Flex Yourself Quotes

I said, I know why you’re afraid to fight with me.” "And why is that?” If he flexed again, I’d have to implement emergency measures. Maybe I could kick some sand at him or something. Hard to look hot brushing sand out of your eyes. "You want me.” Oh boy. "You can’t resist my subtle charm, so you’re afraid you’re going to make a spectacle out of yourself.” "You know what? Don’t talk to me.

Read poetry every day of your life. Poetry is good because it flexes muscles you don’t use often enough. Poetry expands the senses and keeps them in prime condition. It keeps you aware of your nose, your eye, your ear, your tongue, your hand. And, above all, poetry is compacted metaphor or simile. Such metaphors, like Japanese paper flowers, may expand outward into gigantic shapes. Ideas lie everywhere through the poetry books, yet how rarely have I heard short story teachers recommending them for browsing. What poetry? Any poetry that makes your hair stand up along your arms. Don’t force yourself too hard. Take it easy. Over the years you may catch up to, move even with, and pass T. S. Eliot on your way to other pastures. You say you don’t understand Dylan Thomas? Yes, but your ganglion does, and your secret wits, and all your unborn children. Read him, as you can read a horse with your eyes, set free and charging over an endless green meadow on a windy day.

Excellence can be achieved only today—not yesterday or tomorrow, because they do not exist in the present moment. Today is the only day you have to flex your talents and maximize your enjoyment. Your challenge is to win in all aspects of life. To reach that goal, you need to set yourself up for success by winning one day at a time. Procrastination is no match for a champion.

Miss Finch, it’s not wise for officers to quarter in the same house with an unmarried gentlewoman. Have a care for your reputation, if your father does not.” “Have a care for my reputation?” She had to laugh. Then she lowered her voice. “This, from the man who flattened me in the road and kissed me without leave?” “Precisely.” His eyes darkened. His meaning washed over her in a wave of hot, sensual awareness. Surely he wasn’t implying… No. He wasn’t implying at all. Those hard jade eyes were giving her a straightforward message, and he underscored it with a slight flex of his massive arms: I am every bit as dangerous as you suppose. If not more so. “Take your kind invitation and run home with it. When soldiers and maids live under the same roof, things happen. And if you happened to find yourself under me again…” His hungry gaze raked her body. “You wouldn’t escape so easily.” She gasped. “You are a beast.” “Just a man, Miss Finch. Just a man.

Suffering happens in the gap we hold between the expectations we have and reality. Flexing and finding the gifts in the gap resolves the pain.

Then his lungs seemed to open up again, each breath going deeper than the one before. His sneakers (not blinding white Adidas, just ratty old Pumas) seemed to shed the lead coating they had gained. His previous lightness of body came rushing back. It was what Milly had called the following wind, and what pros like McComb no doubt called the runner's high. Scott preferred that. He remembered that day in his yard, flexing his knees, leaping, and catching the branch of the tree. He remembered running up and down the bandstand steps. He remembered dancing across the kitchen floor as Stevie Wonder sang "Superstition." This was the same. Not a wind, not even a high, exactly, but an elevation. A sense that you had gone beyond yourself and could go farther still.

You took advantage of Amelia,” Merripen said. “Not that it matters,” Cam said in Romany, “but how did you find out?” Merripen’s huge hands flexed as if longing to rip him apart. Lucifer himself could not have had blacker, more burning eyes. “Speak in English,” he said harshly. “I don’t like the old language.” Frowning in curiosity, Cam readily complied. “The maids were talking about it,” Merripen replied. “I heard them standing outside my door. You dishonored one of my family.” “Yes, I know,” Cam said quietly. “You’re not good enough for her.” “I know that, too.” Watching him intently, Cam asked, “Do you want her for yourself, chal?” Merripen looked mortally offended. “She’s a sister to me.” “That’s good. Because I want her for my wife.

I had a dream, and I needed to go back and find out for sure if something—someone—was there.” When she glanced up, Violet saw the muscles in his jaw flex. “So?” he asked though clenched teeth. “Did you? Find something, I mean?” Violet’s cheek was getting sore from where her teeth were ripping it apart. “N-no,” she stammered. “I mean, kind of.” “Well, shit, Violet, what’s that’s supposed to mean?” “It means there’s someone locked inside one of those gigantic shipping containers down on the docks. But I couldn’t get inside, so I still don’t know for sure. I mean, not in any way I can prove.” Jay jumped up from his chair. It was more than he could take. “Are you telling me you went down to the shipyards before it was even light out? In the middle of the night? All by yourself?” Violet smiled then. She didn’t mean to, but she couldn’t help herself; she felt the corners of her mouth twitching upward before she could stop them. She was never going to get used to this, his worrying about her. “Yeah,” she challenged, taking a step toward him. “Something like that.” She walked to where he was standing, barely containing his frustration. She didn’t try to hide her grin. She put her palms against his chest and could feel his heart beating wildly. “You think you’re gonna be okay? Do you need to sit down? Do you want me to get you a cup of tea or something?” “Hell, Violet, it’s not funny.

