Faker Quotes

I feel like a big faker because I've been putting my life back together, and nobody knows.

People often think I'm a faker, but I'm usually honest, in a certain way--in such a way that often nobody believes me!

Pompous fools drive me up the wall. Ordinary fools are alright; you can talk to them and try to help them out. But pompous fools – guys who are fools and covering it all over and impressing people as to how wonderful they are with all this hocus pocus – THAT, I CANNOT STAND! An ordinary fool isn’t a faker; an honest fool is all right. But a dishonest fool is terrible!

Every fortune-teller I ever met was a faker. First thing you should do to a soothsayer is poke them in the eye and say, ‘Didn’t see that coming, did you?

Ordinary fools are all right; you can talk to them, and try to help them out. But pompous fools-guys who are fools and are covering it all over and impressing people as to how wonderful they are with all this hocus pocus-THAT, I CANNOT STAND! An ordinary fool isn't a faker; an honest fool is all right. But a dishonest fool is terrible!

Realize that narcissists have an addiction disorder. They are strongly addicted to feeling significant. Like any addict they will do whatever it takes to get this feeling often. That is why they are manipulative and future fakers. They promise change, but can't deliver if it interferes with their addiction. That is why they secure back up supply.

True cynics kill themselves. The rest are posers, trying to use clever sarcasm and snarky remarks to hide insecurity and the fear that if they put themselves out there, they will fail.

Horace, fit, and athletic and light on his feet, gave their guards the fewest opportunities to beat him, although on one occasion an angry Tualaghi, furious that Horace misunderstood an order to kneel, slashed his dagger across the young man’s face, opening a thin, shallow cut on his right cheek. The wound was superficial but as Evanlyn treated it that evening, Horace shamelessly pretended that it was more painful than it really was. He enjoyed the touch of her ministering hands. Halt and Gilan, bruised and weary, watched as she cleaned the wound and gently pated it dry. Horace did a wonderful job of pretending to bear great pain with stoic bravery. Halt shook his head in disgust. “What faker,” he said to Gilan. The younger Ranger nodded. “Yes. He’s really making a meal of it isn’t he?” He paused, then added more ruefully, “Wish I’d thought of it first.

In our day and age, global society has been saturated with the wrong teaching of false positivity. The denial of darkness never equates the abundance of light. And the denial of your actual character never equates to the reality of your best character. People today are afraid to work on themselves and on their actual realities, they believe that outward appearances are enough. Outward appearances have become everything in our current day and age. People don't see what they are actually like, nor who they actually are, in reality. They live in a phantasmic version of reality. It has to stop. In the phantasmic version of reality, there is no chance to experience true love, true goodness, and true metamorphosis. The caterpillar does not become a butterfly by telling everybody it has wings. It actually buries itself in darkness and grows those wings.

She wasn't his girlfriend. She was his bubblegum girl--only fun until she lost her flavor.

The poet is a faker / Who's so good at his act / He even fakes the pain / Of pain he feels in fact.

It is somehow painful when you can lay your life down for them, But they won't be there for you, Even when you need them the most - Goals Rider

If you want to live life loud, throw your hands up! If you want to scream and shout let me hear you, taking all the fakers out if your with me, everybody work it just keep living!

People are fakers--that's all we do. Can you think of anything you do that's not done for the precise reason of pretending to be something you're afraid you're not?

When writing a novel a writer should create living people; people not characters. A character is a caricature. If a writer can make people live there may be no great characters in his book, but it is possible that his book will remain as a whole; as an entity; as a novel. If the people the writer is making talk of old masters; of music; of modern painting; of letters; or of science then they should talk of those subjects in the novel. If they do not talk of these subjects and the writer makes them talk of them he is a faker, and if he talks about them himself to show how much he knows then he is showing off. No matter how good a phrase or a simile he may have if he puts it in where it is not absolutely necessary and irreplaceable he is spoiling his work for egotism. Prose is architecture, not interior decoration, and the Baroque is over. For a writer to put his own intellectual musings, which he might sell for a low price as essays, into the mouths of artificially constructed characters which are more remunerative when issued as people in a novel is good economics, perhaps, but does not make literature. People in a novel, not skillfully constructed characters, must be projected from the writer’s assimilated experience, from his knowledge, from his head, from his heart and from all there is of him. If he ever has luck as well as seriousness and gets them out entire they will have more than one dimension and they will last a long time. A good writer should know as near everything as possible. Naturally he will not. A great enough writer seems to be born with knowledge. But he really is not; he has only been born with the ability to learn in a quicker ratio to the passage of time than other men and without conscious application, and with an intelligence to accept or reject what is already presented as knowledge. There are some things which cannot be learned quickly and time, which is all we have, must be paid heavily for their acquiring. They are the very simplest things and because it takes a man’s life to know them the little new that each man gets from life is very costly and the only heritage he has to leave. Every novel which is truly written contributes to the total of knowledge which is there at the disposal of the next writer who comes, but the next writer must pay, always, a certain nominal percentage in experience to be able to understand and assimilate what is available as his birthright and what he must, in turn, take his departure from. If a writer of prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an ice-berg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water. A writer who omits things because he does not know them only makes hollow places in his writing. A writer who appreciates the seriousness of writing so little that he is anxious to make people see he is formally educated, cultured or well-bred is merely a popinjay. And this too remember; a serious writer is not to be confounded with a solemn writer. A serious writer may be a hawk or a buzzard or even a popinjay, but a solemn writer is always a bloody owl.

