "Yes," Candace asked expectantly, eyes fixed on the dark street ahead. "Have you ever had to chose sides between a friend and a boyfriend?" Candace nodded. "Which side are you suppose to pick?" "The right one." "What if they're both right?" "They're not." "But they are," Melody insisted. "That's the problem." "No." Candace slowly rolled past a police cruiser. "They both think they're right. But who do you think is right? Which side represents the thing you think is worth fighting for?" Melody glanced out the window as though she was expecting the answer to be revealed on a neighbor's lawn. Every house except hers had the lights turned off. "I dunno." "You do," Candace insisted. "You just don't have the courage to be honest with yourself. Because then you'd have to do the thing you don't want to do, and you hate doing anything that's hard. Which is why you gave up singing and why you have no life and why you've always been a -" "Um okay! Can we get back to the part where you were sounding like Oprah?" "I'm just saying, Melly, what would you do if you weren't afraid? That's your answer. That's your side." She turned into the circular driveway and put the SUV in PARK. "And if you don't choose it, you're lying to yourself and everyone around you." She opened the door and grabbed her purse. "Oprah out!" The door slammed behind her.

... what makes things break up like they do?" Piggy rubbed his glasses slowly and thought. When he understood how far Ralph had gone towards accepting him he flushed pinkly with pride. "I dunno, Ralph. I expect it's him." "Jack?" "Jack." A taboo was evolving round that word too. Ralph nodded solemnly. "Yes," he said, "I suppose it must be.

Let’s make a promise,” he says. “To find each other.” “How can we? We’ll probably end up in different places.” “I know.” “And my name will be changed.” “Mine too, maybe. But we can try.” Carmine flops over, tucking his legs beneath him and stretching his arms, and both of us shift to accommodate him. “Do you believe in fate?” I ask. “What’s that again?” “That everything is decided. You’re just—you know—living it out.” “God has it all planned in advance.” I nod. “I dunno. I don’t like the plan much so far.” “Me either.” We both laugh.

There are no trees in Iceland," - "We have a joke, do you know it?" She took a breath, then said, "What do you do if you get lost in a forest in Iceland?" I shook my head. "I dunno." "Stand up.

-Why are you interrogating me? What's going on here? -Iwant to get to know you. -Is this how you normally get to know people, by interrogating them? -Well ... not really. -So how do you get to know people? - I dunno, by spending time with them I guess [...] -So in the time we've spent together what would you say you've learned about your dad? -Nothing. All I know is that you're extremely secretive. -You see you're getting to know me already.

Old Sobriety's son? How is the old devil?" "Dunno, sir, what with him being dead." "Oh dear. How long ago?" "These past thirty years," said Shawn. "But you don't look any older than twen-" Ponder began. Ridcully elbowed him sharply in the ribcage. "This is the countryside," he hissed. "People do things differently here. And more often.

A father can tell. Gregor's a good lad. A bright, fresh-air mind. Always helps his mother around the house without being asked, but he's a wee bit ..." The man paused as though he couldn't find the correct word. "Artistic. T'chut. Do ye know what I mean by that?" Mungo gave a small nod. He wasn't sure if what the man meant, and what he understood, were the same thing. "Forgive me if I've read you wrong, David. But would I be right in thinking ye are a wee bit artistic yourself?" Calum didn't wait for an answer. "See, I know lots of men would be bothered by that. But I have no problem with ye if you are. I'm just saying ... Och, well, I dunno. I say the wrong thing sometimes.

I’m gay.” There was a long pause after my revelation, then. “Are you sure?” “Of course I’m fucking sure. Why else would I say it? I’m a nance, a poof, a queer, a shit stabber.” There was an embarrassed silence. “Don’t worry. It isn’t catching.” I struggled out of the deckchair. “You don’t have to be friends with me anymore.” “Sorry, Gil. I dunno what to say.” He raked at his hair. “Do you fancy me then?” “No.” “Why not?” “Cos you’re fucking ugly. Look, Lee. Being gay doesn’t mean you fancy every lad you clap eyes on. You don’t fancy every lass you meet.

What do you think magic is for?” “I dunno. Don’t answer a question with a question.” “I used to think about this a lot,” Quentin said. “I mean, it’s not obvious like it is in books. It’s trickier. In books there’s always somebody standing by ready to say hey, the world’s in danger, evil’s on the rise, but if you’re really quick and take this ring and put it in that volcano over there everything will be fine. “But in real life that guy never turns up. He’s never there. He’s busy handing out advice in the next universe over. In our world no one ever knows what to do, and everyone’s just as clueless and full of crap as everyone else, and you have to figure it all out by yourself. And even after you’ve figured it out and done it, you’ll never know whether you were right or wrong. You’ll never know if you put the ring in the right volcano, or if things might have gone better if you hadn’t. There’s no answers in the back of the book.

what will you do if you go home? i dunno stuff grows out of the ground if you put stuff in it so maybe ill do that farming? yeah go home and put stuff in the ground and no one will take the girls i like and i hope you all die in this stupid war you don't mean that you don't mean your face what? leave me alone

New Rule: If the guy who makes up the poll questions at CNN doesn't want to do it anymore more, he should just quit. This is an actual recent poll question: "Would you like to live on the moon?" And the shocking results: No, as it turns out, we would not like to live on the moon. This is the cable news equivalent of being in a dead-end relationship with an idiot. "What are you thinking?" "I dunno, honey, I guess I was just wondering how many Americans would like to live on the moon.

