Intentionally Funny Quotes

I don't-" I shake my head. (...) "What? What were you going to say?" This is another trick of shrinks. They never let you stop in midthought. If you open your mouth, they want to know exactly what you had the intention of saying.

For what it’s worth, I’ll share my intentions. You and me, we aren’t practice for the real thing. It isn’t that too much is at stake with family and friends, it’s because I love you. You’re funny, beautiful and you care about people. I like the way you look at me, especially when you think I don’t notice it. I like that we have history and our kids will have a big family and share that history because there was never a time when their Mom and Dad weren’t together. If you were a terrible lay, I might have second thoughts but you and I are dynamite together. I intend to marry you and spend the rest of my life with you. If that freaks you out, tough, because now we’ve started this, there’s no goin’ back.

If I were to vote, I would intentionally vote for the goofiest candidate. It is my theory that when the people can outwit the leader, the more respected their voices will be.

This is beautiful," I said, ignoring the shop window to trace the gleaming stone walls fronting another boutique. "You know what's funny?" Jacob asked. He didn't wait for my answer. "You can see beauty in everything, except for yourself." *** I swallowed hard. Erik thought my body was beautiful, Karin that it was enviable. At random times, people had noted that my hands were beautiful, or my hair. The Twisted Sisters had called my art beautiful. Mom had the best intentions and always told me before and after my laser surgeries that I would be beautiful. But no one had ever said that I was beautiful, all my parts taken together, not just the bits and pieces.

You've come to give me a piece of your mind. You know that phrase is really beautiful. The mind is the most powerful thing in the body. Whatever the mind believes, the body can achieve. So to give someone a piece of it... well thank you. Funny how people are always intent on giving it to the people they dislike when it really should be for the ones they love.

Another mystery of the brain is that it will always choose what is familiar over what is unfamiliar. By visualizing my own future success, I was making this success familiar to my brain. Intention is a funny thing, and whatever the brain puts its intention on is what it sees.

Now, my intention was to drink just enough to dull the senses, but intentions should never be mixed with alcohol.

My particular dread--the vivid possibility that left me staring at tree shadows on the bedroom ceiling night after night--was having to lie in a small tent, alone in an inky wilderness, listening to a foraging bear outside and wondering what its intentions were. I was especially riveted by an amateur photograph in Herrero's book, taken late at night by a camper with a flash at a campground out West. The photograph caught four black bears as they puzzled over a suspended food bag. The bears were clearly startled but not remotely alarmed by the flash. It was not the size or demeanor of the bears that troubled me--they looked almost comically nonaggressive, like four guys who had gotten a Frisbee caught up a tree--but their numbers. Up to that moment it had not occurred to me that bears might prowl in parties. What on earth would I do if four bears came into my camp? Why, I would die, of course. Literally shit myself lifeless. I would blow my sphincter out my backside like one of those unrolling paper streamers you get at children's parties--I daresay it would even give a merry toot--and bleed to a messy death in my sleeping bag.

It's spider season. Every year, right about now, thousands of the godless eight-legged bastards emerge from the bowels of hell (or the garden, whichever's nearest) with the sole intention of tormenting humankind.

I go in on your arm and we separate. To make me look unavailable, since Vlad likes what he can’t have, I play dumb blonde and make myself sexy.” I glared as Adam barked with laughter at my words.“No going off of the plan, when he takes you in the back room—and he will, you work the information out of him without blowing your cover, or him.” I shot the glare to Ryder. “I have no intention of bobbing on Vlad’s knob. Or yours.” I tossed into remove the wide smirk my response had given him and it worked.

Its a good thing I'm here, big guy, because you have shit taste in friends." Okay, I said the last part intentionally, knowing how Aaron would react. And right on cue, Aaron said: "He's not my friend!" "Well, I guess that settles it, Nick. You're not going to be rebound guy because, despite your predictions of woe, Aaron and I aren't breaking up. I'd say that we'll see you around, but I doubt that'll happen since you don't even rate friend status.

You're Nash's brother. And a grim reaper?" She blinked again, and I readied myself for hysterics, or fear, or laughter. But knowing emma, I should have known better. "So you, what? Kill people? Did you kill me that day in the gym?" She clenched the headrest, her expression an odd mix of anger, awe, and confusion. But there was no disbelief. She'd seen and heard enough of the bizarre following her own temporary death that Tod's admission obviously didn't come as that much of a surprise. Or maybe Nash's Influence was still affecting her a little. "No," Tod shook his head firmly, but the corners of his mouth turned up in amusement. "I had nothing to do with that. I do kill people, then I reap their souls and take them to be recycled. But only people who are on my list." "So, you're not...dangerous?" His pouty grin deepened into something almost predatory, like the Tod I'd first met two months earlier. "Oh, I'm dangerous...." "Tod..." I warned, as Nash punched his brother in the arm, hard enough to actually hurt. "Just not to you," the reaper finished, shrugging at Emma. "I see you all the time, but you've never seen me, because Kaylee said if I got too close to you, I'd suffer eternity without my balls." "Jeez, Tod!" I shouted, my anger threatening to boil over and scald us all. The reaper leaned closer to Emma and spoke in a stage whisper. "She's not as scary as she thinks she is, but I respect her intent.

usually your kids’ positive qualities come less from your making them awesome and more from just not intentionally squashing the random things they’re inherently born with that make them awesome.

Isn’t it funny how we make rational excuses for being out of alignment? We say, “Well, this ____ and that ____ happened, so it makes perfect sense for me to be feeling like this ____ and wanting to do this ____.” Yet, to this day, I have never met a happy person who adheres to those excuses. In fact, each time I – or anyone else – decide to give in to “rational excuses” that justify feeling bad – it’s interesting that only further suffering is the result. There is never a good enough reason for us to be out of alignment with peace. Sure, we can go there and make choices that dim our lights… and that is fine; there certainly is purpose for it and the contrast gives us lessons to learn… yet if we’re aware of what we are doing and we’re ready to let go of the suffering – then why go there at all? It’s like beating a dead horse. Been there, done that… so why do we keep repeating it? Pain is going to happen; it’s inevitable in this human experience, yet it is often so brief. When we make those excuses, what happens is: we pick up that pain and begin to carry it with us into the next day… and the next day… into next week… maybe next month… and some of us even carry it for years or to our graves! Forgive, let it go! It is NOT worth it! It is NEVER worth it. There is never a good enough reason for us to pick up that pain and carry it with us. There is never a good enough reason for us to be out of alignment with peace. Unforgiveness hurts you; it hurts others, so why even go there? Why even promote pain? Why say painful things to yourself or others? Why think pain? Just let it go! Whenever I look back on painful things or feel pain today, I know it is my EGO that drives me to “go there.” The EGO likes to have the last word, it likes to feel superior, it likes to make others feel less than in hopes that it will make itself (me) feel better about my insecurities. Maybe if I hurt them enough, they will feel the pain I felt over what they did to me. It’s only fair! It’s never my fault; it’s always someone else’s. There is a twisted sense of pleasure I get from feeling this way, and my EGO eats it right up. YET! With awareness that continues to grow and expand each day, I choose to not feed my pain (EGO) or even go there. I still feel it at times, of course, so I simply acknowledge it and then release it. I HAVE power and choice over my speech and actions. I do not need to ever “go there” again. It’s my choice; it’s your choice. So it’s about damn time we start realizing this. We are not victims of our impulses or emotions; we have the power to control them, and so it’s time to stop acting like we don’t. It’s time to relinquish the excuses.

... there occurred to me the simple epitaph which, when I am no more, I intend to have inscribed on my tombstone. It was this: “He was a man who acted from the best motives. There is one born every minute.

As she watched, he examined the can intently, read the ingredients, then returned it to the shelf and chose another, repeating his thorough study of it. The contrast between his rough, tough-guy appearance and the domestic act he was performing did funny things to her head. She had a sudden, breathtaking vision of a dark-haired little boy sitting in the seat of the cart, laughing up at Cian, grabbing at his swinging braids with chubby little fists, while his daddy inspected the ingredients on a jar of baby food. Her mind’s eye picture of sexy, strong man with beautiful, helpless child made something soft and warm blossom behind her chest.

He's an idiot," Harry said again. "One who doesn't deserve to lick your feet. You'll thank me someday." "I have no intention of allowing him to lick me anywhere," she retorted, then turned utterly red when she realized what she's said.

Safe gender is being who and what we want to be when we want to be that, with no threat of censure or violence. Safe gender is going as far in any direction as we wish, With no threat to our health, or anyone else’s. Safe gender is not being pressured into passing, not Having to lie, not having to hide. Sane gender is asking questions about gender - talking To people who do gender, and opening up about our Gender histories and our gender desires. Sane gender is probably very, very funny. Consensual gender is respecting each others’ definition Of gender, and respecting the wishes of some to be alone, And respecting the intentions of others to be inclusive in Their own time. Consensual gender is non-violent in that it doesn’t force Its way in on anyone. Consensual gender opens its arms and welcomes all People as gender outcasts - whoever is willing to admit it.

In the afternoon the ship's company assembled aft, on deck, under the awnings; the flute, the asthmatic meodeon, and the consumptive clarinet crippled the Star Spangled Banner, the choir chased it to cover, and George came in with a peculiarly lacerating screech on the final note and slaughtered it. Nobody mourned. We carried out the corpse on three cheers (that joke was not intentional and I do not endorse it).

