Guys Cheating Quotes

What irritated me most in that entire situation was the fact that I wasn’t feeling humiliated, or annoyed, or even fooled. Betrayal was what I felt, my heart broken not just by a guy I was in love with, but also by, as I once believed, a true friend.

You think I'd cheat on you?" I demanded with all the innocent outrage I could muster. "With another guy, no. With a cheeseburger . . . in a heartbeat.

A friend of mine told a story about a date with a guy she was really excited about: He stood her up. He then called her, begging her forgiveness and giving some excuse. She told him to get lost, telling him that he only gets one shot with her, and he blew it.

You're going to get yourself into a lot of trouble." "Why?" "Because of her right there. Do you know what Daisy would do if you ever cheated on her." "Move on to the next guy that told her she has nice tits." "Okay, you're probably right on that one.

you'd literally lie, cheat, and steal -hell, kill- to convince people you are a good guy

I liked music that I didn't have to think about, and most country songs spelled it right out for the listener. The girl was mad because the guy cheated, the guy was mad his pickup got trashed, everyone was sad the dog died, and Taylor Swift had about as much luck with men as I did.

People talk about survival. What they mean is killing the other guy.

We now know I can do it, but I feel like hell," I went on. "I'm so cold, my teeth would chatter if they still could. And I'm hungry enough that both of you are starting to looking really, really good." Vlad's lips curled. "Is this the part where I'm supposed to remind you that this is just the leftover power talking and you don't really want to cheat on Hones?" "Not that kind of hungry!" I gasped, eyes bulging that Vlad thought I'd just casually thrown out that I wanted him and Mencheres to double-team me. "I meant hungry like drinking you guys' blood. Not hungry for... you know." Without thought, my gaze flew to the areas in question before skipping away once I realized what I was doing. Then my cheeks actually tingled with mortification as Vlad let out a long, hearty laugh. Mencheres, more courteous, pretended to suddenly find something fascinating in the door frame, but I saw his lips twitch. "My dear Reaper," Vlad said, still laughing. "Did you just check out our--" "No!" I interrupted at once, almost lunging toward the staircase. "I'm tired and still dazed from the Remnants and... fuck it, I'm taking a shower. I mean, not a cold shower, because I don't need that"--Oh Jesus, I was only making this worse--"because I am cold already, and I need to get hot. I mean, warmer. Oh, just shut up!

So shift it in reverse, sit back and let him have her…she’s not near the woman you are.  Don’t demean yourself by competing and don’t be jealous…you know what she’s getting - a man that’s unfaithful, a liar and a cheat.

I can’t go on like this. I’m not the guy who cheats on his girlfriend wishing all the time she was someone else.” Elation and fear washed over me in equal measure. “Cam, I…” “You want this. I know you do.

Life's best adventures are as close as your nearest bookshelf. Tour Europe with the Count of Monte Cristo. Dance a ball with Mr Darcy. Hunt down bad guys with Stephanie Plum. Amazing things can happen when you read.

I found the guy! After more than twenty years of being single and jerked around and cheated on and alone, I found my soul mate. Pardon my French, but you think I give a shit about the flowers?

Having a dick is one of the most dangerous things on the planet. How many people are eaten by sharks each year? How many guys lose everything they've got because of their dick? Yet the Discovery Channel has Shark week every other fucking month. Why doesn't it have Dick Week? That would be the scariest seven days in the history of television.

You want to know why I’ve never once been tempted to cheat on my wife when most guys wouldn’t think twice? Because I don’t want to. There ain’t nothing out there that’s better than what I’ve got at home. No one who could ever compare.

I bet he's an actual good guy. The kind that I desperately need in my life. The thing of it is, he'll never be mine because he's a good guy. By nature alone, a good guy would never cheat on his girlfriend, hence the impossibility of anything happening between Nash and me. Even if they were to break up, he'd probably be too nice a guy to hurt her like that, by dating her cousin.

If anybody studying psychology wants a concrete example of what a narcissist looks like, I advise them to consider any man who cheats on his wife. These guys are the textbook me-firsters, the ones who think the rules don't apply to them, the ones who tell themselves as long as she doesn't know, there's no harm done. No woman needs to sleep with these guys. There are so many single self-absorbed narcissists who will fuck you poorly.

After you die, you're going to hell for being a dishonest bastard, and you'll burn for eternity." The guy snatched his hand back. "I don't believe in Hell." "Most people don't until they get there." Mab smiled at him. "Of course, if you stop lying and cheating, you can probably redeem yourself. If not, have them put marshmallows in your coffin. There's a bight side to everything, I always say.

When we unloaded the last box Vincent surprised me by taking my hand and placing a kiss on my knuckles. His deep chocolate eyes gazed into mine as he spoke with an air of knowing wisdom, “If I ever cheated on my wife I think she’d have cut my balls off. If you don’t want to castrate this guy after what he’s done then he’s not the one for you.” he nodded as though affirming the truth of his words.

Boys are cheats and liars, they're such a big disgrace. They will tell you anything to get to second base... ball, baseball he thinks he's gonna score. If you let him go all the way then you are a hor... ticulture studies flowers, geologist studies rocks. The only thing a guy wants from you is a place to put his cock... roaches, beetles, butterflies and bugs. Nothing makes him happier than a giant pair of jug... glers and acrobats, a dancing bear named Chuck. All guys really want to do is - forget it, no such luck.

Live the life you’d be envious of if you saw someone else living it. This is my personal mantra. Whenever I’m going through a difficult time, like a breakup, and I’m wishing to be the person who could get over it and move on, I tell myself to be that person. Instead of waiting to be inspired by someone else and being jealous that they’re living a life I wish I had, I tell myself not to wait for that moment and to start being the person I want to be. If you wish you were the woman who went for that big promotion, learned a second language, dumped that guy who cheated on you, then just be that person. Think, if I have the energy to wish for it, I have the energy to do it.

Either you’re lying again or you’re as stupid as you look. You ditch me first year for him when you were a girl. You ditch me second year for him when you were a boy. You lie and cheat and steal for him while he treats you like crap, and I help you and care for you and worship you like a queen while you treat me like crap! What does that guy have that I don’t? What makes him so lovable and me so unworthy? Know how many times I’ve asked myself that question, Sophie? How many times I’ve studied him like a book or sat in the dark picturing every last shred of him, trying to understand why he’s more of a person than me? Or why the moment he’s gone, you take a ring from the School Master—or Raphael or Michelangelo or Donatello or whatever you want to call him to make yourself feel better—just because he looks like you want him to look and says what you want to hear? When you could have had someone who’s honest and kind and real?

Is that your wife?" Julie asks again, more forcefully. I nod. "Who's that...guy she's with?" I shrug. "Is she cheating on you or something?" I shrug. "This doesn't bother you?" I shrug. "Stop shrugging, you asshole! I know you can talk; say something.

Bruce Lee was proof: not all Asian Men were doomed to a life of being Generic. If there was even one guy who had made it, it was at least theoretically possible for the rest. But easy cases make bad law, and Bruce Lee proved too much. He was a living, breathing video game boss-level, a human cheat code, an idealized avatar of Asian-ness and awesomeness permanently set on Expert difficulty. Not a man so much as a personification, not a mortal so much as a deity on loan to you and your kind for a fixed period of time. A flame that burned for all yellow to understand, however briefly, what perfection was like.

Look at this guy, he's mostly taint. I have no idea why he's so difficult to beat.

You told him that you love him. Now cum all over my fingers whilst he showers next door, completely unaware about what a cheating whore his girlfriend is.

Who but the sports-mad [Norman] Mailer would liken the battle between God and the Devil to a game of American football? The contest, for sure, has with [sic] own laws (so that after God and the Devil 'tackle a guy, they don't kick him in the head'), but each side is not above cheating—with God breaking the rules occasionally by throwing in 'a miracle'. Strangely, Mailer doesn’t mention Jesus in this agonising analogy, but then the notion of the 'super-sub' may be an image too far even for him.