Do you know what history is?” Peter asks. “History?” “Yeah.” “I dunno,” Frankie says, “it’s things that happened.” “No,” Peter says, “it’s what people say happened.

Patronuses can change, though, can’t they?” said Ron. “Tonks’s changed, didn’t it?” “Yeah, but if Dumbledore was alive, why wouldn’t he show himself? Why wouldn’t he just hand us the sword?” “Search me,” said Ron. “Same reason he didn’t give it to you while he was alive? Same reason he left you an old Snitch and Hermione a book of kids’ stories?” “Which is what?” asked Harry, turning to look Ron full in the face, desperate for the answer. “I dunno,” said Ron. “Sometimes I’ve thought, when I’ve been a bit hacked off, he was having a laugh or—or he just wanted to make it more difficult. But I don’t think so, not anymore. He knew what he was doing when he gave me the Deluminator, didn’t he? He—well,” Ron’s ears turned bright red and he became engrossed in a tuft of grass at his feet, which he prodded with his toe, “he must’ve known I’d run out on you.” “No,” Harry corrected him. “He must’ve known you’d always want to come back.

Riley stared at him. "How do you just say that stuff?" "What do you mean? How do I just say shit without thinking about it? I dunno. I just do. It's not that hard. Just try it sometime." "Okay," Riley said, and then he said, "I love you.

Okay,” I said, “so what does all that have to do with his dead mistress, her dead ex-boyfriend with the dirty pictures or the entire Rossetti crime family?” Trixie shrugged. “I dunno, let’s go ask him.” “Ask who?” I said, a little lost. “Roger Mayfield,” she said simply. “Isn’t that what I wanted to do at nine o’clock in the morning?” I asked, annoyed. “Nine thirty-seven,” she reminded. “And there’s a difference.” “Which is?” I asked. “When you wanted to do it, it was a stupid idea,” she said with a smile.

Whatever happened to you being Mr. Control, and me just keeping my pretty mouth shut?” “Guess I like what comes out of your mouth, as much as I care about what might go in.” I smacked his arm and he laughed. “I dunno,” he said, shrugging. “I like the way you fuck. You’re even more fun when I let you do stuff.” “Well, well.” “I like how you’re all . . . grabby. Physical. Like we’re scrapping, sometimes. But not always,” Kelly murmured, starting to kiss my neck. I cupped his head, welcoming the contact.

You know she made me a list, don’t you?” “What do you mean?” “A list. Chelsea made me a list of questions to ask Mike.” Violet laughed, pulling herself up. It was too ridiculous to believe. But it was Chelsea, so of course it was true. “What did you do with it? You didn’t give it to him, did you?” Violet asked, her eyes wide with shock. Jay sat up too and grinned, and Violet was sure that he had. And then he shook his head. “Nah. I told her if she really wanted the answers, she’d have to give it to him herself.” Violet relaxed back into the couch. “Did she?” Jay shrugged. “I dunno. You never know with Chelsea.” He leaned forward, watching Violet closely as he ran his thumb down the side of her cheek. “Anyway,” he said, switching the subject, “I get off work at six tomorrow; maybe we can hook up after that.” He moved closer, grinning. “And you can tell me how much you missed me.” He kissed her, at first quickly. Then the kiss deepened, and she heard him groan. This time, when he pulled back, there was indecision in his eyes. Violet wanted to say something sarcastic and sharp-witted to lighten the mood, but with Jay staring at her like that, any hope of finding a clever response was lost. She could feel herself disappearing into the depths of that uncertain look.

Monsters come in all shapes and sizes. Some of them are things people are scared of. Some of them are things that look like things people used to be scared of a long time ago. Sometimes monsters are things people should be scared of, but they aren’t.” I said, “People should be scared of Ursula Monkton.” “P’raps. What do you think Ursula Monkton is scared of?” “Dunno. Why do you think she’s scared of anything? She’s a grown-up, isn’t she? Grown-ups and monsters aren’t scared of things.” “Oh, monsters are scared,” said Lettie. “That’s why they’re monsters. And as for grown-ups . . .” She stopped talking, rubbed her freckled nose with a finger. Then, “I’m going to tell you something important. Grown-ups don’t look like grown-ups on the inside either. Outside, they’re big and thoughtless and they always know what they’re doing. Inside, they look just like they always have. Like they did when they were your age. The truth is, there aren’t any grown-ups. Not one, in the whole wide world.” She thought for a moment. Then she smiled. “Except for Granny, of course.

Casy looked up quickly, “Million acres? What in the worl’ can he do with a million acres?’’ “I dunno. He jus’ got it. Runs a few cattle. Got guards ever’place to keep folks out. Rides aroun’ in a bullet-proof car. I seen pitchers of him. Fat, sof’ fella with little mean eyes an’ a mouth like a ass-hole. Scairt he’s gonna die. Got a million acres an’ scairt of dyin’.