In fact, most of the pockets you see on women’s pants are just illusions made to taunt you. Or sometimes they really are pockets but they are intentionally sewn closed, as if to say, “I’m letting you have these pockets but I’m sewing them shut for your own good.” And most of us leave them sewn shut because we’d rather look thin than have pockets.

Falling in love with someone is intentional, even if it was their looks that tripped you.

I nurture very good intentions about you. May you die in peace.

You are his mate for all intents and purposes, and with that comes the responsibility of caring for his…booboos.

He was kind, he was single, he was vulnerable, he made her laugh (not always intentionally, true, but often enough). Every time she saw him, he seemed to have become a little more handsome.

Blue pointed to a chair beneath the fake Tiffany lamp. "Sit." "I'd rather stand." She made a neat rack of teeth at the Gray Man. "Sit." The Gray Man sat. He glanced over his shoulder, back down the hall, then back to her. He had those bright, active eyes that Dobermans and blue jays had. "No one's going to murder you here." She handed him a glass of water. "That's not poisoned." "Thanks." He set it doen but didn't drink it. "My only intentions right now are to ask her to dinner.

Hunter Fitzpatrick, what are your intentions with my virtue?” I looked up, asking for the first time in a real, straightforward fashion. He smirked down at me. “Funny you should ask, Miss Brennan. I’m afraid I’m going for complete destruction.

My mind blurs to a ripple of pleasure when his soft, full lips at last make contact with mine. He starts to deepen the kiss, but pauses, intent on the glass behind me. “You gotta be kidding.” I glance over my shoulder. Outside, Morpheus hangs on the glass in moth form, level with my head, glaring at us with his bulbous gaze. Even without a face, his smugness is apparent. His favorite pastime is interrupting Jeb’s romantic moments. I try not to laugh, but can’t help myself. “Cocky son of a bug.” Jeb sets me on the floor and draws the dropcloth tighter around me. A barn owl swoops from the sky and skims the glass. Morpheus launches off in a tizzy, trying to outrun the bird. Now Jeb’s the one laughing. I slap his shoulder. “Hey, that’s not funny.” “Ah, he’ll be okay.” Jeb raises an eyebrow, watching the aerial pursuit taking place outside the glass. “It’s a new genus of vegetarian owls. They’re only in it for the chase. Besides, Morphie-boy can change to his other form anytime he wants.”

You had every intention of being depressed forever, but as it turns out, there’s work to be done, meals to eat, movies to see, errands to run. You meant to be in ruins permanently, your misery a monument, a gash across the cold hard earth, but honestly, who has the time for that?

The room where they were dancing was very dark.... It was queer to be in his arms.... She had known better dancers.... He had looked ill.... Perhaps he was.... Oh, poor Valentine-Elisabeth.... What a funny position!.... The good gramophone played.... Destiny!.... You see, father! ... In his arms! Of course, dancing is not really.... But so near the real thing! So near!... 'Good luck to the special intention!...' She had almost kissed him on the lips ... All but!... Effleurer, the French call it.... But she was not as humble.... He had pressed her tighter.... All these months without.... My lord did me honour.... Good for Malbrouck s'en va-t-en guerre.... He knew she had almost kissed him on the lips.... And that his lips had almost responded.... The civilian, the novelist, had turned out the last light.... Tietjens said, 'Hadn't we better talk?...' She said: 'In my room, then! I'm dog-tired.... I haven't slept for six nights.... In spite of drugs...' He said: 'Yes. Of course! Where else?....

Never take offense. Even if someone is robbing you blind, it’s usually nothing personal. Survival is a funny thing, and we all react differently to it. Some react to fear and forget to be human and humane, but that doesn’t mean they have malicious intentions. People have different boundaries, and I promise to respect yours, hon.

If you want a romantic relationship with a guy, first he has to find you mysterious, then intriguing, then funny. In that order. If it’s in any different order, you are forever labeled friend.” “That’s an interesting theory.” “Tried and proven. And the funny has to be intentional. None of this making a fool of yourself business.

Funny thing about guilt: There's nothing so bad that you can't add a little guilt to it and make it worse; and there's nothing so good you can't add guilt to it and make it better. Guilt distracts us from a greater truth: we have an inherent ability to heal. We seem intent on living through even the worst heartbreak... How? ... Practice.

When I argue with devout statists, sometimes other voluntaryists tell me that I'm wasting my time, opining that a particular statist is never going to "get it." I often respond by saying that that's rarely my intention. Most of the time, when I argue with statists, the goal is for ME to learn more about the mentality and psychology of authoritarian indoctrination, and to hopefully help any SPECTATORS--whether statist or anarchist--learn something from the exchange. (Both of those goals can be achieved even if the statist continues to be a lunk-headed dupe.) Earlier today, a funny but possibly profound analogy came to mind about this: When I argue with "true believer" devout statists, I'm not being a doctor trying to heal an ailing patient; I'm being a coroner, doing an AUTOPSY on a patient who is already beyond any hope of saving, in the hopes that I, and anyone observing, may learn more about the "disease" of statism, in order to better understand the nature of it, and possibly prevent others from experiencing a similar fate.

And yes, you might be thinking that girls can totally wear cargo pants if they want to, but I disagree. Skinny girls might be able to wear those things, but girls like me look like they’re wearing pants with a bunch of purses stapled to them, and that’s really the last thing you need when you’re looking for something slimming in the plus-size section. In fact, most of the pockets you see on women’s pants are just illusions made to taunt you. Or sometimes they really are pockets but they are intentionally sewn closed, as if to say, “I’m letting you have these pockets but I’m sewing them shut for your own good.” And most of us leave them sewn shut because we’d rather look thin than have pockets.

They are funny, too. And not always intentionally, either, which as far as I am concerned is the very best kind of funny.

Speech codes may well increase tension and edginess rather than relieve them. A student at the State University of New York at Binghamton complains that “If you look at someone funny, it’s a bias incident.”137

Lina: I have no idea what you mean. Is he waiting for something? Rosie: … Lina: Something like a heart transplant? I heard he doesn’t have one. Rosie: Ha, funny. You should keep the jokes for when you two talk. Lina: We won’t. Rosie: That’s right. You two are too busy staring at each other intently. *fire emoji* An unwanted blush rushed to my cheeks. Lina: What’s that supposed to mean? Rosie: You know what it means. Lina: That I want to light him up in a pyre like a witch? Then, okay. Rosie: He’s probably working late too. Lina: So? Rosie: So … you could always go to his office and glare at him in that way I’m sure he loves.

A better standard would be intention. If someone says something that offends us - but their intentions was humor - than we should respond far differently to that than we would if the person intended to be cruel.

When talking about my relationship with God, or any other area of my life, I want to choose to GROW. Incidentally, my waistline is contradictory to this. It grows when I ignore it and only decreases when I am intentional!

Priss tried to open her door, but it still didn’t budge. “Unlock it.” Instead he pulled her around to face him. He started to blast her, but something funny happening. Instead of reading her the riot act, he stared into her eyes, then down at her mouth. His entire demeanor changed. He looked just as tense, but now for different, hotter reasons. He still stared intently at her mouth when Priss heard the lock click open. She glanced down and saw that Trace had reached back for the door, all without breaking that disturbing, electrifying visual contact with her. She met his gaze again, and softened. Damn, but resisting Trace wouldn’t be easy, not if he kept looking at her like that. “You’re coming in, too?” “Yes.” Suddenly, almost violently, he turned away from her and left the car. Still a gentleman, he strode around to her side and opened her door. “Let’s get this night over with.” Well. That sounded insulting.

There's no denying Bird-man's well-intentioned heart. He's a good guy, not the type of prick who would take your favorite Stryper t-shirt on tour and bequeath it to some random trollop he hooks up with while conveniently forgetting you ever existed.

I think gender can take a lesson from sadomasochism (S/M): gender needs to be safe, sane, and consensual. Gender is not safe. If i change my gender, I'm at risk of homocide, suicide or a life devoid of half my responsibilities. If I'm born with a body that gives mixed gender signals, I'm at risk of being butchered - fixed, mutilated. Gender is not safe. And gender is not sane. It's not sane to call a rainbow black and white. It's not sane to demand we fit into one or the other only. It's not sane that we classify people in order to oppress them as women or glorify them as men. Gender is not sane. And gender is not consensual. We're born: a doctor assigns us a gender. It's documented by the state, enforced by the legal profession, sanctified by the church, and it's bought and sold in the media. We have no say in our gender - we're not allowed to question it, play with it, work it out with our friends, lovers or family. Gender is not consensual. Safe gender is being who and what we want to be when we want to be that, with no threat censure or violence. Safe gender is going as far in an direction as we wish with not threats to our health, or to anyone else's. Safe gender is not being pressured into passing, not having to lie, not having to hide. Sane gender is asking questions about gender - talking to people who do gender and opening up about our gender histories and our gender desires. Sane gender is probably very, very funny. Consensual gender is respecting each others definitions of gender , and respecting the intentions of others to be inclusive in their own time. Consensual gender is non violent in that it doesn't force its way in on anyone. Consensual gender opens its arms and welcomes all people as gender outcasts - whoever is willing to admit to it. Gender has a lot to learn from S/M.

