I've Been Dealt Quotes

I think I’m going to skip all of my classes today because I need a “me” day. The problem with “me” days is that I need them four times a week. The problem with me is that I’m very smart and very capable (or so I’ve been told) but my laziness hinders me. Laziness. They forgot to add procrastination, self-destruction, and the inability to leave my bed to the list. The problem with me is that I’ve dealt with this before but have no idea what to do next. I should email my past teachers and ask them what I did after I sent them messages excusing my week-long absences from class due to “personal reasons.” I should stop scratching my hand in case my mom asks me if I’m okay again. I am okay. I am doing fine. But I have an itch that I cannot place, an itch that changes locations when my fingers find it. The problem with me is that I will focus on it completely until it goes away. The problem with this feeling is that it never goes away. It has always been one large itch that I cannot place.

In my own professional work I have touched on a variety of different fields. I’ve done work in mathematical linguistics, for example, without any professional credentials in mathematics; in this subject I am completely self-taught, and not very well taught. But I’ve often been invited by universities to speak on mathematical linguistics at mathematics seminars and colloquia. No one has ever asked me whether I have the appropriate credentials to speak on these subjects; the mathematicians couldn’t care less. What they want to know is what I have to say. No one has ever objected to my right to speak, asking whether I have a doctor’s degree in mathematics, or whether I have taken advanced courses in the subject. That would never have entered their minds. They want to know whether I am right or wrong, whether the subject is interesting or not, whether better approaches are possible… the discussion dealt with the subject, not with my right to discuss it. But on the other hand, in discussion or debate concerning social issues or American foreign policy…. The issue is constantly raised, often with considerable venom. I’ve repeatedly been challenged on grounds of credentials, or asked, what special training do I have that entitles you to speak on these matters. The assumption is that people like me, who are outsiders from a professional viewpoint, are not entitled to speak on such things. Compare mathematics and the political sciences… it’s quite striking. In mathematics, in physics, people are concerned with what you say, not with your certification. But in order to speak about social reality, you must have the proper credentials, particularly if you depart from the accepted framework of thinking. Generally speaking, it seems fair to say that the richer the intellectual substance of a field, the less there is a concern for credentials, and the greater is the concern for content.

I’ve been dealt a fuller set of cards than the ones passed to Lily and Daisy. They’re just as strong, if not stronger. I’ve always been here as extra reinforcement, and however old we become, however gray we are, that won’t ever change.

The moon is always jealous of the heat of the day, just as the sun always longs for something dark and deep. They could see how love might control you, from your head to your toes, not to mention every single part of you in between. A woman could want a man so much she might vomit in the kitchen sink or cry so fiercly blood would form in the corners of her eyes. She put her hand to her throat as though someone were strangling her, but really she was choking on all that love she thought she’d needed so badly. What had she thought, that love was a toy, something easy and sweet, just to play with? Real love was dangerous, it got you from inside and held on tight, and if you didn’t let go fast enough you might be willing to do anything for it’s sake. She refused to believe in superstition, she wouldn’t; yet it was claiming her. Some fates are guaranteed, no matter who tries to intervene. After all I’ve done for you is lodged somewhere in her brain, and far worse, it’s in her heart as well. She was bad luck, ill-fated and unfortunate as the plague. She is not worth his devotion. She wishes he would evaporate into thin air. Maybe then she wouldn’t have this feeling deep inside, a feeling she can deny all she wants, but that won’t stop it from being desire. Love is worth the sum of itself and nothing more. But that’s what happens when you’re a liar, especially when you’re telling the worst of these lies to yourself. He has stumbled into love, and now he’s stuck there. He’s fairly used to not getting what he wants, and he’s dealt with it, yet he can’t help but wonder if that’s only because he didn’t want anything so badly. It’s music, it’s a sound that is absurdly beautiful in his mouth, but she won’t pay attention. She knows from the time she spent on the back stairs of the aunts’ house that most things men say are lies. Don’t listen, she tells herself. None if it’s true and none of it matters, because he’s whispering that he’s been looking for her forever. She can’t believe it. She can’t listen to anything he tells her and she certainly can’t think, because if she did she might just think she’d better stop. What good would it do her to get involved with someone like him? She’d have to feel so much, and she’s not that kind. The greatest portion of grief is the one you dish out for yourself. She preferred cats to human beings and turned down every offer from the men who fell in love with her. They told her how sticks and stones could break bones, but taunting and name-calling were only for fools. — & now here she is, all used up. Although she’d never believe it, those lines in *’s face are the most beautiful part about her. They reveal what she’s gone through and what she’s survived and who exactly she is, deep inside. She’s gotten back some of what she’s lost. Attraction, she now understands, is a state of mind. If there’s one thing * is now certain of, it’s house you can amaze yourself by the things you’re willing to do. You really don’t know? That heart-attack thing you’ve been having? It’s love, that’s what it feels like. She knows now that when you don’t lose yourself in the bargain, you find you have double the love you started with, and that’s one recipe that can’t be tampered with. Always throw spilled salt over your left shoulder. Keep rosemary by your garden gate. Add pepper to your mashed potatoes. Plant roses and lavender, for luck. Fall in love whenever you can.

The truth is, I’ve never been a big believer in destiny. I worry that it encourages resignation in the down-and-out and complacency among the powerful. I suspect that God’s plan, whatever it is, works on a scale too large to admit our mortal tribulations; that in a single lifetime, accidents and happenstance determine more than we care to admit; and that the best we can do is to try to align ourselves with what we feel is right and construct some meaning out of our confusion, and with grace and nerve play at each moment the hand that we’re dealt.

It’s really a rather simple thing to bring balance to my anger. All I need to do is remember that the ‘hand of cards’ that have been dealt to me pale in comparison to the ‘deck of cards’ that I’ve thrown at others.

You’re an asshole.” And you’re the most beautiful punishment I’ve ever been dealt.

I've been thrown into a turbulent triangle, but even though I have deep feelings for Shiray doesn't mean my feelings will disappear for Melanie immediately. Fate has really dealt me a cruel hand of cards.

