I Don't Vent Quotes

It is not that I do not get angry. I don't give vent to my anger. I cultivate the quality of patience as angerlessness, and generally speaking, I succeed. But I only control my anger when it comes. How I find it possible to control it would be a useless question, for it is a habit that everyone must cultivate and must succeed in forming by constant practice.

I don't care how happily married you are or how deeply enmeshed you are with your children and family and career -- every woman needs a couple of chicks who'll break out the sangria just because you need to vent.

Peabody, with me." She waited until they were back in her office. "Don't hover over McNab like that." "Sir?" "You hover over him, you're going to make him think you're worried." "I am worried. The twenty-four-" "Worry all you want, dump on me if you need to. But don't let him see it. He's starting to fray, and he's trying hard not to show it. You try just as hard not to show it. If you need to vent, go out there on the kitchen terrace. Scream your lungs out." "Is that what you do?" "Sometimes. Sometimes I kick inanimate objects. Sometimes I jump Roarke and have jungle sex. The last," she said after a beat, "is not an option for you." "But I think it would really make me feel better, and be a more productive member of the investigative team." "Good, humor is good. Get me coffee.

Wisdom is really the key to wealth. With great wisdom, comes great wealth and success. Rather than pursuing wealth, pursue wisdom. The aggressive pursuit of wealth can lead to disappointment. Wisdom is defined as the quality of having experience, and being able to discern or judge what is true, right, or lasting. Wisdom is basically the practical application of knowledge. Rich people have small TVs and big libraries, and poor people have small libraries and big TVs. Become completely focused on one subject and study the subject for a long period of time. Don't skip around from one subject to the next. The problem is generally not money. Jesus taught that the problem was attachment to possessions and dependence on money rather than dependence on God. Those who love people, acquire wealth so they can give generously. After all, money feeds, shelters, and clothes people. They key is to work extremely hard for a short period of time (1-5 years), create abundant wealth, and then make money work hard for you through wise investments that yield a passive income for life. Don't let the opinions of the average man sway you. Dream, and he thinks you're crazy. Succeed, and he thinks you're lucky. Acquire wealth, and he thinks you're greedy. Pay no attention. He simply doesn't understand. Failure is success if we learn from it. Continuing failure eventually leads to success. Those who dare to fail miserably can achieve greatly. Whenever you pursue a goal, it should be with complete focus. This means no interruptions. Only when one loves his career and is skilled at it can he truly succeed. Never rush into an investment without prior research and deliberation. With preferred shares, investors are guaranteed a dividend forever, while common stocks have variable dividends. Some regions with very low or no income taxes include the following: Nevada, Texas, Wyoming, Delaware, South Dakota, Cyprus, Liechtenstein, Luxembourg, Panama, San Marino, Seychelles, Isle of Man, Channel Islands, Curaçao, Bahamas, British Virgin Islands, Brunei, Monaco, Qatar, United Arab Emirates, Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, Bermuda, Kuwait, Oman, Andorra, Cayman Islands, Belize, Vanuatu, and Campione d'Italia. There is only one God who is infinite and supreme above all things. Do not replace that infinite one with finite idols. As frustrated as you may feel due to your life circumstances, do not vent it by cursing God or unnecessarily uttering his name. Greed leads to poverty. Greed inclines people to act impulsively in hopes of gaining more. The benefit of giving to the poor is so great that a beggar is actually doing the giver a favor by allowing the person to give. The more I give away, the more that comes back. Earn as much as you can. Save as much as you can. Invest as much as you can. Give as much as you can.

I want to talk. I actually want to tell someone what I feel.  I want to tell her, but I can't.  I don't do that.  I don't confide.  I don't vent.  I don't share.  I don't trust anyone, ever.

I liked it all, but most of all I liked the fact that although the play was entirely focused on Quintana there were, five evenings and two afternoons a week, these ninety full minutes, the run time of the play, during which she did not need to be dead. During which the question remained open. During which the denouement had yet to play out. During which the last scene played did not necessarily need to be played in the ICU overlooking the East River. During which the bells would not necessarily sound and the doors would not necessarily be locked at six. During which the last dialogue heard did not necessarily need to concern the vent. Like when someone dies, don't dwell on it.

Do not laugh at me for writing you without having anything sensible to say. But I am so enraged by the base manner in which the public is presently daring to concern itself with you that I absolutely must give vent to this feeling. I am impelled to tell you how much I have come to admire your intellect, your drive, and your honesty, and that I consider myself lucky to have made your personal acquaintance in Brussels. Anyone who does not number among these reptiles is certainly happy, now as before, that we have such personages among us as you, and Langevin too, real people with whom one feels privileged to be in contact. If the rabble continues to occupy itself with you, then simply don't read that hogwash, but rather leave it to the reptile for whom it has been fabricated.

Oh, the bright young people who come here, with their bright, lively imaginations. They do nothing all day long but think of ways to kill. It’s a terribly placid society, really. But, why shouldn’t it be? All its aggressions are vented from nine to five. Still, I think it does something to our minds. Imagination should be used for something other than pondering murder, don’t you think?

Listen, Wesley, this may sound weird coming from me, since I hate you and all, but you can tell me stuff if you want.” It sounded like something out of a cheesy G-rated movie. Great. “I mean, I vented all of my shit about Jake to you, so if you want to do the same,… well, I’m cool with that.” The smirk slipped for a second. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Then he cleared his throat and added stiffly, “Didn’t you say that you needed to go home? You don’t want to be late for school.” “Right.” I started to stand, but his warm hand closed around my wrist. I turned around and found him looking at me. He leaned forward and pressed his lips against mine. Before I even realized what was happening, he pulled away and whispered, “Thank you, Bianca.

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

This one is bigger than the other by at least a quarter,” he said. “That’s perspective,” Will replied stubbornly. “The left one is closer, so it looks bigger.” “If it’s perspective, and it’s that much bigger, your handcart would have to be about five meters wide,” Horace told him. “Is that what you’re planning?” Again, Will studied the drawing critically. “No. I thought maybe two meters. And three meters long.” He quickly sketched in a smaller version of the left wheel, scrubbing over the first attempt as he did so. “Is that better?” “Could be rounder,” Horace said. “You’d never get a wheel that shape to roll. It’s sort of pointy at one end.” Will’s temper flared as he decided his friend was simply being obtuse for the sake of it. He slammed the charcoal down on the table. “Well, you try drawing a perfect circle freehand!” he said angrily. “See how well you do! This is a concept drawing, that’s all. It doesn’t have to be perfect!” Malcolm chose that moment to enter the room. He had been outside, checking on MacHaddish, making sure the general was still securely fastened to the massive log that held him prisoner. He glanced now at the sketch as he passed by the table. “What’s that?” he asked. “It’s a walking cart,” Horace told him. “You get under it, so the spears won’t hit you, and go for a walk.” Will glared at Horace and decided to ignore him. He turned his attention to Malcolm. “Do you think some of your people could build me something like this?” he asked. The healer frowned thoughtfully. “Might be tricky,” he said. “We’ve got a few cart wheels, but they’re all the same size. Did you want this one so much bigger than the other?” Now Will switched his glare to Malcolm. Horace put a hand up to his face to cover the grin that was breaking out there. “It’s perspective. Good artists draw using perspective,” Will said, enunciating very clearly. “Oh. Is it? Well, if you say so.” Malcolm studied the sketch for a few more seconds. “And did you want them this squashed-up shape? Our wheels tend to be sort of round. I don’t think these ones would roll too easily, if at all.” Truth be told, Malcolm had been listening outside the house for several minutes and knew what the two friends had been discussing. Horace gave vent to a huge, indelicate snort that set his nose running. His shoulders were shaking, and Malcolm couldn’t maintain his own straight face any longer. He joined in, and the two of them laughed uncontrollably. Will eyed them coldly. “Oh, yes. Extremely amusing,” he said.

I’m glad of it, that’s one of your foolish extravagances, sending flowers and things to girls for whom you don’t care two pins,” continued Jo reprovingly. “Sensible girls for whom I do care whole papers of pins won’t let me send them ‘flowers and things’, so what can I do? My feelings need a ‘vent’.

I have learned,” Douglas explained, “first through my wife’s illness and then especially through the accident, not to confuse God with life. I’m no stoic. I am as upset about what happened to me as anyone could be. I feel free to curse the unfairness of life and to vent all my grief and anger. But I believe God feels the same way about the accident as I do—grieved and angry. I don’t blame Him for what happened… . We tend to think, ‘Life should be fair because God is fair.’ But God is not life. And if I confuse God with the physical reality of life—by expecting constant good health, for example—then I set myself up for a crashing disappointment.”3

Whenever I’m sad, I often vent out to strangers on the internet. I believe if you drain out one stranger, you’ll find another one. I don’t hesitate in reaching out to people for venting. Why not give up trying to be entirely independent of other people? Why not depend on other people for everything? Why not allow other people to depend on you?

What’s weird is that she looks like she’s in a windstorm all of a sudden. Her hair’s blowing and her dress is slightly billowing. I check under the table to see if there’s a vent or something, but there isn’t. See? Other mothers don’t have their own private weather. She’s smiling at us so warmly, like we’re puppies, and something catches in my chest.