Are you holding her?” Wrath asked. There was a pause. “As soon as I get this bow tied in the back—hold on, girlie. Okay, up you go. She’s in a pink dress that Cormia made her by hand. I hate pink. I like it on her, though—but keep that to yourself.” Wrath flexed his hands. “What’s it like?” “Not totally hating pink? Pretty fuck—ehrm, frickin’ emasculating.” “Yeah.” “Do not tell me Lassiter’s been metrosexualizing even you. I heard he talked Manello into going for a pedicure with him—but I’m praying that’s just gossip.” -Wrath & Zsadist

God saw Hansen tighten his chokehold on Day and he could see his lover fighting to breathe. Day’s ears and neck were bright red. His lips were turning a darker color as his body was deprived of oxygen. Hansen pressed the barrel in deeper and yelled. “Two minutes and fifteen seconds before I get to zero and I provide the great state of Georgia the luxury of one less narc.” God’s mind exploded at the thought of not having Day in a world he lived in. He looked into his partner’s glistening eyes and saw he was turning blue and possibly getting ready to faint. Day was still looking at him, looking into God’s green eyes. No, no, no! He’s saying good-bye. God closed his eyes and released a loud, gut-wrenching growl cutting off the SWAT leader’s negotiations. “Godfrey, get yourself under control,” his captain said while grabbing for him. God jerked himself away from the hold and stepped forward, his angry eyes boring into Hansen’s dark ones. Hansen stared at him as if God was crazy. Little did he know God was at that moment. “Godfrey, get back here and stand down. That’s an order, Detective!” his captain barked. God’s large hands clenched at his sides fighting not to pull out his weapons. He ground his teeth together so hard his jaw ached. “Do you have any idea of the shit storm you’re about to bring down on your life,” God spoke with a menacing snarl while his large frame shook with fury. “In your arms you hold the only thing in this world that means anything to me. The man that you are pointing a gun at is my only purpose for living. You are threating to kill the only person in this world that gives a fuck about me.” God took two more steps forward and was vaguely aware of the complete silence surrounding him. Hansen’s finger hovered shakily over the trigger as he took two large steps back with Day still tight against his chest. God growled again and he saw a shade of fear ghost over Hansen’s sweaty face. “If you kill that man, I swear on everything that is holy, I will track you to the ends of the earth, killing and destroying any and everything you hold dear. I will take everything from you and leave you alive to suffer through it. I will bestow upon you the same misery that you have given to me.” Hansen shook his head and inched closer to the door behind him. “Stay back,” he yelled again but this time the demand lacked the courage and venom he exhibited before. “You kill that man, and you’ll have no idea of the monster you will create. Have you ever met a man with no heart…no conscience…no soul…no purpose?” God rumbled, his voice at least twelve octaves lower than the already deep baritone. God yanked his Desert Eagle from his holster in a flash and cocked the hammer back chambering the first round. Hansen stumbled back again, his eyes gone wide with fear. God’s entire body instinctually flexed every muscle in his body and it felt like the large vein in his neck might rupture. His body burned like he had a sweltering fever and he knew his wrath had him a brilliant shade of red. “I’m asking you a goddamn question, Hansen! No soul! No conscience! I’m asking you have you ever met the devil!” God’s thunderous voice practically rattled the glass in the hanger. “If you kill the man I love, you better make your peace with God, because I’m gonna meet your soul in hell.” His voice boomed.

You are a thoughtless person with no consideration for the feelings of others. Your best quality is someday you’re gonna die. If you were a planet in the solar system among millions of beautiful heavenly bodies, you’d still choose to revolve around yourself. If every day was Christmas, you’d give yourself 366 gifts, two on your birthday. If you thought about looking into your soul to become a better person, you’d change your mind because there’s no mirror attached and you couldn’t admire your face or flexed muscles. If rulers could measure a man’s character, you’d be a centimeter. And if you ever again decide to call me a name, next time try Liz.