Some years ago I had a conversation with a man who thought that writing and editing fantasy books was a rather frivolous job for a grown woman like me. He wasn’t trying to be contentious, but he himself was a probation officer, working with troubled kids from the Indian reservation where he’d been raised. Day in, day out, he dealt in a concrete way with very concrete problems, well aware that his words and deeds could change young lives for good or ill. I argued that certain stories are also capable of changing lives, addressing some of the same problems and issues he confronted in his daily work: problems of poverty, violence, and alienation, issues of culture, race, gender, and class... “Stories aren’t real,” he told me shortly. “They don’t feed a kid left home in an empty house. Or keep an abusive relative at bay. Or prevent an unloved child from finding ‘family’ in the nearest gang.” Sometimes they do, I tried to argue. The right stories, read at the right time, can be as important as shelter or food. They can help us to escape calamity, and heal us in its aftermath. He frowned, dismissing this foolishness, but his wife was more conciliatory. “Write down the names of some books,” she said. “Maybe we’ll read them.” I wrote some titles on a scrap of paper, and the top three were by Charles de lint – for these are precisely the kind of tales that Charles tells better than anyone. The vital, necessary stories. The ones that can change and heal young lives. Stories that use the power of myth to speak truth to the human heart. Charles de Lint creates a magical world that’s not off in a distant Neverland but here and now and accessible, formed by the “magic” of friendship, art, community, and social activism. Although most of his books have not been published specifically for adolescents and young adults, nonetheless young readers find them and embrace them with particular passion. I’ve long lost count of the number of times I’ve heard people from troubled backgrounds say that books by Charles saved them in their youth, and kept them going. Recently I saw that parole officer again, and I asked after his work. “Gets harder every year,” he said. “Or maybe I’m just getting old.” He stopped me as I turned to go. “That writer? That Charles de Lint? My wife got me to read them books…. Sometimes I pass them to the kids.” “Do they like them?” I asked him curiously. “If I can get them to read, they do. I tell them: Stories are important.” And then he looked at me and smiled.

I can’t change the cards I’ve been dealt, but I can change the way I approach my hand.

Facing my mistakes from years ago has been one of the hardest things I've ever dealt with.

Why does this always happen?” Royce asked. “Why are we always hanging on a wall, waiting to die by slow vivisection? I just want to point out that this was your idea—again.” “I’ve been waiting for that. But I believe I told you not to come.” Hadrian shifted in his chains and sighed. “I don’t suppose there’s much chance of a beautiful princess coming in here and saving us again.” “That card’s been dealt.

For much of our time together I wished for a better relationship than the one we have, but I’ve come to understand this is the hand I have been dealt. And now I am showing you all my cards. Our game is complete.

In case you haven’t noticed, I go a little crazy when it’s been too long since I’ve seen you, and you give me a reason to want to live instead of just exist. You accepted every piece of me, and dealt with the scraps I could offer. And never complained.

I’ve come to understand this is the hand I have been dealt. And now I am showing you all my cards. Our game is complete.

The Perfect Friend © Today I found a friend Who knew everything I felt She knew my every weakness And the problems I’ve been dealt She understood my wonders And listened to my dreams She listened to how I felt about life and love And knew what it all means Not once did she interrupt me Or tell me I was wrong She understood what I was going through And promised she'd stay long I reached out to this friend To show her that I care To pull her close and let her know How much I need her there I went to hold her hand To pull her a bit nearer And I realized this perfect friend I found Was nothing but a mirror Copyright © 1995 Shannen Wrass. All Rights Reserved

My wife has always been my beloved mean girl, she fires emotional bullets when she’s pissed or upset. Not so much in the last years, not since she’s gotten a grip of her anxiety and dealt with a lot of her emotional baggage. I love her fucking mean. Not even lying when I say it makes me hard as stone. I love fucking her when she’s mad. But this is different. She won’t want me on top of her when she knows the secret I’ve been keeping.

I’ve always dealt fairly in business, even when I believed someone was trying to take advantage of me. That’s one reason I have had to grind away incessantly to achieve success. In some ways I guess I’m naive. I always take a man at his word unless he’s given me a reason not to, and I’ve worked out many a satisfactory deal on the strength of a handshake. On the other hand, I’ve been taken to the cleaners often enough to make me a certified cynic.

So often fictions that experiment formally do so at the expense of feeling. They toy on surfaces or are purely cerebral affairs, don’t explore human complexities. But the mostly unconventional narratives I’ve been discussing have dealt powerfully with core human matters. … And they have found patterns other than the wave to do this, or worked in a doubled, moiré relation with the wave, one pattern upon another. I believe they’ve done this organically: a meander or net or explosion was simply the pattern the material needed.

I feel something nagging at me, boring into me. I can’t go on living like a plant; I need to move, I have to act, start doing something. I feel as though I’ve been dealt a good hand of cards but don’t know whether I’ll be able to play them. And who am I playing with?

The warmth of your heart is tauntingly near, but you reserve it as you shut me out in the blizzard of your doubt. Is it because you don't understand the freakish assembly of my soul, a soul that was once broken? In some ways I guess I don't blame you. if I had the opportunity to avoid the vague horizon of my future, I would. But these are the cards I've been dealt and I still don't know all the rules of the game. My burden is heavy and becomes harder to bear each day. I know I have the ability to endure it alone if I really persevere, but I prefer a steady hand to help guide me along the way and maybe even hold me in times of uncertainty.

I’ve always believed that if something was meant to happen, you’d have a second chance at it. But never have I been so bold as to believe in a third or even a fourth chance. Almost like the world was trying to hand you something good after all it had dealt you your whole life was heartache, like it had changed its position on who you were and what you could have. Call it what you will: karma or good luck or maybe something more. Grace.

