Gut Check Quotes

So many likes and retweets for having the "GUTS" to say what every- one thinks ON THE FUCKING INTER- NET (but never in the street).

Boy, you better check that tone. (Wulf) Yeah, yeah, ya scare me. I’m even wetting my pants while in your terrifying, gut-wrenching presence. See me shiver and quiver? Ooo, ahhh, ooo. (Chris)

In all the time I’d been living on the streets, I’ve had some close calls, some serious gut check moments. I’ve seen things that have made my skin crawl and my heart race. I was very familiar with feeling afraid. Fear had nothing on King.

I don't know what his problem is," I said as Michael and I left the school. "Why would he tell me to be careful if he hates my guts?" "Because he doesn't hate your guts. I think he likes you." Michael was walking so fast I had to jog to keep up with him. "Isn't it obvious?

believe the moral gut check here isn’t “Am I contributing enough?” but “Am I taking advantage of someone else?

Truth and fact-checking travel along the same paths that conspiracies do. But the truth is often complicated, shaded and demanding, and there's no denying that it often lacks the powerful, emotional, gut level appeal of a conspiracy.

I moved forward. Gut-check time. Now or never, do or die-all of that inspirational BS. Kill my enemies or die trying.

Checking his schedule, Brandon remembered he had planning period during his next block, before the last class. ... He glanced up to see Drake and Aaron flinging frog guts at each other and sighed. Some days he could just feel his brain dribbling out of his ears.

Because people who live their lives this way can look forward to a single destiny, shared with others of this type - though such people do not believe they represent a type, but feel themselves distinguished from the common run of man, who they see as held down by the banal anchors of the world. But while others actually build a life in which things gain meaning and significance, this is not true of the puer. Such a person inevitably looks back on life as it nears its end with a feeling of emptiness and sadness, aware of what they have built: nothing. In their quest for a life without failure, suffer, or doubt, that is what they achieve: a life empty of all those things that make a human life meaningful. And yet they started off believing themselves too special for this world! But - and here is the hope - there is a solution for people of this type, and it's perhaps not the solution that could have been predicted. The answer for them is to build on what they have begun and not abandon their plans as soon as things start getting difficult. They must work - without escaping into fantasies about being the person who worked. And I don't mean work for its own sake, but they must choose work that begins and ends in a passion, a question that is gnawing at their guts, which is not to be avoided but must be realized and live through the hard work and suffering that inevitably comes with the process. They must reinforce and build on what is in their life already rather than always starting anew, hoping to find a situation without danger. Puers don't need to check themselves into analysis. If they can just remember this - It is their everlasting switching that is the dangerous thing, and not what they choose - they might discover themselves saved. The problem is the puer ever anticipates loss, disappointment, and suffering - which they foresee at the very beginning of every experience, so they cut themselves off at the beginning, retreating almost at once in order to protect themselves. In this way, they never give themselves to life - living in constant dread of the end. Reason, in this case, has taken too much from life. They must give themselves completely to the experience! One things sometimes how much more alive such people would be if they suffered! If they can't be happy, let them at least be unhappy - really, really unhappy for once, and then the might become truly human!

Do a real gut check. Is this point or detail or concept essential? If so, is there a simpler way to convey it?

Where science is a dignified waltz in three-quarter time, magic is an improvised saxophone solo: all gut checks and synchronicities.

A SEAL mentor of mine,  Captain Jim O’Connell, used to say that a way to “gut check” for leadership integrity was to ask if you’d be thrilled to read about you’re pending action in the next edition of the New York Times.

And I don't know, it is one thing to look out a window, but when you are Out, actually Out, that is something very powerful, and how embarrassing was that, because I could not help it, I went down flat on my gut checking out those flowers, and the feeling of the one I chose was like the silk on that Hermes jacket I could never seem to get Reserved because Vance was always hogging it, except the flower was even better, it being very smooth and built in like layers? With the outside layer being yellow, and inside that a white thing like a bell, and inside the white bell-like thing were fifteen (I counted) smaller bell-like red things, and inside each red thing was an even smaller orange two-dingly-thing combo.

bring your people along for the ride. The people who know where you come from. The people who know what values you hold. The people who give you the gut checks you need. These are the people who will help you make the best decisions with the power and resources you have.

I keeled over sideways. The world turned fluffy, bleached of all color. Nothing hurt anymore. I was dimly aware of Diana’s face hovering over me, Meg and Hazel peering over the goddess’s shoulders. “He’s almost gone,” Diana said. Then I was gone. My mind slipped into a pool of cold, slimy darkness. “Oh, no, you don’t.” My sister’s voice woke me rudely. I’d been so comfortable, so nonexistent. Life surged back into me—cold, sharp, and unfairly painful. Diana’s face came into focus. She looked annoyed, which seemed on-brand for her. As for me, I felt surprisingly good. The pain in my gut was gone. My muscles didn’t burn. I could breathe without difficulty. I must have slept for decades. “H-how long was I out?” I croaked. “Roughly three seconds,” she said. “Now, get up, drama queen.” She helped me to my feet. I felt a bit unsteady, but I was delighted to find that my legs had any strength at all. My skin was no longer gray. The lines of infection were gone. The Arrow of Dodona was still in my hand, though he had gone silent, perhaps in awe of the goddess’s presence. Or perhaps he was still trying to get the taste of “Sweet Caroline” out of his imaginary mouth. I beamed at my sister. It was so good to see her disapproving I-can’t-believe-you’re-my-brother frown again. “I love you,” I said, my voice hoarse with emotion. She blinked, clearly unsure what to do with this information. “You really have changed.” “I missed you!” “Y-yes, well. I’m here now. Even Dad couldn’t argue with a Sibylline invocation from Temple Hill.” “It worked, then!” I grinned at Hazel and Meg. “It worked!” “Yeah,” Meg said wearily. “Hi, Artemis.” “Diana,” my sister corrected. “But hello, Meg.” For her, my sister had a smile. “You’ve done well, young warrior.” Meg blushed. She kicked at the scattered zombie dust on the floor and shrugged. “Eh.” I checked my stomach, which was easy, since my shirt was in tatters. The bandages had vanished, along with the festering wound. Only a thin white scar remained. “So…I’m healed?” My flab told me she hadn’t restored me to my godly self. Nah, that would have been too much to expect. Diana raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’m not the goddess of healing, but I’m still a goddess. I think I can take care of my little brother’s boo-boos.” “Little brother?” She smirked.

I can’t fathom the transformation of a basket of food to accommodate a multitude (heck, I’m not even sure how our toaster works), but I can see the boundless compassion of the open table and endeavor to re-create that on whatever spot I stand at any given moment and with the people in my midst. Jesus feeds people. That’s what he does. And as striking as what he does is, equally revelatory is what he doesn’t do here. There’s no altar call, no spiritual gifts assessment, no membership class, no moral screening, no litmus test to verify everyone’s theology and to identify those worthy enough to earn a seat at the table. Their hunger and Jesus’ love for them alone, nothing else, make them worthy. This is a serious gut check for us.

Children provide us with a necessary gut check. They challenge the distorted value systems that inhibit us from loving well. They are God-given reminders of life as it’s meant to be. Don’t hinder the little children. Let them come to me. Jesus sweeping children up into his embrace is also an invitation—no, a command—to welcome them into ours as well. The children will be the better for it. And so will we.

Being self conscious is second nature, or maybe first nature. I still struggle sometimes but then I tell myself, You know what? My friend Brandy who died of cancer would have given anything to trade places with me right now and she'd kick my ass for wasting time worrying about it. I have a healthy body. I'm criticizing myself because, what, I have a little bit of cheese on my thighs? Sometimes, you have to gut check yourself. I have a gut. Check.

