Friendly Valentine Quotes

You never called me back," he said. "I called you so many times and you never called me back." Magnus looked at Alec as if he'd lost his mind. "Your city is under attack," he said. "The wards have been broken, and the streets are full of demons. And you want to know why I haven't called you?" Alec set his jaw in a stubborn line. "I want to know why you haven't called me back." Magnus threw his hands up in the air in a gesture of utter exasperation. Alec noted with interest that when he did it, a few sparks escaped from his fingertips, like fireflies escaping from a jar. "You're an idiot." "Is that why you haven't called me? Because I'm an idiot?" "No." Magnus strode toward him. "I didn't call you because I'm tired of you only wanting me around when you need something. I'm tired of watching you be in love with someone else - someone, incidentally, who will never love you back. Not the way I do." "You love me?" "You stupid Nephilim," Magnus said patiently. "Why else am I here? Why else would I have spent the past few weeks patching up all your moronic friends every time they got hurt? And getting you out of every ridiculous situation you found yourself in? Not to mention helping you win a battle against Valentine. And all completely free of charge!

They'll say you are bad or perhaps you are mad or at least you should stay undercover. Your mind must be bare if you would dare to think you can love more than one lover.

You want a piece of all this fabulousness?" He gestured to himself. "Well, my best friend comes along with it. I wouldn't cut you out of my life, Clary, any more than I would cut off my right hand and give it to someone as a Valentine's Day gift." "Gross," said Clary. "Must you?" He grinned. "I must.

But Valentine, why despair, why always paint the future in such sombre hues?" Maximilien asked. "Because, my friend, I judge it by the past.

I mean, there is a reason its initials are VD. I bet you more people contract syphilis on Valentine's Day than on any other day of the year. What a cause for celebration.

People aren't born good or bad. Maybe they're born with tendencies either way, but it's the way you live your life that matters. And the people you know. Valentine was Hodge's friend, and I don't think Hodge really had anyone else in his life to challenge him or make him be a better person. If I'd had that life, I don't know how I would have turned out. But I didn't. I have my family. And I have you.

I hope you feel better about yourself. I hope you feel alive. I hope that good things happen to you, and I hope that when the inevitable bad things happen you can handle them and learn a lesson and move on. I hope you know you're not alone and I hope you spend plenty of time with your family and/or friends and I hope you write more and get a seven-figure book deal. I hope next year no more celebrities die and I hope you get an iPhone if you want one. Or maybe a pony. I hope someone writes a song for you on Valentines Day that's a bit like Hey There Delilah, and I hope they have a good singing voice, or at least one better than mine. I hope that you accept yourself the way you are, and figure out that losing 20 pounds isn't going to magically make you love yourself. I hope you read a lot. I hope you don't have to almost die to figure out how valuable life is. I hope you find the perfect nail polish/digital camera/home/life partner. I hope you stop being jealous of others. I hope you feel good, about yourself and the people around you and the world. I hope you eat heaps of salt and vinegar chips because they're the best kind. I hope you accomplish all your hopes & dreams & aspirations and are blissfully happy & get married to Edward Cullen/George Clooney/Megan Fox/Angelina Jolie (delete whichever are inappropriate) & ride a pretty white horse into the sunset & I hope it's all sweet and wonderful because you deserve it because you did well this year in the face of sparkly vampires/great evil/low self-esteem.

As Luke knelt down beside his corpse, Clary couldn’t help but remember what he had said about having loved Valentine once, about having been his closest friend. Luke, she thought with a pang. Surely he couldn’t be sad — or even grieved? But then again, perhaps everyone should have someone to grieve for them, and there was no one else to grieve for Valentine.

It truly sucks to doubt your friends when you only have one or two of them, I realized.

I would never date a girl who insisted that I cut you out of my life. It’s non-negotiable. You want a piece of all this fabulousness?” He gestured at himself. “Well, my best friend comes along with it. I wouldn’t cut you out of my life, Clary, any more than I would cut off my right hand and give it to someone as a Valentine’s Day gift.” “Gross,” said Clary. “Must you?” He grinned. “I must.

Peace. That's what salaam means. Peace unto you." The words brought forth an echo from Ender's memory. His mother's voice reading to him softly, when he was very young. ... The kiss, the word, the peace were with him still. I am only what I remember, and Alai is my friend in a memory so intense that they can't tear him out. Like Valentine, the strongest memory of all.

My name? My name is nothing compared to Orion.” “No, I love your name. You’ve got tons of nickname opportunities. I got O, and that’s it. Oh, actually, I also had people calling me ‘Oreo’ in high school. Hated that.” “That’s bad, but at least you didn’t have to deal with ‘Valentino’s Day’ every Valentines Day. I had to ask out my friends’ crushes for them like I was Cupid.” “I’m so sorry, Cupid.” “It’s okay, Oreo.