I’ve been around gamblers since I was six years old. I’ve seen it all: smart money, stupid money, sharps, half-sharps, suckers, and squares. I’ve run into every sort of hustler, scuffler, con man, and bullshit artist you can imagine. I’ve dealt with killers, drug dealers, celebrities, billionaires, and a thug-fest of would-be tough guys. For the longest time, I could not resist that sweet voice called Action whispering in my ear, drawing me in, pulling me down. For years, I lived what gamblers in the South like to call a “chicken or feathers” existence; flush one day, dead broke the next. I’ve lost cars, houses, businesses, and marriages. I gambled until I had all your money, or you had all of mine.

I would like to see you cheat,” Elizabeth said impulsively, smiling at him. His hands stilled, his eyes intent on her face. “I beg your pardon?” “What I meant,” she hastily explained as he continued to idly shuffle the cards, watching her, “is that night in the card room at Charise’s there was mention of someone being able to deal a card from the bottom of the deck, and I’ve always wondered if you could, if it could…” She trailed off, belatedly realizing she was insulting him and that his narrowed, speculative gaze proved that she’d made it sound as if she believed him to be dishonest at cards. “I beg your pardon,” she said quietly. “That was truly awful of me.” Ian accepted her apology with a curt nod, and when Alex hastily interjected, “Why don’t we use the chips for a shilling each,” he wordlessly and immediately dealt the cards. Too embarrassed even to look at him, Elizabeth bit her lip and picked up her hand. In it there were four kings. Her gaze flew to Ian, but he was lounging back in his chair, studying his own cards. She won three shillings and was pleased as could be. He passed the deck to her, but Elizabeth shook her head. “I don’t like to deal. I always drop the cards, which Celton says is very irritating. Would you mind dealing for me?” “Not at all,” Ian said dispassionately, and Elizabeth realized with a sinking heart that he was still annoyed with her. “Who is Celton?” Jordan inquired. “Celton is a groom with whom I play cards,” Elizabeth explained unhappily, picking up her hand. In it there were four aces. She knew it then, and laughter and relief trembled on her lips as she lifted her face and stared at her betrothed. There was not a sign, not so much as a hint anywhere on his perfectly composed features that anything unusual had been happening. Lounging indolently in his chair, he quirked an indifferent brow and said, “Do you want to discard and draw more cards, Elizabeth?” “Yes,” she replied, swallowing her mirth, “I would like one more ace to go with the ones I have.” “There are only four,” he explained mildly, and with such convincing blandness that Elizabeth whooped with laughter and dropped her cards. “You are a complete charlatan!” she gasped when she could finally speak, but her face was aglow with admiration. “Thank you, darling,” he replied tenderly. “I’m happy to know your opinion of me is already improving.” The laughter froze in Elizabeth’s chest, replaced by warmth that quaked through her from head to foot. Gentlemen did not speak such tender endearments in front of other people, if at all. “I’m a Scot,” he’d whispered huskily to her long ago. “We do.” The Townsendes had launched into swift, laughing conversation after a moment of stunned silence following his words, and it was just as well, because Elizabeth could not tear her gaze from Ian, could not seem to move. And in that endless moment when their gazes held, Elizabeth had an almost overwhelming desire to fling herself into his arms. He saw it, too, and the answering expression in his eyes made her feel she was melting. “It occurs to me, Ian,” Jordan joked a moment later, gently breaking their spell, “that we are wasting our time with honest pursuits.” Ian’s gaze shifted reluctantly from Elizabeth’s face, and then he smiled inquisitively at Jordan. “What did you have in mind?” he asked, shoving the deck toward Jordan while Elizabeth put back her unjustly won chips. “With your skill at dealing whatever hand you want, we could gull half of London. If any of our victims had the temerity to object, Alex could run them through with her rapier, and Elizabeth could shoot him before he hit the ground.” Ian chuckled. “Not a bad idea. What would your role be?” “Breaking us out of Newgate!” Elizabeth laughed. “Exactly.

2/ KICK YOUR OWN ASS, GENTLY. I’ve been trying to set a few modest goals, both daily and weekly. In the course of a day, it’s good to get some stupid things accomplished, and off your “list.” I guess because it leaves you feeling that you and the “rest of the world” still have something to do with each other! Like today, for example, I can think back on sending a fax to my brother on his birthday, leaving a phone message for Brutus at his “hotel” on his birthday, phoning my Dad on his birthday (yep, all on the same day), then driving to Morin Heights to the ATM machine, to St. Sauveur for grocery shopping, and planning all that so I’d still have enough daylight left to go snowshoeing in the woods. And then I could drink. Not a high-pressure day, and hardly earth-shaking activities, but I laid them out for myself and did them (even though tempted to “not bother” with each of them at one point or another). I gave myself a gentle kick in the ass when necessary, or cursed myself out for a lazy fool, and because of all that, I consider today a satisfactory day. Everything that needed to be done got done. And by “needs” I certainly include taking my little baby soul out for a ride. And drinking. And there are little side benefits from such activities, like when the cashier in the grocery store wished me a genuinely-pleasant “Bonjour,” and I forced myself to look at her and return the greeting. The world still seems unreal to me, but I try not to purposely avoid contact with pleasant strangers. It wouldn’t be polite! Another “little goal” for me right now is spending an hour or two at the desk every morning, writing a letter or a fax to someone like you, or Brutus, or Danny, who I want to reach out to, or conversely, to someone I’ve been out of touch with for a long while, maybe for a year-and-a-half or two years. These are friends that I’ve decided I still value, and that I want as part of my “new life,” whatever it may be. It doesn’t really matter what, but just so you can say that you changed something in the course of your day: a neglected friend is no longer neglected; an errand that ought to be dealt with has been dealt with.