Hey, what do you think the best way to train Willpower is?” “Willpower? Uhh...” Suri trailed off. “I dunno. Playing chess?” “That's more Int, I think.” “Willpower is all about resisting stuff, right?” Suri shrugged. “You probably train it through resisting temptation, defeat, stuff like that.” “Resisting temptation, huh?” I scratched the stubble on my jaw. “Guess I'm starting up No-Nut November.” “Well, yeah.

War, Nobby. Huh! What is it good for?” he said. “Dunno, Sarge. Freeing slaves, maybe?” “Absol—well, okay.” “Defending yourself against a totalitarian aggressor?” “All right, I’ll grant you that, but—” “Saving civilization from a horde of—” “It doesn’t do any good in the long run is what I’m saying, Nobby, if you’d listen for five seconds together,” said Fred Colon sharply. “Yeah, but in the long run, what does, Sarge?

In my next life, I’d like to be a bookstore cat. Sunlight and books and naps.” “I dunno, I think you could do that in this life.” Closing his eyes, he tilted his head back, and the sunlight caught in his fair hair. “I could if I liked naps.” I opened my eyes and gave him a look of disbelief. “You don’t like naps? What’s wrong with you? Who hurt you as a child?” He snorted a laugh. “That will take a few hours to unpack.

Anything Bunny wrote was bound to be alarmingly original, since he began with such odd working materials and managed to alter them further by his befuddled scrutiny, but the John Donne paper must have been the worst of all the bad papers he ever wrote (ironic, given that it was the only thing he ever wrote that saw print. After he disappeared, a journalist asked for an excerpt from the missing young scholar's work and Marion gave him a copy of it, a laboriously edited paragraph of which eventually found its way into People magazine). Somewhere, Bunny had heard that John Donne had been acquainted with Izaak Walton, and in some dim corridor of his mind this friendship grew larger and larger, until in his mind the two men were practically interchangeable. We never understood how this fatal connection had established itself: Henry blamed it on Men of Thought and Deed, but no one knew for sure. A week or two before the paper was due, he had started showing up in my room about two or three in the morning, looking as if he had just narrowly escaped some natural disaster, his tie askew and his eyes wild and rolling. 'Hello, hello,' he would say, stepping in, running both hands through his disordered hair. 'Hope I didn't wake you, don't mind if I cut on the lights, do you, ah, here we go, yes, yes…' He would turn on the lights and then pace back and forth for a while without taking off his coat, hands clasped behind his back, shaking his head. Finally he would stop dead in his tracks and say, with a desperate look in his eye: 'Metahemeralism. Tell me about it. Everything you know. I gotta know something about metahemeralism.' 'I'm sorry. I don't know what that is.' 'I don't either,' Bunny would say brokenly. 'Got to do with art or pastoralism or something. That's how I gotta tie together John Donne and Izaak Walton, see.' He would resume pacing. 'Donne. Walton. Metahemeralism. That's the problem as I see it.' 'Bunny, I don't think "metahemeralism" is even a word.' 'Sure it is. Comes from the Latin. Has to do with irony and the pastoral. Yeah. That's it. Painting or sculpture or something, maybe.' 'Is it in the dictionary?' 'Dunno. Don't know how to spell it. I mean' – he made a picture frame with his hands – 'the poet and the fisherman. Parfait. Boon companions. Out in the open spaces. Living the good life. Metahemeralism's gotta be the glue here, see?' And so it would go, for sometimes half an hour or more, with Bunny raving about fishing, and sonnets, and heaven knew what, until in the middle of his monologue he would be struck by a brilliant thought and bluster off as suddenly as he had descended. He finished the paper four days before the deadline and ran around showing it to everyone before he turned it in. 'This is a nice paper, Bun -,' Charles said cautiously. 'Thanks, thanks.' 'But don't you think you ought to mention John Donne more often? Wasn't that your assignment?' 'Oh, Donne,' Bunny had said scoffingly. 'I don't want to drag him into this.' Henry refused to read it. 'I'm sure it's over my head, Bunny, really,' he said, glancing over the first page. 'Say, what's wrong with this type?' 'Triple-spaced it,' said Bunny proudly. 'These lines are about an inch apart.' 'Looks kind of like free verse, doesn't it?' Henry made a funny little snorting noise through his nose. 'Looks kind of like a menu,' he said. All I remember about the paper was that it ended with the sentence 'And as we leave Donne and Walton on the shores of Metahemeralism, we wave a fond farewell to those famous chums of yore.' We wondered if he would fail.

I missed you." A humorless laugh closed his eyes. When he opened them, the redness had turned them deep mossy green. "Sorry." Trip's own eyes welled up. "Not like, gosh-I-wonder-what-Trip-is-doing missed you. I meant I actually started to feel like I'd survived some horrible amputation and part of me had been hacked off and lost in a haunted warzone being gnawed by the walking dead. I missed you because you were missing. I actually spent weeks trying to imagine what you were doing at any given Moment... obsessing, really." He didn't wipe his wet cheeks. "Trip must be seeing the new Superman this weekend. I wonder if Trip's asleep. I wish I could swallow Trip's load right this second. Trip needs to stop and eat now, something not dyed or in plastic. I even went to watch the Big Dog office doors a couple of times, like the Little Match Queer, when I knew you had pages due, just to make sure, you were okay, but then you... I dunno: vanished.