On the TV screen in Harry's is The Patty Winters Show, which is now on in the afternoon and is up against Geraldo Rivera, Phil Donahue and Oprah Winfrey. Today's topic is Does Economic Success Equal Happiness? The answer, in Harry's this afternoon, is a roar of resounding "Definitely," followed by much hooting, the guys all cheering together in a friendly way. On the screen now are scenes from President Bush's inauguration early this year, then a speech from former President Reagan, while Patty delivers a hard-to-hear commentary. Soon a tiresome debate forms over whether he's lying or not, even though we don't, can't, hear the words. The first and really only one to complain is Price, who, though I think he's bothered by something else, uses this opportunity to vent his frustration, looks inappropriately stunned, asks, "How can he lie like that? How can he pull that shit?" "Oh Christ," I moan. "What shit? Now where do we have reservations at? I mean I'm not really hungry but I would like to have reservations somewhere. How about 220?" An afterthought: "McDermott, how did that rate in the new Zagat's?" "No way," Farrell complains before Craig can answer. "The coke I scored there last time was cut with so much laxative I actually had to take a shit in M.K." "Yeah, yeah, life sucks and then you die." "Low point of the night," Farrell mutters. "Weren't you with Kyria the last time you were there?" Goodrich asks. "Wasn't that the low point?" "She caught me on call waiting. What could I do?" Farrell shrugs. "I apologize." "Caught him on call waiting." McDermott nudges me, dubious. "Shut up, McDermott," Farrell says, snapping Craig's suspenders. "Date a beggar." "You forgot something, Farrell," Preston mentions. "McDermott is a beggar." "How's Courtney?" Farrell asks Craig, leering. "Just say no." Someone laughs. Price looks away from the television screen, then at Craig, and he tries to hide his displeasure by asking me, waving at the TV, "I don't believe it. He looks so... normal. He seems so... out of it. So... un dangerous." "Bimbo, bimbo," someone says. "Bypass, bypass." "He is totally harmless, you geek. Was totally harmless. Just like you are totally harmless. But he did do all that shit and you have failed to get us into 150, so, you know, what can I say?" McDermott shrugs. "I just don't get how someone, anyone, can appear that way yet be involved in such total shit," Price says, ignoring Craig, averting his eyes from Farrell. He takes out a cigar and studies it sadly. To me it still looks like there's a smudge on Price's forehead. "Because Nancy was right behind him?" Farrell guesses, looking up from the Quotrek. "Because Nancy did it?" "How can you be so fucking, I don't know, cool about it?" Price, to whom something really eerie has obviously happened, sounds genuinely perplexed. Rumor has it that he was in rehab.

(Don’t look at me funny. That’s exactly what the old stories called him: a lame ass-driver. The dude was lame, like crippled. He was leading an ass, like a donkey. What did you think I meant?) Anyway, Psyche thought it was weird to see a crippled dude in a volcanic vent, just hanging out with his ass. (I’m not going to laugh. Nope. Not even a little.) The guy called out to her, “Hello, there, girl! You look kind and helpful. My ass has dropped some of its load…by which, of course, I mean that my donkey has dropped some of the firewood it was carrying. Could you help me gather up these sticks and put them back on my ass?” I guess Aphrodite was testing Psyche to see if she would get distracted by helping the dude. Either that or she was trying to make Psyche laugh so hard she would fall into the chasm.

Pompeo and his explosive temper. Pompeo would curse and yell even at early-morning staff meetings with his top advisers. He often vented about leaks. Women were a particular target, especially Lisa Kenna, the career diplomat who served as his executive secretary. His tirades at her, described by three senior officials who observed them directly, were blistering. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen such sustained abuse in my life,” one senior official said about Pompeo’s treatment of Kenna.

I have spent these last two days in concentrated introspection," said Cutie, "and the results have been most interesting. I began at the one sure assumption I felt permitted to make.I, myself, exist, because I think-" Powell groaned, "Oh, Jupiter, a robot Descartes!" "Who's Descartes?" demanded Donovan. "Listen, do we have to sit here and listen to this metal maniac-" "Keep quiet, Mike!" Cutie continued imperturbably, "And the question that immediately arose was: Just what is the cause of my existence?" Powell's jaw set lumpily. "You're being foolish. I told you already that we made you." "And if you don't believe us," added Donovan, "we'll gladly take you apart!" The robot spread his strong hands in a deprecatory gesture, "I accept nothing on authority. A hypothesis must be backed by reason, or else it is worthless - and it goes against all the dictates of logic to suppose that you made me." Powell dropped a restraining arm upon Donovan's suddenly unched fist. "Just why do you say that?" Cutie laughed. It was a very inhuman laugh - the most machine-like utterance he had yet given vent to. It was sharp and explosive, as regular as a metronome and as uninflected. "Look at you," he said finally. "I say this in no spirit of contempt, but look at you! The material you are made of is soft and flabby, lacking endurance and strength, depending for energy upon the inefficient oxidation of organic material - like that." He pointed a disapproving finger at what remained of Donovan's sandwich. "Periodically you pass into a coma and the least variation in temperature, air ressure, humidity, or radiation intensity impairs your efficiency. You are _makeshift_. "I, on the other hand, am a finished product. I absorb electrical energy directly and utilize it with an almost one hundred percent efficiency. I am composed of strong metal, am continuously conscious, and can stand extremes of environment easily. These are facts which, with the self-evident proposition that no being can create another being superior to itself, smashes your silly hypothesis to nothing.

Then I had to invent fire. NASA put a lot of effort into making sure nothing here can burn. Everything is made of metal or flame-retardant plastic and the uniforms are synthetic. I needed something that could hold a flame, some kind of pilot light. I don’t have the skills to keep enough H2 flowing to feed a flame without killing myself. Too narrow a margin there. After a search of everyone’s personal items (hey, if they wanted privacy, they shouldn’t have abandoned me on Mars with their stuff) I found my answer. Martinez is a devout Catholic. I knew that. What I didn’t know was he brought along a small wooden cross. I’m sure NASA gave him shit about it, but I also know Martinez is one stubborn son of a bitch. I chipped his sacred religious item into long splinters using a pair of pliers and a screwdriver. I figure if there’s a God, He won’t mind, considering the situation I’m in. If ruining the only religious icon I have leaves me vulnerable to Martian vampires, I’ll have to risk it. There were plenty of wires and batteries around to make a spark. But you can’t just ignite wood with a small electric spark. So I collected ribbons of bark from local palm trees, then got a couple of sticks and rubbed them together to create enough friction to… No not really. I vented pure oxygen at the stick and gave it a spark. It lit up like a match.

1. Choose to love each other even in those moments when you struggle to like each other. Love is a commitment, not a feeling. 2. Always answer the phone when your husband/wife is calling and, when possible, try to keep your phone off when you’re together with your spouse. 3. Make time together a priority. Budget for a consistent date night. Time is the currency of relationships, so consistently invest time in your marriage. 4. Surround yourself with friends who will strengthen your marriage, and remove yourself from people who may tempt you to compromise your character. 5. Make laughter the soundtrack of your marriage. Share moments of joy, and even in the hard times find reasons to laugh. 6. In every argument, remember that there won’t be a winner and a loser. You are partners in everything, so you’ll either win together or lose together. Work together to find a solution. 7. Remember that a strong marriage rarely has two strong people at the same time. It’s usually a husband and wife taking turns being strong for each other in the moments when the other feels weak. 8. Prioritize what happens in the bedroom. It takes more than sex to build a strong marriage, but it’s nearly impossible to build a strong marriage without it. 9. Remember that marriage isn’t 50–50; divorce is 50–50. Marriage has to be 100–100. It’s not splitting everything in half but both partners giving everything they’ve got. 10. Give your best to each other, not your leftovers after you’ve given your best to everyone else. 11. Learn from other people, but don’t feel the need to compare your life or your marriage to anyone else’s. God’s plan for your life is masterfully unique. 12. Don’t put your marriage on hold while you’re raising your kids, or else you’ll end up with an empty nest and an empty marriage. 13. Never keep secrets from each other. Secrecy is the enemy of intimacy. 14. Never lie to each other. Lies break trust, and trust is the foundation of a strong marriage. 15. When you’ve made a mistake, admit it and humbly seek forgiveness. You should be quick to say, “I was wrong. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.” 16. When your husband/wife breaks your trust, give them your forgiveness instantly, which will promote healing and create the opportunity for trust to be rebuilt. You should be quick to say, “I love you. I forgive you. Let’s move forward.” 17. Be patient with each other. Your spouse is always more important than your schedule. 18. Model the kind of marriage that will make your sons want to grow up to be good husbands and your daughters want to grow up to be good wives. 19. Be your spouse’s biggest encourager, not his/her biggest critic. Be the one who wipes away your spouse’s tears, not the one who causes them. 20. Never talk badly about your spouse to other people or vent about them online. Protect your spouse at all times and in all places. 21. Always wear your wedding ring. It will remind you that you’re always connected to your spouse, and it will remind the rest of the world that you’re off limits. 22. Connect with a community of faith. A good church can make a world of difference in your marriage and family. 23. Pray together. Every marriage is stronger with God in the middle of it. 24. When you have to choose between saying nothing or saying something mean to your spouse, say nothing every time. 25. Never consider divorce as an option. Remember that a perfect marriage is just two imperfect people who refuse to give up on each other. FINAL

Third, ask for a temporary agreement to engage in truthseeking. If someone is off-loading emotion to us, we can ask them if they are just looking to vent or if they are looking for advice. If they aren’t looking for advice, that’s fine. The rules of engagement have been made clear. Sometimes, people just want to vent. I certainly do. It’s in our nature. We want to be supportive of the people around us, and that includes comforting them when they just need some understanding and sympathy. But sometimes they’ll say they are looking for advice, and that is potentially an agreement to opt in to some truthseeking. (Even then, tread lightly because people may say they want advice when what they really want is to be affirmed.)

