Fitness Freak Quotes

On the whole, we're a murderous race. According to Genesis, it took as few as four people to make the planet too crowded to stand, and the first murder was a fratricide. Genesis says that in a fit of jealous rage, the very first child born to mortal parents, Cain, snapped and popped the first metaphorical cap in another human being. The attack was a bloody, brutal, violent, reprehensible killing. Cain's brother Abel probably never saw it coming. As I opened the door to my apartment, I was filled with a sense of empathic sympathy and intuitive understanding. For freaking Cain.

Me, I trust people who show you what freaks they are. It's the ones who blend in that ya gotta watch out for.

We could go so far as to say that it is the human condition to be grotesque, since the human animal is the one that does not fit in, the freak of nature who has no place in the natural order and is capable of re-combining nature's products into hideous new forms.

Clones fit in. Freaks stand out. Ask me which one I prefer.

You're a freak. But I really can't accept these-' Were you raised in a barn? Don't be ruuuuuude, my boy. They're a gift.' Blay shook his head. 'Take them, John. You're just going to lose this argument, and it will save us from the theatrics.' Theatrics?' Qhuinn leaped up and assumed a Roman oratory pose. 'Whither thou knowest thy ass from thy elbow, young scribe?' Blay blushed. 'Come on-' Qhuinn threw himself at Blay, grasping onto the guy's shoulders and hanging his full weight off him. 'Hold me. Your insult has left me breathless. I'm agasp.' Blay grunted and scrambled to keep Qhuinn up off the floor. 'That's agape.' Agasp sounds better.' Blay was trying not to smile, trying not to be delighted, but his eyes were sparkling like sapphires and his cheeks were getting red. With a silent laugh, John sat on one of the locker room benches, shook out his pair of white socks, and pulled them on under his new old jeans. 'You sure, Qhuinn? 'Cause I have a feeling they're going to fit and you might change your mind. Qhuinn abruptly lifted himself off Blay and straightened his clothes with a sharp tug. 'And now you offend my honor.' Facing off at John, he flipped into a fencing stance. Touché.' Blay laughed. 'That's en garde, you damn fool.' Qhuinn shot a look over his shoulder. 'ça va, Brutus?' Et tu?' That would be tutu, I believe, and you can keep the cross-dressing to yourself, ya perv.' Qhuinn flashed a brilliant smile, all twelve kinds of proud for being such an ass. 'Now, put the fuckers on, John, and let's be done with this. Before we have to put Blay in an iron lung.' Try sanitarium.' No, thanks, I had a big lunch.

Costin's contagious, dimpled smile was positively breath taking on his handsome face. She took in his appearance quickly and liked how he hadn't changed who he was for her party. He didn't try to look fancy or be something he wasn't. His un-tucked dress shirt and jeans fit him perfectly and a little voice inside her whispered that he was freaking hot. She called that voice her inner Jen. Jacque and Jen did not know about her inner Jen. It was her little secret when she needed a boost of confidence.

We should honor the past, we should remember it, and we should respect what it has taught us. But we don’t have to keep living there. That house is crumbling and toxic and far too small to contain you. It doesn’t support your present experience and it sure as fuck doesn’t fit into your future goals.

If Stuart is a freak... it is because he has had the superhuman strength not to be defeated by this isolation. It is because he has had the almost unbelievable social adroitness to be able to fit in smoothly with an educated, soft-skinned person like myself and not make me frightened half to death. If Stuart's a freak, I salute freaks.

At least he's not freaking out, Jam said. I might have preferred that, Pet replied, a trace of a sulk in its voice. What, you like being feared better? It has its advantages when you are a thing that does not fit.

Broad shoulders fit snugly under his white shirt, and taut muscles flex in his arm as he grips a tray. He’s not a muscle-bound freak though, thank God. I don’t like that “I have boulders in my biceps” look that a lot of guys seem to favor these days.

The kumbaya authors say you can make up an affirmation that fits your personality and say this to yourself throughout the day. Even if I came up with my own positive affirmation, why would I listen to myself? What do I know? I’m a freaking loser. If I could talk myself into feeling better about myself, I wouldn’t have purchased your stupid books.

A dream dictionary is a one-size-fits-all-palm-reading-astrology-column-in-the-newspaper-carrot-equals-penis secret-code decoder.

They were a large family of women-always women, although I guess guys factored in there somewhere, seeing as how the family had been around for over a thousand years. Descended from a megapowerful white witch named Maeve Brannick, they’d dedicated themselves to ridding the world of evil. Unfortunately, I fit their definition of evil. The girl scowled. “You are something,” she hissed, leaning in closer. “I can feel it. Whatever you are, it’s not human. So you can either tell me what kind of freak you are, or I can cut you open and find out myself.” I stared at her. “You are one hard-core little kid.” Her scowl deepened. “I’m looking for the Brannicks,” I said in a rush. “And I’m guessing you are one because…you know, red hair and the violence and everything.” “What’s your name?” she demanded as the stinging at my neck became actual pain. “Sophie Mercer,” I said through clenched teeth. Her eyes widened. “No way,” she said, sounding for the first time like the middle schooler she probably was. “Way,” I croaked.

Calypso took pity on him in some ways. She sent her invisible servants to leave bowls of stew and goblets of apple cider at the edge of the garden. She even sent him a few new sets of clothes—simple, undyed cotton pants and shirts that she must have made on her loom. They fit him so well, Leo wondered how she’d gotten his measurements. Maybe she just used her generic pattern for SCRAWNY MALE. Anyway, he was glad to have new threads, since his old ones were pretty smelly and burned up. Usually Leo could keep his clothes from burning when he caught fire, but it took concentration. Sometimes back at camp, if he wasn’t thinking about it, he’d be working on some metal project at the hot forge, look down, and realize his clothes had burned away, except for his magic tool belt and a smoking pair of underwear. Kind of embarrassing. Despite the gifts, Calypso obviously didn’t want to see him. One time he poked his head inside the cave and she freaked out, yelling and throwing pots at his head. Yeah, she was definitely on Team Leo. He ended up pitching a more permanent camp near the footpath, where the beach met the hills. That way he was close enough to pick up his meals, but Calypso didn’t have to see him and go into a pot-throwing rage.

You can explain to me how you think my six-five ass is fitting in this tent with you.” Her eyes freaking light up as she grins at me. “We always make it fit.

