Jail Relationship Quotes

He thought about this for a second. "True. But if you never really make friends, you probably don't have anyone to be your 2 a.m. Which would kind of suck. I just looked at him as he stirred his soup, carrots spinning in the liquid. "Your what?" "Two a.m." He swallowed, then said, "You know. The person you can call at two a.m. and, no matter what, you can count on them. Even if they're asleep or it's cold or you need to be bailed out of jail...they'll come for you. It's, like, the highest level of friendship.

Amy [Winehouse] increasingly became defined by her addiction. Our media though is more interested in tragedy than talent, so the ink began to defect from praising her gift to chronicling her downfall. The destructive personal relationships, the blood soaked ballet slippers, the aborted shows, that YouTube madness with the baby mice. In the public perception this ephemeral tittle-tattle replaced her timeless talent. This and her manner in our occasional meetings brought home to me the severity of her condition. Addiction is a serious disease; it will end with jail, mental institutions, or death.

Then the best thing I can do is—" He froze. The brown eyes that had been narrowed with aggravation suddenly went wide with...what? Amazement? Awe? Or perhaps that stunned feeling I kept having when I saw him? Because suddenly, I was pretty sure he was experiencing the same thing I had earlier. He'd seen me plenty of times in Siberia. He'd seen me just the other night at the warehouse. But now...now he was truly viewing me with his own eyes. Now that he was no longer Strigoi, his whole world was different. His outlook and feelings were different. Even his soul was different. It was like one of those moments when people talked about their lives flashing before their eyes. Because as we stared at one another, every part of our relationship replayed in my mind's eye. I remembered how strong and invincible he'd been when we first met, when he'd come to bring Lissa and me back to the folds of Moroi society. I remembered the gentleness of his touch when he's bandaged my bloodies and bettered hands. I remembered him carrying me in his arms after Victor's daughter Natalie had attacked me. Most of all, I remembered the night we'd been together in the cabin, just before the Strigoi had taken him. A year. We'd known each other only a year but we'd lived a lifetime in it. And he was realizing that too, I knew as he studied me. His gaze was all-powerful, taking in every single one of my features and filing them away. Dimly, I tried to recall what I looked like today. I still wore the dress from the secret meeting and knew it looked good on me. My eyes were probably bloodshot from crying earlier, and I'd only had time for a quick brushing of my hair before heading off with Adrian. Somehow, I doubted any of it mattered. The way Dimitri was looking at me...it confirmed everything I'd suspected. The feelings he'd had for me before he'd been turned-the feelings that had become twisted while a Strigoi—were all still there. They had to be. Maybe Lissa was his savior. Maybe the rest of the Court thought she was a goddess. I knew, right then, that no matter how bedraggled I looked or how blank he tried to keep his face, I was a goddess to him.