I have stopped loving you. I have stopped caring about you. I have stopped worrying about you. I have simply . . . stopped. This might come as news to you but despite everything, despite the cruelty, the selfishness and the pain you have caused, I still found a way to care. But not any more. Now, I am putting you on notice. I no longer need you. I don’t think fondly of our early days, so I am erasing these memories and all that followed. For much of our time together I wished for a better relationship than the one we have, but I’ve come to understand this is the hand I have been dealt. And now I am showing you all my cards. Our game is complete. You are the person I share this house with, nothing more, nothing less. You mean no more to me than the shutters that hide what goes on in here, the floorboards I walk over or the doors we use to separate us. I have spent too much of my life trying to figure out your intricacies, of suffering your deeds like knives cutting through scar tissue. I am through with sacrificing who I should have been to keep you happy as it has only locked us in this status quo. I have wasted too much time wanting you to want me. I ache when I recall the opportunities I’ve been too scared to accept because of you. Such frittered-away chances make me want to crawl on my hands and knees to the end of the garden, curl up into a ball on a mound of earth and wait until the nettles and the ivy choke and cover me from view. It’s only now that I recognise the wretched life you cloaked me in and how your misery needed my company to prevent you from feeling so isolated. There is just one lesson I have learned from the life we share. And it is this: everything that is wrong with me is wrong with you too. We are one and the same. When I die, your flame will also extinguish. The next time we are together, I want one of us to be lying stiff in a coffin wearing rags that no longer fit our dead, shrunken frame. Only then can we separate. Only then can we be ourselves. Only then do I stand a chance of finding peace. Only then will I be free of you. And should my soul soar, I promise that yours will sink like the heaviest of rocks, never to be seen again.

My mother was the alcoholic in my life. I was the eldest of four children and always had the duties of taking care of my brothers and sisters, the house, and my dad. I resented my mother for this. But my dad praised me so much and gave me so much special attention for being the “little mother” around the house for him, that eventually I didn’t seem to mind my mother’s alcoholism. My dad would always let me sit in his lap at night for being “his girl,” comb my hair, and do special things for me. Something didn’t feel right about it, but it was the only attention I got. As an adult, I seemed to have everything going for me and seemed in control. But my husband confronted me one day and said he was dissatisfied with my difficulties in being intimate with him. He wanted changes or a divorce. I was stunned. That’s when I discovered that growing up in an alcoholic family affected my ability to be intimate. I figured if I dealt with my feelings and issues about my mother, things would be fine. After all, she was the alcoholic. Well, I did deal with her, but things weren’t fine. I came to realize that all that special attention from my dad was really a source of pain and the real culprit behind my difficulty in being close to my husband. Now I realize that I’ve lived my life for him. I chose my husband because I thought my father would approve. The career and family I built were intended to win my father’s admiration and love. Even as an adult, I went to him with intimate details of my life, which he invited. God, I began to feel icky all over again. I was scared and guilt-ridden. I knew I had to stop being “Daddy’s girl” if I was going to save myself and my marriage. It was the most difficult decision I ever had to make about my life: separating from the man who had been the only source of comfort while I was growing up. Yet it was also the most freeing decision I ever made.

My mum once told me that the bravest sailors weren’t the ones who sailed through the storm, but the ones who remained in port whilst it raged out at sea. I never really understood what she meant by that, until now. For seventeen years I succeeded in standing back and watching that storm wreak havoc, never once venturing into the expanse of the ocean like a large proportion of kids on my estate had done. Unlike me, they were drawn into the glamour and the notoriety of joining a gang. Some did it for the promise of a family unit that they didn’t have at home. Some did it because they were too weak or too vulnerable to say no, while others did it because they were bored. And some, like Eastern, joined out of sheer desperation. I chose to stay away. It’s true, I might’ve been the delinquent kid that everyone saw when they looked at me. I might’ve gotten into trouble with the law, but I refused to set sail into a storm that wasn’t of my own making. I refused to join a gang. The way I saw it, whatever trouble I got into was on my terms and not for some self-proclaimed gang leader with a skewed view of the world and their own set of rules. I never wanted to be beholden to anyone but myself, and above all else, I always wanted more out of life than the hand I’ve been dealt. Maybe it was my mother’s fault for filling my head with far-fetched stories, but I wanted what was on the other side of the storm. I wanted what lay far, far beyond the horizon. Deep down I’d craved the life my mum used to tell me about in her stories. It gave me something to focus on, to dream about, even if it wasn’t real. Ironic then, that I’m now a part of the life I worked so hard to avoid, trying to protect the people I love from falling victim to it. And all because my love for a makeshift family meant I couldn’t stand back and watch the storm anymore. I must set sail right into the heart of it because I love Eastern, Tracy and Braydon enough to do something about their situation. They might not be my blood, but they are my family and I won’t abandon them in a time of need. Pity the same couldn’t be said for my own parents.

Henry, there’s something I would like to tell you, for what it’s worth, something I wish I had been told years ago. You’ve been a consultant for a long time, and you’ve dealt a great deal with top secret information. But you’re about to receive a whole slew of special clearances, maybe fifteen or twenty of them, that are higher than top secret. I’ve had a number of these myself, and I’ve known other people who have just acquired them, and I have a pretty good sense of what the effects of receiving these clearances are on a person who didn’t previously know they even existed. And the effects of reading the information that they will make available to you. First, you’ll be exhilarated by some of this new information, and by having it all—so much! incredible!—suddenly available to you. But second, almost as fast, you will feel like a fool for having studied, written, talked about these subjects, criticized and analyzed decisions made by presidents for years without having known of the existence of all this information, which presidents and others had and you didn’t, and which must have influenced their decisions in ways you couldn’t even guess. In particular, you’ll feel foolish for having literally rubbed shoulders for over a decade with some officials and consultants who did have access to all this information you didn’t know about and didn’t know they had, and you’ll be stunned that they kept that secret from you so well. You will feel like a fool, and that will last for about two weeks. Then, after you’ve started reading all this daily intelligence input and become used to using what amounts to whole libraries of hidden information, which is much more closely held than mere top secret data, you will forget there ever was a time when you didn’t have it, and you’ll be aware only of the fact that you have it now and most others don’t … and that all those other people are fools. Over a longer period of time—not too long, but a matter of two or three years—you’ll eventually become aware of the limitations of this information. There is a great deal that it doesn’t tell you, it’s often inaccurate, and it can lead you astray just as much as the New York Times can. But that takes a while to learn. In the meantime it will have become very hard for you to learn from anybody who doesn’t have these clearances. Because you’ll be thinking as you listen to them: “What would this man be telling me if he knew what I know? Would he be giving me the same advice, or would it totally change his predictions and recommendations?” And that mental exercise is so torturous that after a while you give it up and just stop listening. I’ve seen this with my superiors, my colleagues … and with myself. You will deal with a person who doesn’t have those clearances only from the point of view of what you want him to believe and what impression you want him to go away with, since you’ll have to lie carefully to him about what you know. In effect, you will have to manipulate him. You’ll give up trying to assess what he has to say. The danger is, you’ll become something like a moron. You’ll become incapable of learning from most people in the world, no matter how much experience they may have in their particular areas that may be much greater than yours.

