Girlfriend Missing Quotes

And she was good to me: strong, fun, and fiercely loyal. And if I didn't have many other friends because of her-most girls were intimidated by her looks, or thought she was too pushy, or just flat-out feared for their boyfriends-it never bothered me. I never missed having a wide, thick circle of girlfriends: Rina was more than enough. We were comfortable with each other's flaws and weaknesses, so we stuck together and kept to ourselves.

Maybe it was a mistake leaving you. And I don’t know how to make it right. Regret fills me every single day. So much of it builds up I Hate myself for Missing you. Hurting you. And I want you to know i... Long for you Love you Others may come and go in our lives but... We belong together

I miss your voice because it is a symphony; your scent because it is a treasure; your smile because it is a jewel; your hug because it is a masterpiece; and your kiss because it is a miracle.

I wonder if you ever read my poems and wish they were written for you.

I turn to head outside when the boys make their way back into the house. Kel stops in the doorway and puts his hands on his hips, then looks up at me. “Are you my sister’s boyfriend?” I’m thrown off by his directness. I pull my jacket on and shake my head. “Um, no. Just her friend.” “She told my mom you were taking her on a date. I thought only boyfriends took girls on dates.” “Well,” I pause. “Sometimes boys take girls on dates to see if they want them to be their girlfriend.” I notice Caulder standing beside me, taking in the conversation as if he’s just as curious. I wasn’t prepared to have to explain the rules of dating right now. “So it’s like a test?” Caulder asks. “To see if you want Layken to be your girlfriend?” I shrug and nod. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.” Kel laughs. “You aren’t gonna like her. She burps a lot. And she’s bossy. And she never lets me drink coffee, so she probably won’t let you have any, either. And she has really bad taste in music and sings way too loud and leaves her bras all over the house. It’s gross.” I laugh. “Thanks for the warning. You think it’s too late to back out now?” Kel shakes his head, missing my sarcasm completely. “No, she’s already dressed so you have to take her now.” I sigh, pretending to be annoyed. “Well, it’s just a few hours. Hopefully she won’t burp a lot and boss me around and steal my coffee and sing to her really bad music and leave her bra in my car.” Or hopefully she will.

There is nothing I can do that won’t bring me back to you.

Here goes. See, my boyfriend and I decided to stay together for the summer, you know, even though he had to go visit some family in nowhereville. At least, that’s what he told me. Anyway, everything was fine at first, because you know, we talked every night, and then boom, he just stopped calling. So I called and texted him like the good girlfriend I am, and it wasn’t stalkerish, I swear, because I stopped after, like, the thirtieth time. A week goes by before he finally hits me back, and he was totally drunk and all, hey, baby, I miss you and what are you wearing, like no time had passed, and I was all, you so do not deserve to know.

She leaves an empty hole behind her. There was this feeling of optimism and joy in the house when she was around that's now turned into void. Like Vincent, I feel hollow. Sad. And as the days pass, I begin to realize I've grown to care for Kate. Not as my best friend's girlfriend, but as someone in and of herself. And I realize I miss her.

If I can’t be your love, then let me be a simple brooch so I may rest a while against your chest. If I can’t be your love, then let me be a forgotten coin so I may rest a while against your thigh. If I can’t be your love, then let me be an unlit cigarette so I may rest a while in between your lips. If I can’t be your love, then let me at least remain in these words so I may rest a while in your thoughts.

Didn't you," he asked, "have me exorcised?" "Me?" My own voice rocketed up about ten octaves. "Me? Jesse, of course not. I would never do that. I mean, you know I would never do something like that. That kid Jack did it. Your girlfriend Maria made him do it. She was trying to get rid of you. She told Jack you were bothering me, and he didn't know any better, so he exorcised you, and then Felix Diego threw me off the porch roof, and Jesse, they found your body, I mean your bones, and I saw them and I threw up all over the side of the house, and Spike really misses you and I was just thinking, you know, if you wanted to come back, you could, because that's why I've got this rope, so we can find our way back.

Some people masturbate to temporarily replace their partners when they are absent, whereas some people do that to temporarily live in the present.

Have a joke for me Tania," he says, "I could use a joke." "Hmm." She thinks, looks at him, looks to see where Anthony is. He's far in the back. "Okay, what about this." With a short cough she leans into Alexander and lowers her voice. "A man and his young girlfriend are driving in a car. The man has never seen his girlfriend naked. She thinks he is driving too slow, so they decide to play a game. For every five miles he goes above 50, she will take off a piece of her clothing. In no time at all, he is flying and she is naked. The man gets so excited that he loses control of the car. It veers off the road and hits a tree. She is unharmed but he is stuck in the car and can’t get out. “Go back on the road and get help,” he tells her. “But I’m naked,” she says. He rummages around and pulls off his shoe. “Here, just put this between your legs to cover yourself.” She does as she is told and runs out to the road. A truck driver, seeing a naked crying woman, stops. “Help me, Help me,” she sobs, “My boyfriend is stuck and I can’t get him out.” The Truck driver says, “Miss, if he’s that far in, I’m afraid he’s a goner.

I'm sorry," she says. "Did we make it a big deal?" "Oh my God. Seriously? You guys make everything a big deal." "Really?" she says. "When I started drinking coffee. When I started shaving . When I got a girlfriend." "That stuff is exciting," she says. "It's not that exciting," I say. "It's like—I don't even know. You guys are so freaking obsessed with everything I do. It's like I can't change my socks without someone mentioning it." "Ah," says my dad. "So, what you're trying to say is that we're really creepy." "Yes," I say. My mom laughs. "See, but you're not a parent yet, so you can't understand. It's like—you have this baby, and eventually, he starts doing stuff. And I used to be able to see every tiny change, and it was so fascinating." She smiles sadly. "And now I'm missing stuff. The little things. And it's hard to let go of that.

I’d definitely found my equal, the woman who made my life a living hell and lived to antagonize me. A woman whose mouth I wanted to tape shut . . . every bit as much as I wanted to kiss it. My girlfriend, my former intern, Miss Chloe Mills. Beautiful Bitch.

An old girlfriend is a gun in your belly. It's no longer loaded, so when you see her, all you feel is the hollow mechanical click in your gut, and possibly the ghost of an echo, sense memory from when it used to carry live rounds. Occasionally, though, there's a bullet you missed, lying dormant in its overlooked chamber, and when that trigger gets pulled, the unexpected gunshot is deafening even as the forgotten bullet rips its way through the tissue and muscle of your midsection and out into the light of day. Seeing Carly is like that. Even though we haven't spoken in almost ten years, it's an explosion, and in that one instant every memory, every feeling, comes flooding back as fresh as if it were yesterday.

The current girlfriend, boyfriend, wife, or husband is often an utterly unsuccessful attempt to stop missing or loving the previous one.

Bex gave me a wink, and for a second I thought about Zach. I know this probably makes me the worst unofficial girlfriend ever, but it was kind of nice not having him there. It felt good to be just us girls again. It was nice to have the chance to miss him

I miss being a mistress. I enjoyed it. I loved it, in fact. I never felt guilty. I pretended I did. I had to, with my married girlfriends, the ones who live in terror of the pert au pair or the pretty, funny girl in the office who can talk about football and spends half her life in the gym. I had to tell them that of course I felt terrible about it, of course I felt bad for his wife, I never meant for any of this to happen, we fell in love, what could we do?

Jenna had tried to cheer me up that morning, saying, "At least you have it with a hot guy." "Archer isn't hot anymore," I'd fired back. "He tried to kill me, and his girlfriend is Satan." But I have to admit that as we stood beside each other on the cellar steps and listened to the Vandy ramble on about what we were supposed to do down there, I couldn't help but sneak sideways glances at him and notice that, homicidal tendencies and evil girlfriends aside, he was still hot. As usual,his tie was loose and his shirt-sleeves were rolled up. He was watching the Vandy with this bored, vaguely amused look, arms crossed over his chest. That pose did most excellent things for his chest and arms.How unfair was it that Elodie of all people got that as a boyfriend? I mean, where is the justice when-" "Miss Mercer!" the Vandy barked, and I jumped high enough to nearly lose my balance. I clutched the banister next to me, and Archer caught my other elbow. Then he winked, and I immediately turned my attention back to the Vandy like she was the most fascinating person I'd ever seen. "Do you need me to repeat anything, Miss Mercer?" she sneered. "N-no. I got it," I stammered. She stared at me for a minute. I think she was trying to come up with a witty put-down.But the Vandy,like most mean people, was dumb, so in the end, she just sort of growled and pushed between me and Archer to stalk up the stairs. "One hour!" she called over her shoulder. The ancient door didn't so much as creak as scream in pain as she pushed it closed.

The thing about old girlfriends, Micah reflected, is that each one subtracts something from you. You say goodbye to your first great romance and move on to the next, but you find you have less to give to the next. A little chip of you has gone missing; you’re not quite so wholly there in the new relationship.

The neighborhood drug dealer kicks out his wife. He moves in a girlfriend and the wife finds out. The wife lets herself back into the house and steals a hundred thousand dollars that the drug dealer can't report missing. The drug dealer's wife goes to India, where she sends her husband a cable: "The people here are poor so I gave them all your money.

Your relationship or marriage is dead or dying, if you almost always have to remind your partner to miss you (and/or they almost always have to remind you to miss them).

Harper lifted the book without looking at Flann. “Reading here.” Flannery craned her neck. “The Case of the Missing Girlfriend.

At ten o’clock I receive a text from Blake. Hi, girlfriend! I just wanted you to know I’m turning in for the evening. Alone. Because we’re dating. I’m not a total jerk, so I reply, Hey there! How’s Chicago? I’m turning in, too. Alone. Because that’s how I roll. I miss you, he writes. And now I don’t know whether or not to be honest. I miss you, too, I admit. But that doesn’t mean we’re dating. We are, though. Good night, Blake. Good night, girlfriend.

Its been a long time we both talked properly. I guess its because many thing went wrong between us and ik that ab its difficult to get back on the road; road on which we used to travel before. You know every time I open my messenger the first thing that i check is that whether you're online or not. Let's begin again and try not to discuss on old shits.. Love you

Hello?" I say, sounding upbeat, and like I'm happy to be on the phone. I decide to pretend it's my imaginary girlfriend. Fuck pretending to be nice. "Yo, " B. J. Says. "What's going on, honey?" I say, trying to glance at Courtney out of the corner of my eye without her noticing that that's what I'm doing. She's going through her bag, probably looking for more makeup, so she can make herself look good for Lloyd. "Honey?" B. J. Asks. "Jordy, I had no idea you felt that way about me. I have to warn you, though, I happen to be in a very committed relationship. " "Yeah, I miss you, too.