And you know women, they're both back there turning it into the crime of the century. Planting it in a little garden in the center of their hearts and watering it with feelings. Talking about it, sharing it. You're a cheat, you're a heartbreaker, you're like a museum exhibit, Everything That's Wrong with Guys.

Another poll, from Gallup, found that infidelity is more universally disapproved of than polygamy, animal cloning, and suicide.11 So if there were two guys at a bar, one cheating on his wife and another with a cloned pig named Bootsie, it would be the cheater, not Bootsie the pig, getting more disapproving looks.

Do you trust," said Candide, "that guys have always massacred every other as they do to-day, that they've always been liars, cheats, traitors, ingrates, brigands, idiots, thieves, scoundrels, gluttons, drunkards, misers, green with envy, formidable, bloody-minded, calumniators, debauchees, enthusiasts, hypocrites, and fools?

This kind of man is a master manipulator who let you believe a lie (that he was committed to you, that he loved you) for months, years or maybe longer.  He let the other woman believe the same.  Even if the old saying is true, “all men cheat” perhaps you would be better off finding a man that is smart enough, not to get caught. 

...while epic fantasy is based on the fairy tale of the just war, that’s not one you’ll find in Grimm or Disney, and most will never recognize the shape of it. I think the fantasy genre pitches its tent in the medieval campground for the very reason that we even bother to write stories about things that never happened in the first place: because it says something subtle and true about our own world, something it is difficult to say straight out, with a straight face. Something you need tools to say, you need cheat codes for the human brain--a candy princess or a sugar-coated unicorn to wash down the sour taste of how bad things can really get. See, I think our culture has a slash running through the middle of it, too. Past/Future, Conservative/Liberal, Online/Offline. Virgin/Whore. And yes: Classical/Medieval. I think we’re torn between the Classical Narrative of Self and the Medieval Narrative of Self, between the choice of Achilles and Keep Calm and Carry On. The Classical internal monologue goes like this: do anything, anything, only don’t be forgotten. Yes, this one sacrificed his daughter on a slab at Aulis, that one married his mother and tore out his eyes, and oh that guy ate his kids in a pie. But you remember their names, don’t you? So it’s all good in the end. Give a Greek soul a choice between a short life full of glory and a name echoing down the halls of time and a long, gentle life full of children and a quiet sort of virtue, and he’ll always go down in flames. That’s what the Iliad is all about, and the Odyssey too. When you get to Hades, you gotta have a story to tell, because the rest of eternity is just forgetting and hoping some mortal shows up on a quest and lets you drink blood from a bowl so you can remember who you were for one hour. And every bit of cultural narrative in America says that we are all Odysseus, we are all Agamemnon, all Atreus, all Achilles. That we as a nation made that choice and chose glory and personal valor, and woe betide any inconvenient “other people” who get in our way. We tell the tales around the campfire of men who came from nothing to run dotcom empires, of a million dollars made overnight, of an actress marrying a prince from Monaco, of athletes and stars and artists and cowboys and gangsters and bootleggers and talk show hosts who hitched up their bootstraps and bent the world to their will. Whose names you all know. And we say: that can be each and every one of us and if it isn’t, it’s your fault. You didn’t have the excellence for it. You didn’t work hard enough. The story wasn’t about you, and the only good stories are the kind that have big, unignorable, undeniable heroes.

I want to fuck you in the worst way possible. What I don't want is to be some revenge fuck of yours in order to get back at your cheating boyfriend, who you'll most likely get back together with before you touch down in D.C. I'm not that guy, love. When I fuck you, there will be no doubt in your mind as to whom you're with and why you're with me, understand?

Well, fuck a duck,” comes Morris’s delighted voice. I jerk in surprise, then spin around to glare at him for sneaking up on me from behind. Judging by the amusement dancing in his eyes, it’s obvious he peeked over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of the photo I’d been drooling over. “I was wondering how he’d pull that one off,” Morris remarks, still grinning like a fool. “Shouldn’t have doubted him, though. That dude is an unstoppable force of nature.” I narrow my eyes. “He told you about the picture?” “About the whole list, actually. We hung out last night—Lorris is close to taking over Brooklyn, by the way—and he was moaning and groaning about not being able to track down a red velvet couch.” Morris shrugs. “I offered to throw a red blanket on the sofa in my common room and take some pictures, but he said you’d consider that cheating and deprive him of your love.” Stifling a sigh, I shove the phone in my purse, then walk over to the mini-fridge across the room and grab a bottle of water. I twist off the cap, doing my best to ignore the sheer enjoyment Morris is getting out of this. “I wish I was gay,” he says ruefully. A snicker pops out. “Uh-huh. Go on. I’m willing to follow you down this rabbit hole and see where it leads.” “Seriously, Gretch, I love him. I have a boner for him.” Morris sighs. “If I’d known he existed, I wouldn’t have asked you out in the first place.” “Gee, thanks.” “Oh, shut up. You’re awesome, and I’d tap that in a second. But I can’t compete with this guy. He’s operating on a whole other level when it comes to you.

There is not always a good guy. Nor is there always a bad one. Most people are somewhere inbetween. Conor shook his head. “That’s a terrible story. And a cheat.” It is a true story, the monster said. Many things that are true feel like a cheat.

I tried to bunked classes, I skipped lectures, I cheated in exams, I lied to my teachers and some stuff were taken for granted when I was a student before. I am not proud about it. Of course, I learned from that experience. I learned that everyone has a chance to change. It doesn't mean that if I am dumbass before and you call me the same thing now. Because now, I work hard, play the game well and strive for excellence. This is me now, a guy with a strong grit in my heart.

I’ve had plenty of sad moments. I don’t need to drown myself in ice cream pints to get over the guy who cheated on me.

And I’ve always thought guys who cheat are the bottom of the fucking barrel.

Do not tell me what I think you're going to or I swear to God, I'm going to fly to Brazil and go all black ops on this guy for cheating on you.

This guy was a humorless bag of nothing but.

If I ever cheated on my wife, I think she’d have my balls cut off. If you don’t want to castrate this guy after what he’s done, then he’s not the one for you.

A cheater will cheat, no matter how wonderful his woman is. Some guys are scum. Cheaters cheat, no matter what.” I

I knew about Chiamaka, believe it or not. Scotty cheated on me with some other guys at parties he went to. His

They say you can't cheat death, well that doesn't stop these guys from trying.

She’s the reason he will probably become an embittered old fuck before he’s even of legal drinking age, distrusting women and writing rude songs about them, and basically from here into eternity thinking all chicks are lying cheating sluts because one of them broke his heart. He’s the type of guy that makes girls like me frigid. I’m the girl who knows he’s capable of poetry, because, like I said, there are things I just know. I’m the one who could give him that old-fashioned song title of a thing called Devotion and True Love (However Complicated), if he ever gave a girl like me a second glance. I’m the less-than-five-minute girlfriend who for one too-brief kiss fantasized about ditching this joint with him, going all the way punk with him at a fucking jazz club in the Village or something. Maybe I would have treated him to borscht at Veselka at five in the morning, maybe I would have walked along Battery Park with him at sunrise, holding his hand, knowing I would become the one who would believe in him. I would tell him, I heard you play, I’ve read your poetry, not that crap your band just performed, but those love letters and songs you wrote to Tris. I know what you’re capable of and it’s certainly more than being a bassist in an average queercore band—you’re better than that; and dude, having a drummer, it’s like key, you fucking need one. I would be equipment bitch for him every night, no complaints. But, no, he’s the type with a complex for the Tris type: the big tits, the dumb giggle, the blowhard. Literally.

Nonsense Bella, it was all a misunderstanding. We just need to talk about it.” Her stunned amazement quickly gave way to anger. “I don’t think I misunderstood that twenty- something coed riding you like a pony!” She nearly shouted. “Bella, I am sorry about that, she caught me in a moment of weakness and she wouldn’t take no for an answer. What was I supposed to do? I am a guy after all.