How To Tell If Somebody Loves You: Somebody loves you if they pick an eyelash off of your face or wet a napkin and apply it to your dirty skin. You didn’t ask for these things, but this person went ahead and did it anyway. They don’t want to see you looking like a fool with eyelashes and crumbs on your face. They notice these things. They really look at you and are the first to notice if something is amiss with your beautiful visage! Somebody loves you if they assume the role of caretaker when you’re sick. Unsure if someone really gives a shit about you? Fake a case of food poisoning and text them being like, “Oh, my God, so sick. Need water.” Depending on their response, you’ll know whether or not they REALLY love you. “That’s terrible. Feel better!” earns you a stay in friendship jail; “Do you need anything? I can come over and bring you get well remedies!” gets you a cozy friendship suite. It’s easy to care about someone when they don’t need you. It’s easy to love them when they’re healthy and don’t ask you for anything beyond change for the parking meter. Being sick is different. Being sick means asking someone to hold your hair back when you vomit. Either love me with vomit in my hair or don’t love me at all. Somebody loves you if they call you out on your bullshit. They’re not passive, they don’t just let you get away with murder. They know you well enough and care about you enough to ask you to chill out, to bust your balls, to tell you to stop. They aren’t passive observers in your life, they are in the trenches. They have an opinion about your decisions and the things you say and do. They want to be a part of it; they want to be a part of you. Somebody loves you if they don’t mind the quiet. They don’t mind running errands with you or cleaning your apartment while blasting some annoying music. There’s no pressure, no need to fill the silences. You know how with some of your friends there needs to be some sort of activity for you to hang out? You don’t feel comfortable just shooting the shit and watching bad reality TV with them. You need something that will keep the both of you busy to ensure there won’t be a void. That’s not love. That’s “Hey, babe! I like you okay. Do you wanna grab lunch? I think we have enough to talk about to fill two hours!" It’s a damn dream when you find someone you can do nothing with. Whether you’re skydiving together or sitting at home and doing different things, it’s always comfortable. That is fucking love. Somebody loves you if they want you to be happy, even if that involves something that doesn’t benefit them. They realize the things you need to do in order to be content and come to terms with the fact that it might not include them. Never underestimate the gift of understanding. When there are so many people who are selfish and equate relationships as something that only must make them happy, having someone around who can take their needs out of any given situation if they need to. Somebody loves you if they can order you food without having to be told what you want. Somebody loves you if they rub your back at any given moment. Somebody loves you if they give you oral sex without expecting anything back. Somebody loves you if they don’t care about your job or how much money you make. It’s a relationship where no one is selling something to the other. No one is the prostitute. Somebody loves you if they’ll watch a movie starring Kate Hudson because you really really want to see it. Somebody loves you if they’re able to create their own separate world with you, away from the internet and your job and family and friends. Just you and them. Somebody will always love you. If you don’t think this is true, then you’re not paying close enough attention.

It’s not a crime to wish for other worlds. You’ll get taxed for it but they can’t throw you in jail for creating your own private world…yet. Dramatics are fun, an indulgence. ‘You can’t go backward,’ ‘You can’t live in the past,’ they tell you. Why not? ‘You’ve got to put all that behind you and move on to other things,’ they say. Bullshit! These are all expressions of modern disposability. It’s a mediocritizing technique—trying to get rid of what I call ‘past orthodoxies.’ It’s our past that makes us unique, therefore it’s our past that economic interests want to rob from us, so they can sell us a new, improved future. Society now depends on a disposable world—out with the old, in with the new, including relationships. But how we weep and wish we could hold onto those cherished moments forever, to those long-whispered dreams, those tortured nights—how we want to grasp them and stop them from sifting through our fingers. I say, ‘Don’t let it happen. Keep things the way you want them and let the rest of the world be duped.

during my worst times on the park benches in the jails or living with whores I always had this certain contentment- I wouldn't call it happiness- it was more of an inner balance that settled for whatever was occuring and it helped in the factories and when relationships went wrong with the girls. it helped through the wars and the hangovers the backalley fights the hospitals. to awaken in a cheap room in a strange city and pull up the shade- this was the craziest kind of contentment and to walk across the floor to an old dresser with a cracked mirror- see myself, ugly, grinning at it all. what matters most is how well you walk through the fire.

The wise do not consider the chains and shackles of jail to be the toughest restraints. The chains of attachment are the strongest of the ties that bind.

Irresponsibility. Maria’s never been irresponsible. When she was little, she was responsible for protecting everybody else from her own shit around her gender—responsible for making sure her parents didn’t have to have a weird kid. Of course, then they had a weird, sad kid anyway, right? Whatever. That’s when responsibility at the expense of self became a habit: she did not care about school, but she knew her parents would be sad if she didn’t go to college, since certain things are expected from you when you do well on standardized tests, so she scraped by and paid attention. Then, with drugs, it’s like, she took them all, but always in such moderation that it wasn’t really dangerous. Even when she was throwing up or incoherent, it was in a controlled situation. She never went to jail, never had the police bring her home, never got caught breaking curfew or went to the hospital or anything. And then she came to New York, paid her rent, had a job, kept her head down, had relationships with people where making the relationship run smoothly was more important than being present in it. Which did not work. It’s clear that being responsible has not been a positive force in her life. It has been fucking everything up.

If mental abuse was a punishable crime, most couples would be in jail serving a long term.