But just promise me something, okay? I know how girls get. I know how they hate their boyfriends having a best friend who’s a girl. Just promise me you won’t cut me out of your life totally. That we can still hang out sometimes.' 'Sometimes?' Simon shook his head. 'Clary, you’re crazy.' Her heart sank. 'You mean...' 'I mean that I would never date a girl who insisted that I cut you out of my life. It’s non-negotiable. You want a piece of all this fabulousness?' He gestured at himself. 'Well, my best friend comes along with it. I wouldn’t cut you out of my life, Clary, any more than I would cut off my right hand and give it to someone as a Valentine’s Day gift.' 'Gross,' said Clary. 'Must you?' He grinned. 'I must.

Happy and giggly and bustly, the Hogfly ignored Hiccup’s strangled cries of: “Hoglfy! Come back here, Hogfly!” “Ooh!” it squeaked in delighted confusion. “You all look so lovely! How am I to choose which one of you to be my friend?” It perched on the sinister swoop of the Razorwing’s nose. “Where’s my biscuit? Are you married? Be my valentine…” “I can’t bear to watch…” groaned Fishlegs. It was like seeing an enthusiastic bunny rabbit trying to make friends with a heavily armed, bunny-eating cobra.

What’s really important is the essence of the life lived. A college degree isn’t going to tell me how well somebody lived, now is it? Does having a boat mean you lived a good life? Or a summerhouse? What about saving each valentine your son made or even working a roadside jam stand? A million, what do they call it?—selfies—on some silly website. What does it all mean, in the end?

Thinking of this friend I had. This friend I loved and keep loving--dead, but never really gone.

Did you ever think about boys?' I say, staring up into the dark. 'There wasn't room,' she whispers, and her voice is unbelievably sad. 'At first, after Connor, I was just waiting. I was going to get a new boyfriend soon- as soon as I was prettier or better, more perfect. But after a while there was no room for anything else. If I though about kissing or sex, I just started feeling ugly, too awful for anything good.

Our whole lives, it was like we were always trying so hard to be perfect - for our families and our friends, for each other - when the funny thing was, we didn't have to. In the end, we were better than that.

I'm thinking that my best friend killed herself so slow it was almost like a magic trick, and other people let her do it.

I can't answer your questions, but I can hold your hand while you search for answers.

She didn’t have enough friends to be a bad one herself.

It's funny. Friendships are Catch twenty-twos when you're single and in your thirties. Friends are your life rafts. You try to help each other meet people, you confide in each other, you spend Thanksgiving, Valentine's Day, all those emotional land-mine holidays together. But sooner or later one of you is going to meet someone and be gone into the world of couples.

There were only ever two kinds of people in the world for Valentine," she said "Those who were fir the Circle and those who were against it. The latter were his enemies, and the former were his weapons in his arsenal. I saw him try to turn each of his friends, even his own wife, into a weapon for the Cause—and you want me to believe he wouldn't have done the same with his own son?" She shook her head. "I knew him better than that." For the first time, Maryse looked at him with more sadness than anger. "You are an arrow shot directly into the heart of the Clave, Jace. You are Valentine's arrow. Whether you know it or not.

I get out my hairbrush and wish for her—the real Lillian, and not the worst, most selfish parts of her. I wish for a warm, true best friend, one who didn’t die.

I said, “What do I think? That's what I'm asking you? What is there to think?” “Looks like he wants you to be his valentine.” “Louise, I can read. But what does it mean?” “Oh, you know. His valentine. His love.” There was that hateful word again. That treacherous word that yawned up at you like a volcano. “Well, I won't. Most decidedly I won't. Not ever again.” “Have you been his valentine before? What do you mean never again?” I couldn't lie to my friend and I wasn't about to freshen old ghosts. “Well, don't answer him then, and that's the end of it.” I was a little relieved that she thought it could be gotten rid of so quickly. I tore the note in half and gave her a part. Walking down the hill we minced the paper in a thousand shreds and gave it to the wind.

Valentine reposes within the walls of Paris, and to leave Paris is like losing her a second time." "Maximilian," said the count, "the friends that we have lost do not repose in the bosom of the earth, but are buried deep in our hearts, and it has been thus ordained that we may always be accompanied by them.

Double Indemnity, Gaslight, Saboteur, The Big Clock . . . We lived in monochrome those nights. For me, it was a chance to revisit old friends; for Ed, it was an opportunity to make new ones. And we’d make lists. The Thin Man franchise, ranked from best (the original) to worst (Song of the Thin Man). Top movies from the bumper crop of 1944. Joseph Cotten’s finest moments. I can do lists on my own, of course. For instance: best Hitchcock films not made by Hitchcock. Here we go: Le Boucher, the early Claude Chabrol that Hitch, according to lore, wished he’d directed. Dark Passage, with Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall—a San Francisco valentine, all velveteen with fog, and antecedent to any movie in which a character goes under the knife to disguise himself. Niagara, starring Marilyn Monroe; Charade, starring Audrey Hepburn; Sudden Fear!, starring Joan Crawford’s eyebrows. Wait Until Dark: Hepburn again, a blind woman stranded in her basement apartment. I’d go berserk in a basement apartment.

There had been romances in my schooldays--but all my friends had had those; we were forever sending each other Valentines, writing sonnets on the prefect's eyes... This wasn't like that. It was a thing of the heart and the head and the body. A real, true thing, grown-up.