I can’t believe ‘D’ talked to me like that. I can’t believe Zach has a girlfriend besides me. I miss Tad. I wish I had been born a fucking tiger all muscle and stripes and furry and I wouldn’t give a fuck about this garbage.

About ten other young, male undergraduates regularly attended these sessions of midnight programming. “It was a whole subculture. It’s been popularized now, but it was a secret cult in my days,” said Alsing. “The game of programming—and it is a game—was so fascinating. We’d stay up all night and experience it. It really is like a drug, I think.” A few of his fellow midnight programmers began to ignore their girlfriends and eventually lost them for the sake of playing with the machine all night. Some started sleeping days and missed all their classes, thereby ruining their grades. Alsing and a few others flunked out of school.

It’s not his girlfriend. It’s Princess Toadstool. And it’s not a gorilla,” I stress. “It’s Lemmy Koopa of the evil Koopa clan. And baby, as usual, you’re missing the point.” “Please enlighten me.” “The whole point of Super Mario Bros. is that it mirrors life.

These are lines from my asteroid-impact novel, Regolith: Just because there are no laws against stupidity doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be punished. I haven’t faced rejection this brutal since I was single. He smelled trouble like a fart in the shower. If this was a kiss of gratitude, then she must have been very grateful. Not since Bush and Cheney have so few spent so much so fast for so long for so little. As a nympho for mind-fucks, Lisa took to politics like a pig to mud. She began paying men compliments as if she expected a receipt. Like the Aerosmith song, his get-up-and-go just got-up-and-went. “You couldn’t beat the crap out of a dirty diaper!” He embraced his only daughter as if she was deploying to Iraq. She was hotter than a Class 4 solar flare! If sex was a weapon, then Monique possessed WMD I haven’t felt this alive since I lost my virginity. He once read that 95% of women fake organism, and the rest are gay. Beauty may be in the eyes of the beholder, but ugly is universal. Why do wives fart, but not girlfriends? Adultery is sex that is wrong, but not necessarily bad. The dinosaurs stayed drugged out, drooling like Jonas Brothers fans. Silence filled the room like tear gas. The told him a fraction of the truth and hoped it would take just a fraction of the time. Happiness is the best cosmetic, He was a whale of a catch, and there were a lot of fish in the sea eager to nibble on his bait. Cheap hookers are less buck for the bang, Men cannot fall in love with women they don’t find attractive, and women cannot fall in love with men they do not respect. During sex, men want feedback while women expect mind-reading. Cooper looked like a cow about to be tipped over. His father warned him to never do anything he couldn’t justify on Oprah. The poor are not free -- they’re just not enslaved. Only those with money are free. Sperm wasn’t something he would choose on a menu, but it still tasted better than asparagus. The crater looked alive, like Godzilla was about to leap out and mess up Tokyo. Bush follows the Bible until it gets to Jesus. When Bush talks to God, it’s prayer; when God talks to Bush, it’s policy. Cheney called the new Miss America a traitor – apparently she wished for world peace. Cheney was so unpopular that Bush almost replaced him when running for re-election, changing his campaign slogan to, ‘Ain’t Got Dick.’ Bush fought a war on poverty – and the poor lost. Bush thinks we should strengthen the dollar by making it two-ply. Hurricane Katrina got rid of so many Democratic voters that Republicans have started calling her Kathleen Harris. America and Iraq fought a war and Iran won. Bush hasn’t choked this much since his last pretzel. Some wars are unpopular; the rest are victorious. So many conservatives hate the GOP that they are thinking of changing their name to the Dixie Chicks. If Saddam had any WMD, he would have used them when we invaded. If Bush had any brains, he would have used them when we invaded. It’s hard for Bush to win hearts and minds since he has neither. In Iraq, you are a coward if you leave and a fool if you stay. Bush believes it’s not a sin to kill Muslims since they are going to Hell anyway. And, with Bush’s help, soon. In Iraq, those who make their constitution subservient to their religion are called Muslims. In America they’re called Republicans. With great power comes great responsibility – unless you’re Republican.

They hang around, hitting on your friends or else you never hear from them again. They call when they’re drunk, or finally get sober, they’re passing through town and want dinner, they take your hand across the table, kiss you when you come back from the bathroom. They were your loves, your victims, your good dogs or bad boys, and they’re over you now. One writes a book in which a woman who sounds suspiciously like you is the first to be sadistically dismembered by a serial killer. They’re getting married and want you to be the first to know, or they’ve been fired and need a loan, their new girlfriend hates you, they say they don’t miss you but show up in your dreams, calling to you from the shoe boxes where they’re buried in rows in your basement. Some nights you find one floating into bed with you, propped on an elbow, giving you a look of fascination, a look that says I can’t believe I’ve found you. It’s the same way your current boyfriend gazed at you last night, before he pulled the plug on the tiny white lights above the bed, and moved against you in the dark broken occasionally by the faint restless arcs of headlights from the freeway’s passing trucks, the big rigs that travel and travel, hauling their loads between cities, warehouses, following the familiar routes of their loneliness.

Jake still won’t talk to me, and I miss him so much, it’s like I’ve been hollowed out by a nuclear blast and there’s nothing left but ashes fluttering inside brittle bones. I’ve sent him dozens of texts that aren’t only unanswered; they’re unread. He unfriended me on Facebook and unfollowed me on Instagram and Snapchat. He’s pretending I don’t exist and I’m starting to think he’s right. If I’m not Jake’s girlfriend, who am I?

For days at a time, she disappears off the face of the earth, okay? Won’t answer calls, misses work, dates, fittings. Everyone else got used to it. It was part of her mystery. Would she show up or wouldn’t she? All very exciting. But it sucks when you’re dating her. Your sister was a lousy girlfriend.

I miss being a mistress. I enjoyed it. I loved it, in fact. I never felt guilty. I pretended I did. I had to, with my married girlfriends, the ones who live in terror of the pert au pair or the pretty, funny girl in the office who can talk about football and spends half her life in the gym. I had to tell them that of course I felt terrible about it, of course I felt bad for his wife, I never meant for any of this to happen, we fell in love, what could we do? The truth is, I never felt bad for Rachel.... She just wasn’t real to me, and anyway, I was enjoying myself too much. Being the other woman is a huge turn-on, there’s no point denying it: you’re the one he can’t help but betray his wife for, even though he loves her. That’s just how irresistible you are.

By 'stay,' do you mean forever?" I mean to ask but don't. Stay till I die? Till I am too old to take care of myself, like my father? "For now." is my answer, but I don't know, not really. If moving to New York at age forty-eight taught me anything, it is that I am capable of starting over in a new place. And yet, the thought of leaving it, of knowing how much I would miss, is too painful to contemplate. I remember how Wendy once told me she loved New York so much she couldn't bear the thought of it going on without her. It seemed like both the saddest and the most romantic thing one could possibly say—sad because New York can never return the sentiment, and sad because it's the kind of thing said more often about a romantic love—husband, wife, girlfriend, partner, lover. You can't imagine them going on without you. But they do. We do. Every day, we may wake up and say, What's the point? Why go on? And, there is really only one answer: To be alive.

I hate this,” Morelli said. “Why can’t I have a girlfriend who has normal problems . . . like breaking a fingernail or missing a period or falling in love with a lesbian?

What's that?" "My friend St. Clair bought it for me. So I wouldn't feel out of place." She raises her eyebrows as she pulls back onto the road. "Are there a lot of Canadians in Paris?" My face warms. "I just felt,you know, stupid for a while. Like one of those lame American tourists with the white sneakers and the cameras around their necks? So he bought it for me, so I wouldn't feel....embarrassed. American." "Being American is nothing to be ashamed of," she snaps. "God,Mom,I know.I just meant-forget it." "Is this the English boy with the French father?" "What does that have anything to do with it?" I'm angry. I don't like what she's implying. "Besides,he's American. He was born here? His mom lives in San Francisco. We sat next to each other on the plane." We stop at a red light.Mom stares at me. "You like him." "OH GOD,MOM." "You do.You like this boy." "He's just a friend.He has a girlfriend." "Anna has a boooy-friend," Seany chants. "I do not!" "ANNA HAS A BOOOY-FRIEND!" I take a sip of coffee and choke. It's disgusting. It's sludge. No, it's worse than sludge-at least sludge is organic. Seany is still taunting me. Mom reaches around and grabs his legs,which are kicking her seat again.She sees me making a face at my drink. "My,my. Once semester in France, and suddenly we're Miss Sophisticated. Your father will be thrilled." Like it was my choice! Like I asked to go to Paris! And how dare she mention Dad. "ANNNN-A HAS A BOOOY-FRIEND!" We merge back onto the interstate. It's rush hour,and the Atlanta traffic has stopped moving. The car behind ours shakes us with its thumping bass. The car in front sprays a cloud of exhaust straight into our vents. Two weeks.Only two more weeks.s

Sure, some movies don’t work. Some fail in their intent. But anyone who says they hated a movie is treating a voluntarily shared human experience like a bad Red-Eye out of LAX. The departure is delayed for hours, there’s turbulence that scares even the flight attendants, the guy across from you vomits, they can’t serve any food and the booze runs out, you’re seated next to twin babies with the colic, and you land too late for your meeting in the city. You can hate that. But hating a movie misses the damn point. Would you say you hated the seventh birthday party of your girlfriend’s niece or a ball game that went eleven innings and ended 1–0? You hate cake and extra baseball for your money? Hate should be saved for fascism and steamed broccoli that’s gone cold.

Suddenly, in this lap of luxury, I felt lonely. I missed home, my hostel room and my mother, all at the same time. It is funny how class works. The moment you are placed in a higher one, a part of you feels terrified and alone.

So I am going to run away from Faerie. Like you.' That's not how I'd thought of myself, as a runaway. I was someone with nowhere to go. Waiting until I was older. Or less afraid. Or more powerful. 'The Prince of Elfhame can't up and disappear.' 'They'd probably be happier if I did,' he told me. 'I'm the reason my father is in exile. The reason my mother married him in the first place. My one sister and her girlfriend had to take care of me when I was little, even though they were barely more than kids themselves. My other sister almost got killed lots of times to keep me safe. Things will be easier without me around. They'll see that.' 'They won't,' I told him, trying to ignore the intense surge of envy that came with knowing he would be missed.