I know what the problem is.” Curran pulled his shoulders back and flexed, warming up a little. I stole a glance. He had decided to fight in jeans and an old black T-shirt, from which he’d torn the sleeves. Probably his workout shirt. His biceps were carved, the muscle defined and built by countless exertions, neither too bulky nor too lean. Perfect. Kissing him might make me guilty of catastrophically bad judgment, but at least nobody could fault my taste. The trick was not to kiss him again. Once could be an accident; twice was trouble. “You said something?” I arched an eyebrow at him. Nonchalance—best camouflage for drooling. Both the werebison and the swordsman looked ready to charge: the muscles of their legs tense, leaning forward slightly on their toes. They seemed to be terribly sure that we would stay in one place and wait for them. Curran was looking at their legs, too. They must be expecting a distraction from the lamia. She sat cocooned in magic, holding on with both hands as it strained on its leash. “I said, I know why you’re afraid to fight with me.” “And why is that?” If he flexed again, I’d have to implement emergency measures. Maybe I could kick some sand at him or something. Hard to look hot brushing sand out of your eyes. “You want me.” Oh boy. “You can’t resist my subtle charm, so you’re afraid you’re going to make a spectacle out of yourself.” “You know what? Don’t talk to me.

I couldn't stop picturing you naked and wet." "If you knew the things you've done in my imagination..." "I touched myself while thinking of you." He groaned against her lips. "Jesus Christ, that's one of them." She whimpered in protest as his fingers withdrew from her body. He slid his hands to her bottom and lifted her off her feet, carrying her across the room, to where a floor-length mirror in a thick gilded frame stood propped against the wall. It must have been too heavy to move. He spun her to face it, positioning himself behind her. Their gazes locked in the mirrored reflection. His eyes were dark, fierce, demanding. "Show me." He yanked her skirts to her waist- frock, petticoat, chemise, and all- exposing her completely. "Show me how you touched yourself." Penny's heartbeat stalled. The gruff command both scandalized and excited her. With a rough flex of his arms, he hauled her to him. His erection throbbed against the small of her back. "Show me." Penny stared into the mirror. A bolder, naughtier version of herself gazed back. She placed a hand on her belly and eased it downward, until her fingertips disappeared into a thatch of amber curls. She hesitated, holding her breath. "More," he demanded. "I want to see you." His gruffness aroused her, but she wasn't intimidated. With him, she knew she was safe. She raised her free arm above her head, clasping his neck for balance and resting her head against his chest. He wrapped his arm about her torso, holding her tight and pinning her lifted skirts at the waist. Her joints softened, and her thighs fell slightly apart. "That's it. Spread yourself for me. Let me see." The woman in the mirror did as she was told, sending her fingers downward to part the pink, swollen folds of her sex. A single fingertip settled over the sensitive bud at the crest, circling gently. His ragged breath warmed her ear. "God, you're beautiful." She stared at the reflection, transfixed by the eroticism of the image within. She felt like a woman in a boudoir painting, flushed with desire and unashamed of her body's curves and shadows. Aware of the power she held, even in her vulnerable, naked state. As her excitement mounted, she strummed faster. She was panting, arching her back.

You stared out, and then watched the lovely broad-shouldered blonde boy across the room stare broodingly at nothing, and idly flexing his mouth in little grimaces – you felt a feeling of belonging to him curl cosily inside you and go to sleep like a kitten in front of a fire place. To leave him in the rain for a long while – that was next, next and unreal. Lightly he said he wanted to show you his room and told the rest you’d be right back. (Girls can be so careless with affection … you recalled a year ago, a barn, and steps leading upward, as these did.) Almost surprised you let yourself be enfolded in strong arms, in a last futile attempt to conserve and gather the lovely warmth and life pulse spilling from the fibers of the other. You saw blue eyes, light blue and keen, suddenly intent and was it, was it misting? Downstairs then, and good-bye, good-bye my love, good-bye. You felt no reality, no knife of sorrow cut your intestines to bits. Only a weariness, a longing for a shoulder to sleep on, a pair of arms to curl up in – and a lack of that now. Must you wait again, till some boy down the beach likes you, asks you out, kisses you – – – and you see the evening shrink to an artificial two-dimensional slice of time – – – - must you wait till then before you feel the full impact of your loneliness?

