Feeling Yucky Quotes

Goodwill to all.' I know it's techinically 'goodwill to all men,' but in my mind, I drop the 'men' because that feels segregationist/elitist/sexist/generally bad ist. Goodwill shouldn't be just for men. It should also apply to women and children, and all animals, even the yucky ones like subway rats. I'd even extend the goodwill not just to living creatures but to the dearly departed, and if we include them, we might as well include the undead, those supposedly mythic beings like vampires, and if they're in, then so are elves, fairies, and gnomes. Heck, since we're already being so generous in our big group hug, why not also embrace those supposedly inanimate objects like dolls and stuffed animals. I'm sure Santa would agree. 'Goodwill to all.

I know it’s technically goodwill to all men, but in my mind, I drop the men because that feels segregationist/elitist/sexist/generally bad ist. Goodwill shouldn’t be just for men. It should also apply to women and children, and all animals, even the yucky ones like subway rats. I’d even extend the goodwill not just to living creatures but to the dearly departed, and if we include them, we might as well include the undead, those supposedly mythic beings like vampires, and if they’re in, then so are elves, fairies, and gnomes. Heck, since we’re already being so generous in our big group hug, why not also embrace those supposedly inanimate objects like dolls and stu

I became one of those annoying people who always say Ciao! Only I was extra annoying, since I would always explain where the word ciao comes from. (If you must know, it's an abbreviation of a phrase used by medieval Venetians as an intimate salutation: Sono il suo schiavo! Meaning: "I am your slave!") Just speaking these words made me feel sexy and happy. My divorce lawyer told me not to worry; she said she had one client (Korean by heritage) who, after a yucky divorce, legally changed her name to something Italian, just to feel sexy and happy again.

Taking deep breaths, I gathered my power until I could feel it crackling in my fingertips. "Let him go!" I commanded in what I hoped was my most "I am a powerful demon" voice. Probably would've been better if my voice hadn't cracked on the last word. I released the magic in my hands, which felt kind of like snapping a giant rubber band. A bolt of power flew from my fingertips, crashing into a nearby tree with a thunderous crack. There was a bright flash like lightning, and a branch fell to the ground. The ghouls startled, which meant the one holding Archer jerked his head back even farther. The smallest one made a noise that might have been distress, but they certainly didn't seem under my control. And they weren't letting Archer go. Okay, so my first experiment with necromancy was an epic fail.Take two. I fought panic and frustration. Shooting off my magic at the ghouls was no good, but what else was I supposed to try? "Think,Sophie," I muttered under my breath. "Yeah,please do that," Archer replied, his voice slightly strangled. The ghoul holding him had wrapped a hand around Archer's throat. The thing's expression wasn't threatening, just curious, like he was little kid trying to see what would happen if he just kept squeezing. I slammed my eyes shut. Okay, they were dead. Yucky dead things. That smelled like-okay, those thoughts were not helpful.

He’s the sex version of fast food drive-through. It looks so good. It smells so good. It tastes so good. And you can get it quick. But, afterward you feel yucky and are sorry you did it.

He [Wilhelm Reich] challenged the puritanical ideas about sexuality in our culture. In laywoman terms, Reich believed humans store emotions in our muscles. During orgasm, muscles in the body contract, then relax, thus releasing emotions. Reich asserted that all aspects of healthy human psychology are dependent on one's sexual expression. When you cry, laugh or feel free as a bird after coming, it is partly because you just released a bunch of yucky crap that's been building up inside your body for days, months, years, possibly your entire lifetime. ...When women function like the ocean, we live happy, healthy lives. Holding on to stuff that does not serve us in our present situation creates actual, physical blockages within our bodies...which on the individual level, manifest in bitterness, stifled creativity, sexual perversion and unwillingness to trust, love and/or touch. Collectively-when an entire society is sexually repressed-phenomena such as war, rape, racism, greed and wholesale shitty behavior are considered acceptable.

