Fisher Woman Quotes

Maybe our souls touched underneath that tree. Maybe I decided to love her. Maybe love wasn't our choice. But when I looked at that woman, I saw myself differently.

Lies, it sounds demented to want a woman’s lies. But, Olivia loves you with her lies. She lies about how she’s feeling, how she’s hurting, how she wants you when she tells you she doesn’t. She lies to protect you and herself.

A woman should never have to fight so hard to be with a man. He should just want her.

We make love every single day — no matter what. She is the only woman I’ve seen that gets more beautiful with age. She is the only woman I see.

Newsflash: it's not the guy who determines whether you're a sports fisher or a keeper-it's you. (Don't hate the player, hate the game.) When a man approaches you you're the one with total control over the situation-whether he can talk to you, buy you a drink, dance with you, get your number, take you home, see you again, all of that. We certainly want these things from you; that's why we talked to you in the first place. But it's you who decides if you're going to give us any of the things we want, and how, exactly, we're going to get them. Where you stand in our eyes is dictated by YOUR control over the situation. Every word you say, every move you make, every signal you give to a man will help him determine whether he should try to play you, be straight with you, or move on to the next woman to do a little more sport fishing.

That was the exact moment my heart threaded with hers. It was as if someone reached down with a sewing needle and stitched my soul to hers. How could one woman be so sharp and so vulnerable at the same time? Whatever would happen to her would happen to me. Whatever pain she would feel, I would feel it too. I wanted it — that was the surprising part. Selfish, self centered Caleb Drake loved a girl so much he could already feel himself changing to accommodate her needs. I fell. Hard. For the rest of this life and probably the next. I wanted her — every last inch of her stubborn, combative, catty heart.

Having waited my entire life to get an award for something, anything...I now get awards all the time for being mentally ill. It’s better than being bad at being insane, right? How tragic would it be to be runner-up for Bipolar Woman of the Year?

Will you marry me, Olivia? You are the only woman I know how to love. The only woman I want to love.” He doesn’t lower himself to his knee and he doesn’t need to. I am rocking on the edge of an emotional meltdown as is

That’s what happened when you were possessed by a woman. All of a sudden you stopped running from love and started breaking all of your own rules … making a fool of yourself. I was okay with that. - Caleb Drake

A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle,

A word of advice,” he says, as I stop in his office to say goodbye. “When you’re in love with a woman, you shouldn’t get involved with other women.” “Noted,” I say. “Though, I would like to offer that she is probably sleeping with another man as we speak.

I found my piece. She wasn't what I was expecting. If you formed a woman's soul out of black graphite, bathed it in blood, and then rolled it around in the softest petals, you still wouldn't have touched on the complication that was my match.

Peter Pan,” I whisper into her ear. “I’m afraid.” “Afraid of what?” I kiss the opposite corner. She’s not as stiff as she was a minute ago. I kiss her mouth full on and close my eyes at the feel of her lips. God, I am so whipped by this woman. “Of how vulnerable you make me.

This looks like the red room of pain,” she says.  My mouth drops open. My little prude has been expanding her reading horizons. I choke on my laugh, and a couple of people turn to look at us. I narrow my eyes.  “You read Fifty?” I ask quietly. She blushes. Amazing! — the woman is capable of blushing.  “Everyone was reading it,” she says, defensively. Then she looks up at me with big eyes.  “You?”  “I wanted to see what all the hype was about.” She does that blink, blink, blink thing with her eyelashes.  “Did you pick up any new techniques?” she says, without looking at me. I squeeze her hand. “Would you like to try me out and see?” She turns her face away, pressing her lips together — horribly embarrassed. 

Steve shook his head. “Some people take more work than others. You fell in love with a really complicated woman. You can weigh how hard things can and will be for the two of you, but what you really need to consider is if you can live without her.” I was out the door a second later. No. No, I couldn’t live without her.

She is the only woman I’ve seen that gets more beautiful with age. She is the only woman I see.

If a man introduces his male friend to his extraordinary new girlfriend, his friend will think—I want a girl like that. If a woman introduces her new boyfriend to her female friend, the friend will not think—I want a man like that, but rather, I want that very man.

A woman shouldn’t have to do that. She should feel safe in her marriage. That’s why you got married — to feel safe from all the men who were trying to siphon your soul.