Below the surface, the force driving noir stories is the urge to escape: from the past, from the law, from the ordinary, from poverty, from constricting relationships, from the limitations of the self. Noir found its fullest expression in America because the American psyche harbors a passion for independence . . . With this desire for autonomy comes a corresponding fear of loneliness and exile. The more we crave success, the more we dread failure; the more we crave freedom, the more we dread confinement. This is the shadow that spawns all of noir’s shadows: the anxiety imposed by living in a country that elevates opportunity above security; one that instills the compulsion to “make it big," but offers little sympathy to those who fall short. Film noir is about people who break the rules, pursuing their own interests outside the boundaries of decent society, and about how they are destroyed by society - or by themselves. Noir springs from a fundamental conflict between the values of individual freedom and communal safety: a fundamental doubt that the two can coexist. . . . Noir stories are powered by the need to escape, but they are structured around the impossibility of escape: their fierce, thwarted energy turns inward. The ultimate noir landscape, immeasurable as the ocean and confining as a jail cell, is the mind - the darkest city of all.

A con artist, a total imposter, had played on my desires for the Cinderella dream and won a Monopoly trip to jail. I had hoped for uprightness, integrity, and potentially a relationship. Longing overshadowed the voice of conscience.

I don’t fundamentally understand why people give a shit about what other people put up their noses or what other people put in their veins or what other people breathe into their lungs. I mean I sort of care like if somebodies an addict it’s very destructive to people around that addict. It’s destructive to themselves. I’d like to get them help. I certainly support that which is to get that person help but, I don’t understand how people wake up and say I have to eradicate drug use across the land. “I gotta stick my nose into the business of what other people stick up their nose.” I just find that incomprehensible. I mean, is your life so vacant and so hysterical, so empty, so void of love, care and affection? I can go play with my daughter or I can go and obsessively try and get politicians to throw people in jail for doing things I don’t like. I can’t imagine why people would be choosing option “B” but, only because they don’t have anyone who loves them or, anyone they care about. They don’t have any rich, significant, important, hobbies, relationships, artistic pursuits or anything rich enough to keep them from obsessing about what other people do or bossing and bulling what other people do. This “stick your nose in other people’s business” Is so compulsive and epidemic to human society.

Suppose a person harmed people two generations ago; are this person’s grandchildren obliged to help his victims’ grandchildren? Subjects viewed a biological grandchild as more obligated than one adopted into the family at birth; the biological relationship carried a taint. Moreover, subjects were more willing to jail two long-lost identical twins for a crime committed by one of them than to jail two unrelated but perfect look-alikes—the former, raised in different environments, share a moral taint because of their identical genes.

Dear J., I want to explain something. After my dad set me on fire...Well...He died in jail while I was in the hospital getting skin grafts. And I never got to tell him how much he hurt me. Not just physically, but inside, you know? So I took it out on other things for a while. I'm better now. I get counseling for it, and I'm really better. But I'm not perfect. And I'm still fighting it. See... You're like the only person I have in my life that I really care about. I'm selfish about that. I don't want anybody to touch you. I want to keep you safe. That's why I hate this assignment so much. Now that I have you, I'm afraid to see you get hurt or messed up, like I was. I'm afraid I'll lose you, I guess. I wish you could always be safe. I worry a lot. If you weren't so damned independent...Ah, well. *smile* As much as we have been through in the past few months, we still don't know each other very well, do we? I want to change that about us. Do you? I want to know you better. Know what makes you happy and what scares you. And I want you to know that about me, too. I love you. I will try to never hurt you again. I know I'll screw up. But I'll keep trying, as long as you let me. Love, Cabe

What about Danny Thomas?" Uncle Hal asks. "What happened to him? "Dead," Uncle Abdelhafiz says. "Nice Lebanese boy." "Never mind about Danny Thomas, look what happened to your whole family! Look at your cousin Farouq, Great Uncle Ziad, Auntie Seena and Jimmy's son Jalal," Aunt Jean cuts in disapprovingly. "Dead, dead, dead, and in jail.