need to listen to my anger to know that I’ve had a boundary violated. I need to listen to my loneliness to know that I need to invest in deep relationships. I need to listen to my anxiety to know that I have an unresolved trauma that needs to heal. I need to listen to my depression to know that I need care for my heart’s deepest wounds. I need to listen to my fear to know that I may need to create safety. I need to listen to my stress and irritability to know that I’m out of balance and need rest or reprioritization. One common experience, however, keeps us all stuck. Instead of moving toward our pain and listening to the valuable messages it has for us, the vast majority of us move against or away from it. We ignore it, deny it, feel ashamed for feeling it, resent it, or attempt to numb, deflect, or dismiss it. We’ve been well taught to not listen to, or even feel, those yucky, hard feelings. Suck it up, buttercup. Be a man. Big girls don’t cry. Stop your whining or I’ll give you something to whine about! You can see why I believe we suffer from a very serious leprosy of the heart. And it’s killing us.

I once overheard a Kohlberg-style moral judgment interview being conducted in the bathroom of a McDonald’s restaurant in northern Indiana. The person interviewed—the subject—was a Caucasian male roughly thirty years old. The interviewer was a Caucasian male approximately four years old. The interview began at adjacent urinals: INTERVIEWER: Dad, what would happen if I pooped in here [the urinal]? SUBJECT: It would be yucky. Go ahead and flush. Come on, let’s go wash our hands. [The pair then moved over to the sinks] INTERVIEWER: Dad, what would happen if I pooped in the sink? SUBJECT: The people who work here would get mad at you. INTERVIEWER: What would happen if I pooped in the sink at home? SUBJECT: I’d get mad at you. INTERVIEWER: What would happen if you pooped in the sink at home? SUBJECT: Mom would get mad at me. INTERVIEWER: Well, what would happen if we all pooped in the sink at home? SUBJECT: [pause] I guess we’d all get in trouble. INTERVIEWER: [laughing] Yeah, we’d all get in trouble! SUBJECT: Come on, let’s dry our hands. We have to go. Note the skill and persistence of the interviewer, who probes for a deeper answer by changing the transgression to remove the punisher. Yet even when everyone cooperates in the rule violation so that nobody can play the role of punisher, the subject still clings to a notion of cosmic justice in which, somehow, the whole family would “get in trouble.” Of course, the father is not really trying to demonstrate his best moral reasoning. Moral reasoning is usually done to influence other people (see chapter 4), and what the father is trying to do is get his curious son to feel the right emotions—disgust and fear—to motivate appropriate bathroom behavior.

So instead she buried the incident along with her other unwanted thoughts and feelings in her imaginary mental graveyard labeled “Unwanted Life Memories and Other Yucky Stuff” . . . nothing sent to that place should ever be thought of again.

Audra tossed her nearly empty Cheetos bag on the coffee table. “Cheetos are just delicious while you’re eating them,” she said. “But then you feel yucky afterward. Sort of like porn.” She

The tiny tortoiseshell kit blinked up at him. “Sootkit and Rainkit were asleep in the nursery,” she began in a faint voice. “But I wasn’t sleepy. My mother wasn’t watching, so I went to play in the ravine. I wanted to catch a mouse. And then I saw Darkstripe.” Her voice shook and she hesitated. “Go on,” Firestar encouraged her. “He was coming up the ravine by himself. I knew he should have had Brackenfur with him, and I . . . I wondered where he was going. I followed him—I remembered the time he took Bramblepaw and Tawnypaw out of the camp, and I thought I might have an adventure like that, too.” Firestar felt a pang of sadness as he remembered how Sorrelkit was always so bright and curious, getting into trouble because of her misguided courage. This limp scrap of fur didn’t look at all adventurous now, and Firestar could only hope that with Cinderpelt’s care she would soon be her lively self again. “I followed him a long way,” Sorrelkit went on, sounding rather proud of herself. “I’d never been so far from the camp. I hid from Darkstripe too—he didn’t know I was there. And then he met another cat—a cat I’d never seen before.” “What other cat? What did it look like? What scent did it have?” Firestar questioned her urgently. Sorrelkit looked bewildered. “I didn’t recognize the scent,” she mewed. Her nose wrinkled. “But it was yucky. He was a big white cat—bigger than you, Firestar. And he had black paws.” Firestar stared at her as he realized whom she had seen. “Blackfoot!” he exclaimed. “Tigerstar’s deputy. That was ShadowClan scent you smelled, Sorrelkit.” “And what’s Darkstripe doing, meeting the ShadowClan deputy on our territory?” Sandstorm growled. “That’s what I’d like to know.” “So what happened then?” Firestar prompted the kit. “I got scared,” Sorrelkit admitted, looking down at her paws. “I ran back to camp, but I think Darkstripe must have heard me, because he caught up with me in the ravine. I thought he would be angry because I spied on him, but he told me how clever I was. He gave me some red berries for a special treat. They looked tasty, but when I ate them I started to feel really ill. . . . And I don’t remember anything else, except waking up here.” She sank her head on her paws again as she finished, as if telling the long story had exhausted her. Cinderpelt nosed her gently, checking her breathing. “Those were deathberries,” she mewed. “You must never, ever touch them again.” “I won’t, Cinderpelt, I promise,

