Females Are Weird Quotes

Butch repositioned the Sox cap, and as his wrist passed by his nose, he got another whiff of himself. "Ah, V. . . listen, there is something a little weird going down on me." "What?" "I smell like men's cologne." "Good for you. Females dig that kind of thing." "Vishous, I smell like Obsession for Men, only I'm not WEARING any, you feel me?" There was silence on the line. Then, "Humans don't bond." "Oh, really. You want to tell that to my central nervous system and my sweat glands? They'd appreciate the news flash, I'm sure.

My grandmother's greatest gift was tolerance. Now, in the old days, Indians used to be forgiving of any kind of eccentricity. In fact, weird people were often celebrated. Epileptics were often shamans because people just assumed that God gave seizure-visions to the lucky ones. Gay people were seen as magical too. I mean, like in many cultures, men were viewed as warriors and women were viewed as caregivers. But gay people, being both male and female, were seen as both warriors and caregivers. Gay people could do anything. They were like Swiss Army knives! My grandmother had no use for all the gay bashing and homophobia in the world, especially among other Indians. "Jeez," she said, Who cares if a man wants to marry another man? All I want to know is who's going to pick up all the dirty socks?

When you are pregnant you can get away with a lot of shit. Women really are at their most dangerous during this time. Your hormones are telling you that you are strong and sexy, everyone is scared of you, and you have a built-in sidekick who might come out at any minute. There should be some kind of pregnancy superhero movie. Calling Hollywood now. What’s that, Hollywood? It’s a weird idea and also you don’t do movies with female superheroes? Copy that.

The women were new friends but I loved them in a massive way. The love was like a large trove of devotion that could only be amassed over time, but it had arrived all at once. The way I loved them felt like it was from long ago.

Binary There are two kinds of people in the world. Male and Female. Gay and Straight. Black and White. Normal and Weird. Cis and Trans. There are two kinds of people in the world. Saints and Sinners. Victims and Villains. Cruel and Kind. Guilty and Innocent. There are two kinds of people in the world. Just two. Just two. Only two.

Now, in the old days, Indians used to be forgiving of any kind of eccentricity. In fact, weird people were often celebrated. Epileptics were often shamans because people just assumed that God gave seizure-visions to the lucky ones. Gay people were seen as magical, too. I mean, like in many cultures, men were viewed as warriors and women were viewed as caregivers. But gay people, being both male and female, were seen as both warriors and caregivers. Gay people could do anything. They were like Swiss Army knives!

Nobody in the whole world is normal. That's an idea made up by clothing companies to sell t-shirts. It doesn't exist in nature. Everybody gets to be weird in their own special way.

If you’re a girl in a fantasy novel, be sure to announce loudly how you just want to have adventures and sword fights, and declare your hatred for needlepoint often. It is a simple fact that any female character in a patriarchy-based fantasy novel who actually enjoys needlepoint will not be a heroine. It’s almost like we demean women who enjoy activities typically coded as feminine. Weird.

You’re so weird sometimes.” I am. I have no social graces, no idea how to act around a female. Fuck. Fuck my life.

Kit," said a female voice, "what's wrong with the fridge? All the food's gone. No, wait, there's a really ugly alien in here disguised as a leaky lettuce. Hey, I guess I shouldn't be rude to it; it's a visitor. Welcome to our planet, Mr. Alien!" This was followed by some muffled remark that Nita couldn't make out, possibly something Kit was saying. A moment later, Kit's sister Carmela's voice came out of Nita's refrigerator again. "Hola, Nita, are your phone bills getting too big? This is a weird way to deal with it...

In spite of all my efforts to create a neat, tidy, obedient, moderate, unexceptional persona, I was simply too weird for them; until that is, my first female tutor was hired.

Finally, I want to come to the question of sex. If anything proves that religion is not just man-made but masculine-made, it is the incessant repetition of rules and taboos governing the sexual life. The disease is pervasive, from the weird obsession with virginity and the one-way birth canal through which prophets are “delivered,” through the horror of menstrual blood, all the way to the fascinated disgust with homosexuality and the pretended concern with children (who suffer worse at the hands of the faithful than any other group). Male and female genital mutilation; the terrifying of infants with hideous fictions about guilt and hell; the wild prohibition of masturbation: religion will never be able to live down the shame with which it has stained itself for generations in this regard, anymore than it can purge its own guilt for the ruining of formative periods of precious life.

CUSTOMER: Is your poetry section split up into rhyming and non-rhyming sections? BOOKSELLER: No, it’s just in alphabetical order. What kind of poetry are you looking for? CUSTOMER: Rhyming. Preferably iambic pentameter, in poems of no more than ten lines, by a female poet. But, other than that, I don’t mind.

But then, he said, "Cute nose." Cute. I have a cute nose. And a cute boyfriend. With cute elk kisses. Also, elk do not sleep standing up. Also, female elk don't have antlers. Also, male elk (bulls) have a harem of cows. Which is maybe why elk popped into my head randomly. Me and Sadie were the cows in Heck's harem. That's weird. But it does explain why I'd randomly think of elks. Elk. Also, though, elk remind me of when we went to Yellowstone—me, Mom, Dad, Mr. Griffin—and saw elk. It was nice. Happy family. And fun. Therefore, elk make me feel happy. And that's probably the real reason for elk randomly popping into my head. Or maybe my mind is a bull with a harem of way too many thought cows! Weirdo.

I am a modern lady, a cutting-edge, very recent woman. And yet the only menstrual blood I have ever seen is my own. Is that weird? I can see sex on all the movies and TV programmes, I can watch murders being enacted and people pretending to shit themselves in the street, yet no periods.

Friendship equals no appointment required.

Every attempt to fit in resulted in me being more weird and more isolated from normal people.

the weird possibility of marriage loomed. It loomed, in part, because there weren’t very many appealing models of what other kinds of female life might take its place.

Both beds had extra-long sheets, a weird detail of college life. After college, sheets would immediately shorten to their normal length.

There should be some kind of pregnancy superhero movie. Calling Hollywood now. What’s that, Hollywood? It’s a weird idea and also you don’t do movies with female superheroes? Copy that.

It’s weird,” she said, “the way sometimes you’re in your life, but other times you’re looking back at it like a spectator. It kind of goes back and forth, back and forth.” “And then you die.” She laughed a little. “Yes. And then you die.

Elephants don’t belong in rooms, and damaging thoughts don’t belong in our hearts. I am going to kick the elephant out of the room, slay this shit, and embrace the most important truth I’ve ever learned. I am not what I do or what I look like. I am just who I am.

I cleaned out my closet and threw out the clothes that didn’t fit, the clothes that were old, the clothes that were stained, the clothes that were tight, and the clothes that were loose until there was nothing in my closet. I stand here naked, and see who I really am.

Did he put hands on you?” “Not quite. I think that was going to be next, but O’Brian drew him off. Before that, Clifton got pissy I wasn’t telling him whatever he wanted to know and accused me of being an ass kisser. I responded that I have yet to have the privilege of kissing your ass, which I rate as the best—female variety—in the department.” “That sounds like a pucker-up to me.” Peabody snorted. “It was worth it. He went all puce. Or is it fuchsia? Which is the weird name that means hot pink?” “I have no idea, nor want one.

Sex really is binary. No question about it. You're either male or female, and it's absolutely clear. You can do it on gamete size, you can do it on chromosomes. To me as a biologist, it's distinctly weird that people can simply declare "I am a woman, though I have a penis.

Men who love the Stones are fixated on cock. I’m sorry, but that’s the only word. And a firehose is a symbolic fantasy cock. It’s pathetic. Male Stones fans are frozen at eighteen months old, just discovering the thrill of yanking on the rubber band of their own phallus. Female Stones fans are even worse. Mick Jagger has a weird gross mouth that makes him look like a cod, and this turns them on. They’re sexually aroused by fish-men. They’re deviants.” “So what are Beatles fans fixated on? The glory of pussy?” “Exactly. Strawberry Fields is not just a place in Liverpool, Mr. Rookwood.