Andreevich. “Don’t be angry with me, Misha. It’s stuffy in here, and hot outside. I don’t have enough air.” “You can see the vent window on the floor is open. Forgive us for smoking. We always forget that we shouldn’t smoke in your presence. Is it my fault that it’s arranged so stupidly here? Find me another room.” “Well, so I’m leaving, Gordosha. We’ve talked enough. I thank you for caring about me, dear comrades. It’s not a whimsy on my part. It’s an illness, sclerosis of the heart’s blood vessels. The walls of the heart muscle wear out, get thin, and one fine day can tear, burst. And I’m not forty yet. I’m not a drunkard, not a profligate.” “It’s too early to be singing at your funeral. Nonsense. You’ll live a long while yet.” “In our time the frequency of microscopic forms of cardiac hemorrhages has increased greatly. Not all of them are fatal. In some cases people survive. It’s the disease of our time. I think its causes are of a moral order. A constant, systematic dissembling is required of the vast majority of us. It’s impossible, without its affecting your health, to show yourself day after day contrary to what you feel, to lay yourself out for what you don’t love, to rejoice over what brings you misfortune. Our nervous system is not an empty sound, not a fiction. It’s a physical body made up of fibers. Our soul takes up room in space and sits inside us like the teeth in our mouth. It cannot be endlessly violated with impunity.

Berrigan gave vent to a meaningful cough, which seemed to conceal the word rubbish inside it. Pritchard looked up at him with a smile. “Oh, and of course, I received a pigeon mail from Berrigan a week or so ago, telling me what you’re up to.” Halt and Crowley both swung round to look at the occasional jongleur. He shrugged. “Didn’t I tell you we keep in touch from time to time?” he asked, indicating Pritchard with a nod of his head. “No. Egon said he did. But I don’t recall your mentioning it,” Crowley replied. Berrigan thought for a second or two, then said, “Pritchard and I keep in touch from time to time.” “Highly amusing,” Crowley said, giving Berrigan a withering look. Berrigan managed to survive without being too withered.

Peter and I are warm and cozy in his car. Heat billows out the vents. I ask him, “Did you tell your mom about how we broke up?” “No. Because we never broke up,” he says, turning the heat down. “We didn’t?” He laughs. “No, because we were never really together, remember?” Are we together now? is what I’m wondering, but I don’t ask, because he puts his arm around me and tilts my head up to his, and I’m nervous again. “Don’t be nervous,” he says. I give him a quick kiss to prove I’m not. “Kiss me like you missed me,” he says, and his voice goes husky. “I did,” I say. “My letter told you I did.” “Yeah, but--” I kiss him before he can finish. Properly. Like I mean it. He kisses back like he means it too. Like it’s been four hundred years. And then I’m not thinking anymore and I’m just lost in the kissing.

Watney, how you doing?" Lewis's voice said in his ear. "Fine so far, Commander," Watney replied. "You mentioned a plan?" "Affirmative," she said. "We're going to vent atmosphere to get thrust." "How?" "We're going to blow a hole in the VAL." "What!?" Watney said. "How!?" "Vogel's making a bomb." "I knew that guy was a mad scientist!" Watney said. "I think we should just go with my Iron Man idea." "That's too risky, and you know it," she replied. "Thing is," Watney said, "I'm selfish. I want the memorials back home to be just for me. I don't want the rest of you losers in them. I can't let you guys blow the VAL." "Oh," Lewis said, "well if you won't let us then - Wait... wait a minute... I'm looking at my shoulder patch and it turns out I'm the commander. Sit tight. We're coming to get you." "Smart ass.

Three kids against five robotic school helpers. Well, four kids. Beck was still in the air vent under locker G42. His Tenderfoot Shell waited patiently, standing in place at the middle of the dead-end corridor in the girls’ locker room. One of the five SPUDs that had us cornered leapt through the air at Bloom. The world around me came to a standstill, like someone had paused a game. I saw Bloom. I saw the SPUD jumping toward her. I saw Lexi, huddled up and afraid. I don’t know what happened to me in that split-second, but I reacted before I even had time to think about it. Balling a tight fist, I threw my hand into the air in front of the SPUD that was going for Bloom. My right forearm scraped against the small robot’s face, and then my elbow shot forward, landing a blow right on the SPUD’s body, sending his arms and legs flying in all directions.

Above all there's a lack of personal discipline, manners, decorum, natural discretion. If everyone causes their own individual catastrophes, how can there fail to be more general catastrophes? After all, the passengers on a bus or streetcar make up a community of a kind. But they don't see it that way, not even in a moment of danger. As they see it they are bound always to be the other's enemy: for political, social, all sorts of reasons. Where so much hate has been bottled up, it is vented on inanimate things, and provokes the celebrated perversity of inanimate things. Sending experts into other countries won't help much, so long as each individual refuses to work out his own personal traffic plan. There is a wisdom in the accident of language by which there is a single word, "traffic," for movement in the streets, and for people's dealings with one another.

Mysterious My paper shines White, like snow, but the paper looks empty. I could decorate it with tiny spiders or stars or sketches of me looking at a blank page, but the clock ticks, and somehow I must write. I like the sight of untouched snow. Gentle, slow, silent, it drifts and swirls, layers itself, and I see a new world of mysterious, inviting shapes. I walk in its white whispers, susurrus. I drift back to this paper that feels hard on the disk, and I begin to listen- to the story I tell myself. The paper is a white, patient place, my private space for remembering, saving: spring sun on my face venting and inventing, arguing with my mother, wondering: who am I, wandering through cobwebs of old dreams, crying, sighing at people who don't see me, hoping to write music so blue listeners forget to breathe, playing the sounds, jamming with myself, changing ....into the me I can't quite see.

You should have just left me there.” He pulls out of the cemetery and onto the road. “Don’t be so dramatic. Besides I told you I would never leave you. Just like you never left me.” “I think you’ve repaid that debt, Jackson Gray.” He shakes his head. “So quickly you forget our pact.” I put my foot on his dash and hold my hands in front of the vents. I still can’t believe he’s still rescuing me, years later. “Who could forget that. You were cowering on the floor of the library.” “I wasn’t cowering.” “Okay. You were leaning down to get a book when large bullies materialized in front of you.” I glance at him. “Is that better?” He rolls his eyes. “No one’s ever done something like that for me before. Even though I’d never admit a girl fought one of my battles.” I adjust the seat belt so it’s tighter. “Get over it, Jackson Gray. I did what anyone would do.” “No one else would have stuck up for the new kid.” He shrugs. “Is that the type of person you’d leave freezing in a cemetery?” “You mean, you’d leave other people freezing in a cemetery?” He sighs and nudges me in the shoulder. “Just shut up.

What are you doing abovedecks, anyhow?” “The cry went up for all hands.” “You’re not a hand. You’re a passenger.” “I may not be a hand, but I’ve got two perfectly good hands, and if I sit on them a second longer, I’ll go mad.” Joss stared at Gray’s open collar, where his cravat should have been knotted. “She’s really getting to you, isn’t she?” “You have no idea,” Gray muttered. “Oh, I think I do.” Gray ignored his brother’s smug tone. “Damn it, Joss, just put me to work. Send me up to furl a sail, put me down in the hold to pump the bilge…I don’t care, just give me something to do.” Joss raised his eyebrows. “If you insist.” He lifted the spyglass to his eye and began scanning the horizon again. “Batten the hatches, then.” Gray tossed a word of thanks over his shoulder as he descended to the quarterdeck and went to work, dragging the tarpaulins over the skylights and securing them with battens. As he labored, the ship’s motions grew more violent, hampering his efforts. He saved the vent above the ladies’ cabin for last, resisting the urge to peer down through the grate. Instead, he first secured one end, then blanketed the entire skylight with one strong snap on the canvas. “Ahoy! Ahoy!” Wiggins leaned forward over the prow, hailing the approaching ship, its puffed scudding sails a stark contrast against the darkening sky. Gray moved to cover the companion stairs, reaching inside the gaping black hole and groping for the handle to draw the hatch closed. Something-or someone-groped him back.

THE INSTRUCTION OF PTAHHOTEP Part II If you are one among guests At the table of one greater than you, Take what he gives as it is set before you; Look at what is before you, Don’t shoot many glances at him, Molesting him offends the ka. Don’t speak to him until he summons, One does not know what may displease; Speak when he has addressed you, Then your words will please the heart. The nobleman, when he is behind food, Behaves as his ka commands him; He will give to him whom he favors, It is the custom when night has come. It is the ka that makes his hands reach out, The great man gives to the chosen man; Thus eating is under the counsel of god, A fool is who complains of it. If you are a man of trust, Sent by one great man to another, Adhere to the nature of him who sent you. Give his message as he said it. Guard against reviling speech, Which embroils one great with another; Keep to the truth, don't exceed it, But an outburst should not be repeated. Do not malign anyone, Great or small, the ka abhors it. If you plow and there’s growth in the field, And god lets it prosper in your hand, Do not boast at your neighbors’ side, One has great respect for the silent man: Man of character is man of wealth. If he robs he is like a crocodile in court. Don’t impose on one who is childless, Neither decry nor boast of it; There is many a father who has grief, And a mother of children less content than another; It is the lonely whom god fosters, While the family man prays for a follower. If you are poor, serve a man of worth, That all your conduct may be well with the god. Do not recall if he once was poor, Don’t be arrogant toward him For knowing his former state; Respect him for what has accrued to him. For wealth does not come by itself. It is their law for him whom they love, His gain, he gathered it himself ; It is the god who makes him worthy And protects him while he sleeps. Follow your heart as long as you live, Do no more than is required, Do not shorten the time of “follow-the-heart,” Trimming its moment offends the ka Don’t waste time on daily cares Beyond providing for your household; When wealth has come, follow your heart, Wealth does no good if one is glum! If you are a man of worth And produce a son by the grace of god, If he is straight, takes after you, Takes good care of your possessions. Do for him all that is good, He is your son, your ka begot him, Don’t withdraw your heart from him. But an offspring can make trouble: If he strays, neglects your counsel, Disobeys all that is said, His mouth spouting evil speech, Punish him for all his talk They hate him who crosses you, His guilt was fated in the womb; He whom they guide can not go wrong, Whom they make boatless can not cross. If you are in the antechamber, Stand and sit as fits your rank Which was assigned you the first day. Do not trespass — you will be turned back, Keen is the face to him who enters announced, Spacious the seat of him who has been called. The antechamber has a rule, All behavior is by measure; It is the god who gives advancement, He who uses elbows is not helped. If you are among the people, Gain supporters through being trusted The trusted man who does not vent his belly’s speech, He will himself become a leader, A man of means — what is he like ? Your name is good, you are not maligned, Your body is sleek, your face benign, One praises you without your knowing. He whose heart obeys his belly Puts contempt of himself in place of love, His heart is bald, his body unanointed; The great-hearted is god-given, He who obeys his belly belongs to the enemy.