I can't help it, it's what I feel. And I can't change it, nor can I explain it. I was just naïve enough to believe that the people closest to me would get it. I don't understand how a biological condition can end up defining how we are supposed to live - what kind of work we should do, how we should dress, how we should feel, whom to love? How to walk! It seems like the only way I can exist is if the world can decode me according to a gender. Anything else makes people uncomfortable and my existence becomes a freak show.

Could Miss Smith be truly considered as a nerd or freak? Other than the reasons she brought to Billy, there were a few more aspects of life where Emily, for some reason, differed from the majority of students. She just didn’t ever fit to match the crowd, no matter how hard she tried.

That was the tribal system at school: the girls—giggly gaggles of Miley Cyrus clones, the jocks in their swaggering gangs … and finally the third category, the ones like Edward Chan—the freaks. Loners, emos, geeks, nerds: the cookies that didn’t quite fit the cookie-cutter machine that was high school.

Will you stop treating this as a joke?” Dad told Mom. “I look at you, Bernadette, and I’m scared. You won’t talk to me. You won’t go to a doctor. You’re better than this.” “Dad,” I said, “stop freaking out.” “Yeah, really,” Kennedy said. “Happy birthday to me.” There was a moment of quiet, then me and Kennedy burst into giggles. “I’m, like, happy birthday to me,” Kennedy said, which triggered another fit of laughter.

How are things going with your brothers?” “The judge set a date to hear me out after graduation. Mrs.Collins has been prepping me.” “That is awesome!” “Yeah.” “What’s wrong?” “Carrie and Joe hired a lawyer and I lost visitation.” Echo placed her delicate hand over mine.“Oh, Noah. I am so sorry." I’d spent countless hours on the couch in the basement, staring at the ceiling wondering what she was doing. Her laughter, her smile, the feel of her body next to mine, and the regret that I let her walk away too easily haunted me. Taking the risk, I entwined my fingers with hers. Odds were I’d never get the chance to be this close again. "No, Mrs. Collins convinced me the best thing to do is to keep my distance and follow the letter of the law." "Wow, Mrs. Collins is a freaking miracle worker. Dangerous Noah Hutchins on the straight and narrow. If you don’t watch out she’ll ruin your rep with the girls." I lowered my voice. "Not that it matters. I only care what one girl thinks about me." She relaxed her fingers into mine and stroked her thumb over my skin. Minutes into being alone together, we fell into each other again, like no time had passed. I could blame her for ending us, but in the end, I agreed with her decision. “How about you, Echo? Did you find your answers?” “No.” If I continued to disregard breakup rules, I might as well go all the way. I pushed her curls behind her shoulder and let my fingers linger longer than needed so I could enjoy the silky feel. “Don’t hide from me, baby. We’ve been through too much for that.” Echo leaned into me, placing her head on my shoulder and letting me wrap an arm around her. “I’ve missed you, too, Noah. I’m tired of ignoring you.” “Then don’t.” Ignoring her hurt like hell. Acknowledging her had to be better. I swallowed, trying to shut out the bittersweet memories of our last night together. “Where’ve you been? It kills me when you’re not at school.” “I went to an art gallery and the curator showed some interest in my work and sold my first piece two days later. Since then, I’ve been traveling around to different galleries, hawking my wares.” “That’s awesome, Echo. Sounds like you’re fitting into your future perfectly. Where did you decide to go to school?” “I don’t know if I’m going to school.” Shock jolted my system and I inched away to make sure I understood. “What the fuck do you mean you don’t know? You’ve got colleges falling all over you and you don’t fucking know if you want to go to school?” My damned little siren laughed at me. “I see your language has improved.” Poof—like magic, the anger disappeared. “If you’re not going to school, then what are your plans?” "I’m considering putting college off for a year or two and traveling cross-country, hopping from gallery to gallery.” “I feel like a dick. We made a deal and I left you hanging. I’m not that guy who goes back on his word. What can I do to help you get to the truth?” Echo’s chest rose with her breath then deflated when she exhaled. Sensing our moment ending, I nuzzled her hair, savoring her scent. She patted my knee and broke away. “Nothing. There’s nothing you can do.” "I think it’s time that I move on. As soon as I graduate, this part of my life will be over. I’m okay with not knowing what happened.” Her words sounded pretty, but I knew her better. She’d blinked three times in a row.

A Credo for Parents of Spirited Children 1. You’re not alone. According to the personality research 10 to 15 percent of all children living in this country fit the description of the spirited child. That means that there are millions of parents who empathize with you and understand the challenges you face. Your child is not an oddity or a freak. You are not the world’s worst parent. You are not the only one. You are among friends.

A story, meanwhile, fills out the picture. It uses data, statistical or otherwise, to portray a sense of magnitude; without data, we have no idea how a story fits into the larger scheme of things. A good story also includes the passage of time, to show the degree of constancy or change; without a time frame, we can’t judge whether we’re looking at something truly noteworthy or just an anomalous blip. And a story lays out a daisy chain of events, to show the causes that lead up to a particular situation and the consequences that result from it.

Your way of thinking puzzles me," Seba said. "You are more human than vampire, I suppose. In time you will learn to see things our way and —" "No!" I shouted, jumping up. "I don't want to see things your way. Your way is the wrong way. I admire the strength, honesty, and loyalty of the vampires and want to fit in as one. But not if it means abandoning myself to stupidity, not if it means turning a blind eye to wisdom and common sense, not if it means enduring bloody messes like this just because my leaders are too proud to sit down with the vampaneze and work out their differences.