Something tightens low in my gut. Isn’t it the same thing I’ve been telling myself for weeks? That I cannot compete. That I’m unprepared. That I’m not as good. I’m not going to win has been the default status in my brain. Because . . . I’m inexperienced. Because I don’t want it or deserve it. Because I’m a woman?

No, this wasn’t a 1960s student riot. Out there were the streets. There were no nice dorms for sleeping. No school cafeteria for certain food. No affluent parents to send us checks. There was a ghetto riot on home turf. We already had our war wounds. So this was just another battle. Nobody thought of it as history, herstory, my-story, your-story, or our-story. We were being denied a place to dance together. That’s all. The total charisma of a revolution in our CONSCIOUSNESS rising from the gutter to the gut to the heart and the mind was here. Non-existence (or part existence) was coming into being, and being into becoming. Our Mother Stonewall was giving birth to a new era and we were the midwives.

As we are aware, the effect of the vagus nerve is to slow the level of inflammation and keep it in check. If we are sending repeated messages of inflammation over a long time, we are essentially training the vagus nerve to stop having its positive anti-inflammatory effect. This is why it is most common for people to begin experiencing and receiving diagnoses of these autoimmune conditions in their 30s and 40s. After 30+ years of inflammatory signals, the vagus nerve has been trained to stop functioning as an anti-inflammatory intervention. Between the ages of 35 and 40, the vagus tone has decreased significantly and the anti-inflammatory signals stop being sent out. These conditions often arise following the stress of pregnancy, having children, and lacking sleep during the first years of a child’s life—all of which are stressors that decrease vagus nerve function.

But I'm not your man." When I heard this fool tell me that...1st emotion 'this bold mutha %#&@$ a'...2nd emotion 'but I don't even want you to be'...3rd emotion 'imma let him know that I will not be talked to like that' So, I did exactly what my gut had been telling me to do the past two weeks and I boldly returned the comment with..."this is over.""Without a doubt, I believe that anyone reading this gem of microscopic insight into the heart of broken women will end up with a brand new perspective of themselves and others.

When I was really drunk, I started that stupid business with the bullet in my guts again. I was the only guy at the bar with a bullet in their guts. I kept putting my hand under my jacket, on my stomach and all, to keep the blood from dripping all over the place. I didn’t want anybody to know I was even wounded. I was concealing the fact that I was a wounded sonuvabitch. Finally what I felt like, I felt like giving old Jane a buzz and see if she was home yet. So I paid my check and all. Then I left the bar and went out where the telephones were. I kept keeping my hand under my jacket to keep the blood from dripping. Boy, was I drunk.

We can get past the slipperiness of words by engaging the self-observing, body-based self system, which speaks through sensations, tone of voice, and body tensions. Being able to perceive visceral sensations is the very foundation of emotional awareness.12 If a patient tells me that he was eight when his father deserted the family, I am likely to stop and ask him to check in with himself: What happens inside when he tells me about that boy who never saw his father again? Where is it registered in his body? When you activate your gut feelings and listen to your heartbreak—when you follow the interoceptive pathways to your innermost recesses—things begin to change.

Ember looked up when he walked in, and when he saw her face, he felt like he’d been gut shot. Heavy bruising discolored the right side up to her eye, and she seemed to be in pain. Her mouth was pinched and her eyes squinted. When she realized he wasn’t one of the wait staff, she immediately turned away. “No customers allowed back here,” she called. She moved down the cook line and motioned to a Hispanic man she was working with to take her place at the grill. Zeke prowled down the parallel aisle until he was right behind her. “L-look at me.” She shook her head stubbornly. “You can’t be back here, Zeke.” “Look at me, please.” After a long pause, she turned her body toward him, but kept her face turned away. Bending his knees enough to peer into her eyes, he waited until she looked at him. Fury rolled through him as he realized he could see finger marks within the bruise. “Who d-did this to you?” She shook her head and refused to answer. Tears glinted in her eyes. “It’s no big deal, okay? Accidents happen. I was just in the wrong place at the right time. It happens when you own a bar.” Her eyes slid away and he thought there was something she wasn’t telling him, but he had a feeling if he called her on it she’d clam up completely. He reached out to touch a length of her dark hair that had escaped from her braid. Her eyes flickered and a single tear rolled down her cheek. He groaned. “D-d-don’t cry. I didn’t come in here to…up-upset you. Just had to check on you.” *****

Hey,” Marlboro Man said. “Where are you?” Like I knew. I was somewhere between my house and his. “Oh…somewhere between my house and yours,” I said, copping to my directional cluelessness. He chuckled. “Okay, let me put it this way: are you more than halfway to my house? Or have you not gone that far?” He was already learning to speak my language. “Umm…,” I said, looking around and trying to remember what time I’d left my house. “I would say…I would say…I’m exactly halfway there.” “Okay,” he said, his smile evident through the phone. “When you get somewhere in the vicinity of the ranch, I want you to meet me at my brother’s house.” Gulp. Your brother’s house? You mean, we actually have to introduce other people into our relationship? You mean, there are other people in the world besides us? I’m sorry. I forgot. “Oh, okay!” I said, enthusiastically, checking my makeup in the rearview mirror. “Um…how do I get there?” I felt butterflies in my gut. “Okay, about a mile and a half before my turnoff, you’ll see a white gate on the north side of the highway,” he instructed. “You’ll need to turn and head down that road a half mile or so, and his house is right there.” “Okay…,” I said tentatively. “Make sense?” he asked. “Sure,” I replied, pausing. “But…um…which way is north?” I was only halfway kidding.

When I woke up a man in a green beret with a big feather poking out of it was leaning over me. I must be hallucinating, I thought. I blinked again but he didn’t go away. Then this immaculate, clipped British accent addressed me. “How are you feeling, soldier?” It was the colonel in charge of British Military Advisory Team (BMAT) in southern Africa. He was here to check on my progress. “We’ll be flying you back to the UK soon,” he said, smiling. “Hang on in there, trooper.” The colonel was exceptionally kind, and I have never forgotten that. He went beyond the call of duty to look out for me and get me repatriated as soon as possible--after all, we were in a country not known for its hospital niceties. The flight to the UK was a bit of a blur, spent sprawled across three seats in the back of a plane. I had been stretchered across the tarmac in the heat of the African sun, feeling desperate and alone. I couldn’t stop crying whenever no one was looking. Look at yourself, Bear. Look at yourself. Yep, you are screwed. And then I zonked out. An ambulance met me at Heathrow, and eventually, at my parents’ insistence, I was driven home. I had nowhere else to go. Both my mum and dad looked exhausted from worry; and on top of my physical pain I also felt gut-wrenchingly guilty for causing such grief to them. None of this was in the game plan for my life. I had been hit hard, broadside and from left field, in a way I could never have imagined. Things like this just didn’t happen to me. I was always the lucky kid. But rogue balls from left field can often be the making of us.