Roll call. What’s this week’s all scatter word?” “Lowdown,” said Camilla. “And the all clear?” “Deadweight,” said Nona. “Perfect. What are your stations if that thing in the sky even looks like it’s about to start periscoping?” “The underground tunnels by the fish market,” said Camilla. “The big underpass bridge dugout,” said Nona. “Ten points to you both. And what do you do once you’re there?” “Hide until you come,” said Nona, and then added, truthfully: “And rescue any nearby animals so long as they don’t exceed the size of a box, and are wooly rather than hairy.” “Half points. No animals, hairy or wooly, I don’t care. Cam?” Camilla had finished with her hat, and now she was easing the big dark glasses onto her face— the ones she kept specially, despite the fact that they were a little unbalanced on her nose and her ears. They made both Palamedes and Camilla look chilly and clinical, but as Palamedes said, they solved the problem of the ghost limb. Without them he was everlastingly pushing something up his nose that wasn’t there. And Nona thought Camilla privately rather liked them. She settled them on, considered the question, and said: “Fight.” “No points. Camilla if you engage with a Herald, you’re not coming home.” “That’s your theory,” said Camilla. “There’s data behind it. Hect—” “If Camilla gets to fight, I should get to keep adjacent dogs,” said Nona decidedly. “Even if they’re hairy.” Pyrrha turned her eyes up to the ceiling in mute appeal. Her exhalation rasped loudly against the vent in her mask. “I used to run the whole Bureau,” she said, and now she didn’t sound like she was addressing either of them. “Now I’m up against wannabe heroes and hairy dogs. This is the punishment she would’ve wanted for me. God, she must be pissing herself laughing… let’s go kids. Like hell am I walking in this heat.

By explaining the precise power that held groups together Freud could also show why groups did not fear danger. The members do not feel that they are alone with their own smallness and helplessness, as they have the powers of the hero-leader with whom they are identified. Natural narcissism-the feeling that the person next to you will die, but not you-is reinforced by trusting dependence on the leader's power. No wonder that hundreds of thousands of men marched up from trenches in the face of blistering gunfire in World War I. They were partially self-hypnotised, so to speak. No wonder men imagine victories against impossible odds: don't they have the omnipotent powers of the parental figure? Why are groups so blind and stupid?-men have always asked. Because they demand illusions, answered Freud, they "constantly give what is unreal precedence over what is real." And we know why. The real world is simply too terrible to admit; it tells man that he is a small, trembling animal who will decay and die. illusion changes all this, makes man seem important, vital to the universe, immortal in some way. Who transmits this illusion, if not the parents by imparting the macro-lie of the cultural causa-sui? The masses look to the leaders to give them just the untruth that they need; the leader continues the illusions that triumph over the castration complex and magnifies them into a truly heroic victory. Furthermore, he makes possible a new experience, the expression of forbidden impulses, secret wishes, and fantasies. In group behavior anything goes because the leader okays it. It is like being an omnipotent infant again, encouraged by the parent to indulge oneself plentifully, or like being in psychoanalytic therapy where the analyst doesn't censure you for anything you feel or think. In the group each man seems an omnipotent hero who can give full vent to his appetites under the approving eye of the father. And so we understand the terrifying sadism of group activity.

THE INSTRUCTION OF PTAHHOTEP Instruction of the Mayor of the city, the Vizier Ptahhotep, under the Majesty of King Isesi, who lives for all eternity. The mayor of the city, the vizier Ptahhotep, said: O king, my lord! Age is here, old age arrived. Feebleness came, weakness grows, Childtike one sleeps all day. Eyes are dim, ears deaf. Strength is waning through weariness, The mouth, silenced, speaks not, The heart, void, recalls not the past, The bones ache throughout. Good has become evil, all taste is gone, What age does to people is evil in everything. The nose, clogged, breathes not, Painful are standing and sitting. May this servant be ordered to make a staff of old age, So as to teil him the words of those who heard, The ways of the ancestors, Who have listened to the gods. May such be done for you. So that strife may be banned from the people, And the Two Shores may serve you! Said the majesty of this god: Instruct him then in the sayings of the past, May he become a model for the children of the great, May obedience enter him, And the devotion of him who speaks to him, No one is born wise. Beginning of the formulations of excellent discourse spoken by the Prince, Count, God's Father, God's beloved, Eldest Son of the King, of his body, Mayor of the city and Vizier, Ptahhotep, in instructing the ignorant in knowledge and in the standard of excellent discourse, as profit for him who will hear, as woe to him who would neglect them. He spoke to his son: Don’t be proud of your knowledge. Consult the ignorant and the wise; The limits of art are not reached, No artist’s skills are perfect; Good speech is more hidden than greenstone, Yet may be found among maids at the grindstones. If you meet a disputant in action, A powerful man, superior to you. Fold your arms, bend your back, To flout him will not make him agree with you. Make little of the evil speech By not opposing him while he's in action; He will be called an ignoramus, Your self-control will match his pile (of words). If you meet a disputant in action Who is your equal, on your level, You will make your worth exceed his by silence, While he is speaking evilly, There will be much talk by the hearers. Your name will be good in the mind of the magistrates. If you meet a disputant in action, A poor man, not your equal. Do not attack him because he is weak, Let him alone, he will confute himself. Do not answer him to relieve your heart, Do not vent yourself against your opponent, Wretched is he who injures a poor man, One will wish to do what you desire. You will beat him through the magistrates’ reproof. If you are a man who leads, Who controls the affairs of the many, Seek out every beneficent deed, That your conduct may be blameless. Great is justice, lasting in effect, Unchallenged since the time of Osiris. One punishes the transgressor of laws, Though the greedy overlooks this; Baseness may seize riches, Yet crime never lands its wares; In the end it is justice that lasts, Man says: “It is my father's ground.” Do not scheme against people, God punishes accordingly: If a man says: “I shall live by it,” He will lack bread for his mouth. If a man says: “I shall be rich' He will have to say: “My cleverness has snared me.” If he says: “I will snare for myself,” He will be unable to say: “I snared for my profit.” If a man says: "I will rob someone,” He will end being given to a stranger. People’s schemes do not prevail, God’s command is what prevails; Live then in the midst of peace, What they give comes by itself.

Dear Jon, A real Dear Jon let­ter, how per­fect is that?! Who knew you’d get dumped twice in the same amount of months. See, I’m one para­graph in and I’ve al­ready fucked this. I’m writ­ing this be­cause I can’t say any of this to you face-to-face. I’ve spent the last few months ques­tion­ing a lot of my friend­ships and won­der­ing what their pur­pose is, if not to work through big emo­tional things to­gether. But I now re­al­ize: I don’t want that. And I know you’ve all been there for me in other ways. Maybe not in the lit­eral sense, but I know you all would have done any­thing to fix me other than lis­ten­ing to me talk and al­low­ing me to be sad with­out so­lu­tions. And now I am writ­ing this let­ter rather than pick­ing up the phone and talk­ing to you be­cause, de­spite every thing I know, I just don’t want to, and I don’t think you want me to ei­ther. I lost my mind when Jen broke up with me. I’m pretty sure it’s been the sub­ject of a few of your What­sApp con­ver­sa­tions and more power to you, be­cause I would need to vent about me if I’d been friends with me for the last six months. I don’t want it to have been in vain, and I wanted to tell you what I’ve learnt. If you do a high-fat, high-pro­tein, low-carb diet and join a gym, it will be a good dis­trac­tion for a while and you will lose fat and gain mus­cle, but you will run out of steam and eat nor­mally again and put all the weight back on. So maybe don’t bother. Drunk­en­ness is an­other idea. I was in black­out for most of the first two months and I think that’s fine, it got me through the evenings (and the oc­ca­sional af­ter­noon). You’ll have to do a lot of it on your own, though, be­cause no one is free to meet up any more. I think that’s fine for a bit. It was for me un­til some­one walked past me drink­ing from a whisky minia­ture while I waited for a night bus, put five quid in my hand and told me to keep warm. You’re the only per­son I’ve ever told this story. None of your mates will be ex­cited that you’re sin­gle again. I’m prob­a­bly your only sin­gle mate and even I’m not that ex­cited. Gen­er­ally the ex­pe­ri­ence of be­ing sin­gle at thirty-five will feel dif­fer­ent to any other time you’ve been sin­gle and that’s no bad thing. When your ex moves on, you might be­come ob­sessed with the bloke in a way that is al­most sex­ual. Don’t worry, you don’t want to fuck him, even though it will feel a bit like you do some­times. If you open up to me or one of the other boys, it will feel good in the mo­ment and then you’ll get an emo­tional hang­over the next day. You’ll wish you could take it all back. You may even feel like we’ve en­joyed see­ing you so low. Or that we feel smug be­cause we’re win­ning at some­thing and you’re los­ing. Re­member that none of us feel that. You may be­come ob­sessed with work­ing out why ex­actly she broke up with you and you are likely to go fully, fully nuts in your bid to find a sat­is­fy­ing an­swer. I can save you a lot of time by let­ting you know that you may well never work it out. And even if you did work it out, what’s the pur­pose of it? Soon enough, some girl is go­ing to be crazy about you for some un­de­fin­able rea­son and you’re not go­ing to be in­ter­ested in her for some un­de­fin­able rea­son. It’s all so ran­dom and un­fair – the peo­ple we want to be with don’t want to be with us and the peo­ple who want to be with us are not the peo­ple we want to be with. Re­ally, the thing that’s go­ing to hurt a lot is the fact that some­one doesn’t want to be with you any more. Feel­ing the ab­sence of some­one’s com­pany and the ab­sence of their love are two dif­fer­ent things. I wish I’d known that ear­lier. I wish I’d known that it isn’t any­body’s job to stay in a re­la­tion­ship they don’t want to be in just so some­one else doesn’t feel bad about them­selves. Any­way. That’s all. You’re go­ing to be okay, mate. Andy