You’re having a bad day. You mess up a few lines. You’re distracted. You’ve had this look about you all afternoon, like you’re not quite there. “Christ, Cunningham, get it together,” Hastings says, running his hands down his face. “If you can’t handle being Brutus—” “Fuck you.” You cut him off. “Don’t act like you’re perfect.” “I don’t make rookie mistakes,” Hastings says. “Maybe if you weren’t so preoccupied with trying to screw the new girl, you might—” BAM. You shut him up mid-sentence with a punch to the face, your fist connecting hard, nearly knocking him off his feet. He stumbles, stunned, as you go at him again, grabbing the collar of his uniform shirt and yanking him to you. “Shut your fucking mouth.” People come between the two of you, forcing you apart. Hastings storms out, shouting, “I can’t deal with him!” Drama Club comes to a screeching halt. You stand there for a moment, fists clenched at your side, calming down. You flex your hands, loosening them as you approach the girl. She’s watching you in silence, expression guarded. You sit down near her. There’s an empty seat between you today. It’s the first time you’ve not sat right beside her in weeks. You’re giving her space. It doesn’t take long before Hastings returns, but he isn’t alone. The administrator waltzes in behind him. The man heads for you, expression stern. “Cunningham, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t expel you.” “Because my father gives you a lot of money.” “That’s what you have to say?” “Is that not a good reason?” “You punched a fellow student!” “We were just acting,” you say. “I’m Brutus. He’s Caesar. It’s to be expected.” “Brutus stabs him. He doesn’t throw punches.” “I was improvising.” The girl laughs when you say that. She tries to stop herself, but the sound comes out, and the administrator hears it, his attention shifting to her. “Look, it won’t happen again,” you say, drawing the focus back to you. “Next time, I’ll stab him and be done with it.” “You better watch yourself,” the administrator says, pointing his finger in your face. “One more incident and you’re gone for good. Understand?” “Yes, sir.” “And rest assured, your father will be hearing about this

Before she could answer, the door vibrated with a demanding thump. “Sydney,” came a muffled voice from the other side. “Yes,” Nick said, rising to his feet. Sir Ross’s tall form filled the doorway. His face was expressionless as he looked at the two of them. “I was just told of Lord Radnor’s presence.” He went directly to Lottie, crouching before her much as Nick had. Seeing her bruised arm, Sir Ross gestured toward it carefully. “May I?” His voice was more gentle than she had ever heard it. “Yes,” Lottie murmured, allowing him to take her hand in his. Sir Ross examined the darkened wrist with a gathering frown. His face was very close, and his gray eyes were so kind and concerned that Lottie wondered how she could have ever thought him aloof. She recalled his reputed compassion for women and children— a focal point of his magisterial career, Sophia had told her. Sir Ross’s mouth flexed in a faint, reassuring smile as he released her hand. “This won’t happen again— I can promise you that.” “Wonderful party,” Nick said sarcastically. “Perhaps you can tell us who the hell included Lord Radnor on the guest list?” “Nick,” Lottie interceded, “it’s all right, I am certain that Sir Ross did not—” “It is not all right,” Sir Ross countered quietly. “I hold myself responsible for this, and I humbly beg your forgiveness, Charlotte. Lord Radnor was most certainly not included on the guest list that I approved, but I will find out how he managed to obtain an invitation.” His brow creased as he continued. “Lord Radnor’s behavior tonight was irrational as well as reprehensible… it bespeaks an obsession with Charlotte that will likely not end with this incident.” “Oh, it’s going to end,” Nick said darkly. “I have several methods in mind that will cure Radnor’s obsession. To start with, if he hasn’t left the premises by the time I go back out there—” “He’s gone,” Sir Ross interrupted. “Two of the runners are here— I bid them to remove him in as discreet a manner as possible. Calm yourself, Sydney— it will do no good for you to rampage like a maddened bull.” Nick’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me how calm you would be if someone had left those bruises on Sophia.” Sir Ross nodded with a short sigh. “Point taken.” -Sir Ross, Nick, & Lottie