I dunno…After seeing him this summer at the beach, maybe Mama’s onto something. I mean, let’s face it--the boy’s hot. You could do worse. Much worse.” “Yeah, well…there’s more to it than looks,” I grumble. “Right. There’s also intelligence--check. Talent--check. Character--check.” She ticks each one off on her fingers. “As far as I can tell, he’s got it all--the total package. I mean, okay, so he’s the boy next door, and Mom and Laura Grace have been bugging you two about each other since forever. But seriously, what more do you want?

I said, “Are you a monster? Like Ursula Monkton?” Lettie threw a pebble into the pond. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Monsters come in all shapes and sizes. Some of them are things people are scared of. Some of them are things that look like things people used to be scared of a long time ago. Sometimes monsters are things people should be scared of, but they aren’t.” I said, “People should be scared of Ursula Monkton.” “P’raps. What do you think Ursula Monkton is scared of?” “Dunno. Why do you think she’s scared of anything? She’s a grown-up, isn’t she? Grown-ups and monsters aren’t scared of things.” “Oh, monsters are scared,” said Lettie. “That’s why they’re monsters.

Did I ever tell you what the definition of insanity is? Insanity is doing the exact... same thing... over and over again expecting... shit to change... That. Is. Crazy. The first time somebody told me that, I dunno, I thought they were bullshitting me, so, I shot him. The thing is... He was right. And then I started seeing, everywhere I looked, everywhere I looked all these pricks doing the exact same thing... over and over and over and over again thinking 'this time is gonna be different' no, no, no please... This time is gonna be different, Hey, do you think I am bullshitting you, do you think I am lying? ha ha ha ha It's okay, man. I'm gonna chill, I'm gonna chill... Alright, the thing is I killed you once already... and it's not like I am crazy. It's like water under the bridge. Did I ever tell you the definition... of insanity?

You two sure are sleeping late for grown-ups. Did you stay up praying again last night?" "Praying?" Jamie asked with a frown. "What do you mean praying?" Reggie was one of the most deep-thinking children he had ever met, so figuring out what Reggie was talking about always required total concentration. "I heard you the other night." Searching the annals of his memory, Jamie came up with nothing. He bit his lip to stop it from twitching at the frustrated look Reggie threw him when he shook his head in confusion. With an exaggerated roll of his eyes that made him look even more like a miniature Luke, Reggie elaborated in his best 'my god, you're actually my teacher?' voice. "You know… Daddy kept saying oh God and you shouted Jesus a lot. You even said Jesus Luke," Reggie said with a shrug. "I dunno why. Everyone knows it's Jesus Christ.

Nah. That is na what I see." He pulled her hair away from her neck and kissed the thin edge of her ear. "Ya look deceptively fragile, like a deer, but yer solid muscle, a perfect predator. Yer agile and graceful, and ya do na walk anywhere, but glide, as if the ground gives way ta ya. Yer skin is as pale as fresh snow, and yer hair, it's like some metal I've never seen, white, shiny, and priceless. Yer eyes." He chuckled. "Ya dunno how many times I've thought it'd be worth it. Ya'd put me in the ground, but it'd be so worth it ta just get lost in yer eyes. They are na completely white, ya know? They're like clouds, hints of color reflected back ta me. And I love yer nose. Humans always look like someone hit them in the head with a pipe. Ya don't. Yer nose," he chuckled again. "Yer face is sleek and elegant, like a work of art, kitten. Ya look like someone sculpted ya." "And didn't finish," Sal said. "And got it right," he corrected.” ― Auryn Hadley, Instinctual

knew she wanted to know the reaction of the casting director. She was always so anxious after it was over: “So? How did it go? What’d they say?” Most of the time I didn’t even look at her. Occasionally I threw her a bone and say flatly, “I dunno. They said, ‘Thanks, fine, good.’ ” Sometimes I put on the shy act instead. It was my way of selfishly doing what I wanted and showing my parents I was in charge by not talking—exactly what some married couples do. If I don’t talk, then I win. I’ve got the power! What a jerk! Why did I do that? I think it was partly a way of punishing her for taking me away from my friends. Partly it was a control thing. It was my way of being in charge, of being the boss. I can do what I want, it silently conveyed. What could she do to me? I was so awful to her, yet I don’t remember her ever getting frustrated with me. She tirelessly drove me an hour each way—sometimes longer in traffic—and waited hours for me to finish. I was so unappreciative of all she did.