You've come to give me a piece of your mind, I repeated, looking at her. "You know that phrase is really beautiful. The mind is the most powerful thing in the body, you know, whatever the mind believes, the body can achieve. So to give someone a piece of it...well, thank you, Elizabeth. Funny how people are always intent on giving it to the people they dislike when it really should be for the ones they love. There's another funny thing. But a piece of your mind...what a gift that would be." I looped the last stalk and formed a chain. "I'll give you a daisy chain in return for a piece of your mind." I slid the bracelet onto her arm. She sat on the grass. Didn't move, didn't say anything, just looked at her daisy chain. Then she smiled and when she spoke her voice was soft. "Has anyone ever been mad at you for more than five minutes." I looked at my watch. "Yes. You, from the o'clock this morning until now.

Temperance pursed her lips, her eyes firmly fixed on the growing mound of chopped turnip roots. “Do you think anyone really likes turnips?” “Temperance…” Temperance poked the tip of her knife into a white cube and held it up. “They are very filling, of course, but really, when was the last time you heard someone say, ‘Oh, I’m so very fond of turnips’?

This is another trick of shrinks. They never let you stop in midthought. If you open your mouth, they want to know exactly what you had the intention of saying. The party line is that some of the most profound truths about us are things that we stop saying in the middle, but I think they do it to make us feel important. One thing’s for sure: no one else in life says to me, “Wait, Craig, what were you going to say?

Control: February 15 Sometimes, the gray days scare us. Those are the days when the old feelings come rushing back. We may feel needy, scared, ashamed, unable to care for ourselves. When this happens, it’s hard to trust ourselves, others, the goodness of life, and the good intentions of our Higher Power. Problems seem overwhelming. The past seems senseless; the future, bleak. We feel certain the things we want in life will never happen. In those moments, we may become convinced that things and people outside of ourselves hold the key to our happiness. That’s when we may try to control people and situations to mask our pain. When these “codependent crazies” strike, others often begin to react negatively to our controlling. When we’re in a frenzied state, searching for happiness outside ourselves and looking to others to provide our peace and stability, remember this: Even if we could control things and people, even if we got what we wanted, we would still be ourselves. Our emotional state would still be in turmoil. People and things don’t stop our pain or heal us. In recovery, we learn that this is our job, and we can do it by using our resources: ourselves, our Higher Power, our support systems, and our recovery program. Often, after we’ve become peaceful, trusting, and accepting, what we want comes to us—with ease and naturalness. The sun begins to shine again. Isn’t it funny, and isn’t it true, how all change really does begin with us? I can let go of things and people and my need to control today. I can deal with my feelings. I can get peaceful. I can get calm. I can get back on track and find the true key to happiness—myself. I will remember that a gray day is just that—one gray day.

I swear, baby, this is the only place I want to be. I’ve never wanted, never needed, anything the way I do you. I should have known you’d make yourself this important to me. Should have seen it coming. You’re sweet and funny and bitchy and beautiful and so fucking strong. The best thing in my world. No one will ever be – no one could ever be – who you are to me. And I don’t have even the slightest intention of ever letting you go.

while people go on chatting about a million and one things I mostly sit and observe with ascended understandings as they bring up the topic of death and of a person dying I listen quietly while often accidentally smiling at the absurdity of anybody ever believing in death I don't mean to be insensitive towards a body's last breath a higher Reality laid bare, bodily expiration is of no account with this revelation incalculable life fears we surmount the Sage is notorious for finding strange things funny giggling at horrors and ridiculous events not so sunny sometimes a straight face is merely for show but spy the glint in his eye about a truth you don’t know an unfounded assumption is that we only live once not a Mystic throughout history has avowed this occurrence Christian ones may not have mentioned being reborn again they also didn't deny it—their teaching was kept plain just as the Buddha intentionally avoided the God concept ultimately not essential, under the rug reincarnation is swept

Kid, time’s up,” Hunter said to the boy on Santa’s lap. “I’m not finished!” the boy cried. Hunter bent over, until their faces were level. The kid reminded him of Cupid,whose chubby face hid a diabolical brain intent on replacing Santa as the most beloved holiday figure. Hunter had lost more than one of his platoon members after they were lured into Cupid’s boiling pots of chocolate. He’d learned not to trust kids. “If you don’t want me to slip you a poison gumdrop in your sleep, get off Santa’s lap,” Hunter whispered. The boy burst into tears. “Next!” Hunter barked.

The sides of my head throb. My knees feel weak. “You need therapy.” Mom laughs the most over-the-top, hysterical laugh I’ve ever heard. “It’s not funny. There is something wrong with you. Who treats their kids this way? There’s a reason none of us want to be around you. There’s a reason Shoji wants to live with Dad, and why Taro spent the rest of the summer with his friend, and why I want to go to art school thousands of miles away from you.” My face burns with frustration. “You are so obsessed with yourself that there isn’t any room for anyone else’s feelings. You don’t care about anything unless it somehow relates back to you.” I start to walk away, intent on leaving her alone in her chair. But something stops me. Spinning back to face her, my breathing erratic and my voice hoarse, I growl, “And I’m not imagining what happened to me. Your sick brother sexually abused me. I don’t care what you think it’s called, because that’s what it is. Sexual abuse. I was sexually abused. Do you get that? And if you were any kind of mother, that would have mattered to you. You wouldn’t have tried to justify it or rationalize it away by saying it wasn’t rape and therefore isn’t as bad—it was bad. That’s it.

Matt’s housekeeper let him in with a grimace. “I’m harmless today,” Tate assured the woman as she led the way to where Matt Holden was standing just outside the study door. “Right. You and two odd species of cobra,” Matt murmured sarcastically, glaring at his son from a tanned face. “What do you want, a bruise to match the other one?” Tate held up both hands. “Don’t start,” he said. Matt moved out of the way with reluctance and closed the study door behind them. “Your mother’s gone shopping,” he said. “Good. I don’t want to talk to her just yet.” Matt’s eyebrows levered up. “Oh?” Tate dropped into the wing chair across from the senator’s bulky armchair. “I need some advice.” Matt felt his forehead. “I didn’t think a single malt whiskey was enough to make me hallucinate,” he said to himself. Tate glowered at him. “You’re not one of my favorite people, but you know Cecily a little better than I seem to lately.” “Cecily loves you,” Matt said shortly, dropping into his chair. “That’s not the problem,” Tate said. He leaned forward, his hands clasped loosely between his splayed knees. “Although I seem to have done everything in my power to make her stop.” The older man didn’t speak for a minute or two. “Love doesn’t die that easily,” he said. “Your mother and I are a case in point. We hadn’t seen each other for thirty-six years, but the instant we met again, the years fell away. We were young again, in love again.” “I can’t wait thirty-six years,” Tate stated. He stared at his hands, then he drew in a long breath. “Cecily’s pregnant.” The other man was quiet for so long that Tate lifted his eyes, only to be met with barely contained rage in the older man’s face. “Is it yours?” Matt asked curtly. Tate glowered at him. “What kind of woman do you think Cecily is? Of course it’s mine!” Matt chuckled. He leaned back in the easy chair and indulged the need to look at his son, to find all the differences and all the similarities in that younger version of his face. It pleased him to find so many familiar things. “We look alike,” Tate said, reading the intent scrutiny he was getting. “Funny that I never noticed that before.” Matt smiled. “We didn’t get along very well.” “Both too stubborn and inflexible,” Tate pointed out. “And arrogant.” Tate chuckled dryly. “Maybe.

Apollo watched me closely, intently. “No.” My eyes narrowed. “No to what?” “I’m not sending you after them. Not yet,” he said, surprising me into silence—a rarity. “I have another task for you. You need to leave for southern Virginia immediately. I’d snap your sunshine-and-rainbows ass there, but now that you’ve annoyed me, you’ll drive the twenty or so hours to get there.” Okay. That was irritating, but I kind of liked road trips, so whatever. “What’s in southern Virginia?” “Radford University.” I waited. I waited some more, and then sighed. “Okay. You want me to enroll in college?” I asked, and Apollo tipped back his head and laughed so loudly, he actually whooped. I frowned. “What the hell is so funny about that idea?” “You. College. Using your head. That’s what’s funny.” I was seconds away from blasting him with akasha.

You and Garcia aren't---" "No. I'm a one-man kind of woman." "And this one man..." His eyes lit up. Hopeful. Intent. "What's he like?" "He's brave." I pressed a kiss to his forehead. "He's strong." Another kiss, this one on his cheek. "Funny and sarcastic." Kisses down his jaw despite the bristles. "Selfless." A kiss on the corner of his lips. "Loyal and honorable." Another kiss on the cheek. "A team player." Jack gave a satisfied rumble. "He's always worked alone." "Not anymore." I brushed his hair back from his face. "No one wanted to be left behind when it came time to save him. Everyone wanted to help. He was part of a team, and the team looks after each other." "How is he in bed?" His voice dropped to a sensual rumble. "Incredible." "The best you ever had?" "I wouldn't want him to get too cocky." Jack laughed. "He's cocky now.