Her basic disposition was a good deal sunnier than mine. But I was a better faker.

A person can pretend to be something that there not; For some long. Until it come to a time, You do something that annoy the shit out them Thats when they blow up An the true part of them , Start to come out. Watch out for those fakers

BUMMER is a machine with six moving parts. Here’s a mnemonic for the six components of the BUMMER machine, in case you ever have to remember them for a test: A is for Attention Acquisition leading to Asshole supremacy B is for Butting into everyone’s lives C is for Cramming content down people’s throats D is for Directing people’s behaviors in the sneakiest way possible E is for Earning money from letting the worst assholes secretly screw with everyone else F is for Fake mobs and Faker society

In the wake of brand integrity being at risk from impostors, fakers, hackers and propaganda campaigns, a leader gotta act. I didn't need a battalion to respond to this mtfkrs. This time in a Kalpop fusion of Hip-hop + Jazz + Soul + Gangster + Swahili vybe

Brooks, do you need me to explain how printers work? ’Cause twerking isn’t usually required

God calls us to be biblical peacemakers, not peacekeepers or peace fakers.

We were all fakers; lying to people who were lying to themselves.

Fakers Are Feted, Innovators Are Isolated

People aren’t fundamentally good or bad. It’s all about the choices you make. You have to choose to be a good person over and over. You can’t change the past; you can’t fix the mistakes you’ve made. You just have to choose to be better.

He came to put a harlot above a Pharisee, a penitent robber above a High Priest, and a prodigal son above his exemplary brother. To all the phonies and fakers who would say that they could not join the Church because His Church was not holy enough, He would ask, 'How holy must the Church be before you will enter into it?' If the Church were as holy as they wanted it to be, they would never be allowed into it! In every other religion under the sun, in every Eastern religion from Buddhism to Confucianism, there must always be some purification before one can commune with God. But Our Blessed Lord brought a religion where the admission of sin is the condition of coming to Him. 'Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are ill.

Indeed, our sins—hate, fear, greed, jealousy, lust, materialism, pride—can at times take such distinct forms in our lives that we recognize them in the faces of the gargoyles and grotesques that guard our cathedral doors. And these sins join in a chorus—you might even say a legion—of voices locked in an ongoing battle with God to lay claim over our identity, to convince us we belong to them, that they have the right to name us. Where God calls the baptized beloved, demons call her addict, slut, sinner, failure, fat, worthless, faker, screwup. Where God calls her child, the demons beckon with rich, powerful, pretty, important, religious, esteemed, accomplished, right. It is no coincidence that when Satan tempted Jesus after his baptism, he began his entreaties with, “If you are the Son of God . . .” We all long for someone to tell us who we are. The great struggle of the Christian life is to take God’s name for us, to believe we are beloved and to believe that is enough.

If ever I create a website, I'll call it Two-Face Book, and I'll invite everyone to it, it will be a game board, of a whitewash chalkboard. A social network, with reserved intentions, where we can fall into our cliques and circle of friends. We can dis who we want and accept who appeals to our discretion. Where the users will keep abusing, and abusers keep using, where the computer bullies will keep swinging and the J-birds that fly by will die; where the lonely will keep seeking and the needy still go desperate, where the envious will keep hating, and the lustful will keep flashing. Where those that think ignoring, will keep one down and the wannabes will foolishly think themselves greater by the number of "likes" that pours caffeine into their coffee. We can jump on the bandwagon of likes, or reserve not to show we care. Where the scorners, scammers and stalkers lay wait to take hold of the innocent and fragile, and my pockets will get fatter as more and more will join up, where being fake is accepted. As a mirror that stares at a different face. It will be my two-face epilogue, in a 3-world dimension, of a twofold war. I will build an empire of contagious hooks, and still we will live, happily-ever disastrous.

Was this how the characters in Harry Potter felt when the spoke the name of You-Know-Who?

People aren't absolutes. We are all layered: mean sometimes, and flawed, but also funny, and caring, and happy, and in love. We are all so many different things at once.

Wait, so now she turns the gay ones straight?” Amos Nutter demanded wonderingly. “Well, I’ll be damned.

Hear no evil. Speak no evil. See no evil. Read the newspapers.

Contributors and distributors tend to do better at personal branding than takers and fakers.

We affect to laugh at the folly of those who put faith in nostrums, but are willing to see ourselves whether there is any truth in them.

He’s my best friend, and he came here to provide moral support. But Mal’s… gay.” “Gay! Oh, dear Lord, she done turned another one.” Amos Nutter shook his head and made a tsking noise.

Gathering her bags, Alani started around the side of her house to the front door. She drew up short at the sight of Jackson sprawled on her porch steps, a cowboy hat on his head, mirrored sunglasses hiding his eyes. He didn’t move, and neither did she. He had an utterly relaxed look about him. But then, Jackson had perfected a deceptively indolent pose that hid razor-sharp reflexes and phenomenal speed. Last night, all night, he’d been far from indolent. Breathing fast, Alani studied him. His continued stillness suggested sleep. Even when she inched closer, he didn’t move. He was now clean-shaven. A white T-shirt was pulled across his wide chest and shoulders, and hung looser around his taut abs. Awareness stiffened her knees. Memories of touching his body, tasting hit hot flesh, sent a tide of sensation through her veins. She swallowed audibly—and stared some more. He sat with his long legs loose, one foot braced on a step, the other stretched out, his elbows back, his breathing deep and even. Alani licked her lips and started to slowly, silently retreat. “Don’t make me chase you, darlin’.” Shock snapped her shoulders back. The big faker! He’d been watching her watch him. Teeth set, Alani asked, “What are you doing here?” He gave a slow smile. “Whatever it takes . . .