Metahemeralism. Tell me about it. Everything you know. I gotta know something about metahemeralism." "I'm sorry. I don't know what that is." "I don't either," Bunny would say brokenly. "Got to do with art or pastoralism or something. That's how I gotta tie together John Donne and Izaak Walton, see." He would resume pacing. "Donne. Walton. Metahemeralism. That's the problem as I see it." "Bunny, I don't think "metahemeralism" is even a word." "Sure it is. Comes from the Latin. Has to do with irony and the pastoral. Yeah. That's it. Painting or sculpture or something, maybe." "Is it in the dictionary?" "Dunno. Don't know how to spell it. I mean" — he made a picture frame with his hands — "the poet and the fisherman. Parfait. Boon companions. Out in the open spaces. Living the good life. Metahemeralism's gotta be the glue here, see?" And so it would go on, for sometimes half an hour or more, with Bunny raving about fishing, and sonnets, and heaven knew what, until in the middle of his monologue he would be struck by a brilliant thought and bluster off as suddenly as he had descended. He finished the paper four days before the deadline and ran around showing it to everyone before he turned it in. "This is a nice paper, Bun — ," Charles said cautiously. "Thanks, thanks." "But don't you think you ought to mention John Donne more often? Wasn't that your assignment?" "Oh, Donne," Bunny had said scoffingly. "I don't want to drag him into this." Henry had refused to read it. "I'm sure it's over my head, Bunny, really," he said, glancing over the first page. "Say, what's wrong with this type?" "Tripled spaced it," said Bunny proudly. "These lines are about an inch apart." "Looks kind of like free verse, doesn't it?" Henry made a funny little snorting noise through his nose. "Looks kind of like a menu," he said. All I remember about the paper was that it ended with the sentence "And as we leave Donne and Walton on the shores of Metahemeralism, we wave a fond farewell to those famous chums of yore.

All I wanted to say,” bellowed the computer, “is that my circuits are now irrevocably committed to calculating the answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything.” He paused and satisfied himself that he now had everyone’s attention, before continuing more quietly. “But the program will take me a little while to run.” Fook glanced impatiently at his watch. “How long?” he said. “Seven and a half million years,” said Deep Thought. Lunkwill and Fook blinked at each other. “Seven and a half million years!” they cried in chorus. “Yes,” declaimed Deep Thought, “I said I’d have to think about it, didn’t I? And it occurs to me that running a program like this is bound to create an enormous amount of popular publicity for the whole are of philosophy in general. Everyone’s going to have their own theories about what answer I’m eventually going to come up with, and who better, to capitalize on that media market than you yourselves? So long as you can keep disagreeing with each other violently enough and maligning each other in the popular press, and so long as you have clever agents, you can keep yourselves on the gravy train for life. How does that sound?” The two philosophers gaped at him. “Bloody hell,” said Majikthise, “now that is what I call thinking. Here, Vroomfondel, why do we never think of things like that?” “Dunno,” said Vroomfondel in an awed whisper; “think our brains must be too highly trained, Majikthise.” So saying, they turned on their heels and walked out of the door and into a life-style beyond their wildest dreams.

Now back to the p—Sealord. Reports aside, what do we really know about this Dilys Merimydion?” “We know that he’s wealthy, he’s a skilled warrior, he’s handsome, charming, and helped save the world from a dread god who would have plunged the whole of Mystral into unending winter,” Autumn added. “Not to ruin your determination to find something wrong with him, Viviana, but that last one tells me all I need to know. The man literally helped save the world.” She shrugged. “I can spend three months of my time being nice to him for that.” Spring sighed. “Yes, yes, but in the reports I’ve read, there isn’t one bad thing about him listed. Not one, and that’s just not normal.” “You’re complaining because the reports say Dilys Merimydion is a good man?” Summer shook her head. “Not just good. Too good. As in too good to be true. I’m just saying, something smells fishy to me." Autumn laughed. “You know, there’s a good joke in that remark.” Spring rolled her eyes. “Don’t. Please. Spare us.” In addition to her addiction to food, Autumn possessed a terrible love for pranks, puns, and bad jokes. Which, of course, she took inordinate glee in inflicting on her family. Autumn sniffed with mock indignation. “As if I would cast my pearls before swine. What were we talking about again? Oh, yes, Dilys Merimydion. The Scrumptious Sealord.” “Oh, dear gods,” Spring groaned. “You’ve nicknamed him. Alliteratively.” “I thought about Delicious Dilys. Or Manly Merimydion. After all, from what Storm said, he’s very easy on the eyes. I don’t know, after ten years of being pursued by the Verminous Vermese, I’m looking forward to being courted by a handsome, young suitor who actually respects women and considers them—gasp!—real human beings. Like men, but without the dangly bits. Shocking, I know, but there you have it.” Summer couldn’t help it. She started laughing. Spring glowered. “Stop that! Don’t encourage her!” She turned the glower on Autumn and said, “Aleta Seraphina Helen Rosalie Violet Coruscate, can you please, for one moment, take this seriously?” “You’re taking it seriously enough for the three of us, dearest Viviana.” Autumn lowered her voice and boomed..."he must be investigated. Something about him smells fishy.” Cupping a hand over her mouth, she quipped to Summer in a loud aside, “I dunno, do you think maybe it’s—you know—the gills?” Summer covered her mouth with both hands and spluttered with laughter.

What the fuck do I mean? I mean . . . (Beat.) Well, I, shit, I dunno! But you see what I’m getting at, don’t you?