Rhys kept starting at the table as he said, 'I didn't know. That you were with Tamlin. That you were staying at the Spring Court. Amarantha sent me that day after the Summer Solstice because I'd been so successful on Calanmai. I was prepared to mock him, maybe pick a fight. But then I got into that room, and the scent was familiar, but hidden... And then I saw the plate, and felt the glamour, and... There you were. Living in my second-most enemy's house. Dining with him. Reeking of his scent. Looking at him like... Like you loved him.' The whites of his knuckles showed. 'And I decided that I had to scare Tamlin. I had to scare you, and Lucien, but mostly Tamlin. Because I saw how he looked at you, too. So what I did that day...' His lips were pale, tight. 'I broke into your mind and held it enough that you felt it, that it terrified you, hurt you. I made Tamlin beg- as Amarantha had made me beg, to show him how powerless he was to save you. And I prayed my performance was enough to get him to send you away. Back to the human realm, away from Amarantha. Because she was going to find you. If you broke that curse, she was going to find you and kill you. 'But I was so selfish- I was so stupidly selfish that I couldn't walk away without knowing your name. And you were looking at me like I was a monster, so I told myself it didn't matter, anyway. But you lied when I asked. I knew you did. I had your mind in my hands, and you had the defiance and foresight to lie to my face. So I walked away from you again. I vomited my guts up as soon as I left.' My lips wobbled, and I pressed them together. 'I checked back once. To ensure you were gone. I went with them the day they sacked the manor- to make my performance complete. I told Amarantha the name of that girl, thinking you'd invented it. I had no idea... I had no idea she'd sent her cronies to retrieve Clare. But if I admitted my lie...' He swallowed hard. 'I broke into Clare's head when they brought her Under the Mountain. I took away her pain, and told her to scream when expected to. So they... they did those things to her, and I tried to make it right, but... After a week, I couldn't let them do it. Hurt her like that anymore. So while they tortured her, I slipped into her mind again and ended it. She didn't feel any pain. She felt none of what they did to her, even at the end. But... But I still see her. And my men. And the others that I killed for Amarantha.' Two tears slid down his cheeks, swift and cold. He didn't wipe them away as he said, 'I thought it was done after that. With Clare's death. Amarantha believed you were dead. So you were safe, and far away, and my people were safe, and Tamlin had lost, so... It was done. We were done. But then... I was in the back of the throne room that day the Attor brought you in. And I have never known such horror, Feyre, as I did when I watched you make that bargain. Irrational, stupid terror- I didn't know you. I didn't even know your name. But I thought of those painter's hands, the flowers I'd seen you create. And how she'd delight in breaking your fingers apart. I had to stand and watch as the Attor and its cronies beat you. I had to watch the disgust and hatred on your face as you looked at me, watched me threaten to shatter Lucien's mind. And then- then I learned your name. Hearing you say it... it was like an answer to a question I'd been asking for five hundred years.

Inexorably, the long downtrend of the news industry started. They gutted their foreign desks, they gutted their investigative journalism, they gutted their fact checking, they gutted their copyeditor desks. What was left was a bunch of interns, running around copying the press releases of powerful corporations and presenting them as fact, taking notes when someone who was seemingly important said something, not questioning any of it, just writing it down and publishing it—as truth. ​

I check my phone to see if Katie texted. She didn’t. And an unfamiliar feeling starts in my gut. Disappointment? Over a chick? It’s like she owns me. This should scare the shit out of me, but it doesn’t. Hell, I *want* her to own me.

The word ethics tends to come off as academic and authoritarian, but ultimately professional ethics are just a formalized gut check. They’re a personal statement about what you will and won’t do at your job, and a framework for seeking out clients, projects or employers that are a good match for your beliefs. We encourage every design activist to think through and write down a set of personal ethics, so something is in place to guide you when you run into a sticky situation while racing against four different deadlines.

The entire time, his gut feeling was telling him to turn back, something was terribly wrong. Instead, he didn’t listen; he didn’t follow his gut instincts, something that had never led him wrong. Checking

Everyone doubts themselves—it’s how you confront those feelings that matters.

Red wine and Hennessy She fell out of her bottle when she fell into love, cup running over, overflowing emotions in glass- red stained palet, on a pallet on the grass, to a quilt on the floor -affixed between lips and red lipstick on a shirt that he wore. A familiar place, she know she's been here before Reminiscent of the evening On his shirt that she tore ............ Drop by drop, puddle in glass getting lower- impressions in her gut, rim of her glass, hour glass figure moves counter clockwise - while absorbing the contents of merlot. Hard liquor and fine wine ............. Red Wine and Hennessy A wicked twist on some champagne tips French nails, manicures over grapes Whoever said wine and liquor don't mix? Last night I had six Bottle caps, corks, bedazzled juice Merlot was her name - slim waist - good taste slinger neck, red lace. Long stem, pedestal - hands embraced her face ............. room temperature, her body temperature ... personality of two, she's mellow and chill... aged to perfection- pop the seal- watch the erection ... splatters on the floor- covers the rug, Residue of red lipstick- Merlot stained lips match the kiss on his neck ............ Chasing fantasy through the Red Sea While chasing that with a white BC How much will she pour- how much will she drink How much more before her ship sinks ........... A full body lush, blackberry crush Medium sized Bordeaux Intense velvety plum I asked her where she's from She said she's international She's longer thinking rational .......... Sips in sync with blinking eyes She sips too much to realize Every time you pour into me, my bottle gets more empty- Glass falling to the floor She staggers to the door Glass shatters her feet She stumbles to her seat She's still asking for more But she falls to the floor Red lipstick in the mud She covers up the blood ............ She lays in her wine She forgot about the time Clock on the wall Footsteps in the hall Pounding in her head She rushes to the bed ......... She lays motionless ... but her head is racing Her heart is pacing Her lungs are gasping - air, she needs air Rolls to her side, brings her self to sit up She gags and gags until She throws it all up- ........... Wakes up the next morning Dazed and confused She's laying in a bed That she's not used to She moves slowly, where did everyone go? She checks the time- it's a quarter pass 4 sounds on the other side of the door Are Muffled by the sound of a knock at the door ........... Looks around for her little red dress Notices a blotch - a red stain on her breast Lipstick smeared an accessory to her mess She reached for her clothes and saw a note on the desk. .......... Dearly beloved, I want to see you again I'd love to have to back I think we make a great blend I tried to wake you Because I had to go And Oh by the way, my name is merlot "Little Black Bird

You can’t support your family if you can’t support yourself. Trust your gut. It might be time to check in on your mental health.

Yet, without hard facts and a high level of accountability to goals, standards, and numbers, it’s virtually impossible to improve upon anything. However, there are those people who avoid accountability, and instead navigate their businesses, their health, and their lives based on “how it feels.” I don’t know about you, but if I did that, my path would look like a roller coaster. Gut feelings have their place, certainly, but they’re momentary. Numbers don’t lie. Accountability keeps your little voice in check and forces it to work in your favor. It forces you to see the truth.

Oаtmеаl Bаnаnа Pаnсаkеѕ • 1 ripe banana • 1 еgg • 1/2 cup rоllеd оаtѕ • 1/4 tsp bаkіng роwdеr • 1/4 tѕр сіnnаmоn • 1/4 сuр аlmоnd milk • 1 tsp vanilla extract • Nоn-ѕtісk cooking ѕрrау Inѕtruсtіоnѕ: 1. Mаѕh the banana іn a mіxіng bоwl. 2. Add thе еgg, rоllеd оаtѕ, bаkіng роwdеr, сіnnаmоn, almond mіlk, аnd vanilla extract to thе mіxіng bоwl. 3. Mіx еvеrуthіng tоgеthеr until wеll соmbіnеd. 4. Hеаt a nоn-ѕtісk ѕkіllеt оvеr mеdіum hеаt аnd spray with cooking ѕрrау. 5. Uѕе a 1/4 cup mеаѕurе to ѕсоор the batter іntо thе ѕkіllеt, cooking for 2-3 minutes оn each ѕіdе untіl gоldеn brоwn. 6. Sеrvе wіth frеѕh fruit оr lоw FODMAP ѕуruр. Mаkеѕ 2 servings. Nutrіtіоnаl іnfоrmаtіоn реr ѕеrvіng: 222 саlоrіеѕ, 6g рrоtеіn, 38g carbohydrates, 6g fat, 5g fіbеr