ref·u·gee noun: a person who flees for refuge or safety We are, each of us, refugees when we flee from burning buildings into the arms of loving families. When we flee from floods and earthquakes to sleep on blue mats in community centres. We are, each of us, refugees when we flee from abusive relationships, and shooters in cinemas and shopping centres. Sometimes it takes only a day for our countries to persecute us because of our creed, race, or sexual orientation. Sometimes it takes only a minute for the missiles to rain down and leave our towns in ruin and destitution. We are, each of us, refugees longing for that amniotic tranquillity dreaming of freedom and safety when fences and barbed wires spring into walled gardens. Lebanese, Sudanese, Libyan and Syrian, Yemeni, Somali, Palestinian, and Ethiopian, like our brothers and sisters, we are, each of us, refugees. The bombs fell in their cafés and squares where once poetry, dancing, and laughter prevailed. Only their olive trees remember music and merriment now as their cities wail for departed children without a funeral. We are, each of us, refugees. Don’t let stamped paper tell you differently. We’ve been fleeing for centuries because to stay means getting bullets in our heads because to stay means being hanged by our necks because to stay means being jailed, raped and left for dead. But we can, each of us, serve as one another’s refuge so we don't board dinghies when we can’t swim so we don’t climb walls with snipers aimed at our chest so we don’t choose to remain and die instead. When home turns into hell, you, too, will run with tears in your eyes screaming rescue me! and then you’ll know for certain: you've always been a refugee.

Understand something people, we will be hated by many in the name of Christ, ridiculed, mocked, stoned, slaughtered. We will be fined, jailed and killed for our love for Christ. You are supposed to see better with your eyes today, how close this is happening, just prepare your heart and soul to be braver than Peter and not deny Christ in the moment your life might be in jeopardy for Him and what you believe. Apostle Pauls says to live is Christ to die is gain.

Take a look in the mirror. Who are you today? Discover yourself anew. Don’t assume you are the same person you were last week or last year. Don’t limit yourself with your history. Look at your partner with new eyes each day as well. Who is this person? Rediscover him. Don’t assume he is the same person that you were with last week or last year. Don’t jail him with your judgments or his past. You cannot control how your partner shows up. What you can control, however, is how you show up in relationship to him. Rather than a stale repetition of the good old days we all fight so hard to re-create, be open to the newness in each moment and give your relationship a chance to breathe. Trying hard to keep a relationship together is a classic sign that it’s falling apart. Don’t pretend everything is OK when it’s not or gloss over problems in order to save face. Welcome challenges and speak your truth. Every so-called problem is an opportunity in disguise for you to expand and express new levels of your irresistibility.

became intent on publicly disgracing his wife by exposing her infidelity and revealing her relationship with a black man. For his part, Walter had always stayed clear of the courts and far away from the law. Years earlier, he had been drawn into a bar fight that resulted in a misdemeanor conviction and a night in jail. It was the first and only time he had ever been in trouble. From that point on, he had no exposure to the criminal justice system. When Walter received a subpoena from Karen Kelly’s husband to testify at a hearing where the Kellys would be fighting over their children’s custody, he knew it was going to cause him serious problems. Unable to consult with his wife, Minnie, who had a better head for these kinds of crises, he nervously went to the courthouse. The lawyer for Kelly’s husband called Walter to the stand. Walter had decided to acknowledge being a “friend” of Karen. Her lawyer objected to the crude questions posed to Walter by the husband’s attorney about the nature of his friendship, sparing him from providing any details, but when he left the courtroom the anger and animosity toward him were palpable. Walter wanted to forget about the whole ordeal, but word

Bureaucracy, politics, and the inability of public institutions to humbly acknowledge mistakes were all to blame. The two law enforcement agencies were biding their time, refusing comment on what they termed an ongoing joint investigation into the relationship between the murders of Alexandra Parks, James Allen, Peter and Paul Nguyen, and George Schubert. The slayings of Deborah Stovall and Josette Leroux, professionally known on the porno circuit as Ashley Juggs and Annie Minx, were also folded in as part of the joint investigation. All the while, Foster remained in the L.A. County Jail on a no-bail hold. The