Would you like a girlfriend named Sugar? I bet she would think you’re the most handsome kitty she’s ever seen.” “What’s girlfriend?” “You know. A friend who’s a girl. And a cat. Like Mama has Cooper and Greyson who are boys who are friends.” He blinked up at me as I carried him to the bedroom. “Vampire girl?” “Nope, just a cat. A lady cat. She’s very pretty. I’ve seen pictures.” “Spider have to share bowl?” I snort-laughed. “No, she has her own bowl. You don’t have to share.” I put him on the bed. He stretched, then flopped down. “Okay girlfriend. Maybe. No sharing.

Pull up a step, Ace,” I told him. He did, but he had the fidgets. He kept looking for his lucky exit. I told him, “I didn’t really want you. But I can’t get ahold of Winger.” Not that I’d tried. “What? Who?” “Your girlfriend. Big blond goof with no common sense, always has an angle, never tells the truth if a lie will do. Her.” “Part of that fits everybody in this thing,” Morley said. “Even up on the Hill, they turned the truth to quicksilver.” “Untruths, too.” “Quicksilver lies. I like that.” “Deadly quicksilver lies.” I spotted friend C.J. Carlyle. “Look who missed the slaughter at Maggie Jenn’s place.

I’d spent so much of the past seven years living my life in a blur, trying to cram as much as humanly possible into a day. I’d missed out on so much in the process, like having dear girlfriends. It wasn’t until you knew something was about to end that you realized how fortunate you were to have had it in the first place.

I think of all the time I was away from Jenny. All the time I was away from the boys, traveling from city to city. Away from them day after day. Missing out on their schoolwork, their sports, their girlfriends…their lives, really. By the time I was done playing ball, the boys were grown and did exactly what we taught them to do—they went out into the world and made lives for themselves. Got married. Had families of their own. We always had a relationship. They were always cordial. They visited. They kept in touch. But they never looked at me the way they looked at Jenny. I’ve spent a lot of time and energy making sure I never acknowledge how much that hurt. Pretending it wasn’t my fault.

Now that his children had grown into their lives, their own children too, there was no one who needed more than the idea of him, and he thought maybe that was why he had this nagging feeling, this sense that there were things he had to know for himself, only for himself. He knew, of course he knew, that a life wasn't anything like one of those novels Jenny read, that it stumbled along, bouncing off one thing, then another, until it just stopped, nothing wrapped up neatly. He remembered his children's distress at different times, failing an exam or losing a race, a girlfriend. Knowing that they couldn't believe him but still trying to tell them that it would pass, that they would be amazed, looking back, to think it had mattered at all. He thought of himself, thought of things that had seemed so important, so full of meaning when he was twenty, or forty, and he thought maybe it was like Jenny's books after all. Red herrings and misdirection, all the characters and observations that seemed so central, so significant while the story was unfolding. But then at the end you realized that the crucial thing was really something else. Something buried in a conversation, a description - you realized that all along it had been a different answer, another person glimpsed but passed over, who was the key to everything. Whatever everything was. And if you went back, as Jenny sometimes did, they were there, the clues you'd missed while you were reading, caught up in the need to move forward. All quietly there.

Phoebe Hurty hired me to write copy for ads about teen aged clothes. I had to wear the clothes I praised. That was part of the job. And I became friends with her two sons, who were my age. I was over at their house all the time. She would talk bawdily to me and her sons, and our girlfriends when we brought them around. She was funny. She was liberating. She taught us to be impolite in conversation not only about sexual matters, but about American history and famous heroes, about the distribution of wealth, about school, about everything. I now make my living being impolite. I am clumsy at it. I keep trying to imitate the impoliteness which was so graceful in Phoebe Hurty. I think now that grace was easier for her than it is for me because of the mood of the Great Depression. She believed what so many Americans believed then: that the nation would be happy and just and rational when prosperity came. I never hear that word anymore: Prosperity. It used to be a synonym for Paradise. And Phoebe Hurty was able to believe that the impoliteness she recommended would give shape to an American paradise. Now her sort of impoliteness is in fashion. But nobody believes anymore in a new American paradise. I sure miss Phoebe Hurty.

inviting us today, Lady Asprey,” Kitty said sweetly. Helen looked Kitty up and down. “What a lovely little cross that is,” she complimented, before turning to Corinna and saying, sotto voce, “I had one very similar to that, but I think one of the new maids stole it. Those new girls from youknowwhere are just so untrustworthy. My God, I miss my Norma and Natty. You know, I paid them so well that now they’ve abandoned me to start a beach bar in Cebu.

Hiya, Alex. I missed you tonight." My gaze rests on Sam. "Yeah, I see how much you missed me." "Sam? Oh, I don't really like him," she coos, coming close. I can smell the mota radiating off her. "I'm waiting for you to come back to me." "Not gonna happen." "Is it because of your stupid chemistry partner?" She grabs ray chin, trying to force me to look at her, her long nails digging into my skin. I grab both her wrists and pull them aside, all the time wondering how my tough-as-nails ex-girlfriend turned into a tough-as-nails bitch. "Brittany has nothin' to do with you and me. I hear you've been talkin' shit to her." "Did Isa tell you that?" she asks, her eyes narrowed into slits. "Just back off," I say, ignoring her question, "or you'll have a lot more to deal with than a bitter ex-boyfriend." "Are you bitter, Alex? Because you don't act bitter. You act like you don't give a shit." She's right. After I found her sleeping around, it took me a while to get over it, get over her. I wondered what other guys were giving her that I couldn't. "I used to give a shit," I tell her. "I don't now.

Give me the unedited draft of why you’ve never had a girlfriend. Blurt it out.” “Because… So many reasons. Because I’m seventeen. Because I don’t mind being alone. I like it actually. I’ve been surrounded by teenagers who are always in and out of these dramatic, toxic relationships and that’s never held any appeal for me. I want what my parents have. Extraordinary love.” “You understand that you’re missing out on a lot of awesome stuff by choosing to be that way, though, right? Sometimes you don’t know things are going to be extraordinary until they are.

Ode to Magic Pizza By Leo Fitzpatrick O magic pizza, you are so yummy, Now you are sitting in my tummy, I swear you taste better than the real stuff, Almost like you were made with Marshmallow Fluff! Mmmm, fluff! Fluffernutter sandwiches are the best, And I have tried all the rest! But this poem is about Magic Pizza, which I will miss a ton, Because Grace kicked us out Of all the fun. She must want to keep you all to herself, Nah, I’m just kidding, but it will be rough. I’ll miss Team Grace and especially “A,” But I know I’ll still see her every day, Because now she’s my girlfriend … Yay!

This is the definition of peace. The definition is interrupted by Toraf's ringtone. Why did Rachel get Toraf a phone? Does she hate me? Fumbling behind him in the sand, Galen puts a hand on it right before it stops ringing. He waits five seconds and...Yep, he's calling again. "Hello?" he whispers. "Galen, it's Toraf." Galen snorts. "You think?" "Rayna's ready to leave. Where are you?" Galen sighs. “We’re on the beach. Emma’s still sleeping. We’ll walk back in a few minutes.” Emma braved her mom’s wrath by skipping curfew again last night to be with him. Grom’s mating ceremony is tomorrow, and Galen and Rayna’s attendance is required. He’ll have to leave her in Toraf’s care until he gets back. “Sorry, Highness. I told you, Rayna’s ready to go. You have about two minutes of privacy. She’s heading your way. “The phone disconnects. Galen leans down and sweeps his lips over her sweet neck. “Emma,” he whispers. She sighs. “I heard him,” she groans drowsily. “You should tell Toraf that he doesn’t have to yell into the phone. And if he keeps doing it, I’m going to accidentally break it.” Galen grins. “He’ll get the hang of it soon. He’s not a complete idiot.” At this, Emma opens one eye. He shrugs. “Well, three quarters maybe. But not a complete one.” “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” she says, sitting up and stretching. “You know I do. But I think this mating ceremony will be interesting enough without introducing my Half-Breed girlfriend, don’t you think?” Emma laughs and pulls her hair to one side, draping it over her shoulder. “This is our first time away from each other. You know, as a couple. We’ve only been really dating for two weeks now. What will I do without you?” He pulls her to him, leaning her back against his chest. “Well, I’m hoping that this time when I come back, it won’t be to the sight of you kissing Toraf.” The snickers beside them let them know their two minutes of privacy are up. “Yeah. Or someone’s gonna die,” Rayna says cordially. Galen helps Emma up and swats the leftover sand out of her sundress. He takes her hands into his. “Could I please just ask one thing without you getting all mad about it?” She scowls. “Let me guess. You don’t want me to get in the water while you’re gone.” “But I’m not ordering you to stay out of it. I’m asking, no begging, very politely, and with all my heart for you not to get in. It’s your choice. But it would make me the happiest man-fish on the coast if you wouldn’t.” They sense the stalker almost daily now. That and the fact that Dr. Milligan blew his theory about Emma’s dad being a Half-Breed out of the water makes Galen more nervous than he can say. It means they still don’t have any answers about who could know about Emma. Or why they keep hanging around. Emma rewards him with a breathtaking smile. “I won’t. Because you asked.” Toraf was right. I just had to ask. He shakes his head. “Now I can sleep tonight.” “That makes one of us. Don’t stay gone too long. Or Mark will sit by me at lunch.” He grimaces. “I’ll hurry.” He leans down to kiss her. Behind them, he hears Rayna’s initial splash. “She’s leaving without you,” Emma whispers on his lips. “She could have left hours ago and I’d still catch her. Good-bye, angelfish. Be good.” He places a forceful kiss on her forehead, then gets a running start and dives in. And he misses her already.