Maria knows people who transitoned years before she did, even a couple people who started transitioning like a decade before she did. They're not fuckups. But they're not, like, buddhas, either. She's thought of them as buddhas, in her life, and then been disappointed when they've explained that their enlightenment consists of the same platitudes that every enlightenment consists of: Fuck what people think, and I dunno man, and There is no center at the center of things. It's like, cool, but then how do you repair the damage that a fucking lifetime of not giving a fuck about your life did to you? (185-186)

ZACK: Dunno, lass. It’s pretty, but it’s hard to review clothes without seeing them on someone.  LAYLA: Okay, hang on. I’m wearing one right now. (Muffled sound of clothing) What do you think?  JOSH: Jesus. LUKE: Layla! Put your shirt back on.  ZACK: This is the best day of my effing life.  LAYLA: Thanks. Review, please.  ZACK: Um. Yeah. Your tits look huge. Five stars. Would recommend.

What’s up, Ron?” said Harry, joining them. Ron looked up at Harry, a sort of blind horror in his face. “Why did I do it?” he said wildly. “I don’t know what made me do it!” “What?” said Harry. “He — er — just asked Fleur Delacour to go to the ball with him,” said Ginny. She looked as though she was fighting back a smile, but she kept patting Ron’s arm sympathetically. “You what?” said Harry. “I don’t know what made me do it!” Ron gasped again. “What was I playing at? There were people — all around — I’ve gone mad — everyone watching! I was just walking past her in the entrance hall — she was standing there talking to Diggory — and it sort of came over me — and I asked her!” Ron moaned and put his face in his hands. He kept talking, though the words were barely distinguishable. “She looked at me like I was a sea slug or something. Didn’t even answer. And then — I dunno — I just sort of came to my senses and ran for it.” “She’s part veela,” said Harry. “You were right — her grandmother was one. It wasn’t your fault, I bet you

My relationship was super gendered,” Tove said, “in the traditional misogynistic way, so sometimes I wonder if it’s trauma rather than me being actually non-binary.” “What do you mean by ‘actually’?” The question caught Tove off guard. Their gremlin perked up, looking to cause mischief, to paint all those flags red red red. Effie apparently spotted those pointy ears poking around the corner. “Sorry, I should’ve started by thanking you for telling me you’re non-binary. I only meant to ask why trauma isn’t enough. Trauma literally changes your brain chemistry. Of course it can be helpful to understand where things are coming from, but if you’re non-binary then you’re non-binary. There’s no lesser non-binary experience for someone who started questioning their gender as a result of trauma. That might even be a common experience. I dunno. Not an expert.

What kind of cancer do you think you’ll get from that?” I ask, nodding toward the cigarette in his hand. He quirks a thick brow, his pretty blue eyes sparkling in the morning glow. “I dunno. Lung cancer is too typical. Throat?” “Do you think you’ll die?” He barks out a short laugh. “I fucking hope so.

What did you do here?” I wave a hand at his body sprawled out underneath me. “I wasn’t in time to catch you so I slid in under you so you wouldn’t hit the ice.” Giggles shake my shoulders. “You didn’t have to do that. I would have been fine.” He grins. “I know, but I told you I wouldn’t let you fall.” “I dunno. I think the ice might have been softer than you.” He’s got like zero body fat.

Zack, since you apparently know the most about women’s clothing, how would you describe the overall look of the design?” “Dunno, lass. It’s pretty, but it’s hard to review clothes without seeing them on someone.” “Okay, hang on. I’m wearing one right now. What do you think?” “Jesus.” “Layla! Put your shirt back on.” “This is the best day of my effing life.” “Thanks. Review, please.” “Um. Yeah. Your tits look huge. Five stars. Would recommend.” “The pants match.” “Please tell me you’re wearing them.” “Yes, actually, let me just—” “Use the code THREESINGLEGUYS for twenty percent off. Terms and conditions apply. The full collection launches August 1st. Layla, for the love of God, please put your shirt back on before Zack’s drool breaks the equipment.

You do whatever you have to do, Lord Seiji, and never make excuses or justifications; never pretend you haven’t done what you’re ashamed of. And, every time you have the opportunity, be kind. Take any chance to put some good into the world, in payment of the bad.” “Do you think that actually balances out?” “I’m not sure I believe balance is … a thing. How would you even begin calculating the weight of good and evil? Maybe the goddess … sorry, goddesses can do it, but I dunno. I just live with the fact that there’s no real certainty about anything and all I can control is how much of an effort I make. So I try to do good. To be kind.

-How many stories do you have to tell? - Stories? What do you mean? -How many amusing or exciting anecdotes have you lived that you'd be able to relate during an evening with friends? - I dunno. Maybe five or six. Less than ten, anyway. Why? -It's been eating at me. Claire wanted to do so much... Travel, experience news things. All I wanted was to stay home and watch tv. She told me she was bored and i'm sure she was. My life isn't exactly a thrill a minute. - In others words, what you're saying is, whoever dies with the most anecdotes, wins? Is that it? -Well, no, but if you've got a bagful of stories it means you've led a rich life, and I'm way behind on that count. - okay, but consider Hemingway. He expierenced life to the hilt, he traveled and lived all over the world, but he blew his brains out. How do you account for that? -I dunno. I guess I can't. I was just, y'know, ruminating about life and stuff.