Alai saw the tears but had the grace not to say so. "They're fartheads, Ender, they won't even let you take anything you own." Ender grinned and didn't cry after all. "Think I should strip and go naked?" Alai laughed, too. On impulse Ender hugged him, tight, almost as if he were Valentine. He even thought of Valentine then and wanted to go home. "I don't want to go," he said. Alai hugged him back. "I understand them, Ender. You are the best of us. Maybe they in a hurry to teach you everything." "They don't want to teach me everything," Ender said. "I wanted to learn what it was like to have a friend." Alai nodded soberly. "Always my friend, always the best of my friends," he said. Then he grinned. "Go slice up the buggers." "Yeah," Ender smiled back. Alai suddenly kissed Ender on the cheek and whispered in his ear, "Salaam.

I remembered Daemon's feather soft kisses on my cheek, and I remembered the clouds parting and the sun shining on a cold February day in Ireland. And as my baby girl was laid on my chest and my husband held my hand, I saw my best friend Kat walk into the sun kissed part in the clouds, hand in hand, along with the last regrets of my past.

You put the, 'Sun' into my day. Happy Sunday!

His friend, his former friend, Valentine, and his wife, his ex-wife Madeleine, had spread the rumor that his sanity had collapsed.

You are the ONE.. I want to be with.. FOREVER. I am the one.. who'll be CRAZY.. for YOU.. FOREVER. What LOVE is to me.. being CRAZY for YOU.. FOREVER.

Life ignites inside of me as I reacquaint myself with my old friends, need and want, adjusting to the thrill, succumbing to the risk.

Life ignites inside of me as I reacquaint myself with my old friends 'need' and 'want', adjusting to the thrill, succumbing to the risk.

Your lips are the beauty that I want to kiss.

A true friend fills our lives with the aroma of love.

My mother was born on Valentine’s Day and because of that, I have oddly always loved Valentine’s Day. I have friends who absolutely hate the day. And I get that, I do. I can see through it as much as the next person, but I still believe that at its core, it’s a day to recognize love. A day to send a note to someone, eye a new crush, make out, open champagne or sparkling apple cider, pop a cinnamon flavored gummy, and just remember for a moment that even if you’re not in love at the moment, love exists. That even when we don’t have love, there is the possibility of love.

I find myself somehow different My eyes running in his presence His walk as if he was drunk Neither day nor night, the moments were somewhere tonight Still unknown where his soul was Just thinking about him today onwards My soul says he needs me In my absence he cries behind me My presence makes him peaceful As if I remain in his soul Till my heart the love is tied His eyes unfolding every lies Say my friends are we made for life?!

Designed by Mia Mia is always sketching! She has dreams of being a world-famous fashion designer someday. In this story, she sketches a sleek winter coat, a birthday party dress for her friend Ava, and a Valentine’s Day outfit.

The essence of cool, after all, is not giving a fuck. And let’s face it: I most definitely give a fuck now. I give a huge fuck. The hugest. Everything else—everything—pales. To pretend otherwise, by word or deed, would be a monstrous lie. There will be no more Dead Boys T-shirts. Whom would I be kidding? Their charmingly nihilistic worldview in no way mirrors my own. If Stiv Bators were still alive and put his filthy hands anywhere near my baby, I’d snap his neck—then thoroughly cleanse the area with baby wipes. There is no hope of hipness. As my friend A. A. Gill points out, after your daughter reaches a certain age—like five—the most excruciating and embarrassing thing she could possibly imagine is seeing her dad in any way threatening to rock. Your record collection may indeed be cooler than your daughter’s will ever be, but this is a meaningless distinction now. She doesn’t care. And nobody else will. If you’re lucky, long after you’re gone, a grandchild will rediscover your old copy of Fun House. But it will be way too late for you to bask in the glory of past coolness. There is nothing cool about “used to be cool.” All of this, I think, is only right and appropriate.

My individual relationships within the band were fluid affairs, with constructs that changed over time and circumstance. In the years we spent together, I would come to know every facial expression and recognize each of my friends’ singular quirks.

Valentine fell to her knees, clasping her breaking heart. ‘Maximilien,’ she said, ‘Maximilien, my friend, my brother on earth, my true husband in heaven, I implore you, do as I shall and live with your suffering. Perhaps one day we shall be reunited.

I promise not to step on you—I only look like a clodhopper,” he was saying when Jo reached them. He winked at Ella, who glanced away and blinked, as if surprised that he’d come so close to guessing what she thought. Jo slid up to the bar behind her sister, planted a stiff arm on the ledge, and raised an eyebrow at him. He glanced up and saw her. She expected him to blanche, or bristle, or pretend he’d just forgotten someplace else he had to be. A lot of men did that, when they realized that the girl they thought was alone had brought friends to look out for her. But instead he only said, “Oh,” softly, his smile so wide and earnest that crows’-feet appeared at the edges of his eyes; he smiled as though she was an old friend, as though he had been waiting for Jo a long time and was delighted to see her at last.