I would either head to the playground alone or sit beside her and read—which she said “looked weird.” Though she couldn’t know, those words hurt more than anything else. Feeling that we have let down our parents is a pain anyone can understand. But feeling that one’s innate self is a letdown just slays you.

But what if my sister feels weird living with some strange guy she’s never met? Especially since I don’t remember Quinlin being very . . . cuddly.” Gleeful laughter rang out behind her, and Sophie turned to find an elegant black female standing in the narrow arched doorway, clutching her sides as she cracked up.

We live in this really weird world where female celebrities can be photographed without underwear on and instead of making it illegal to publish explicit photos of a person without their express permission or, you know, shaming the person who's shoving a camera up their skirt, we call them sluts for accidentally spreading their legs when they get out of their car.

Where did Grizel go?” Sandor asked as they turned to leave. “She’s supposed to stay by your side.” “I’m right here,” a husky female voice said as a lithe gray goblin in a fitted black jumpsuit seemed to melt out of the shadows. Fitz’s bodyguard was just as tall as Sandor, but far leaner—and what she lacked in bulk she made up for in stealth and grace. “I swear,” she said, tapping Sandor on the nose. “It’s almost too easy to evade you.” “Anyone can hide in this chaos,” Sandor huffed. “And now is not the time for games!” “There’s always time for games.” Grizel tossed her long ponytail in a way that almost seemed . . . Was it flirty? Sandor must’ve noticed too, because his gray skin tinted pink. He cleared his throat and turned to Sophie. “Weren’t we heading to the cafeteria?” She nodded and followed Fitz into the mazelike halls, where the colorful crystal walls shimmered in the afternoon sunlight. The cafeteria was on the second floor of the campus’s five-story glass pyramid, which sat in the center of the courtyard framed by the U-shaped main building. Sophie spent most of the walk wondering how long it would take Dex to notice her new accessories. The answer was three seconds—and another after that to notice the matching rings on Fitz’s thumbs. His periwinkle eyes narrowed, but he kept his voice cheerful as he said, “I guess we’re all giving rings this year.” Biana held out her hand to show Sophie a ring that looked familiar—probably because Sophie had a less sparkly, slightly more crooked, definitely less pink version on her own finger. “I also made one for you,” Dex told Fitz. “It’s in your thinking cap. And I have some for Tam and Linh, whenever we see them again. That way we’ll all have panic switches—and I added stronger trackers, so I can home in on the signal even if you don’t press your stone. Just in case anything weird happens.” “Your Technopath tricks aren’t necessary,” Sandor told him, pointing to their group of bodyguards—four goblins in all. “But it’s still good to have a backup plan, right?” Biana asked, admiring her ring from another angle. The pink stone matched the glittery shadow she’d brushed around her teal eyes, as well as the gloss on her

I come from a worried people. These people worry and are overly cautious. The worried people are very suggestive and read the side effects on every medication to make sure they experience all of them, even the side effects experienced by the placebo people. If it only happens in males, my female people will figure out a way to have that side effect, too. My people worry out of love, though.

She had rarely called him honey, and he thought: This is weird. Honey was for a moment of extremeness. She had reached out from their usual vocabulary and into that of some other generation; the words that they usually used wouldn’t do. Honey was weird, but it was a bridge across the terrifying open space between where they had been and where they now were. A honeyed bridge that would take them forward as best it could.

I have this craving to be some ball-buster chick who, when you look at her, think, “She likes her rock hard, her cock hard, and her liquor harder,” yet I know that this striving has everything to do with the what’s lurking behind my softer feminine side. Hard and edgy. I know them well. I sought them out, tried them on and wore them in the many forms so many of us do, from fuck me to fuck you, and everything in between.

I can’t bear to wear flats, and it’s not a height thing. The rounded toe of the ballet slipper-style shoes do not appeal to me. Let’s face it, none of us over thirty, forty, fifty and on, are ballerinas. No, girls, Pilates is not ballet. I’ve been told I am built like a ballerina, but I’ve also been told I dance like a stripper. Did you ever ask someone how they thought you dance? You may be in shock, or maybe they will be.

There is a moment when you just know it and can’t deny it. It’s simply the irrefutable truth, and now you have to change the situation because it’s no longer working for you. Maybe you come to the realization gradually, or maybe you come to it like a nearly missed red light when you stomp on the brake, and it’s right there, unmistakable. It’s the moment when you realize there is only one cool person in the relationship or dating thingy, and it’s not the other person.

If you can't tell from my rap lyrics already, yes I am a feminist. And when I'm saying "hoe" or "bitch" I am actually referring to men. ...That sounded bad, in someway. But at the end of the day, I'm sick of rappers using "bitches" and "hoes" as terms towards women. Feminists are NOT a hate group. Feminists are not all female. Nor has it got an anti-male agenda. It's about equality! I've had a weird, special bond with women since I was a kid. And it's just a shame really that I'm gay.

You look like carp today.” Ashley’s eyes didn’t lift from her chart as she volunteered her opinion. “You mean crap?” I felt like crap. I was tired. My head and my heart hurt. And I was pretty sure my female reproductive system hated Alex. “No. Carp. The fish. You’re all frowny and buggy-eyed, tired and frightened.” Her blue eyes lifted, scanned my face. “And you need to pluck your eyebrows.” “Do carp have eyebrows?” “They have little weird feeler mustaches, like catfish. I suspect they tie other fish to little fishy railroad tracks.

Omo explains Buddhism to Robbie: ‘Some human dudes believe in reincarnation. Being born more than once? As if once wasn’t bad enough. Like, suppose the universe is a hologram, and the human dudes are outside the universe and some big ugly cosmic dude beams them into the hologram.’ ‘Why does he?’ asked Robbie. ‘Because he wants to fuck with their heads. And it’s like his universe, his rules. So the proto-human dudes get sent into a body, and the body is male or female and more or less athletic, and more or less clever and good looking. And they live their lives and when it ends they are back in the place outside the universe until the big ugly cosmic dude decides he wants them back again to fuck with their heads some more, so the next time they might be a boy instead of a girl, and better looking, not so athletic, more quick tempered, less optimistic, whatever, whatever and so it goes on until they learn so much stuff that the big ugly cosmic dude can’t fuck with them any more and the proto-human dudes don’t get beamed into the universe any more. Unless the dudes want to be. Which would be weird.

Surely an instrument is neither male nor female—they’re just things that make sound—strings and bows, brass and wood, mallets and cymbals and drumskins and little metal triangles. And yet all you have to do is look around at these musicians to see the way that even sound is gendered. In the middle of the orchestra is the brass section—tubas, trombones, trumpets, French horn, every last one of them played by boys. It’s not all that different in the woodwinds—where the boys play bassoons and clarinets, but all the flutes are played by girls. The strings are even more ridiculous—the deeper the instrument, the more likely it is to be played by a boy. So all the basses? Boys. Most of the cellos? Boys. The violas split half and half. All but one of the violins? Girls. Then there’s the harp, which I guess federal law requires be played by a girl. And the percussion and kettle drums, which are usually played by boys. How weird is this? Most of us decided to play our instruments in third grade, a bunch of little kids who made our choices without even thinking about them. But even at eight years old, we were already running the gender maze that the world had set for us, without even realizing it.