There is not always a good guy. Nor is there always a bad one. Most people are somewhere in between. Conor shook his head. "That's a terrible story. And a cheat." It is a true story, the monster said. Many things that are true feel like a cheat. Kingdoms get the princes they deserve, farmers' daughters die for no reason, and sometimes witches merit saving. Quite often, actually. You'd be surprised.

It's the same with [my wife] -- when she goes out, guys are macking on her. I'm not worried with the kind of relationship we've got. Most people, they don't leave room for mistakes in their relationship.

Jasper Gwyn taught me that we aren’t characters, we’re stories,” said Rebecca. “We stop at the idea of being a character engaged in who knows what adventure, even a very simple one, but what we have to understand is that we are the whole story, not just that character. We are the wood where he walks, the bad guy who cheats him, the mess around him, all the people who pass, the color of things, the sounds.

Most women have been in a relationship that they know is no good for them. Your friends and family know it is no good for you, but you’re too besotted to see straight. It may take a few attempts, some late-night crying sessions, some serious talking to from your girlfriends, but eventually you’re able to leave and look back with a mixture of regret and disbelief that you put up with that person for so long. The relationship may not have been physically abusive, but bad relationships can fall anywhere on a continuum, from the guy who doesn’t call when he says he will to the guy who has a wandering eye to the guy who cheats with your college roommate.

Caleb dumped me on my birthday, Before I’d ordered an entrée, “What a dick!” some might say! But don’t you worry my little sheep, I am not sad and will not weep, For Caleb Jones is a cheat! He two-timed me with some ho, Whose name is Kacey ‘Slut’ Munroe! But I don’t care about my foe, For I have found a brand new guy, My Blue Eyed, Mr Berry Pie! And I know, he won’t make me cry, For I did fall under his spell, To him, I am his gorgeous Belle, So Caleb Jones can go to Hell!

It had turned me into a knee-jerk suckup to authority. Mom, Dad, teachers: Whatever makes your job easier, sir or madam. I craved a constant stream of approval. ‘You’d literally lie, cheat, and steal – hell, kill – to convince people you are a good guy,’ Go once said.

His abrasive, over-the-top style had earned him a loyal fan base, despite—or perhaps because of—the many scandals that dogged him throughout his career. He was a tax cheat, a philanderer, a bigot, a bully . . . pretty much everything you might expect from a guy named Dumptruck.

Viola, you're allowed to be confident and to think that you're smart and pretty and deserving of the best. Unfortunately, we live in a society where we tell our kids to be confident and successful and then as soon as they are, we tell them to shut up about it and be humble, Especially women. Guys can get away with cockiness until the end of time, but if a woman is cocky, she's arrogant and superior. "Even worse, women are just as likely as men to condemn a confident woman for not being modest enough. The only way we can change that attitude is to change among ourselves. If you're smart, then demand that other people treat you as someone of intelligence. If you look in the mirror and like what you see, then halle-fucking-lujah!" I exclaimed. "Believe me, I spent way too much of my youth, and still do, picking apart my appearance instead of being grateful for what I have. Grateful that all my limbs are intact and my body is healthy." I leaned toward Viola, who was wide-eyed as she listened to me. "Do not ever apologize for liking who you are. It's a beautiful mindset. And that asshole who cheated o you doesn't deserve to come in touching distance of your life.

Competition perverts true fitness, Hébert believed. It tempts you to cheat; to overdevelop some talents while ignoring others; to keep tips for yourself that could be useful to everyone. It’s a short cut; all you have to do is beat the other guy and you’re done, but the Natural Method is a never-ending challenge for self-improvement. Besides, competitive sports focus on rivalry and class divisions. The Natural Method was all about collaboration; every teacher was a student, every student was a teacher, bringing fresh ideas and new challenges. Raise the bar, but help the next guy over it

The place reeked of vice and corruption and the dregs of Parisian society in all its rottenness gathered there: cheats, conmen and cheap hacks rubbed shoulders with under-age dandies, old roués and rogues, sleazy underworld types once notorious for things best forgotten mingled with other small-time crooks and speculators, dabblers in dubious ventures, frauds, pimps, and racketeers. Cheap sex, both male and female, was on offer in this tawdry meat-market of a place where petty rivalries were exploited, and quarrels picked over nothing in an atmosphere of fake gallantry where swords or pistols at dawn settled matters of highly questionable honour in the first place.

We’ve all got a dozen or so friends, haven’t we? And when we’re drunk we philosophise well into the night on an array of subjects ranging from what happened before the Big Bang to who would win a fight between a vampire and zombie, to what’s the most compromising position to be caught in, but we’re hardly going to be extolled in 60 or 70 years’ time as the Heat Generation or the Cheat Generation or the Street Generation, are we? The Tweet Generation, maybe, but that’s about all. So what was it about these few guys? Well, they wrote about what they did, and what they did was quite revolutionary back then. They went On the Road, and it was Jack Kerouac’s book that turned the tide.

When I couldn’t take the hunger anymore, I called Taylor and told her everything. She screamed so loud, I had to hold the phone away from my ear. She came right over with a black-bean burrito and a strawberry-banana smoothie. She kept shaking her head and saying, “That Zeta Phi slut.” “It wasn’t just her, it was him, too,” I said, between bites of my burrito. “Oh, I know. Just you wait. I’m gonna drag my nails across his face when I see him. I’ll leave him so scarred, no girl will ever hook up with him again.” She inspected her manicured nails like they were artillery. “When I go to the salon tomorrow, I’m gonna tell Danielle to make them sharp.” My heart swelled. There are some things only a friend who’s known you your whole life can say, and instantly, I felt a little better. “You don’t have to scar him.” “But I want to.” She hooked her pinky finger with mine. “Are you okay?” I nodded. “Better, now that you’re here.” When I was sucking down the last of my smoothie, Taylor asked me, “Do you think you’ll take him back?” I was surprised and really relieved not to hear any judgement to her voice. “What would you do?” I asked her. “It’s up to you.” “I know, but…would you take him back?” “Under ordinary circumstances, no. If some guy cheated on me while we were on a break, if he so much as looked at another girl, no. He’d be donzo.” She chewed on her straw. “But Jeremy’s not some guy. You have a history together.” “What happened to all that talk about scarring him?” “Don’t get it twisted, I hate him to death right now. He effed up in a colossal way. But he’ll never be just some guy, not to you. That’s a fact.” I didn’t say anything. But I knew she was right. “I could still round up my sorority sisters and go slash his tires tonight.” Taylor bumped my shoulder. “Hmm? Whaddyathink?” She was trying to make me laugh. It worked. I laughed for the first time in what felt like a long time.

Jasper Gwyn taught me that we aren’t characters, we’re stories,” said Rebecca. “We stop at the idea of being a character engaged in who knows what adventure, even a very simple one, but what we have to understand is that we are the whole story, not just that character. We are the wood where he walks, the bad guy who cheats him, the mess around him, all the people who pass, the color of things, the sounds.

THE GUY IN THE GLASS —DALE WIMBROW When you get what you want in your struggle for pelf, And the world makes you King for a day, Then go to the mirror and look at yourself, And see what that guy has to say. For it isn’t your Father, or Mother or Wife, Whose judgement upon you must pass; The feller whose verdict counts most in your life, Is the guy staring back from the glass. He’s the feller to please, never mind all the rest, For he’s with you clear up to the end, And you’ve passed your most dangerous, difficult test, If the guy in the glass is your friend. You may be like Jack Horner and “chisel” a plum, And think you’re a wonderful guy; But the man in the glass says you’re only a bum If you can’t look him straight in the eye. You may fool the whole world down your pathway of years, And get pats on the back as you pass, But your final reward will be heartache and tears If you’ve cheated the guy in the glass.

It was worth it," Faye says after school while she walks me to my car. "It's not fair that you take all the shit for this while the guys get to walk around like nothing happened. They're just as much to blame." "I'm the one who started it," I say, kicking a beer cap across the parking lot with my shoe. "If I hadn't started it, nothing would have happened. "Don't let them off the hook so easily," Faye snaps. "They were coming to you. It takes two to have sex. So don't defend them.