When an ovulating woman offers herself to you, she's the choicest morsel on the planet. Her nipples are already sharp, her labia already swollen, her spine already undulating. Her skin is damp and she pants. If you touch the center of her forehead with your thumb she isn't thinking about her head—she isn't thinking at all, she's imagining, believing, willing your hand to lift and turn and curve, cup the back of her head. She's living in a reality where the hand will have no choice but to slide down that soft, flexing muscle valley of the spine to the flare of strong hips, where the other hand joins the first to hold both hip bones, immobilize them against the side of the counter, so that you can touch the base of her throat gently with your lips and she will whimper and writhe and let the muscles in her legs go, but she won't fall, because you have her. She'll be feeling this as though it's already happening, knowing absolutely that it will, because every cell is alive and crying out, Fill me, love me, cherish me, be tender, but, oh God, be sure. She wants you to want her. And when her pupils expand like that, as though you have dropped black ink into a saucer of cool blue water, and her head tips just a little, as though she's gone blind or has had a terrible shock or maybe just too much to drink, to her she is crying in a great voice, Fuck me, right here, right now against the kitchen counter, because I want you wrist-deep inside me. I hunger, I burn, I need. It doesn't matter if you are tired, or unsure, if your stomach is hard with dread at not being forgiven. If you allow yourself one moment's distraction—a microsecond's break in eye contact, a slight shift in weight—she knows, and that knowledge is a punch in the gut. She will back up a step and search your face, and she'll feel embarrassed—a fool or a whore—at offering so blatantly what you're not interested in, and her fine sense of being queen of the world will shiver and break like a glass shield hit by a mace, and fall around her in dust. Oh, it will still sparkle, because sex is magic, but she will be standing there naked, and you will be a monster, and the next time she feels her womb quiver and clench she'll hesitate, which will confuse you, even on a day when there is no dread, no uncertainty, and that singing sureness between you will dissolve and very slowly begin to sicken and die. The body knows. I listened to the deep message—but carefully, because at some point the deep message also must be a conscious message. Active, not just passive, agreement. I took her hand and guided the wok back down to the gas burner. Yes, her body still said, yes. I turned off the gas, but slowly, and now she reached for me.

Well, then either you wait for a week, or you chase him down. We’re past the days of having to get dolled up for men.” Gran rolls her sleeves up and flexes her shiny new nails. “Get dolled up for yourself and go after what you want.

It’s human nature to work on the things that we are good at. If you have big biceps, you want to do an endless number of curls because it’s so satisfying to see this major bicep flex. To be successful, however, you must be brutal with yourself and focus on the flaws.

Lucid dreams often feel like this—as if you are observing yourself from a point over your shoulders-arm flexed, hands curving around the boom, breathing, in three dimensional silence.

steps that you need to follow: Reversing assumptions: Earlier, you did the exercise of reversing the assumption. In that exercise, after writing down the opposite statement. You asked yourself, “Why might it be true?” and “How can I make these ideas happen”? When you answer these questions, you find new frames. How many new frames did you find earlier? Please list them down. Now do the same exercise one more time. Try to find a few more new frames. What is your total now? Changing your questions: Like above, earlier at the end of the chapter, “Change Your Frame, Change Your Game”, you did the exercise of finding new frames by changing your question. How many new frames did you find earlier? Please list them down. Now do the same exercise one more time. Here you can use the technique of “wearing different hats” to your advantage. Try to find a few more new frames. The more the hats of different people you wear, the more frames you can discover. What is your total now? Random Words Technique: In this chapter, by using the random word “bicycle”, we created 11 frames, and after connecting the diverse dots from different frames, we created 5 more frames. So, with one random word, we could generate 16 frames. By following the same technique, how many random words would you need to create One hundred frames? You can use as many random words as you can to generate the maximum number of frames. Adding dots to the frames: As seen in this chapter, it is easy to add dots (ideas) to reach the magic figure of one hundred once you have enough frames. Allow your mind to wander: You have understood how our subconscious mind feeds us with ideas. At any point in time, you feel that the task has become too daunting for you, allow your mind to wander. When it comes back, it will bring a few golden nuggets (more frames) for you. Flex your ideas muscle: You have built strong ideas muscle by doing so many exercises after every chapter. It’s time to demand more from it. Sleep on your challenge: After a night’s sleep, your subconscious mind will not let you stop at one hundred ideas. It will keep on bringing you more and more. Always keep your notepad and pen ready.

You know, you shouldn’t be out in the woods like that by yourself, right?” Detective Bridge steps forward, finally flexing the authority I knew he had. He nods as if I’ve already agreed with him rather than staying silent. “It’s dangerous.” I’m exhausted, but I am alert enough to stiffen at his dark tone. There’s something about the look in his eyes. He doesn’t believe me.

Ash's jaw flexed at the mention of Bjorn. "Forgiveness is the better part of valor." "I always thought it was 'discretion.'" Ash shook his head. "Discretion is easy. It's finding the courage to forgive yourself and others that is hard.