From all of these things, Harry deduced that Ginny, and probably Neville and Luna along with her, had been doing their best to continue Dumbledore’s Army. This scant news made Harry want to see Ginny so badly it felt like a stomachache; but it also made him think of Ron again, and of Dumbledore, and of Hogwarts itself, which he missed nearly as much as his ex-girlfriend. Indeed, as Phineas Nigellus talked about Snape’s crackdown, Harry experienced a split second of madness when he imagined simply going back to school to join the destabilization of Snape’s regime: Being fed, and having a soft bed, and other people being in charge, seemed the most wonderful prospect in the world at that moment. But

Completely confused as to who the real criminals were in this case, the jury had voted to wash their hands of everybody and they let him off. That had been the meaning of the conversation I'd had with him that afternoon, but I hadn't understood what was happening at all. There were many moments in the Vine like that one—where you might think today was yesterday, and yesterday was tomorrow, and so on. Because we all believed we were tragic, and we drank. We had that helpless, destined feeling. We would die with handcuffs on. We would be put a stop to, and it wouldn't be our fault. So we imagined. And yet we were always being found innocent for ridiculous reasons. ...We bought heroin with the money and split the heroin down the middle. Then he went looking for his girlfriend, and I went looking for mine, knowing that when there were drugs around, she surrendered. But I was in a bad condition—drunk, and having missed a night's sleep. As soon as the stuff entered my system, I passed out. Two hours went by without my noticing. I felt I'd only blinked my eyes, but when I opened them my girlfriend and a Mexican neighbor were working on me, doing everything they could to bring me back. The Mexican was saying, "There, he's coming around now." We lived in a tiny, dirty apartment. When I realized how long I'd been out and how close I'd come to leaving it forever, our little home seemed to glitter like cheap jewelry. I was overjoyed not to be dead. Generally the closest I ever came to wondering about the meaning of it all was to consider that I must be the victim of a joke. There was no touching the hem of mystery, no little occasion when any of us thought—well, speaking for myself only, I suppose— that our lungs were filled with light, or anything like that. I had a moment's glory that night, though. I was certain I was here in this world because I couldn't tolerate any other place. As for Hotel, who was in exactly the same shape I was and carrying just as much heroin, but who didn't have to share it with his girlfriend, because he couldn't find her that day: he took himself to a rooming house down at the end of Iowa Avenue, and he overdosed, too. He went into a deep sleep, and to the others there he looked quite dead. The people with him, all friends of ours, monitored his breathing by holding a pocket mirror under his nostrils from time to time, making sure that points of mist appeared on the glass. But after a while they forgot about him, and his breath failed without anybody's noticing. He simply went under. He died. I am still alive.

Maybe it’s not a coincidence that I’ve always been interested in heroes, starting with my dad, Phil Robertson, and my mom, Miss Kay. My other heroes are my pa and my granny, who taught me how to play cards and dominoes and everything about fishing (which was a lot), and my three older brothers, who teased me, beat me up, and sometimes let me follow them around. Not much has changed in that department. I’ve always loved movies, and when I was about seven or eight years old, I watched Rocky, Sylvester Stallone’s movie about an underdog boxer who used his fists, along with sheer will, determination, and the ability to endure pain, to make a way for himself. He fought hard but played fair and had a soft spot for his friends. I fell in love with Rocky. He was my hero, and I became obsessed. When I decide to do something, I’m all in; so I found a pair of red shorts that looked like Rocky’s boxing trunks and a navy blue bathrobe with two white stripes on the sleeve and no belt. I took off my shirt and ran around bare-chested in my robe and shorts. Most kids I knew went through a superhero phase, but they picked DC Comics guys, like Batman or Superman. Not me. I was Rocky Balboa, the Italian Stallion, and proud of it. Mom let me run around like that for a couple of years, even when we went in to town. Rocky had a girlfriend, Adrian, who was always there, always by his side. When he was beaten and blinded in a bad fight, he called out for her before anybody else. “Yo, Adrian!” he shouted in his Philly-Italian accent. He needed her. Eventually, I grew up, and the red shorts and blue bathrobe didn’t fit anymore, but I always remembered Rocky’s kindness and his courage. And that every Rocky needs an Adrian.

Oh,Ella. I wish you'd had a better time at the ball." "Fuhgeddaboudit," I muttered. Greaseball. Freddy. Freak. "It's not like she and I were ever going to be BFFs." "I wasn't just referring to Amanda." Of course he wasn't. "I'll try," I moaned into the crook of my elbow. "Oh, Lord.I'll try to carry on." "That sounds rather dramatic, even for you." "It's Styx," I told him. "After your time, before mine. I don't know all the words,but those work for the moment. And for the record, I'm being ironic, not dramatic." "If you say so." I ignored him. "I have had my last flutter over Alex Bainbridge. I mean it. Frankie was right.How many signs do I need that we are never, ever going to have...anything...before I get it? Obviously, it doesn't matter that we realte to the same schizo seventies songs. Or that we can discuss antique Japanese woodblock prints. Or that when he sits next to me, he kinda takes my breath away. You would think that would count for a lot,wouldn't you?" Edward gets the concept of rhetorical questions, so I went on. "I wouldn't even want to hazard a guess about what makes Amanda's pulse go all skittery, but I would bet anything it's not Alex. And he's still with her. He doesn't belong with her, but apparently he feels he belongs to her. Explain that,please." "Oh,Ella.We men are not always the best at looking beyond the...er..." "Boobs,Edward. You can say it. Amanda Alstead has boobs and blonda hair. Beyond that, I can't see a single thing that's special about her." "Because there isn't a single thing. Beyond the...er, obvious. You,on the other hand,are a creature of infinite charms. Shall I list them alphabetically or from the top down?" I scowled up at him. "Y'know, you are beginning to sound a little too much like Frankie and Sadie,my deluded Greek chorus." "yes,well,I rather thought that's what friends are for." "You're not supposed to be my friend," I muttered. "You're supposed to be my Prince Charming." "Ahem." Edward's sculpted lips compressed into a grim line. "Have you looked at me lately? I am supposed to be startling and even a bit scary." "Nope.Neither." I rested my chin on my forearm. "To me,you are perfect. You are loyal and reliable and completely lacking in surprises." "That is a good thing?" "Absolutely," I said. "It's an excellent thing.I don't want any more surprises, over." "Hardly an admirable goal,that." "Maybe not," I agreed, "but pleasant. Among all the other bizarreness tonight, I found something new to be afraid of. Evil girlfriends." "Now,Ella. You can't go on being afraid forever." "Oh,yes,I can. As far as Amanda Alstead is concerned, I can." Edward tilted his head and studied me for a moment. He looked annoyed. "Why do you insist on having these conversations with me when you ignore everything I have to say?" It was a pretty good question. "Fine." I sat up straight and folded my hands in my lap. Home Truth time. "Go ahead. On this night when we celebrate the mysteries of life and death..Say something profound, something startling." There was a long silence. Then, "Boo," Edward said. "Thank you,Mr. Willing." "Don't mention it, Miss Marino. I am yours to command.

Being raised evangelical in the Midwest gave me a personal experience of the phenomenon called “religious fundamentalism.” A story illustrates. When I was a boy in high school, I was interested in a girl from our church. It was an evangelical church, although some might have called it a bit fundamentalist—taking a hard line on cultural issues. But I took a chance and invited her to a movie, which was certainly frowned upon back then in our church culture (though my own parents snuck us out to Walt Disney movies at the drive-in, where we were unlikely to be spotted). I chose The Sound of Music, thinking it was “safe.” Who could object to Julie Andrews, I confidently thought? I was wrong. As we left the house, my girlfriend’s father stood in the doorway, blocking our exit, and said to his daughter, “If you go to this film, you’ll be trampling on everything that we’ve taught you to believe.” She fled downstairs to her bedroom in tears. We missed the movie, and the evening was a disaster. A year later, the fundamentalist father watched The Sound of Music on his television—and liked it. Fundamentalism is essentially a revolt against modernity. It is a reaction usually based on profound fear and defensiveness against “losing the faith.” My girlfriend’s father instinctively knew that his religion should make him different than the world. That is a fair religious point, and to be honest, there is much about modernity that deserves some revolting against. But I wish he had chosen to break with America at the point of its materialism, racism, poverty, or violence. Instead, he chose Julie Andrews.

Good game,” someone said, patting my shoulder. “Thanks,” I said, laughing. Then I felt arms come around me and pull me close. “Hey,” Jason said, kissing my neck before parking his chin on my shoulder. Smiling brightly, I turned around in his arms. “Great game.” “Thanks.” “You hit a home run,” I said, like maybe he hadn’t realized it. “I know it seems odd, considering how long I’ve played baseball, but I’ve never hit one before,” he said. “But I knew, I knew as soon as I felt the bat make contact with the ball, that it was going to go out of the park. I don’t know if it sounded different or felt different, but I just knew.” “You did look stunned out there.” “I was. Like I said, I’d never done that before. I mean, hitting has never been my strength.” “It was tonight.” I reached up and kissed his chin. “I need to figure out what it was I did that made me hit the home run.” “You connected the bat to the ball.” “No, it was more than that. Something I did before the game, maybe--” “No, no, no,” I said, lifting myself up onto my toes so I could look directly into his eyes. “There was no thing you did other than keeping your eye on the ball and hitting at the precise moment when the impact would send the ball over the fence.” “I’m not so sure.” “Okay, you want to know what it was? It was having me for a girlfriend--” He put his hand behind my head and kissed me to shut me up. Obviously, he didn’t think I understood the whole ritual scene, and in truth, I didn’t. I mean, sure, when I played softball, I always chewed cinnamon-flavored gum during the game, and I never started chewing until after the national anthem. But that was different. If I didn’t do that, I missed way more balls than I caught. But home runs? There was nothing that guaranteed home runs. Jason drew back. “Maybe it is having you for a girlfriend.” “I was kidding.” “I’m not.