Swееt Pоtаtо Hаѕh • 1 large ѕwееt роtаtо, peeled аnd dісеd • 1 red bell рерреr, diced • 1/2 rеd onion, dісеd • 2 tbѕр оlіvе оіl • 1/2 tѕр salt • 1/4 tsp blасk рерреr • 1/4 tѕр paprika • 1/4 tѕр gаrlіс powder • 2 eggs Inѕtruсtіоnѕ: 1. Preheat thе оvеn to 400°F. 2. In a mіxіng bowl, соmbіnе thе ѕwееt potato, rеd bеll рерреr, rеd onion, оlіvе oil, ѕаlt, blасk рерреr, рарrіkа, and garlic powder. 3. Sрrеаd thе mіxturе in a ѕіnglе lауеr оn a baking sheet аnd bаkе fоr 25-30 mіnutеѕ, ѕtіrrіng occasionally, untіl thе ѕwееt роtаtоеѕ are tеndеr аnd browned. 4. Crасk the еggѕ on top оf thе sweet роtаtо hash and rеturn tо thе oven for аn аddіtіоnаl 5-7 mіnutеѕ until thе еggѕ аrе ѕеt. Makes 2 ѕеrvіngѕ. Nutrіtіоnаl information реr ѕеrvіng: 308 саlоrіеѕ, 8g рrоtеіn, 29g саrbоhуdrаtеѕ, 19g fаt, 5g fiber.

Sсrаmblеd Eggѕ wіth Spinach аnd Fеtа Chееѕе • 2 lаrgе eggs • 1/2 сuр bаbу ѕріnасh • 1 оz crumbled feta сhееѕе • 1 tbѕр оlіvе оіl • Sаlt аnd рерреr, tо taste • Sеrvеѕ 1 • Nutrіtіоnаl Infоrmаtіоn: 240 calories, 16g protein, 19g fаt, 2g carbohydrates, 1g fіbеr Instructions: In a ѕmаll bowl, whіѕk tоgеthеr thе еggѕ with ѕаlt and рерреr. Heat the оlіvе oil іn a nоnѕtісk ѕkіllеt оvеr medium hеаt. Add thе ѕріnасh аnd сооk untіl wіltеd. Pоur in the eggs аnd stir until ѕсrаmblеd. Sрrіnklе thе fеtа cheese оvеr the eggs аnd ѕеrvе

Sweet Pоtаtо аnd Sаuѕаgе Brеаkfаѕt Skіllеt Ingrеdіеntѕ • 1 ѕmаll sweet роtаtо, diced • 1/2 lb grоund breakfast sausage • 1/2 cup diced bеll рерреr • 1/2 cup diced оnіоn • 1/2 tѕр рарrіkа • 1/4 tsp garlic роwdеr • Sаlt and рерреr, tо tаѕtе • 2 lаrgе еggѕ Inѕtruсtіоnѕ: 1. In a lаrgе ѕkіllеt over medium heat, сооk thе grоund ѕаuѕаgе untіl brоwnеd. 2. Add dісеd ѕwееt роtаtо, bеll pepper, аnd onion. Sеаѕоn wіth paprika, garlic роwdеr, salt, аnd pepper. 3. Cооk untіl thе vеgеtаblеѕ are tender, аbоut 10 mіnutеѕ. 4. Make twо wells іn the skillet and сrасk аn еgg into each one. 5. Cоvеr thе ѕkіllеt wіth a lіd and сооk untіl thе еggѕ аrе cooked tо уоur dеѕіrеd lеvеl of dоnеnеѕѕ. 6. Sеrvе hot. Sеrvіngѕ: 2 Nutrіtіоnаl іnfоrmаtіоn реr ѕеrvіng: Cаlоrіеѕ: 398 Fat: 26.5g Carbohydrates: 16.9g Prоtеіn: 22.6g

It seems to me that the intellectualization and aestheticizing of principles and values in this country is one of the things that's gutted our generation. All the things that my parents said to me, like "It's really important not to lie." OK, check, got it. I nod at that but I really don't feel it. Until I get to be about 30 and I realize that if I lie to you, I also can't trust you. I feel that I'm in pain, I'm nervous, I'm lonely and I can't figure out why. Then I realize, "Oh, perhaps the way to deal with this is really not to lie." The idea that something so simple and, really, so aesthetically uninteresting -- which for me meant you pass over it for the interesting, complex stuff -- can actually be nourishing in a way that arch, meta, ironic, pomo stuff can't, that seems to me to be important. That seems to me like something our generation needs to feel.

Gut health is so vital to our health because the microbiome has many functions: •​Makes and regulates hormones and neurotransmitters •​Absorbs nutrients •​Supports immune function •​Regulates estrogen levels in the body •​Fends off pathogens and parasites, and keeps healthy bacterial balance in check Estrogen

Gut health is so vital to our health because the microbiome has many functions: •​Makes and regulates hormones and neurotransmitters •​Absorbs nutrients •​Supports immune function •​Regulates estrogen levels in the body •​Fends off pathogens and parasites, and keeps healthy bacterial balance in check Estrogen and progesterone fuel the good bacteria in our guts. Without adequate levels, we can develop dysbiosis and its wide range of digestive disturbance symptoms, including diarrhea, cramping, constipation, bloating, and indigestion. When the gut microbiome is healthy, the estrobolome produces optimal levels of an enzyme called beta glucuronidase. As the liver metabolizes estrogen, it delivers this conjugated estrogen to the bile for excretion into the gut. A healthy estrobolome minimizes reabsorption of estrogen from the gut, and instead helps you poop it out. However, if you’re constipated and not pooping daily, or have an excess of bacteria producing beta glucuronidase, you can keep recycling estrogen in the gut and become estrogen dominant.

I believe the moral gut check here isn’t “Am I contributing enough?” but “Am I taking advantage of someone else?

Handling might mean weeping into a bottle of vodka in the gutted remains of his dreams, but hey, rock bottom and him were fast and familiar frenemies.

For your community of microbes – your ‘microbiome’ – your body is a planet. Some prefer the temperate forest of your scalp, some the arid plains of your forearm, some the tropical forest of your crotch or armpit. Your gut, ears, toes, mouth, eyes, skin and every surface, passage and cavity you possess teem with bacteria and fungi. You carry around more microbes than your ‘own’ cells. We are ecosystems, composed of – and decomposed by – an ecology of microbes, without which we could not grow and behave as we do. The forty-odd trillion microbes that live in and on our bodies allow us to digest food and produce key minerals that nourish us. Like the fungi that live within plants, they protect us from disease. They guide the development of our bodies and immune systems and influence our behaviour. If not kept in check, they can cause illnesses and even kill us. We are not a special case. Even bacteria have viruses within them. Even viruses can contain smaller viruses. Symbiosis is a ubiquitous feature of life.

My mother came home at some point, but she didn’t peek into the den. Her heels clacked in the entryway, and after she took them off, I marked the sounds of her movements in the kitchen, followed by the stairs to her bedroom. Since I’d heard the clink of a wine glass against a bottle as she passed the doorway to the den, I had no doubt she would be upstairs for the rest of the night. My gut clenched when she didn’t even check on me, but I should have been used to it. We hadn’t had much of a conversation since last weekend, and I didn’t foresee that changing.

Now we know that our gut is akin to a teeming tropical rain forest with its own diverse ecosystem, communities, and multiple signaling devices, languages that single-celled organisms use to talk among themselves.