Everyone in the delivery room was laughing at the story, including me. I never knew whether the doctor thought it was funny or not. She certainly did not join in the lightheartedness the rest of us felt. Because my doctor was also one of my bosses, I respected her and yet felt a bit intimidated by her at the same time. Jase was not intimidated at all. He was so relaxed, and that alleviated all the stress and tension I had felt since I first arrived at the hospital. True to his personality, he kept most of the room enthralled and laughing at his stories. As a lifelong hunter, he is no stranger to blood and gore. He thought the surgical process was very interesting and wanted to study everything inside of me. I’m sure his comment that my insides looked like a deer he had skinned the previous day was the first of its kind uttered during a C-section. At one point, the doctor said to him, “Jason, you have to be quiet now.” “Why?” he asked. “Because I’m getting close to the baby with this scalpel, and Missy has to stop laughing.” “Oh,” he said. “My bad.” As the doctor prepared to remove Cole, the room became quiet; I didn’t know exactly what was going on because I couldn’t see around the sheet, but I knew the time had come for our baby to be born. Jase watched everything intently. The doctor pulled on the baby, but he would not budge. In Jase’s words, “He just wouldn’t come out.” So Jase decided to lend a hand. He reached into the area near where the doctor was working, which caused every person to freeze. The room fell completely silent. As Jase recalled later, the doctor’s eyes filled with fire, and she shot him laser-sharp looks. No words were spoken, but he immediately raised his hands as if to say, “Don’t shoot,” and backed off.

Rhysand opened his mouth, but then the silhouettes of two tall, powerful bodies appeared on the other side of the front door's fogged glass. One of them banged on it with a fist. 'Hurry up, you lazy ass,' a deep male voice drawled from the antechamber beyond. Exhaustion drugged me so heavily that I didn't particularly care that there were wings peeking over thier two shadowy forms. Rhys didn't so much as blink toward the door. 'Two things, Feyre darling.' The pounding continued, followed by the second male murmuring to his companion, 'If you're going to pick a fight with him, do it after breakfast.' That voice- like shadows given form, dark and smooth and... cold. 'I wasn't the one who hauled me out of bed just now to fly down here,' the first one said. Then added, 'Busybody.' I could have sworn a smile tugged on Rhys's lips as he went on, 'One, no one- no one- but Mor and I are able to winnow directly inside this house. it is warded, shielded, and then warded some more. Only those I wish- and you wish- may enter. You are safe here; and safe anywhere in this city, for that matter. Velaris's walls are well protected and have not been breached in five thousand years. No one with ill intent enters this city unless I allow it. So go where you wish, do what you wish, and see who you wish. Those two in the antechamber,' he added, eyes sparkling, 'might not be on that list of people you should bother knowing, if they keep banging on the door like children.' Another pound, emphasised by the first male voice saying, 'You know we can hear you, prick.' 'Secondly,' Rhys went on, 'in regard to the two bastards at my door, it's up to you whether you want to meet them now, or head upstairs like a wise person, take a nap since you're still looking a little peaky, and then change into city-appropriate clothing while I beat the hell out of one of them for talking to his High Lord like that.' There was such light in his eyes. It made him look... younger, somehow. More mortal. So at odds with the icy rage I'd seen earlier when I'd awoken... Awoken on that couch, and then decided I wasn't returning home. Decided that, perhaps, the Spring Court might not be my home.

Haven’t I tired you out yet, darling?” Ian whispered several hours later. “Yes,” she said with an exhausted laugh, her cheek nestled against his shoulder, her hand drifting over his chest in a sleepy caress. “But I’m too happy to sleep for a while yet.” So was Ian, but he felt compelled to at least suggest that she try. “You’ll regret it in the morning when we have to appear for breakfast,” he said with a grin, cuddling her closer to his side. To his surprise, the remark made her smooth forehead furrow in a frown. She tipped her face up to his, opened her mouth as if to ask him a question, then she changed her mind and hastily looked away. “What is it?” he asked, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger and lifting her face up to his. “Tomorrow morning,” she said with a funny, bemused expression on her face. “When we go downstairs…will everyone know what we have done tonight?” She expected him to try to evade the question. “Yes,” he said. She nodded, accepting that, and turned into his arms. “Thank you for telling me the truth,” she said with a sigh of contentment and gratitude. “I’ll always tell you the truth,” he promised quietly, and she believed him. It occurred to Elizabeth that she could ask him now, when he’d given that promise, if he’d had anything to do with Robert’s disappearance. And as quickly as the thought crossed her mind, she pushed it angrily away. She would not defame their marriage bed by voicing ugly, unfounded suspicions carried to her by a man who obviously had a grudge against all Scots. This morning, she had made a conscious decision to trust him and marry him; now, she was bound by her vows to honor him, and she had absolutely no intention of going back on her own decision or on the vow she made to him in church. “Elizabeth?” “Mmmm?” “While we’re on the subject of truth, I have a confession to make.” Her heart slammed into her ribs, and she went rigid. “What is it?” she asked tautly. “The chamber next door is meant to be used as your dressing room and withdrawing room. I do not approve of the English custom of husband and wife sleeping in separate beds.” She looked so pleased that Ian grinned. “I’m happy to see,” he chuckled, kissing her forehead, “we agree on that.

Life was well enough, she thought; well enough, and a gay enough business for those who had the means to make it so, and the temperament to find it so. Life was no great matter, and nor, certainly, was death; but it was well enough. We come and we go; we are born, we live, and we die; this poor ball, thought Rome, serves us for all that; and on the whole, we make too much complaint of it, expect, one way and another, too much of it. It is, after all, but a turning ball, which has burst, for some reason unknown to science, into a curious, interesting and rather unwholesome form of animal and vegetable life. (…) Funny, hustling, strutting, vain, eager little creatures that we are, so clever and so excited about the business of living, so absorbed and intent about it all, so proud of our achievements, so tragically deploring our disasters, so prone to talk about the wreckage of civilization, as if it mattered much, as if civilizations had not been wrecked and wrecked all down human history, and it all came to the same thing in the end. Nevertheless, thought Rome, we are really rather wonderful little spurts of life. The brief pageant, the tiny, squalid story of human life upon this earth, has been lit, among the squalor and the greed, by amazing flashes of intelligence, of valor, of beauty, of sacrifice, of love.

Are you mad at me?” Her brow was wrinkled and her eyes were worried, and she wasn’t smiling anymore. “I thought you would laugh.” She shrugged. “I told Kathleen I was going to surprise you. And she said, ‘Go right ahead!’ So I did. I used your paints, but I put everything back.” “Why are you kicking me in the head?” “It’s our story. We meet. You save me. I kiss you. You kiss me back, but you keep acting like you don’t like me even though I know you do. So I’m kicking some sense into you. And man, does it feel good.” She grinned cheekily, and I looked back at her depiction. That was some kick to the head. “It’s a terrible mural.” It was terrible. And funny. And very Georgia. “Well, we can’t all be Leonardo DiCaprio. You painted on my walls, I’m painting on yours. And you don’t even have to pay me. I’m just trying to bond with you over art.” “Leonardo da Vinci, you mean?” “Him too.” She smiled again and laid back on my bed, patting the spot beside her. “You could have at least given me some biceps. That doesn’t look anything like me. And why am I saying, ‘Don’t hurt me, Georgia!’” I plopped down on the bed and purposely landed partially on top of her. She wiggled and scooted breathlessly, trying to free herself from my intentional squishing... She stroked my head and I breathed against her skin. “Are we bonding over art?” she whispered in my ear. “No.

- Silencio -gruñó Anthony, mirándolos fijamente-. Estoy intentando apuntar. - En un momento de crisis, esa necesidad de silencio no te servirá para nada -apuntó Colin. - Cállate -dijo Anthony - Si nos atacaran -continuó Colin, gesticulando con una mano mientras hablaba-, habría mucho ruido y, sinceramente, me preocupa que no puedas… - ¡Colin! -exclamó Anthony. - Ignórame -le dijo Colin. - Voy a matarlo -anunció Anthony-. ¿Os molesta si le mato? Nadie se movió, aunque Sophie levantó la cabeza y dijo algo sobre la sangre y que no quería tener que limpiarlo todo después. - Es un fertilizante excelente -dijo Phillip, puesto que aquel era un tema que él dominaba. - Ah. -Sophie asintió y volvió a su libro-. Entonces, mátalo. - ¿Qué tal el libro, querida? -le preguntó Benedict. - Es muy bueno. - ¿Queréis hacer el favor de callaros todos? -gritó Anthony. Luego, ligeramente sonrojado, se giró hacia su cuñada y dijo-: Sophie, tú no, por supuesto. - Me alegra ser la excepción -dijo ella, sonriendo. - No intentes amenazar a mi mujer -le dijo Benedict, suavemente, a su hermano. Anthony se giró hacia su hermano y lo atravesó con la mirada. - Debería mataros y descuartizaros a todos -dijo. - Menos a Sophie -le recordó Colin. Anthony lo miró con cara de pocos amigos. - ¿Te das cuenta de que el revólver está cargado? - Por suerte para mí, el fratricidio no está permitido.

i will tell you about selfish people even when they know they will hurt you they walk into your life to taste you because you are the type of being they don’t want to miss out on you are too much shine to not be felt so when they have gotten a good look at everything you have to offer. when they have taken your skin, your hair, your secrets with them when they realize how real this is how much of a storm you are and it hits them. that is when the cowardice sets in. that is when the person you thought they were is replaced with the sad reality of what they are. that is when they lose every fighting bone in their body and leave after saying you will find better than me. you will stand there naked with half of them still hidden somewhere inside you and sob. asking them why they did it. why they forced you to love them when they had no intention of loving you back and they’ll say something along the lines of I just had to try. I had to give it a chance. It was you after all but that isn’t romantic. It isn’t sweet. The idea that they were so engulfed by your existence that had to risk breaking it for the sake of knowing they weren’t the one missing out your existence meant that little next to their curiosity of you this is the thing about selfish people they gamble entire beings. entire souls to please their own. One second they are holding you like the world in their lap and the next they have belittled you to a mere picture a moment. something of the past. one second. as if the human heart means that little to them. isn’t it sad and funny how people have more guts these days to undress you with their fingers than they do to pick up the phone and call. apologize. for the loss.