So are you bailing? Is that what this is?” he muttered, staring angrily at me. “I have your number. If I wanted to bail, I would have called and told you to fuck off.” Cooper exhaled hard then looked around the courtyard. Returning his gaze to me, he shook his head. “Why is everything so difficult with you?” “Because you’re an asshole who makes me feel bad,” I said then added, “On purpose.” “You wanted me to kiss you. We had a nice dinner and you wanted to be close. I tried to be close and you punished me for it.” “Fuck you,” I whispered, stepping back against the door. “You knew what you were doing. You figured I liked you more than you liked me, so you could do whatever you wanted. I’m just trash.” “Fuck you back,” he growled. “There is no way in hell you like me more than I like you. If you did, you wouldn’t keep saying no.” “So fine, let’s just fuck today and get it over with. That way, you can get on with your life.” “Shit!” he yelled, walking halfway down the path before turning around and hurrying back. When he reached me, I flinched at the ferocity of his movements. “I want you so bad, but it’s not just sex. If it was, I’d fuck someone else and pretend she was you then flip you off and move on with my life. I tease you, but it’s not about sex. You fucking know that too.” “I don’t know anything,” I said, nervous now because I wondered if he might hurt me. Looking like he was ready to hit something, his hands flexed in and out of fists. “I was really happy after dinner. I wanted to bring you here and make out, but then you scared me. You did that on purpose to make me feel weak. Fine, I feel weak and I’m afraid of you.” Cooper glanced to his right at the sound of people talking. Looking back at me, he lost much of his irritation. “It’s hard being patient, okay?” he said in a needy voice. “Then, we’ll get it over with today and you won’t have to be patient anymore.” Cooper’s expression softened into a panicked, almost pained look. “I want all of you. Not just sex. I want you to take down all of your walls for me. It felt so fucking beautiful to see you a little better after you told me about Mrs. Prescott. I felt relieved, but also desperate. I want you to look at me like you did after you told me that story, but I have to wait. I get that.” “Sex will be another wall.” “We’re not having sex today,” he said, sighing. “You’re looking at me like I’m a piece of shit that’ll hit you. You actually look afraid of me. No way do you want to have sex and I’m not doing it unless you’re really giving yourself to me. No fake Farah shit. No walled up crap. I want the real you and the real you doesn’t want to have sex with me,” he muttered then added, “Today.” “Had to put in the disclaimer, huh?” I said, grinning slightly. “It was too painful not to put it in.” “I do want to go swimming.” “And spend time with me?” he asked, nudging me with his knee. “Throw me a bone here.

You can't tell me you haven't been lifting,” Bailey said. “I can tell. You may have a naturally good physique, but you're shredded. You've got serious size and you're hardened down.” This coming from a kid who'd never lifted a weight in his life, Ambrose thought, shaking his head and pushing another tray of cupcakes into the oven. Yeah, cupcakes. “So what's the point? I mean, you've got this amazing body–big, strong. You just going to keep it to yourself? You gotta share it with the world, man.” “If I didn't know better, I would think you were hitting on me,” Ambrose said. “Do you stand naked in front of the mirror and flex every night? I mean, really, at least go into the adult film industry. At least it won't go completely to waste.” “There you go again . . . talking about things you know nothing about,” Ambrose said. “Fern reads romance novels and you are suddenly Hugh Hefner. I don't think either of you has room to lecture me about anything.” “Fern's been lecturing?” Bailey sounded surprised and not at all offended that Ambrose had basically told him he didn't know jack crap because he was in a wheelchair. “Fern's been leaving inspirational quotes,” Ambrose said. “Ahhh. That sounds more like Fern. Like what? Just Believe? Dream big? Marry me?

The Starting Line Build Less What’s Your Problem? Fund Yourself Fix Time and Budget, Flex Scope Have an Enemy It Shouldn’t be a Chore

As a concrete example, consider the phrase “come hither.” Notice that you gesture this idea by holding your palm up and flexing your fingers toward yourself as if to touch the lower part of the palm. Amazingly, your tongue makes a very similar movement as it curls back to touch the palate to utter “hither” or “here”—examples of synkinesia. “Go” involves pouting the lips outward, whereas “come” involves drawing the lips together inward. (In the Indian Dravidian language Tamil—unrelated to English—the word for go is “po”).

the real flex is in healing yourself such that you don't have to match low vibe energy to meet the mark to fit in.