Grilled Chicken Wings with Burnt-Scallion Barbeque Sauce ____________ Makes 12 pieces I am borderline obsessed with chicken wings. It’s the perfect food after a long work shift or on a chill day with your friends, crushin’ cheap American beers in the backyard. It’s food that allows you to let your guard down. After all, you’re eating food cooked on the bone with your hands and licking the sauce from your fingers in between chugs of ice-cold beer. Pure heaven. Note that the wings must be brined overnight. Brine 8 cups water ¼ cup kosher salt 1 tablespoon sorghum (see Resources) Wings 6 chicken wings, cut into tips and drumettes 3 tablespoons green peanut oil (see Resources) 1 tablespoon Husk BBQ Rub ¾ cup thinly sliced scallions (white and green in equal parts) ½ cup dry-roasted peanuts, preferably Virginia peanuts, chopped Sauce 10 scallions, trimmed 1 tablespoon peanut oil Kosher salt 1 cup Husk BBQ Sauce 1 tablespoon Bourbon Barrel Foods Bluegrass Soy Sauce (see Resources) 1 cup cilantro leaves Equipment 1 pound hickory chips Charcoal chimney starter 3 pounds hardwood charcoal Kettle grill For the brine: Combine the ingredients for the brine. I brine the wings using either a heavy-duty plastic bag that the wing tips can’t puncture or a Cryovac machine (you use a lot less brine this way). Place the wings in the brine and turn to cover well. Refrigerate overnight. Soak the wood chips in water for a minimum of 30 minutes but preferably overnight. For the sauce: Toss the scallions in the peanut oil and season with salt. Lay them out on the grill rack and heavily char them on one side, about 8 minutes (the charred side should be black). Remove them from the grill and cool for about 5 minutes. Clean the grill rack if necessary. Put the scallions and the remaining sauce ingredients in a blender and process until smooth, about 3 minutes. Set aside at room temperature. For the wings: Fill a chimney starter with 3 pounds hardwood charcoal, ignite the charcoal, and allow to burn until the coals are evenly lit and glowing. Distribute the coals in an even layer in the bottom of a kettle grill. Place the grill rack as close to the coals as possible. Drain the wings; discard the brine. Dry the wings with paper towels, toss in the peanut oil, and season with the BBQ rub. Place the wings in a single layer on the grill rack over the hot coals and grill until they don’t stick to the rack anymore, about 5 minutes. Turn the wings over and grill for 8 minutes more. Transfer the wings to a baking sheet. Drain the wood chips. Lift the rack from the grill and push the coals to one side. Place the wood chips on the coals and replace the rack. After about 2 minutes, place the wings in a single layer over the side of the grill where there are no coals. Place the lid on the grill, with the lid’s vents slightly open; the vents on the bottom of the grill should stay closed. Smoke the wings for 10 minutes. It’s important to monitor the airflow of the grill: keeping the lid’s vents slightly open allows a nice steady flow of subtle smoke. Remove the wings from the grill, toss them in the sauce, and place them on a platter or in a serving pan. Top with the chopped scallions and peanuts and serve.

My mother is dead.” “As is my wife.” I snorted. “She was no wife to you. She was a ploy.” “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice was taking on that placid calm that could only mean one thing, one painfully dangerous thing. I could not even begin to care. I pressed on. “Everyone knows what I’m talking about.” “You’ll do well to keep quiet.” “I’ve never been good at that.” “Truer words have never crossed your lips.” I rested my head against the polished wood of the carriage window frame. “Is it true that your father bought her for you?” “Your mother was happy to marry me.” “Then she must not have known you.” “She did not.” I nodded slowly. “You’re a handsome man, father, no one can deny that.” I turned my head slightly to look at him. “I have so much of you in me, don’t I? My green eyes, my golden hair, the proud face. But I thank the Saints I got her heart.” He looked at me hard, but he was utterly at ease. It infuriated me. “That’s quite enough. I believe you’ve purged it from your system now.” “Purged what exactly?” I snapped. “Your sorrow. You can take it out on me all you like, Annabel Lee. Just so long as you don’t vent it at the wrong people.” I sneered. “The Prince, you mean?” “He or the King. Be awful as you like right now, but when we’re in their company I want dry eyes and a closed mouth. Is that understood?” I glared at him, painting my hate plainly on my face as though it were rouge.

What's wrong?" "What makes you think something's wrong?" "Oh, I don't know. Maybe that you're frowning so hard that you're going to get wrinkles if you don't stop." Leaning closer, Zane reached out and ran one finger between her brows. There he went again, confusing her with his little touches. "Remember that summer you were a junior in college?" "I guess." "You were dating one of the waitresses." Missy used the word 'dating' as a euphemism for what Zane had really been doing with the girl. He smiled. "Yeah, I remember now." "I saw you get into your car with her one night. My Mom had asked me to run out to our car to get her sweater because the AC in the dining room was so cold and we were sitting right under the vent. Anyway, sitting in the car with you, reminded me of that time." Except Zane hadn't been able to keep his hands off the waitress. He'd been pawing at her during the walk to the car and hadn't stopped once they sat inside. Missy was sure they didn't make it much farther than the driveway that led to the stables, before he pulled over to have sex with her. Yet, with Missy, he was more concerned about making sure her coat was buttoned up tight and her seat belt fastened. "I'd completely forgotten about her. Funny, I can't even remember her name.

So,” Cal said, drawing out the word, “that was Margo. Your roommate. The one you’re not attracted to. The one you don’t think about ‘that way.’” Jake snorted. “He thinks about her ‘that way’ and a thousand other ways, too, I’ll bet.” “At least a thousand,” Cal agreed. “In the car. On a bar. Against a door. On the floor. In the shower. In a tower.” He paused. “I’m channeling Dr. Seuss.” Jake snickered. “On a bed. In a shed. In a tent. Under a vent. On a slope. With some rope.” “Rope is too rough. It chafes delicate skin,” Cal noted. “I prefer to use one of my ties.” Zeke crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you done yet?” “Why are you still here? Don’t you have anything better to do?” Cal asked. “Yes, you do. Her name is Margo.

WHAT ARE THOSE?” asked Jamison as they neared their destination. She indicated fiery gold plumes that winked in the darkness like ghoulish holiday lights as they zipped past. “Gas flares,” said Decker. “Coming off the oil wells. Natural gas is found with oil. They drill for both up here. But they sometimes vent the gas off and ignite it at the end of the oil wellhead. I guess it costs too much to do anything else with it in certain situations and they don’t necessarily have the infrastructure to pipe it out of here.” Jamison looked stunned. “Do you know how much gas we’re talking about?” “One stat I read said each month the gas they burn off could heat four million homes.

When you need validation, ask for it specifically. It’s obviously best to talk with someone who already knows how to validate, but if the person you talk to doesn’t, you can still point them in the right direction. For example, you might say: “Hey I’m feeling stressed right now and need some validation. Can I vent for a minute? I don’t want feedback or any suggestions for fixing it. I’d just like you to hear me out and help me not feel crazy.” I

Hey Alexa, I’m really, really sorry for what happened. I promise I never intended for Ronnie, of all people, to find out. Like I said, I was angry with Ali, and I couldn’t help venting to Brie. That was when the other details slipped out. Ronnie walked past and must have overheard. But at the time, neither Brie nor I realized. I’m so sorry I mentioned anything. I had no right to talk about your personal life. I promise I didn’t share the details with anyone else, not even Jake. Also, so that you know, Brie and I don’t care where you lived before you moved to our neighborhood. Neither does Ali. I admire you so much. You’ve been through some really tough situations, but you’ve managed to cope. Plus, you’ve supported Tyler in whatever way you can. You’ve taught me so much about resilience and perseverance, and being strong, even in the worst situations imaginable. You truly are an inspiration, as well as a genuinely nice person. I really hope we can stay friends. Casey

I know I act like I don't have a care in the world… but, Jonah, I've prowled the dirtiest back alleys of sadness, okay? And I know what it's like to fight for your life on those mean streets. So if you need someone to vent to or someone to be quiet with or someone to talk your ear off, I can be that person. I'm not scared of the dark places.