Everywhere you look with this young lady, there’s a purity of motivation,” Shultz told him. “I mean she really is trying to make the world better, and this is her way of doing it.” Mattis went out of his way to praise her integrity. “She has probably one of the most mature and well-honed sense of ethics—personal ethics, managerial ethics, business ethics, medical ethics that I’ve ever heard articulated,” the retired general gushed. Parloff didn’t end up using those quotes in his article, but the ringing endorsements he heard in interview after interview from the luminaries on Theranos’s board gave him confidence that Elizabeth was the real deal. He also liked to think of himself as a pretty good judge of character. After all, he’d dealt with his share of dishonest people over the years, having worked in a prison during law school and later writing at length about such fraudsters as the carpet-cleaning entrepreneur Barry Minkow and the lawyer Marc Dreier, both of whom went to prison for masterminding Ponzi schemes. Sure, Elizabeth had a secretive streak when it came to discussing certain specifics about her company, but he found her for the most part to be genuine and sincere. Since his angle was no longer the patent case, he didn’t bother to reach out to the Fuiszes. — WHEN PARLOFF’S COVER STORY was published in the June 12, 2014, issue of Fortune, it vaulted Elizabeth to instant stardom. Her Journal interview had gotten some notice and there had also been a piece in Wired, but there was nothing like a magazine cover to grab people’s attention. Especially when that cover featured an attractive young woman wearing a black turtleneck, dark mascara around her piercing blue eyes, and bright red lipstick next to the catchy headline “THIS CEO IS OUT FOR BLOOD.” The story disclosed Theranos’s valuation for the first time as well as the fact that Elizabeth owned more than half of the company. There was also the now-familiar comparison to Steve Jobs and Bill Gates. This time it came not from George Shultz but from her old Stanford professor Channing Robertson. (Had Parloff read Robertson’s testimony in the Fuisz trial, he would have learned that Theranos was paying him $500,000 a year, ostensibly as a consultant.) Parloff also included a passage about Elizabeth’s phobia of needles—a detail that would be repeated over and over in the ensuing flurry of coverage his story unleashed and become central to her myth. When the editors at Forbes saw the Fortune article, they immediately assigned reporters to confirm the company’s valuation and the size of Elizabeth’s ownership stake and ran a story about her in their next issue. Under the headline “Bloody Amazing,” the article pronounced her “the youngest woman to become a self-made billionaire.” Two months later, she graced one of the covers of the magazine’s annual Forbes 400 issue on the richest people in America. More fawning stories followed in USA Today, Inc., Fast Company, and Glamour, along with segments on NPR, Fox Business, CNBC, CNN, and CBS News. With the explosion of media coverage came invitations to numerous conferences and a cascade of accolades. Elizabeth became the youngest person to win the Horatio Alger Award. Time magazine named her one of the one hundred most influential people in the world. President Obama appointed her a U.S. ambassador for global entrepreneurship, and Harvard Medical School invited her to join its prestigious board of fellows.

Forgive my skepticism. All the journalists I’ve dealt with have been so poorly informed. They don’t make the slightest effort to understand the science. Journalists are lazy and stupid. I won’t mention any names. But take that young man from Esquire magazine. Did you know his journalism background was in celebrity profiles? He wrote about movie stars, so that gave him the authority to write about Jennie. Why, you see, Jennie was a celebrity. Make me laugh. And you’d think the Boston Globe would be concerned about scientific accuracy. That hapless reporter didn’t even know the difference between an ape and a monkey.

My day had forty-eight hours. It helped that I had no social life. I recall a poor fellow who asked me out during this period. I agreed to meet him for dinner. As I was getting ready, the phone rang. “We’ve got a possum that’s been hit by a car,” the county animal control office said. “Can you help?” I’ve always liked possums. Like a lot of wildlife, they are completely misunderstood. Virginia opossums are the only North American marsupials. Marsupials tend to have lower body temperatures than other animals, so possums are among the least likely of any mammal to contract rabies. In fact, they are one of the most disease-free animals I’ve dealt with. That evening, answering the call as I dressed for my big date, I didn’t think twice. I thought I could pick it up and still make dinner. But when I got the injured possum home and examined it, I realized that it had probably been hit by the car two or three days earlier, and its body teemed with maggots. There wasn’t any way I could head out for a lovely evening, not with a maggot-infested marsupial under my care. I grabbed my tweezers and began flicking off the fly larvae, one by one. The possum was cooperative, but as the maggot-picking process wore on, it became evident that I was not going to able to make dinner. I called the fellow. “Here’s the situation,” I said. “I am working on a possum that was hit by a car. There is just no way I am going to be on time. What do you want to do?” There was a long hesitation on the other end of the line. “Why don’t I come over and help?” he finally asked. Great! I could always use help. A half hour later, in he came, looking smart and smelling of cologne. His face immediately turned pale as he saw what the project entailed, and he made a halfhearted attempt to help. After a while I wasn’t sure whether I was going to be finishing up with the possum or providing medical aid for my poor date, whose face had now turned a whiter shade of green. He excused himself and headed off into the night, never to be heard from again.