What do woman say to little boys? " Stop fighting. Stop being so rough. Stop rough housing." They're boys you know, that's kinda what they're sapossed to do. So, men are sapossed to overcome all these biological drives and I'm just really interested in helping women overcome theirs caus' I think the spotlight of " Outgrow your bestial nature." has been pointed just a little bit too long at men and I think it's time to swivel that motherfucker around and point it at woman and say stop making yourself look like fucking sex clowns to milk money out of men's dicks. Stop lying about who you are and what you're about. Stop being flirty, manipulative, and trying to be sexy. Just stop doing it. It's time for women to outgrow biology just as men have been instructed to for about the last 20,000 years to outgrow their biology. "Stop slamming doors. Stop yelling. Stop climbing trees. Stop being rude. Stop farting. Stop enjoying fart jokes. Just stop being men." Ok, Well; women stop being women. Be people. Be people who have sex, absolutely but, don't be caricatures. Don't aim to be like a woman who looks like the outline of some playboy mudflap on a trucker's rig. Just be people. Be sexual. Enjoy your sexuality and bodies but, stop trying to bury us in tits so that we pass out and you can rifle through our bank accounts. Just stop doing that shit. I won't enable it anymore. Why does your face have to look like some half rained on Picasso water color? I don't need rainbows on the face of a woman. I don't need these weird butterfly wing goth eyebrows and shit like that. Male sexuality is demonized and female sexuality is elevated. That's bullshit. Then women wonder why men prefer porn to them. It's caus' porn doesn't nag you for wanting stuff that's defined as "kinky" or "weird". Male sexuality is demonized and held in low esteem. Woman's sexuality is always beautiful. Woman's sexuality is unremitting shallow. I'm not saying men's isn't but, we know that about men, right? What turns women on? Women say confidence. Do you know what that means? Money. Do women say " He is really confident about his sidewalk art. He is really confident about his subway busking. That's such a turn on!" Why do men like looking at naked women and women get turned on looking at clothed men? Because if a man's clothes aren't on you don't know how expensive his wardrobe is. This is what Mohammad Ali said. I'm going to throw on some old jeans and a old t-shirt and I'm just gonna walk down into some little town and find some woman who doesn't know who the hell I am and then when she's fallen in love with me and we get married, I'm going to take her to my million dollar mansion and my yacht. This is the reality. Once you start having money, once you start having power, then the true nature of massive swaths of female sexuality becomes clear.

How does someone know if they’re transgender?” “I like to think about it in terms of handedness,” Dr. Powers explains. “If I asked you to sign your name with your nondominant hand, it would feel weird. If I asked you to describe it to me, you’d probably say things like the pen doesn’t fit comfortably in my hand; or it’s awkward; or I have to try hard to make legible something that I can do with my other hand effortlessly. It feels forced. Even a kindergartner can tell you if they’re a righty or a lefty, even if they don’t have the words for it. It’s also true that while most people are righties, and a smaller sliver of the population are lefties, there are some people who can use either hand with equal facility. Years ago, if you were a lefty, teachers tried to break you into being right-handed. Eventually, someone realized that it’s perfectly okay to be left-handed. Right-handed people who don’t write with their left hand can still understand that some people might…even if they never do it themselves.” She looks at the jury. “This example is a really great way to understand what it means to be transgender. Everyone has a dominant gender identity. It’s not a preference, it’s not something you can change just because you feel like it—it’s just how you’re wired. Most people who are assigned male or female at birth feel their gender identity matches that label—they’re called cisgender. But transgender people know that being in the body they are in feels not quite right. Some know this when they’re very young. Some spend years feeling uncomfortable without really knowing why.

In case you haven't noticed,rodeos are a serious business.Careless cowboys tend to break bones,or even their skulls,as hard as that may be to believe." She stared down at the hand holding her wrist. Despite his smile,she could feel the strength in his grip. If he wanted to,he could no doubt break her bone with a single snap. But she wasn't concerned with his strength,only with the heat his touch was generating. She felt the tingle of warmth all the way up her arm.It alarmed her more than she cared to admit. "My job is to minimize damage to anyone who is actually hurt." "I'm grateful." He sat up so his laughing blue eyes were even with hers. If possible,his were even bluer than the perfect Montana sky above them. "What do you think? Any damage from that fall?" Her instinct was to move back,but his fingers were still around her wrist,holding her close. "I'm beginning to wonder if you were actually tossed from that bull or deliberately fell." "I'd have to be a little bit crazy to deliberately fell." "I'd have to be a little bit crazy to deliberately jump from the back of a raging bull just to get your attention, wouldn't I?" "Yeah." She felt the pull of that magnetic smile that had so many of the local females lusting after Wyatt McCord. Now she knew why he'd gained such a reputation in such a short time. "I'm beginning to think maybe you are. In fact,more than a little.A whole lot crazy." "I figured it was the best possible way to get you to actually talk to me. You couldn't ignore me as long as there was even the slightest chance that I might be hurt." There was enough romance in her nature to feel flattered that he'd go to so much trouble to arrange to meet her. At least,she thought,it was original. And just dangerous enough to appeal to a certain wild-and-free spirit that dominated her own life. Then her practical side kicked in, and she felt an irrational sense of annoyance that he'd wasted so much of her time and energy on his weird idea of a joke. "Oh,brother." She scrambled to her feet and dusted off her backside. "Want me to do that for you?" She paused and shot him a look guaranteed to freeze most men. He merely kept that charming smile in place. "Mind if we start over?" He held out his hand. "Wyatt McCord." "I know who you are." "Okay.I'll handle both introductions. Nice to meet you,Marilee Trainor. Now that we have that out of the way,when do you get off work?" "Not until the last bull rider has finished." "Want to grab a bite to eat? When the last rider is done,of course." "Sorry.I'll be heading home." "Why,thanks for the invitation.I'd be happy to join you.We could take along some pizza from one of the vendors." She looked him up and down. "I go home alone." "Sorry to hear that." There was that grin again,doing strange things to her heart. "You're missing out on a really fun evening." "You have a high opinion of yourself, McCord." He chuckled.Without warning he touched a finger to her lips. "Trust me.I'd do my best to turn that pretty little frown into an even prettier smile." Marilee couldn't believe the feelings that collided along her spine. Splinters of fire and ice had her fighting to keep from shivering despite the broiling sun. Because she didn't trust her voice, she merely turned on her heel and walked away from him. It was harder to do than she'd expected. And though she kept her spine rigid and her head high, she swore she could feel the heat of that gaze burning right through her flesh. It sent one more furnace blast rushing through her system. A system already overheated by her encounter with the bold, brash,irritatingly charming Wyatt McCord.

Since Disney’s animated extravaganzas reappeared with THE LITTLE MERMAID, they have been a weirdly accurate barometer of the “national political mood,” including a brief liberal flourish around the time of Clinton’s election. Disney’s 1980s features reflected the neo-conservative preoccupation with personal morality and “family values.” They consist mainly of family dramas, bent on achieving proper heterosexual couple bonding despite the odds. The female leads in all three are restless and eager to escape their fathers’ realms, an impulse which puts them in danger until they arrive safely into their husbands’ arms. The males are all, at first, unworthy of full patriarchal responsibility but, in true PINOCCHIO fashion, overcome their weaknesses and, through exertions of will, defeat their foes and become fit successors to their wives’ fathers.

This may sound weird, but I love to listen to whale music when a guy goes down on me. I have all these bizarre underwater fantasies. Sometimes I even imagine that I’m the female whale and that I’m being called by the male whale, with his like, what, fifty-foot cock.

What kind of weird Single White Female game are you playing?” Daphne walked straight up to me, ripping a clip-in extension off my head. She was not concerned about the welfare of my family.

The bottom line is you don’t have to understand something to like it, and you don’t have to understand someone to like them.

My teeth were now as white as Chiclets, but hey you can never be too thin, too rich or have white enough teeth. If you ever want to see the results, I’ll send you some of my wedding photos where I am straining to get the most teeth visibility possible.

I was fourteen years-old, singing and strumming away on my six-string acoustic guitar to the songs of the sixties and seventies limited to the aforementioned “Cocaine,” “Leaving on a Jet Plane,” and “House of the Rising Sun.” I had no idea Lola was a man and someone else was glad they were a man. I always tell people, “I’ve been to that desert. I’ve been on that horse and he did have a name, I just was never allowed to tell anyone.