Please beware of them that stare They'll only smile to see you while Your time away And once you've seen what they have been To win the earth just won't seem worth Your night or your day

The idea of Truth with capital "T"-that there is something called Truth that's beyond the range of the relativity of the human mind trying to think-is what I call "the error of the found truth." The trouble with all of these damned preachers is the error of the found truth. When they get that tremolo in the voice and tell you what God has said, you know you've got a faker.

Stories,” she blurted. “The mosaic told stories, didn’t it?” “Yes, old ones.” “I’ll tell them to you.” His eyes cracked open. He didn’t remember closing them. “You know those tales?” “Yes.” She didn’t. This became clear as she began to tell them. She knew bits and pieces, cobbled together in ways that would have made him smile if smiling didn’t hurt. “You,” he breathed, “are such a faker.” “Don’t interrupt.” Mostly pure invention. She remembered the images--it pleased him, how vividly she knew the temple floor’s details. Which god curled around which, or how the snake’s tongue forked into three. But the stories she told had little to do with his religion. Sometimes they didn’t even make sense. “Do this again,” he said, “when I have strength to laugh.” “As bad as that?” “Mmm. Maybe not. For a Valorian.

And now, by failing to give your boyfriend the love he so desperately craved,” my mother continued, undeterred, “you’ve driven him into Ava’s arms!” “Yeah!” Mal agreed. He paused and frowned, then shrugged like facts had ceased to be important. “What your mom said!” I scowled down at him. “What the hell are you talking about? You know better!” I waved a hand in Paul’s direction. “Tell them, Paul!” “I mean, it’s true that Brooks was never very emotionally available to me,” Paul said sadly.

Forgery, being the weirdest form of creativity there is, like antiques, costs lives. Why is it that antiques demand sacrificial victims? Dunno, but if they don't get enough, forgery does. You want proof? Here it is: Once a faker's found out, he dies. Truly. It always happens.

people, a vast majority of people, are fakers and shakers when it comes to serving their God.               Sure, they may be able to quote scripture. They can clutch their Bibles and Torahs and Korans and put on the face of piety, but very few people actually live the truth of their faith.

No, Daddy!” Ava said. “Mal’s not the father.” “Wait, he’s not?” Mrs. Ivey demanded. “No.” Ava exhaled sharply. “He’s my best friend, and he came here to provide moral support. But Mal’s… gay.” “Gay! Oh, dear Lord, she done turned another one.” Amos Nutter shook his head and made a tsking noise.

There are moments in our lives that define us. Moments where we have to make a choice that will change the path of our future. They come upon us suddenly, don’t they?” I thought about my decision to move with Ava or stay in California. “Yes, sir,” I said weakly. “How do you know when you’re making the right decision?” “Well, son, I should probably tell you to follow your heart. But in my case, I followed my dick, and it hasn’t steered me wrong yet.

If you can hate what you loved, then you never really loved it!

It’s more like the world decided he needed a new road, but it had to make a big mess of the area before a clear path was paved.

A life of praying means death to every identity that does not come from God.

And when you talk to them they make you feel that they care about you to keep you engaged with them but in reality, they don't give care but are curious about what you are up to in life.

He was the one, however, with whom no one wanted his or her picture taken, the one to whom no one wanted to introduce his son or daughter. Louis and Gage knew him; they had met him and faced him down in New England, some time ago. He was waiting to choke you on a marble, to smother you with a dry-cleaning bag, to sizzle you into eternity with a fast and lethal boggie of electricity—Available at Your Nearest Switchplate or Vacant Light Socket Right Now. There was death in a quarter bag of peanuts, an aspirated piece of steak, the next pack of cigarettes. He was around all the time, he monitored all the checkpoints between the mortal and the eternal. Dirty needles, poison beetles, downed live wires, forest fires. Whirling roller skates that shot nurdy little kids into busy intersections. When you got into the bathtub to take a shower, Oz got right in there too—Shower with a Friend. When you got on an airplane, Oz took your boarding pass. He was in the water you drank, the food you ate. Who’s out there? you howled into the dark when you were frightened and all alone, and it was his answer that came back: Don’t be afraid, it’s just me. Hi, howaya? You got cancer of the bowel, what a bummer, so solly, Cholly! Septicemia! Leukemia! Atherosclerosis! Coronary thrombosis! Encephalitis! Osteomyelitis! Hey-ho, let’s go! Junkie in a doorway with a knife. Phone call in the middle of the night. Blood cooking in battery acid on some exit ramp in North Carolina. Big handfuls of pills, munch em up. That peculiar blue cast of the fingernails following asphyxiation—in its final grim struggle to survive the brain takes all the oxygen that is left, even that in those living cells under the nails. Hi, folks, my name’s Oz the Gweat and Tewwible, but you can call me Oz if you want—hell, we’re old friends by now. Just stopped by to whop you with a little congestive heart failure or a cranial blood clot or something; can’t stay, got to see a woman about a breach birth, then I’ve got a little smoke-inhalation job to do in Omaha. And that thin voice is crying, “I love you, Tigger! I love you! I believe in you, Tigger! I will always love you and believe in you, and I will stay young, and the only Oz to ever live in my heart will be that gentle faker from Nebraska! I love you . . .” We cruise . . . my son and I . . . because the essence of it isn’t war or sex but only that sickening, noble, hopeless battle against Oz the Gweat and Tewwible. He and I, in our white van under this bright Florida sky, we cruise. And the red flasher is hooded, but it is there if we need it . . . and none need know but us because the soil of a man’s heart is stonier; a man grows what he can . . . and tends it.