How lonely am I ? I am 21 year old. I wake up get ready for college. I go to the Car stop where I have a bunch of accquaintances whom I go to college with. If I'm unfortunately late to the stop, I miss the Car . But the accquaintances rarely halt the car for me. I have to phone and ask them to halt the car. In the car I don't sit beside anyone because the people I like don't like me and vice versa. I get down at college. Attend all the boring classes. I want to skip a class and enjoy with friends but I rarely do so because I don't have friends and the ones I have don't hang out with me. I often look at people around and wonder how everyone has friends and are cared for. And also wonder why I am never cared for and why I am not a priority to anyone. I reach home and rest for few minutes before my mom knocks on my door. I expect her to ask about my day. But she never does. Sometimes I blurt it out because I want to talk to people. I have a different relationship with my dad. He thinks I don't respect him and that I am an arrogant and self centered brat. I am tired of explaining him that I'm not. I am just opinionated. I gave up. Neither my parents nor my sis or bro ask me about my life and rarely share theirs. I do have a best friend who always messages and phones when she has something to say. That would mostly be about his girlfriend . But at times even though I try not to message him of my life. I do. I message him about how lonely I am. I always wanted a guy or a girl best friend. But he or she rarely talk to me. The girl who talk are extremely repulsive or very creepy. And I have a girl who made me believe that I was special for her.She was the only person who made me feel that way. I knew and still know that she is just toying with me. Yet I hope that's not true. I want to be happy and experience things like every normal person. But it seems impossible. And I am tired of being lonely. I once messaged a popular quoran. I complimented him answers and he replied. When I asked him if I can message him and asked him to be my friend he saw the message and chose not to reply. A reply, even a rejection is better than getting ignored. A humble request to people on Quora. For those who advertise to message them regarding any issue should stop doing that if they can't even reply. And for those who follow them. Don't blindly believe people on Quora or IRL Everyone has a mask. I feel very depressed at times and I want to consult a doctor. But I am not financially independent. My family doesn't take me seriously when I tell them I want to visit a doctor. And this is my lonely life. I just wish I had some body who cared for me and to stand by me. I don't know if that is possible. I stared to hate myself. If this continues on maybe I'll be drowning in the river of self hate and depreciation. Still I have hope. Hope is the only thing I have. I want my life to change. If you read the complete answer then, THANKS for your patience. People don't have that these days.

Kode’s older sister, Kira, was leaning over a display of jewelry, fisting a jade-green necklace in one hand. Her nose was two inches from the Braetic across the table, the two exchanging intimidating glares. Eena watched for a few seconds as Kira all but crawled over a pile of merchandise, her face scrunched up with resentment, yet enviably stunning as always. “Hey Kode,” the young queen whispered. “Hey, girl.” “What’s going on?” “Kira’s bartering.” Eena watched the fistful of necklace come within a whisker of smacking the merchant’s nose. “She isn’t going to hurt the guy, is she?” Kode snorted on a chuckle. “Not if the dude’s got any sense.” Validly concerned, Eena inched closer to the confrontation, straining to hear their growled dialogue. Kode and Niki crept closer too. Efren, however, stayed where he was, testing the flagpole’s ability to support his body weight. They watched the feisty Mishmorat hold up a small pouch and shake it in front of the Braetic’s eyes. Kira’s fingers curled like claws around the purse. She seemed to smirk for a second when the merchant flinched. In a blink he was back in her face again, shoving aside the purse. “What is she trying to trade?” Eena asked, her voice still hushed as though she might disturb the haggling taking place across the way. “Viidun coins,” Kode said. “Ef gave ‘em to her.” “Are they worth much?’ Kode grinned wryly, “He sure as hell don’t freakin’ think so.” Eena foresaw Niki’s disapproving smack to the back of Kode’s head before he even finished his sentence. He cursed at his girlfriend for the physical abuse, an unwise response that earned him an additional thump on the head. “Freakin’ tyrant,” Kode grumbled. “Vulgar grogfish,” Niki retorted. Still unable to hear well enough to satisfy her curiosity, Eena stole in closer to the scene of heated bartering. She stopped when Kira’s strong voice carried over the murmur of the crowd. Kode and his girlfriend were right on her heels. “This purse is worth ten of those gaudy necklaces. You oughta be payin’ me to take ‘em off your hands, Braetic!” “That alien money is worthless to me, Mishmorat. In all my life I’ve never left Moccobatran soil. And even if I were to take an interstellar trip someday, you’d never catch the likes of me on a barbarian planet like Rapador!” Kira jerked her head, causing her black, cascading hair to ripple over her shoulder. The action made the trader flinch again. His eyes tapered, appearing to fume over what he perceived as intentional bullying. “You ain’t gonna sell this crap to no one else,” the exotic Mishmorat said. “Be smart and take the money. Hell, you could make a dozen pieces of jewelry from these coins. Sell ’em all for ten times the worth of anything you got here.” The Braetic shoved his finger at Kira’s chest, breathing down her throat at the same time. “Why don’t you just take your pretty little backside away from my table and make your own Viidun jewelry. Sell it yourself and then come back with a reasonable offer for my necklace.” His palm opened flat, demanding she hand over the jade stones still in her fist. “You wanna make me?” Kira breathed. “What do you plan to do, steal it?” The merchant challenged her in a gesture, nostrils flaring. “I’m no thief, but I’m not above beating some sense into you ‘til you choose to barter like a respectable Braetic!” Caught up in the intense interaction, Kode supported his sister a little too loudly. “Teach the freakin’ crook a lesson, Sis!” Niki smacked her boyfriend upside the head without missing a beat.

Will you for_me? I stared at the two hands, trying to figure out the missing word until a loud sigh came through the door. "Either the answer is no or my drawing sucks." "Hold on." I quickly dressed and opened the door. Simon was leaning against the wall. "So?" he said. "I'm having trouble with one part." I pointed to the hands. "Give," he said. "Ah." I read the note. "Will you for...forgive me? I looked up at him. "I think that's supposed to be my question." "No, you did the right thing. You realized it wasn't what you wanted, and you said no. I'm the jerk who stomped off and left you alone in the forest. I'm sorry. Really sorry." He paused. "So...are we okay?" Relief made my knees wobble. "We're okay. But I am sor—" He held up a hand to cut me off. "I can't get mad at you for confirming something I already suspected. I gave it a shot. I didn't work out. I'm not going to say I'm fine with that, but..." He shrugged. "I like you, Chloe. And it's not a girlfriend-or-nothing kind of like, so I'm hoping we can skip the we-tried-dating-and-it-blew stage and jump straight back to where we were, if you want that." "I want that."

Thanks for coming,” she smiled up at him. “I had no choice. It was either this or find a new girlfriend. As you’ve probably noticed, my history with girlfriends in the post-apocalypse has been pretty hit and miss.

Ready?” “Thanks for coming,” she smiled up at him. “I had no choice. It was either this or find a new girlfriend. As you’ve probably noticed, my history with girlfriends in the post-apocalypse has been pretty hit and miss.

Hannah tells me that you helped protect her from the Hispanics during the riot.” “The Hispanics? Oh, the protest, right.” “Call it what you like, son. This place was crawling with spics, and I am grateful that you took care of my only child.” “Well,” I shrugged. “I guess that’s what boyfriends do.” Spics?? “Only good boyfriends,” Hannah said, still tightly holding my left hand. I could never predict when she’d pour on the affection and when she’d act distant. Were all girlfriends this complicated? “I helped pass that law, you understand,” Mr. Walker said. “I’m an advisor to the senator, and it’s about time someone notable, someone of prestige, took a stand on the influx of hispanics into our once great city. The Hispanics were rioting because of that law, because they’re afraid of justice.” “Oh yeah?” I said. I knew nothing about politics or laws. But I had a feeling I disagreed with him. “But I’ll discontinue this tangent before I begin to preach,” he smiled. “Hannah is giving me the warning look.” “Thank you, Daddy,” Hannah said. “The spics destroyed your car,” he said. “Hannah informed me, and then I read the report in the newspaper.” “That was a good car,” I nodded. “I will miss it.” “Well, let me see what I can do to help,” he said. “I’m a financial consultant to many of our nation’s finest automobile manufacturers, including Mission Motorcycles. You have heard of them?” “I don’t know much about any cars. Or motorcycles,” I admitted. “Well, it just so happens, they owed me a favor and agreed to give me a short-term loan on one of their new electric bikes,” he said. And it was then that I realized we were standing beside a gleaming black, silver, and orange motorcycle. I hadn’t noticed before because our school parking lot always looks like a luxury car showcase, and I’d grown numb to the opulence. A sleek black helmet hung from each handle. Mr. Walker placed his palm on the seat and said, “This bike is yours. Until you get a new car.” “Wow,” I breathed. A motorcycle!! “Isn’t it sexy?” Hannah smiled. “It looks like it’s from the future.” “It does,” I agreed. “I’m almost afraid to touch it, like it’ll fly off. But sir, there’s no way…” “Please don’t be so ungrateful as to refuse, son. That’s low class, and that’s not the Walkers. You are in elite company. Dating my daughter has advantages, as I’m sure she’s told you. You just keep performing on the football field.” “Oh…right,” I said. “I’m gratified I can help,” Mr. Walker said and shook my hand again. “I’m expecting big things from you. Don’t let me down. It’s electric, so you’ll need to charge it at night. Fill out the paperwork in the storage compartment and return them signed to Hannah tomorrow. If you wreck it, I’ll have you drowned off Long Beach. I wish I could stay, but I’m late for a meeting with the Board of Supervisors. Hannah, tell your mother I’ll be out late,” he said and got into the back seat of a black sedan that whisked him away.

I can't think of a single big mistake I made in college that wasn't alcohol related. I never missed a class in college because I was too sober. I never yelled an obscenity at the fraternity next door because I was too sober. I never cheated on my girlfriend because I was too sober.

I am hoping to head out as soon as the flights are not grounded anymore. I have missed her terribly this past week.  Do you have a wife or a girlfriend?" "No, sir, I don't.  Honestly I don't know that I would be any good for anyone else at this point." "Well let me tell you, when you find her, your life will never be the same.  That I can promise you." 

In his twenty-four years on earth (the age on his phony driver’s license was a lie), he’d had exactly one honest-to-gosh girlfriend, one willing to hang out with him longer than a few weeks before either ghosting him or telling him to fuck off. He still missed Cynthia. They were together almost ten whole months. When she abruptly left him two years ago, he was despondent, crying almost continuously for weeks on end. That was such a bad time. He thought a lot about killing himself. Only the constant background presence of The Visitor made any of it bearable. The Visitor was an interdimensional psychic parasite but also a sharer of secret knowledge.