You have a good heart, Zoey." Zoey smiled. "Thanks." "A weird fascination with this family, but a good heart.

Who are we taking?” Ed straightens, catching the cork in his palm. “Why can’t we all go together?” “Because it’s not junior prom,” Chris says. “We can’t just go solo?” “I mean, you could,” Chris says, “but this is gonna be a big deal with dancing and coupley stuff. Go solo and be the loner, go in a group and we’re the table of dudes—and Mills—sitting there awkwardly. We should get dates.” Reid rolls his dice and begins counting out his turn. “I call Millie.” “You call me?” “Whoa, whoa.” Derailed from his initial argument, Chris turns to Reid with a frown. “If we’re just going to pair up, why’d you pick her?” Reid shrugs and gives a vague nod in my direction. “She looks better in a ball gown.” Ed seems genuinely insulted. “You have obviously never seen me in one.” “I took you to the Deans’ Banquet last year,” Chris reminds Reid. “We had an awesome time.” His turn completed, Reid drops the dice onto the center of the board and picks up his drink. “We did. I’m just being fair and going with someone else this time.” Ed smacks Chris’s shoulder. “I’m more Reid’s type. Remember that cute bartender he liked? The one with the curly hair?” He makes a show of pointing to his head and the mass of auburn curls there. “Tell me we wouldn’t look great together.” “I can beat that.” Alex brings up a foot to rest on the table and rolls up the hem of his jeans, flexing his calf muscle. “Reid is a leg man. Just look at these stems. I could spin you all around that dance floor.” Reid watches each of them, bemused. “I mean, technically speaking, Millie is my type. Being female and whatnot.” “Is it weird to anyone that this roomful of straight men is fighting over Reid and not me?” I ask. Chris, Alex, and Ed seem to give this fair consideration before answering “No” in unison. I lift my glass of wine and take a deep swallow. “Okay, then.” Finally, Reid stands, carrying his empty glass into the kitchen. “Millie, you need anything?” “Other than tips on how to develop an alluring female presence?” I ask. “I’m good. Thanks.

(...) To discuss such, ah, personal matters on the air, especially in an educational setting, is really quite in poor taste.” “It wasn’t that personal,” I say. “Everyone who’s been on social media knows what happened with the 'Bugle' stuff. Also, you know, my locker still says FEMINAZI.” Dr. Guinn clears his throat. “I meant your discussion about . . . feminine hygiene.” It takes me a minute to understand. “Are you trying to say that tampons aren’t allowed on the morning announcements?” Dr. Guinn studies me for a moment. (...) “I’m just trying to ensure that this is an environment where everyone feels comfortable.” Look, I get it. Tampons are embarrassing. Periods are embarrassing. PMS, for some reason, is not, but that’s because it has somehow become a synonym for being in a bad mood while female. The whole specific business with the bleeding, though, is still not cool, except in certain woke corners of the internet. (...) But it’s weird to have Dr. Guinn tell me how embarrassing periods are. The man has never had one in his life—why does he get to have an opinion about it? “Could it be,” I say, in as conciliatory a tone as I can manage, “that maybe it’s not an environment where everyone feels comfortable . . . if we’re not allowed to talk publicly about something that is a normal, healthy part of life for every menstruating student and teacher at Willoughby?

That never could have happened if he hadn’t been a guy. For one, girls aren’t allowed to wear onesies to school. They’re deemed immodest. Because, you know, distracting female bodies pose a huge educational barrier for the poor boys. And if a girl had done that zany dance, either it’d have been sexualized or it’d have been stupid, depending on the girl. “She’s hot,” people would say. Or “She’s weird.” That morning, leaving Town Meeting, everyone was jostling one another, still in high spirits. “Andy is so out there.” Voices dripping with admiration. “He’s such a…” They couldn’t even finish. No words. Shake head. Smile, smile, smile. What they meant, of course, was this: Andy Monroe is so, so freaking cool. Right after that dance—still in the onesie!—he tapped the mike and said, “Next announcement. The Service Club is hosting a winter-coat drive on behalf of the Coalition for the Homeless.” A girl wouldn’t be allowed to bridge both worlds, the silly and the sober. To be taken seriously, she’d have to act serious, and her seriousness would make her unelectable—just as a lack of seriousness would. It was a quintessential catch-22, and we couldn’t even call it out, because it sounded like an excuse. Well, I could be that cool, if I were a guy…. We couldn’t say it, but we felt it. We felt it as surely as we felt the weight of our bodies, because, like gravity, it was a truth about how it worked, this world we knew. Girls didn’t even consider running for Chawton School chairman because, as girls, we knew, we knew deep in our bones, that we would always lose.

What are the three phases of male-to-female transition? Step one: Hey, that guy looks a little weird. Step two: Hey, that person looks really weird. Step three: Whoa, that chick is ugly!

Here are ten facts about IQ. These facts are debated and often controversial among the general public but far less so among scientists who study intelligence. The best review of the academic literature supporting these facts is a 2012 paper by Richard Nisbett and colleagues – an interdisciplinary team of leading scholars, household names within intelligence research, comprised of psychologists, an economist, a behavioral geneticist, and a former President of the American Psychological Association. Their areas of expertise include cultural and sex differences in intelligence, the effect of social and genetic factors that affect intelligence, the development of intelligence over the lifespan, the relationship between economic development and intelligence, and changes in intelligence over history 1. IQ is a good predictor of school and work performance, at least in WEIRD societies. 2. IQ differs in predictive power and is the least predictive of performance on tasks that demand low cognitive skill. 3. IQ may be separable into what can be called ‘crystallized intelligence’ and ‘fluid intelligence’. Crystalized intelligence refers to knowledge that is drawn on to solve problems. Fluid intelligence refers to an ability to solve novel problems and to learn. 4. Educational interventions can improve aspects of IQ, including fluid intelligence, which is affected by interventions such as memory training. Many of these results don’t seem to last long, although there is strong evidence that education as a whole causally raises IQ over a lifetime. 5. IQ test scores have been dramatically increasing over time. This is called the Flynn effect after James Flynn (also an author of the review mentioned above), who first noticed this pattern. The Flynn effect is largest for nations that have recently modernized. Large gains have been measured on the Raven’s test, a test that has been argued to be the most ‘culture-free’ and a good measure of fluid intelligence. That is, it’s not just driven by people learning more words or getting better at adding and subtracting. 6. IQ differences have neural correlates – i.e. you can measure these differences in the brain. 7. IQ is heritable, though the exact heritability differs by population, typically ranging from around 30% to 80%. 8. Heritability is lower for poorer people in the US, but not in Australia and Europe where it is roughly the same across levels of wealth. 9. Males and females differ in IQ performance in terms of variance and in the means of different subscales. 10. Populations and ethnicities differ on IQ performance. You can imagine why some people might question these statements. But setting aside political considerations, how do we scientifically make sense of this? Popular books from Richard Herrnstein and Charles Murray’s The Bell Curve (1994) to Robert Plomin’s Blueprint (2018) have attributed much of this to genes. People and perhaps groups differ in genes, making some brighter than others. But humans are a species with two lines of inheritance. They have not just genetic hardware but also cultural software. And it is primarily by culture rather than genes that we became the most dominant species on earth. For a species so dependent on accumulated knowledge, not only is the idea of a culture-free intelligence test meaningless, so too is the idea of culture free intelligence.