Don’t over-share. We don’t need to see or hear it all, just the highlights.    The selfie is to be avoided. I know it may seem like a good idea and that everyone else is doing it, but stay strong. Something about it reeks of desperation. The likes will not set you free.    Keep the bragging to a minimum. Sharing your latest work or even the well-intended subtle flex is okay. Outright boasting will leave your audience wanting less.    Hashtags are a no-no. Hashtags serve a purpose for brands, but they should be left off any posts from your personal accounts. They look amateurish.    Avoid clogging the feed. Got a lot of exciting content? Stay measured and time-release it. Posting five images in a row will annoy even your biggest fans.    Tag someone only when it’s flattering. If you are posting a photo from your trip to Lisbon, make sure all parties look good in the chosen image. If someone has clearly overindulged, think twice before sharing. You would want the same courtesy.    Never under any circumstance should you confront someone about unfollowing you. That sort of behavior will make you the talk of the group chat, and not in a good way.    No spoilers. Your uncle in Los Angeles works in the industry and sent you a screener of the latest Oscar-worthy film. Watch it and enjoy it. Do not share any information about said film on social media. Your followers will be mad and so will your uncle.    Be yourself. With so many available platforms to share on, you might slip into a caricature of yourself. Make sure you always keep it real. Don’t be someone you aren’t—even if you are rewarded with likes and comments. Because self-awareness reigns supreme, online and off.    Never take it too seriously. Although social media has become ubiquitous in our modern era, it’s still not exactly real life. Hell, maybe put the phone down and take a stroll.

comparing a “fixed” versus “growth” mindset. A fixed mindset assumes that whatever we are—a certain composite of personality, intelligence, abilities—is a given. Every new challenge becomes a moment where you simply prove yourself again and again as being that particular person (dumb, smart, winning, losing, etc.). A growth mindset, conversely, imagines that we are not static creatures. We can change, and we do. We flex and grow, fall back, or bounce forward. But we are not simply the aggregate of whatever we have been.

You can think of the snatch as a clean to the point above your head. Do not even think about taking it on until you have mastered one arm swings and cleans! Stand over a kettlebell, your feet about shoulder width apart, your weight on your heels. Inhale, arch your back, push your butt back, and bend your knees. Reach for the bell with one hand, the arm straight, while keeping the other arm away from your body (initially you may help yourself by pushing with the free hand against your thigh but it is considered ‘no class’ by most gireviks). Swing the bell back and whip it straight overhead in one clean movement. Note that the pulling arm will bend and your body will shift to the side opposite to the weight. But you do not need to worry about trying to do it that way; just pull straight up and your body will find an efficient path in a short while. Do not lift with your arm, but rather with your hips. Project the force straight up, rather than back—as in a jump. You may end up airborne or at least on your toes. It is OK as long as you roll back on your heels by the time the bell comes down. Dip under the K-bell as it is flipping over the wrist. Absorb the shock the same way you did for cleans. Fix the weight overhead, in the press behind the neck position for a second, then let it free fall between your legs as you are dropping into a half squat. Keep the girya near your body when it comes down. As an option, lower the bell to your shoulder before dropping it between the legs. Ease into the one arm power snatch because even a hardcore deadlifter’s hamstrings and palms are guaranteed to take a beating. Especially if your kettlebells are rusty like the ones I trained with at the ‘courage corner’. It was a long time after my discharge before my palms finally lost their rust speckled calluses. Unlike the deadlift, the kettlebell snatch does not impose prohibitively strict requirements on spinal alignment and hamstring flexibility. If you are deadlifting with a humped over back you are generally asking for trouble; KB snatches let you get away with a slightly flexed spine. It is probably due to the fact that your connective tissues absorb shock more effectively when loaded rapidly. Your ligaments have wavy structures. A ballistic shock—as long as it is of a reasonable magnitude—is absorbed by these ‘waves’, which straighten out like springs.

The white cat with eyes like blue opals sat on a bench in the Oracle’s Park and licked his front paw. “You know you’re not a true cat, don’t you?” Jesiba Roga clicked her tongue. “You don’t need to lick yourself.” Aidas, Prince of the Chasm, lifted his head. “Who says I don’t enjoy licking myself?” Amusement tugged on Jesiba’s thin mouth, but she shifted her stare to the quiet park, the towering cypresses still gleaming with dew. “Why didn’t you tell me about Bryce?” He flexed his claws. “I didn’t trust anyone. Even you.” “I thought Theia’s light was forever extinguished.” “So did I. I thought they’d made sure she and her power died on that last battlefield under Prince Pelias’s blade.” His eyes glowed with ancient rage. “But Bryce Quinlan bears her light.” “You can tell the difference between Bryce’s starlight and her brother’s?” “I shall never forget the exact shine and hue of Theia’s light. It is still a song in my blood.