If you’re the person who had to file for divorce, don’t accept the Bad Guy status your kids and your cheating ex may try to inflict on you. Chumps are often people pleasers who don’t want to let anyone down (despite being grievously let down themselves). Please don’t assume responsibility for your partner’s cheating. Divorce is a consequence. You break the rules, you pay the consequences. Even a fourth-grader understands that. Although it’s terrifically sad that they ever have to.

Why are you smiling?” Harvard asked, teasing. “Because I know something you don’t know,” Aiden teased back. Harvard raised an eyebrow. “And what is that?” “You’re really cute,” murmured Aiden, and leaned in. His lean was arrested when Harvard laughed. “Ha! That’s such a line. These things really work on your guys?” Overcome by the magnitude of this insult, Aiden snapped, “Invariably!” Harvard rolled his eyes. “I hate to tell you this, buddy, but I think they’re letting you get away with substandard lines because you’re cute.” Aiden paused, torn between being deeply offended and ridiculously flattered. Harvard bit his lip, seeming to think this over. “I guess if you guys both know you’re just playing around, what you say doesn’t really count,” he offered. “That’s why people call them lines, like the things you say in a play. I know this isn’t real, but…” Aiden tried to keep his voice soft, to be understanding. “But it’s practice for being real.” His mouth twisted on the name, but he forced it out. “For Neil.” Harvard winced. Aiden supposed it might feel a little weird, to hear the name of the boy he actually liked, while tangled up with another. For Harvard, who was so good, it might feel close to cheating. Aiden didn’t want to say the name or hear it or think it. Harvard seemed to be struggling with a thought, and Aiden waited to hear Harvard tell him what he wanted. That was all Aiden wished to know or to do. What Harvard wanted.

Elphaba’s face darkened again. Then she asked, hesitantly, as if afraid of the answer, “So, how do you get the evil life force?” “From innocent people, Elphaba,” Nick spoke so quietly he almost whispered. “I must draw the life force from innocent people. The more innocent they are, the more evil the murder is.” Elphaba jerked as though a shock had struck her in the heart. “Oh, that’s terrible!” “Yes, it is. Terrible. That word doesn’t even do it justice, terrible. There is no Magick more terrible than Magick that cheats death. I have cheated death, and death extracts its price.” Elphaba silently looked at Nick, her expression of revulsion enough to communicate her feelings. “You shouldn’t act so surprised, malyutka,” Nick said softly. “It is who I am. And it’s worked for me for centuries.” Elphaba sat for a moment, trying to calm herself. “Yes, you’re right. I knew that part of you was a monster. Sometimes it’s easy to forget, since you seem to be such a decent guy.” “Lyches are monsters.

Ding! Lady Elizabeth Figgles. Her father’s a viscount and a member of Parliament, and she’s also Sam Berkinshire’s—an old schoolmate and one of my dearest friends—girlfriend. “Elizabeth? What the hell are you doing here? Where’s Sam?” “Sam can go fucking die.” She looks right at the camera. “Are you getting this? You can go fucking die, Sam! I hope your prick gets caught in a wood chipper, you cheating bastard!” “He cheated on you? Sam?” Sam’s a great guy. The kind of guy even really good guys want to be more like. He makes Abraham Lincoln look like a lying shit. “Your face right now, that’s exactly how I looked when I found out—but a hell of a lot angrier. I found receipts, knickers that weren’t mine, rubbers. Faithless, worthless son of a bitch.” She bangs the table and her nails are long enough to double as claws. “Now I want Sam to see what it feels like. So I’m going to fuck you. On television. A lot. Hopefully live. You’d better rest up, Henry. I brought lube—a whole bucket of it.” Wow. Ding!

First lesson? No wonder they used this guy to tend children on the shuttle flights instead of having him teach. If you followed that little piece of wisdom, you’d be paralyzed against a vigorous enemy. Sometimes you have to commit to a fight even when you’re weak. You don’t wait till you know you’re tougher. You make yourself tougher by whatever means you can, and then you strike by surprise, you sneak up, you backstab, you blindside, you cheat, you lie, you do whatever it takes to make sure that you come out on top.

Go sat quietly, the orange of the streetlight creating a rock-star halo around her profile. “This is going to be a real test for you, Nick,” she murmured, not looking at me. “You’ve always had trouble with the truth—you always do the little fib if you think it will avoid a real argument. You’ve always gone the easy way. Tell Mom you went to baseball practice when you really quit the team; tell Mom you went to church when you were at a movie. It’s some weird compulsion.” “This is very different from baseball, Go.” “It’s a lot different. But you’re still fibbing like a little boy. You’re still desperate to have everyone think you’re perfect. You never want to be the bad guy. So you tell Amy’s parents she didn’t want kids. You don’t tell me you’re cheating on your wife. You swear the credit cards in your name aren’t yours, you swear you were hanging out at a beach when you hate the beach, you swear your marriage was happy. I just don’t know what to believe right now.” “You’re kidding, right?” “Since Amy has disappeared, all you’ve done is lie. It makes me worry. About what’s going on.” Complete silence for a moment.

Everyone expected me to fall apart after our breakup. Instead I just felt empty. I honestly couldn’t stand their pity. So I came here to get away—and heal.” “I bet you’re really angry with him. You guys were together for a long time.” “I was. But the more I think about it and analyze it, it seems like something bigger—like a phantom dark energy was repelling us, like bug spray. I don’t think we were ever meant to be together, and the acceleration of the Big Rip just in- creased over time. I think it was bound to happen eventually, I just wish it didn’t end the way it did.” “That sounds an awful lot like Fate.” “No,” I said matter-of-factly. “It’s just science.

I'm going to throw some suggestions at you now in rapid succession, assuming you are a father of one or more boys. Here we go: If you speak disparagingly of the opposite sex, or if you refer to females as sex objects, those attitudes will translate directly into dating and marital relationships later on. Remember that your goal is to prepare a boy to lead a family when he's grown and to show him how to earn the respect of those he serves. Tell him it is great to laugh and have fun with his friends, but advise him not to be "goofy." Guys who are goofy are not respected, and people, especially girls and women, do not follow boys and men whom they disrespect. Also, tell your son that he is never to hit a girl under any circumstances. Remind him that she is not as strong as he is and that she is deserving of his respect. Not only should he not hurt her, but he should protect her if she is threatened. When he is strolling along with a girl on the street, he should walk on the outside, nearer the cars. That is symbolic of his responsibility to take care of her. When he is on a date, he should pay for her food and entertainment. Also (and this is simply my opinion), girls should not call boys on the telephone-at least not until a committed relationship has developed. Guys must be the initiators, planning the dates and asking for the girl's company. Teach your son to open doors for girls and to help them with their coats or their chairs in a restaurant. When a guy goes to her house to pick up his date, tell him to get out of the car and knock on the door. Never honk. Teach him to stand, in formal situations, when a woman leaves the room or a table or when she returns. This is a way of showing respect for her. If he treats her like a lady, she will treat him like a man. It's a great plan. Make a concerted effort to teach sexual abstinence to your teenagers, just as you teach them to abstain from drug and alcohol usage and other harmful behavior. Of course you can do it! Young people are fully capable of understanding that irresponsible sex is not in their best interest and that it leads to disease, unwanted pregnancy, rejection, etc. In many cases today, no one is sharing this truth with teenagers. Parents are embarrassed to talk about sex, and, it disturbs me to say, churches are often unwilling to address the issue. That creates a vacuum into which liberal sex counselors have intruded to say, "We know you're going to have sex anyway, so why not do it right?" What a damning message that is. It is why herpes and other sexually transmitted diseases are spreading exponentially through the population and why unwanted pregnancies stalk school campuses. Despite these terrible social consequences, very little support is provided even for young people who are desperately looking for a valid reason to say no. They're told that "safe sex" is fine if they just use the right equipment. You as a father must counterbalance those messages at home. Tell your sons that there is no safety-no place to hide-when one lives in contradiction to the laws of God! Remind them repeatedly and emphatically of the biblical teaching about sexual immorality-and why someone who violates those laws not only hurts himself, but also wounds the girl and cheats the man she will eventually marry. Tell them not to take anything that doesn't belong to them-especially the moral purity of a woman.