-How many stories do you have to tell? - Stories? What do you mean? -How many amusing or exciting anecdotes have you lived that you'd be able to relate during an evening with friends? - I dunno. Maybe five or six. Less than ten, anyway. Why? -It's been eating at me. Claire wanted to do so much... Travel, experience news things. All I wanted was to stay home and watch tv. She told me she was bored and i'm sure she was. My life isn't exactly a thrill a minute. - In others words, what you're saying is, whoever dies with the most anecdotes, wins? Is that it? -Well, no, but if you've got a bagful of stories it means you've led a rich life, and I'm way behind on that count. - Okay, but consider Hemingway. He expierenced life to the hilt, he traveled and lived all over the world, but he blew his brains out. How do you account for that? -I dunno. I guess I can't. I was just, y'know, ruminating about life and stuff.

Metahemeralism. Tell me about it. Everything you know. I gotta know something about metahemeralism." "I'm sorry. I don't know what that is." "I don't either," Bunny would say brokenly. "Got to do with art or pastoralism or something. That's how I gotta tie together John Donne and Izaak Walton, see." He would resume pacing. "Donne. Walton. Metahemeralism. That's the problem as I see it." "Bunny, I don't think "metahemeralism" is even a word." "Sure it is. Comes from the Latin. Has to do with irony and the pastoral. Yeah. That's it. Painting or sculpture or something, maybe." "Is it in the dictionary?" "Dunno. Don't know how to spell it. I mean" — he made a picture frame with his hands — "the poet and the fisherman. Parfait. Boon companions. Out in the open spaces. Living the good life. Metahemeralism's gotta be the glue here, see?" And so it would go on, for sometimes half an hour or more, with Bunny raving about fishing, and sonnets, and heaven knew what, until in the middle of his monologue he would be struck by a brilliant thought and bluster off as suddenly as he had descended. He finished the paper four days before the deadline and ran around showing it to everyone before he turned it in. "This is a nice paper, Bun — ," Charles said cautiously. "Thanks, thanks." "But don't you think you ought to mention John Donne more often? Wasn't that your assignment?" "Oh, Donne," Bunny had said scoffingly. "I don't want to drag him into this." Henry had refused to read it. "I'm sure it's over my head, Bunny, really," he said, glancing over the first page. "Say, what's wrong with this type?" "Tripled spaced it," said Bunny proudly. "These lines are about an inch apart." "Looks kind of like free verse, doesn't it?" Henry made a funny little snorting noise through his nose. "Looks kind of like a menu," he said. All I remember about the paper was that it ended with the sentence "And as we leave Donne and Walton on the shores of Metahemeralism, we wave a fond farewell to those famous chums of yore.

got my sweaty bollocks stuck to it. You grew up in Dublin in the seventies and eighties. It was as white as white could be. Sure, we’ve diversified now, but back then, if it snowed we couldn’t feckin’ find each other. There would have been more racially diverse KKK rallies. So what? Black people stole your opportunities, did they? I can think of only two who were in Dublin at that time. Out of curiosity, did you think you would have been the pearl at the centre of Ireland’s most successful international football team, but Paul McGrath took your place? Or do you reckon you were next in line to be the lead singer and bass player in Thin Lizzy but Phil Lynott swooped in and took it in some, I dunno, affirmative-action thing? Exactly how are the – how did you put it? Oh, yeah – ‘mongrel races’ responsible for you ending up being the useless waste of toilet roll you’ve become? I’d love to hear it.” Bunny

This is going to be the most . . . what is that name—Goldberg? Yes, Rube Goldberg–inspired operation I have ever imagined. Are you sure that we do not need to trigger it all with a hamster on a wheel?" "I dunno," Jackie said. "Do you have a hamster on board?" "Let me check the medical supplies . . .

007: Be an angle, Penny, and ring down to Mary and tell her she's got to get out of whatever she's doing tonight. I'm taking her out to dinner. Scotts. Tell her we'll have our first roast grouse of the year and pink champagne. Celebration. Moneypenny: What of? 007: Oh, I dunno. The Queen's birthday or something. Right?

He was walking along a mountain road in the cool blue light of dawn. Far below, swathed in mist, was the shadow of a small town. Was the man he sought down there, the man he needed so badly he could think of little else, the man who held the answer, the answer to his problem . . . ? “Oi, wake up.” Harry opened his eyes. He was lying again on the camp bed in Ron’s dingy attic room. The sun had not yet risen and the room was still shadowy. Pigwidgeon was asleep with his head under his tiny wing. The scar on Harry’s forehead was prickling. “You were muttering in your sleep.” “Was I?” “Yeah. ‘Gregorovitch.’ You kept saying ‘Gregorovitch.’” Harry was not wearing his glasses; Ron’s face appeared slightly blurred. “Who’s Gregorovitch?” “I dunno, do I? You were the one saying it.” Harry rubbed his forehead, thinking. He had a vague idea he had heard the name before, but he could not think where. “I think Voldemort’s looking for him.” “Poor bloke,” said Ron fervently. Harry sat up, still rubbing his scar, now wide awake. He tried to remember exactly what he had seen in the dream, but all that came back was a mountainous horizon and the outline of the little