Hello?” “Hey.” She sounded pissed. “What the hell happened to you tonight? Jess said the three of us were meeting for Valentine’s Day, but you never showed.” “Sorry,” I said. “Something came up.” “Bianca, you’ve been saying that a lot lately. Something is always coming up or you have plans or…” Suddenly, I felt Wesley’s breath hit the back of my neck. He’d gotten up from the floor and slid up behind me without me realizing it. His arms slid around my waist from behind, his fingers undoing the button of my jeans before I could stop him. “… and Jess had her hopes up that we’d do something fun…” I couldn’t focus on a word Casey was saying as Wesley’s hand slid beneath the waistband of my pants, his fingers moving lower and lower. I couldn’t say a word. I couldn’t tell him to stop or show any reaction at all. If I did, Casey would know I wasn’t alone. But, God, I could feel my whole body turning into a ball of fire. Wesley was laughing against my neck, knowing he was driving me crazy. “… I just don’t understand what’s up with you.” I bit my lip to keep from gasping as Wesley’s fingers slipped to places that made my knees shake. I could feel the smirk on his lips as they moved to my ear. Asshole. He was trying to torture me. I couldn’t handle it much longer. “Bianca, are you there?” Wesley bit my earlobe and pushed my jeans even lower with his free hand as the other continued to make me shiver.

To lovers out there … There are people, who are focused on pleasing their partner in a relationship and there are those who are focused on pleasing strangers, social media, congregation, family, and friends about their relationship. That difference Is felt or experienced by their partner.

My friendly, card-carrying cupids!” beamed Lockhart. “They will be roving around the school today delivering your valentines! And the fun doesn’t stop here! I’m sure my colleagues will want to enter into the spirit of the occasion! Why not ask Professor Snape to show you how to whip up a Love Potion! And while you’re at it, Professor Flitwick knows more about Entrancing Enchantments than any wizard I’ve ever met, the sly old dog!” Professor Flitwick buried his face in his hands. Snape was looking as though the first person to ask him for a Love Potion would be force-fed poison.

Countries might collapse if people knew aliens that were more technologically advanced were protecting us,” Matias says and then waves his hand before I can disagree. “But that’s neither here nor there, Lotta. I have found your friend, and she went willingly to live across the galaxy with her alien husband.

To lovers out there ... Some people in a relationship, lose their partners by substituting Instead of adding to what they have. Once they have fame, money, car, house, beauty, job, friends . They substitute respect , treatment, love and care in relationship with those things. That is why ? The relationship becomes sour and dies.

Let her know you adore her. Do not make her heart guess. Boldly say how you love her. Thy devotion confess. Let her know you admire her, All her talents and dreams. Boldly reach for her fingers. Gently slip on a ring. Let her know that you need her, As a lover and friend. Boldly kneel and implore her, To be yours ’til the end.

The bartender is Irish. Jumped a student visa about ten years ago but nothing for him to worry about. The cook, though, is Mexican. Some poor bastard at ten dollars an hour—and probably has to wash the dishes, too. La Migra take notice of his immigration status—they catch sight of his bowl cut on the way home to Queens and he’ll have a problem. He looks different than the Irish and the Canadians—and he’s got Lou Dobbs calling specifically for his head every night on the radio. (You notice, by the way, that you never hear Dobbs wringing his hands over our border to the North. Maybe the “white” in Great White North makes that particular “alien superhighway” more palatable.) The cook at the Irish bar, meanwhile, has the added difficulty of predators waiting by the subway exit for him (and any other Mexican cooks or dishwashers) when he comes home on Friday payday. He’s invariably cashed his check at a check-cashing store; he’s relatively small—and is unlikely to call the cops. The perfect victim. The guy serving my drinks, on the other hand, as most English-speaking illegal aliens, has been smartly gaming the system for years, a time-honored process everybody at the INS is fully familiar with: a couple of continuing education classes now and again (while working off the books) to get those student visas. Extensions. A work visa. A “farm” visa. Weekend across the border and repeat. Articulate, well-connected friends—the type of guys who own, for instance, lots of Irish bars—who can write letters of support lauding your invaluable and “specialized” skills, unavailable from homegrown bartenders. And nobody’s looking anyway. But I digress…

FRIEND: Any advice for being single on Valentines day? ☹ ME: Whenever you see a couple laughing or kissing, start crying and scream at the guy saying…. ME: “HOW COULD YOU??!! YOU SAID YOU LOVED ME! I GAVE YOU EVERYTHING AND NOW THIS?!?!?! IT’S OVER” Then slap him and walk away, that would be interesting. FRIEND: This is why we are best friends

HERE IS A LIST of foods we discovered in America: Peanut butter. Marshmallows. Barbecue sauce. (You can say, “Can I have BBQ?” to a kid’s mom at potlucks and they’ll know what you mean.) Puppy chow. (Chex cereal covered in melted chocolate and peanut butter and tossed in powdered sugar. They only give it if you win a Valentine friend.) Corn-chip pie (not a pie). (Chili on top of corn chips with cheese and sour cream (not sour).) Some mores. (They say it super fast like s’mores.) Banana puddin. (They don’t say the g. Sometimes they don’t even say the b.) Here is a list of the foods from Iran that they have never heard of here: All of it. All the food. Jared Rhodes didn’t even know what a date was.