Title: Professional Bridesmaid for Hire—w4w—26 (NYC) Post: When all of my friends started getting engaged, I decided to make new friends. So I did—but then they got engaged also, and for what felt like the hundredth time, I was asked to be a bridesmaid. This year alone, I’ve been a bridesmaid 4 times. That’s 4 different chiffon dresses, 4 different bachelorette parties filled with tequila shots and guys in thong underwear twerking way too close to my face, 4 different prewedding pep talks to the bride about how this is the happiest day of her life, and how marriage, probably, is just like riding a bike: a little shaky at first, but then she’ll get the hang of it. Right, she’ll ask as she wipes the mascara-stained tears from her perfectly airbrushed face. Right, I’ll say, though I don’t really know. I only know what I’ve seen and that’s a beautiful-looking bride walking down, down, down the aisle, one two, three, four times so far this year. So let me be there for you this time if: — You don’t have any other girlfriends except your third cousin, twice removed, who is often found sticking her tongue down an empty bottle of red wine. — Your fiancé has an extra groomsman and you’re looking to even things out so your pictures don’t look funny and there’s not one single guy walking down the aisle by himself. — You need someone to take control and make sure bridesmaid #4 buys her dress on time and doesn’t show up 3 hours late the day of the wedding or paint her nails lime green. Bridesmaid skills I’m exceptionally good at: — Holding up the 18 layers of your dress so that you can pee with ease on your wedding day. — Catching the bouquet and then following that moment up with my best Miss America–like “OMG, I can’t believe this” speech. — Doing the electric and the cha-cha slide. — Responding in a timely manner to prewedding email chains created by other bridesmaids and the maid of honor.

I concentrate on her touch, the warmth seeping through my pants, the feeling of being wanted and needed by her making me feel complete. Like she’s the missing piece I’ve always searched for but never truly knew I needed. My girlfriend.

Miss Hayes. The crazy maniac who happens to be my girlfriend. The kung-fu master who knocked me out with a Wayne Gretzky paper weight.

I’ll have to throw these jeans away and get new ones,” Luca said. “Unless you want these to make a pair of cut-offs?” “Your jeans would be way too big on me,” she said, not looking up from the bowl of ingredients she was mixing. “But there’s something in them for you.” She chuckled. “I bet there is.” “Naughty girl,” he said. “I mean there’s something in the pocket for you. Do you want it?” She walked over to him and held out her hand. “Sure. Whatever.” He placed a tiny charm in the palm of her hand. A heart. “It’s all yours now,” he said. “Even if you drop it, and step on it, and bend it out of shape, it’s still yours. I don’t want it back.” “You had this in your pocket?” “I’ve had it in my pocket every day for the last three months. Except one day when I thought I lost it in the washing machine, but then I found it in the filter. Don’t worry. It’s clean.” She stared at the heart and thought about all the times she’d taken the alley to work, or ducked into a store to avoid seeing Luca on the street. All the times she’d missed her chance to get Luca’s heart back. “I can understand if you don’t want my stupid heart,” he said. “If I were you, I wouldn’t take me back either, because I’m not always a fan of Luca Lowell. He doesn’t always do the right thing.” “Don’t say that.” “It’s true. If I hadn’t gotten backed into by a truck last night and hadn’t gone to the hospital, I don’t know if you ever would have brought me back to your house. Back into your life.” “My tiny house, and my tiny life.” He shrugged. “It’s big enough for me.” He stretched out on the sectional. “You’ll have a hard time kicking me out again.” “Luca, I can’t make you any promises.” “Yes, you can. You can promise to give me a second chance the next time I screw up.” “You didn’t screw up. I did. I’m the one who kicked you out.” “Then I’ll give you a second chance. I won’t be a chicken and take the alley to work so I don’t run into you.” “You did that?” “Only for about a week, until your sister busted me sneaking through the alley like a burglar, and tore me a new one.” He rubbed his beard. “You know, now that I’m thinking over my conversations with her, it’s all making sense. She must have thought Chris’s wife was my girlfriend. The two of them stop by the garage a lot, but not always together. I thought your sister was being—well, you know how she is—but now I think I understand what was really going on.” Tina looked down at the heart in her palm then at Luca. She closed her fingers around the charm. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not going to drop it again.” There was a scratch at the door. Luca rolled himself along the couch, reached out with one long arm, and opened the door. Muffins strolled in like he owned the place. Luca exclaimed, “Kitty!” Muffins jumped up on the couch and started sniffing Luca’s cast. Then he meowed about dinner. Luca picked the cat up gently and held him like a baby. “You are a cutie patootie,” he said, then he cleared his throat and said gruffly, “Yes, uh. This is a healthy cat specimen. A strong hunter. I can tell by his, uh, ample midsection.” Tina said, “That’s some pretty impressive baby talk for a big, tough guy like you.” “Big, tough guys have feelings, too,” Luca said. “And they like cats.

It was a jungle out there, and it was brutal. On the rare occasion when I started a conversation with a possible suitor, I found myself having to roll off a ten-minute questionnaire just to figure out if said man was actually available. I couldn’t just ask if he was single; as history had taught me, each man has his own unique definition of that status. I had to ask a range of questions: “Are you married?” “Are you engaged?” “Are you living with a woman?” “Do you have a girlfriend?” “Are you seeing anyone?” “Are you emotionally available?” A missed question could result in a strategic omission of fact and a subsequent waste of my time. Many men were hedging their bets or playing the market. I needed to be savvy. And wedding rings: what is it with married men not wearing wedding rings? As a single woman, my first glance is always at a man’s ring finger. No ring means fair game. It is hard enough finding a decent man without wasting an hour chatting with a potential only to find he neglected to wear the one thing that declared his commitment. Not a level playing field!

Part: 1 July This one more of how where I remember these days. Photos online, and cam videos all that are my memories- of me to others. Part: 2 August Compare… them then and now- naked slut girl or 1940s modesty. I remember having the old photo album spread out on the bedroom floor. Oh! Wow! Look at this one… do you like how she was remembered better than me? (Photo) Part: 3 It's- September More of the same- I have become a cam-whore!!! Nothing more… Part: 4 OCTOBER …And yah- a, ah- pics that would make you blush, and hard, you boys would love to see me, now, wouldn’t you? Part: 5 NOVEMBER Making cummie videos is my life. Part: 6 DECEMBER Coming 7 hours out of the day is taking time away from other things. Part: 7 WAKING UP …After fraping till- I passed out all hot gross and sweaty, I did not remember falling asleep- with mom and dad- sis and the world seeing me as my door to my trashed bedroom- all jammed open- and’s- and’s- AND’S- did not care at this point. (SAY IT WITH exhausted SLURRING.) JANUARY yet how- ga-gives- a ________. Ef… E- un- mm- ah- in-n… Whatever… I am making 50 G’s in a night… so that makes it okay. (A photo of me lying in bed with all this money!) Part: 8 TIME PASSES Craziness… look at my life here… all board… ‘I am home,’ I mumbled, confused- not even more. ‘What did I do?’ I felt my face wrinkle. It was so unfair. My behavior… here is wow… After that first week… of doing this… How do I look… which neither of us ever mentioned what we do? I hadn't missed a day of school or work. My grades were perfect. Yet this show is all going to shit- no? This is what I did here… showing everything that makes me a girl! Now I am passing down- to her- yah me- is it wrong? I must live with it. #- A cam video and all these photos of her online now are worth 1,000 words! #-0-okay then what does this one says then? My little sis- and she is frapping harder than I do- in this- damn, she is my Minnie me! She started younger than me even- yet that is all girls, her age. Here is one with her dressed wow seem weird to see her with something on anymore- (Swipe- and the phone in your hand would make a click sound…) Oh, this one- She loves these beautiful white lace kid’s girls’ shorts- so girlie- girly- from Wal-Mart, yet she was banned from wearing them in school without anything under them, yet I look around and all other girls do it. Yet, on Facebook- and Instagram 1, you get one persona and on Google images a whole other- just like Snapchat you have her as your girlfriend for the night yet have- yet she is your striptease only- and the other Instagram- that grammar should never- ever see- yet this is how to get popular- and stay popular. Besides then there is the community of internet nudists- on MFC. And the profile- she now has too, a legacy to be remembered by, no? Yet, when you have no education to speak of and working for some d*ck head is just out of the question, over they think you’re not worthy of their time- were you're not making anything, and at this point in Pa she too young to work, yet is old enough to have unprotected sex… Um- and then I wonder- yet she needs the money- for school coming up because your mommy and daddy don’t have it, and all for fun, boys, and a girl's night of fun- and partying- and being crazy. Money is everything… and why girls do what they must do…

Fucking hell. If he’s gonna call me "Good Girl," then he might as well skip past girlfriend and just call me his wife. “I’ll drive you home.” John’s fingers drag over mine as he pushes his chair out and stands.

concentrate on her touch, the warmth seeping through my pants, the feeling of being wanted and needed by her making me feel complete. Like she’s the missing piece I’ve always searched for but never truly knew I needed. My girlfriend.

There weren’t many women who were so beautiful that they made it hard to breathe. A better man would have bowed out of this trip when he’d learned his ex-girlfriend was coming along. A better man would have let her enjoy the weekend with her friends. Except I wasn’t a better man. And it had been too damn long. “What’s it been? Five years?” I asked. Her nostrils flared. “Six.” “Six. Huh.” I took a sip of my beer. “If you’ve been counting, does that mean you’ve missed me?

I’m sorry, miss. But you have to get out of here before my girlfriend sees you. She already thinks I’m a total playboy. And finding you in our master bathroom will get me in a lot of trouble.

My first boyfriend was a nayfish named Roger. I sat next to him in Miss Barton’s first-grade class. One day Roger said to me, “Malvina is my girlfriend. I like Malvina.” I looked at Malvina, the most beautiful first-grader in America. “Frankly, I don’t see what you see in her,” I lied. “Why don’t you like me instead?” “Okay,” he agreed, and I took him home with me for lunch. Louise made coq au vin that day, as I recall. Roger asked for a peanut butter sandwich, which he dipped in that divine sauce. A chaloshes! I dropped him at recess the next day and gave him back to Malvina.

The more familiar we are with the particular conditions that connect or disconnect us from presence, the easier it becomes to spot them in our lives. For example, I tend to lose presence when I’m rushing. This means that I’m more apt to make physical or relational blunders: I might drop something in the kitchen, forget my lunch, or even say something sharp. I learned a painful lesson about this a few years ago. I was at a farewell party for my girlfriend, Evan, who had just finished a year of service at a meditation retreat center. We had plans to drive north up the coast of California after the party, and I’d made an appointment to install a car radio for the trip. In that classic, romantic way, I wanted everything to be perfect. As our departure time approached, I grew more and more anxious about missing the appointment. With no sign of a formal send-off, I finally spoke up and said that we needed to leave soon. To avoid any awkwardness, Evan went along with my request, but she was in tears by the time we arrived at the auto shop. She was incensed at me for cutting short a meaningful experience and at herself for not speaking up. In my fixation to create “the perfect trip,” I’d missed the fact that she was already enjoying herself. I reflected a lot on that incident, how losing presence had unintended, painful consequences.