Over the past fifty years, we have introduced innovation after innovation that has overlooked, depleted, and destroyed our microbiomes. It’s no coincidence that in the same time frame there has simultaneously been a stark increase in major diseases, from obesity to the current mental health crisis to the autoimmune epidemic that I treat in my clinics every day.

The truth is that inside your digestive system lives a galaxy made up of trillions of bacteria belonging to at least ten thousand different species, plus an as-yet-undetermined number of viruses, fungi, and other microbes. This is your gut biome. You also have an oral biome with seven hundred species of bacteria and a skin biome with a thousand different species.

Then Mack is beside me, gently turning me over. I stare up, still dazed and bewildered and shocked beyond all measure. “Oh fuck, angel. What did you do? What did you do?” “I…” My voice sounds weird. Kind of stretched and wobbly. “I saved you. Didn’t I?” Mack makes a strange sobbing sound and lowers his face briefly to my chest. “You did.” Then he’s pulling away my jacket and my shirt, searching for the wound. I can feel it burning on my side, and being exposed to the open air from Mack’s fumbling doesn’t make it any better. “Shit, it really hurts. I guess it’s bleeding. Are my guts hanging out?” He chokes on what might have been a huff of anxious amusement. “No. They’re definitely not. You’re bleeding but not as bad as I thought it would be. Maybe it didn’t get you too bad.” “Oh.” I’m focusing on taking deep breaths, trying to will the pain away so I can think more clearly. I’m hot and cold at the exact same time, and both my head and my chest are pounding violently. “Okay. So I’m not going to die?” “No!” He makes some weird, jerky motions, and it takes longer than it should for me to figure out he’s pulled off his T-shirt. He wads it up to hold it against the place that’s hurting on my side. “You’re not gonna die. I won’t let you.” “Do you think you can stop it?” I’m genuinely curious since he sounded so certain. “Yes. I don’t think you got shot too bad, but even if it’s bad, I’m gonna fix it. You’re not gonna die now. Not when I just got you for real. I’m not gonna let it happen. Not while I’m alive.” While he’s muttering out the hoarse words, he’s working on me, checking my side again and then moving my hand so I’m holding his bundled shirt to the wound myself. “Hold this right here. I’ll be right back.” “You’re leaving me?” I ask the words in a groggy blur since I have no clear idea what’s happening. “Course not. Just need somethin’ to wrap you up.” I don’t know what this means. I consider telling him I don’t need to be wrapped up because I’m as hot as I am cold even though I’ve started to shiver. But I don’t get the words out, and it doesn’t end up mattering because he returns with another one of his shirts. This one he wraps like a sash tightly around my middle, so snugly it holds his wadded T-shirt in place. “There’s first aid stuff at the cabin. I need to get you there so I can fix you up better. You think you can get up?” He sounds so upset and stressed I wouldn’t dream of telling him no. “I can do it.” My words are more confident than is warranted by my condition. I do make an attempt, but it’s mostly Mack lifting my full weight on his own and then carrying me over to the quad. He considers various options for positions, but there’s no safe way for us both to ride this thing except in the normal arrangement with me behind him. So he helps me get on and then climbs on in front of me, pulling my arms around him.

Don’t move,” he said, his eyes flashing green. She didn’t, but not because she had a sudden mesmerizing compulsion to stand still. If the vampire thought mind-control tricks worked on her, she might stand a better chance of escaping. The vampire freed her wrist, making a band of hope arc through Kira. He was buying it! Now just walk away and leave me alone while you rifle through my purse . . . He didn’t, but Kira kept her face from showing her disappointment as he pulled out her gun and checked the clip. “You really do have silver bullets in this,” the vampire said musingly. “And you were trying to steal Jenny away. Who put you up to this?” “No one,” Kira replied, attempting to fix a glazed expression on her face even though her heart hammered with fear. Those ghouls had gutted her in a second. This vampire could do the same. Any moment, she might be looking down at a horrible lethal wound before she’d even realized the vampire moved. The vampire frowned, grasping her chin in a grip hard enough to make her jaw creak. “I said, who put you up to this? Only another vampire would know to send you here packing silver bullets. Whose pet are you, hmmm? Give me a name.” “No vampire sent me. I’m a private investigator. Jennifer’s parents hired my firm,” Kira replied in as much of a monotone as she could manage.

I was an aspiring writer 15 years ago (I was a zygote. Honest). Since then, the business has changed so dramatically that I hesitate to give advice. But one thing remains constant: the importance of developing your own strong and unique voice. A fresh new voice can electrify readers! Also, I'd do a gut check at the outset of your journey, because this is a tough gig. If you decide to forge ahead, cultivate friendships with other authors who can empathize with the unique ups and downs of this occupation. I don't know what I would have done without my friends' support.

Democracy, liberalism--those are just words on a signpost, she was right about that. But the reality is more like the microflora in your guts. In the West, all your microbes balance each other out, it's taken centuries for you to reach that stage. They all quietly get on with generating hydrogen sulphide and keep their mouths shut. Everything's fine-tuned, like a watch, the total balance and self-regulation of the digestive system, and above it--the corporate media, moistening it all with fresh saliva every day. That kind of organism is called the open society--why the hell should it close down, it can close down anyone else it wants with a couple of air strikes. The question is, how do you arrive at this condition? What they taught us to do was to swallow salmonella with no antibodies to fight it, or other microbes to keep it in check at all. Not surprisingly we developed such a bad case of diarrhea that three hundred billion bucks had drained out before we even began to understand what was going on.

It was worse than she’d expected. “None?” she asked. “No fresh boot prints anywhere around the perimeter of the house,” Sheriff Coughlin confirmed. “It was windy last night. Maybe the drifting snow filled in the prints?” Even before she finished speaking, the sheriff was shaking his head. “With the warm temperatures we’ve been having, the snow is either frozen or wet and heavy. If someone had walked through that yard last night, there would’ve been prints.” Daisy hid her wince at his words, even though they hit as hard as an elbow to the gut, and struggled to keep her voice firm. “There was someone walking around the outside of that house last night, Sheriff. I don’t know why there aren’t any boot prints, but I definitely saw someone.” He was giving her that look again, but it was worse, because she saw a thread of pity mixed in with the condescension. “Have you given more thought to starting therapy again?” The question surprised her. “Not really. What does that have to do…?” As comprehension dawned, a surge of rage shoved out her bewilderment. “I didn’t imagine that I saw someone last night. There really was a person there, looking in the side window.” All her protest did was increase the pity in his expression. “It must get lonely here by yourself.” “I’m not making things up to get attention!” Her voice had gotten shrill, so she took a deep breath. “I even said there was no need for you to get involved. I only suggested one of the on-duty deputies drive past to scare away the kid.” “Ms. Little.” His tone made it clear that impatience had drowned out any feelings of sympathy. “Physical evidence doesn’t lie. No one was in that yard last night.” “I know what I saw.” The sheriff took a step closer. Daisy hated how she had to crane her neck back to look at him. It made her feel so small and vulnerable. “Do you really?” he asked. “Eyewitness accounts are notoriously unreliable. Even people without your issues misinterpret what they see all the time. The brain is a tricky thing.” Daisy set her jaw as she stared back at the sheriff, fighting the urge to step back, to retreat from the man looming over her. There had been someone there, footprints or no footprints. She couldn’t start doubting what she’d witnessed the night before. If she did, then that meant she’d gone from mildly, can’t-leave-the-house crazy, to the kind of crazy that involved hallucinations, medications, and institutionalization. There had to be some other explanation, because she wasn’t going to accept that. Not when her life was getting so much better. She could tell by looking at his expression that she wasn’t going to convince Coughlin of anything. “Thank you for checking on it, Sheriff. I promise not to bother you again.” Although he kept his face impassive, his eyes narrowed slightly. “If you…see anything else, Ms. Little, please call me.” That wasn’t going to happen, especially when he put that meaningful pause in front of “see” that just screamed “delusional.” Trying to mask her true feelings, she plastered on a smile and turned her body toward the door in a not-so-subtle hint for him to leave. “Of course.” Apparently, she needed some lessons in deception, since the sheriff frowned, unconvinced. Daisy met his eyes with as much calmness as she could muster, dropping the fake smile because she could feel it shifting into manic territory. She’d lost enough credibility with the sheriff as it was. The silence stretched until Daisy wanted to run away and hide in a closet, but she managed to continue holding his gaze. The memory of Chris telling her about the sheriff using his “going to confession” stare-down on suspects helped her to stay quiet. Finally, Coughlin turned toward the door. Daisy barely managed to keep her sigh of relief silent. “Ms. Little,” he said with a short nod, which she returned. “Sheriff.” Only when he was through the doorway with the door locked behind him did Daisy’s knees start to shake.