Izzy, love is complicated. In many ways it feels like a guessing game. All I’m saying is, don’t leave the game until all the pieces are in play and you know whether it’s worth trying to win.” Wow. That was actually insightful, even poetic. Maybe it was a line from a script he’d read. I had to stop thinking like that if we were going to become friends.

Preserved Children This recipe was on a plaque hanging in a friend’s kitchen. You will need: one half dozen small children one large field one sunny day 2-3 small dogs Mix the children and the dogs together. Dot them over the large field and stir in the sunny day. Sprinkle the field with flowers. Spread with a clear blue sky. Bake in the sun until brown.

valentine my friends stitched it up with golden thread like a red satin pillow they gave me other whole ones too roses and charms and red candles milagros to repair the real one they told me i was no longer allowed to give it away a pretty pin cushion a piece of mexican folk art a hundred beating poems left unanswered like a thing to wear around the neck they said you must heal we will protect you but i sat weeping at the computer forging ahead anyway with the small stitched thing struggling in my chest it knew that it had needed to be torn so that it could recognize and receive the hundred kindnesses traveling across three thousand miles at the speed of light a storm of petals and beautiful words and tiny hearts to keep it company

My Wild Woman welcomed me with open arms into the womb of my cave. She grasped me by the hand and, one by one, introduced me to my shadow creatures. I roamed, I raged, I roared, I explored and when I thought I was done, that I couldn’t possibly go any further, my Wild Woman drew me into her lap. She comforted me in the circle of her fierce embrace and affectionally whispered tendernesses to me. She firmly sent me back out to play until the creatures became my friends. She revealed to me the place where the soft glow of my inner hearth resided and there, we were joined by my Wise Woman, Together, they showed me how to ignite the fire with the parts of myself which no longer served the woman I was becoming and they held me while I grieved.

Why do you say things like that?” “Like what?” She’s back down crouching in front of me. “You say his family like you’re not a part of that.” I can see the heartbreak in her eyes as she continues. “Like you’re not my best friend just as much as he is. As if you’re not Raine’s father just as much as he is. Like being Jesse’s husband isn’t enough to make you part of this family.

And Doris had offered to pick up Valentine and Valentine had said, “My friend Pixie is on the way too, if you . . .” And included her, which was what a best friend should do, but then ignored her and refused to use her real name, her confirmation name, the name by which she would—maybe embarrassing to say but she thought it anyway—the name by which she would rise in the world.

To lovers out there … You can’t put your friends first, when you have a partner and when you are In a relationship. Marriages and relationships end when more than 2 people have a say in the relationship or marriage. Some even extort, sacrifice, undermine, ridicule, mock, disrespect, and humiliate their partners in the relationship so that their friends can benefit or have a laugh.

Each person has his own manner of waking in the morning after a drunken orgy, and as nothing is unknown to a Soviet citizen, so there is nothing strange in the fact that one Soviet citizen wakes up in one way, another so, and a third prefers not to awaken, but lies with face to the wall and eyes closed, waiting in vain for the friends who have forgotten to bring him half a vodka and a cucumber.

I brought all this on myself by telling Ramona the story of my life – how I rose from humble origins to complete disaster. But a man who has made so many mistakes can’t afford to ignore the corrections of his friends. Friends like Sandor, that humped rat. Or like Valentine, the moral megalomaniac and prophet in Israel. To all such, one is well advised to listen. Scolding is better than nothing. At least it’s company.

Can you photoshop Brandon’s smile to be bigger so he looks more in love with me? Maybe put some stars in our eyes and warm up the color in the background. Can you change the color of my boots to a more vibrant red? Definitely a smaller font so it doesn’t take away from the purity of the picture. Okay, but who sent pictures of themselves to all their friends and family for Valentine’s Day? Wasn’t that a Christmas card type of thing?

You will need to stay calm as you witness the candy floss in your daughter’s smile harden into brittle bitchiness. You will need to muster a new resolve as your son’s fascination with Pokémon shifts to porn. You will have to recalibrate your mothering instinct to accommodate the notion that not only do your children poop and burp, they also masturbate, drink and smoke. As their bodies, brains and worlds rearrange themselves, you will need to do your own reshuffling. You will come to see that, though you gave them life, they’re the ones who’ve got a life. They’ve got 1700 friends on Facebook. They’ve got YouTube accounts (with hundreds of sub- scribers), endless social arrangements, concerts, Valentine’s Day dances and Halloween parties. What we have – if we’re lucky – is a ‘Thanks for the ride, Mum, don’t call me, I’ll call you,’ as they slam the car door and indicate we can run along now.

Starbucks’s truly beautiful idea was the simple realization that Americans wanted to spend more money for a cup of coffee, that they’d feel much better about themselves if they spent five dollars for a cup of joe rather than buy that cheap drip stuff that shows such as Friends suggested only fat white trash in housecoats (or people who actually worked for a living) drank anymore—in their trailer parks or meth labs or wherever such people huddled for comfort.