For the rest of Kat’s childhood, she moved from one relative’s house to another’s, up and down the East Coast, living in four homes before entering high school. Finally, in high school, she lived for a few years with her grandmother, her mom’s mom, whom she called “G-Ma.” No one ever talked about her mom’s murder. “In my family, my past was ‘The Big Unmentionable’—including my role in putting my own father in jail,” she says. In high school, Kat appeared to be doing well. She was an honor student who played four varsity sports. Beneath the surface, however, “I was secretly self-medicating with alcohol because otherwise, by the time everything stopped and it got quiet at night, I could not sleep, I would just lie there and a terrible panic would overtake me.” She went to college, failed out, went back, and graduated. She went to work in advertising, and one day, dissatisfied, quit. She went back to grad school, piling up debt. She became a teacher. Kat quit that job too, when a relationship she had formed with another teacher imploded. At the age of thirty-four, Kat went to stay with her brother and his family in Hawaii. She got a job as a valet, parking cars. “I’d come home from parking cars all day and curl up on my bed in the back bedroom of my brother’s house, and lie there feeling desperate and alone, my heart beating with anxiety.

It is hard to conceive of any relationship between two adults in America being less equal than that of prisoner and prison guard. The formal relationship, enforced by the institution, is that one person’s word means everything and the other’s means almost nothing; one person can command the other to do just about anything, and refusal can result in total physical restraint. That fact is like a slap in the face. Even in relation to the people who are anointed with power in the outside world—cops, elected officials, soldiers—we have rights within our interactions. We have a right to speak to power, though we may not exercise it. But when you step behind the walls of a prison as an inmate, you lose that right. It evaporates, and it’s terrifying. And pretty unsurprising when the extreme inequality of the daily relationship between prisoners and their jailers leads very naturally into abuses of many flavors, from small humiliations to hideous crimes. Every year guards at Danbury and other women’s prisons around the country are caught sexually abusing prisoners. Several years after I came home, one of Danbury’s lieutenants, a seventeen-year corrections veteran, was one of them. He was prosecuted and spent one month in jail.

Lex poked Elysia. “The relationship is going well, it seems.” Elysia’s face erupted with worry. “Oh, Lex, I’m so sorry. It just sort of . . . happened. We were in that hotel for so many days, just waiting around to hear word from Croak, waiting for Mort to figure out a way to rescue you guys. And Wicket and Lazlo not letting us leave, we just went a little stir-crazy and—omigod, I must seem like such a bad friend, and all while you were still stuck in that awful jail and poor Driggs and—” “Lys,” Lex said, taking her by the shoulders before she could launch into a full-blown monsoon of tears. “It’s fine. I think we’ve all learned a thing or two about taking happiness where you can get it. Plus . . . you know. It’s about time.” “About time? What do you mean?” “I mean you two have been itching to get into each other’s pants since the dawn of earth.” Elysia looked shocked for a moment, then sighed. “I don’t know what I’m thinking,” she said, staring back and forth between her mostly uneaten sandwich and Ferbus. “He’s gross. He’s mean. He’s ugly. He’s a lousy drunk, he’s the biggest nerd on the planet, he looks like a leprechaun, his hair is the color of Cheetos—” “And you luuurve him.” Elysia scowled and crossed her arms. “And I lurve him.

A native is a man or creature or plant indigenous to a limited geographical area - a space boundaried and defined by mountains, rivers, or coastline (not by latitudes, longitudes, or state and county lines), with its own peculiar mixture of weeds, trees, bugs, birds, flowers, streams, hills, rocks, and critters (including people), its own nuances of rain, wind, and seasonal change. Native intelligence develops through an unspoken or soft spoken relationship with these interwoven things: it evolves as the native involves himself in his region. A non-native awakes in the morning in a body in a bed in a room in a building on a street in a county in a state in a nation. A native awakes in the in the center of a little cosmos - or a big one, if his intelligence is vast - and he wears this cosmos like a robe, senses the barely perceptible shiftings, migrations, moods, and machinations of its creatures, its growing green things, its earth and sky. Native intelligence is what Huck Finn had rafting the Mississippi, what Thoreau had by his pond, what Kerouac had in Desolation Lookout and lost entirely the instant he caught a whiff of any city. But some have it in cities - like the Artful Dodger, picking his way through a crowd of London pockets; like Mother Teresa in the Calcutta slums. Sissy Hankshaw had it on freeways, Woody Guthrie in crowds of fruit pickers, Ghandi in jails. Almost everybody has a dab of it wherever he or she feels most at home..