In all my years I’ve never heard of these strange creatures,” said Spidroth. “Hey, who are you calling ‘strange creatures’?” said Kayla. Finally they got back to the giant mushroom where the Council of Meep were. “Um, do you mind if I go in alone?” Dave asked Carl and Spidroth, when they reached the doorway that led up into the mushroom. “There’s something that I need to speak to the Council of Meep about.” “Sure, whatever,” said Carl. “I might go and buy some food from the market. I swear I smelled something that smelled just like a baked potato.” So Dave left Carl and Spidroth, and went back up into the mushroom with Kayla. When he got to the top, the council was waiting. “It is good to see you back,” said Father Meepo. “You managed to rescue your friends then?” “I did,” said Dave. “Father Meepo, I want to talk to you about our deal. About me becoming the next Farmer.” “I knew it!” said a female meep. “He wants to renege on our deal!” “You know that the deal we made is eternally binding?” said Father Meepo darkly. “It cannot be broken.” “I know,” said Dave, “but I was wondering if it could be… delayed?” “Delayed for how long?” asked Father Meepo. “There’s this bad guy named Herobrine,” said Dave, “he’s escaped and slain one of my friends, and now I think he’s coming for me. I need to be around to stop him.” “We know of Herobrine,” said Father Meepo. “The human who betrayed his own kind.” It was news to Dave that Herobrine was a human, but that was of little interest to him right now. All he cared about was convincing the meeps to give him more time. “Can I just hold off on becoming the new Farmer until Herobrine has been dealt with?” Dave asked. “And… it’s ok with you… could I also wait until after I’ve been to the End and defeated the ender dragon? I set off on my quest to defeat the dragon, and I’d like to still do that if I can.

I’ve been in your life for four years. I stood by you when you were imprisoned. I followed you around to god-forsaken places. I travelled with you to your exhibitions, slept next to you, listening to your damned snoring. I managed the business side of things, dealt with the buyers, and dare I say it, I inspired your most profound works. I’d have liked to hear it directly from you that you’re marrying another woman. I mean, imagine my surprise to find out you had proposed to someone else while

I have dealt with killahs before." I study her face. She is not speaking figuratively. Her dark eyes hold mine. "I told you where I came from." I do some quick math. In the 90's, around the time my world was shattered by my father's death, Sierra Leone was brutalized by civil war. Mariama would have been a young adult, watching everything around her being blown to pieces. I learned it as a fact in a college classroom. Mariama lived it. How little thought I've given to the life of this woman I've come to depend on.

But that girl grew up, and she’s angry about the cards she got dealt by your hand, and she wants her pound of flesh. You can have the company, but you won’t ever, ever cut all ties to me. I’ve been serving the sentence you passed for years, suffering in silence, and it’s time you start serving yours.

She barely missed vomiting on my cock. I’ve been a part of some pretty messed up shit, and I’ve dealt with my fair share of blood and gore all over my body, but this—having my dick out and someone throwing up on my shoes—is new. And something I never want to revisit again.

And you’re the most beautiful punishment I’ve ever been dealt.

I’ve never been the kind of man who believed in dreams, Kat. That wasn’t the hand I got dealt. So I sure as hell never spent any time chasing them.” He swallowed hard and nodded. “But meeting you . . . if I could’ve dreamed, if I’d have even known what to dream of, it would’ve been of you.

They were quiet for a long time and Day felt like he could fall asleep again until God’s rough voice broke into his haze. “You want to talk about it?” Day took a deep breath and thought carefully about his answer. God massaged his shoulders with his strong hands and Day almost said “he didn’t want to talk, he just wanted keep being massaged.” But there was something really important he needed to say. “Cash. Thank you for yesterday.” Day spun around in God’s arms and faced him. “I’ve never been that scared in my life. At first I felt that if I died now, then it’s okay, because I died while I was in love and I died staring into your eyes. But when you said what you said.” Day placed his palm over God’s heart and felt the rapid beat there and he closed his eyes. “You said you’d have no soul, no conscience, and you’d take your revenge. That’s when I got scared.” God cast his eyes down. “You have to promise me. If anything ever happens to me that you’d go on. That’s the only way I’d die in peace. You’d live for me. That you’d mourn me and then go on and love again. You’ve come so far in your life. The things you’ve endured and been through made you strong. Some men have gone through less and it drove them to do unthinkable things because they couldn’t handle the hand life dealt them. But you lived through it and now you’re a highly respected detective.” Day gripped God’s chin and lifted his head. He kissed him passionately. “And you’re the man I love.” Day didn’t need God to answer him in words, his eyes and his kiss said it all. He told Day that he’d live for him.

He can’t bear it. I’ve sat there with him and there is nothing I can say to the guy, nothing that is going to make it any better. He’s been dealt the shittiest hand of cards you can imagine.

I, too, was taken aback by this turn of events. I was speechless. My mind raced to find a possible answer. Finally, I muttered apathetically, “If I’m to be a kept boy, I’ll expect to be housed in a luxury penthouse, not in a run-of-the mill flat. “Secondly, I’ll want a top-of-the-line sports car –a Ferrari or a Lamborghini, not a city car. “Last but not least, I’ll insist on a healthy remuneration to keep me in a princely style.”               Andy stared at me as if I was a whoreson, while Uncle James broke out in comedic exuberance. Shocked by my uncle’s boisterous outburst, my lover gaped, not knowing what to make of my guardian. “You can take the boy out of China, but you can’t take China out of the boy,” the Englishman vociferated hilariously.               My chaperone scrutinized my uncle, wondering if the man had lost his mind. He waited for James’ laughter to subside. “What are you talking about?” he expressed.               I twittered, “In the event that you’ve lost your mind, sir, I’m not from China. I’m from Malaya.”               James iterated enthusiastically, “Nevertheless, you, young man, are Chinese. Having dealt with Chinese businessmen for most of my life, you are a true-to-form Chinese.” He resumed, “Like the Hong Kong Chinese I’ve dealt with over the years you are an excellent negotiator. You’ve inherited your parents’ genetic ability to strike an optimum bargain to your advantage.” He paused. “In all seriousness, I think your counter-suggestions may be just the ammunition you’ll need to fend off Mossey. That is, if you desire to forgo his offer,” he opined.               Quick-witted Andy responded cheerfully, “What an awesome idea. I’ll be more than happy to draft the counter-proposal for you, my lovely one.” For the most part, I’d been a silent observer of this imprudent frivolity. I answered calmly, after giving the matter some thought, “I’ll sleep on this and have answers for you before our return to Daltonbury Hall.