ASSERTIVE The Assertive type believes time is money; every wasted minute is a wasted dollar. Their self-image is linked to how many things they can get accomplished in a period of time. For them, getting the solution perfect isn’t as important as getting it done. Assertives are fiery people who love winning above all else, often at the expense of others. Their colleagues and counterparts never question where they stand because they are always direct and candid. They have an aggressive communication style and they don’t worry about future interactions. Their view of business relationships is based on respect, nothing more and nothing less. Most of all, the Assertive wants to be heard. And not only do they want to be heard, but they don’t actually have the ability to listen to you until they know that you’ve heard them. They focus on their own goals rather than people. And they tell rather than ask. When you’re dealing with Assertive types, it’s best to focus on what they have to say, because once they are convinced you understand them, then and only then will they listen for your point of view. To an Assertive, every silence is an opportunity to speak more. Mirrors are a wonderful tool with this type. So are calibrated questions, labels, and summaries. The most important thing to get from an Assertive will be a “that’s right” that may come in the form of a “that’s it exactly” or “you hit it on the head.” When it comes to reciprocity, this type is of the “give an inch/take a mile” mentality. They will have figured they deserve whatever you have given them so they will be oblivious to expectations of owing something in return. They will actually simply be looking for the opportunity to receive more. If they have given some kind of concession, they are surely counting the seconds until they get something in return. If you are an Assertive, be particularly conscious of your tone. You will not intend to be overly harsh but you will often come off that way. Intentionally soften your tone and work to make it more pleasant. Use calibrated questions and labels with your counterpart since that will also make you more approachable and increase the chances for collaboration. We’ve seen how each of these groups views the importance of time differently (time = preparation; time = relationship; time = money). They also have completely different interpretations of silence. I’m definitely an Assertive, and at a conference this Accommodator type told me that he blew up a deal. I thought, What did you do, scream at the other guy and leave? Because that’s me blowing up a deal. But it turned out that he went silent; for an Accommodator type, silence is anger. For Analysts, though, silence means they want to think. And Assertive types interpret your silence as either you don’t have anything to say or you want them to talk. I’m one, so I know: the only time I’m silent is when I’ve run out of things to say. The funny thing is when these cross over. When an Analyst pauses to think, their Accommodator counterpart gets nervous and an Assertive one starts talking, thereby annoying the Analyst, who thinks to herself, Every time I try to think you take that as an opportunity to talk some more. Won’t you ever shut up?

I love you,” he says, though once he’s done it I can see he isn’t happy with it. He shakes his head and clicks his fingers, then puts his hand on his chest as he makes the declaration. “I love you.” “The second one,” I tell him, mainly because the second one gave me goose bumps. “Definitely.” “Or I could do it on one knee? Maybe add a bit of poetry? My love is a rare rose that blooms at the sight of you …” he offers, but of course we’re both trying not to laugh now. Something as terrifying as love, and somehow I’m relaxed enough to laugh. “But that’s not really me, right? If I was going to go with the honest version, it’d be more like this: my love is like a giant rampaging mutant from another dimension, intent on actually ingesting you in case you had any ideas about running away.

He pulled out a couple of mugs while she warmed up the cocoa. He chuckled and she turned to see what was funny and nearly had a heart attack. He was holding one hot pink and white mug while reading it, the other sitting on the counter: Men should be like my curtains, easy to pull and well hung. Her lips parted, she had to have turned cherry red, and she turned away quickly before she burned the cocoa. Now what? Explain that a friend had given them to her when her last boyfriend and she had parted company? Or just ignore the fact that they were drinking out of those cups while she was having hot cocoa with him and pretend she wasn’t embarrassed to the tip of her toes? He brought the mugs over. “Anything else?” “There’s a can of whipped cream in the fridge, if you want some.” “Real cream,” he said, eyeing the can. “Looks good.” He gave it to her, and he lifted the mugs. She shook up the can and pointed it at the right mug, pushed the nozzle, and the cream dripped and fizzled. Not to be thwarted, she shook it again, hoping that it wasn’t defective. And then the whipped cream swirled around with perfect ridges in a twirl on top with a cute little pointy peak. Perfect. Then she turned to the other mug, shook the can again, and pushed the nozzle. It was working great until halfway through her little mountain of whipped cream twirling to perfection, when the nozzle malfunctioned again and spewed whipped cream everywhere. In horror, she stopped what she was doing and stared at the white cream splattered all over Allan’s chest and a few that had dotted his boxer briefs. Her mouth agape, she glanced up at him. His eyes sparkled with mirth and he laughed. “Oh, oh, let me get something to wipe it up,” she said, belatedly, and set the can of whipped cream on the counter. She grabbed some paper towels and wetted them, then rushed back to wipe the mess up. He was still holding onto both hot pink mugs of cocoa. She had every intention of taking one of the mugs and letting him clean himself, but he just moved his arms apart as if to say she made the mess, she could wash it up. She thought she was going to die. Yes, he was totally hot. And yes, she’d fantasized about making love to him—since they were both unattached, and she truly liked him. But in her wildest dreams she would never have imagined making him cocoa in the middle of the night in her duplex while he stood in sexy silk briefs, not baggy, but nice and form fitting, and then she proceeded to splatter him with whipped cream. All over his tanned chest and those black briefs.

I wish you were going home with me tomorrow.” “I know.” She nearly added Me too, then realized she didn’t. Where would that leave the children? Stephen turned her hand over and ran his thumb across the ring. The wind tugged her hair. A lone seagull cried overhead, floating on the wind, almost stationary. “There was a part of me that hoped you would,” he said. “You know I can’t.” Hadn’t they been through this before? “It won’t be much longer. School will be out in a little over a month. And if the Goldmans buy the property, that’ll expedite things.” “And then what?” “The property would close thirty days from the signing. Maybe you could come for another visit between now and then.” “That’s not what I mean, Meridith.” She knew he referred to the children coming home with her, to their being a family, and she wished so desperately the day had gone better. “Today was a bad day. They’re not normally so quarrelsome, and Ben’s vomiting . . .” The memory was such a horrific end to the day, it was almost funny. She felt a laugh bubbling up inside. “Well, you have to keep your sense of humor around here, that’s for sure.” “I don’t find it funny in the least.” The bubble of laughter burst, unfulfilled. “I appreciate that you want to give them a chance. I’m just trying to say it isn’t always like this.” He looked at her, his eyes intent with purpose. “I didn’t come to bond with the kids, Meridith. I came to remind you what we have together.” He pressed another kiss to her palm. “I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” Her breath caught, but not because he’d repeated the words he’d spoken when he’d proposed. The other words made a far stronger impression. I didn’t come to bond with the kids. She’d misread the reason for his visit. She’d taken her own wish and transferred it onto him. “We have plans, good ones,” he said. “Save for a home in Lindenwood Park while we focus on our careers for three to five years. By then we’ll have enough to buy that dream home and start a family.” Meridith knotted the quilt material in her fist with the daffodil, clutching the stem against her chest. “I already have a family, Stephen.” His face fell. “They’re not your kids, Meridith. And they’re not mine.” “They’re my siblings. And they have no one else.” “That wasn’t our plan when I asked you to marry me. When you said yes.” “Life doesn’t always go according to plan, Stephen. Things happen. Change happens. I didn’t ask for this.” “I didn’t either. And I’m asking you to put me first. To put us first.” His grip tightened on her hand. “I love you. The future I want for us doesn’t include someone else’s children.” Meridith eased away from him, pulled her hand from his, and stood, even as he tightened his grip. If Stephen’s future didn’t include her siblings, then it didn’t include her either. She