Ari spent most of a year splenetically venting, about his wife, his son, his partners, his employees, etc. Feeling shut out, I often found myself shuttling between resentment, detachment, and feeling intimidated. Eventually, I understood that I was withdrawing, withholding a necessary confrontation, in retaliation for the narcissistic injury I felt about my perceived lack of impact on him. This understanding helped me to reorganize and mobilize the assertiveness I needed in order to reach Ari. One day, I finally raised my voice and said, quite loudly, “You know, I would like to say some things to you, but I’m afraid if you don't like what you hear, you will bite my head off, possibly literally.” Ari looked up at me with his sharp, penetrating eyes, and I was scared. I was quite surprised and touched, though, to see Ari's eyes go moist, his face reddening.

I suggested the following: “When Anita comes into your office, let her speak a couple of sentences and then firmly say, ‘Anita, what you’re saying is much too important for me to give it less than my undivided attention, which I can’t give you now because I’m in the middle of something that I’ve got to finish. So what I’d like you to do is come back in two hours when I will be able to give you all of my attention for five minutes, and then I can help you with what’s on your mind. But in the meantime think of what you want to tell me, what you’d like me to do, and whether it’s possible given the reality of our company. Also, think about whether it’s fair to everyone it affects and whether it’s in line with what we’re trying to accomplish. Figure those things out, and I’ll be happy to help make it happen.’” A few days later I spoke again with Janet, who’d tried the approach I suggested. She told me that Anita never came back and that things had been running smoothly since. I explained to Janet that many “problem people” who come in just to vent do so because they feel frustrated at not feeling important in the company. A superior telling them that they are important can go a long way to calming that upset feeling. I also explained that subordinates who want to complain often don’t have solutions to their problems, so when you set that as a condition for continuing a later conversation—a perfectly reasonable request—they often choose to drop the issue.

You can complain about the small stuff, but it should be lighthearted, quippy, and avoid personal attacks. Being still is about having the ability to delay an emotional reaction and replace it with a preplanned response. The response is intentional and deliberate, not reactionary, and based on the qualities and attributes that you have already aspired to as part of your hero archetypes. You are choosing to sweat the small stuff, but you are choosing to do so with some grace, humor, and self-awareness. This isn’t easy. It can go wrong. It may take practice and keen observation of how people react to you. But don’t overthink it—just remember a few key principles. Incorporate humor and sarcasm when possible. Sarcasm is a uniquely American and British attribute, and I think we should embrace it. Smile. Don’t overdo it. Just sweat the small stuff enough to make sure the frustration valve is released a little bit.

I kicked my flip-flops off and pulled my knees to my chest. Mason sprawled next to me, his head propped on a pillow. His legs, which almost hung off the end of the tiny bed, were crossed at the ankle. “How was work?” I asked. He rolled his eyes and grumbled about the students who used the computer lab, compatibility issues and a whole bunch of other stuff I didn’t understand. Being that he was a computer science major, he was always frustrated by questions he found dumb. I tried to be supportive by letting him vent, but I also enjoyed giving him a hard time about it. I stared blankly at him. “I’m sorry, you’re speaking nerd again.” “You’re hilarious. Considering you’re fluent in it.” He made his voice girly. “Did you hear about the nucleotide enzymatic compound synthesis?” I bit back my smile. “That doesn’t even make sense. And I don’t sound like that. But I am impressed you remembered all that from Biology.” “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to use all those words in one sentence.” I laughed as he grinned proudly

Delores points at me. And now she looks pissed. “That, I believe. Fucking prick.” She holds her hands up. “But it’s okay. Don’t panic. I’ll take care of everything. We have this new fuel at the lab that’s ready for animal testing. He won’t know what hit him—I can slip it right through the vents.” She turns to Billy. “You’re in charge of the garden hose and duct tape.” Then she looks at me. “I’ll need your keys and security code.” I shake my head. “Delores, you can’t gas Drew to death.” “It might not kill him. If I had to guess, I’d say the odds for survival are fifty-fifty.” “Delores . . .” “Okay, thirty-seventy. But still, that gives us plausible deniability.” My mother and George walk into the room, interrupting the diabolical plan. My mom hugs Dee Dee tight. “Hi, honey! It’s so good to see you. Are you hungry?” “Starved.” She looks at George. “Hey George, how they hanging?” I think George Reinhart is a little afraid of Delores. Maybe more than a little. He adjusts his glasses. “They’re . . . hanging well . . . thank you.

Things like the Sundogs shaking the foundations of our original beliefs, turning us to the ways of the Indians we search out to do battle with. Although we saw a number of places along the trail where the Comanche raiding parties have crossed from the north here in Texas to Mexico, carrying out their raids south of the border we saw no actual Indians.  For the Comanche, there is no border.  Just the land that they have freely ridden for hundreds of years.  The divide we white men and Mexicans have made between two countries having little importance to the Comanche as they consider the white men and the Mexicans as all hostile men encroaching on their lands. We rode nearly to Fort Leaton near the Juntas before we turned back now having taken the patrol much farther than we had planned.  The Comanche activity, encouraging us to ride on hoping to encounter at least one of the raiding parties, although we saw no more signs of Comanche not meaning that they have not seen us.  Maybe we are too large an enemy for the small raiding parties to approach.  Most Comanche shy away from skirmishes that result in more than a death or two of their Warrior Braves. Since the death of the two men by the hands of Lopez all of my men staying sharp, if in fact Lopez try's to capture another Ranger.  The torture and death of Dan Skaggs shaking my men up considerably.  "If a man like Lopez catches you make sure that you save one bullet in your revolver to shoot yourself before you get captured and have to face such heinous torture as Dan did," Bill Vents said.  Mostly for the benefit of our new Texas Ranger Bear Wallace, who was new to the ways of the Comanche and outlaws like Lopez.  "Make sure you shoot yourself in the eyeball to assure the bullet kills you dead and don't bounce around in your mouth or off your skull.  Eventually leaving you just alive enough to be left to the hands of Lopez to be tormented till death comes." "That is about enough of the horror tales, Bill," I said noting that the men are more nervous than usual with Bills story no matter how unbelievable the tale seemed.  Out here in the wild country, many things seem to be twisted from reality, some often making the impossible seem possible.  Not only because of Bill's stories but also due to a large amount of Indian gossip not far from being as wild as Vents lies.  Especially the Tonkawa as they believe the way to assure that spirits of the men they kill will be captured and rendered harmless, is to eat the men they slaughter

It’s not the most uncommon thing in the world. I keep a journal, you know.” Kate looked up. “You do? I never knew that.” “For years and years.” He moved another stack of muffin tins to the sink. She watched as he cleaned one, scraping crust from its edges. “Why? If you don’t mind my asking,” she said. He paused in his scrubbing. “I mean, are you going to do anything with them? Do you love writing?” He looked over his shoulder at her. “It’s not a matter of loving writing. It’s something I need to do. It helps me vent and figure things out. I don’t have to think about anyone else’s feelings or judgments. It’s the one place I really get to have my say.” “Why not just call a friend?” He gave her a wry smile that suggested she’d missed the point in some important way. “ ‘The unexamined life’ and all that, m’dear.” They sat in silence while he drained the sink. “Besides. Who wants to hear all that? Really.

In any chain of command, the leadership must always present a united front to the troops. A public display of discontent or disagreement with the chain of command undermines the authority of leaders at all levels. This is catastrophic to the performance of any organization. As a leader, if you don’t understand why decisions are being made, requests denied, or support allocated elsewhere, you must ask those questions up the chain. Then, once understood, you can pass that understanding down to your team. Leaders in any chain of command will not always agree. But at the end of the day, once the debate on a particular course of action is over and the boss has made a decision—even if that decision is one you argued against—you must execute the plan as if it were your own. When leading up the chain of command, use caution and respect. But remember, if your leader is not giving the support you need, don’t blame him or her. Instead, reexamine what you can do to better clarify, educate, influence, or convince that person to give you what you need in order to win. The major factors to be aware of when leading up and down the chain of command are these: • Take responsibility for leading everyone in your world, subordinates and superiors alike. • If someone isn’t doing what you want or need them to do, look in the mirror first and determine what you can do to better enable this. • Don’t ask your leader what you should do, tell them what you are going to do. APPLICATION TO BUSINESS “Corporate doesn’t understand what’s going on out here,” said the field manager. “Whatever experience those guys had in the field from years ago, they have long forgotten. They just don’t get what we are dealing with, and their questions and second-guessing prevents me and my team from getting the job done.” The infamous they. I was on a visit to a client company’s field leadership team, the frontline troops that executed the company’s mission. This was where the rubber met the road: all the corporate capital initiatives, strategic planning sessions, and allocated resources were geared to support this team here on the ground. How the frontline troops executed the mission would ultimately mean success or failure for the entire company. The field manager’s team was geographically separated from their corporate headquarters located hundreds of miles away. He was clearly frustrated. The field manager had a job to do, and he was angry at the questions and scrutiny from afar. For every task his team undertook he was required to submit substantial paperwork. In his mind, it made for a lot more work than necessary and detracted from his team’s focus and ability to execute. I listened and allowed him to vent for several minutes. “I’ve been in your shoes,” I said. “I used to get frustrated as hell at my chain of command when we were in Iraq. They

Every man worthy of the name,” Orsini repeated, almost with despair, with a last outburst of rage and scorn; and he was silent for a long time, as if to emphasize the enormity of such a claim. It proclaimed, also, he then went on, after taking a deep breath, that "the time for pride is finished, and that we must turn with far more humility and understanding toward the other animal species, “different, but not inferior” "Different, but not inferior,” Orsini re- peated again, with a kind of exasperated relish. And it went on like that; “Man on this planet has reached the point where really he needs all the friendship he can find, and in his loneliness he has need of all the elephants, all the dogs and all the birds . . Orsini gave vent to a strange laugh, a sort of triumphant sneer, entirely devoid of gaiety. “It is time to show that we are capable of preserving this gigantic, clumsy, natural splendor which still lives in our midst . . . that there is still room among us for such a freedom” He fell silent, but they could feel his voice lurking in the blackness, ready to hurl itself on the first prey that offered. There you had a man, he resumed, who for months had been«going about the bush, who penetrated to the remotest villages and who, having learned several dialects while he fraternized with the natives, was devoting himself to an obstinate and dangerous work, undermining the good name of the white man. Western civilization was obviously being represented to the Africans as an immense bankruptcy from which they must at all costs try to escape. They were not far from being begged to go back to cannibalism as a lesser evil than modem science with its weapons of destmction, or from being encouraged to worship their stone idols, with which indeed, as if by chance, people like Morel were stuffing the museums of the world. No, mademoiselle, I don't capture elephants. I content myself with living among them. I like them. I like looking at them, listening to them, watching them on the horizon. To tell you the truth, I’d give anything to become an elephant myself. I’ll convince you that I’ve nothing against the Germans in particular: they’re just men to me, and that’s enough. . . . Give me a rum.