Midgardians do not feel comfortable uttering my name on your side of the Rift.” Hunt stilled. There was only one being whose name was not uttered in Midgard. The Prince of the Pit. Apollion. His blood chilled. This was a fucked-up, weird-ass dream, no doubt caused by Quinlan literally blowing his mind into smithereens— “It is no dream.” The seventh and most lethal of the demon princes of Hel was in his mind— “I am not in your mind, though your thoughts ripple toward me like your world’s radio waves. You and I are in a place between our worlds. A pocket-realm, as it were.” “What do you want?” Hunt’s voice held steady, but—fuck. He needed to get out of here, to find some way back to Bryce. If the Prince of the Pit could get into Hunt’s mind, then— “If I went into her mind, my brother would be very angry with me. Again.” Hunt could have sworn he heard a smile in the prince’s voice. “You certainly worry a great deal about a female who is far safer than you at the moment.” “Why am I here?” Hunt forced out, willing his mind to clear of anything but the thought. It was difficult, though. This being before him, around him … This demon prince had killed the seventh Asteri. Had devoured the seventh Asteri. The Star-Eater. “I do like that name,” Apollion said, chuckling softly. “But as for your question, you are here because I wished to meet you. To assess your progress.” “We got the pep talk from Aidas this afternoon, don’t worry.

Homosexual bestiality is a sin. Any man may legally have sex with a female animal. If they are caught having sex with a male animal, though, the penalty is death.

As I came off stage at the gig that night, I told my agent I didn't feel right. "But you did great out there." "But I feel weird." The words sounded strained as I said them. I knew this was a big disastrous feeling so couldn't work out why it came out of me so tiny.

You will spend 90,000 hours of your life working. That’s more than you will spend doing anything else except sleeping. And you know you owe it to yourself to make those hours the most meaningful that they can possibly be. You know you can’t resign yourself to a listless job. You don’t want to spend your one life grinding out work you care little about, a sad office-humor cliché. You’re here because you want more out of your career, even as you’re facing a stupid-tight and ever-shifting job market, nagging self-doubt, the challenges of rampant sexism and racism in the workplace, a persistent wage gap (particularly for women of color), a lack of precedent for female leadership in most careers, a lack of mentors, and mansplaining men everywhere you look. You’re here because you’re tired of feeling quite so delicate, one professional rejection away from emotional cataclysm, a floor puddle of Chunky Monkey and Netflix. Because you want to get stronger and more sure-footed. Because you don’t want to be tripped up by small things like what to say in an e-mail, and big ones like how to ask for a raise. Because you don’t yet know when you need to stand up for yourself and when you definitely don’t need to stand up for yourself. You’re here because you haven’t realized yet that you’re not alone, that even your heroes think they are impostors, that we all think we don’t deserve to be here, we all believe, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, that we are irrelevant, incompetent trash people, and soon THEY ARE ALL GOING TO KNOW. You are here because no matter how nasty the self-talk and shitty programming that’s intermittently popping off in your brain, the voices that tell you you’re lazy, untalented, the worst, you need to find empathy for yourself, you need someone to tell you how you are feeling is normal. That you belong. That you CAN do this. Because you can.

BINARY There are two kinds of people in the world. Male and Female. Gay and Straight. Black and White. Normal and Weird. Cis and Trans. There are two kinds of people in the world. Saints and Sinners. Victims and Villains. Cruel and Kind. Guilty and Innocent. There are two kinds of people in the world. Just two. Just two. Only two.

Date?” Paul glanced at Henry, who wore an equally puzzled expression.  “I heard Charlene talking about that once.  Sounds weird.” “Really?  You guys don’t date?”  I didn’t ask what they did to get to know a girl instead of dating. “No, we get invited to Introductions,” Paul said as if reading my mind. “What’s that?”  Sam hadn’t mentioned anything like that to me, and I wondered if I should add it to his list of omissions. “When a female comes of age, she’s brought to the Introduction room where she can meet werewolves she has never met before.  The Elders are there to make sure the girl is safe and to give the guys a few minutes to talk to her.  You know, to really get her scent.  When there’s a connection, a guy just knows and Claims her.  If not, the next group comes in for their chance.” I started to sweat as I sat there.  First, what did he mean by Claim?  Second, they kept a girl in a room while guys came in to look her over and smell her?  I reached for my water that sat on the coffee table in the center of our sitting arrangement.  My hands shook a little, and I tried really hard to calm down and not let my imagination run away. “Hey, Gabby, you okay?  Did Paul say something wrong?  Charlene said we could ask any questions we wanted...” They had no idea how foreign what they’d just said sounded to me. “Hey, Gabby, you don’t have to worry about Introductions if that’s what’s scaring you.”  Paul looked at me with concern.  “For you and Charlene, the attraction works different.  She explained it to us when she said that you were coming.  You guys have a level of appeal, or chemistry, with just about all werewolves.”  He is not helping, I thought while he continued.  “Because the level of attraction to you varies, it wouldn’t be safe to put you in an Introduction room.” “Yeah,” Henry agreed and, with a spark of excitement in his eyes, leaned forward in his chair.  “That’s when the mating duels happen.  It’s rare with a werewolf couple, but when Charlene was first brought here, I heard the guys went crazy because they didn’t know what was happening.  They fought over who had the strongest tie to her.  But you don’t have to worry about that with us.  Paul and I think you’re okay, and you smell good and everything, but we knew when we met you that you’re not right for either of us.  That’s why Charlene left you alone with us.” My stomach churned.  Werewolves were going to start fighting each other for me?  No thanks.  They both smiled at me encouragingly.  They probably thought their explanations helpful, but the information they threw at me stunned me. “What did you mean by ‘Claim’?”  My voice came out light and airy with anxiety, but I needed to know. “It’s when we bite our Mate.  The bite draws blood but doesn’t hurt,” Paul explained reassuringly. “What?” I nearly shouted.  My freak-o-meter bypassed meltdown. My head spun dizzily, and no doubt, all the color had drained from my face.  “Oh, not for you, Gabby,” Paul said, quickly leaning forward.  He made shushing motions with his hands.  “We can’t Claim humans like that.  When your Mate finds you, it’s up to you to Claim him.” So,

She grappled his shoulder and pulled him closer; her nose in his neck and the memory-scent of her very first time; that sickly-sweet stench of day-old sweat and mall cologne... she wondered if he’d showered in the ten months since they last shared a bed.

In 2009 i was nominated for the 'best dutch poetry debute' called 'the buddingh award'. It's supposed to be the most important debut price. However the event proved rather hallucinogenic. It started with my publisher expressing 'great surprise' that 'I still managed to get nominated'. The surprise was out of place, since my book simply got the best reviews of all books that year. I went to Poetry International and noticed only 2 of the 3 jury members where present, and the female one kept looking at me in sort of a guilty fashion. Then the award was granted to Misscha Andriessen, which was sort of weird since his book was not seen as universally the best by critics. 'Too lightweight' one review of an important critic read. Later on I read that jurymember Wim Brands one year prior to the price already made clear that 'he is a big fan of Mischa Andriessen'. I always assumed that they were friends somehow but this morning I solved the mystery: they are from the same little village, so it had nothing to do with poetry, just tribal culture at its best. Kind of a relief to know that.

widening. “Don’t you dare draw their fire.”  Lynn.   Jonathan committed the name to memory. The outsiders didn’t seem to notice the man’s slip. They kept their weapons trained on the girl. She glared at them as if daring them to kill her. “Go ahead! Shoot! I’m sick of being hunted by you! Kill me and claim the fame. Do it!”  Parker dodged forward, rushing past any and all that stood between him and the woman named Lynn. He shoved his body in front of hers in a protective manner and glared at the men. “You’ll not harm her. She’s under my protection now.”  Eli let out a low whistle. “Never did I see that coming. Saw-bones is a born skirt-chaser. Think he might have The Fever or something? He’s always doctorin’ folks with weird ailments.”  Well, if The Fever included an uncontrollable urge to protect a woman, then his brother most certainly had caught it. He could only hope Parker’s case was curable. Jonathan knew his own case wasn’t. Molly had infected him long ago and he knew he’d never get her out of his veins. It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried. His exploits of the female persuasion were legendary—so was the fact he refused to commit. “Are you stupid?” Lynn asked, giving Parker a good shove. At five-eight, she was tall by female standards but short compared the MacSweeny boys. Still, she managed to get Parker to budge ever so slightly, shocking Jonathan. “Move! They’ll gun you down to get to me.”  “Then so be it.”  Jonathan shook his head. Parker was bound to get himself killed without some serious intervention. “Parker, get her and your ass out of there. We’ll take care of our guests. We’ll even be sweet enough to give ‘em that welcome speech you had worked out.”  “Parker?” the girl asked. She glanced at Jonathan and Eli and her eyes widened. “That means one of you is Jonathan.” The feel of a cold, hard barrel pressed against the back of Jonathan’s head. Cursing himself for letting his guard down, he put his hands up as his attacker shoved harder with the gun.  “Lookie, boys, we got us a sheriff. He’s got to bring a good amount of coinage, don’t ya think?”  There was a flash of black. A blur. Several shots. Screams. Jonathan caught movement out of the corner of his eye and realized someone had shot the man who had him at gunpoint. Chapter Four Molly