Sootkit and Rainkit were asleep in the nursery,” she began in a faint voice. “But I wasn’t sleepy. My mother wasn’t watching, so I went to play in the ravine. I wanted to catch a mouse. And then I saw Darkstripe.” Her voice shook and she hesitated. “Go on,” Firestar encouraged her. “He was coming up the ravine by himself. I knew he should have had Brackenfur with him, and I . . . I wondered where he was going. I followed him—I remembered the time he took Bramblepaw and Tawnypaw out of the camp, and I thought I might have an adventure like that, too.” Firestar felt a pang of sadness as he remembered how Sorrelkit was always so bright and curious, getting into trouble because of her misguided courage. This limp scrap of fur didn’t look at all adventurous now, and Firestar could only hope that with Cinderpelt’s care she would soon be her lively self again. “I followed him a long way,” Sorrelkit went on, sounding rather proud of herself. “I’d never been so far from the camp. I hid from Darkstripe too—he didn’t know I was there. And then he met another cat—a cat I’d never seen before.” “What other cat? What did it look like? What scent did it have?” Firestar questioned her urgently. Sorrelkit looked bewildered. “I didn’t recognize the scent,” she mewed. Her nose wrinkled. “But it was yucky. He was a big white cat—bigger than you, Firestar. And he had black paws.” Firestar stared at her as he realized whom she had seen. “Blackfoot!” he exclaimed. “Tigerstar’s deputy. That was ShadowClan scent you smelled, Sorrelkit.” “And what’s Darkstripe doing, meeting the ShadowClan deputy on our territory?” Sandstorm growled. “That’s what I’d like to know.” “So what happened then?” Firestar prompted the kit. “I got scared,” Sorrelkit admitted, looking down at her paws. “I ran back to camp, but I think Darkstripe must have heard me, because he caught up with me in the ravine. I thought he would be angry because I spied on him, but he told me how clever I was. He gave me some red berries for a special treat. They looked tasty, but when I ate them I started to feel really ill. . . . And I don’t remember anything else, except waking up here.” She sank her head on her paws again as she finished, as if telling the long story had exhausted her. Cinderpelt nosed her gently, checking her breathing. “Those were deathberries,” she mewed. “You must never, ever touch them again.” “I won’t, Cinderpelt, I promise,

Relative to all that’s going on in my life, I would like to be certain that I am making the right choices. Feel good moments never last, at the end of the day I am most certainly left wondering “was it worth it?” My need for more tangible emotions is definitely thwarting my need to feel them filled and I yearn for the peace of mind that used to be my springboard…because it’s no longer there. It has been replaced by something so inexplicably strong and overwhelming that it literally destroys what used to be my domicile of sense and sensibility. Is this how it is supposed to feel? Did I stop years ago because this was how it was? Do I go back to that safe place that felt oh so calm and lonely? Or do I venture like a kid in a candy store, tasting it all, spitting out what is yucky and leaves a bad taste… and just enjoying that which is sweet to my palate and sends wave of pleasure to the senses… tucking away in the back of my mind, or future reference…where the good stuff is? Sonia Valencia Singh March 29, 2014.