How could such a bitter thing become a means of pleasure? Everything on Valentine was the opposite. Work needn't be suffering, it would unite folks. A bright child like Chester might thrive and prosper, as Molly and her friends did. A mother raise her daughter with love and kindness. A beautiful soul like Caesar could be anything he wanted here, all of them could be: own a spread, be a schoolteacher, fight for colored rights. Even be a poet. In her Georgia misery she had pictured freedom, and it had not looked like this. Freedom was a community laboring for something lovely and rare.

How could such a bitter thing become a means of pleasure? Everything on Valentine was the opposite. Work needn't be suffering, it could unite folks. A bright child like Chester might thrive and prosper, as Molly and her friends did. A mother raise her daughter with love and kindness. A beautiful soul like Caesar could be anything he wanted here, all of them could be: own a spread, be a schoolteacher, fight for colored rights. Even be a poet. In her Georgia misery she had pictured freedom, and it had not looked like this. Freedom was a community laboring for something lovely and rare.

Twas the night before Valentine’s Day, and all through the town, children were busy, not making a sound. They gathered their scissors, their glitter and glue, pink and red paper, and paintbrushes, too. They made cards that read, “Will you be mine?” and others that said, “My true valentine.” They trimmed giant hearts with stickers and lace, and added an arrow in just the right place. Then marking the envelopes with each friend’s name, they hoped that their friends were doing the same. And when they were done, they slept snug in their beds while visions of candy hearts danced in their heads.

metastases has become talk of a few months left. When I saw her in A&E, despite obvious suspicions, I didn’t say the word ‘cancer’ – I was taught that if you say the word even in passing, that’s all a patient remembers. Doesn’t matter what else you do, utter the C-word just once and you’ve basically walked into the cubicle and said nothing but ‘cancer cancer cancer cancer cancer’ for half an hour. And not that you’d ever want a patient to have cancer of course, I really really didn’t want her to. Friendly, funny, chatty – despite the litres of fluid in her abdomen splinting her breathing – we were like two long-lost pals finding themselves next to each other at a bus stop and catching up on all our years apart. Her son has a place at med school, her daughter is at the same school my sister went to, she recognized my socks were Duchamp. I stuck in a Bonanno catheter to take off the fluid and admitted her to the ward for the day team to investigate. And now she’s telling me what they found. She bursts into tears, and out come all the ‘will never’s, the crushing realization that ‘forever’ is just a word on the front of Valentine’s cards. Her son will qualify from medical school – she won’t be there. Her daughter will get married – she won’t be able to help with the table plan or throw confetti. She’ll never meet her grandchildren. Her husband will never get over it. ‘He doesn’t even know how to work the thermostat!’ She laughs, so I laugh. I really don’t know what to say. I want to lie and tell her everything’s going to be fine, but we both know that it won’t. I hug her. I’ve never hugged a patient before – in fact, I think I’ve only hugged a grand total of five people, and one of my parents isn’t on that list – but I don’t know what else to do. We talk about boring practical things, rational concerns, irrational concerns, and I can see from her eyes it’s helping her. It suddenly strikes me that I’m almost certainly the first person she’s opened up to about all this, the only one she’s been totally honest with. It’s a strange privilege, an honour I didn’t ask for. The other thing I realize is that none of her many, many concerns are about herself; it’s all about the kids, her husband, her sister, her friends. Maybe that’s the definition of a good person.

Over a span of twenty years, Shakespeare churned out an impressively whopping thirty-eight plays, 154 love sonnets, and two epic narrative poems. While most people associate him with his plays, it was his sonnets that likely earned him admiration among his contemporaries. Yes, that’s right: In his lifetime, Shakespeare garnered more acclaim for his sonnets than he did for his plays. In England during the 1590s, writing plays was considered a bit hackish—a way to pay the bills—and not an intellectual pursuit. Writing sonnets was all the rage— and a way to gain literary prestige. These poems weren’t published for the plebeian public, but were written down and shared among the literati—and aristocrats looking for some intellectual cachet by becoming patrons to brilliant but perhaps financially strapped writers. So, while Shakespeare likely wrote nearly all of his love sonnets in the early to mid 1590s, they weren’t officially collected and published until 1609, well after the fad had passed. W. H. Auden said of Shakespeare’s sonnets: “They are the work of someone whose ear is unerring.” In today’s less poetry-friendly world, appreciation of these sonnets tends, sadly, to be relegated to classrooms, Valentine’s Day, and anniversaries. Which is too bad, because—though they do indeed rhyme—they are far superior to the ditties found in ninety-nine-cent greeting cards. In fact, they cover the whole gamut of love—the good, the bad, the erotic, and the ugly, including love triangles, being dumped, and jealousy. There is also speculation as to how autobiographical the sonnets are. The truth is that we know so little about Shakespeare’s private life.