You've already slept the entire day. Why not take over for Matthew now?" "You really think I could sleep with your eyes devouring me all day?" Her face turned red with rage and mortification. That faker! She had been staring at him at various times throughout the day. She probably had his face so memorized that she could sketch it without his being present. But he couldn't keep his knowledge of that to himself? He had to make sure she was embarrassed right down to her toes? But he didn't rub it in further. At least,she thought he was done with the subject when he lay down on his seat and turned his back to her. "Get some sleep yourself," he ordered. "You'll need to be at your best tomorrow, too." She was just lying down when he added, "And keep your eyes off my arse." Waves of heat crept up to her cheeks. That pretty much guarenteed that she wasn't going to get any sleep until he was out of the coach.

As I go off into the big black abyss of my future, I have to admit that I am terrified and also a bit insecure in my decisions. But, I also realize that anyone who has ever gone off into uncharted waters must have felt similar to the way I feel now, which gives me a small ounce of comfort. I don’t know how to do what I am doing, I have no way of knowing if this is the right way or not. But I guess I’ll never know until I get there. So, this is me, being a pioneer.

Those who accuse these women of fraud in their image craft seem not to have heard of David Bowie's successful alter ego Ziggy Stardust or even Bob Dylan, the folksy creation of a genius named Robert Allen Zimmerman. There is a tradition of male artists taking on personae that are understood to be part of their art. It is as though there is so much genius within them that it must be split between these mortal men and the characters they create. Women who venture to do the same are ridiculed as fakers and try-hards.

We almost began a perfect conversation, F. said as he turned on the six o'clock news. He turned the radio very loud and began to shout wildly against the voice of the commentator, who was reciting a list of disasters. Sail on, sail on, O Ship of State, auto accidents, births, Berlin, cures for cancer! Listen, my friend, listen to the present, the right now, it's all around us, painted like a target, red, white, and blue. Sail into the target like a dart, a fluke bull's eye in a dirty pub. Empty your memory and listen to the fire around you. Don't forget your memory, let it exist somewhere precious in all the colors that it needs but somewhere else, hoist your memory on the Ship of State like a pirate's sail, and aim yourself at the tinkly present. Do you know how to do this? Do you know how to see the akropolis like the Indians did who never even had one? Fuck a saint, that's how, find a little saint and fuck her over and over in some pleasant part of heaven, get right into her plastic altar, dwell in her silver medal, fuck her until she tinkles like a souvenir music box, until the memorial lights go on for free, find a little saintly faker like Teresa or Catherine Tekakwitha or Lesbia, whom prick never knew but who lay around all day in a chocolate poem, find one of these quaint impossible cunts and fuck her for your life, coming all over the sky, fuck her on the moon with a steel hourglass up your hole, get tangled in her airy robes, suck her nothing juices, lap, lap, lap, a dog in the ether, then climb down to this fat earth and slouch around the fat earth in your stone shoes, get clobbered by a runaway target, take the senseless blows again and again, a right to the mind, piledriver on the heart, kick in the scrotum, help! help! it's my time, my second, my splinter of the shit glory tree, police, fire men! look at the traffic of happiness and crime, it's burning in crayon like the akropolis rose! And so on.

When writing a novel a writer should create living people; people not characters. A character is a caricature. If a writer can make people live there may be no great characters in his book, but it is possible that his book will remain as a whole; as an entity; as a novel. If the people the writer is making talk of old masters; of music; of modern painting; of letters; or of science then they should talk of those subjects in the novel. If they do not talk of those subjects and the writer makes them talk of them he is a faker, and if he talks about them himself to show how much he knows then he is showing off. No matter how good a phrase or a simile he may have if he puts it in where it is not absolutely necessary and irreplaceable he is spoiling his work for egotism. Prose is architecture, not interior decoration, and the Baroque is over. For a writer to put his own intellectual musings, which he might sell for a low price as essays, into the mouths of artificially constructed characters which are more remunerative when issued as people in a novel is good economics, perhaps, but does not make literature. People in a novel, not skillfully constructed characters, must be projected from the writer’s assimilated experience, from his knowledge, from his head, from his heart and from all there is of him. If he ever has luck as well as seriousness and gets them out entire they will have more than one dimension and they will last a long time.

He collapsed and we clutched each other, catching our breath, his forehead to mine in a light sheen of sweat. It took me a solid minute to muster the ability to speak. “I thought you were sick,” I breathed. “Faker.” His chuckle rumbled against my breasts. “All part of my ploy to get you to come over.” I laughed and he squeezed his arms against my sides and smiled down on me, kissing me softly, his heart beating against my chest. I love you, Josh. I wish I could tell you. I wish I could keep you. With a twinge of dread, I wondered how I would live without these moments when it all came to an end. I’d have to enjoy every second of the next week and a half with him. Absorb it, store it up. And then hope it was enough to last a lifetime.