filled with all kinds of fun stuff: golf clubs, jet skis, mountain bikes, you name it. For many of them, “fun” has become an addiction. But as with most addictive substances, people build up a tolerance. So despite all the “fun” things people do, they’re still not having fun. What’s really missing is a sense of joy. People find that they no longer feel an authentic joyfulness in living, despite all the fun stuff they have or do. And this is the case whether they’re male or female, young or old, rich or poor, or at any stage of life. What’s happened to people is that they’ve lost a delicate, but critical, component of aliveness and well-being—they’ve lost their eccentricities. It happens to many of us as we grow up and make our way in the world. We fit in. We see how other people survive and we copy their style—same as everyone else. Swept along by the myriad demands of day-to-day living, we stop making choices of our own. Or even realizing that we have choices to make. We lose the wonderful weird edges that define us. We cover up the eccentricities that make us unique. Alfred Adler, the great 20th century psychologist and educator, considered these eccentricities a vital part of a happy and fulfilling lifestyle. Ironically, 14 Repacking Your Bags

A biologist with a history of tooth decay invents a symbiotic microbe which lives in the human mouth and feeds by cleaning our teeth. It secreted calcium, which is poisonous to it, controlling its growth and preventing it from eating the teeth themselves. So this guy, he wants to spread the thing to the world, but it'd never fly, FDA and human squeamishness and all, so he becomes a party animal. He throws wild partys at the lab, kisses female grad students, where's, babies. He backwashes in sodas left on tables. He bums drags of cigarettes. He grants humanity eternally clean and healthy teeth but dies of a terrible cocktail of STDs.

The most famous of these books is probably De Secretis Mulierum (Women’s Secrets), a late medieval text compiled by anonymous monks. Even by the standards of the day, the authors’ conception of female anatomy is fanciful. The text declares that menses is not blood but excess food; asks if said menses comes out the anus; and suggests that urine comes from the vagina. Its grasp on male anatomy is shaky, too. Male readers are warned that if they consume sage on which a cat has ejaculated—which is a really weird hypothetical—they will become pregnant with kittens. The esophagus would have to serve as the birth canal, and the father would need to vomit them out.

I once smoked on a horse. Why? The opportunity just happen to present itself and I just happen to atop a western saddle and it just seemed right.

My teeth were now as white as Chiclets, but hey you can never be too thin, too rich or have white enough teeth. If you ever want to see the results, I’ll send you some of my wedding photos where I am straining to get the most teeth visibility possible.

Friendship equals no appointment required.

I am a latchkey kid who gets relentlessly teased every day at school. I want to die. I try to overdose on four aspirin.

If you love me and I’m feeling sad, please buy me paper towels, preferably Bounty in a six-pack or greater. Having a cabinet full of paper towels gives me a feeling of abundance, so please do this for me if you love me. Won’t you? Paper towels equals happy Weird Girl.

Growing up with a feminist mother was confusing and, at times, felt simply abnormal. But if my mom wasn’t who she was, I wouldn’t be who I am. As matter of fact, women like my mother were the pioneers who taught many of us perseverance and endurance.

My personal hell is a place filled with loud, cocky, inked hipster—millennials. It’s a place where every guy looks like a member of Mumford & Sons, and all the women shun makeup. No, it isn’t Lollapalooza, nor an Arcade Fire concert. No, it isn’t some hipster independent coffee shop serving the latest trend in cold brewed coffee and a donut. No, not a craft cocktail lounge playing Daft Punk on vinyl while everyone sits on low striped cushions and corduroy couches wearing color schemes of pants and tops that make no sense.

Live the journey, learn the lessons, regret not.

I don’t understand skinny jeans. I don’t understand why people like them, wear them, or buy them. If I want something to hug my calves that tight, I would get a dog that follows me around and humps my legs all day.

I want to thank the friend who went under that bathroom stall for reminding me that when you are a friend, you just do…

I have decided to use my voice to tell you stuff that you may not otherwise know. Not to scare you or make you feel bad, but to inform you so you’re not totally taken by surprise as I have been. Maybe it’s my own ignorance. Maybe it’s lack of cable. After all, don’t they talk about this shit on Dr. Oz? By the way, how many of us can relate to a person who would be an audience member of daytime talk show?

I have this craving to be some ball-buster chick who, when you look at her, think, “She likes her rock hard, her cock hard, and her liquor harder,” yet I know that this striving has everything to do with the what’s lurking behind my softer feminine side. Hard and edgy. I know them well. I sought them out, tried them on and wore them in the many forms so many of us do, from fuck me to fuck you, and everything in between.

There is a moment when you just know it and can’t deny it. It’s simply the irrefutable truth, and now you have to change the situation because it’s no longer working for you. Maybe you come to the realization gradually, or maybe you come to it like a nearly missed red light when you stomp on the brake, and it’s right there, unmistakable. It’s the moment when you realize there is only one cool person in the relationship or dating thingy, and it’s not the other person.

23. I come from a worried people. These people worry and are overly cautious. The worried people are very suggestive and read the side effects on every medication to make sure they experience all of them, even the side effects experienced by the placebo people. If it only happens in males, my female people will figure out a way to have that side effect, too. My people worry out of love, though.

I come from a worried people. These people worry and are overly cautious. The worried people are very suggestive and read the side effects on every medication to make sure they experience all of them, even the side effects experienced by the placebo people. If it only happens in males, my female people will figure out a way to have that side effect, too. My people worry out of love, though.

I cleaned out my closet and threw out the clothes that didn’t fit, the clothes that were old, the clothes that were stained, the clothes that were tight, and the clothes that were loose until there was nothing in my closet. I stand here naked, and see who I really am.

I am a latchkey kid who gets relentlessly teased every day at school. I want to die. I try to overdose on four aspirin.

If you love me and I’m feeling sad, please buy me paper towels, preferably Bounty in a six-pack or greater. Having a cabinet full of paper towels gives me a feeling of abundance, so please do this for me if you love me. Won’t you? Paper towels equals happy Weird Girl.

Growing up with a feminist mother was confusing and, at times, felt simply abnormal. But if my mom wasn’t who she was, I wouldn’t be who I am. As matter of fact, women like my mother were the pioneers who taught many of us perseverance and endurance.

My personal hell is a place filled with loud, cocky, inked hipster—millennials. It’s a place where every guy looks like a member of Mumford & Sons, and all the women shun makeup. No, it isn’t Lollapalooza, nor an Arcade Fire concert. No, it isn’t some hipster independent coffee shop serving the latest trend in cold brewed coffee and a donut. No, not a craft cocktail lounge playing Daft Punk on vinyl while everyone sits on low striped cushions and corduroy couches wearing color schemes of pants and tops that make no sense. I’ll give you a hint. A woman walked around wearing a t-shirt stating, “Data is the new bacon.” Excuse me, but fuck you, it is not! Okay, fine. Last hint. All the Mumford & Sons dudes and non-makeup wearing inked millennials are wearing the exact same shirt. Slap yourself if you get this wrong. My hell is the APPLE STORE!