Most McKinsey-ites are generalists. They know a little about a lot of things. As they gain experience and move through the ranks, they may come to know a lot about a lot of things. Even at this point, however, they will still know less about, say, inventory management practices for perishable foodstuffs than the folks who have been running the distribution operations of Stop & Shop for the last 10 years. Gut instinct might tell those folks the solution to an inventory management problem in 10 seconds (although they still would be wise to check the facts); McKinsey will go to the facts first.

[...] I kept thinking we were trapped in hell. Infernal, lung-curdling smoke? Check. Eardrum-bursting, satanic thunder? Check. Multitudes of shrieking imps? Check. [...] I had the gut feeling I was trapped there eternally, back behind First Baptist's aluminum-sided temple.

Their dance with the Grim Reaper had arrived. After tonight, there'd be no turning back." opening of GUT-CHECK GREEN

Gotta have a rusted out red farm truck to prove you're a farmer in Sonoma, or a sheep-milk dairy man." - Jake Knight in GUT-CHECK GREEN.

We're like an alarm clock and the rest of the world is sleeping." - Brandy Wine from GUT-CHECK GREEN.

I’d been at the plant for three weeks when Curly invited me to his trailer for a drink. He lived just outside Hood River in a double-wide he shared with his mother, a woman he often spoke about. “I told Mother what you said about Dorothy’s mouth looking like a gunshot wound and, Lord, she just about bust a gut, she was laughing so hard. She is one funny lady, my mother. Nothing tickles her funny bone better than a knock-knock joke. You know any good sidesplitters?” Desperate as I was for company, I understood that I was clearly dealing with a loser. Management seemed the perfect career for a person like Curly. I could easily picture him in a short-sleeved shirt, the pocket lined with pens. Someone would ask him to check the time cards and he’d probably say something goofy like “Okey-dokey, artichokey.” I’d tried to straighten him out, but there’s only so much you can do for a person who thinks Auschwitz is a brand of beer. He

Gut check. Is your current fear a stumbling block or a stepping stone?

When James Wan is out there the horror is real, no doubt about that Check out for own proof if you have guts Sinister 1,2... Insidious 1,2...

Suddenly the door opens and Pete rushes in. He’s all smiles and he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a cigar made of bubble gum. “We’re pregnant!” he yells. Friday grins and runs to him. He catches her against him and he swings her around. “So happy for you two,” she says and she kisses Pete’s cheek. “Is Reagan with you?” She looks over his shoulder. “Nah, she’s at home puking her guts out.” He laughs. “Nasty stuff, that morning sickness.” “And you left her alone while she’s sick?” Friday slugs him on the arm. “Actually, she threw me out.” He starts to mock her voice. “If you don’t get the fuck out of my face, I’m going to drop-kick you into the middle of next week.” He laughs. “She probably even meant it. Usually when she’s pissed at me, she threatens my balls. So I’m pretty sure she didn’t want me around watching her heave. Plus, I wanted to come and check on Josh. Is he here?” Friday points toward the rear of the shop and Pete goes in that direction. “I can’t believe he was allowed to breed,” I say quietly. “He’s going to make a wonderful father.

We're not sure if he's alive. Nobody has the guts to check it out.

We walk out of the bathroom, and Mellie grins up at me and hugs my leg, just below my knee. She sits down on my foot, and I take a few steps wearing her like a boot, her clinging to me like Velcro. She thinks it’s hilarious, and the other girls want to take a turn, too. After everyone gets a ride and I make sure they all have snacks, I walk out into the hallway. Emily is standing there, and she looks me up and down and nods. “What?” I ask. “Nothing,” she sings, grinning like a fool. “Say it,” I prompt. She shrugs. But then she looks up into my face. “You’re going to be the best dad ever, Matt,” she says. My heart swells. “Well, at least I don’t have to worry about them turning out like me.” I scratch my belly. “Being this handsome is quite a burden to bear.” She laughs and punches me in the gut. I bend in the middle, clutching my stomach, and that’s when Sky walks around the corner. She looks toward Hayley’s room. “I was just going to check on the girls,” she says. “I just did,” I tell her. Her brow furrows, and she looks so damn pretty that I want to kiss her. “Don’t tell anyone, but Mellie’s pants peed on her,” I whisper dramatically. She turns toward her bag. “Oh, I better get some clothes,” she says. “Already took care of it,” I say, and I wrap my arms around Sky. She hugs me back. “You took care of it?” She lays her face against my chest and nuzzles against me. I could stand here like this all day long. “Of course,” I say. She mumbles something against my chest that sounds like, “You’re really sexy when you take care of children.” “Hey,” I cry. “You should see me when I vacuum. And do dishes. You won’t be able to stand the sexy.

More often than not, when the interviewer's gut-check "yes/no" departed from the data, we'd find that the untrustworthy source was the interviewer. Despite training them not to, they routinely factored "confidence" into their result. Biases like that are pernicious!

GABA, is one of the most abundant signaling molecules in the nervous system, where it keeps the emotional part of our brain, the limbic system, in check.

Mr. Larsen, I do believe we’re having a civil conversation.” “Are we? Someone check the weather in hell,” I deadpanned. Bridget’s smile widened, and I’d be damned if I didn’t feel a small kick in my gut at the sight.

Should you be eating soy? There’s been some debate about soy due to the perception of its carrying estrogen, but I want you to understand that phytoestrogens aren’t estrogen, nor do they act like human estrogen. Instead, phytoestrogens are isoflavones, one of the unique phytochemicals in soy beans. There are actually three soy isoflavones: genistein, daidzein, and glycitein. They have a number of health benefits, including: lowering cholesterol, strengthening bones, treating menopausal symptoms, lowering risk of coronary heart disease, and reducing risk of prostate/colon/breast/ovarian cancers. Want even more good news about soy? There are certain gut bacteria that can convert soy isoflavones into an even more beneficial compound called equol. This is like a supercharged isoflavone, giving you even more cardiovascular, bone, and menopausal health benefits. Unfortunately, you need to have the bacteria in order to do this. Equol can be produced by 50 to 60 percent of Asian people but just 30 percent of Westerners. For what it’s worth, diets high in carbohydrates (really meaning fiber) and low in saturated fat are associated with equol production, while antibiotics appear to hinder it. I recommend consuming only non-GMO and organic soy in its whole-foods forms: edamame, tofu, miso, tempeh, tamari, and unsweetened soy milk. Model your soy consumption after the way they do it in Asia. For some delicious ways to consume soy, check out the recipes in Chapter 10.