The furniture was chipped and bruised; the couch, distorted by bursting springs, seemed a horrible monster that had been slain during the stress of some grotesque convulsion. Some more potent upheaval had cloven a great slice from the marble mantel. Each plank in the floor owned its particular cant and shriek as from a separate and individual agony. It seemed incredible that all this malice and injury had been wrought upon the room by those who had called it for a time their home; and yet it may have been the cheated home instinct surviving blindly, the resentful rage at false household gods that had kindled their wrath. A hut that is our own we can sweep and adorn and cherish.

There are no single guys who don’t have at least one major flaw, and a flaw, I might add, that would stop you from dating them – even if everything else was great. Why? Simple math. Women are interesting and honest and sensitive. Most men are not. There is only one normal, decent single guy for every five women in this city. This is what’s known as the Great Male Statistic. Girls don’t want to face the GMS. They want to believe there’s someone for everyone. The truth hurts. You only start coming to terms with the GMS when you’re twenty-six or twenty-seven. It actually killed Sylvia Plath. She finally found this guy in grad school who she thought was so great, and she married him, and he cheated on her.

When you get what you want in your struggle for self, and the World makes you king for a day; Just go to the mirror and look at yourself, and see what that man has to say. For it isn't your father or mother or wife whose judgment upon you must pass; The fellow whose verdict counts most in your life is the one staring back from the glass. Some people might think you're a straight-shootin' chum and call you a wonderful guy; But the Man in the Glass says you're only a bum if you can't look him straight in the eye. He's the fellow to please -- never mind all the rest! -- for he's with you all the way to the end; And you've already passed your most dangerous test if the guy in the glass is your friend. You may fool the whole World down the pathway of years and get pats on-the-back as you pass; But your final reward will be heartache and tears ... if you've cheated the Man in the Glass !

I’d like you to come to Kauai with me,” I say. “And Scottie. I think it would be good to get her away from the hospital for a day. We can leave in the morning, find him, and be home tomorrow night. If it takes us a day longer, that’s fine, but we won’t stay more than two nights. That’s our deadline. If we don’t find him, then at least we know we tried.” “And this will make you feel better somehow?” “It’s for her,” I say. “Not for him or me.” “What if he’s a wreck? What if he loses his shit?” “Then I’ll take care of him.” I imagine Brian Speer wailing on my shoulder. I imagine him and my daughters by Joanie’s bed, her lover and his loud sobs shaming us. “Just so you know, I am angry. I’m not this pure and noble guy. I want to do this for her, but I also want to see who he is. I want to ask him a few things.” “Just call him. Tell his office it’s an emergency. They’ll have him call you.” “I want to tell him in person. I haven’t told anyone over the phone, and I don’t want to start now.” “You told Troy.” “Troy doesn’t count. I just need to do this. On the phone he can escape. If I see him in person, he’ll have nowhere to go.” We both look away when our eyes meet. She hasn’t crossed the border into my room. She never does during her nighttime doorway chats. “Were you guys having trouble?” Alex asks. “Is that why she cheated?” “I didn’t think we were having trouble,” I say. “I mean, it was the same as always.” This was the problem, that our marriage was the same as always. Joanie needed bumps. She needed rough terrain. It’s funny that I can get lost in thoughts about her, but when she was right in front of me, I didn’t think much about her at all. “I wasn’t the best husband,” I say. Alex looks out the window to avoid my confession. “If we go on this trip, what will we tell Scottie?” “She’ll think we’re going on a trip of some sort. I want to get her away from here.

Or when you keep a sex-addiction meeting under surveillance because they’re the best places to pick up chicks.” Serge looked around the room at suspicious eyes. “Okay, maybe that last one’s just me. But you should try it. They keep the men’s and women’s meetings separate for obvious reasons. And there are so many more opportunities today because the whole country’s wallowing in this whiny new sex-rehab craze after some golfer diddled every pancake waitress on the seaboard. That’s not a disease; that’s cheating. He should have been sent to confession or marriage counseling after his wife finished chasing him around Orlando with a pitching wedge. But today, the nation is into humiliation, tearing down a lifetime of achievement by labeling some guy a damaged little dick weasel. The upside is the meetings. So what you do is wait on the sidewalk for the women to get out, pretending like you’re loitering. And because of the nature of the sessions they just left, there’s no need for idle chatter or lame pickup lines. You get right to business: ‘What’s your hang-up?’ And she answers, and you say, ‘What a coincidence. Me, too.’ Then, hang on to your hat! It’s like Forrest Gump’s box of chocolates. You never know what you’re going to get. Most people are aware of the obvious, like foot fetish or leather. But there are more than five hundred lesser-known but clinically documented paraphilia that make no sexual sense. Those are my favorites . . .” Serge began counting off on his fingers. “This one woman had Ursusagalmatophilia, which meant she got off on teddy bears—that was easily my weirdest three-way. And nasophilia, which meant she was completely into my nose, and she phoned a friend with mucophilia, which is mucus. The details on that one are a little disgusting. And formicophilia, which is being crawled on by insects, so the babe bought an ant farm. And symphorophilia—that’s staging car accidents, which means you have to time the air bags perfectly

Then, as we ascend into the fifth and final act of the show, we can choose what we want to take back with us: a piece of our underworld self that, frankly, the cheating boyfriend may need to meet, or the boss that doesn't appreciate you, or the terrorizing Bitch at school—or maybe you're the terrorizing Bitch, maybe I am. Some fragments that took their masks off while we were on this underworld journey sometimes walk quietly with me. Only I know that after the show they will be staying with me as my figurative New Renter in my seafront condo, down the street from Pituitary Lane, behind Heart Terrace. Then again, some unmasked Beings that I see during a performance find me once I'm back in my dressing room and receive from me the “Okay you, thank you for the perspective and the vision, but in this century you can't just chop people's heads off and feed them to your cats, and I know these guys are bad guys, and thank you for the vision. So you can haunt me during the show again in Indy

There were clear differences in how the young men responded to being called a bad name. For some, the insult changed their behavior. For some it didn’t. The deciding factor in how they reacted wasn’t how emotionally secure they were, or whether they were intellectuals or jocks, or whether they were physically imposing or not. What mattered—and I think you can guess where this is headed—was where they were from. Most of the young men from the northern part of the United States treated the incident with amusement. They laughed it off. Their handshakes were unchanged. Their levels of cortisol actually went down, as if they were unconsciously trying to defuse their own anger. Only a few of them had Steve get violent with Larry. But the southerners? Oh, my. They were angry. Their cortisol and testosterone jumped. Their handshakes got firm. Steve was all over Larry. “We even played this game of chicken,” Cohen said. “We sent the students back down the hallways, and around the corner comes another confederate. The hallway is blocked, so there’s only room for one of them to pass. The guy we used was six three, two hundred fifty pounds. He used to play college football. He was now working as a bouncer in a college bar. He was walking down the hall in business mode—the way you walk through a bar when you are trying to break up a fight. The question was: how close do they get to the bouncer before they get out of the way? And believe me, they always get out of the way.” For the northerners, there was almost no effect. They got out of the way five or six feet beforehand, whether they had been insulted or not. The southerners, by contrast, were downright deferential in normal circumstances, stepping aside with more than nine feet to go. But if they had just been insulted? Less than two feet. Call a southerner an asshole, and he’s itching for a fight. What Cohen and Nisbett were seeing in that long hall was the culture of honor in action: the southerners were reacting like Wix Howard did when Little Bob Turner accused him of cheating at poker.