Do you have a piece of paper I could write on?” I jump up too fast. “Sure. Just one? Do you—of course you need something to write with. Sorry. Here.” I grab him a paper from my deskdrawer and one of my myriad pencils, and he uses the first Children of Hypnos book as a flat surface to write on. When I’m sure he’s writing something for me to read right now, I say, “I thought you only needed to do that when other people were around?” He etches one careful line after the next. He frowns, shakes his head. “Sometimes it’s . . . tough to say things. Certain things.” His voice is hardly a whisper. I sit down beside him again, but his big hand blocks my view of the words. He stops writing, leaves the paper there, and stares. Then he hands it to me and looks the other direction. Can I kiss you? “Um,” is a delightfully complex word. “Um” means “I want to say something but don’t know what it is,” and also “You have caught me off guard,” and also “Am I dreaming right now? Someone please slap me.” I say “um,” then. Wallace’s entire head-neck region is already flushed with color, but the “um” darkens it a few shades, and goddammit, he was nervous about asking me and I made it worse. What good is “um” when I should say “YES PLEASE NOW”? Except there’s no way I’m going to say “YES PLEASE NOW” because I feel like my body is one big wired time bomb of organs and if Wallace so much as brushes my hand, I’m going to jump out of my own skin and run screaming from the house. I’ll like it too much. Out of control. No good. I say, “Can I borrow that pencil?” He hands me the pencil, again without looking. Yes, but not right now. I know it sounds weird. Sorry. I don’t think it’ll go well if I know it’s coming. I will definitely freak out and punch you in the face or scream bloody murder or something like that. Surprising me with it would probably work better. I am giving you permission to surprise me with a kiss. This is a formal invitation for surprise kisses. I don’t like writing the word “kiss.” It makes my skin crawl. Sorry. It’s weird. I’m weird. Sorry. I hope that doesn’t make you regret asking. I hand the paper and pencil back. He reads it over, then writes: No regret. I can do surprises. That’s it. That’s it? Shit. Now he’s going to try to surprise me with a kiss. At some point. Later today? Tomorrow? A week from now? What if he never does it and I spend the rest of the time we hang out wondering if he will? What have I done? This was a terrible idea. I’m going to vomit. “Be right back,” I say, and run to the bathroom to curl up on the floor. Just for like five minutes. Then I go back to my room and sit down beside Wallace. As I’m moving myself into position, his hand falls over mine, and I don’t actually jump out of my skin. My control shakes for a moment, but I turn in to it, and everything smooths out. I flip my hand over. He flexes his fingers so I can fit mine in the spaces between. And we sit there, shoulder to shoulder, with our hands resting on the bed between us. It’s not so bad

Margot went through the metal detector first. She cleared it and went to the end of the conveyor belt to grab her stuff. Quinn walked through next without a problem. He was just grabbing his laptop bag when a TSA member approached him. “Sir, we need you to step aside for a random pat down,” said the man who looked like freaking Stone Cold Steve Austin. Quinn stared at him. At least they were about the same height. Stone Cold had probably about fifty more pounds of muscle over Quinn, though, and Quinn wasn’t a small guy by any means. He was a bit of a fitness and health nut and liked to keep his body in shape. “Seriously? Do I look like a terrorist to you?” Quinn snapped before he could think better of it. Stone Cold’s eyes narrowed threateningly. “Sir, come with me please,” he said firmly.

It’s different for dads. Nobody judges dads for their kids’ behavior like they do moms. Dads are rewarded just for being around. When Davis took Harper to the grocery store and she freaked out in the checkout lane over not getting candy or a cheap toy, nobody looked at him like he should have her under control or like he was responsible for her misbehavior. People bent over backward to help him all the time. That’s what usually happens with dads. But moms? I can’t count the number of snotty looks I’ve gotten in stores when Harper’s thrown a fit. I’ve never once had someone offer to help me with anything, even in those times when I was clearly struggling and on the verge of bursting into tears. And believe me, there’ve been plenty of those times. So Genevieve’s not alone in worrying about how her kid’s actions will reflect on her.

I grow tired of your mouth.” Bones shifted under Curran’s skin. The nose widened, the jaws grew, the top lip split, displaying enormous teeth. I was staring into the face of a nightmare, a horrible meld of human and lion. If a thing that weighed over six hundred pounds in beast-form could be called a lion. His eyes never changed. The rest of him—the body, the arms, the legs, even his hair and skin remained human. The shapeshifters had three forms: beast, human, and half. They could shift into any of the three, but they always changed shape completely. Most had to strain to maintain the half-form and to be able to speak in it was a great achievement. Only Curran could do this: turn part of his body into one shape while keeping the rest in another. Normally, I had no trouble with Curran’s face in half-form. It was well-proportioned, even—many shapeshifters suffered the “my jaws are way too big and don’t fit together” syndrome—but I was used to that half-form face being sheathed in gray fur. Having human skin stretched over it was nausea inducing. He noticed my heroic efforts not to barf. “What is it now?” I waved my hand around my face. “Fur.” “What do you mean?” “Your face has no fur.” Curran touched his chin. And just like that all traces of the beast vanished. He sat before me fully human. He massaged his jaw. The beast grew stronger during the flare. Curran’s irritation caused his control to slip just a hair. “Having technical difficulties?” I asked and immediately regretted it. Pointing out loss of control to a control freak wasn’t the brightest idea. “You shouldn’t provoke me.” His voice dropped low. He suddenly looked slightly hungry. “You never know what I might do if I’m not fully in control of myself.” Mayday, Mayday. “I shudder at the thought.

She doesn’t mean to make me feel like a freak, not on purpose. It’s when she says I’m drawn to you, because you’re a strong man, like Caleb. When she says I kissed you because sex is the way I’ve been conditioned to get my way, that it’s all psychological, and it’s all because Caleb fucked with my head. I can’t stand it. I can’t have everything I feel, reduced to a textbook description that fits me, and millions of other broken idiots. More than that, I can’t stand thinking that maybe…she’s right. Maybe I don’t really love Caleb, maybe my brain made it up so I wouldn’t kill myself or feel so scared and alone. Maybe I’ll accept that one day and I won’t be able to stop having nightmares. Maybe I’ll never trust another emotion I ever have again. Who’s going to love a girl like that, Reed? Who’s ever going to love a freak like me?” She collapsed onto her bed and rolled into a ball, crying and rocking.

What the fuck was that about?” Vaughn said, standing over me. “I pissed him off.” Dark blue eyes flicking to the restroom, Vaughn reached back and scratched at his shoulder. “All I know is when Judd came back from Texas, he was all hollowed out. Like a ghost, I guess. This morning before his bitch fit, he looked alive again. Whatever you said or did, can’t be that big a deal compared to the shit mood he’s been in lately.” Glancing at the restroom, I wanted to go back to before I said the words. My honesty ruined our happy morning. “You can’t take it personally,” Vaughn added when I just stared at the restroom. “You know how moody Judd is. Always crying and bitching about something. A freaking drama queen.” Grinning, I looked up at him. “Thank you.” “Men like us aren’t used to pretty girls looking at them like you look at Judd. He’s not sure what to do with you and you’re just gonna have to be patient while he figures shit out.” “Okay,” I said, studied him. Whereas Judd hid a deep sorrow and iced heart behind his walls, I sensed Vaughn concealed a barely contained rage. He smiled easily enough, but it was a ruse. Just like Judd who acted like the world didn’t touch him, Vaughn faked his exterior to avoid showing anything to the world. “Why do they call you Outlaw?” I asked. Vaughn sighed. “Because it’s better than calling me dead man walking.” “I don’t understand.” “You don’t need to, darlin. The drama queen returns.” When Judd appeared next to me, his expression was unreadable while kissing me softly. When he pulled away, his gaze flickered to Vaughn. “Thanks.” “You are so premenstrual sometimes.” Grinning, Judd sat down across from me then glanced at Vaughn. “Fuck off.” Vaughn leaned his hip against the side of the booth and sized me up. “What is it about the Smith sisters that makes otherwise strong men lose their balls?” “I have no idea and I’m out of sisters, so I guess you’re out of luck.” “Thank the Lord too. I like my balls attached.