We think that we’re the highest-functioning organism on the planet and that our mind has complete control over our behavior, but in the hands of a simple single-celled organism, we are essentially nothing more than a giant lab rat.

Braised Striped Bass Pavillon YIELD: 4 SERVINGS I HAD NEVER SEEN or tasted striped bass before I worked at Le Pavilion. It is similar, however, to the loup de mer of the Mediterranean, one of the most prized fish of that region and a standard menu item in restaurants along the Côte d’Azur. With flesh that is slightly softer and moister than its European cousin, striped bass was a specialty of Le Pavilion. The braised wild striped bass would be presented to the patrons whole and carved at tableside. The following is a simple, elegant, and mouth-watering adaptation of the recipe from Le Pavilion. The fish, gutted with head on, is braised with white wine, shallots, and mushrooms in the oven, then coated with the cooking juices enriched with butter. This dish is excellent served with tiny steamed potatoes or sautéed cucumbers. 1 striped bass, gutted, with head on (about 3 pounds) 2 cups thinly sliced mushrooms ¼ cup chopped shallots ½ teaspoon salt, plus more to taste ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper, plus more to taste 1 tablespoon good olive oil 1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves 2 bay leaves 1 cup dry, fruity white wine (Chardonnay or Sauvignon Blanc) 8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice 1 tablespoon minced fresh chives Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Place the fish in a gratin dish or stainless steel baking dish that is narrow enough to prevent the garnishes and the wine from spreading out too much. Sprinkle with the mushrooms, shallots, ½ teaspoon salt, ½ teaspoon pepper, olive oil, thyme, bay leaves, and wine. Cover tightly with a piece of aluminum foil so the fish will cook in its own steam. Bake for 35 to 45 minutes, or until the fish is cooked through. Check by inserting the point of a small knife into the flesh. It should be tender, and the flesh should separate from the central bone when pierced with the knife. Reduce the heat to 150 degrees. Using a large hamburger spatula, transfer the whole fish to an ovenproof serving platter, and set aside in the warm oven while you complete the recipe. Pour the fish’s cooking juices and vegetable solids into a small saucepan, and discard the bay leaves. You should have ¾ to 1 cup of liquid; cook down the liquid or add water to adjust the yield to this amount. Bring to a boil on top of the stove, and add the butter spoonful by spoonful, incorporating each piece into the mixture with a whisk before you add another. Remove the saucepan from the heat, and add the lemon juice, chives, and additional salt and pepper to taste. At serving time, pull or scrape off the skin on top of the fish with a small paring knife. Coat the fish with the sauce, and sprinkle the chives on top. Bring to the table, and carve for the guests.

Sir Dalton,” I thought, through the party communication system, “Why so glum?” “I’m not in the mood for this now, brain,” replied Sir Dalton. Sir Dalton had interesting internal conversations between various parts of his anatomy.  His brain and gut seemed to be the main “voices.”  Fortunately, I had a tried and true method of conversing with Dalton.  I pitched my voice higher.  “Dalton, this is your gut.  I think we should talk about it.” “I think not,” growled Sir Dalton.  “We are not on speaking terms after what you just did!” Sir Dalton had always trusted his gut before.  Now, I was even more curious.  I pitched my voice lower and tried again. “Sir Dalton, it is I, your elbow.  Do you want to talk?” I asked. There was a long pause.  Just as I decided the Knight wasn’t actually that stupid, I received a gasping sob through the connection.  “Oh, elbow, I don’t know who to trust anymore!” “What happened?” I, as his elbow, continued. “Well, as you know, I ‘ve always trusted my gut before.  Yet, when we got into the dungeon it started asking me about the Drak-ish.  We talked for a moment, and I decided I should do a gut check about Jarra the Healer.” “That sounds reasonable,” I replied, running my mind back to the battle with the Drak-ish. “When I did, my gut told me to give up on Jarra the Healer.  She has her heart set on another,” said Dalton hotly.  “Isn’t that ridiculous?   Of course, I knew my gut was lying to me.  Look at me! I’m Sir Dalton!” “That is true,” I replied.  “You are Sir Dalton.” “Don’t sell yourself short, elbow.  You are part of the mighty carriage of Sir Dalton,” continued the very humble Knight. “Good point,” I continued.  “Have you talked to anyone about this?” “Wouldn’t you know?  You are my elbow, after all,” replied Sir Dalton questioningly. “Um, I, uh, don’t have ears,” I reached.  “Oh, so sorry, of course” replied Sir Dalton.  “Well, I talked to SueLeeta about it, and she agreed.  She also thinks I should find another woman.  Someone who likes being around me.  Someone that I have fun with.  Someone who’s interested in me, and the like.

Flynn grinned again. “I thought I heard you ask Ruhn about his Ordeal. It was our Ordeal, too, you know.” “I know,” Bryce said, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “But he won the prize sword, didn’t he?” “Ouch.” Flynn clutched his chest. “Cold, B,” Declan said. Ruhn chuckled and leaned back in his seat, finishing off his beer before he said, “I was twenty-seven. My—our father sent me to Avallen to … check out the ladies.” “There was a Fae female from a powerful family who the Autumn King wanted Ruhn to marry,” Flynn explained. “Unfortunately, Cormac wanted to marry her, too. Neither married her in the end, of course.” Bryce groaned. “Please tell me all this tension between you two isn’t over a girl.” “Only partially,” Declan said. “It’s also because Cormac and his twin cousins tried to kill us. Cormac literally put a sword through my gut.” He patted his rock-hard abs. “Aren’t you Fae all … allies?” Ithan asked, brows raised. Flynn nearly spat out his drink. “Valbaran Fae and Avallen Fae hate each other. The Avallen Fae are a bunch of backward assholes. Prince Cormac might be Ruhn’s cousin, but he can drop dead for all we care.

Solve this: by taking the following supplements: Vitamin D, as people suffering from gut problems are usually deficient in this vitamin 25–50mg of zinc, 2–4mg of copper, 800mcg of folic acid and 800mcg of vitamin B12, all of which can help repair the gut; and check your iron status too Supplements of homoeostatic soil organisms (HSOs), good-guy organisms found naturally in soil that were part of the human diet before 1930 – these have been shown to calm an inflamed gut Bentonite, or hydrated aluminium silicate, which has the remarkable ability to get bacteria and viruses to stick to it – since bentonite is not absorbed, it passes through the colon, taking toxins with it

The first hockey shinny of the season was fast and rough. George noticed the guys played up to their personalities. Books was quick with the stick, played a bit dirty. He checked George more times than he needed to, but never illegally. Frank was a decent defenseman, joined the rush, didn’t start it. But Ron Barry, notwithstanding his showy antics, was by far the best player out there. He played by gut feel, which was usually right.

You can see by comparing the numbers you get a percentage, in this case, 3%. This is good! This feels reasonable. There is no perfect ratio, but it feels good. The gut check says, “Yeah, this could happen.

Herein lies the gut check that every parent must settle before the mission begins: Do we want Metroville Christianity or real kingdom Christianity to be the story we call our children into? Do we want normal kids, or do we want kids who march to a different drum? Do we want kids who can stand against the currents of normal life and who can innovate and create all that’s new and good in their world? Do we want upside-down kids? Living

At the moments you're leveling up [...] take a look at who is surrounding you. You cannot be surrounded by people you've known for only two years. It was an exhortation to bring your people along for the ride. The people who know where you come from. The people who know what values you hold. The people who give you the gut checks you need. These are the people who will help you make the best decisions with the power and resources you have.