Then Olivia came back. She came back, dancing like a siren. I knew exactly what she was doing the night she came to my frat house and cocked her finger at me from the dance floor. If she hadn’t come to me, I would have gone to her. Forget all you know — I said to myself. This is the one you belong with. I don’t know how I knew that. Maybe our souls touched underneath that tree. Maybe I decided to love her. Maybe love wasn’t our choice. But when I looked at that woman, I saw myself differently. And it wasn’t in a good light. Not a thing would keep me from her. And that could make a person do things they never thought themselves capable of. What I felt for her scared the hell out of me. It was a consuming obsession. In truth, I’d barely touched on the obsession. That was still coming.

Forget all you know - I said to myself. This is the one you belong with. I don't know how I knew that. Maybe our souls touched underneath that tree. Maybe I decided to love her. Maybe love wasn't our choice. But when I looked at that woman, I saw myself differently. And it wasn't in a good light. Not a thing would keep me from her. And that could make a person do things they never thought themselves capable of. What I felt for her scared the hell out of me. It was a consuming obsession. In truth, I'd barely touched on the obsession. That was still coming.

A woman shouldn’t have to fight that hard to be with a man. He should just want her…

But, I knew I didn’t believe in divorce. You couldn’t make vows and just break them. If I married a woman, I was going to stay married. I wouldn’t treat marriage like a lease. Ever.

A woman’s greatest foe is sometimes her hope that she’s imagined it all. That she herself is crazy rather than the circumstances of her life. Funny the emotional responsibility a woman is willing to take on just to maintain an illusion.

Hot damn. What does this woman have that I don’t? Why do men like Noah and my husband fall in love with her?

Please God, when I open my eyes, make this nightmare disappear.

A woman’s heart was an awful curse.

A lot can be forgiven if a woman has a great set of legs. 

I sat in the gradually chilling room, thinking of my whole past the way a drowning man is supposed to, and it seemed part of the present, part of the gray cold and the beggar woman without a face and the moulting birds frozen to their own filth in the Orangerie. I know now I was in the throes of some small glandular crisis, a sublimated bilious attack, a flick from the whip of melancholia, but then it was terrifying...nameless....

Anyway, I suppose in part I'm telling this story now because I want all of you - and I do mean all - to know that I wasn't always a somewhat-overweight woman without an upper lip to her name who can occasionally be found sleeping behind her face and always thinking in her mouth.

(We loved Mother too, completely, but we were finding out, as Father was too, that it is good for parents and for children to be alone now and then with one another...the man alone or the woman, to sound new notes in the mysterious music of parenthood and childhood.) That night I not only saw my Father for the first time as a person. I saw the golden hills and the live oaks as clearly as I have ever seen them since; and I saw the dimples in my little sister's fat hands in a way that still moves me because of that first time; and I saw food as something beautiful to be shared with people instead of as a thrice-daily necessity.

Painting, it is true, was undergoing a series of -isms reminiscent of the whims of a pregnant woman.

Most men like dander. There is nothing sweeter than a dangerous woman. Makes us feel a little manlier to be able to call them ours.

And they need not cause you grief. As my Highland grandmother said—and she had the Sight—“Tis not the dead ye have to be concerned about! Beware of the Living!” And she was a wise woman. The dead are beyond your help or mine, poor things. But the living need us. Thirty souls at the least, Phryne, are still on that island to praise God who might now be angels—or devils.

When he came back, I hid my face within my hands. He said: "Fear nothing. Who has seen our kiss? --Who saw us? The night and the moon." "And the stars and the first flush of dawn. The moon has seen its visage in the lake, and told it to the water 'neath the willows. The water told it to the rower's oar. "And the oar has told it to the boat, and the boat has passed the secret to the fisher. Alas! alas! if that were only all! But the fisher told the secret to a woman. "The fisher told the secret to a woman: my father and my mother and my sisters, and all of Hellas now shall know the tale.

You are the woman I know how to love. The only woman I want to love.

I’ve become that woman—the one who is made happy by the happiness of others. It’s disappointing to me, that I’ve forgotten myself entirely.

A woman in love loses her sight first and then her courage.

Does a woman still have to explain herself when she doesn’t want children?

The first time I saw her — my God — it was like I’d never seen another woman in all my life. It was the way she walked that caught my eye. She moved like water: fluid, determined. Everything else blended together in a blur and all I saw was her. The only solid in all that color.