How do you know when you’re making the right decision?” “Well, son, I should probably tell you to follow your heart. But in my case, I followed my dick, and it hasn’t steered me wrong yet.” I stared at him in shock for a few beats until the corner of his mouth curved up the tiniest bit. “Malachi, if you weren’t expecting a dick joke from a man named Red Johnson…” His eyes twinkled in the moonlight. “Then maybe you don’t belong here in Licking Thicket after all.

We almost began a perfect conversation, F. said as he turned on the six o'clock news. He turned the radio very loud and began to shout wildly against the voice of the commentator, who was reciting a list of disasters. Sail on, sail on, O Ship of State, auto accidents, births, Berlin, cures for cancer! Listen, my friend, listen to the present, the right now, it's all around us, painted like a target, red, white, and blue. Sail into the target like a dart, a fluke bull's eye in a dirty pub. Empty your memory and listen to the fire around you. Don't forget your memory, let it exist somewhere precious in all the colors that it needs but somewhere else, hoist your memory on the Ship of State like a pirate's sail, and aim yourself at the tinkly present. Do you know how to do this? Do you know how to see the akropolis like the Indians did who never even had one? Fuck a saint, that's how, find a little saint and fuck her over and over in some pleasant part of heaven, get right into her plastic altar, dwell in her silver medal, fuck her until she tinkles like a souvenir music box, until the memorial lights go on for free, find a little saintly faker like Teresa or Catherine Tekakwitha or Lesbia, whom prick never knew but who lay around all day in a chocolate poem, find one of these quaint impossible cunts and fuck her for your life, coming all over the sky, fuck her on the moon with a steel hourglass up your hole, get tangled in her airy robes, suck her nothing juices, lap, lap, lap, a dog in the ether, then climb down to this fat earth and slouch around the fat earth in your stone shoes, get clobbered by a runaway target, take the senseless blows again and again, a right to the mind, piledriver on the heart, kick in the scrotum, help! help! it's my time, my second, my splinter of the shit glory tree, police, fire men! look at the traffic of happiness and crime, it's burning in crayon like the akropolis rose! And so on.

[author quoting from his journal entry] "To feel safe is to stop living in my head and sink down into my heart and feel liked and accepted...not having to hide anymore and distract myself with books, television, movies, ice cream, shallow conversation...staying in the present moment and not escaping into the past or projecting into the future, alert and attentive to the now...feeling relaxed and not nervous or jittery...no need to impress or dazzle others or draw attention to myself...Unselfconscious, a new way of being with myself, a new way of being in the world...calm, unafraid, no anxiety about what's going to happen next...loved and valued...just being together as an end in itself." (p. 31)

A sudden yowl from up ahead had them all starting. A small tree smoked on one side, the faint glow of fire darting from a burning patch of dead foliage. The yowl came again. Matt hurried over and peered up the tree to see a calico cat, its green eyes staring down, as if in accusation. "No," Reyna said, stopping beside him. "We are not rescuing the cat." "But the tree -" "- is on fire. I see that. Have you ever owned a cat? If they can go up, they can come down. Guaranteed." Matt eyed the feline. It eyed him back, then yowled, as if to say Well, hurry it up. "It might be too scared to come down," he said. "It's a cat," Reyna said. "They don't get scared - just annoyed, which I'm going to get if you insist on playing hero and rescuing that faker." She scowled at the cat. "Yes, I mean you. Faker." The cat sniffed, then turned to Matt, clearly sensing the softer touch. Owen stepped forward. "If you'll feel better rescuing the cat, Matt, then go ahead. We aren't on a tight schedule." Reyna waved her arms around the smoking street. "Um, Ragnarök?" "And the longer you two bicker ..." "Fine," Reyna said. "I've got this." Before Matt could protest, she walked to the base of the tree, grabbed the lowest branch, and swung up. "Rodeo girl, remember? Also, five years of gymnastics, which my mother thought would make me more graceful and feminine. Her mistake." She shimmied along a branch. "Come on, faker. I'm your designated hero for today." She looked down at Matt. "And if you ever tell anyone I rescued a cat from a tree ..." Before Matt could answer, the cat sprang to the ground. "Arggh!" Reyna said. "You scared him out," Matt said. "He just needed the extra motivation. No, wait. It's a she. Calicos are almost always female." "Are they? Huh." Reyna swung out. The cat sat on the ground below, watching. "See?" Matt said. "She's grateful." "She's gloating. Let's go.

Obama is also directing the U.S. government to invest billions of dollars in solar and wind energy. In addition, he is using bailout leverage to compel the Detroit auto companies to build small, “green” cars, even though no one in the government has investigated whether consumers are interested in buying small, “green” cars—the Obama administration just believes they should. All these measures, Obama recognizes, are expensive. The cap and trade legislation is estimated to impose an $850 billion burden on the private sector; together with other related measures, the environmental tab will exceed $1 trillion. This would undoubtedly impose a significant financial burden on an already-stressed economy. These measures are billed as necessary to combat global warming. Yet no one really knows if the globe is warming significantly or not, and no one really knows if human beings are the cause of the warming or not. For years people went along with Al Gore’s claim that “the earth has a fever,” a claim illustrated by misleading images of glaciers disappearing, oceans swelling, famines arising, and skies darkening. Apocalypse now! Now we know that the main body of data that provided the basis for these claims appears to have been faked. The Climategate scandal showed that scientists associated with the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change were quite willing to manipulate and even suppress data that did not conform to their ideological commitment to global warming.3 The fakers insist that even if you discount the fakery, the data still show.... But who’s in the mood to listen to them now? Independent scientists who have reviewed the facts say that average global temperatures have risen by around 1.3 degrees Fahrenheit in the past 100 years. Lots of things could have caused that. Besides, if you project further back, the record shows quite a bit of variation: periods of warming, followed by periods of cooling. There was a Medieval Warm Period around 1000 A.D., and a Little Ice Age that occurred several hundred years later. In the past century, the earth warmed slightly from 1900 to 1940, then cooled slightly until the late 1970s, and has resumed warming slightly since then. How about in the past decade or so? Well, if you count from 1998, the earth has cooled in the past dozen years. But the statistic is misleading, since 1998 was an especially hot year. If you count from 1999, the earth has warmed in the intervening period. This statistic is equally misleading, because 1999 was a cool year. This doesn’t mean that temperature change is in the eye of the beholder. It means, in the words of Roy Spencer, former senior scientist for climate studies at NASA, that “all this temperature variability on a wide range of time scales reveals that just about the only thing constant in climate is change.”4