What’s the most frightening thing to a child? The pain of being the outsider, of looking ridiculous to others, of being teased or picked on in school. Every child burns with fear at the prospect. It’s a primal instinct: to belong. McDonald’s has surely figured this out—along with what specific colors appeal to small children, what textures, and what movies or TV shows are likely to attract them to the gray disks of meat. They feel no compunction harnessing the fears and unarticulated yearnings of small children, and nor shall I. “Ronald has cooties,” I say—every time he shows up on television or out the window of the car. “And you know,” I add, lowering my voice, “he smells bad, too. Kind of like … poo!” (I am, I should say, careful to use the word “alleged” each and every time I make such an assertion, mindful that my urgent whisperings to a two-year-old might be wrongfully construed as libelous.) “If you hug Ronald … can you get cooties?” asks my girl, a look of wide-eyed horror on her face. “Some say … yes,” I reply—not wanting to lie—just in case she should encounter the man at a child’s birthday party someday. It’s a lawyerly answer—but effective. “Some people talk about the smell, too… I’m not saying it rubs off on you or anything—if you get too close to him—but…” I let that hang in the air for a while. “Ewwww!!!” says my daughter. We sit in silence as she considers this, then she asks, “Is it true that if you eat a hamburger at McDonald’s it can make you a ree-tard? I laugh wholeheartedly at this one and give her a hug. I kiss her on the forehead reassuringly. “Ha. Ha. Ha. I don’t know where you get these ideas!” I may or may not have planted that little nugget a few weeks ago, allowing her little friend Tiffany at ballet class to “overhear” it as I pretended to talk on my cell phone.

This Butterfly Stings by Stewart Stafford The gold of my eye dances on stage for me, Her wings wafting behind her in the chorus, Yet none glimpsed that girl's beauty as I did, This butterfly flew solo in my mind's eye. For two years hence, I concealed my interest, Yet I gazed at her endlessly, so close yet apart, Places of learning changed, but she did not, I foolishly let fly Cupid's token to my inamorata. Seeing my love in a looking glass reflected, Shadow feelings illuminated St Valentine's Eve, My butterfly became a sullen stinging bee, Crushing my tender rose in pieces at my feet. Nor would her wicked scorn end there, She told her friends who joined in my shaming, For years after, turning my last shreds of adoration, Into contemptuous hatred of her existence. Truly no one can take away our memories, Where my former crush still dances on occasion, O sweet butterfly of my youth, one last wish, Never fly away from these fond recollections. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

My friend,” said Monte Cristo, with an expression of melancholy equal to his own, “listen to me. One day, in a moment of despair like yours, since it led to a similar resolution, I also wished to kill myself; one day your father, equally desperate, wished to kill himself too. If anyone had said to your father, at the moment he raised the pistol to his head—if anyone had told me, when in my prison I pushed back the food I had not tasted for three days—if anyone had said to either of us then, ‘Live—the day will come when you will be happy, and will bless life!’—no matter whose voice had spoken, we should have heard him with the smile of doubt, or the anguish of incredulity,—and yet how many times has your father blessed life while embracing you—how often have I myself——” “Ah,” exclaimed Morrel, interrupting the count, “you had only lost your liberty, my father had only lost his fortune, but I have lost Valentine.” “Look at me,” said Monte Cristo, with that expression which sometimes made him so eloquent and persuasive—“look at me. There are no tears in my eyes, nor is there fever in my veins, yet I see you suffer—you, Maximilian, whom I love as my own son. Well, does not this tell you that in grief, as in life, there is always something to look forward to beyond? Now, if I entreat, if I order you to live, Morrel, it is in the conviction that one day you will thank me for having preserved your life.

In the days leading up to Valentine’s Day, in addition to the daily letter I also made sure to send her a Valentine’s card and a different bar of chocolate. I was buying really nice bars of chocolate, all different flavors and kinds. She was only allowed to eat them right there at mail call, and sometimes she would get several packages at once, so even though it was hard to do, she’d share bites of her chocolate with other people. I also made sure to give extra thought to the regular, daily letter that would arrive on Valentine’s Day: Jamie, In the beginning of our relationship I criticized your expectations in a boyfriend. I told you that you watched too many movies and lived in a fantasy world. In a way I was asking you to settle. Even through our arguments about what was realistic and what was a fairy tale, I did everything I could to be your prince in a world where I saw you as the princess that you are. I was wrong to ever question you. Your standards never dropped and it forced me to rise up to the level needed to keep you. Like a storybook romance, I’ve defended your honor, showered you with love, worshipped the ground you walk on, and will faithfully wait for you while you’re away. You have made me a better man. Because of you I live a life I am proud of and have become the father, brother, son, and friend my family deserves. Your love has positively affected every aspect of my life. And for that I could never repay you. But I will happily be forever yours, paying off my debt and love for years to come. Like your favorite movie, Beauty and the Beast, a tale as old as time, we are living proof that fantasy can be reality. Love always and forever, Noah I’d never been that outwardly romantic before. I’d never worn my feelings on my sleeve quite like I did with her.

I don’t know if I was falling for her slowly, day by day, or if it all started when I met her and then got suspended for years by sheer force of will or denial. But I just fell so hard and fast for Birdie Beckett in the past half hour. I am dizzy with love for her.

I think I fell in love with you at first sight, Birdie. It just took me six years to realize it.

I want to fall asleep with you, dream with you, and wake up with you in my arms. Whenever possible. And before we fall asleep, I want to do absolutely filthy things to you. Filthy, beautiful things. In a loving way. But really fucking filthy.