I don’t remember the precise contents of my essay, but I had thoroughly savored and consumed foreign films under my brother’s tutelage, and as a movie fan I found many things in Japanese cinema that did not satisfy me. I undoubtedly gave vent to all my accumulated criticisms and had a fine time doing so.

she happened to pass a lame ass-driver. (Don’t look at me funny. That’s exactly what the old stories called him: a lame ass-driver. The dude was lame, like crippled. He was leading an ass, like a donkey. What did you think I meant?) Anyway, Psyche thought it was weird to see a crippled dude in a volcanic vent, just hanging out with his ass. (I’m not going to laugh. Nope. Not even a little.) The guy called out to her, “Hello, there, girl! You look kind and helpful. My ass has dropped some of its load…by which, of course, I mean that my donkey has dropped some of the firewood it was carrying. Could

2. Say, “I need to make sure that I heard exactly what you said, so I don’t go off in some wrong direction. If I heard you right, what you said is….” Then repeat exactly what the person said, calmly and with no angry or sarcastic inflection in your voice, and say, “Is that correct?” When you do this, you mirror the person—that powerful connecting technique I talk about in Chapter 2. You also cause the person to move from venting to listening, which slows the brain down so the person can think more intelligently.

Hey I’m feeling stressed right now and need some validation. Can I vent for a minute? I don’t want feedback or any suggestions for fixing it. I’d just like you to hear me out and help me not feel crazy.

emporter /ɑ̃pɔʀte/ I. vtr 1. (prendre avec soi) [personne] to take [objet, vêtement, vivres, document]; [vent] to sweep away [feuilles mortes] • n'oublie pas d'~ un parapluie/à manger | don't forget to take an umbrella/something to eat • ~ qch avec soi | (controv) to take sth with one [objet, vêtement, vivres, document] • pizzas à ~ | takeaway pizzas 2. (transporter) (lit) [ambulance, sauveteurs] to take [sb] away [blessé, cadavre]; [bateau, train, avion] to carry away [passager, fret] • se laisser ~ par son élan | (fig) to get carried away • se laisser ~ par la colère | to let one's anger get the better of one • se laisser ~ par son imagination | to let one's imagination run riot 3. (arracher) [vent, rivière] to sweep away [personne, maison, embarcation, arbre, pont]; [obus, balle] to take [sth] off [oreille, bras] • emporté par le courant | swept away by the current 4. (causer la mort) • une leucémie l'a emporté | he died of leukaemia 5. (conquérir) to take [position] • ~ l'accord de qn | to get sb's agreement • ~ l'adhésion de qn | to win sb over 6. (voler) [personne] to steal [bijoux, argenterie, tableau] • il est parti en emportant la caisse | he ran off with all the money 7. (triompher) l'emporter • [équipe, candidat] to win; [idée, bon sens] to prevail • l'~ sur qn | [équipe, candidat] to beat sb • l'~ sur qch | to overcome sth • le bon sens l'a emporté | common sense prevailed • l'~ avec 38% des suffrages/par 2 buts à 1/de 4 points | to win with 38% of the votes/by 2 goals to 1/by 4 points • l'~ sur son adversaire avec 57% des voix | to defeat one's opponent by getting 57% of the votes voir aussi: paradis, tombe II. vpr (s'énerver) [personne] to lose one's temper • il s'emporte facilement | he loses his temper easily III. Idiome • emporter la bouche (informal) or gueule (very informal) | [épices, plat, alcool] to take the roof off one's mouth (familier)

We're going to cook our hearts out." He whispers. "Kate, you already have mine. Just don't serve it up on a platter." I can't bring myself to look at Charles because when I do, he smiles and all I can think about is kissing him. As we make a homemade Mexican-inspired chocolate sauce for the vanilla ice cream, our arms brush together as I hand over the urfa biber flakes. He stirs the pot, the aromas mingling together, all sweet and spicy, and now, thanks to his recording in the vent and the words I'd heard, I'm imagining us together. "Kate, taste this," says Charles, snapping me out of my fantasy. He holds out a spoon laden with sauce, I take a tiny mouthful, and then lick my lips. Charles flashes a sexy smile. "Almost better than sex, huh?" He has to be a mind reader.

Stevie has never been very happy, and I don’t think the success of her album has made her any happier. In fact, it may have made her less happy. “She’s flexing some kind of emotional muscles that she feels she can flex now that she’s in a more powerful position. There’s a certain amount of leeway in how you can interpret Stevie’s behavior, I’d say, but at the same time there’s no denying that her success is making her feel that she can pull things that she wouldn’t have felt comfortable pulling before. And most of them aren’t particularly worthwhile, but she’s venting something—loneliness, unhappiness or something.

The lack of answers, of any semblance of closure, is infuriating. The more questions I don’t get answers to, the more questions I have. The more questions I have, the more questions I don’t get answers to, and I’m driving myself crazy in the process of trying to find them. I need someone I can vent to, a sounding board, a voice of reason.

The broad strokes are always similar: manage expectations, maintain boundaries, shore up your other supports, recognize that they will not change, take care of yourself, don’t engage, and get mental health assistance. Expect the football to be pulled away. That means you may protect yourself from some of the disappointment when the ball does get pulled away, or, better yet, don’t play ball with them at all. Doing all these things can take a seemingly uncontrollable soul-sapping situation and transform it into something still exhausting but, at least, predictable. These rules also apply when dealing with the world in general. When politicians make foolish, polarizing, nasty, and divisive comments, recognize that they won’t stop. When your Instagram feed leaves you feeling empty, limit your time with it. When you start feeling down because you are tired of witnessing entitled temper tantrums, frightening road rage, or more reports of cruelty in the world perpetrated by tyrants, narcissists, psychopaths, and other abusive, hostile, and antagonistic people, consider therapy to vent some of those feelings, but give up the idea that you can fix the world. The shifts in the world have normalized and legitimized narcissism, entitlement, and incivility and have given narcissists a sense of new power in the world. They feel emboldened to behave this way because the world appears to be cheering them on or, at least, giving them a very large platform. Increasingly, they also own the platforms, so they also control the message and our collective reality.

[The curve of your eyes] La courbe de tes yeux fait le tour de mon coeur, Un rond de danse et de douceur, Auréole du temps, berceau nocturne et sûr, Et si je ne sais plus tout ce que j’ai vécu C’est que tes yeux ne m’ont pas toujours vu. Feuilles de jour et mousse de rosée, Roseaux du vent, sourires parfumés, Ailes couvrant le monde de lumière, Bateaux chargés du ciel et de la mer, Chasseurs des bruits et sources des couleurs, Parfums éclos d’une couvée d’aurores Qui gît toujours sur la paille des astres, Comme le jour dépend de l’innocence Le monde entier dépend de tes yeux purs Et tout mon sang coule dans leurs regards. *** The curve of your eyes goes around my heart, A round of dance and sweetness, Halo of time, nocturnal and safe cradle, And if I don’t know any more all that I’ve lived through It’s because I haven’t always been seen by you. Leaves of day and scum of dew, Reeds of the wind, perfumed smiles, Wings covering the world with light, Ships filled with the sky and the sea, Hunters of noises and sources of colours, Perfumes bloomed from a brood of dawns That always lies on the straw of the stars, As the day depends on innocence The whole world depends on your pure eyes And all my blood flows in their looks. Paul Éluard , L’Amour la poésie (1929) Translated by Anne-Charlotte Husson

vol-au-vent

The imposter’s dead.” Adara froze as she heard the unfamiliar male voice through her prison’s door. “Are you sure?” her guard asked. “Aye. Lord Selwyn identified him himself. He was stabbed straight through his heart.” Adara felt her world shift at those words. Christian dead? Nay. It couldn’t be. The men outside laughed and began to celebrate. “Christian,” she breathed, her heart shattering in waves of bitter agony. He couldn’t be gone. He couldn’t. “Open the door. Lord Selwyn wishes to have the queen join him so that they can set a date for her new wedding.” Never! Adara struggled to breathe as she glanced about for a weapon. There was nothing. But when the door opened, her rage took hold of her. “Damn you!” she shouted, then commenced to throwing every object toward the soldiers who entered. She couldn’t see clearly through her tears. All she knew was that she wanted vengeance on all of them. How dare they kill her Christian! How dare they! Sobs assailed her. She wanted to crumple from the excruciating weight of her grief. But she refused. So instead, she vented by pelting them with everything she could lift and launch. “Adara, cease!” She froze at the sound of a voice she hadn’t expected to hear. For a moment she thought she might be dreaming, until she blinked to look up into the most handsome face she’d ever known. She stared at the same blue eyes that made the tenderest of love to her. Christian. Her grip went lax and the candlestick in her hand fell to the floor. He was alive! She threw herself into his arms and held him close as giddy tears replaced her grief-induced ones. At least until her rage took hold again. “Damn you, you worthless, heartless son of a dog!” she snarled, pulling back to strike at his chest. “How dare you make me think you were dead! Don’t you ever do such a thing to me again.” Christian was stunned by her language and actions. “I didn’t know you could hear us through the door.” She struck him again on his armor, a blow that no doubt he felt not at all, but it gave her some degree of satisfaction. “Well, think better next time.” Her untoward anger amused him. Wiping the tears from her face, he kissed her tenderly. Phantom cleared his throat. “Need I remind the two of you that we still need to get out of this place before the guards regain consciousness?” “We are coming,” Christian said, pulling back from her and taking her hand into his. Two men brought the guards into her room and dumped them by her bed before they tied them securely. “How did you know where to find me?” she asked them. “Phantom has many unsavory friends who know every machination of Selwyn’s.” For some reason she didn’t doubt that.