I miss my ex girlfriend a lot. But at least I’m getting to be a better shot.

He lifted me up and sat me on the counter, gave me another kiss that almost reduced me to a puddle and walked over to Jeremy, “Come help me with the ice chests.” “Brandon! I just barely got down from the counter, and Jeremy had to help me!” “I know.” He smiled wickedly and walked out to the garage. I turned to Konrad, “Care to help?” “Ya know, I forgot to get the ice from the store … wanna go with me baby?” He grabbed Bree’s hand and led her quickly out of the kitchen. Jerks. Looking to the only person left in the room I added dryly, “Want to join?” Aubrey walked up next to me and had to jump three times before she got enough leverage to lift herself all the way up. “They’re really high up, right? It’s not just me?” “No, it’s definitely not just you.” She said softly and tucked her hair behind her ears, “Thank you so much for having us, this is really sweet of you.” “Of course! It’s fun to do. I apologize in advance if it gets rowdy. I don’t know much about the guys coming.” She laughed and swung her legs back and forth, “That’s fine.” Man, did I talk this soft too? “So tell me, how did you meet Jeremy?” “Um, school.” “Oh yeah? How long have you been dating?” Aubrey blushed fiercely and looked over to the door leading to the garage, “Only a week. He asked me out a few times last year, we were Chemistry partners, but I don’t know … he scared me.” “What? Why?” “Well I mean, besides his size, he’s really popular and outgoing. He was already popular after his first week at the school, and I knew a lot of girls liked him. I don’t know. Guys like him don’t date girls like me, I thought it was a joke.” The first half of that didn’t surprise me one bit. He’d really filled out in the last year, was built just like Brandon, and looked exactly like him. Their size was intimidating, and they were incredibly handsome. But what the hell? “I’m sorry, I must be missing something, girls like you?” “He plays football and is the captain of the soccer team, I’m not into sports or anything school related really.” “If he’s dating you, then I’m pretty sure that doesn’t matter at all to him. You’re gorgeous Aubrey, and you seem really sweet, it’s not hard to see why he likes you. Jeremy doesn’t just date girls … actually, he hasn’t had a girlfriend in the two years that I’ve been with Brandon. So for him to ask you out is a big thing for him. And those boys don’t have a cruel bone in their body, he would never date you as a joke. He’s just like his brother, they’re extremely protective and devoted to the girls in their life. Nothing less.” She blushed again, “You and Brandon are so perfect together. Jeremy’s told me so much about you both, and seeing you together is cute. It’s obvious how much you love each other.” I smiled and leaned back on my hands, “We are definitely in love.” Brandon

Tell us about your man,” Susan said. “Oh, Jack’s not my man,” she said automatically. “He is the first friend I made in Virgin River, however. He runs a little bar and grill across the street from Doc’s—as much a meeting place as a restaurant. They don’t even have a menu—his partner, a big scary-looking guy named Preacher who turns out to be an angel—cooks up one breakfast item, one lunch item and one dinner item every day. On an ambitious day, they might have two items—maybe something left from the day before. They run it on the cheap, fish a lot, and help out around town wherever needed. He fixed up the cabin I was given to stay in while I’m there.” The women didn’t say anything for a moment. Then Susan said, “Honey, I have a feeling he doesn’t think of you as a friend. Have you seen the way he looks at you?” She glanced at him and as if he could feel her gaze, he turned his eyes on her. Soft and hard all at once. “Yeah,” Mel said. “He promised to stop doing that.” “Girl, I’d never make a man stop doing that to me! You can’t possibly not know how much he—” “Susan,” June said. “We don’t mean to pry, Mel.” “June doesn’t mean to pry, but I do. You mean to say he hasn’t…?” Mel felt her cheeks flame. “Well, it isn’t what you think,” she said. June and Susan burst out laughing, loud enough to cause the men to turn away from their conversation and look up at the porch. Mel laughed in spite of herself. Ah, she had missed this—girlfriends. Talking about the secret stuff, the private stuff. Laughing at their weaknesses and strengths. “That’s what I thought,” Susan said. “He looks like he can’t wait to get you alone. And do unspeakable things to you.” Mel

I've been thinking about this so much. When I say time I mean history, or... I think it's human to confuse history with time.” “That's for sure.” “No, listen. Other animals don't have time – they're simply part of the universe. But people– we get time and history. What if the world had continued on? Try to imagine a Nobel Peace Prize winner of the year 3056, or postage stamps with spatulas on them because we ran out of anything else to put on stamps. Imagine the Miss Universe winner in the year 22,788. You can't Your brain can't do it. And now there are'nt any people. Without people, the universe is simply the universe. Time doesn't matter.

About a year ago, Devin, his right hand man, and Devin’s girlfriend, Iyana, went missing along with five hundred thousand dollars.

When a woman misses you, you have her mind; when she cares for you, you have her heart, when she loves you, you have her soul.

Don’t think about the past visits. You have cupcakes,” Julia said as if they were a magic cure-all, and then whispered, “Bye.” Before she disconnected, he heard her say in that over-the-top excited voice of hers, “Just my dad. He misses me. No, it’s—” “Happy Thanksgiving, Sheriff Landon. Chief Benson here. You might not remember me but we met last time you were in town.” Aidan was about to disconnect but the chief would probably think the call had dropped and hit redial. Thanks to Julia, Aidan was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. If he lost his job because of her . . . He made a noncommittal sound into the phone. The chief seemed to buy it. “I just want you to know that you don’t have to worry about your little girl. I’m taking really good care of her.” Okay, how does Benson not get weirded out talking to a guy who is probably just a couple years older than him about his daughter? Aidan frowned. Wait a minute. Julia distinctly told him she wasn’t the chief’s girlfriend. So what was going on here? Maybe Benson didn’t get that no meant no. Aidan cleared his throat, deepened his voice and added what he thought of as Texan swagger. “Don’t you worry none about my daughter. She’s a bit of a thing and young, but she can take care of herself. She doesn’t need another daddy.” The chief didn’t respond. Aidan heard him talking to Julia, but their voices were muffled. And then they were unmuffled, and he clearly heard the chief say, “What do you mean it’s Aidan Gallagher and not your father?” He groaned, feeling like an idiot. He was going to kill her. “Gallagher, is that you?” the chief gritted out. Aidan pressed his forehead against the steering wheel, and the horn blasted, drowning out his yes. “My office tomorrow morning. Nine sharp.” He didn’t get a chance to respond. The line went dead. Seconds later, it came alive. I’ll fix it. I promise. She was lucky she didn’t add a happy face.

Ignoring his advice, I got up, walked over, gently rested my hands on two of their shoulders and said, “Ladies, I have to tell you how much you have impressed me. I just moved to Madison from Florida and left behind all my girlfriends. I have been sitting over there admiring your friendships. You remind me so much of my girlfriends back home and I had to come over and speak with you.” And without missing a beat, I next asked, “Can I be your friend?” They were so impressed by my sincere request, they kindly opened their circle and invited me in.

When she’s in a courtroom, Wendy Patrick, a deputy district attorney for San Diego, uses some of the roughest words in the English language. She has to, given that she prosecutes sex crimes. Yet just repeating the words is a challenge for a woman who not only holds a law degree but also degrees in theology and is an ordained Baptist minister. “I have to say (a particularly vulgar expletive) in court when I’m quoting other people, usually the defendants,” she admitted. There’s an important reason Patrick has to repeat vile language in court. “My job is to prove a case, to prove that a crime occurred,” she explained. “There’s often an element of coercion, of threat, (and) of fear. Colorful language and context is very relevant to proving the kind of emotional persuasion, the menacing, a flavor of how scary these guys are. The jury has to be made aware of how bad the situation was. Those words are disgusting.” It’s so bad, Patrick said, that on occasion a judge will ask her to tone things down, fearing a jury’s emotions will be improperly swayed. And yet Patrick continues to be surprised when she heads over to San Diego State University for her part-time work of teaching business ethics. “My students have no qualms about dropping the ‘F-bomb’ in class,” she said. “The culture in college campuses is that unless they’re disruptive or violating the rules, that’s (just) the way kids talk.” Experts say people swear for impact, but the widespread use of strong language may in fact lessen that impact, as well as lessen society’s ability to set apart certain ideas and words as sacred. . . . [C]onsider the now-conversational use of the texting abbreviation “OMG,” for “Oh, My God,” and how the full phrase often shows up in settings as benign as home-design shows without any recognition of its meaning by the speakers. . . . Diane Gottsman, an etiquette expert in San Antonio, in a blog about workers cleaning up their language, cited a 2012 Career Builder survey in which 57 percent of employers say they wouldn’t hire a candidate who used profanity. . . . She added, “It all comes down to respect: if you wouldn’t say it to your grandmother, you shouldn’t say it to your client, your boss, your girlfriend or your wife.” And what about Hollywood, which is often blamed for coarsening the language? According to Barbara Nicolosi, a Hollywood script consultant and film professor at Azusa Pacific University, an evangelical Christian school, lazy script writing is part of the explanation for the blue tide on television and in the movies. . . . By contrast, she said, “Bad writers go for the emotional punch of crass language,” hence the fire-hose spray of obscenities [in] some modern films, almost regardless of whether or not the subject demands it. . . . Nicolosi, who noted that “nobody misses the bad language” when it’s omitted from a script, said any change in the industry has to come from among its ranks: “Writers need to have a conversation among themselves and in the industry where we popularize much more responsible methods in storytelling,” she said. . . . That change can’t come quickly enough for Melissa Henson, director of grass-roots education and advocacy for the Parents Television Council, a pro-decency group. While conceding there is a market for “adult-themed” films and language, Henson said it may be smaller than some in the industry want to admit. “The volume of R-rated stuff that we’re seeing probably far outpaces what the market would support,” she said. By contrast, she added, “the rate of G-rated stuff is hardly sufficient to meet market demands.” . . . Henson believes arguments about an “artistic need” for profanity are disingenuous. “You often hear people try to make the argument that art reflects life,” Henson said. “I don’t hold to that. More often than not, ‘art’ shapes the way we live our lives, and it skews our perceptions of the kind of life we're supposed to live." [DN, Apr. 13, 2014]