Besides being a low, loud talker and a fast walker, I am a chain breaker. If you send me something to repost because it’s going to cure cancer or save someone’s life, I will break every chain. I’m sorry that I’m responsible for the continued suffering of so many.

I want to thank the friend who went under that bathroom stall for reminding me that when you are a friend, you just do…

The bottom of the bathtub was grimy and sticky because the water took forever to drain. The hot water made me feel cold and then warm. Soaped up my chest and stomach and face. Got soap in my eye. Stung. Imagined the rabbits the Johnson & Johnson people tortured Clockwork Orange-style with soap just so they knew you couldn’t go blind that way. Soaped up my pussy, legs, and ass. Wished I had a cock. I had to rub myself on stuff. Bet it would be fun to jerk off in the shower. Took the razor and put my leg up on the side of the tub, shaved, and then shaved the other one. My sinuses started to clear. I blew snot out of my nose. Shaved the outside of my pussy, covered my clit with a finger and shaved inside at the top where there was always hair and inside the lips and then all the way through the middle and then all inside the ass. Kept feeling with my fingers for those stubborn hairs I had to keep going over. The water felt like someone spitting at me. The bikini area was a bitch. Ingrown hairs or razor burn. Those lucky bitches back in the seventies could let it all grow out into a giant bush. Sometimes the present seemed just as dumb as the past if you imagined what it would sound like in the future: In ancient times, the female would rub a bladed tool over her genitalia to slice the hair growing from the body even with the surface of the skin, from where it would grow again. I plugged in the laptop and brought it from the coffee table to the couch to watch porn. The way they characterized the women like different breeds. Black bitch. White cunt. Asian slut. The line of spit from the cock to the woman’s mouth. A woman blew two guys. When she took them both in her mouth at the same time, the cocks touched. I wondered if that made the men feel a little gay. A gangbang scene. The men looked pathetic, jerking off as they waited their turn, and then this one dude rubbed his cock in the woman’s hair and then wrapped some of her hair around his cock and jerked off with it. Men are so weird. A girl swallowed and then opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue so you could see she really did swallow it all. An asshole, a wrinkled, gaping hole spitting back the come like an awful little volcano, and you thought to yourself, Why would anyone on Earth want to see that? And yet there it was. Someone on Earth wanted to see just that. The men were bullies. Pulling, slapping, ordering the women around. I put the throw pillow underneath me and started to fuck it. I liked watching the scenes where the women really didn’t look like they wanted it. Like they were just doing it for the money or drugs or whatever. When I came, I came wanting it all. In one way or another, I wanted to be the men, and I wanted to hurt the woman. I wanted to hurt like the woman, and I wanted to hate the men for hurting me. I wanted to be the man at home jerking off wanting to be the man wanting to hurt the woman. And then I wanted to hurt more. Isn’t it a little sad we can’t do a little of everything there is to do? I’ll never know what it feels like to jam my cock into a tight little asshole.

In the absence of Kerista, more sinister alternatives appeared such as the Manson family, in which each new female member was initiated by an LSD trip (or any other drug, including some weird ones, if acid wasn’t available) during which Charlie cunnilinged her to orgasm several times. After that experience, these girls – like Hasan i Sabbah’s followers before them – were ready to follow any orders, including murder.

near the doorway that led to the courtyard, suddenly reminding me of when he and I departed down that eastern road so many days ago... I turned and smiled. “Goodbye for now,” I said to the Minecraftians. “Bye, Skeleton Steve,” Xenocide99 said. “You want some more arrows?” “Sure,” I said, and I took what he gave me and stuffed the ammo into my pack. “Goodbye, Skeleton Steve!” LuckyMist said with a smile and wet eyes. She rushed me and gave me a fierce hug! My bones clunked. “We’ll visit soon, okay??” “You’ll be on a huge, weird mountain north of a zombie-infested village to the east, huh?” WolfBroJake asked, clapping me on the shoulder with an armored hand. “Yeah, basically,” I replied. “There’s also a really big, blue lake. And the tower is on the smaller of the two huge peaks.” “Take care, bro,” the warrior said. “See you soon.” “Bye, Slinger!!” LuckyMist exclaimed. “Take care of Skeleton Steve!” Slinger clicked his fangs together and smiled. “I will. Goodbye for now, Minecraftians!” The female Minecraftian then ran up to Elias and gave the Enderman a huge hug as well. “Goodbye again, Elias! Visit us soon, okay??” “I will, LuckyMist...” the Enderman ninja replied, returning the hug and cupping her cheek with a large, black hand. “Goodbye, my friends; Xenocide99, WolfBroJake...” “Bye, Elias,” the warrior replied. “Goodbye for now,” I said again to all of them. With that, I hopped onto Slinger’s back in the courtyard colored by the late afternoon sun, and we—along with Elias, Eridar, and Eirzon—departed to the east...

Rachel . . .” He ran a nervous hand through his hair and paused for a second, as if trying to figure out what to say. “The school year is about to end and you’ll be going back to Cali over the summer. I feel like I’m about to miss any chance with you I may have. And I don’t want to. I know you liked me when we were growing up. But, Rach, you were way too young back then.” “I’m still five years younger; that hasn’t changed.” He smirked. “You and I both know a relationship between a thirteen-year-old and eighteen-year-old, and a twenty-one- and twenty-six-year-old are completely different.” So? That doesn’t help my argument right now. “Well, you and I have both changed over the last eight years. Feelings change—” “Yes.” He cut me off and his blue eyes darkened as he gave me a once-over. “They do.” I hated that my body was responding to his look. But honestly, I think it’d have been impossible for anyone not to respond to him. Like I said. Adonis. “Uh, Blake. Up here.” He smiled wryly, and dear Lord, that smile was way too perfect. “Look, honestly? I have an issue with the fact that you’re constantly surrounded by very eager and willing females. It’s not like I’d put some claim on you if we went on a couple dates, but you ask me out while these girls are touching you and drooling all over you. It’s insulting that you would ask me out while your next lay is already practically stripping for you.” His expression darkened and he tilted his head to the side. “You think I’m fucking them like everyone else?” Ah, frick. Um, yes? “If you are, then that’s your business. I shouldn’t have said that, I’m sorry. But whether you are or not, you don’t even attempt to push them away. Since you moved here, I’ve never seen you with less than two women touching you. You don’t find that weird?” Was I really the only person who found this odd? Suddenly pushing off the wall he’d been leaning against, he took the two steps toward me and I tried to mold myself to the door. A heart-stopping smile and bright blue eyes now replaced his darkened features as he completely invaded my personal space. If he weren’t so damn beautiful I’d have karate-chopped him and reminded him of personal bubbles. Or gone all Stuart from MADtv on him and told him he was a stranger and to stay away from my danger. Instead, I tried to control my breathing and swallow through the dryness in my mouth. “No, Rachel. What I find weird is that you don’t seem to realize that I don’t even notice those other women or what they’re doing because all I see is you. I look forward to seeing you every day. I don’t think you realize you are the best part of my weekdays. I moved here for this job before I even knew you and Candice were going to school here, and seeing you again for the first time in years—God, Rachel, you were so beautiful and I had no idea that it was you. You literally stopped me in my tracks and I couldn’t do anything but watch you. “And you have this way about you that draws people to you . . . always have. It has nothing to do with how devastatingly beautiful you are—though that doesn’t hurt . . .” He smirked and searched my face. “But you have this personality that is rare. And it bursts from you. You’re sweet and caring, you’re genuinely happy, and it makes people around you happy. And you have a smile and laugh that is contagious.” Only men like Blake West could get away with saying things like that and still have my heart racing instead of making me laugh in their faces. “You’re not like other women. Even though these are the years for it, you don’t seem like the type of girl to just have flings, and I can assure you, that’s not what I’m into, nor what I’m looking for with you. So I don’t see those other women; all I’m seeing is you. Do you understand that now?” Holy shit. He was serious? “Rachel?” I nodded and he smiled. “So, will you please let me take you out this weekend?” For

One theory has it that Bd was moved around the globe with shipments of African clawed frogs, which were used in the nineteen-fifties and sixties in pregnancy tests. (Female African clawed frogs, when injected with the urine of a pregnant woman, lay eggs within a few hours.)