Big Dog Bail Bonds is a licensed retail bail service providing individuals with professional and confidential bail bonds for release from jails. We provided bail bonds for the greater Los Angeles County. Our professional and courteous agents are available day or night to answer your questions and help you and your family with fast friendly assistance. Agents are also available to go to your home or business to help ease and expedite the process. We take pride in developing trust and a personal relationship with our clients.

No one wants to suffer. But much as we would all like to live a totally happy life, suffering is an inescapable fact of our human existence. The observation that ‘Man is born unto trouble, as sparks fly upward’ may not have been much consolation to Job but, nevertheless, remains an uncomfortable truth. Generally speaking, suffering arises through our encounters with problems and difficulties; this is why much of our time is spent trying to avoid them, even though they are inherent in life. In trying to avoid problems, however, we are often simply putting off the inevitable to a future date, by which time the trouble has usually grown much more difficult to resolve. Personal relationships are a good example of this. The failure to tackle a problem between two people — a clash of desires, for instance – usually for fear of not knowing what the consequences will be, or perhaps simply because of a dislike of conflict, can very easily lead to a build-up of resentments which, when finally expressed, can be immensely destructive. The story of the ‘mild-mannered’ civil servant who, in 1987, was jailed for strangling his wife after twenty-six years of marriage, ostensibly because she simply moved his favourite mustard from its usual place at the dinner table, is an extreme, but true, example of this.

LaShon knew that there was no way that was going to happen. She had dealt with her fair share of jail relationships and every time the dude came home he expected to pick up things where they left off at as if nothing ever happened.

I will be successful and happy in my career? My relationships with my spouse, my children, and my extended family and close friends become an enduring source of happiness? I live a life of integrity—and stay out of jail?

Today we remember Milk as perhaps the most significant gay rights leader of all time. He is the person who unlocked the secret to reducing prejudice against same-sex relationships, by people disclosing to friends and family that they were gay. Sean Penn won an Oscar after immortalizing Milk’s life in a 2008 film. But Milk owed his political career to dog poop. Shortly after taking office in 1978, Milk introduced the “Scoop the Poop” Act,3 which by the end of the summer the Board of Supervisors had passed.4 Afterward, a journalist said to Milk, “The police department says it may be hard to enforce this,” to which Milk replied, beaming, “I think it will be easy based on peer pressure. It’s going to be hard to write citations. But when a San Franciscan is walking down the street and sees someone breaking the law you say ‘Hey!’—with a smile—‘You broke the law.’ And after a while, when enough people do that, the message will be clear. It will be an education process. I really hope not one single citation is ever issued. . . . I don’t want to put anybody in jail. I don’t want to fine anyone. I just want to clean up the mess.”5 People

We cannot get hold of truth with the [solely] logical mind. Where the natural man of sense sees a bud, imagination sees a rose full-blown. Truth cannot be encompassed [purely] by facts. As we awaken to the imaginative life, we discover that to imagine a thing is to make it so, that a true judgment need not conform to the external reality to which it relates. The imaginative man does not deny the reality of the sensuous outer world of Becoming, but he knows that it is the inner world of continuous Imagination that is the force by which the sensuous outer world of Becoming is brought to pass. He sees the outer world and all its happenings as projections of the inner world of Imagination. To him, everything is a manifestation of the mental activity which goes on in man's imagination, without the sensuous reasonable man being aware of it. But he realizes that every man must become conscious of this inner activity and see the relationship between the inner causal world of imagination and the sensuous outer world of effects. It is a marvelous thing to find that you can imagine yourself into the state of your fulfilled desire and escape from the jails which ignorance built.