When you date as many women as I have, you learn that everyone has a construct they want to portray. Personalities become like outfits: carefully curated, a smokescreen for the brokenness inside. It’s hard to tell what’s underneath the layers everyone is wearing. Billie is the first woman I’ve met who comes at you naked. She admits when she’s wrong, isn’t afraid of telling you the terrible truth about what she’s done, and doesn’t have a secret agenda. She is what she is and that’s exactly what I fell in love with.

The dancer...knows it takes Ten sacred years to learn one gesture Of the wind’s caress on the skin of water. Tonight, in the shadows of our dance, I tell my soul to grow quiet, Become lake, reflect unbroken moon. On the deepest part of the lake, A solitary fisher paddles his oars. At the shore, a woman in red sarong Sings: their longing walks on water.

A man needs a woman to take care of him so she can make him strong enough for her to lean on.

A wife, he knew, was a huge armful of responsibility, and responsibility was the disease in man. But he was lonely, and twice as lonely after leaving the woman by the graves.

That was the other woman.

She walked like a woman who knew she had the world staring at her breasts.

You could search for years and you still won’t be able to know who that woman is, because she doesn’t know herself.

You are the only woman I know how to love. The only woman I want to love.

They want to be worshipped. They want a woman who thinks they’re the greatest, strongest, most virile.

I’d always said jokingly that low expectations were the key to greater happiness,

No one ever lay on their deathbed wishing they’d spent more time in the office.

Love is most of all the feeling that these are the people you are meant to be with. #FoundMyTribe.

Maybe, one day, this would be the best thing that ever happened to me.

It takes courage to stand up for yourself. I stand in honor, and no longer in fear of speaking out.

The belonging to someone without having to try, that glorious freedom to be any old self, knowing that who you really were would never stop the other person loving you, never make them leave you.

Men are jerks. If I were a woman I'd be a lesbian. You get to make love to other women and have little to do with asshole men. Lesbians are better lovers, too, because they know where everything is.

My heart accepted her hurt, tucking it into that place within us where someone else’s pain crosses the threshold into our own world and lives there so boldly that it defines us nearly as acutely as it defines them.

it is possible that other people have some good ideas and that allowing someone else to help you doesn’t make you weak, pathetic or ridiculous. It makes you someone who is strong but who needs a bit of support now and again. Like all of us.

As a matter of fact, what investment can we find which offers real fixity or certainty of income? ... As every reader of this book will clearly see, the man or woman who invests in bonds is speculating in the general level of prices, or the purchasing power of money

There it was. The one syllable that defined and exasperated me. The word that made me who I was, even when I didn’t want to be, even when the demands of the role were too many, too painful, too bloody hard. The title that meant I could never be free again. Nor would I want to be.

Anyway, I suppose in part I'm telling this story now because I want all of you—and I do mean all—to know that I wasn't always a somewhat-overweight woman without an upper lip to her name who can occasionally be found sleeping behind her face and always thinking in her mouth. I was once a relevant piece of ass who barely knew she existed while much of the rest of the moviegoing world saw me romping through the air in a metal bikini, awake as I needed to be in order to slay space slugs, being whoever I needed to be in the face of affective disorders and otherwise.

I’m actually here with Crispin. You didn’t forget about your tutoring date with him, did you?” I wrinkle my nose. “I thought I told him no?” Just then, Crispin comes into view on his way up the walk. “I thought I told you no,” I call out to him. “Ah,” he replies, joining James in the doorway. “You did. But I’ve been told that when a woman says no, she really means yes. So I read between the lines.” “Well, whoever told you that was wrong,” I say, trying to regain my composure. “Unless you’re asking that woman if Brad Pitt is sexier than you. In that case, no always means yes.” Crispin looks faintly amused, but James arches an eyebrow. “Always?” he asks. Personally I’m not overly fond of Brad Pitt. But I unconvincingly reply, “I’m just telling it like it is.” James shrugs carelessly. “Well, there’s no accounting for some people’s taste.” “Amen,” I murmur.

Anthropologists have long observed that women are “face-to-face” communicators, while men do so “side-by side.” This means that women are much more comfortable with direct eye contact, which probably has a lot to do with the female history of nursing, cuddling, and generally fawning over their infants all the while staring lovingly into those big baby eyes. Men, on the other hand, find direct eye contact extremely confrontational. As Helen Fisher wrote in her remarkable book, Why We Love, “this response probably stems from men’s ancestry. For many millennia men faced their enemies; they sat or walked side by side as they hunted game with their friends.