This Song Is Not About A Girl (with Chet Faker) I'll hang partly over a mountain and retire They won't listen to the words i decide on This isn't a point or a rival Reaching from another human, devour I'll hang partly over a mountain and retire I don't know purple, though tropical They won't listen to the words i decide on I'm not gonna stop for everyone This isn't a point or a rival Pardon me for showing over-love Reaching from another human, DEVOUR I don't know purple, though tropical I'm not gonna stop for everyone Pardon me for showing over-love Easy to turn something for everyone I'm not gonna stop for everyone Pardon me for showing over-love Reaching from another human, devour Easy to turn something for everyone I'll hang partly over a mountain and retire I don't know purple, though tropical They won't listen to the words I decide on I'm not gonna stop for everyone This isn't a point or a rival Pardon me for showing over-love Reaching from another human, devour

The Pharisee isn’t loving his neighbor as God’s law requires—instead, he looks down on his neighbors, so he can feel good about himself. He doesn’t love God with all his heart, soul, mind and strength, as the law says: he’s using God for his own ego-grooming. He’s like a terrible date: “Nice to meet you. Now let me talk about myself for an hour.

Slacks" Got a piece of my mind, to tell you who's mine, Nobody hurts like me for you. Soft slacks at night, I'm wearing 'em tight, Nobody hurts like I do. Your fakers are fine, but your water ain't wine, so stop feeding me, 'a little more time'. Your shit's a mess, I'm not yours to undress, I'm leaving this love for the last time. I'm not yours, I'm mine. You've got the means to caress, but weak you leave me a mess. One touch is enough, your hands, a little too rough. Will I ever be enough? I'm not yours, I'm mine. We fall the fader to black, release the ropes and feel the slack. I'm not yours, I'm mine. I tell you every time, you're walking a fine, fine line. I'm not yours, I'm mine. I'm not yours. Heard it all before (repeat)

To Me You keep on lying, You keep on lying, to me You're keeping me tight, You're keeping me tight, I see You keep on tying, enough to rely on me You keep on lying, enough to deny you can see When you curl up in bed And it's you in you're head now, are you living? When you look straight ahead and you wish you were dead Now (now), are you giving? You're giving it all for nothing, You're giving it all for nothing, I know You're giving it all for nothing, You're giving it all for nothing, I know You keep on lying, You keep on lying, to me You're keeping me tight, You're keeping me tight, I see You keep on tying, enough to rely on me You keep on lying, enough to deny you can see Now listen, When you curl up in bed And it's you in you're head, now (now), are you living? When you look straight ahead and you wish you were dead Now (now), are you giving? You're giving it all for nothing, You're giving it all for nothing, I know You're giving it all for nothing, You're giving it all for nothing, I know You're giving it all for nothing, You're giving it all for nothing, I know You're giving it all for nothing, You're giving it all for nothing, I know You're giving it all for nothing, You're giving it all for nothing, I know You're giving it all for nothing, You're giving it all for nothing, I know You're giving it all for nothing, You're giving it all for nothing, I know You're giving it all for nothing, You're giving it all for nothing, I know

Left Alone" (feat. Chet Faker) This is the sound beating of my loves This is the sound beating of my loves This is the sound beating of my loves This is the sound beating of my loves This is the sound beating of my loves This is the sound beating of my loves Good down, I’m for long Got my word to be someone Good down, that’s alright All I want is to be left alone Left alone, left alone, left alone Left alone, left alone, left alone Left alone, left alone, left alone Left alone, Cannot swallow blue found vow More than that my sleep is wild All I need is suffering bones Breathe in sorrow Gonna watch you fake it now Will I freak can I calm down And I take it all at a loss Breathe in sorrow Gonna watch you fake it now Will I freak can I calm down And I take it all at a loss Breathe out sorrow Gonna find them peace in loss Holding by the knees and vow I can always feel this proud Breathe out sorrow Oh I tell you something more What my brain is bleeding for And it hurts my darling, but breathe out sorrow Gonna find them peace in loss Holding by the knees and vow I can't always feel this proud Breathe out sorrow Oh, I tell you something more What my brain is bleeding for And it hurts my darling, but breathe out sorrow