Oh my God, Rayna…I think something almost happened with Ben and me in Rio.” “What? Wait, back up. When? You mean, ‘almost happened’ like…what? What exactly almost happened?” “I’m not sure,” I said. “It all went really fast. I was feeling all these things, and he was looking at me like…like he was in that picture, and then…” “Yeah??” “I saw Sage.” “Ooooh,” Rayna winced. “What did Ben do?” “Nothing. I mean, I ran after Sage and…you know everything that happened then. We haven’t even talked about it.” I looked at her plaintively. “What do I do?” “What do you want to do?” I thought about it. “I don’t know.” “Well…how do you feel? She asked. “I don’t know that either. I never even thought about Ben that way except for that split second in Rio, and even then I wasn’t thinking of it seriously. And Sage…with Sage it’s all I think about, but it’s all jumbled up with the most insane things: dreams, and other lives, and other people’s memories, and…I don’t even know what’s real.” Rayna took it all in. “I love Ben,” she said. “You know that. I think you guys could be great together. I also believe in soulmates. Not just as romantic flings, like the guys in Europe, but true soulmates, destined to be together forever because they’re perfect for each other. Are you and Sage true soulmates? I don’t know, but I do know you’re cheating yourself if you don’t at least try to find out.” “How do I find that out, Rayna?” “I want you to do me a favor. Promise on our friendship.” “Promise what?” “Asking first is cheating. Promise on our friendship.” It was an evil ploy. Rayna knew I wouldn’t say no, and she knew I wouldn’t go back on something if I promised on our friendship. Neither of us ever would-that was a rule we’d established when we were five. “Okay…I promise on our friendship,” I agreed, rolling my eyes. “What did I just promise to do?” “For the rest of the evening, don’t think. Just listen to how you feel and go with it, wherever it leads. And whether or not it makes any sense.” I nodded. “I’ll try.” “Not good enough. You promised on our friendship.” I smiled. “I’ll do it.

She gives me a sharp look. “Warrek is a good guy. He’s sweet, kind, and devoted. All of these men are. Do you ever see anyone cheating on their woman? Not going to work? Standing around and drinking all day long and then demanding his woman make him a sandwich? These are good men. I just don’t want you to play him, that’s all.”   “I wouldn’t play him. I don’t think I’d even know how,” I protest.   “I know,” Gail says. She pats my arm. “But I think you jump in without thinking from time to time, and that’s why I wanted to say something. It’s clear he likes you and you like him. But I think that these guys have a hard time with flirtation. To them, they go straight from holding hands and right to making a home together. There’s no in-between with them. And it’s a small tribe. You’re gonna have to see his ass every day after this. Make sure that there’s no bad blood between you.”   Bad blood? “I wouldn’t do that to him. I like him.” “All right then,” Gail says, satisfied. “Just don’t let your mouth make promises that your heart can’t cash.

Do you know if John McClaren still does Model UN?” He gives me a funny look. “How should I know?” “I don’t know. I was just wondering.” “Why?” “I think maybe I’m going to go to the Model UN scrimmage this weekend. I have a feeling that he’ll be there.” “For real?” Peter hoots. “If he is, what are you going to do?” “I haven’t figured that part out yet. Maybe I’ll go up to him, maybe I won’t. I just want to see how he turned out.” “We can look him up online right now and I’ll show you.” I shake my head. “No, that would be cheating. I want to see him with my own eyes. I want to be surprised.” “Well, don’t bother asking me to go and keep you company. I’m not going to waste a whole Saturday on Model UN.” “I wasn’t planning on asking you to go.” Peter throws me a hurt look. “What? Why not?” “It’s just something I want to do by myself.” Peter lets out a low whistle. “Wow. The body ain’t even cold yet.” “Huh?” “You’re a little player, Covey. We aren’t even broken up yet and you’re already trying to talk to other guys. I would be hurt if I wasn’t impressed.” This makes me smile.

We have snacks, everybody!” “Where’d you get them from, Delaware?” Ben asked. He was glaring behind me, where Sage leaned casually against the wall. “Practically,” I said. “My fault-I was dying for Red Hots. Pretty much impossible to find. So what movie are we watching?” Back in the cave, Sage had told me I wasn’t much of an actress, and apparently he was right. I thought I put on a brilliant show, but Ben’s eyes were filled with suspicion, Rayna looked like she was ready to pounce, and Sage seemed to be working very hard to stifle his laughter. Rayna yawned. “Can’t do it. I’m so tired. I’m sorry, but I have to kick you guys out and get some sleep.” She wasn’t much better at acting than I was. I knew she wanted to talk, but the idea of being away from Sage killed me. “No worries,” I said. “I can bring he snacks to the guys’ room. We can watch there and let you sleep.” “Great!” Ben said. Rayna gaped, and in the space of ten seconds, she and I had a full conversation with only our eyes. Rayna: “What the hell?” Me: “I know! But I want to hang out with Sage.” Rayna: “Are you insane?! You’ll be with him for the rest of your life. I’m only with you until morning!” I couldn’t fight that one. She was right. “Actually, I’m pretty tired too,” I said. I even forced a yawn, though judging from Sage’s smirk, it wasn’t terribly convincing. “You sure?” Ben asked. He was staring at me in a way that made me feel X-rayed. “Positive. Take some snacks, though. I got dark chocolate M&Ms and Fritos.” “Sounds like a slumber party!” Rayna said. “Absolutely,” Sage deadpanned. “Look out, Ben-I do a mean French braid.” Ben paid no attention. He had moved closer and was looking at me suspiciously, like a dog whose owner comes from after playing with someone else’s pet. I almost thought he was going to smell me. “G’night,” he said. He had to brush past Sage to get to the door, but he didn’t say a word to him. Sage raised an amused eyebrow to me. “Good night, ladies,” he said, then turned and followed Ben out. It hurt to see him go, like someone had run an ice cream scoop through my core, but I knew that was melodramatic. I’d see him in the morning. We had our whole lives to be together. Tonight he could spend with Ben. I laughed out loud, imagining the two of them actually cheating, snacking, and French braiding each other’s hair as they sat cross-legged on the bed. Then a pillow smacked me in the side of the head. “’We can watch there and let you sleep’?” Rayna wailed. “Are you crazy?” “I know! I’m sorry. I took it back, though, right?” “You have two seconds to start talking, or I reload.” Before now, if anyone had told me that I could have a night like tonight and not want to tell Rayna everything, I’d have thought they were crazy. But being with Sage was different. It felt perfectly round and complete. If I said anything about it, I felt like I’d be giving away a giant scoop of it that I couldn’t ever get back. “It was really nice,” I said. “Thanks.” Rayna picked up another pillow, then let it drop. She wasn’t happy, but she understood. She also knew I wasn’t thanking her just for asking, but for everything. “Ready for bed?” she asked. “We have to eat the guys to breakfast so they don’t steal all the cinnamon rolls.” I loved her like crazy.

Hello, darling,” Alessandro smiled at her. Oh, that smile. Bree wanted to close her eyes, press her hands against her eyes and keep them shut forever so she wouldn’t see that smile. She must have had the question on her face, the knowledge on her face because as she looked at him now, something flickered in his eyes. Guilt. Oh God. “Mommy, look. I make good bouncies. See?” Will said, dribbling the ball. “I gonna be a basset ball player when I gwoed up.” The little boy’s voice sounded far away as Bree narrowed in on Alessandro and the look in his eyes. “Brian. I want you and Vanessa to take Will and Gianni out for a little while.” “Oh but we’re having a good time out here, aren’t we Gianni?” Alessandro asked, tickling Gianni who squealed and curled inward. “Now,” Bree said, her voice tight. Will stopped bouncing the ball and held it against his chest looking at both of them, picking up on the angry tension that suddenly covered them all. “Uh oh. I tink mommy’s mad.” “I’m not leaving you alone in your condition, Bree. Alessandro, we just came from the hospital. Colin’s awake,” Brian informed him, his voice tight with anger. “You spoke to Colin?” Alessandro asked, meeting Bree’s eyes. “I did. And Carrie.” He looks like a cornered animal. And what do Dardanos do when they’re cornered? They lie. They cheat. Oh God. “Fine, then can you just take the boys upstairs?” Bree said, speaking to Brian, but not moving her gaze from her husband. “Come on, guys. Let’s go play upstairs for a while,” Vanessa said walking past Bree and taking Gianni from Alessandro’s lap.