So, absent the chance to make every job applicant work as hard as a college applicant, is there some quick, clever, cheap way of weeding out bad employees before they are hired? Zappos has come up with one such trick. You will recall from the last chapter that Zappos, the online shoe store, has a variety of unorthodox ideas about how a business can be run. You may also recall that its customer-service reps are central to the firm’s success. So even though the job might pay only $11 an hour, Zappos wants to know that each new employee is fully committed to the company’s ethos. That’s where “The Offer” comes in. When new employees are in the onboarding period—they’ve already been screened, offered a job, and completed a few weeks of training—Zappos offers them a chance to quit. Even better, quitters will be paid for their training time and also get a bonus representing their first month’s salary—roughly $2,000—just for quitting! All they have to do is go through an exit interview and surrender their eligibility to be rehired at Zappos. Doesn’t that sound nuts? What kind of company would offer a new employee $2,000 to not work? A clever company. “It’s really putting the employee in the position of ‘Do you care more about money or do you care more about this culture and the company?’ ” says Tony Hsieh, the company’s CEO. “And if they care more about the easy money, then we probably aren’t the right fit for them.” Hsieh figured that any worker who would take the easy $2,000 was the kind of worker who would end up costing Zappos a lot more in the long run. By one industry estimate, it costs an average of roughly $4,000 to replace a single employee, and one recent survey of 2,500 companies found that a single bad hire can cost more than $25,000 in lost productivity, lower morale, and the like. So Zappos decided to pay a measly $2,000 up front and let the bad hires weed themselves out before they took root. As of this writing, fewer than 1 percent of new hires at Zappos accept “The Offer.

Once upon a time, there were two youngsters, a boy and a girl. Their families hated each other. But the boy snuck into a party hosted by the girl’s family because he was kind of a dick. The girl sees the boy, and angels sing so sweetly to her lady-parts that she instantly falls in love with him. Just like that. And so he sneaks into her garden and they decide to get married the next freaking day, because, you know, that’s totally practical, especially when your parents want to murder each other. Jump ahead a few days. Their families find out about the marriage and throw a shit-fit. Mercutio dies. The girl is so upset that she drinks a potion that will put her to sleep for two days. But, unfortunately, the young couple hasn’t learned the ins and outs of good marital communication yet, and the young girl totally forgets to mention something about it to her new husband. The young man therefore mistakes his new wife’s self-induced coma for suicide. He then totally loses his marbles and he commits suicide, thinking he’s going to be with her in the afterlife or some shit. But then she wakes up from her two-day coma, only to learn that her new husband has committed suicide, so she has the exact same idea and kills herself too. The end. Romeo

ever. Amen. Thank God for self-help books. No wonder the business is booming. It reminds me of junior high school, where everybody was afraid of the really cool kids because they knew the latest, most potent putdowns, and were not afraid to use them. Dah! But there must be another reason that one of the best-selling books in the history of the world is Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus by John Gray. Could it be that our culture is oh so eager for a quick fix? What a relief it must be for some people to think “Oh, that’s why we fight like cats and dogs, it is because he’s from Mars and I am from Venus. I thought it was just because we’re messed up in the head.” Can you imagine Calvin Consumer’s excitement and relief to get the video on “The Secret to her Sexual Satisfaction” with Dr. GraySpot, a picture chart, a big pointer, and an X marking the spot. Could that “G” be for “giggle” rather than Dr. “Graffenberg?” Perhaps we are always looking for the secret, the gold mine, the G-spot because we are afraid of the real G-word: Growth—and the energy it requires of us. I am worried that just becoming more educated or well-read is chopping at the leaves of ignorance but is not cutting at the roots. Take my own example: I used to be a lowly busboy at 12 East Restaurant in Florida. One Christmas Eve the manager fired me for eating on the job. As I slunk away I muttered under my breath, “Scrooge!” Years later, after obtaining a Masters Degree in Psychology and getting a California license to practice psychotherapy, I was fired by the clinical director of a psychiatric institute for being unorthodox. This time I knew just what to say. This time I was much more assertive and articulate. As I left I told the director “You obviously have a narcissistic pseudo-neurotic paranoia of anything that does not fit your myopic Procrustean paradigm.” Thank God for higher education. No wonder colleges are packed. What if there was a language designed not to put down or control each other, but nurture and release each other to grow? What if you could develop a consciousness of expressing your feelings and needs fully and completely without having any intention of blaming, attacking, intimidating, begging, punishing, coercing or disrespecting the other person? What if there was a language that kept us focused in the present, and prevented us from speaking like moralistic mini-gods? There is: The name of one such language is Nonviolent Communication. Marshall Rosenberg’s Nonviolent Communication provides a wealth of simple principles and effective techniques to maintain a laser focus on the human heart and innocent child within the other person, even when they have lost contact with that part of themselves. You know how it is when you are hurt or scared: suddenly you become cold and critical, or aloof and analytical. Would it not be wonderful if someone could see through the mask, and warmly meet your need for understanding or reassurance? What I am presenting are some tools for staying locked onto the other person’s humanness, even when they have become an alien monster. Remember that episode of Star Trek where Captain Kirk was turned into a Klingon, and Bones was freaking out? (I felt sorry for Bones because I’ve had friends turn into Cling-ons too.) But then Spock, in his cool, Vulcan way, performed a mind meld to determine that James T. Kirk was trapped inside the alien form. And finally Scotty was able to put some dilithium crystals into his phaser and destroy the alien cloaking device, freeing the captain from his Klingon form. Oh, how I wish that, in my youth or childhood,

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It is not in my nature to see what is not there. I've never felt like I could create a new reality—I was too busy trying to make the pieces I had been given fit together. It didn't occur to me that I could walk away and start from scratch. To create takes more than imagination. There is an audacity to creation, whether you are designing a new house, a new life, or a new garden bed. There must be an overriding belief in your own worth—and in a world benevolent enough to make room for your vision. To be able to create, you need to have faith. I do not come from people who have faith. I come from people who expect to be wiped out in a freak snowstorm in July. And yet, looking around this bedraggled side yard, I tried to imagine what it might look like. I mustered up all I had, and I began to dream and make plans.