Drop The Game (with Chet Faker) I've been seeing all, I've been seeing your soul Give me things that I've wanted to know Tell me things that you've done I've been feeling old, I've been feeling cold You're the heat that I know Listen, you are my sun Oh oh oh oh oh Hush, I said there's more to life than rush Not gonna leave this place with us Drop the game, it's not enough Hush, I said there's more to life than rush Not gonna leave this place with us Drop the game, it's not enough I've been seeing all, I've been seeing your soul Give me things that I've wanted to know Tell me things that you've done I've been feeling old, I've been feeling cold You're the heat that I know Listen, you are my sun Oh oh oh oh oh I've been seeing all, I've been seeing your soul Give me things that I've wanted to know Tell me things that you've done I've been feeling old, I've been feeling cold You're the heat that I know Listen, you are my sun Oh oh oh oh oh I've been seeing all, I've been seeing your soul Give me things that I've wanted to know Tell me things that you've done I've been feeling old, I've been feeling cold You're the heat that I know Listen, you are my sun Oh oh oh oh oh

The truth hurts less than fibs and fakers,” Brax repeated. “That’s always stayed with me because it’s so honest and raw. It told me so much about you and made me fall in love. So many people lied to me about my parent’s death. Glossing over the darkness, and hiding the gnarly truth.” His arms latched tighter, pressing me hard against him. “Not having the chance to say goodbye will haunt me forever. And not knowing the truth about why they crashed eats at my soul.

He wraps his hand around my arm, but it’s not

Your fakers are fine, but your water ain't wine So stop feeding me, "A little more time" Your shit's a mess, I'm not yours to undress I'm leaving this love for the last time I'm not yours, I'm mine

I'm not thinking, I'm just acting. It's almost an animalistic instinct, I just do what I need to do.

she was direct as hell. She said it like she saw it and had zero time for fakers and idiots.

Of course, not. She lied to us and anyone who would try to pass off a knock off for the real thing is a faker who can not be trusted,” said the shoplifter.

You're faker than Barbie's vagina" -Luna

Some things are unforgivable,' Myriah says, voice soft. 'But there's a difference between forgiving someone who doesn't deserve it, and letting someone learn and grow from their mistakes.

I'm not perfect - because no one is. People aren't absolutes. We are all layered: mean sometimes, and flawed, but also funny, and caring, and happy, and in love. We are all so many different things at once. " -Penny

People aren't fundamentally good or bad. It's all about the choices you make. You have to choose to be a good person over and over. You can't change the past; you can't fix the mistakes you've made. You just have to choose to do better" -Penny

We always said we'd be best friends forever - we even had the necklaces to prove it - but sometimes you outgrow friendships. Forever is such a long time" -Penny

THE PARTS THAT MAKE UP THE BUMMER MACHINE BUMMER is a machine with six moving parts. Here’s a mnemonic for the six components of the BUMMER machine, in case you ever have to remember them for a test: A is for Attention Acquisition leading to Asshole supremacy B is for Butting into everyone’s lives C is for Cramming content down people’s throats D is for Directing people’s behaviors in the sneakiest way possible E is for Earning money from letting the worst assholes secretly screw with everyone else F is for Fake mobs and Faker society

Mabel’s suspicions grew.  What was the big faker up to?

I was not born into a world relatively unaffected by technology like you were. Rather, I was thrust into a world that had already succumbed to its disastrous effects! I have heard it said that the Internet was going to make the world a smaller place, and indeed it has. It has reduced the world from seven billion to just one! Just you, hiding behind your screen, interacting with others hiding behind theirs. The days of legitimate human interaction have been forever tainted by social media. The schedules of our workdays have been compressed tighter by the interventions of e-mails and cellphones. Our lives have been faker and faker, busier and busier and we have yet to realize that within, we are broken, weary and

He shoots me a grin that’s damn near irresistible. “Please? For me. We’ll look good together.

He slides into the seat beside me and pushes the soda in my direction. “You don’t want it?” With a smile, he shakes his head. “Nah, got it for you.” “What? Why?” “You have one every day at three.” His brow furrows as he assesses the can. “Do you not want it?” I’m too surprised to not speak the truth. “You noticed that?” His green eyes hold mine. “I notice everything when it comes to you.

How do I teach my girl that it’s okay to be upset when people let her down? How do I show her that I’ll spend my life fighting like hell not to be one of those people,

As a foreign kid, I knew that "American" was a performance. So is "refugee," "good mother," "top manager." "Scientist" is harder, but still a performance, inherited and learned. A CEO is all theater, aped and perfected in private, then trotted out publicly to varying degrees of success. There are some excellent fakers out there.

Where God calls the baptized beloved, demons call her addict, slut, sinner, failure, fat, worthless, faker, screwup. Where God calls her child, the demons beckon with rich, powerful, pretty, important, religious, esteemed, accomplished, right. It is no coincidence that when Satan tempted Jesus after his baptism, he began his entreaties with, “If you are the Son of God . . .” We all long for someone to tell us who we are. The great struggle of the Christian life is to take God’s name for us, to believe we are beloved and to believe that is enough. Whether

When the door closed, José Arcadio Segundo was sure that the war was over. Years before Colonel Aureliano Buendía had spoken to him about the fascination of war and had tried to show it to him with countless examples drawn from his own experience. He had believed him. But the night when the soldiers looked at him without seeing him while he thought about the tension of the past few months, the misery of jail, the panic at the station, and the train loaded with dead people, José Arcadio Segundo reached the conclusion that Colonel Aureliano Buendía was nothing but a faker or an imbecile. He could not understand why he had needed so many words to explain what he felt in war because one was enough: fear.