They taught him how to milk cows and now they expected him to tame lions. Perhaps they expected him to behave like all good lion tamers. Use a whip and a chair. But what happens to the best lion tamer when he puts down his whip and his chair. Goddamnit! It was wrong. He felt cheated, he felt almost violated. He felt cheated for himself, and he felt cheated for guys like Joshua Edwards who wanted to teach and who didn’t know how to teach because he’d been pumped full of manure and theoretical hogwash. Why hadn’t anyone told them, in plain, frank English, just what to do? Couldn’t someone, somewhere along the line, have told them? Not one single college instructor? Not someone from the board of Ed, someone to orientate them after they’d passed the emergency exam? Not anyone? Now one sonofabitch somewhere who gave a good goddamn? Not even Stanley? Not even Small? Did they have to figure it out for themselves, sink and swim, kill or be killed? Rick had never been told how to stop in his class. He’d never been told what to do with a second term student who doesn’t even know how to write down his own goddamn name on a sheet of paper. He didn’t know, he’d never been advised on the proper tactics for dealing with a boy whose I.Q. was 66, a big, fat, round, moronic 66. He hadn’t been taught about kids’ yelling out in class, not one kid, not the occasional “difficult child” the ed courses had loftily philosophized about, not him. But a whole goddamn, shouting, screaming class load of them all yelling their sonofbitching heads off. What do you do with a kid who can’t read even though he’s fifteen years old? Recommend him for special reading classes, sure. And what do you do when those special reading classes are loaded to the asshole, packed because there are kids who can’t read in abundance, and you have to take only those who can’t read the worst, dumping them onto a teacher who’s already overloaded and those who doesn’t want to teach a remedial class to begin with? And what do you with that poor ignorant jerk? Do you call him on class, knowing damn well he hasn’t read the assignment because he doesn’t know how to read? Or do you ignore him? Or do you ask him to stop by after school, knowing he would prefer playing stickball to learning how to read. And knowing he considers himself liberated the moment the bell sounds at the end of the eighth period. What do you do when you’ve explained something patiently and fully, explained it just the way you were taught to explain in your education courses, explained in minute detail, and you look out at your class and see that stretching, vacant wall of blank, blank faces and you know nothing has penetrated, not a goddamn thing has sunk in? What do you do then? Give them all board erasers to clean. What do you do when you call on a kid and ask “What did that last passage mean?”and the kid stands there without any idea of what the passage meant , and you know that he’s not alone, you know every other kid in the class hasn’t the faintest idea either? What the hell do you do then? Do you go home and browse through the philosophy of education books the G.I bill generously provided. Do you scratch your ugly head and seek enlightenment from the educational psychology texts? Do you consult Dewey? And who the hell do you condemn, just who? Do you condemn elementary schools for sending a kid on to high school without knowing how to read, without knowing how to write his own name on a piece of paper? Do you condemn the masterminds who plot the education systems of a nation, or a state or a city?

The real tough guys? They don’t have to cheat. They get it done before the whistle.

If a guy played dirty and hit behind the play or when the ref wasn't looking, then he'd probably lie to you and cheat on you. If a guy was a total hot dog, a look-at-my-moves-type show-off, then he was going to be a selfish egomaniac. If he whined about the ref's calls and his bad breaks, he'd be like Mr. Excuses. There was good stuff of course, but the key was not to get involved with jerks.

All my disciples, listen! My extreme love for you guys, I am revealing this secret: how when a child cries for the mother, the child is diverted or cheated through a toy or toffee by the person who is babysitting, how the toffee or toy is the poor substitute for mother’s hug / presence, same way, probability is too cheap a substitute for possibility.

You’re not running again,” he growled before pouncing up onto the table. I shrieked, stumbling backwards as he leapt towards me. I threw my shoes at him and they bounced off of his chest making him pause in surprise. He barked a laugh then lunged at me, faster than was humanly possible. He caught my waist and I squealed as he pushed me back against a heavy bookcase which stood along the wall. My hands landed on his shoulders like I was going to push him off of me but I didn’t. “Cheat,” I breathed as my heart pounded. “Only a little,” he admitted. Before I could say anything else, he leaned forward and kissed me. My heart leapt, my skin tingled and my traitorous body gave in to his demand. I was supposed to hate him. I was supposed to be shoving him off of me and slapping him and telling him to stay the hell away from me. I definitely shouldn’t have been pulling him closer, my hands fisting in the material of his shirt, my lips parting to admit his tongue. I could still taste blood from where I’d bitten my lip and he obviously could too, a groan of desire escaping him as I felt a soft tug on my magic from the welt on my lip. Why am I always a sucker for the bad guys? And why does it always feel so good? The heat of his kiss lit me up and I gave up on any thoughts of pushing him away. It wasn’t like I was giving him my heart anyway. Just a kiss... or maybe two... Caleb’s hands slid into my hair and I arched my back, pressing my body against his. His grip tightened in my hair and he dragged my head backwards, breaking our kiss as he moved his mouth down my neck, teasing with the idea of biting me, his fangs flirting with my flesh. My body was alight with his proximity and I moaned, urging him on. I didn’t want this to stop even if I really should have. Caleb withdrew just enough to look into my eyes and the heat I saw in his gaze made my toes curl. “You wanna play another game, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice deep. “What do I get if I win?” I breathed. “I think this game will have two winners,” he promised. My gaze roamed over his face hungrily but then I glanced at the open door. This really wasn’t the best place for us to be making out... or doing anything else either. “I can sort that,” he said, taking one hand off of me and casting magic at the door. A long vine curled across the carpet before pushing the door closed and winding itself around the handle to lock it. An orb of orange light flickered into existence overhead as we were plunged into darkness, casting shadows over his stunning features. He aimed his palm at the ceiling next and I felt a wave of magic wash over me. “Silencing bubble, so we don’t have to hold back,” he explained. I looked into his eyes, wondering if I was really going to do this with him. Heat was curling its way through my body, lighting me up with desire for this beast before me and I decided to act on it before I had the chance to question my decision. (tory)

It’s a romance cheat sheet, the guys helped me make it when we first agreed to fake-date, to help me get out of the friend zone.

I just realized you weren’t the guy I fucked that night.” Okay, so I’m not a hundred percent sure I had sex, but I want him to think I did. He not only cheated, but he also lied to me because he told me he was going back to Texas for the weekend.

So how were these people judged? How will we be judged? We get up every morning thinking that if we're good, we'll make it to heaven, and if we're bad, we'll have trouble. But then we see a six-year-old girl die of cancer. We see raging waters and mud swallow innocent people in South America. And we see our neighbor, who cheats on his wife or steals from his boss, become wealthy. We see our cousin, the liar, win the lottery. What sense does this make?" A few people shake their heads. I want to know, too. "Got me," Natto says. "Got me. But I'll tell you this. I want to know. I want to find out. And I'll tell you two more things. One is, overall, we have seen a lot of times in life that what comes around goes around, haven't we?" A few people nod. "In the case of Venezuela, there's no good explanation. But we see sinners locked up every day, and brave men rewarded. And last night on the news, they showed heroes, people who saved lives in Venezuela. We saw people working together. Rescue workers. Relief workers. And that is God." He stops pacing. "That is God," he says again. He goes back to pacing. He has a strong gait. "These people do good. And if one of their planes crashed on the way back to whereever they came from? What sense would that make? I don't know. I don't claim to have all the answers. And maybe there are cases where I will never ever understand them. This is something a lot of churches don't want to admit, but I really might never have the answers. And sometimes, this might make me very angry." I like this. "But I said there were two more things I'll tell you. One is that we have seen that what comes around goes around. And here's the second thing. We judge within ourselves. Those people in Venezuela, the dying, if they led a good life, they knew it. They died at peace. They knew that they didn't deserve it, that it was just something that happened. But a guy who's been hurting people, who suddenly feels a rumble and the sky caves in, he's lying there, torn apart, and besides the physical pain, he knows in his heart, or he feels in his heart, that he's being punished. He can't lie there and say, "Please God I don't deserve to die". Because he knows he did wrong, and he has to apologize and make amends. And so in that way, judgement comes upon him. And we all know in our hearts, whether we're to be judged in the afterworld or not, that while we're on this earth, we judge ourselves.