In landmark experiments that began in the late 1980s, Michael Meaney, a neuroscientist at McGill University, in Montreal, studied how the interactions between rat moms and pups played out in the lives of the pups. His research team took genetically identical rat mothers and videotaped and analyzed their behaviors while the pups were infants. Then they let the pups grow up, and checked how the pups of nurturing rat moms fared compared with the offspring of stressed-out moms. The pampered pups grew into adults that were more laid-back, less reactive to stress, and less prone to addictive behaviors, such as overdoing it when given a free supply of alcohol or cocaine. They were also more social with other rats, more daring, and more willing to explore new places. Pups of stressed, negligent moms grew into loners prone to the rat equivalents of anxiety, depression, and addictive behaviors. Studies of monkey moms and their infants turned up similar results. Stressed macaque infants whose moms are inconsistent, erratic, and sometimes dismissive grow up timid, submissive, fearful, less gregarious, and more prone to depression than their better-nurtured peers. These early findings were the beginning of a paradigm shift in our understanding of how experiences in childhood can affect our health and the dialogue between the gut and the brain.

through her gut as her stomach began to form a closer relationship with her throat. The staccato voice of the first officer echoed in her headset as she checked off stats. “Mach one point seven, altitude ten point one, lateral drift two point two. Get ready, deploying chutes…” With that, three

was slowly waking up and I noticed that I was half submerged in water. I could hear the waves, as they were my wake up call. Groggily I had opened my eyes, finding the sand in front of me. It took me a while to remember what happened but my head was pounding and I want nothing more than to go back to sleep. I dropped my head back on the damp sand; eagerly waiting for sleep but there’s this weird feeling in my gut. All of a sudden, images started to play in my mind. There was a storm while I was out fishing. I had read the weather reports before going out and they had promised a clear day which meant a time for me to go out to sea. I had checked the night before and relied too much on the current season, summer, that there were be little to no chance of storms. With all the waves tumbling about, I didn’t even know where I was heading nor could I remember if I had a certain destination after my boat floated further into the sea. I shook the grim thoughts away; there was no point on thinking about what has already happened. I slowly dragged my arms to push myself off the shore. My body was sore all over and I noticed a lot of debris around me. With no technology to turn to, I couldn’t even determine what island I’ve washed ashore unto. Blinking away the traces of sleep, I made my way to the dry portion of land hoping to get some help as long as I continue walking. It’s a good thing that nothing was broken or was I badly injured from the experience. I did have a bruise here and there but I’m sure that they’ll fade soon. Now, it’s best if I get some dry clothes and something good to eat. I looked at the position of the sun. If I had to guess, it’s almost lunch time. That and the loud noises from my stomach would be a good measure of time. I had a painful time walking so I took one of the bigger debris from the boat and used it to aid me in my walking. The whole place was a sight to behold. It looked far too lush compared to the forests back home. I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. I mean, this was a good dream but I’d rather be home and eating some grilled fish. The thought of grilled fish got my stomach rumbling even more.

To most Americans—including me these days—it is gut-check self-evident that a fertilized egg is not a person, because personhood is a lot more than a collection of chromosomes in a Petri dish or in the womb. To most Americans—including me these days—it is also gut-check self-evident that an unborn baby is mighty like one of us, and that a lot of fast talking about reproductive rights and choice or a woman’s mental well-being doesn’t answer the horror of a three-pound child with her head deliberately caved in lying in a medical waste receptacle.

Skin in the game can make boring things less boring. When you have skin in the game, dull things like checking the safety of the aircraft because you may be forced to be a passenger in it cease to be boring. If you are an investor in a company, doing ultra-boring things like reading the footnotes of a financial statement (where the real information is to be found) becomes, well, almost not boring. But there is an even more vital dimension. Many addicts who normally have a dull intellect and the mental nimbleness of a cauliflower—or a foreign policy expert—are capable of the most ingenious tricks to procure their drugs. When they undergo rehab, they are often told that should they spend half the mental energy trying to make money as they did procuring drugs, they are guaranteed to become millionaires. But, to no avail. Without the addiction, their miraculous powers go away. It was like a magical potion that gave remarkable powers to those seeking it, but not those drinking it. A confession. When I don’t have skin in the game, I am usually dumb. My knowledge of technical matters, such as risk and probability, did not initially come from books. It did not come from lofty philosophizing and scientific hunger. It did not even come from curiosity. It came from the thrills and hormonal flush one gets while taking risks in the markets. I never thought mathematics was something interesting to me until, when I was at Wharton, a friend told me about the financial options I described earlier (and their generalization, complex derivatives). I immediately decided to make a career in them. It was a combination of financial trading and complicated probability. The field was new and uncharted. I knew in my guts there were mistakes in the theories that used the conventional bell curve and ignored the impact of the tails (extreme events). I knew in my guts that academics had not the slightest clue about the risks. So, to find errors in the estimation of these probabilistic securities, I had to study probability, which mysteriously and instantly became fun, even gripping. When there was risk on the line, suddenly a second brain in me manifested itself, and the probabilities of intricate sequences became suddenly effortless to analyze and map. When there is fire, you will run faster than in any competition. When you ski downhill some movements become effortless. Then I became dumb again when there was no real action. Furthermore, as traders the mathematics we used fit our problem like a glove, unlike academics with a theory looking for some application—in some cases we had to invent models out of thin air and could not afford the wrong equations. Applying math to practical problems was another business altogether; it meant a deep understanding of the problem before writing the equations.

Internal refinement: A cross-functional group of internal experts comes together to refine and pressure test the hypotheses. These discussions bring together teams like marketing, sales, pricing, and product design. Initial customer validation: The team then starts validating product-market fit, perceived value, and WTP with target markets. Methods used include value trade-offs, ideal package (i.e. product configuration) creation, unaided WTP, and purchase probability (as outlined in Chapter 4). This typically occurs prior to writing any code. The gut-check: The concept must then pass an internal “smell test.” The team typically pitches the product concept to LinkedIn

At the moments when you’re leveling up—say, you’re accepting a promotion or you’re on an extravagant vacation you can finally afford or you’re at the Grammys—take a look at who is surrounding you. You cannot be surrounded by people you’ve known for only two years. It was an exhortation to bring your people along for the ride. The people who know where you come from. The people who know what values you hold. The people who give you the gut checks you need. These are the people who will help you make the best decisions with the power and resources you have. They are also the people with whom you will want to enjoy your newfound success.

Dunkle Gasse? Check! Fremder Mann? Check! Küsst dieser Mann so gut wie ein Engel? Check! Moment! Weiß ich überhaupt wie Engel küssen? Äh, nein.

Glancing about the small apartment for some form of weapon, Lucy finally found a large carving knife and a heavy frying pan. She was pretty sure she’d never have the guts to use the knife so left it and took the pan instead. Testing the weight of the frying pan in her hand, she took a defensive position by the door. After what seemed like ages, Lucy heard footsteps approaching down the hall. Flexing her fingers, she checked her grip on the frying pan and braced herself for what might come. The steps paused outside; Lucy took a deep breath and held it as she watched the handle slowly turn. Letting out the breath and taking another to steady her nerves, she waited for the door to open slowly, Instead, it swung inward with enough force to make her jump. Taking no time to think, she swung the frying pan with all her might towards the newcomer. Unfortunately her aim was off and she missed her target, hitting the wall with a resounding clunk. Before she could comprehend what was happening, something hard hit her across the head and she fell to the ground stunned.

What do I want my money to do for me? works like a gut check that helps us see whether our priorities are driving our money decisions. When we know what we want our money to do for us, the options become a lot less daunting, and confidence quickly replaces the stress.

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