The Buryats and other Mongols believe that representation contains the power of the represented. Representation can ignite an object’s influence and must therefore be controlled in its extent and frequency… [T]hey describe their oppressors’ institutions of power soberly while fetishizing their shamanic deities, such as Hoimorin Högshin, through layers of material and verbal representations: figurines, accessories, clothing, poetic evocations, and actions of swaddling and cradling—and, specific to this discussion, by attributing to her the power to punish. As Taussig (1993:105) discusses… to represent something in detail is to display its power and authority… It is through a detailed representation of their own spiritual world that the Buryats have resisted their oppressors. The harsher the Buryats’ experience of oppression, the greater they seem to have made their supernatural entities. This makes sense if we stick to a rational calculation that the Buryats took the powers of their oppressors and attributed them to their own deities, making the latter correspondingly powerful. By attributing the characteristic of a dominant figure to Hoimorin Högshin, they shifted the power of the oppressor to their own supernatural world… By transferring the specific power of the colonial into their own deity, the Buryats also transform their own relationship with the colonial power. Hoimorin Högshin takes over the role of a brutal punisher, as if she were on the side of the oppressors, albeit temporarily. This temporarily renders the oppressors obsolete… [T]he Buryats fold Russian colonial power into Hoimorin Högshin and symbolically transform the Russians’ oppressive powers into their own. The Russian colonial power is limited to jails and police; it is not a part of the supernatural… By keeping the representation of their colonizers at a minimum, the Buryats prevent their “legitimation and hegemony in the form of a fetish” (Mbembe 1992:4), which protects them from internalizing the oppression and making it deeper, more subconscious, and more naturalized.

Let us look at the example of racism to make this clear. The contemporary white cynic will readily admit that the American public ideology of a colorblind society serves to mask the continuing presence of racism. Despite claims that the society has become colorblind, the cynic recognizes that some whites still harbor prejudice toward African Americans and that this prejudice has an adverse effect on the life chances of African Americans (as evinced by the number of African American men in jail, the disparity in income between white and African American, etc.). This recognition, however, coexists in the thinking of the cynic with a seemingly contradictory idea—that African Americans have it easier than whites today, that society has entered an era of reverse discrimination. This is why so many whites feel a visceral objection to affirmative action: it provides even more privilege to a group that already has a privileged status, a privileged relationship to enjoyment. In the racist’s view, the African American enjoys more because she/he gets more for less, has to work less for more benefits (as the policy of affirmative action seems to attest to). How can we reconcile these two seemingly contradictory attitudes? The cynic’s ability to sustain both attitudes stems from the split between her/his relationship to public ideology and to the fantasmatic underside of power. She/he doubts the official proclamations of authority, which claim to have eradicated racism, but invests her/himself in the underside of that authority, which relies on a racist fear of the Other’s enjoyment in order to function. In sustaining the investment in the underlying racist fantasy, the cynic finds support for her/his being in the big Other. But the cynic’s suspicion of public ideology allows her/him to feel as if she/he is transgressing the norms of the big Other. Thus, the cynic is able to have it both ways, attaining the security that stems from obedience and the enjoyment that transgression produces, without having to risk actually losing the support of her/his identity within the big Other. The white cynic can both feel her/himself to be righteously antiracist in her/his ability to analyze the hidden racism in American society while at the same time feeling her/himself to be a victim of reverse discrimination. Suspicion of the public law and investment in its obscene underside offers such a subject the best of both worlds.

I have a ministry where I go into prisons and jails full-time. But I’ll be honest with you; I’m a preacher, and I’m filled with the Holy Spirit, but God told me I had a spirit of gluttony on me. That is why I began this fast. I didn’t ask for God to open doors; I told God I was sick of the spirit of gluttony cheating me out of the spiritual things God had for my life and locking doors and locking finances and locking everything else that God has for me.

Paul and Silas sang hymns in the Philippian jail. You can only do that if you have remembered that your welfare and freedom are in the hands of an all-powerful God who is your Father. Much of the drama of God’s people is a drama of identity.

Are you telling me that now the government is going after attorneys? They’re going to put every attorney for everyone they think is a bad guy in jail?