People always wanted to do that, tell you that everything would be alright. But what if we were actually fucking honest with one another? What if we fucking told the guy whose wife was cheating on him that, in fact, everything would not be alright? That he would miss her and hate her for the rest of his life. What if we told the girl that her mother would never actually love her because she was too selfish to see past herself? What if the world would just tell me that I would always be messed up from what had happened that night? Wouldn’t that save the world a whole lot of useless hopes and dreams if we simply started telling it like it was? “I

along the sidewalk fluttered and the branches swayed. My body tensed and my head throbbed as I imagined Carla out there somewhere, ignoring my calls. Because she was with him. What were they doing right now? I wondered irritably. At this very moment? I bowed my head and leaned forward over the white windowsill, bracing my weight on my knuckles and clenched fists, breathing deep and slow. Hell. I needed a cup of coffee. Turning away from the window, I moved into the kitchen to brew a pot, then poured myself a bowl of cereal, which I ate on the sofa while watching the sports channel on television. I checked my phone again for a text from Carla. Still…nothing. A part of me wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, because I knew I wasn’t the most rational guy in the world when it came to cheating girlfriends. I’d been burned once before, so I had a small problem with jealousy. But what if she’d been in a car accident on her way home yesterday and was in a coma at the hospital and couldn’t get in touch? If that was the case, I was going to feel pretty guilty. But it wasn’t the case, and I knew it. I’d have heard something. No, she hadn’t texted or called because she didn’t know how to tell me it was over. She felt badly about standing me up for dinner the other night and probably wasn’t ready to face me and explain herself. I felt a muscle twitch at my jaw. Setting my empty cereal bowl down, I rested my elbows on my knees and stared at the blue velvet ring box on the coffee table. Thirty-five hundred bucks. That’s how much that gigantic sucker had cost, and I’d had no choice but to set up a financing plan with monthly payments because I didn’t have that

Looking down on him, I could see a pink shine on top of his head with the dark hair pulled across it. Not a full Homer Simpson like Creaky’s, just a little beginner’s hamburger helper up there. But do you trust a guy that cheats on his own head? Aunt June was bottom-feeding.

BRAMBLE RULES No time-outs. Abilities are allowed. Tackling is also allowed—but no knocking anyone into the lake! (That one’s for you, Biana!) Covering the ball in anything from Slurps and Burps is definitely cheating! (Looking at you, Keefe!) Pretending to be injured and then tackling someone who tries to help you is also cheating. (Another one for you, Keefe.) Losers owe the winners a dare. Winners get to eat all the mallowmelt in the kitchen. (And no, Keefe—I’m not scared. Get ready to lose!) BASE QUEST RULES Both teams’ bases have to be within the main gate. The team that chooses their base first has to quest first. No hiding muskogs in someone’s base! (We all know that wasn’t a “random muskog encounter,” Keefe!) Abilities are allowed. (But staying invisible the whole time makes playing with you super boring, Alvar!) There’s no prize for winning. (Because you guys get way too competitive!)

Harvey Weinstein took pride in not paying bills,” recounted Miramax’s former chief financial officer John Schmidt. “But when you stiff a filmmaker you are stiffing the very lifeblood of what your business is. The whole independent film business is based on championing the small guy.

He hasn’t been here a full twenty-four hours, and I feel like he’s flipped my life on its head. Why do I act so strange around him? I love my husband and would never cheat on him. And it’s not like a good-looking guy in his twenties would want anything to do with a thirty-three-year-old suburban mom. Jeez, Briar. Get a hold of yourself.

Consciously harming others and giving himself the moral permission to do so tested Blazer’s interior monologue; he wasn’t a sociopath, and his mother hadn’t raised a liar and a cheat, but he’d developed a toxic unwillingness to admit failure. The blend of arrogance and ease of deception, coupled with Blazer’s knowledge of his players’ lack of financial sophistication, proved too much to resist.

Who needs guys? They’re all lying, cheating assholes. Do I sound bitter? Maybe, but it’s still fresh. Give me a bit to wallow in angry feminist music and rail against anyone with a penis. I’m sure I’ll get over it.

Now, I stood beside him ticking through the past few months of success and failure. Toni Cade Bambara and Ishiguro, yes, all of Murakami, yes, Philip Roth, James Baldwin and Colson Whitehead (Get out. Read these a hundred times). Yaa Gyasi, yes, Rachel Kushner, yes, and W. G. Sebald, but no more mysteries because he complains that he becomes compulsive. A month ago, I gave him Denis Johnson’s Angels, which he liked well enough. He tried Tree of Smoke and excoriated Johnson for enervating him with the evidence of hard research, although, he said, he could see where in fact the book was pretty good. I had then pressed Train Dreams into his hands. He came back and faced me, teeth gritted. ‘What else you got by this guy?’ Which told me he’d been extremely moved. This lasted a week. He has now finished all of Johnson. We are in trouble. If I sell him a book he dislikes, my favorite customer will return with an injured air, his voice cheated and tattered. What shall it be? I pull The Beginning of Spring, by Penelope Fitzgerald, off the shelf. He grumpily buys it. Much later that day, just before the store closes, Dissatisfaction returns. The Beginning of Spring is a short book, after all. He shuts his hands violently on a copy of Fitzgerald’s masterpiece, The Blue Flower, and bears it away.

Fuck Yes or No applies to relationships as well. My wife used to work with a guy who got married because “it seemed like the right thing to do.” You do your taxes because “it seems like the right thing to do.” You wipe your infant’s ass because “it seems like the right thing to do.” You don’t marry someone because “it seems like the right thing to do.” You marry them because you can’t fucking imagine ever not wanting to be with them. Unsurprisingly, four years later, he was cheating on his wife every chance he got. The marriage was not a “Fuck Yes” for him. It should have been a “No” from Day 1.

Jeb was my ex. We dated for two years and broke up three months ago after I found out that he’d been cheating for most of the relationship when I saw his picture in a local Are We Dating The Same Guy Facebook group. And yes. We’d alllll been dating the same guy.

Roxanne, I’m so disappointed in you. I don’t even have words,” Coach’s voice booms. Suddenly, I forget that I’m sleep-deprived, dizzy, and irritable. Did Rox finally tell him she’s knocked up? When she doesn’t say anything, it sounds like he bangs on the desk. “Who’s the damn father? I want a name.” I glance around, looking for that weasel dick Ezra, but he’s conveniently MIA. “I’m going to ask you again,” Coach bellows. “Who’s. The. Father?” Silence. “Roxanne, do you even know who the father is?” He did not fucking ask her that. Then I hear it. The weeping. I don’t make a conscious decision to go in there, but next thing I know, I’m standing in front of Coach, ready to remove his head from his body. “Don’t fucking talk to her like that.” I must have a death wish. Roxy has her face in her hands. Leaning down, I pull her into my arms. “It’ll be okay, biscuit. Stop crying.” She wraps her arms around my waist and sobs against my chest as I glare at her dad. Like an angry bull, his nostrils flare. “You.” That’s all he says. He’s doing some kind of deep breathing thing that makes me think he might keel over and die. Which would be bad. I might hate him sometimes, but I know he’s a good guy. Deep, deep down. “Coach, it’s not the end of the world. Women have babies every day.” “I should’ve known.” That Roxy would get pregnant? “Coach, you need to calm down before you say something you regr—” “You fucking did this.” Me? “You’re the one who made her cry.” He points at me. “You got my daughter pregnant.” I freeze. I don’t budge an inch. He thinks I did this? That I knocked up this gorgeous girl and let her come in here to give him the news by herself? What kind of asshole does he take me for? The biggest kind. Of course he thinks I’m the culprit. Not Ezra, who’s been cheating on his high school girlfriend for years and kisses Coach’s ass at every opportunity.