Realised what a privilege it was to be at home with my kids and how quickly it would go and how much I’d wish I could turn the clock back and do it better, with more grace and patience. Instead of feeling I’d lost out, robbed of a university education, the opportunity to try out in the world of work, seeing if I could cut it, if I was smart enough to make my mark.

Among many other slurs, the Republicans attacked the president as a “hideous hermaphroditical character, which has neither the force and firmness of a man, nor the gentleness and sensibility of a woman.” The Federalists were no better, calling Jefferson “a mean-spirited, low-lived fellow, the son of a half-breed Indian squaw, sired by a Virginia mulatto father.” Even

He loved me so much and, even during his darkest time, he never lost sight of that. I let a few words from a woman who means NOTHING to me make me lose my faith in him. I’m such a coward and a fool. I had the proof of his love right in front of me this entire time and I refused to believe it. When you’ve been hurt once, it’s so hard to let go and not be afraid you won’t be hurt again

A 20 year old woman in Houston, Texas, was arrested at Lamar University, after posting a tweet. The message on Twitter was bragging about how she still had a warrant in Pearland, Texas, and how the "pigs" would absolutely never be able to catch her.   Since her full name (Mahogany Mason-Kelly, hardly a common name) and her school information was easily found on her Twitter account, she was quickly arrested. It was then found that she had originally given the police officers her sister's name during the arrest.

I doubt if there is a woman in the world who has not had to mutely stand by as she watched a man agonize over his Fisher King aspect. She may be the one who notices, even before the man himself is aware of it, that there is suffering and a haunting sense of injury and incompleteness in him. A man suffering in this way is often driven to do idiotic things to cure the wound and ease the desperation he feels. Usually he seeks an unconscious solution outside of himself, complaining about his work, his marriage, or his place in the world.

Reading a newspaper account of one young woman's fatal accident on a midsummer morning a few years ago got me thinking about how I would have liked to have departed before my time if that had been my destiny. If I'd had to die young, hers is the death I would have chosen. She was twenty-two, the story disclosed, bright, talented, beautiful, her future spread before her like a brilliant, textured tapestry. She'd just graduated from a prestigious eastern university, had accepted a communications position with a New York television network, and would depart the following day on a four-week holiday in Europe before embarking on her promising career and the rest of her exciting life. On that golden summer day, the young woman had just finished her morning run. She had sprinted the last half mile, then stopped abruptly to catch her breath. She was bent at the waist, hands on her knees, eyes on the ground, her mind a world away, perhaps in Barcelona or Tuscany or Rome, exulting in the enchanting sights she would soon see, the splendid life she would have. It was then that the train hit her. Unaware, unthinking, oblivious to everything but the beguiling visions in her head, she had ended her run on the railroad tracks that wound through the center of her small Oregon town, one moment in the fullest expectancy of her glorious youth, adrenaline and endorphins coursing through her body, sugarplum visions dancing in her head, the next moment gone, the transition instantaneous, irrevocable, complete.

On that golden summer day, the young woman had just finished her morning run. She had sprinted the last half mile, then stopped abruptly to catch her breath. She was bent at the waist, hands on her knees, eyes on the ground, her mind a world away, perhaps in Barcelona or Tuscany or Rome, exulting in the enchanting sights she would soon see, the splendid life she would have. It was then that the train hit her. Unaware, unthinking, oblivious to everything but the beguiling visions in her head, she had ended her run on the railroad tracks that wound through the center of her small Oregon town, one moment in the fullest expectancy of her glorious youth, adrenaline and endorphins coursing through her body, sugarplum visions dancing in her head, the next moment gone, the transition instantaneous, irrevocable, complete. If I'd had to die young, hers is the death I would have chosen.

In July of 2012, an 18 year old with the last name Stoudemire, was pulled over by a deputy. The young woman was asked to roll down her window, and after several tries, she eventually managed to get the window down. She then began to explain that it was a new car, and there was a bad blind spot. The officer immediately noticed that the young woman smelled like alcohol, and the girl soon admitted to drinking "just a little bit."   The officer then asked for her license, which she quickly handed over. Too bad she had also handed over her fake ID, for the state of South Carolina, which had a real photo and name, but a fake date of birth. She then refused to take a field sobriety test, and during the transport to jail, she began to plead with the officer to not take her fake ID away, since it took her a long time to save up for it. She even offered the officer $15, in a (rather pathetic) attempt to get the officer to let her keep her fake ID.