I wish you were going home with me tomorrow.” “I know.” She nearly added Me too, then realized she didn’t. Where would that leave the children? Stephen turned her hand over and ran his thumb across the ring. The wind tugged her hair. A lone seagull cried overhead, floating on the wind, almost stationary. “There was a part of me that hoped you would,” he said. “You know I can’t.” Hadn’t they been through this before? “It won’t be much longer. School will be out in a little over a month. And if the Goldmans buy the property, that’ll expedite things.” “And then what?” “The property would close thirty days from the signing. Maybe you could come for another visit between now and then.” “That’s not what I mean, Meridith.” She knew he referred to the children coming home with her, to their being a family, and she wished so desperately the day had gone better. “Today was a bad day. They’re not normally so quarrelsome, and Ben’s vomiting . . .” The memory was such a horrific end to the day, it was almost funny. She felt a laugh bubbling up inside. “Well, you have to keep your sense of humor around here, that’s for sure.” “I don’t find it funny in the least.” The bubble of laughter burst, unfulfilled. “I appreciate that you want to give them a chance. I’m just trying to say it isn’t always like this.” He looked at her, his eyes intent with purpose. “I didn’t come to bond with the kids, Meridith. I came to remind you what we have together.” He pressed another kiss to her palm. “I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” Her breath caught, but not because he’d repeated the words he’d spoken when he’d proposed. The other words made a far stronger impression. I didn’t come to bond with the kids. She’d misread the reason for his visit. She’d taken her own wish and transferred it onto him. “We have plans, good ones,” he said. “Save for a home in Lindenwood Park while we focus on our careers for three to five years. By then we’ll have enough to buy that dream home and start a family.” Meridith knotted the quilt material in her fist with the daffodil, clutching the stem against her chest. “I already have a family, Stephen.” His face fell. “They’re not your kids, Meridith. And they’re not mine.” “They’re my siblings. And they have no one else.” “That wasn’t our plan when I asked you to marry me. When you said yes.” “Life doesn’t always go according to plan, Stephen. Things happen. Change happens. I didn’t ask for this.” “I didn’t either. And I’m asking you to put me first. To put us first.” His grip tightened on her hand. “I love you. The future I want for us doesn’t include someone else’s children.” Meridith

Of what use is my going to church every day and still come home and remain the same? Of what use is my attending the mosques and the next day I enter the mall with knives and start slaughtering people in the name of religion. God is a God of variety. He was not stupid creating all of us different with our uniqueness. His creating us different shows the level of His creativity. He didn't make you white to hate black or vice versa. He made it so that we can cherish and love each other irrespective of our differences just as He loved us with all our flaws and our short comings. Can we forgive those who have offended us? Yes and some will say no but never forget that you are not worthy but God still forgives you even till the last hour of your life. If God can love us against all our atrocities why can't we learn to love one another. Take a look around you, you can only see sad faces. Was that really God's intention for us on earth? Absolutely not. But we have remoulded God's creativity to suit our taste and lifestyles and now we are reaping the fruit of our labour. You should not expect to reap love when you sowed the seed of hatred. What a man sows that he reaps. We sowed on weapons of war and we are yielding war in return. We have sowed on weapons of destruction so why are we asking for peace. If you ask me....I will say let's go back to our source. He has never lost any battle. I am a living witness.

It is weird to me on how people will come to church frequently and have absolutely no desire or intention to change anything about their life based on what they experienced in the church.

You’re telling me that I ate some kind of aphrodisiac? Didn’t just eat it but practically overdosed on it? And you think it’s funny?” “Not at all.” The grin faded from his face and he looked at her intently. “In a very short period of time, none of us is going to think it’s funny.” “What do you mean none of us? How can it affect you two?” “We can feel your emotions, remember?” Deep tapped the side of his head. “Everything you feel, we, feel.” “But it won’t just be us—though we’ll be affected most deeply.” Lock had a grim look on his face. “It’s going to affect every male in your immediate vicinity.” “Okay, I get the emotions thing. But how is it going to affect everyone else?” “Your scent,” Deep answered for his brother. “You already smell like a female in heat whenever you’re around Lock and me. This is only going to make it worse—much worse.” He started to pace as he talked. “You already look irresistible and now you’ll smell irresistible as well. We’re going to have to warn off every other male at the party tonight.” Lock

there are two well-known types of pest by whom every second-hand bookshop is haunted. One is the decayed person smelling of old breadcrusts who comes every day, sometimes several times a day, and tries to sell you worthless books. The other is the person who orders large quantities of books for which he has not the smallest intention of paying.

I don’t believe my own press anymore – I don’t mean written: my own self-manufactured definition of my motivations, my intention. I realise even that’s dressed up: ‘Oh, well I did that for love of God or did that for love of neighbour.’ Well, Richard, maybe… Once you stop believing your own press – the normal phrase we use for that is ‘to stop taking yourself seriously’ – then I do believe your true self, even your true enneagram self, can rise. Can show itself. Which is really rather good… I’ve never been humorous my whole life and yet in the last year more and more people tell me I’m funny. I still don’t think I am but … I think that’s the showing of it, that I am taking myself less seriously. Once you do that the virtue of sincere caring or compassion can show itself. Because you’re not constrained by this self-analysis and this self-critique which keeps you self-absorbed. And now I don’t care so much whether I’m good or bad or right or wrong. I know that sounds immoral. It actually isn’t. I don’t think. I don’t think, yeah. So… I was too moral. Although it wasn’t moral at all, you follow me? It was always moral by my definition . And in most cases, ended up being my worst faults. That I could only see in time my over-moralising about ‘This is the right thing to do. Therefore: he’s right, she’s wrong’. The payoff was just not worth it. Because you’ve projected it onto everybody else, you know… Even identity issues like American, Christian, Catholic, uh, the three vows of religious life… All the things that I guided my life on, made me critical of people who weren’t that way. ‘Well, he’s sleeping around all the time, every day. So he isn’t as good as me.’ It’s just, who cares? I couldn’t hold that any longer and be a loving person. By making my moral decisions the criteria of judgement or of analysis. So I had to let go of it and I found myself much wiser and I think much happier. So why not trust that?

Funny but charity workers can’t help sans the backing of other people’s help. So why not just those with intent to help go right straight to those they wanted to help. In the first place, why charity workers? Where have gone all the people’s caretakers? If children are the province of parents, people are the domain of governments!

Berlin wrote songs for a number of Astaire films of the period: Top Hat, Follow the Fleet, On the Avenue, Carefree. The two men became close personal friends for the rest of their lives. But the choice of Astaire as a Hollywood leading man is, at first glance, puzzling. Certainly, he was an extraordinary dancer, and songwriters appreciated his accuracy and clarity when singing their songs, even if his voice was reedy and thin. But a leading man? Essentially, Astaire epitomized what Berlin and other Jews strove to achieve. He was debonair, polished, sophisticated. His screen persona was that of a raffish, outspoken fellow, not obviously attractive, whose audacity and romanticism and wit in the end won out. It didn’t hurt that he could dance. But even his dance—so smooth and elegant—was done mostly to jazz. Unlike a Gene Kelly, who was athletic, handsome, and sexy, Astaire got by on style. Kelly was American whereas Astaire was continental. In short, Astaire was someone the immigrant might himself become. It was almost like Astaire was himself Jewish beneath the relaxed urbanity. In a film like Top Hat he is audacious, rude, clever, funny, and articulate, relying mostly on good intentions and charm to win over the girl—and the audience. He is the antithesis of a Clark Gable or a Gary Cooper; Astaire is all clever and chatty, balding, small, and thin. No rugged individualist he. And yet his romantic nature and persistence win all. Astaire only got on his knees to execute a dazzling dance move, never as an act of submission. His characters were largely wealthy, self-assured, and worldly. He danced with sophistication and class. In his famous pairings with Ginger Rogers, the primary dance numbers had the couple dressed to the nines, swirling on equally polished floors to the strains of deeply moving romantic ballads.

Berlin wrote songs for a number of Astaire films of the period: Top Hat, Follow the Fleet, On the Avenue, Carefree. The two men became close personal friends for the rest of their lives. But the choice of Astaire as a Hollywood leading man is, at first glance, puzzling. Certainly, he was an extraordinary dancer, and songwriters appreciated his accuracy and clarity when singing their songs, even if his voice was reedy and thin. But a leading man? Essentially, Astaire epitomized what Berlin and other Jews strove to achieve. He was debonair, polished, sophisticated. His screen persona was that of a raffish, outspoken fellow, not obviously attractive, whose audacity and romanticism and wit in the end won out. It didn’t hurt that he could dance. But even his dance—so smooth and elegant—was done mostly to jazz. Unlike a Gene Kelly, who was athletic, handsome, and sexy, Astaire got by on style. Kelly was American whereas Astaire was continental. In short, Astaire was someone the immigrant might himself become. It was almost like Astaire was himself Jewish beneath the relaxed urbanity. In a film like Top Hat he is audacious, rude, clever, funny, and articulate, relying mostly on good intentions and charm to win over the girl—and the audience. He is the antithesis of a Clark Gable or a Gary Cooper; Astaire is all clever and chatty, balding, small, and thin. No rugged individualist he. And yet his romantic nature and persistence win all.

Robbie and I disagreed about guns. He believed that owning one was his right as an American, which he must’ve picked up when the Panthers out in Oakland were arming themselves. That was screamingly funny when I thought about it: a black man, one who’d been locked up twice, clinging to the Second Amendment. The strongest gun laws the country had ever passed were to prevent the men who’d inspired him, the Oakland Panthers, from having guns. If he’d been a little more intentional about his stance, it would have been subversive. But he wasn’t. He owned a gun because he liked them, and thought he was entitled to do so. Pop raised me to believe that guns weren’t for civilians. I think that stance was too soft; I think he shouldn’t have taught us to shoot. It wasn’t a beneficial skill, or even a neutral one. It was knowledge that had attracted and bred the violence in my life.

