Hack Squat Quotes

There were in the camp a number of Mexican slaves and these ran forth calling out in spanish and were brained or shot and one of the Delawares emerged from the smoke with a naked infant dangling in each hand and squatted at a ring of midden stones and swung them by the heels each in turn and bashed their heads against the stones so that the brains burst forth through the fontanel in a bloody spew and humans on fire came shrieking forth like berserkers and the riders hacked them down with their enormous knives and a young woman ran up and embraced the bloodied forefeet of Glanton's warhorse.

Let’s say that you have committed to running every day for two weeks, and at the end of those two weeks, you “reward” yourself with a massage. I would say, “Good for you!” because we all could benefit from more massages. But I would also say that your massage wasn’t a reward. It was an incentive. The definition of a reward in behavior science is an experience directly tied to a behavior that makes that behavior more likely to happen again. The timing of the reward matters. Scientists learned decades ago that rewards need to happen either during the behavior or milli-seconds afterward. Dopamine is released and processed by the brain very quickly. That means you’ve got to cue up those good feelings fast to form a habit. Incentives like a sales bonus or a monthly massage can motivate you, but they don’t rewire your brain. Incentives are way too far in the future to give you that all-important shot of dopamine that encodes the new habit. Doing three squats in the morning and rewarding yourself with a movie that evening won’t work. The squats and the good feelings you get from the movie are too far apart for dopamine to build a bridge between the two. The neurochemical reaction that you are trying to hack is not only time dependent, it’s also highly individualized. What causes one person to feel good may not work for everyone. Your boss may love the smell of coffee. When she enters a coffee shop and inhales, she feels good. And her immediate feeling builds her habit of visiting the coffee shop. But your coworker might not like the way coffee smells. His brain won’t react in the same way. A real reward — something that will actually create a habit — is a much narrower target to hit than most people think. I

She's been scouted by Ford and Elite- real New York agencies. Micah, the agent for Elite- a tall black guy in silver eyeliner- said that Felice was "heart-stopping." Everyone says that Felice looks like Elizabeth Taylor- all pleased with themselves, as if she were hearing this for the first time. It used to bug Felice: she pictured that squat, henlike woman in her wig and jewels, holding hands with Michael Jackson. But one day, Duffy brought over an old movie magazine while Felice and Berry lounged at their cafe table. He opened it and jabbed at the photo. "There. Look. You kids really are morons. You really don't know anything, do you? 'That's' Elizabeth Taylor." Berry craned over the page. "Wow, you really kind of do. Look at her. You guys could be related." A little nearsighted, Felice held the magazine closer, startled to see the resemblance- the straight brow bone, glimmering eyes, the fine jaw; only Felice's straight hair was self-hacked below the shoulders and Liz's hair was a sable bob, thick as a paintbrush. She finally realized what a compliment this comparison was.

The Unassailable City was a vast promontory of rock rising hundreds of yards above the waves. Clinging like barnacles to its sheer sides were countless, chaotic structures. Those closest to the sea were fashioned from the flotsam of old ships, seemingly sunken into the face of the rock. Others were crafted from giant, overlapping conch shells strung together with seaweed-rope. Higher up, caves had been hacked from the rock, and crooked shacks struggled for purchase upon narrow shelves. A network of ropes and ladders laced the cliffs, as alive with movement as a web of newly hatched sea spiders. Enormous cranes, used to shift goods to and from the fleets below, grasped the edge of the precipitous heights and tried their balance against the gusting wind. Long-barrelled cannon squatted at their feet like guard dogs. These weapons could sink a frigate a mile distant, and had kept enemies away for centuries. Upon the very summit was a wide plateau, where stood the white houses and marble palaces of the High Mercantilists that ran the city.

Kevin awoke, not with the slow realization that came from regaining consciousness, nor with the startled gasp of a man having a nightmare, nor even the groan that was stereotypical of anime characters when they wake up—no, when Kevin woke up, it was to the feeling of a hand being shoved down his throat. His eyes snapped wide open. However, he still couldn’t see anything. His eyes perceived nothing beyond the amalgam of blurred colors, mixing and matching and morphing and changing, a sickening compendium that his mind couldn’t comprehend. Images flashed past his vision. A walk on the beach. Red hair. A swell. A raging torrent, an infinite tide of water rising into the sky, cresting against the heavens. He tried to cough, to hack, to something, but it was no use. The hand remained shoved firmly down his throat. And then it was gone. Kevin gagged, and then coughed out what must have been several gallons of water. Each cough wracked his body with pain. Each breath caused his ribs to creak. Even the slightest movement hurt. Something appeared in front of him. It was a blurry green object. What… the… heck? “I’m glad to see that you’re awake,” the shape said. Kevin blinked. “Tell me, how many fingers am I holding up?” “Fingers…” Was what he meant to say. “Fssshrrsss…” Was what he said. “Hmm, it seems your eyesight is a bit unfocused. Here, let me fix that for you.” Kevin would have asked what this object—person? — meant, but he never got the chance—because something smacked him in the head. Hard. “Ouch!” Kevin covered his face with his hands. Gods that hurt! What the hell was he just hit with? A mallet? “What the heck was that for, you crazy coot?!” “Ho? Can you see me now? How many fingers am I holding up?” Kevin was about to answer, but words fled when he realized who—no, what stood before him. Scaly green skin covered a small, squat body, clothed in a plain brown robe. This… thing stood with a stoop. It had a hunch of some kind, and Kevin was certain that the robe was covering something big attached to its back. A really long neck protruded from the robes, which was attached to a reptilian and very bald head. It was holding up three fingers. Mainly because it only had three fingers. “Holy crap, it’s a Ninja Turtle!” The “Ninja Turtle” twitched. “I am not a Ninja Turtle!” It shouted. “Don’t confuse those sea turtle rejects with me!” “Holy crap, it talks!” More twitching. “Of course I talk, you idiot!

The shanties of indigent newcomers to the place were scattered on one side of the crossroads, and on the other side, beyond the shops, were two stinking shebeens where drunken men squatted on the dirt floor, drooling over their home-brewed beer, while a haggard woman ladled more of it into tin cans from a plastic barrel. Outside under a tree, a man in rags, either drunk or exhausted, lay in a posture of crucifixion. Nearby were seven stalls made of rough planks. Two sold used clothes, and one sold new clothes. One offered vegetables, another milky tea and stale bread rolls for the schoolchildren. In a butcher’s shack the stallholder hacked with a machete at the black, flyblown leg of a goat. The last and most salubrious stall, labeled Real Hair, sold wigs and foot-long hair extensions. Near the shops was a shade tree under which a dozen women and about ten children sat in a friendly chatting group, some of them pounding ostrich shells into small discs, while others, using homemade tools, drilled holes in the middle, and still others threaded the punctured discs into bracelets and necklaces to sell to tourists.