It hurts. I’m happy, but why does my heart hurt so much?” “Ahhhh, because it’s growin’. A boy’s heart has to break first so it can grow bigger. Man-size. For a real woman.

That’s how it is with us. This easy, comfortable camaraderie. A desire to do what’s right for both of us—whatever it takes for us to be together—underscored with a restrained yearning. And then all of a sudden, an undeniable ache and longing, followed by an intense need to just fucking do it already.

She kisses me so deeply. It takes my breath away and gives me back something that I didn’t realize I had lost—the belief that I deserve a woman like Birdie. No, that’s not right. There is no other woman like Birdie. It’s just Birdie.

I do like my dreams of the future with you, but I can’t say that I regret our past.

There’s the flash of awareness, the darkness and the nothingness, and then there’s just Birdie, calling me home.

Collier understood and preached this swim-with-current-rather-than-against strategy. Do not arrive as an interruption or disruption, attempting to divert your reader's attention from the object it is focused on, fighting to interest him in something different from what he is already, at this moment, interested in. Instead, align yourself with the subjects already possessing his attention, the matters already garnering his interest, the self-talk conversation already occurring in his mind, and the conversations he is already having around the water-cooler at work or at the kitchen table at home with peers, friends, and family. About this, Collier wrote: “Study your reader first — your product second…. The reader of your letter wants certain things and the desire for them is, consciously or unconsciously, the dominant idea in his mind all the time. He is also engaged by the news or events or public conversations of the day. Put yourself in his place. If you were deep in discussion with a friend over some matter and a stranger came up and said: ‘Mister, I have a fine coat I want to sell you!’ — what would you do? The same thing happens when you approach a man by mail. He is in discussion with himself. If you just butt in, will you be welcome? How would you do it if approaching him and his friend in person? You'd listen and get the trend of the conversation. Then, when you chimed in, it would be with a remark on a related subject. Then you could gradually bring the talk around logically to the point you wanted to discuss. Study your reader. Know what interests him. Listen to the conversation he is already having with himself. Enter where he already is.” There are some obvious, perennially occurring attention dominators, such as seasons and holidays, and linking to these — regardless of whether your business naturally links or not — can be extremely helpful. You need not be a florist, jeweler, or restaurant to utilize Valentine's Day, for example. Beyond that, and deeper than that, every customer group has some shared item on their minds. Know it. Start your conversation with them with it. And be sure to take advantage of one of the great advantages of today's online media, including e-mail, blogs, and social media sites — being day to day, even hour by hour, timely. You can link a marketing message to world or local, financial, or cultural news of the moment — and you should.

In Victorian Britain, as well as regular ‘you’re alright’ Valentine’s cards, a tradition started where people sent out ‘Vinegar Valentines’ – cards to tell strangers, or even friends, that you secretly hated them, or some other horrible thing that you would never say to their face.

Are you going to go out with Rupert?” “I don’t know.” “I don’t think you should.” She stops rubbing my hands. “Why not?” “I don’t want you to.” “Why not?” Okay, new plan. “Because he can’t make you feel good the way I can.” “He can’t make me angry and confused either.” “You’re only angry and confused because you’re resisting it.” “Resisting what?” “Me

Fucking hell, you have no idea how much I’ve wanted you. I thought about it the first time I saw you.

I stroke the length of him over his sweatpants. How are you not the cockiest man on earth, Eddie Cannavale? Oh my God! This is a magnificent male sexual organ. I’m so proud of him.

That's exactly why I love you, Birdie. You want me to be the best version of me. But you're the one who brings out the best of me. It was never her or anyone else. It was always just a matter of time before I realized how I felt about you.

Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. John 15:13

In the US, every generation of kids claimed a similar bauble, popular for a month or two in middle school. You gave your friend one half and kept the other. If you were sentimental, you hung on to yours into adulthood, and it ended up in some keepsake box full of valentines and ticket stubs that your kids had to throw out when you died.

Bean had become a friend, finally, to take the place of the lost Alai, who in turn took the place of Valentine. Valentine, who was helping Peter in his plotting. Valentine, who still loved Ender no matter what happened. … Earth was the constant noise of crickets and winds and birds. And the voice of one girl, who spoke to him out of his far-off childhood. The same voice that had once protected him from terror. The same voice that he would do anything to keep alive, even return to school, even leave Earth behind again for another four, or forty or four thousand years. Even if she loved Peter more.

Who’s your friend writing to?” Kilian asked. “She’s covered both sides of the paper.” I sobel laughed. “You.” “Me?” He touched his chest, turning backwards to face her as he pushed open the door with his shoulder. “How touching. And unsurprising.

Ice may melt in the hot sun, but my heart melts when you smile

Love gave me a lifetime. You gave me an eternity.

You should fly and release your love back out and into the world.

Each day is a celebration in life.

Love has to start somewhere. So it might as well start here with you.

Without your smile, love would be just a memory.

As far as Valentine was concerned, the way he kept being likeable was starting to feel pointed. And probably meant they were friends. Dammit.

Bathing,” explained Valentine. “As gentlemen do. With their gentlemen friends.” Bonny offered a decisive nod. “That is exactly what is going on here. Gentlemanly bathing. Between gentlemen friends.