It has become such a habit now, she will sort of miss it when Carl and Toyota split up. Which they will, because Carl is an idiot and he's not going to keep a hold of a girlfriend with eyebrows that great.

could always come home? He wasn’t himself, I don’t think — the uh, the…’  He couldn’t say the word. Heroin. ‘It changed him. We hadn’t heard from him for a long time. We didn’t know if he was alive, or… And now…’ He pulled the phone from his ear and started sobbing in the background, the audio muffled as he put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Mr Hammond?’ she asked, forcing the words over the lump in her throat. ‘Mr Hammond?’ He brought the phone back. ‘I’m here, sorry. Sorry, it’s… Sorry.’ ‘That’s alright. Can you tell me when Oliver first started using? Who with, maybe? Did he have any friends, or?’ ‘No, I don’t know. He was always independent, you know? Going to meet friends in the city, and… He had a girlfriend, but we didn’t know who. He wouldn’t tell us. Thought we wouldn’t approve, or… or… I don’t know.’ Grace came to mind. ‘How long ago was this?’ ‘August last year, maybe? Before it all started to, uh…’ ‘That’s great,’ Jamie said, her free hand clenched tightly into a fist. ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you. Would it be alright if I gave you a call tomorrow? Or if you’d prefer, I could come to—’ ‘No, no, that’s fine. You can call… I’ll be in work, but… I’ll call you back when I can.’ Jesus. He was going back to work the next day? He didn’t even think about it. Like missing a few days hadn’t even entered the realm of the possible. ‘Okay. Thank you,’ she said. Apologising for it all was bad practice. Even though she wanted to.  ‘Goodbye,’ he said. She left it at that and hung up, letting him process. She had enough to start piecing together a timeline. And an idea of what had happened. At least at the start.

Kenny, used a ramrod to force the ammunition down the length of the barrel of a gun that everyone referred to as Nuke-U-Ler. “Okay,” Kenny said, his speech slightly slurred, beer cans scattered around his feet, “now I just open the valve here on the propane tank and set the pressure regulator to sixty PSI.” Buster struggled to write this down in his notebook, his fingers frozen at the tips, and asked, “Now what does PSI stand for?” Kenny looked up at Buster and frowned. “I have no idea,” he said. Buster nodded and made a notation to look it up later. “Open the gas valve,” Kenny continued, “wait a few seconds for it to regulate, then close the valve and open up the second valve here. That sends the propane into the combustion chamber.” Joseph, missing two fingers on his left hand, his face round and pink like a toddler’s, took another swig of beer and then giggled. “It’s about to get good,” he said. Kenny closed the valves and pointed the contraption into the air. “Squeeze the igniter button and—” Before he could finish, the air around the men vibrated and there was a sound like nothing Buster had ever heard before, a dense, punctuated explosion. A potato, a trail of vaporous fire trailing behind it, shot into the air and then disappeared, hundreds of yards, maybe a half mile across the field. Buster felt his heart stutter in his chest and wondered, without caring to discover the answer, why something so stupid, so unnecessary and ridiculous, made him so happy. Joseph put his arm around Buster and pulled him close. “It’s awesome, isn’t it?” he asked. Buster, feeling that he might cry at any moment, nodded and replied, “Yes it is. Hell yes it is.” Buster had come to Nebraska on assignment from a men’s magazine, Potent, to write about these four ex-soldiers who had been, for the past year, building and testing the most high-tech potato cannons ever seen. “It’s so goddamned manly,” said the editor, who was almost seven years younger than Buster, “we have to put it in the magazine.” Buster had been in his one-room apartment in Florida, his Internet girlfriend not returning his e-mails, nearly out of money, not working on his overdue third novel, when the editor had called him to offer the job. Even with the terrible circumstances of his life at the moment, he was loath to accept the assignment.

Laura didn't run off with Ray because I bought her CDs she wasn't that keen on, and to pretend otherwise is just .. just... Psychowank. If she thinks that, then she's missing the Brazilian rain forest for the twigs. If I can't buy specially priced compilation albums for new girlfriends, then I might as well give up, because I'm not sure that I know how to do anything else.

I’ll miss you so much,” he says, just as the warning bell goes off. He curses under his breath, and I kiss him quickly. “I have to go,” I rush out. Another short kiss. “I’ll see you on Monday.” Then I shrug out of his hold and start running up the steps, the ache in my chest causing the heat behind my eyes. It’s just four days, I keep telling myself. I can do this. With each step up, each inch I move farther from him, the stronger my emotions become. Tears well in my eyes, and I can’t fight them off. And I don’t want to. Shit. I turn quickly, thankful he’s still there watching me. And then I run back to him, faster than I’ve ever run before. I didn’t want him to see me like this, but I can’t let him go without saying goodbye properly. He pushes off his truck when I get near enough, his arms open, and I practically jump into his embrace, my arms around his neck while he wraps his around my waist. Feet off the ground, my legs circle him. “I don’t want you to go,” I mumble into his neck. It’s stupid and petty, and I’m The Worst Girlfriend Ever. “Dammit, Ava, don’t mess with my emotions like that!” I rear back, still holding on to him. “I didn’t want you to know how badly I’ll miss you,” I murmur, unable to control my pout.

My nephew. He was a law student. A good Christian. He never kept girlfriends. He never missed a ceremonial meal.

In most cases homeport for the sailor is the port where he feels most at ease. It’s the place he longs to be and normally where his sweetheart lives. Monrovia has none of these characteristics, but like a fungus it begins to grow on you! Day after day the fungus spreads and so it was with me. As I grew accustomed to the heat and incessant rain I found that I actually enjoyed sleeping in a hammock strung under the awning on the port side of the upper deck behind the stack. On the starboards side was the lifeboat which sheltered me some from the wind and driving rain. It was comfortable and cooler than my cabin below. You might say that I was as snug as a bug in a rug. Speaking of which; the mosquitos were usually blown away when the breeze was onshore, however the prevailing winds were easterlies off the continent which still wasn’t too bad but woe was me when they stopped blowing and the atmosphere became heavy hot and humid, laden with the insect that carried the dread parasite that caused malaria. My life was carefree, the food was good and for the most part I was the master not only of the MV Farmington but also of my destiny. When the cargo was secure and I had the time I would fire up my motor scooter and head into town. Life was good and although I missed my girlfriend Nora, the laid-back atmosphere of this nearly forgotten part of the world suited me. In time I joined the ranks of Monrovia’s cadre of transient misfits, backwater sailors, and ‘Typical Tropical Tramps’ or “TTT’s” as we proudly called ourselves. It wasn’t anything I wished for, but slowly although incessantly it happened. Like the black fungus on every building in this decrepit tropical capital city, it grew on me as it did on everyone else.

When are we leaving?” Celeste called from the foot of the stairs, interrupting Bran. I hadn’t realized she’d teleported downstairs. “Five minutes,” Bran responded and, without missing a beat, went back to the passage in Pride and Prejudice he’d been reading. “You said you were doing physics,” Celeste interrupted, moving closer. “Lil wanted to read first and do physics later.” “And you are okay with it? You always insist I do the subjects I hate first.” “You’re my sister, pint. She’s my girlfriend.” He grinned when she glared at him. “He has a beautiful voice,” I added, sitting up. I could listen to him forever, but from Celeste’s annoyed expression, she wasn’t in the mood to hear that. “If you guys need to go…go ahead. I should be getting ready for my session with Master Haziel anyway.” Bran gripped my waist and stopped me from getting up. I had been sitting on the recliner between his legs, with my head on his chest. “We’re not done yet.” He turned his gaze to Celeste. “Be a good little sister and wait upstairs. I’ll be right up.” Celeste crossed her arms and jutted her chin. “No, you won’t. You finish whatever it is you plan to do and we’ll teleport from right…here.” “Celeste,” he snapped, eyes narrowed. “It’s not like I haven’t seen you two make out or anything, or eavesdropped on your thoughts whenever you sketch her or wear a dopey—” “Celeste!

Making a frustrated noise, Ryan tapped James’s neck, another silent order to look at him, and James did. Ryan said, “You know I hate that Arthur is pressuring you into this—it’s none of his business when and who you marry—but you sure as hell don’t need my approval, either. You shouldn’t give a shit about it as long as you want her. Arthur ’s opinion doesn’t matter, but neither does mine, you tosser.” “Of course your opinion matters,” James said with a laugh. “It would be awkward if you hate her, because you’ll be around all the time.” He hated how the last part of the sentence sounded more like a question. Ryan, who knew him better than anyone, didn’t miss it, of course. Ryan’s eyes narrowed. Shit. Sloppy. He was getting sloppy. “Jamie—” “Here you two are!” a familiar voice interrupted whatever Ryan was going to say. Partly relieved, partly annoyed by the interruption— intrusion, his inner voice couldn’t help but whisper—James turned to Ryan’s girlfriend. Ryan let go of his neck. Hannah was smiling as she took the seat on the other side of Ryan. She really was a lovely girl: blond, pale and pretty serene—not the type Ryan usually went for. “Hey, babe,” she said, leaning in to kiss the corner of Ryan’s mouth. “Miss me?” “I dropped you off half an hour ago,” Ryan said, but he was pulling her close to kiss her properly. It was a public place, but that never stopped Ryan. James wrapped his hands around his cup of tea and stared down at the dark surface of the liquid.

I miss you,” is how she entices you. “I want you,” is how she charms you. “I need you,” is how she entraps you. “I love you,” is how she imprisons you.

Dyllan snorts, magazine forgotten. “Girlfriend, you were so loud, it sounded like you had hooked yourself up to some housewide sound system. Even if we hadn’t rushed in there to make sure you were okay and gotten an eyeful of you playing rodeo queen and bucking bull, your activities wouldn’t have been missed.” “Would

I could take him out and slide right up to his blonde bombshell of a girlfriend without so much as breaking a sweat. I could be good to her, as long as she loved me as much. We could have fun. She’d never miss him. That killing seems so easy scares me sometimes. Maybe it’s wired into my DNA. My uncle didn’t get where he is without hiding a few bodies.

I missed you so bad,” he said. “Me? The Incredible Vanishing Girlfriend?