Even though there was not a shadow of doubt that my boy was an Aspie, we never pushed to get a formal diagnosis. He already had an IEP in place, so I figured, why bother? As long as he was getting the help, the modifications and the tools he needed to succeed, I didn’t care about the diagnosis. Then Jay entered 3rd grade, and well, that way of thinking changed. That year the other children started to notice Jay’s quirky behaviors and uncontrollable emotional outbursts. But even more importantly, Jay was starting to notice. He was not sleeping at night, his anxiety level was at an all-time high and his self-confidence was dangerously low. One day, in the middle of a meltdown, my boy blurted out, “I feel like I am a square peg trying to fit into a round hole, and no matter how hard I try to make myself fit, I can’t do it. Why am I like this, Mommy?” My heart broke for my son. Not believing was no longer an option. We took him to be officially diagnosed.

The attire, before and now: When it fits you, it feels you. When they see you, you seize them. But, today, When it fits you, it freaks you. When they see you, they cease you.

Reconnection: This is a fancy way of saying, “taking your life back.” It means finding a way to have the trauma fit into its rightful place within the entirety that is your life, rather than taking over and controlling every aspect of it. It’s

I am WAY aware that no one ever fits into a fancy model in which we complete certain steps and then VOILA, ALL BETTER…and let’s add some fucking jazz hands to the mix while we’re at it.

In 1991 Money, a New Zealander–American psychologist, was at the peak of his fame. He was seventy and had given the world the vocabulary to talk more intelligently and kindly about sexual orientation, about being transgender, about atypical genital anatomy, about sexual identity, and indeed about gender itself. Before Money came along, those who failed to fit society’s pigeonholes were customarily dismissed as deviants and freaks. It was this sexologist who in 1955 introduced the label gender, which until then had been used only for grammatical classification. In English, we recognize the gender of words such as king and queen or ram and ewe. In some other languages, the gender of nouns is reflected in articles, such as le and la in French, or der and die in German. Money borrowed this grammatical label, saying that for him gender refers to “all those things that a person says or does to disclose himself or herself as having the status of boy or man, girl or woman, respectively.” He set gender apart from biological sex, aware of the occasional disparity between those two. He also founded the world’s first Gender Identity Clinic at Johns Hopkins University in 1965. The terminology invented by Money gained immense popularity when feminism declared gender to be a social construct and when transgender people gained public recognition.1

While I’d never quite fit in as a child, I’d only had a few months to feel like a true freak, an outcast, who didn’t quite belong in the mortal world or the fae world. Claire had lived her entire life like that. We were, Claire and I, two pariahs, who finding each other now, saw the possibility of belonging.

But that’s what they do with everything inconvenient in history— either label it as some freak event, or as irrelevant surface details. The only reason their theories even seem consistent is that they’ve presented a version of history rendered into reductive pap, with more lies of omission than facts. They simply can’t allow themselves to acknowledge that history’s basically nothing but messy absurdities, and that there is no inevitable path to it. Every shape will fit into a round hole if you carve it and hammer it enough.

The Iron never lies to you. You can walk outside and listen to all kinds of talk, get told that you�re a god or a total bastard. The Iron will always kick you the real deal. The Iron is the great reference point, the all-knowing perspective giver. Always there like a beacon in the pitch black. I have found the Iron to be my greatest friend. It never freaks out on me, never runs. Friends may come and go. But two hundred pounds is always two hundred pounds.

A PRAYER FOR OUR CHILDREN ‘Children are a gift from the Lord; they are a reward from him(Psalm 127:3, NLT). Dear Lord Jesus, we come before you with our hearts full of thanks giving for all the precious children on the planet earth in the mighty name of Jesus. Father God help us to be always available for them physically and spiritually, in Jesus name. We ask you Lord to help us to be the faithful and to be the doting parents to our children and help us to put them in your righteous and loving hands. Help us to train our children in the way they should go, even when they are old they will not depart from it(Provers 22:6). Heavenly Father uproot the spirit of fear and fill their hearts and minds with hope, love, peace, strength and courage to deal with every situation they are facing in the mighty name of Jesus. Father God we ask you to help them not to compromise who they are for the sake of fitting in. Help them to know you, to believe in you and to understand your loving nature and know that they are fearfully and wonderfully made in your likeness and they are loved by you. Lord we ask for your divine protection wherever they go and help them to follow your lead wherever they go. Father God, help us to teach our children to be blessings to those who are in need. Help them to know and understand the value of humanity, help them to be kind towards all humanity and help them to walk in the spirit of humility in the mighty name of Jesus. We ask you Lord to help them to choose good friends, help them make right decisions in life and help them not to freak out when they make mistakes in Jesus name. We put our trust in you King of kings and we know that there is nothing impossible with you and we ask you to rule and reign in our children lives throughout their life stages and let the drops of your mercy melt and shine on them in the mighty name of Jesus. We thank you for your faithfulness and unconditional love. We bless your holy name and we thank you for your promises, your promises are YES AND AMEN. In the mighty name of Jesus amen.

But I thought, I can do whatever I want. I can be friends with whoever I want. I'm going to be friends with the freaks and the geeks and I don't have to fit into any clique. And I'm Free! And I like that witch. And I'm gonna be friends with that witch. And she and I are gonna go to the East Village for Chinese food on Sunday night. And we're gonna bring our own bottle of wine and sit and talk, that sweet, smart witch and I. And that is that.

Why the hell were babies too freaking big to fit out of the exit hole comfortably? Someone had to be at fault for that design flaw, I mean, what the actual fuck?

We were all put here not to fit in, but to see things differently, to ruffle feathers, and to return balance to the world and our communities by using our creative abilities, our healing presence, and our eccentric gifts. I decided to take a six-month sabbatical

Ah, yeah. The tongues freak people out a bit, but they’re actually quite helpful. Especially for certain things.