Going to therapy and talking about healing may just be the go-to flex of our time. It is supposedly an indicator of how profoundly self-aware, enlightened, emotionally mature, or “evolved” an individual is. Social media is obsessed and saturated with pop psychology and psychiatry content related to “healing”, trauma, embodiment, neurodiversity, psychiatric diagnoses, treatments alongside productivity hacks, self-care tips and advice on how to love yourself without depending on anyone else, cut people out of your life, manifest your goals to be successful, etc. Therapy isn’t a universal indicator of morality or enlightenment. Therapy isn’t a one-size-fits-all solution that everyone must pursue. There are many complex political and cultural reasons why some people don’t go to therapy, and some may actually have more sustainable support or care practices rooted in the community. This is similar to other messaging, like “You have to learn to love yourself first before someone else can love you”. It all feeds into the lie that we are alone and that happiness comes from total independence. Mainstream therapy blames you for your problems or blames other people, and often it oscillates between both extremes. If we point fingers at ourselves or each other, we are too distracted to notice the exploitative systems making us all sick and sad. Oftentimes, people come out of therapy feeling fully affirmed and unconditionally validated, and this ego-caressing can feel rewarding in the moment even if it doesn’t help ignite any growth or transformation. People are convinced that they can do no wrong, are infallible, incapable of causing harm, and that other people are the problem. Treatment then focuses on inflating self-confidence, self-worth, self-acceptance, and self-love to chase one’s self-centered dreams, ambitions, and aspirations without taking any accountability for one’s own actions. This sort of individualistic therapeutic approach encourages isolation and a general mistrust of others who are framed as threats to our inner peace or extractors of energy, and it further breeds a superiority complex. People are encouraged to see relationships as accessories and means to a greater selfish end. The focus is on what someone can do for you and not on how to give, care for, or show up for other people. People are not pushed to examine how oppressive conditioning under these systems shows up in their relationships because that level of introspection and growth is simply too invalidating. “You don’t owe anyone anything. No one is entitled to your time and energy. If anyone invalidates you and disturbs your peace, they are toxic; cut them out of your life. You don’t need that negativity. You don’t need anyone else; you alone are enough. Put yourself first. You are perfect just the way you are.” In reality, we all have work to do. We are all socialized within these systems, and real support requires accountability. Our liberation is contingent on us being aware of our bullshit, understanding the values of the empire that we may have internalized as our own, and working on changing these patterns. Therapized people may fixate on dissecting, healing, improving, and optimizing themselves in isolation, guided by a therapist, without necessarily practicing vulnerability and accountability in relationships, or they may simply chase validation while rejecting the discomfort that comes from accountability. Healing in any form requires growth and a willingness to practice in relationships; it is not solely validating or invalidating; it is complex; it is not a goal to achieve but a lifelong process that no one is above; it is both liberating and difficult; it is about acceptance and a willingness to change or transform into something new; and ultimately, it is going to require many invalidating ego deaths so we can let go of the fixation of the “self” to ease into interdependence and community care.

When you want to flex yourself, you have to find a place with enough wing room to let you stretch to your fullest. - The Malwatch

It doesn’t matter how well we do, how loving we are, or how much we give, do, or have. None of it will ever be enough for a toxic person. Instead we become like Gumby. We bend and flex and bend and flex, all to no avail. Our toxic family members are totally unable to act with reason. They are so needy that they cannot be filled no matter how much we give out. We are like hamsters on a wheel. We work hard and run fast but fail to get anywhere with our destructive family. This is how life will forever be with them, because our toxic family members will not change. They love the power of making us feel as if we are not enough. They find things wrong with us where there is nothing wrong with who we are, what we do, or how we treat them.

Is sisu a mental power or muscle that you flex? Where does it come from? Is it a cultural construct, part of a country brand, or a slogan? Or, as I suspect, a sort of mind and body attitude that anyone, anywhere, can tap into? In my quest to wrap my head around the term, I initially apply it liberally to cover a quality that I notice a great many Finns seem to share: a hardy, active, outdoors-in-any-weather, do-it-yourself approach to life. Even when it comes to domestic chores, such as house or window cleaning, which many people could easily afford to pay someone to do, it seems instead to be a source of personal pride and satisfaction to take on the task oneself. I observe that this DIY approach also includes trying to fix things before rushing out to buy new ones and taking on home renovations instead of contracting them out. Doing instead of buying.

The Flex is about turning stiff thoughts into flexible ones. It's essentially a system upgrade that fixes the bugs of self-blame, anxiety, perfectionism, the disease to please, and avoidance.

the tougher you are on yourself, the easier life will be on you. The quality of your life ultimately is shaped by the quality of your choices and decisions, ones that range from the career you choose to pursue to the books you read, the time that you wake up every morning and the thoughts you think during the hours of your days. When you consistently flex your willpower by making those choices that you know are the right ones (rather than the easy ones), you take back control of your life.