What is it?” he asked quietly, his eyes full of concern. “What have you been doing that’s so terrible?” A great shudder of anguish moved through Velvet. Once he learned the truth Hank would never forgive her, but there had been enough running away, and she couldn’t bring herself to lie. Not to this man. She accepted the handkerchief he offered and dried her face. “Things was hard after Pa and Eldon died,” she managed to say, mopping at her eyes again. Hank nodded, his gaze tender, silently urging her to go on. Velvet drew in a deep breath and gripped a picket of the gate in one hand. For the first time in her life she thought she might faint. “I did cleanin’ work mostly till I came to Fort Deveraux. I’d heard I could make a lot of money here, washin’ clothes for the soldiers.” She paused and looked away for a moment, drawing strength from the orange and crimson blaze of the setting sun. “I found out soon enough that there were a lot of other women here lookin’ to wash clothes—there just wasn’t enough work to go around. I—I ended up takin’ money from men.” For a moment Hank just stood there, the color draining out of his skin. “For what?” he asked, his voice a low rasp. Velvet felt as though she was being torn apart piece by piece, organ by organ. She lowered her eyes for a moment, then met Hank’s gaze squarely. He knew—she could see that—but he was going to make her tell him. “For sleepin’ with me,” she said. With a muttered exclamation Hank turned away, his broad shoulders stiff beneath the rough, plain fabric of his shirt. Velvet reached out her hand, then let it fall helplessly to her side. She’d lost him a second time, and the experience was a cruel one. She doubted she’d ever recover from it. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. He whirled so suddenly that Velvet was startled and leapt backward. His face was taut with anger and pain. “You were my woman,” he whispered with hoarse fury. “How could you have let another man touch you?” The resilience that had allowed Velvet to survive the many hardships life had dealt her surged to the fore. She advanced on Hank, raging. “I wasn’t your woman. I wasn’t anybody’s woman. I was all alone in this world, and I did what I had to do!” Hesitantly Hank lifted his hand to her face. His thumb brushed away a tear. “There wasn’t a day or a night that I didn’t think about you, Velvet.” She hugged herself, afraid to hope or trust. “I didn’t love none of those men,” she said miserably. “I could only stand lettin’ them touch me because I pretended they was you.” Hank’s smile was soft and infinitely sad. “I’m not going to lose you again because of pride,” he said. “I don’t like that you took money from those men, but I figure I love you enough to get by that in time. All that really matters to me is now, Velvet. Now and next week and next year, and all the years after that, when you and I are going to be together.” Velvet hardly dared to believe her ears. She’d had very little good fortune in her life; she didn’t know how to deal with much besides trouble. “Folks around here won’t ever forget—there’ll be talk—” He laid two fingers to her lips, silencing her. “I don’t care,” he said. “I’ve found you. That’s all that’s important.” With a sob, Velvet let her head drop against Hank’s sturdy chest. Tenderly he enfolded her in his arms. “Hush, now,” he said. “Things are going to be different after this. Very different.” An

The moment he stepped outside, Macon materialized out of the darkness, as quickly as if he’d been a part of it. “Just making sure you don’t decide to take to your heels again,” Steven’s half-brother remarked as they walked along the wooden sidewalk. “I’m not going to do that and you know it,” Steven responded, never looking at Macon. “You just want to make me as miserable as you possibly can.” “You don’t know the meaning of the word misery,” Macon answered blithely. “But you will when you’re behind bars and I’m bedding that luscious little wife of yours. She’ll claim not to like it at first, probably, but I’ve dealt with her kind before. They tell you they’re not interested, but when you throw them down on a mattress, they’re breathing hard and spreading their thighs for you in a minute. And how they carry on when they come.” Steven lost the battle to control his rage and gripped Macon by the lapels of his coat, flinging him hard against the outside wall of the newspaper office. He followed that with a solid punch to Macon’s solar plexus. Macon made a sound that was half gasp and half laughter, clutching his middle and struggling to catch his breath. “Your mother was just like her,” he choked out. “She was a hot little whore who liked playing games with rich men.” Steven’s hand knotted into a fist again, but this time he held himself in check, realizing that Macon wanted to be struck. He got some kind of perverse pleasure out of it. Filled with contempt, Steven turned to walk away. “You’ll be swinging at the end of a rope by this time next month,” Macon called after him. “And nine months after that Emma will be sweating in childbirth, bearing the first of my bastards!” Steven’s hand flexed over the butt of his pistol, but he didn’t draw. He just kept walking, pretending he hadn’t heard. But

I hope you understand that change—real change—is difficult. Our lives are like undercurrents that we cannot change, we can only drift along if we are to survive. I am no different than every other human being, having lived the tainted hand I’ve been dealt. And it’s clear I’ve condemned my grandchildren to the same miserable fate. And cursed the world with them, as well.” “Free will, then,” Drayton said, “does not exist?” “Free will?” She chuckled, whimsically plucking at the window. “It’s a dream, Mr. Drayton. We’re victims of our thoughts, our genes, DNA, the malfunctions given to us by our parents and environment. Free will, Mr. Drayton, is a concept. It does not exist.” “And who is saying that?” “I am.” “And who are you? Your thoughts?” She

It’s always been just the two of us, me and my mom, all the time I was growing up. When Cyrus moved next door, I gained a brother, and she gained a son. But they’re all I have. Everything I’ve learned about art—about life—I learned from her. Before the sickness, she was the strongest, most beautiful, most caring person I knew. Even now, she’s dealt with all the endless days of her slowly dying body with more patience and stamina than I ever could. All my dreams of ascending and being worthy of Lenora are just that: fantasy. Right here, in the grimy reality of Seattle, all I really have is my mom, my best friend, and my art. I can’t let her give up. I

I can make anything work if I stick my mind to it. If this is the hand I've been dealt, then I'm about to win this game. Just wait and see.