Can I tell the ladies you’ll be visiting?” Dixon looked back at the cart as if it were a dead body. “If you got some rope, I could clear that chimney for you.” “I could get some rope.” “Don’t buy it. Borrow some from Henry the Fisher at the south docks. He ain’t using it today. Tell him it’s for me. He’ll be…” He looked at her and chuckled. “How about I go get it.” “Whatever you think is best.” “Best not to send a woman who looks like you across town to a surly fisherman’s bar.” He stared at her a moment and shook his head. “What?” “You’re a beautiful woman, Gwen.” “Thank you, Dixon.” “What I meant is that no one should ever mistake you for a man.” “I don’t think anyone ever has.” “You keep acting this way and they might. For a second there I did.” “That’s not good news for a woman in my profession.” “How do you think it makes me feel? Just got a new job and discovered I’m blind all in the same day.” “Just so long as you’re not deaf and dumb.” “No promises. You get me as I am.” “I’ll take it.

2009, a woman decided to call the police, because she claimed that her ex-boyfriend had saved child pornography onto her computer. The call was apparently an attempt to get back at him for their ugly break up.   There was no child pornography that could be found on the computer, even under browser history. However, there was some homemade porn that had been uploaded and saved to the computer. The homemade porn was something that she herself had recorded and saved onto her computer, and the videos had no ties to her ex-boyfriend.   If this wasn't bad enough, the videos were of her having sex with her dog. When she was shown the first video, she claimed to have been drugged and tricked into doing it. The police did not take her too seriously though, since not only was there more than one video of her engaged in sex acts with the dog, but all of the videos had been recorded by her, with no one else that could be seen in the room.

Child was a new kind of celebrity: She was a woman in her fifties, and she played herself on television. She was real. She made mistakes. Of course she was a masterful cook, but when things went wrong, she embraced the opportunity to use her mistakes to teach—here’s what you should do if this happens.

When you see a rich man’s wife shaking her head over the thriftlessness of the poor because they do not save, pity the lady’s ignorance; but do not irritate the poor by repeating her nonsense to them. George Bernard Shaw The Intelligent Woman’s Guide to Socialism and Capitalism

And all these people gathered to honour the one who had died, was it a man, a woman, a warrior, a king, a fool, and where were the statues, the likenesses painted on plaster and stone? yet so they stood or sat, the wine spilling at their feet, dripping red from their hands, with wasps in their dying season spinning about in sweet thirst and drunken voices cried out, stung awake voices blended in confused profusion, the question asked again then again - why? But this is where a truth finds its own wonder, for the question was not why did this one die, or such to justify for in their heart of milling lives there were none for whom this gathering was naught but an echo, of former selves. They asked, again and yet again, why are we here? The one who died had no name but every name, no face but every face of those who had gathered, and so it was we who learned among wasps swept past living yet nerve-firing one last piercing that we were the dead and all in an unseen mind— stood or sat a man, or a woman, a warrior, queen or fool, who in drunken leisure gave a moment's thought to all passed by in life. Fountain Gathering Fisher Kel Tath

Dot supposed that they must have demolished a lot of houses both on her end and at Milson’s Point. She was not deceived by the statement in the Guide which told her that this was ‘a much-overdue slum clearance’. Dot herself came from a slum. Where did the people go when they tore down all of those little houses, she wondered. Were they living in the street, like the beggar woman with the baby? Sleeping on the beach? Banished to the bush? Who cared about them, now that everyone was hungry? Who cared about them, now

There’s always another woman—a better woman to take my place.

Revelation 17:3–6 (NLT): So the angel took me in the Spirit into the wilderness. There I saw a woman sitting on a scarlet beast that had seven heads and ten horns, and blasphemies against God were written all over it. The woman wore purple and scarlet clothing and beautiful jewelry made of gold and precious gems and pearls. In her hand she held a gold goblet full of obscenities and the impurities of her immorality. A mysterious name was written on her forehead: “Babylon the Great, Mother of All Prostitutes and Obscenities in the World.” I could see that she was drunk—drunk with the blood of God’s holy people who were witnesses for Jesus. I stared at her in complete amazement.