I pulled off the highway and found a motel. The room stunk of cigarettes and the shower was caked in mildew. I pulled the brown and maroon paisley comforter off, threw it on the floor, and doused my hands in sanitizer. I slept on top of towels I laid across the sheets. In the morning I grabbed a stale doughnut and weak coffee from the free continental breakfast in the lobby and headed out to my truck, where I discovered my bike had been stolen from the back. In my sleep-deprived state the night before, I hadn’t even thought about the possibility of my bike being stolen. I slumped into the driver’s seat and finished my disgusting doughnut. Still in the motel parking lot, I shaved with an electric shaver using the side mirror of the truck. After one half of my face was shaved, the batteries died. There are just certain times in life when every fucking thing we do seems so arbitrary. Why in the world did I shave my face to begin with? I drove to a drugstore and got more batteries and a lot of weird looks from shoppers. At checkout, the gum-popping, teenage female clerk smirked at me. I decided to let humor prevail. “Do you like this look?” I smiled and pointed to my face. “That’s dope.” “Thanks, dawg.” “Peace out,” she said, and I walked out. I didn’t turn around but I held up a peace sign and said, “Word.

I took off my top because I didn’t know if I could.” “Mmm,” Eric said, nodding. “I’d never done a nude scene and I wasn’t sure that I would be able to do it. So I did it in real life and then I realized I could do it in the movie. I just, you know, forgot that other people could see me.” “That’s understandable. It must be difficult to shift back and forth between reality and fiction, especially with such an intense role. We can come back to that or leave it alone. For now, how about some Skee-Ball?” Annie nodded. “Annie,” she told herself, “shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up.” When the pictures hit the Internet, fuzzy and low-resolution but without a doubt her, Annie’s parents sent her an e-mail that read: It’s about time you started playing with the idea of celebrity and the female form as viewed object. Her brother did not say or write a single word, seemed to disappear; perhaps that’s what happens when a sibling sees you naked. Her on-and-off boyfriend, currently off, called her and, when she answered the phone, said, “Is this a Fang thing? I mean, is it just inescapable that you’ll do weird shit?

God damn you!” Alfred said. “You belong in jail!” The turd wheezed with laughter as it slid very slowly down the wall, its viscous pseudopods threatening to drip on the sheets below. “Seems to me,” it said, “you anal retentive type personalities want everything in jail. Like, little kids, bad news, man, they pull your tchotchkes off your shelves, they drop food on the carpet, they cry in theaters, they miss the pot. Put ’em in the slammer! And Polynesians, man, they track sand in the house, get fish juice on the furniture, and all those pubescent chickies with their honkers exposed? Jail ’em! And how about ten to twenty, while we’re at it, for every horny little teenager, I mean talk about insolence, talk about no restraint. And Negroes (sore topic, Fred?), I’m hearing rambunctious shouting and interesting grammar, I’m smelling liquor of the malt variety and sweat that’s very rich and scalpy, and all that dancing and whoopee-making and singers that coo like body parts wetted with saliva and special jellies: what’s a jail for if not to toss a Negro in it? And your Caribbeans with their spliffs and their potbelly toddlers and their like daily barbecues and ratborne hanta viruses and sugary drinks with pig blood at the bottom? Slam the cell door, eat the key. And the Chinese, man, those creepy-ass weird-name vegetables like homegrown dildos somebody forgot to wash after using, one-dollah, one-dollah, and those slimy carps and skinned-alive songbirds, and come on, like, puppy-dog soup and pooty-tat dumplings and female infants are national delicacies, and pork bung, by which we’re referring here to the anus of a swine, presumably a sort of chewy and bristly type item, pork bung’s a thing Chinks pay money for to eat? What say we just nuke all billion point two of ’em, hey? Clean that part of the world up already. And let’s not forget about women generally, nothing but a trail of Kleenexes and Tampaxes everywhere they go. And your fairies with their doctor’s-office lubricants, and your Mediterraneans with their whiskers and their garlic, and your French with their garter belts and raunchy cheeses, and your blue-collar ball-scratchers with their hot rods and beer belches, and your Jews with their circumcised putzes and gefilte fish like pickled turds, and your Wasps with their Cigarette boats and runny-assed polo horses and go-to-hell cigars? Hey, funny thing, Fred, the only people that don’t belong in your jail are upper-middle-class northern European men. And you’re on my case for wanting

The enclosure next to the dingoes held Graham the crocodile. Wes, Steve, and other staff battled the flood in Graham’s home. One man stood on the fence to spot the croc. He had to shout to Wes and Steve as they cleared the fence line inside the enclosure in waist-deep, dark waters. With the vehicle spotlights casting weird shadows, he had to scope out the murky water and try to discern the crocodile from among the floating bits of debris. Once the backup man had the crocodile pegged, he kept a close eye on him. If Graham submerged, Wes and Steve had to be warned immediately. The spotter worked hard to keep a bead on Graham. Steve and Wes were synchronized with their every move. They had worked together like this for years. They didn’t even have to speak to each other to communicate. There was no room for error as the amount of time spent in Graham’s enclosure was kept to a minimum. They jumped into the enclosure, cleared on, two, three armloads of debris, then jumped back out and re-evaluated the situation. Graham’s fence line had a bow in it, but it wasn’t in any danger of buckling. Steve and Wes were doing a good job, and there was no need for me to be there with them. It was more urgent for me to keep the dingo fence line intact next door. Graham’s female, named Bindi, was nesting, and this added another dangerous dimension to the job, since Graham was feeling particularly protective. The men were also keenly aware that nighttime meant croc time--and Graham would be stalking them with real intent. They reached down for their three armloads of debris. Steve scooped up his first load, flung it out, and gathered his second. Suddenly, Wes slammed into the fence with such force that his body was driven in an arc right over the top of Steve. It only took a split second for Steve to realize what had happened. As Wes had bent over to reach for an armload of debris, he had been hit from behind by more than twelve feet of reptile, weighing close to nine hundred pounds. Graham grabbed Wes, his top teeth sinking into Wes’s bum, his bottom teeth hooking into the back of Wes’s thigh, just above his knee. The croc then closed his mouth, exerting that amazing three thousand pounds per square inch of jaw pressure, pulling and tearing tissue as he did. The croc hit violently. Wes instinctively twisted away and rolled free of Graham’s jaws, but two fist-sized chunks were torn from his backside. The croc instantly swung in for another grab. Wes pushed the lunging croc’s head away, but not before Graham’s teeth crushed through his finger. They crashed back down into the water. Wes screamed out when he was grabbed, but no one could hear him because of the roar of the storm. In almost total darkness, Steve seized a pick handle that rested near the fence. He turned toward the croc as Graham was lining Wes up for another bite. Wes was on his side now, in water that was about three feet deep. He could see the crocodile in the lights of a Ute spotlight that shone over the murk--the dark outline of the osteodermal plates along the crocodile’s back. As Graham moved in, Wes knew the next bite would be to his skull. It would be all over. Wes braced himself for the inevitable, but it didn’t come. Steve reached into the water and grabbed Graham’s back legs. He didn’t realize that Graham had released Wes in preparation for that final bite. He thought Graham was holding Wes under the water. Steve pulled with all his strength, managing to turn the crocodile around to focus on him. As Graham lunged toward Steve, Steve drove the pick handle into the crocodile’s mouth and started hammering at his head. Wes saw what was happening and scrambled up the fence. “I’m out mate, I’m out,” Wes yelled, blood pouring down his leg. Steve looked up to see Wes on the top of the fence. He realized that even though Wes was wounded, he was poised to jump back down into the water to try to rescue his best mate.