I’d love you regardless. In case you haven’t noticed, I go a little crazy when it’s been too long since I’ve seen you, and you give me a reason to want to live instead of just exist. You accepted every piece of me, and dealt with the scraps I could offer. And never complained.” She starts to speak, but I go on. “Those eyes find me when you walk into a room, like I’m the only person you’re looking for. You hold your head up when others would cower. You stand tall when others would fold in on themselves. Your strength is beyond amazing. And you always keep me guessing, which is my favorite part about you, as much as it is infuriating.

I have to say, it’s been a while since I’ve dealt with someone who has such inflexible morals. It’s almost refreshing.

You're the most beautiful punishment I've ever been dealt

two men made me fall for them. Hard. They both walked away at the same time. And look, I could handle the hit to my pride. I can pull up my big girl panties to deal with the humiliation of that. It’s the blows they dealt to my heart that left me broken. Shattered. I’m like a cartoon statue that’s been hammered. There’s a crack at the impact. The crack spreads into a thousand fractures, until I’m made of a million pieces. There’s a moment in the show when I’m frozen in air that way, and that’s how I’ve been living these past six months—the pieces suspended, waiting to fall. There’s no way to avoid it; the killing blow already happened.

I know I shouldn’t feel this swelling rage, or get to a level of pissed off where it feels like there’s no turning back, but I do. I was born as angry as the red hair on my head. Why shouldn’t I be? The hand I’ve been dealt calls for fury, and it takes everything I have in me not to let it out tonight.

I know I shouldn’t feel this swelling rage, or get to a level of pissed off where it feels like there’s no turning back, but I do. I was born as angry as the red hair on my head. Why shouldn’t I be? The hand I’ve been dealt calls for fury, and it takes everything I have in me not to let it out tonight.

I’d love you regardless. In case you haven’t noticed, I go a little crazy when it’s been too long since I’ve seen you, and you give me a reason to want to live instead of just exist. You accepted every piece of me, and dealt with the scraps I could offer. And never complained.” She starts to speak, but I go on. “Those eyes find me when you walk into a room, like I’m the only person you’re looking for. You hold your head up when others would cower. You stand tall when others would fold in on themselves. Your strength is beyond amazing. And you always keep me guessing, which is my favorite part about you, as much as it is infuriating.” She laughs under her breath, and I kiss the corner of her mouth before continuing. “And you smile for me like you smile for no one else. That makes a man feel powerful. And when I’m with you, I smile like I never have before. It’s a sense of equality, a partnership even. It’s rare to find someone who matches you step for step, and you do. I love that about you. I love you.

Scribbles and blank space. That’s all I’ve got. I’ve been in New York for more than five weeks and all I’ve managed to do is watch people, jot down notes, write a few free verse poems, gain five pounds, and develop a doozy of a one-way crush on Dalton. Even at almost thirty years old, just thinking about him has my skin about to break out with stress-acne that will rival the zits I dealt with all through ninth grade—the last time I was this boy-crazy.

I’ve always been this way. Mind over matter is my way of life. I can’t change the cards I’ve been dealt, but I can change the way I approach my hand.

My life isn’t perfect, but whose is? The hand I’ve been dealt could be worse.

In this life, I've accepted the hand I've been dealt, but that don't mean I won't try and steal a few extra cards.

I’m a freak.” “No, you’re not. You’ve been dealt a shit hand in life so far, but you’re not a freak. You’re smart. You’re pretty. You’re a hard worker and you’re nice to shitty customers when they absolutely don’t deserve it. you put up with my sister which means you’re one step away from sainthood, and you have the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen. You’re not a freak. You’re awesome. And it kills me that you don’t know that.” Tears trickle down my cheeks. His words are sweet, but I can’t believe them. Because I know they’re not true. “I have a junkie mother and an uncle who can’t stand me.” Wyatt gently places his finger on my chin and lifts my face to his. “Screw them. You have me.

deciding how best to play with Bambi before taking her down. Fallyn met his gaze, refusing to feel small in his presence, though in her bare feet, she was exactly that. “Your whole family spat on my mother’s casket, but you’re bringing me flowers?” “Papa D left the family business to me, and I’m tired of burying people. Aren’t you?” “Well, yeah. I’ve been trying to make peace for years, but you never seemed up for it. Now you’re bringing me flowers?” Tired of holding onto the declaration of a truce, Vince laid the bouquet on the employee desk. “I guess I am. You’re well within your rights to open a store here. Killian and I have an understanding. I trust you’re keeping everything above board?” Fallyn raised her chin defiantly, knowing her sass made her look every bit the twelve years younger than him she was. “Our family never dealt.” His lower lip tightened. “I’m well aware. I was talking about the loan sharking. None of that going on through here?” Fallyn took a steadying breath. “Killian’s moving the family business away from sharking so he can dole out more reasonable loans, and I was never involved in any of that when we did. You know that. It’s just a bakery, nothing more.” “We stopped dealing, too. I was just checking.” “You can check with Killian. You know he’s in charge.” “Yes, but I can tell if you’re lying to me or not. With them, it’s anybody’s guess. I want things to stay peaceful. With one look, you’re an open book.” He motioned around the kitchen. “More things like this happening is what I want.” He lowered his gaze to hers, piercing her with his icy stare that was both scrutinizing and superior. “Joey told me he was here last week. Did he cause any trouble?” “No, but he probably should stay away for a bit. He showed up fishing for trouble, and Danny and Carrigan almost gave him exactly that.

But I wrote this book To focus on an overlooked part Of my perceived accomplishments. If I achieve beyond any Statistical or cultural Expectations, If I’ve managed to play the cards I’ve been dealt With some success, it’s because 1) I’ve relied on a core set of conservative Values to make it happen; 2) I was not alone on this journey. And the best thing is: I’m just getting started.