She remained so stoic that I could have slapped her, but I used every drop of grace I had cultivated as a Black woman in America to hold myself together.

The reason is a neurological chemical called dopamine, the same one Parker had referenced at the media conference. Your brain releases small amounts of it when you fulfill some basic need, whether biological (hunger, sex) or social (affection, validation). Dopamine creates a positive association with whatever behaviors prompted its release, training you to repeat them. But when that dopamine reward system gets hijacked, it can compel you to repeat self-destructive behaviors. To place one more bet, binge on alcohol—or spend hours on apps even when they make you unhappy. Dopamine is social media’s accomplice inside your brain. It’s why your smartphone looks and feels like a slot machine, pulsing with colorful notification badges, whoosh sounds, and gentle vibrations. Those stimuli are neurologically meaningless on their own. But your phone pairs them with activities, like texting a friend or looking at photos, that are naturally rewarding. Social apps hijack a compulsion—a need to connect—that can be even more powerful than hunger or greed. Eyal describes a hypothetical woman, Barbra, who logs on to Facebook to see a photo uploaded by a family member. As she clicks through more photos or comments in response, her brain conflates feeling connected to people she loves with the bleeps and flashes of Facebook’s interface. “Over time,” Eyal writes, “Barbra begins to associate Facebook with her need for social connection.” She learns to serve that need with a behavior—using Facebook—that in fact will rarely fulfill it.

How do companies, producing little more than bits of code displayed on a screen, seemingly control users’ minds?” Nir Eyal, a prominent Valley product consultant, asked in his 2014 book, Hooked: How to Build Habit-Forming Products. “Our actions have been engineered,” he explained. Services like Twitter and YouTube “habitually alter our everyday behavior, just as their designers intended.” One of Eyal’s favorite models is the slot machine. It is designed to answer your every action with visual, auditory, and tactile feedback. A ping when you insert a coin. A ka-chunk when you pull the lever. A flash of colored light when you release it. This is known as Pavlovian conditioning, named after the Russian physiologist Ivan Pavlov, who rang a bell each time he fed his dog, until, eventually, the bell alone sent his dog’s stomach churning and saliva glands pulsing, as if it could no longer differentiate the chiming of a bell from the physical sensation of eating. Slot machines work the same way, training your mind to conflate the thrill of winning with its mechanical clangs and buzzes. The act of pulling the lever, once meaningless, becomes pleasurable in itself. The reason is a neurological chemical called dopamine, the same one Parker had referenced at the media conference. Your brain releases small amounts of it when you fulfill some basic need, whether biological (hunger, sex) or social (affection, validation). Dopamine creates a positive association with whatever behaviors prompted its release, training you to repeat them. But when that dopamine reward system gets hijacked, it can compel you to repeat self-destructive behaviors. To place one more bet, binge on alcohol—or spend hours on apps even when they make you unhappy. Dopamine is social media’s accomplice inside your brain. It’s why your smartphone looks and feels like a slot machine, pulsing with colorful notification badges, whoosh sounds, and gentle vibrations. Those stimuli are neurologically meaningless on their own. But your phone pairs them with activities, like texting a friend or looking at photos, that are naturally rewarding. Social apps hijack a compulsion—a need to connect—that can be even more powerful than hunger or greed. Eyal describes a hypothetical woman, Barbra, who logs on to Facebook to see a photo uploaded by a family member. As she clicks through more photos or comments in response, her brain conflates feeling connected to people she loves with the bleeps and flashes of Facebook’s interface. “Over time,” Eyal writes, “Barbra begins to associate Facebook with her need for social connection.” She learns to serve that need with a behavior—using Facebook—that in fact will rarely fulfill it.

Jeremiah 50:1, 2a, 41, 43 (NLT): The Lord gave Jeremiah the prophet this message concerning Babylon and the land of the Babylonians. This is what the Lord says: . . . “Look! A people comes from the north. A great nation and many kings will be stirred up from the remote regions of the earth. . . . The king of Babylon has heard reports about them, and his hands fall helpless. Distress has seized him—pain, like a woman in labor.

adamant that the possession of pretty clothes was the second-best sustainer of a young woman’s morale in the world.