There happens to be a coffee bar in the lobby of the hotel. One afternoon while on a business trip in Las Vegas, I went to buy myself a cup of coffee. The barista working that day was a young man named Noah. Noah was funny and engaging. It was because of Noah that I enjoyed buying that cup of coffee more than I generally enjoy buying a cup of coffee. After standing and chatting for a while, I finally asked him, “Do you like your job?” Without skipping a beat Noah immediately replied, “I love my job!” Now, for someone in my line of business, that’s a significant response. He didn’t say, “I like my job,” he said, “I love my job.” That’s a big difference. “Like” is rational. We like the people we work with. We like the challenge. We like the work. But “love,” love is emotional. Love is something harder to quantify. It’s like asking someone “Do you love your spouse,” and they respond, “I like my spouse a lot.” It’s a very different answer. You get my point, love is a higher standard. So when Noah said, “I love my job,” I perked up. From that one response, I knew Noah felt an emotional connection to the Four Seasons that was bigger than the money he made and the job he performs. Immediately, I asked Noah a follow-up question. “Tell me specifically what the Four Seasons is doing that you would say to me that you love your job.” Again without skipping a beat, Noah replied, “Throughout the day, managers will walk past me and ask me how I’m doing, ask me if there is anything I need, anything they can do to help. Not just my manager … any manager. I also work for [another hotel],” he continued. He went on to explain that at his other job the managers walk past and try to catch people doing things wrong. At the other hotel, Noah lamented, “I keep my head below the radar. I just want to get through the day and get my paycheck. Only at the Four Seasons,” Noah said, “do I feel I can be myself.” Noah gives his best when he’s at the Four Seasons. Which is what every leader wants from their people. So it makes sense why so many leaders, even some of the best-intentioned ones, often ask, “How do I get the most out of my people?” This is a flawed question, however. It’s not a question about how to help our people grow stronger, it’s about extracting more output from them. People are not like wet towels to be wrung out. They are not objects from which we can squeeze every last drop of performance. The answers to such a question might yield more output for a time, but it often comes at a cost of our people and to the culture in the longer term. Such an approach will never generate the feelings of love and commitment that Noah has for the Four Seasons. A better question to ask is, “How do I create an environment in which my people can work to their natural best?

In his time the Pirate Captain had made a number of dramatic entrances of his own – not always intentional it had to be said, as quite often they were the result of him accidentally setting himself on fire – but even he had to admit that Cutlass Liz’s dramatic entrance set an extremely high dramatic-entrance standard.

Odd, though, all these dealings of mine with myself. First I’ve agreed a principle with myself, now I’m making out a case to myself, and debating my own feelings and intentions with myself. Who is this self, this phantom internal partner, with whom I’m entering into all these arrangements? (I ask myself.)

Odd, though, all these dealings of mine with myself. First I’ve agreed a principle with myself, now I’m making out a case to myself, and debating my own feelings and intentions with myself. Who is this self, this phantom internal partner, with whom I’m entering into all these arrangements? (I ask myself.)

Attitude at work shows attitude in life. If you want to know how people are doing in their lives, watch how they perform in their work. Do they have full commitment in giving their best to whatever they do? Do they treat their very act of being involved in an activity seriously? You can see that people who work halfheartedly are the very same people who get halfhearted results in life. The truth is we are always in a game because life is a game. We either play to win or not. Those who are serious about winning are the ones who do. Most people want to have fun playing the game, but winners are the ones who want to have serious fun. The most fun you can have in anything you do is by playing to win & by winning. The irony of life is that those who are not serious about life, end up in situations that are not funny. Winning results from the intention to win. The stronger your intent to win, the more your probabilities of winning. Playing to win mindset is considered obsolete by many, but you will see that whenever two evenly matched players are competing head to head, the one who is more intent on winning is the one who does. Individuals with strong intention of winning are able to overcome tougher challenges. Intention to win is important. Play to win.

But what do we ask them? ‘Are your intentions to fight us, or are you just mad we didn’t invite you to the party?’ I’m sure that will make us popular.

You want stories?” Thom Merrilin declaimed. “I have stories, and I will give them to you. I will make them come alive before your eyes.” A blue ball joined the others from somewhere, then a green one, and a yellow. “Tales of great wars and great heroes, for the men and boys. For the women and girls, the entire Aptarigine Cycle. Tales of Artur Paendrag Tanreall, Artur Hawkwing, Artur the High King, who once ruled all the lands from the Aiel Waste to the Aryth Ocean, and even beyond. Wondrous stories of strange people and strange lands, and of the Green Man, of Warders and Trollocs, of Ogier and Aiel. The Thousand Tales of Anla, the Wise Counselor. ‘Jaem the Giant-Slayer.’ How Susa Tamed Jain Farstrider. ‘Mara and the Three Foolish Kings.’” “Tell us about Lenn,” Egwene called. “How he flew to the moon in the belly of an eagle made of fire. Tell us about his daughter Salya walking among the stars.” Rand looked at her out of the corner of his eye, but she seemed intent on the gleeman. She had never liked stories about adventures and long journeys. Her favorites were always the funny ones, or the stories about women outwitting people who were supposed to be smarter then everyone else.

Console yourselves. I found dying highly disagreeable. I have no intention of repeating the experience. - Lady Denham

Marriage was funny like that. It always starts with two people making lifetime promises to each other that neither one knew for certain they could truly keep. Of course, those promises were always made with the best of intentions. But life...well, life is a funny ol’ thing, isn’t it? Didn’t Alanis Morissette sing something to that effect? Life has a funny way of sneaking up on you when you think everything’s okay. Yes. It was a very good song. Louise liked it. Ironic—that was the title of the song. Because life is, well...ironic.

Noah is...wonderful. He’s the definition of kind. Thoughtful. He does everything with intention and purpose. He’s a gentleman. Intelligent, and even though he doesn’t show it much, he’s funny.

Noah is...wonderful. He's the definition of kind. Thoughtful. He does everything with intention and purpose. He's a gentleman. Intelligent, and even though he doesn't show it much, he's funny.

And I have every intention of keeping those promises. You have a funny way of showing that, you cruel bastard

...I have no intention of thanking people for things I never asked for in the first place.

He tugged on my wet hair. 'We'll have to find a way to put a damper on that light.' 'I can keep the shadows hidden easily enough.' 'Ah, but you only lose control of those when you're pissed. And since I have every intention of making you as happy as a person can be... I have a feeling we'll need to learn to control that wondrous glow.' 'Always thinking; always calculating.' Rhys kissed the corner of my mouth. 'You have no idea how many things I've thought up when it comes to you.' 'I remember mention of a wall.' His laugh was a sensual promise. 'Next time, Feyre, I'll fuck you against the wall.' 'Hard enough to make the pictures fall off.

Once you get to know me, you'll find that I can be quite benevolent.' 'I have no intention of getting to know you.' 'So, you just make a habit of sneaking into the rooms of young men and seducing them before running off?' 'What?' I gasped. 'Seducing men?' 'Isn't that what you did to me, Princess?' His thumb made another slow sweep along the inside of my wrist. 'You're ridiculous,' I sputtered. 'What I am is intrigued.

How Explainer Videos Work For Your Business If you wonder how to take your business to the next level, then explainer videos could be your answer. A short, crisp, informative piece of explainer video is the ultimate key to reach your ideal business leads. Henceforth, you need not worry about keeping your profits high. All you have to do is to invest a part of your money in getting quality, professional explainer videos to boost up your rankings on search engines. Google’s algorithm for search engine rankings includes a part that quantifies the amount of time spent by the visitors to your website. The longer time they spent, the higher will be your ranking. This is why your site needs an explainer video to keep the clock ticking for you. These videos are great ways to get the attention of your visitors; it really keeps them engaged for a long time, provided the videos are interesting. It has been found out that a human brain is more attentive to visuals rather than mere phrases. As readers spend only a few seconds to minutes on each site, quality content with a catchy title would grab their attention, but not always. On the other hand, if they confront an interesting and funny video, they will be attracted and urged to watch the content. That is why explainer videos are smart marketing tools. According to top marketing firms, websites with explainer videos rank higher than others in Google universal searches. In a business, an explainer video offers you a smart platform to reach your ideal customers and introduce your services to them with the reasons for them to choose you over your competitors. What could it be? An explainer video could be anything. You can share your identity, ideas, concepts, issues, solutions, products, services and even arguments. You can bring them all up with videos in just a few seconds. How long could it be? The shorter, the better. Videos more than a 90 seconds could be boring to your visitors. Keeping them short and engaging is the trick to make the visitors stay on your page, which in turn fetches the ranking. Here are a few reasons to justify the need for explainer videos for your business. 1. Creates a virtual connection: The most important aspect of online marketing is to showcase your personality in a smart manner. Your customer is with little or no contact with you in online business. So it is crucial to build a trustworthy bond with your customer to maintain a strong relationship. Explainer videos do this job for you; they offer you an identity that is recognized by your customers which wins their trust. 2. Gains popularity: A good and attractive explainer video is extremely contagious. It is not restricted to your website alone and can be shared with other video hosting sites like YouTube. This means your site gains popularity. People share videos on a higher scale rather than sharing web pages. Moreover, free video hosting sites like YouTube can be accessed even on a Smart phone which is an added advantage. 3. Holds all in one: Website clutter is a serious mistake that directly affects the rankings of a website. With the intention to hike rankings and boost sales, many website owners clutter their site with loads of images, colorful fonts, flash pictures and pop boxes. This could only have adverse effects on the site. It increases the load time of the website and leaves the visitors confounded that they wonder what your site conveys. On the contrary, an explainer video is can be designed to comprise all such smart aspects squeezed into a single video. 4. Resurrects your identity: PPT slides and pop up ads are obsolete and they don’t belong to this era of online business marketing. A colorful, funny and informative video with great visuals can do the magic; it grabs the attention of the audience. This is particularly suitable for multifaceted businesses with multiple products and services. You can create customized videos for each product and

The wildest flower opened before the rain or Sun reached our Dawn. The fairytale flower has a magic way of silver letters high in the sky. When all the flowers are trembling wild, she stays quiet, it is her task. As all flowers multiply in butterflies, this funny flower is silent in her day. The job of a small one was to be more than all intentions could have one dream to be sung!