But yet another piece of my stupidly good mood, I realized, was because of the effects of being in the company of Kraunauer himself. His aura was almost tangible. There was something about him that impressed me, which all by itself was impressive enough. I had always considered myself the Master of Duplicity, the Paradigm of Synthetic Behavior. No one else had ever come close—until now. Kraunauer left me in the dust. He was the most highly polished faker I had ever met, and I could do nothing but watch and admire every time he favored me with one of his completely artificial smiles. And he had not merely one fake grin; I’d already seen at least seven, each with its own very specific application, each so perfect as to leave me breathless with admiration. Aside from my appreciation for someone who was better than me at something I held dear, there was an unspoken assumption of command in his bearing. And it worked. Just being near him made me want to please him. It should have been deeply unsettling, but somehow it wasn’t.

my parents Oedipal fakers

Stories,” she blurted. “The mosaic told stories, didn’t it?” “Yes, old ones.” “I’ll tell them to you.” His eyes cracked open. He didn’t remember closing them. “You know those tales?” “Yes.” She didn’t. This became clear as she began to tell them. She knew bits and pieces, cobbled together in ways that would have made him smile if smiling didn’t hurt. “You,” he breathed, “are such a faker.” “Don’t interrupt.” Mostly pure invention. She remembered the images--it pleased him, how vividly she knew the temple floor’s details. Which god curled around which, or how the snake’s tongue forked into three. But the stories she told had little to do with his religion. Sometimes they didn’t even make sense. “Do this again,” he said, “when I have strength to laugh.” “As bad as that?” “Mmm. Maybe not. For a Valorian.” But eventually everything grew slow, unthreaded. He thought of raw cotton pulled apart, fibers trailing. Maybe Kestrel had talked for hours. He didn’t know. When had she rested her cheek against his heart again? His chest rose and fell. “Arin.” “I know. I shouldn’t sleep. But I’m so tired.” She threatened him. He didn’t hear the whole of it. “Lie with me,” he murmured. It bothered him to think of her kneeling on the ground. “Promise not to sleep.” “I promise.” But he didn’t mean it. He knew what would happen. She slipped in beside him. Everything became too soft, too dark, too velvet. He sank into sleep. He sighed, and let go.

People who are hypocritical pretenders traitors, liars and fakers Will cause meaningful relationships to become meaningless

What comes into our minds when we think about God is the most important thing about us.' A. W. Tozer wrote that, talking about how people project their opinions about God onto the world. He was asking those of us who believe in God- which is most of us - what God it is we believe in. Good question. ...we project onto God our worst attitudes and feelings about ourselves. As someone famously remarked, 'God made us in his own image and we have more than returned the compliment.' If we feel hatred for ourselves, it only makes sense that God hates us. Right? No, not so much. It's no good assuming God feels about us the way we feel about ourselves intensely and freely with complete wisdom and never-ending compassion. If the Christian story is true, the God who shows his love for us everywhere, in everything, expresses that love completely and finally in what Jesus did for us. Deal done -- can't add to, can't subtract from it. Any questions?"(pp. 20-21)

Julian of Norwich...wrote: 'Some of us believe that God is almighty and can do everything; and that he is all-wise and may do everything; but that he is all-love and will do everything -- there we draw back. As I see it, this ignorance is the greatest of all hindrances to God's lovers.' Where do we thing we are going when we draw back from God? The tiny gods we worship when we draw back from the true God are idols we've made to look just like us. It takes a profound conversion to accept that God is relentlessly tender and compassionate toward us just as we are - and not in spite of our sins and faults, but in them and through them. As Anne Lamott sees it, 'The secret is that God loves us exactly the way we are and that he loves us too much to let us stay like this..." (p. 21)

The more time you spend in the presence of Jesus, the less praise you'll need from others because you will have discovered for yourself that he is Enough. And in the Presence, you will delight in the discovery of what it means to live by grace and not by posing.

Politicians Are Such Fakers

It was a sign of the seriousness of this that she ignored my language. “You know your daddy’s Head Licker on the Lickin’ Committee, and has been since Pop-pop stepped down thirty years ago. A Johnson’s been Head Licker for as long as there’s been a Johnson in the Thicket.

It’s time for the Great Lickin’ Festival,” she said unnecessarily, “to celebrate our glorious agricultural heritage.” She sighed again. “And I don’t need to tell you how excited your daddy and the other men in the Thicket get at Lickin’ time.

And it’s not just any Lickin’, Brooks. This is the Great Centennial Lickin’.

All heroes probably had doubts sometimes, she told herself. If she ever met Maximal Star, she would mention that he ought to write about the parts in between the daring rescues. The parts where you feel like a big time faker and failure.

This body is a scrounger if it needs the state, a faker if it holds down a job. It is the reject of capitalist productivity, all the while working harder than any FTSE 100 CEO. This body is one in five, full of potential, untapped and waiting. It is ready to burst, to make its mark, if only the trains were accessible, personal assistants funded and housing usable. It is just not trying hard enough.

This body is a scrounger if it needs the state, a faker if it holds down a job.

If we consider Clifford Irving’s Fake! a fake itself — a fake biography of a fake painter, revealing only what the faker, or fakers, care to reveal, and dumping a great deal of disinformation on us in the process — then we must regard Orson Welles’ F For Fake as a fake movie about a fake biography of a fake painter. But perhaps we would more accurately dub it a fake documentary about the impossibility of ever making a “true” documentary.