Julius, who had a sour, bitter nature, became Groucho. (He was also the quartet’s treasurer, storing their wages in what vaudeville actors called a “grouch bag.”) Adolph, who played the harp, naturally became Harpo. Leonard the pathological womanizer Fisher dubbed Chico, pronounced “Chick-o.” Milton, so the story goes, became Gummo because, as a hypochondriac, he put on waterproof sneakers, known as “gumshoes,” at the first sign of rain. Their

I'd hate to be the woman who gets to marry Wally. I mean, imagine having to be nice to a maggot white dick every night. No thank you. - Simon Sixsmith in "Jimmy, Mrs Fisher and Me".

I will be a fisher of souls!

Inwardly, though, she was blown empty by a giant breath, and while they stood waiting for Mr. Henshaw to tie up the Clara she knew that she would never be the same poor, ignorant woman of an hour ago. She would be poor, all right, and she would be ignorant and she would be a woman, but never in the same ways.

There is dignity after the storm.

I was able to take that first step to freedom.

Seeking help is not defeat. It is my power.

It is through victims such as myself who still have a voice that the world will change to be a better place.

Be an empowertarian. A person who empowers their own life and that of others.

I want a cigarette. I want a cigarette. I want to kill the woman my husband loves. This is all her fault. I got pregnant to secure the man that I had already married. A woman shouldn’t have to do that. She should feel safe in her marriage. That’s why you got married — to feel safe from all the men who were trying to siphon your soul. I’d yielded my soul to Caleb willingly. Offered it up like a sacrificial lamb. Now, I was not only going to have to compete with the memory of another woman, but a shriveled up baby. He was already staring into her eyes like he could see the Grand Canyon tucked away in her irises. I

A weight lands on me, and a strong doubt that I will not be able to fully commit to the ideas of this strange religion out here in the cold north. I look at the girl’s pale skin flushed slightly across her high cheekbones and wonder if she, perhaps, is Katherine Redford and the article we read was wrong. Maybe her ruse is an old woman but she is, in fact, a young girl. There is something more comforting in that idea, to be healed by a child uninterested in fame or money. A girl as young as her would not seek to inveigle or exploit hopeless people such as us, but an adult might.

Dylan wasn’t calling to ask me on a date. He was calling because this cologne company had contacted him to see if he would endorse a cologne called Just Like a Woman. Now Bob didn’t like that name, but he liked the idea of endorsing a cologne. And he wanted to know if I had any good cologne names. Do

I see you getting things you don’t deserve, living it up. It fucking sucks. I feel resentful because I deserve it more than you do. I could be a better you, that’s what it boils down to. I’m every woman; it’s all in me.

What did the child-woman have to say except that she was happy to be living with Hubert--a big, pompous, grasping, scheming, conniving stud who used her at his will and shaped her affections and her tastes and in general raped her spirit.

In 2009, a woman who had recently stolen a credit card, decided to stock up on groceries. After doing her shopping, while she was going through the checkout, she remembered that the store had a discount on items when their store card was used.   The woman then handed over her personal store card, which was swiped, along with the stolen credit card. Police were able to track her down, thanks to her using a store card that contained all of her personal information, including her name and address.

Harry Potter,” a voice says from my left. “Have you tried reading the Bible?” A woman, mid-forties, judgment scribbled all over her pinched, powdered face. Why do Bible lovers always have that constipated look on their face? Don’t stereotype, Helena! I do my best to smile politely. “Is that the book where that lady turns into a statue after looking back at a burning city after God told her not to?” I say. “And where three defiant men are thrown into a furnace and don’t burn. Oh, and isn’t there a gal who feeds and puts to sleep the general of an enemy’s army, and then uses a mallet to drive a tent peg into his brain?” She looks at me blankly. “But those are true. And that,” she says, pointing to Harry, “is fiction. Not to mention devil worship.” “Uh huh, uh huh. Devil worship? Is that like when the Israelites made a cow god of gold and worshipped it?” She’s enraged. “You would love this book,” I say, shoving The Goblet of Fire at her. “It’s PG-rated compared to the Bible.” “You,

A man named Dennis Newton was on trial for armed robbery in Oklahoma City, when he decided to fire his lawyer. While Newton was defending himself in court, the woman who was working as a clerk at the convenience store that he supposedly robbed, was put on the stand.   When the woman identified Newton as the robber, Newton quickly jumped up and screamed at the woman, calling her a liar. He then screamed out "I shoulda blown your f***ing head off." Newton soon realized what he said, and quickly followed the comment with "....If I'da been the one that was there." ...Not that it mattered at that point, the jury was already convinced of his guilt.