Boundaries Once upon a time, there were two youngsters, a boy and a girl. Their families hated each other. But the boy snuck into a party hosted by the girl’s family because he was kind of a dick. The girl sees the boy, and angels sing so sweetly to her lady-parts that she instantly falls in love with him. Just like that. And so he sneaks into her garden and they decide to get married the next freaking day, because, you know, that’s totally practical, especially when your parents want to murder each other. Jump ahead a few days. Their families find out about the marriage and throw a shit-fit. Mercutio dies. The girl is so upset that she drinks a potion that will put her to sleep for two days. But, unfortunately, the young couple hasn’t learned the ins and outs of good marital communication yet, and the young girl totally forgets to mention something about it to her new husband. The young man therefore mistakes his new wife’s self-induced coma for suicide. He then totally loses his marbles and he commits suicide, thinking he’s going to be with her in the afterlife or some shit. But then she wakes up from her two-day coma, only to learn that her new husband has committed suicide, so she has the exact same idea and kills herself too. The end. Romeo and Juliet is synonymous with “romance” in our culture today. It is seen as the love story in English-speaking culture, an emotional ideal to live up to. Yet when you really get down to what happens in the story, these kids are absolutely out of their fucking minds. And they just killed themselves to prove it!

Are you freaking nuts?” “According to the psychiatrists, yes. Certifiably so and a danger to those around me.” Lilith’s stark announcement had them all gaping at her. Only Avion caught the sad undercurrent of her mind. Aramus guffawed. “Girl, you might be freaky, but I think you’re going to fit in just fine.

I’ve seen on a reality show. Page after page of newspaper clippings of local events, sales, coupons, scrawled reminders cheerfully ignored, I’m sure…a litany of the collected leavings of a disturbed mind. I open the jewelry box, sort through the jumbled stuff, and find the one item I can remember her wearing when I was a child – a silver charm bracelet. I try it on my good wrist and it’s a fit. I have no use for the rest of the junk – cheap earrings and costume jewelry. There’s absolutely no hope that her wedding ring is in the box. Ralph would have pocketed that immediately since it was the only thing of value she would have passed on to me. I’m still a little freaked out over the whole Ralph-with-gun thing, and his threat is ringing in my ears as I consider the sad collection of trash that represents everything my mom accomplished and accumulated in almost forty years on the planet. I’ve always believed that we shouldn’t get too attached to our material possessions, but this is plain pitiful.

One time, though, I did see a man peeking in my kitchen window, which really scared me since I usually see Spirit as mists and silhouettes. I knew it wasn’t a human person, but he sure looked like one. He was wearing a flannel shirt and looked like the Brawny paper towel guy. I told my first client about him, and she said he fit the description of her brother who had passed. I was like, “Well, your brother just freaked me out, peeping in my window like that!

He looked as handsome as ever and even bigger than she remembered, if that was possible. Did he grow or something? No, probably not. He’s just freaking huge is all. She wished the Kindred weren’t so physically imposing. Sylvan’s shoulders were fully twice as broad as her own and the muscles bulging under his uniform shirt made it clear he was strong enough to break her in half with one hand. Not that she thought he would hurt her but it certainly would have been easier to kiss him if he was more normal sized instead of being so ginormous. He was wearing black tight fitting pants identical to Baird’s, but instead of deep crimson, the material of his uniform shirt was a pale azure blue that complemented his eyes. His hair was a darker shade of blond than Olivia’s and it was still cut short and spiky. Looking at him, Sophie couldn’t help thinking that despite the severe cut, his hair looked like it would be soft to touch. In fact, she could almost feel the feathery brush of those blond spikes whispering against her fingers… She snapped out of the strange fantasy in time to realize two things. One, the ceremony was almost over—in fact, Baird had Olivia bent over one arm and was kissing her for all he was worth. And two, she’d been staring at Sylvan and he was staring right back with an unreadable look in his pale eyes. Sophie dropped her gaze quickly, feeling her cheeks get even hotter.

Look, Jenna, it isn't like Wayne is perfect. Our crew is a bunch of overgrown misfit children. Wayne had it the worst growing up, but we all had the unpopular weirdo freak thing in one way or another. I like to think that a combination of decent brains and a fairly good sense of humor kept us all from becoming tragic situations." "You mean criminals and meth heads?" Elliot laughs. "Exactly. And at a certain level, I think we all cling to our weirdness because it insulates us from trying to fit in and failing.

Anecdotes often represent the lowest form of persuasion. A story, meanwhile, fills out the picture. It uses data, statistical or otherwise, to portray a sense of magnitude; without data, we have no idea how a story fits into the larger scheme of things. A good story also includes the passage of time, to show the degree of constancy or change; without a time frame, we can’t judge whether we’re looking at something truly noteworthy or just an anomalous blip. And a story lays out a daisy chain of events, to show the causes that lead up to a particular situation and the consequences that result from it.

So now when a fight starts up I don't walk away like I used to, I crowd in and wait for those ghost words to start coming up. I've heard chump and howler and groovy, I've heard fuzz and kike and kraut and coon and square and roughhouse and lightweight and freak show and mama's boy and cancer stick and fairy and party hearty and flyboy and knuckle sandwich, and I grab up these expressions, I trap them in my head and I save them. Because every one has the DNA of a whole life in it, a life where those words fit in and made sense because everyone else was saying them, too.

She says Ariel is going to interview me after she's done and he's going to ask me how many golf balls can fit into a stretch limo, and the right answer is to make reasonable estimates on the spot, maybe say, "It's probably like 100 golf balls high by 60 golf balls wide by 1,000 golf balls long," and to look like I'm thinking really hard, and then just do the math in my head and give him the answer. I ask, "Out of curiosity, what would a wrong answer be?" She says, "Freaking out about the question.