No matter how highly placed they were, they were still officials, their views were well established and well known, famous. It could have rained frogs over Tan Son Nhut and they wouldn’t have been upset; Cam Ranh Bay could have dropped into the South China Sea and they would have found some way to make it sound good for you; the Bo Doi Division (Ho’s Own) could have marched by the American embassy and they would have characterized it as “desperate”—what did even the reporters closest to the Mission Council ever find to write about when they’d finished their interviews? (My own interview with General Westmoreland had been hopelessly awkward. He’d noticed that I was accredited to Esquire and asked me if I planned to be doing “humoristical” pieces. Beyond that, very little was really said. I came away feeling as though I’d just had a conversation with a man who touches a chair and says, “This is a chair,” points to a desk and says, “This is a desk.” I couldn’t think of anything to ask him, and the interview didn’t happen.) I honestly wanted to know what the form was for those interviews, but some of the reporters I’d ask would get very officious, saying something about “Command postures,” and look at me as though I was insane. It was probably the kind of look that I gave one of them when he asked me once what I found to talk about with the grunts all the time, expecting me to confide (I think) that I found them as boring as he did. And just-like-in-the-movies, there were a lot of correspondents who did their work, met their deadlines, filled the most preposterous assignments the best they could and withdrew, watching the war and all its hideous secrets, earning their cynicism the hard way and turning their self-contempt back out again in laughter. If New York wanted to know how the troops felt about the assassination of Robert Kennedy, they’d go out and get it. (“Would you have voted for him?” “Yeah, he was a real good man, a real good man. He was, uh, young.” “Who will you vote for now?” “Wallace, I guess.”) They’d even gather troop reflections on the choice of Paris as the site of the peace talks. (“Paris? I dunno, sure, why not? I mean, they ain’t gonna hold ’em in Hanoi, now are they?”), but they’d know how funny that was, how wasteful, how profane. They knew that, no matter how honestly they worked, their best work would somehow be lost in the wash of news, all the facts, all the Vietnam stories. Conventional journalism could no more reveal this war than conventional firepower could win it, all it could do was take the most profound event of the American decade and turn it into a communications pudding, taking its most obvious, undeniable history and making it into a secret history. And the very best correspondents knew even more than that.

It don’t matter. Now finish up those baked beans. I need you to go to bed!” Like all children in the world, Frank knew exactly what time his bedtime was and it wasn’t now. “But it’s not my bedtime yet!” he protested. “By the time you are ready for bed, it will be.” That logic, although sound, was deeply annoying. “Not fair! Why do I have to go to bed now?” “Auntie Flip will be here any minute to look after you.” “Oh no,” replied Frank. “Don’t be like that. She’s the only family we’ve got. And, best of all, she is always up for babysitting.” “I’m not a baby.” “I know that, mate.” “And why is it called ‘babysitting’? You mustn’t sit on a baby.” “Ha! Ha!” Dad laughed. “I dunno!” “Where are you going anyway?

SUNDAY Very boring weekend. I ended up spending most of it lying on my bed listening to the Mary Poppins soundtrack (really very catchy) and reading one of my library books, My Family and Other Animals by Gerald Durrell, which is a true story about a boy who goes off to Corfu with his family and adopts loads of cool animals. His older siblings are totally head-wrecking, especially his pretentious big brother Larry, which is partly why I like it. But I also like it because I too have an affinity with the animal kingdom, as proved by the fact that every time I go to Alice’s house in the country I always see loads of wild creatures. Well, squirrels. But they’re wild, aren’t they? Of course, my sensible way of spending the weekend didn’t please my tyrannical parents. Their sympathy for my relegation to the chorus didn’t last very long. This afternoon my mother came in to my room (without knocking, of course. She has the manners of a … I dunno. Something rude) when I was quietly reading, took one look at me and said, ‘What on earth are you doing like that?’ ‘I am reading, mother,’ I said. ‘Isn’t that obvious?’ ‘But why are you lying with your head over one side of the bed and the book on the floor? That can’t be comfortable. Or good for your neck.’ Honestly! She can even find fault with the way I read! I don’t even know why I was lying like that; it just felt like the right way to lie. Also it meant that when I needed to take a break from Mary Poppins I could reach over and change the music on my iPod which was plugged into its little speakers on a shelf by the bed. So I told her this and she said, ‘Well, if you get a terrible crick in your neck, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ And then she demanded I come down soon and chop up some carrots. Yet again, I wonder what the fans of my mother’s books would

He coughed, and spit dust. “Oh…just a fight,” he said. He grinned up at her from one side of his face; his right eye was already half swollen shut. “I was doing all right for about half a minute, but after that it was all the other way.” “There were two of them,” said his friend Tripp hotly. “It wasn’t a fight; they just beat him up.” “Billy and Ames,” supplied Mark, somewhat muffled by the wet cloth being applied to his split lip. “Dunno what got into ’em—just decided they didn’t like me, I guess.