Eventually, you will have to stop pouring yourself into the things that will give nothing back, that take without any intent to give. You will have to stop trying to make yourself fit into places you are no longer meant to be. If you are going to give your energy to anything, give it to what’s already working. To the people who already love you, to the things that show potential, to the places that make you feel more alive. Life speaks to us in subtleties, in the smallest possible ways. In the little clicks, the funny coincidences, the ways the ordinary collides into the serendipitous. Sometimes, the quiet whispers are the most accurate ones. The voices of pride and ego and attraction are louder, but they are often devoid of the fullness of truth. Listen for the quiet yes, for what gently sprouts, for what grows, and grows.

It’s funny, Eugene usually had bad eye contact, but now he was staring intently with a huge grin, as if taunting me, as if daring me to just do and say what I’d been holding in.

You know, I’ve never understood that. How being named for a woman’s nethers is somehow more grievous than any other insult. Seems to me calling someone after a man’s privates is worse. I mean, what do you picture when you hear a fellow called a cock?” Tric shrugged, befuddled at the strange turn in conversation. “You imagine an oaf, don’t you?” Mia continued. “Someone so full of wank there’s no room for wits. A slow-minded bastard who struts about full of spunk and piss, completely ignorant of how he looks to others.” An exhalation of clove-sweet grey into the air between them. “Cock is just another word for ‘fool’. But you call someone a cunt, well …” The girl smiled. “You’re implying a sense of malice there. An intent. Malevolent and self-aware. Don’t think I name Consul Scaeva a cunt to gift him insult. Cunts have brains, Don Tric. Cunts have teeth. Someone calls you a cunt, you take it as a compliment. As a sign that folk believe you’re not to be lightly fucked with.” A shrug. “I think they call that irony.” Mia sniffed, staring at the wastes laid out below them. “Truth is, there’s no difference between your nethers and mine. Aside from the obvious, of course. But one doesn’t carry any more weight than the other. Why should what’s between my legs be considered any smarter or stupider, any worse or better? It’s all just meat, Don Tric. In the end, it’s all just food for worms. Just like Duomo, Remus, and Scaeva will be.” One last drag, long and deep, as if drawing the very life from her smoke. “But I’d still rather be called a cunt than a cock any turn.” The girl sighed grey, crushed her cigarillo out with her boot heel. Spat into the wind. And just like that, young Tric was in love.

She cleared her throat, let go of the rail, and stood up straighter. “Because I have come here today to ask you to marry me.” His lips twitched. “It is not funny,” she cried. It was, of course, but she did not wish to be laughed at. Particularly when he had not answered. “You must admit, it is a little funny. To an outside party, we must be exceedingly comical.” “Yes, well, it is the worry of an outside party that is the reason we are here in the first place,” she muttered, looking down at her feet. A finger was placed gently under her chin, lifting her head up. “Pray, continue.” His dark eyes were serious, his lips playful. It was an irresistible combination. “It is the first time I have been proposed to and I must admit I find the experience intriguing.” Her eyes flashed. “I have already asked. It is now your turn to answer.” His amused expression deepened. “Oh, no. You have not asked. You merely announced your intention to ask. There is a large difference between stating the purpose of your visit and posing the question. Wouldn’t you say?

A capable wife who can find?” Really? This question in Proverbs 31:10 is snarky! Yet this is the nature of Proverbs: Its insights can be acidic, comforting, funny, scary. Proverbs captures some of the same qualities that catch our attention in quips on our T-shirts: “What goes around comes around.” “If you’re too open-minded, your brains will fall out.” People have always favored edgy, clever, pithy sayings—even if they’re a little mean. So we understand this about the style of Proverbs, set it aside, and look to see if something more important is being said. It is. The author describes not simply the virtues of a capable wife but the characteristics of wisdom itself. Verse 26 says that the wife “opens her mouth with wisdom.” In verse 27, translated as “she looks well to the ways of her household,” that first Hebrew phrase (“she looks well to”) is pronounced sophia (tzo-fi-ya). Sophia is the Greek word for wisdom. It’s probably an intentional pun. Wisdom is “in the house,” so to speak! And what does wisdom do? It “does not eat the bread of idleness.” Wisdom is not passive but attentive and active. Now the many tasks that lead up to verses 26 and 27 are put into context: The wise one goes to work, acts with savvy and kindness, takes responsibility, dispenses justice and mercy, serves and honors those around her. Wisdom is not something to be possessed as an achievement or an academic exercise: It is meant to be lived. There’s our message. Not that we are never to reflect or contemplate or spend time listening to and learning from God; but when we have learned something, that’s just the beginning. The learning becomes real when we act upon it. We grow wise as we apply God’s word in our daily decisions. We can’t leave wisdom sitting in the corner.

Funny how people who lived in an area supported by tourism often hated tourists.

Clenching my fists, his subsequent snore emphasises my suspicions. He has been sleeping on the job. I put my hands on my hips and glide over to him. I have one intent in mind. Picking up the book next to his elbow, I slam it down on the table. There are definitely some perks to being able to manipulate objects. Adam’s reaction is priceless. “W…w….what? W…where? W…why?” He stammers, blinking frantically. One hand flies to his heart, which he clutches dramatically and he raises his other to his forehead, wiping his brow. When he realises who has disturbed him and what I have done, he scowls at me. “Why did you do that?” He snaps, rubbing his eyes. He yawns at the end, meaning that I definitely can’t take him seriously. “I was enjoying that dream.” At hearing his answer, I roll my eyes. Part of me is tempted to interrogate him, to find what he was dreaming about exactly. The other rational and sensible part wins, meaning that I thrust the book in his direction, winding him considerably. He throws me a sharp glare, which ends in a grimace. The book juts sharply into his ribs. “You should be reading NOT sleeping!” I retort, making sure that the book digs harder into his chest. I give it one last push. “So get going.

He stood and stared into the distance for a long while; he knew this spot particularly well. While attending university it often happened — a hundred times, perhaps, usually on his way home — that he would pause at precisely this spot, look intently at this truly magnificent panorama and every time be almost amazed by the obscure, irresolvable impression it made on him. An inexplicable chill came over him as he gazed at this magnificence; this gorgeous scene was filled for him by some dumb, deaf spirit... He marvelled every time at this sombre, mysterious impression and, distrusting himself, put off any attempt to explain it. Now, all of a sudden, those old questions of his, that old bewilderment, came back to him sharply, and it was no accident, he felt, that they'd come back now. The simple fact that he'd stopped at the very same spot as before seemed outlandish and bizarre, as if he really had imagined that now he could think the same old thoughts as before, take an interest in the same old subjects and scenes that had interested him... such a short while ago. He almost found it funny, yet his chest felt so tight it hurt. In the depths, down below, somewhere just visible beneath his feet, this old past appeared to him in its entirety, those old thoughts, old problems, old subjects, old impressions, and this whole panorama, and he himself, and everything, everything... It was as if he were flying off somewhere, higher and higher, and everything was vanishing before his eyes... Making an involuntary movement with his hand, he suddenly sensed the twenty-copeck piece in his fist. He unclenched his hand, stared hard at the coin, drew back his arm and hurled the coin into the water; then he turned round and set off home. It felt as if he'd taken a pair of scissors and cut himself off from everyone and everything, there and then.

Aren't you the least bit curious about why I am here?" "No, considering the last time you paid me a visit, I dreamed that my testicles were burning off for a week." Hermes grinned. "Come on. That was funny." Dionysus glared. "What do you want, Hermes?" Dionysus lay down, still intent on sleeping despite whatever the god had come to say. He propped his hands behind his head and stared at the god, but Hermes looked unnerved and swallowed hard. "Well, Hades tells me I am your keeper," Hermes said. "So, I suppose I am keeping." "Do you always do what Hades says?" Dionysus asked. "Only when it's fun." "And checking up on me is fun?" "Well, it was when I could set your balls on fire," Hermes said, pausing. Then he raised a brow. "Though I suppose nothing's changed." Hermes laughed and Dionysus's eyes darkened as he glared.