the shadows. “Why do you think they invented chess?” “He’s got you there,” said the captain, following Fletcher. Jake jogged slightly to catch up as Captain Chenoweth continued. “These guys are exactly who we need to get you to your destination. They’ve got contacts throughout the area, and we should be able to slip through without anyone even knowing we’re coming.” “But why should anyone care?” Captain Chenoweth pointed back the way they’d come, toward the coastal village. “Those people down there didn’t know us, but they were ready to kill you. Now, no matter what started this little conflict, don’t think for a second anyone here cares which side you’re on. In their eyes America is their enemy, and they’re likely to kill us all simply to vent their frustration. Either that, or they’ll capture us and hold us for ransom – maybe do what those wannabe terrorists did and chop our heads off, posting it on the internet for shits and giggles. We’re not sitting in your little ivory bubble anymore. Highly polished principles won’t wash well here.” The words felt like a slap in the face. “You think I’m that naive?” he eventually mustered after an awkward pause. Captain Chenoweth gave a short whistle, and the SEAL team dropped back from their defensive positions, jogging up the short hill and clambering into the rear of one of the virtually invisible trucks. “I think it’s time to go, sir.” And with that simple statement, Captain Chenoweth relayed volumes to Jake, who nodded silently and walked toward the large truck, its back tray covered by a canvas roof stretched over a high, metal frame. Jake saw the SEAL team seated alongside Fletcher and three of his men, two bench-seats running the length of the tray. He climbed awkwardly into the back of the truck as its engine roared to life. The tray reeked of livestock; the musky scent of animal feces mixed with grass or hay and wet fur. Jake gagged, but otherwise remained silent, still stinging from the captain’s indirect rebuke. Complaining of the stench would only serve to lower him further in their esteem. Captain Chenoweth climbed in alongside

A heavy silence as the first sparks of revolution are struck. Sevro comes close. “That was rousing.” “Too demokratic?” I whisper. “I don’t think autocratic demokracy counts.” Sevro wrinkles his nose. “You did threaten to vent them into space.” “Threaten? I thought I implied it rather smoothly.” “Smooth as gravel, dipshit.” Sevro cackles a bit too enthusiastically and slaps his leg with his mech hand, denting the metal there.

Mysterious My paper shines white, like snow, but the paper looks empty. I could decorate it with tiny spiders or stars or sketches of me looking at a blank page, but the clock ticks, and somehow I must write. I like the sight of untouched snow. Gentle, snow, silent, it drifts and swirls, layers itself, and I see a new world of mysterious, inviting shapes. I walk in its white whispers, susurrus. I drift back to this paper that feels hard on the desk, and I begin to listen– to the story I tell myself. The paper is a white, patient place, my private space for remembering, saving, spring sun on my face, venting and inventing, arguing with my mother, wonder: who am I, wandering through cobwebs of old dreams, crying, sighing at people who don't see me, hoping to write music so blue listeners forget to breathe, playing the sounds, jamming with myself, changing into the me I can't quite see.

I want you inside me, like a psychopath venting out his irritation. That's the type of attention I am seeking. Now, it is evident that your testosterone will open in question, a very sexual image. And thats ok. Nevertheless. I don't speak of sex, but about the dessert.

I want you inside me, like a psychopath venting out his irritation. That's the type of attention I am seeking. Now, it is evident that your testosterone will open in question to a very sexual image. And that's ok. Nevertheless. I don't speak of sex, but about the dessert; the real aftermath.

I want you inside me, like a psychopath venting out his irritation. That's the type of attention I am seeking. Now, it is evident that your testosterone will open in question to a very sexual image. And that's ok. Nevertheless. I don't speak of sex, but the real aftermath.

Do encourage movement: “Let’s swing our arms to the beat of this music. I always feel better when I stretch, don’t you?” Movement always improves sensory processing. Do encourage the child to try a new movement experience: “If you’re interested in that swing, I’ll help you get on.” Children with dyspraxia may enjoy new movement experiences but need help figuring out how to initiate them. Do offer your physical and emotional support: “I’m interested in that swing. Want to try it with me? You can sit on my lap, and we’ll swing together.” The child who is fearful of movement may agree to swing at the playground if he has the security of a loving lap. (Stop if he resists.) Do allow your child to experience unhappiness, frustration, or anger: “Wow, it really hurts when you don’t get picked for the team.” Acknowledging his feelings allows him to deal with them, whereas rushing in to make it better every time he’s hurt prevents him from learning to cope with negative emotions. Do provide appropriate outlets for negative emotions: Make it possible to vent pent-up feelings. Give her a ball or a bucketful of wet sponges to hurl against the fence. Designate a “screaming space” (her room, the basement, or garage) where she can go to pound her chest and shout. Do reinforce what is good about your child’s feelings and actions, even when something goes wrong: “You didn’t mean for the egg to miss the bowl. Cracking eggs takes practice. I’m glad you want to learn. Try again.” Help her assess her experience positively by talking over what she did right and what she may do better the next time. How wonderful to hear that an adult is sympathetic, rather than judgmental! Do praise: “I noticed that you fed and walked the dog. Thanks for being so responsible.” Reward the child for goodness, empathy, and being mindful of the needs of others. “You are a wonderful friend,” or “You make animals feel safe.” Do give the child a sense of control: “If you choose bed now, we’ll have time for a long story. If you choose to play longer, we won’t have time for a story. You decide.” Or, “I’m ready to go to the shoe store whenever you are. Tell me when you’re ready to leave.” Impress on the child that others don’t have to make every decision that affects him. Do set reasonable limits: To become civilized, every child needs limits. “It’s okay to be angry but not okay to hurt someone. We do not pinch.

She’s a gold digger. I know she is,” she says through sniffles. “Well . . .” I taper off. I don’t know what to say here. Is this even appropriate? My ex-boyfriend’s mother—an ex whom, until very (very) recently, I was pining over—is now venting to me about his new fiancée. Awkward is probably the most appropriate word to describe it. “You know she doesn’t love him. You saw her! Why would that pencil-thin witch be interested in my son? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I think Adam is handsome, of course. But not handsome enough for that slut-looking-supermodel. I pictured my Adam with someone more plain, you know? Like you.” She gestures over to me. Ouch. And here I was thinking my tailored, black shorts paired with a white button-down shirt, and the most amazing Kenneth Cole platform sandals, looked more than plain. Silly me.

When I pulled my locker open, a small piece of paper fell to the ground. I bent down and picked it up, quickly realizing it was an envelope with a card inside. Someone must have slipped it through the vent in the door since I didn’t recognize it and my name was scrawled on the outside. Wary but curious, I opened it to find a plain, white note card. Inside was a gift card to my favorite coffee shop on Main Street, the one Grace and I liked to go to. I was excited for exactly half a second before I read the message written in serial killer print on the card. Bex, For the sake of Savage River’s overrun emergency room, use this to buy yourself something to eat. If you keep starving yourself, you’ll wind up with a cracked skull. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but scars aren’t a great look on girls. You know what is? A little meat on their bones. EAT! Asher

But Psyche made the journey with nothing but two rice cakes and a couple of drachmas. And she did it while she was seven months pregnant. Respect. As she was climbing down the narrow ledges inside the volcanic fissure, she happened to pass a lame ass-driver. (Don’t look at me funny. That’s exactly what the old stories called him: a lame ass-driver. The dude was lame, like crippled. He was leading an ass, like a donkey. What did you think I meant?) Anyway, Psyche thought it was weird to see a crippled dude in a volcanic vent, just hanging out with his ass. (I’m not going to laugh. Nope. Not even a little.)

In a deeper tone, it continued. “Head toward the city of Sparta and find Mount Taenarus. At the base of the mountain, you’ll see a volcanic fissure that’s a breathing vent for the Underworld. It won’t be easy, but you can climb down that way to Hades’s domain.” “Oh…okay.” “Before you climb down, be sure you pick up two honey-flavored rice cakes and two drachma coins. You can get the rice cakes in Sparta, or I think there’s a convenience store off the highway around Exit Forty-three.” “Um, all right. What do I do with that stuff?” “You’ll know when the time comes. But listen, don’t let anything stop you until you reach Persephone. My mom will put up all sorts of distractions.” “Your mom?” Another hesitation. The voice went falsetto again. “Obviously, towers don’t have moms. I meant your mother-in-law, Aphrodite.