Suddenly, there’s a movement down by my belly. I look down. Pete’s lap is moving? “Seriously, Pete,” I say. “This is not the place.” He chuckles and drops onto a sofa. The hand warmer of his hoodie is wiggling, moving up and down. “Why don’t you come and see what I got for you?” he says, waggling his eyebrows. A laugh escapes my throat, even though I say, “That is so not funny.” “Come on, little girl,” he taunts. “Come and see what’s in my pocket.” His hoodie is definitely wiggling, and there’s something in there. I go sit beside him, and he arches his hips toward me when I reach out and press gently on the lump. “Keep going,” he says. His voice is suddenly hoarse. I reach into the side of the pocket and feel a cold nose sniff my hand. I lift the edge and look down. “What’s that?” I ask, but I’m already smiling. “That’s your present,” he says. He’s still smirking. “I just got back from the vet with her. She got deflead and dewormed and had her ears cleaned and got tested for kitty diseases. She’s healthy.” He pulls her out, and she’s so tiny she fits in the palm of his hand. “I got a litter box and some food and stuff, too,” he says. He’s watching me, almost like he’s waiting for me to shove it at him and start screaming. She’s teeny weenie, and she has orange hair. “What’s her name?” I ask. He shrugs. “That’s up to you.” “Ginger,” I say. “She’s a Ginger.” I lift her to my cheek, and she nuzzles me. “Is she really mine?” “Well,” he says, grinning, “If I wanted some pussy of my own, I would just ask for some.” I startle. But then I realize what he said is so freaking ludicrous that I start to laugh. It’s a deep belly laugh, and I can barely catch my breath. I lean over and kiss him. “You want some, all you have to do is ask,” I say. He growls low in his throat and pulls me in so he can kiss me.

her on the dorm board. We had only twenty girls in a batch of two hundred. Goodlooking ones were rare; girls don't get selected to IIM for their looks. They get in because they can solve mathematical problems faster than 99.99% of India's population and crack the CAT. Most IIM girls are above shallow things like makeup, fitting clothes, contact lenses, removal of facial hair, body odour and feminine charm. Girls like Ananya, if and when they arrive by freak chance, become instant pin-ups in out testosterone-charged, estrogen-starved campus.

Cops reacted to violent crime. They could not stop it. Violence was an entwined thread in human DNA. Cops came in to clean up and hopefully arrest who’d done it. They were janitors. And once the system got the criminals, it was out of the cops’ hands. The DA charged perps as the DA saw fit, not the cops. And the system let freaks out for being good.

You really can’t be a control freak and garden happily. After many years, I have finally allowed my garden to rescue me from rigidity. No longer do I feel compelled to create utter neatness and order in my garden—or in my life. “Organized chaos” is more like it, and I like it more that way. Nor do I have to be constantly moving and doing in my garden—or in my life. Today, I actually can (and do) stay put, seated quietly on a tree stump near the brook or on the front lawn under our now majestic oak. I’m perfectly content to allow my mind to drift and my body to rest.

I pull out the pregnancy test. Michael moves over to sit next to me and wraps his arm around my shoulder. My head fits perfectly under his chin. It’s such a random thing to notice, but I’m trying not to freak out, and there’s something so steadying about this man. Closing my eyes, I rest my forehead against his chest. His low voice rumbles in my ear. “Whatever it says, you’re going to be okay. Like I said, I’m here for you no matter what. Together, we can handle this.” I hand him the test. “You look.” He’s quiet for a long moment, but then he lifts my chin and gives me the sweetest smile before he kisses my forehead. “How do you feel about being my baby mama?” A

Damn, Jess. You ran with the wrong crowd in high school, you know that? You would’ve fit right in with the freaks.

If I saw a shrink, I’m sure they’d tell me I have daddy issues. And I would laugh and tell them they had no freaking idea.

You can explain to me how you think my six-five ass is fitting in this tent with you.” Her eyes freaking light up as she grins at me. “We always make it fit.

Do not freak out about training the same movement or the same body part for two or more days in a row. It is a standard operating procedure among Russian athletes. For example, the Russian National Powerlifting Team benches up to eight times a week. The key to successful frequent training is constant variation of the loading variables: weights, reps, sets, rest periods, tempo, exercise order, exercise selection, etc.

That’s all people really want, for you to fit into their maneuvers. Angus though, Jesus. Angus was a freaking wonder.

Kiara F. Kuyo was the owner to the largest chain of fitness centers in the US. She was featured on almost every health and fitness magazine available. He saw her face at the freaking grocery store every time he looked at the magazine racks. She was one of the strongest people he knew, and, to top it all off, she had ripped her own arm off and thrown it at someone.

Music's beauty is in the eye of the listener. For most people, the more they listen the more they adapt and appreciate more complex sounds, harmonies and rhythms. Mirroring visual art, music artists propelled past the emotional into the abstract and for the music lovers Hammer have bought the dramatically magnificent over the ear wireless bluetooth headphones. Hammer is the brand for the person who really feels the music and also it is for the people who are fitness freak. The truly wireless bluetooth headphones when put over the ears look extraordinarily amazing and trendy. The sound coming out of the truly wireless headphones not only hit the ears of the person but also it touches the soul of the person. The stylish Hammer Bash wireless headphones by Hammer are not only good in the looks and sound quality but with these products the icing on the cake is the durability of the product and the promising long life of these products.

Instead of face to face conversation, We soon preferred to chat on our device, Or text a message of our persuasion, Inaudible convenience rather nice, As fit to make a ready occasion, Not half-concerned we pay a growing price, To make a more unnatural creature, Devises that replace the human feature. 27. Indeed, they yield a social substitute, The lonely and excluded dearly seek, That spreads a strange and artificial root, Yet still enjoys a genuine mystique, That works as rapidly as we compute, A dialogue between savant and freak, Beyond our residence a fertile land, Designed to strike our fancy and expand

She would power through this unsettling freak-out by eating healthy meals, keeping herself fit, reading, sleeping and doing all of the self-care that was clearly lacking in her life.

Love is what I had (I was ten) Holy, mother of god, we are in the shower together he bubbled up yet not covered up, and back down will it around until I would come, I got some just call me, he was just enjoying me being cute, he washed my hair and played with my body, like my boobs feeling the and rubbing, suck, and kissing them, flicking with his fingers and others, HOT steamy water pouring on our head, as we were hugging it out, and do it all. Rubbing my legs and crap- I say freak, yeah, but I don’t swear like that! I fasten the garter around his hip's legs side to side around his hips, and as I am arching my back to slip the silk stocking off my toes, I unclasped my bar for him to see them fall, as we go to bed for the night, we were body unstop of body, and we even had our toes laced, together on one foot, like our hands. I have to bite my lip to stop my impatient moan from escaping, yet it all comes out of me. Scorching flush rivalries over my skin, my face hot and red that down there pink feeling has a handprint on my body. My figure is shaking with shock at the news of us doing this tonight at this age. A baby they say I show them? No freaking way, no way should I be doing this yet they will never- ever no, NO WAY!!! Unserviceable my awareness is tiresome to grasp this staggering bit of data. Of why… Like a small child gets out and the woman is here to say, I’m downhearted, helplessly trying to fit everything together in my mind, like I should some time you have to say what the hell and go with it and piss on them. My inner goddess is quickly losing my virginity, the light in the room fading recklessly as I see it all there looking at it deeply, but I can’t settle on that now. I am not sure we're ready for all of this just yet. Gritty again I feel as I work my way in, I scan the room for anything I might have elapsed to say when my eyes fall on my ribbons on the wall. I would say anything to make him think about not going in so fast, yet I want it all. The blinking to every downward moment, seeing it all so fast, what to do, it was hard, not slow and good, I don’t remember it all.

I was walking all along just going for a walk outside after the party, I just felt good, I didn’t know if I wanted to sing, dance, and or cry; I was that happy getting to be with Marcel, so I went to my spot in the old car in the junkyard. I have to jump the face and rip my tank top or something like that yet it worth it, to see my dream car, sitting there I not a girlie girl but I love this cute thing it's sex looking like me. I found this old car at colleen’s junkyard it like right next door, I freak’n loved this old piece of crap, I even had sex with myself in the back seat, I took the old hood ornament off myself and keep it, my dad said it was off of Neveah’s dad's car, yet it was given to my mom and that why it just sitting outside for all the kids like me to rip the parts off of and sell on eBay. My stepmom hated Kristen, my real mother, so that is why the car ended up where it’s at, it was passed down yet the step-monster made sure I would never have it. My stepdad said the emblem is of a 1950 Nash that I found, little did I know it doesn’t go on that car yet, I think it’s a good fit, I was getting the car on my eighteenth birthday- I freaked up and had to die, just like me in the graveyard we both are retreating away. My stepdads had the 1950 Nash which he said was the first real sports car and it’s all steel, so I put it back on without him knowing that I did, funny maybe that's why I passed doing something like that… it was like it was meant for that car, or so he said and I did also. There is an old fender off what likes to be some old ford over there too that is rusty red, I am not sure of the year it’s too damn old for me to know. I remember right my dad said that grand-ma Nevaeh went to school in something like a 1965 Cadillac Deville convertible, yet, I don’t see that she had like nothing, I don’t know what that thing is. Like with these old cars, don't think you have a seat belt, you just cracked your head off the dash of the Nash and then they wiped it off, and sold it to some other poor ass hole.

If I had stopped that freak that stole the fire... Oh honey, no. Put that burden down. It's not yours to carry. The Lord sends trials as He sees fit.

If you hadn’t been there, I’m not entirely sure I would’ve been able to stop myself from hurting the guy worse. That’s why I need to get to the lake house and be alone.” She sniffed. There was so much in that one little derisive sound that he had to look her way. “What?” Her expression went deadpan. “You realize that is a completely ridiculous plan, right?” He frowned. “Come on, Finn.” She pursed those red-glossed lips like she could barely tolerate his foolishness. “That is such a man plan.” “A man plan.” “Yes. You don’t know how to be among the living anymore so you’re going to…go live alone in a cave. Right. Good thinking. That will pop your how-to-be-human skills right back into place.” He made a frustrated sound and pulled into the lot of the hotel to park so he could face her, make her understand. “You saw what happened today. I’m not fit to be around other people right now. I beat a guy down for taking a picture. And I was…aggressive with you last night.” “Aggressive?” Her mouth flattened, and she put a finger to her chest. “I kissed you. I was the aggressor. You were just…complicit in the aggressiveness. And you’re lucky I haven’t gone two years’ celibate, because had I been in your shoes, I would’ve convinced you to go up to my room and used you eight ways to Sunday and back again by now. You’d be limping.” His libido gave a hard kick and knocked the logical thoughts out of his head for a moment. “I—” “You need to be around people.” That snapped his attention back to where it needed to be—mostly. “No.” “You promised your boss you’d be around friends. You made me promise your boss that I’d make sure you did that. You made me lie to the FBI. That’s got to be a federal offense or something.” “Made is a strong word.” “Finn.” He groaned. “What would you have me do? You want to babysit me, Livvy? Come stay at my lake house and make sure I don’t turn into a deviant?” She stared at him, her gaze way too sharp, and then tipped her chin up in challenge. “Is that an invitation? Because you know you shouldn’t test me. I could babysit the hell out of you, Finn Dorsey. I know who you used to be. You don’t get to become a bad guy. I will make you do slumber-party things like play charades or watch crappy nineties movies or incessant reruns of Friends. You won’t be able to fight your old goofy side. It will emerge like a freaking butterfly and smother scary Finn.” He blinked and stared, and then he couldn’t help it—he laughed. “A freaking butterfly?” She smiled triumphantly. “A goofy freaking butterfly.” He let out a long breath, some of the tension from the morning draining out of him. “You’re weird.” “So are you.

With battle-weary arms, Sheridan slugged his way across the luminous waves sending light-filled droplets splashing into the air like Fourth of July sparklers. Stumbling onto the lake’s rocky banks, he clawed desperately at the animal skin suit, yanking at the fastenings and peeling back the suffocating shroud in a fitful temper tantrum. He collapsed onto the glitter washed shore, his chest heaving, his forehead pulsing with pumped up veins. “That was a nightmare!” Sheridan rasped between gulps of air. “Like some sort of freaked-out acid trip!” “All suffering comes bearing a gift. Every pain is a portal. You must look at the hand of your suffering to see the gift it offers and peer into your pain to see where it may lead.” Kunchen said calmly.

Brad, I first saw you about twenty-five years ago at a Frontrunner's run around Silver Lake reservoir. I thought you were drop-dead gorgeous! Then I saw that you were the best runner in the club to boot. Later, I learned that you had already run two marathons. I decided you were going to train me for my first marathon. And you did. You did a good job because I finished that 26.2 mile run. Since then, we've been running the marathon of life together for the last 21 years. In those years, we've come to know each others' strengths, shortcomings, and where we complement each other. Brad, you are an organized, detail obsessed, punctuality driven control freak. I'm easy-going with details. So we're a perfect fit. We've worked together, achieved together, and enjoyed the fruits of our achievements together. When my mother became ill and no longer could take care of herself, we moved her in with us. And you helped me care for her with the devotion and affection of a true son. So my vow to you is also a tribute to you. As we bind our love with this wedding ceremony, in this forum of democracy, in this September of my life, I vow to care for you as you've cared for me, cherish you with all my heart, and love you as my husband and the only man in my life. I love you very much.