I’ve never ditched school before. Of course a boy I kissed has never been arrested before, either. This is about me being real. To myself. And now I’m going to be real to Alex, like he’s always wanted. It’s scary, and I’m not convinced I’m doing the right thing. But I can’t ignore this magnetic pull that Alex has over me. I plug in the address on my GPS. It leads me to the south side, to a place called Enrique’s Auto Body. A guy is standing in front. His mouth drops open the minute he sees me. “I’m looking for Alex Fuentes.” The guy doesn’t answer. “Is he here?” I ask, feeling awkward. Maybe he doesn’t speak English. “What do you want with Alejandro?” the guy finally asks. My heart is pumping so hard I can see my shirt move with each beat. “I need to talk to him.” “He’ll be better off if you leave him alone,” the guy says. “Está bien, Enrique,” a familiar voice booms. I turn to Alex, leaning against the auto body’s front door with a shop towel hanging out of his pocket and a wrench in his hand. The hair peeking out of his bandana is mussed and he looks more masculine than any guy I’ve ever seen. I want to hold him. I need him to tell me it’s okay, that he’s not going to jail ever again. Alex keeps his eyes fixed on mine. “I guess I’ll leave you two alone,” I think I hear Enrique say, but I’m too focused on Alex to hear clearly. My feet are glued to the same spot so it’s a good thing he saunters toward me. “Um,” I start. Please let me get through this. “I, uh, heard you got arrested. I had to see if you’re okay.” “You ditched school to see if I was okay?” I nod because my tongue won’t work. Alex steps back. “Well, then. Now that you’ve seen I’m okay, go back to school. I gotta, you know, get back to work. My bike was impounded last night and I need to make money to get it back.” “Wait!” I yell. I take a deep breath. This is it. I’m going to spill my guts. “I don’t know why or when I started falling for you, Alex. But I did. Ever since I almost ran over your motorcycle that first day of school I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what it would be like if you and I got together. And that kiss…God, I swear I never experienced anything like that in my life. It did mean something. If the solar system didn’t tilt then, it never will. I know it’s crazy because we’re so different. And if anything happens between us I don’t want people at school to know. Not that you’ll agree to have a secret relationship with me, but I at least have to find out if it’s possible. I broke up with Colin, who I had a very public relationship with and I’m ready for something private. Private and real. I know I’m babbling like an idiot, but if you don’t say something soon or give me a hint of what you’re thinking then I’ll--” “Say it again,” he says. “That whole drawn-out speech?” I remember something about a solar system, but I’m too light-headed to recite the entire thing all over again. He steps closer. “No. The part about you fallin’ for me.” My eyes cling to his. “I think about you all the time, Alex. And I really, really want to kiss you again.” The sides of his mouth turn up.

I begin the chapter and book on very elementary reasoning and a simple description: this description of relationships developed naturally and socially; this reasoning that such relationships have long-existed and are very important—even eternal to those called 'special people'. My own freedom to choose this elementary reasoning has something to do with firsthand experience as one whose role has been reduced to the realm of illegal…with all the punishment. Such reasoning has consumed me in moments and has prevailed for as long as my role has been at risk.

It was the first time I understood that for undocumented immigrants, every single decision has potentially life-altering consequences. Nothing is ever simple. There would always be more consequences to face. I did the right thing by calling the police, but I had also done a terrible thing, and the fallout would be earth- shattering. My dad was in jail for one night. When he came back home, he apologized. Under normal circumstances, our relationship might have improved after that night. The threat of going to prison, an arrest record, and the shame of going to jail might have been what my dad needed to turn his life around. But our situation was anything but normal. What I didn’t know when I called the police was that he would be deported. He had a valid visa, but for legal reasons I didn’t understand, he was forced to leave the country for six months.

I don't know yet," I give her the perfect reply. The political 'I do not recall' get-out-of-jail-free card. Let's see how Ashley handles this verbal razzle-dazzle. "That's not what Chelsea said," Ashley pops my bubble. "What did Chelsea say?" I ask. Now I look silly, not knowing what my apparent girlfriend thinks of our own relationship. "Chelsea thinks you two are dating," Ashley spills the bag and lets the cat out of the beans.

Cindy Haden continued visiting Richard every chance she got. She’d come mostly on weekends, when Doreen was visiting, too. The two women began seeing each other at the jail. Doreen felt Cindy was a “low-down, hypocritical bitch” who could have hung the jury. Whenever Doreen saw Cindy at the jail, she would narrow her eyes and regard her with utter disdain. When Doreen asked Richard why the hell he would allow that Benedict Arnold to visit, he said she was a juror and might be of help if he chose to appeal his conviction. After a few months of Cindy driving all the way to San Francisco every weekend, she began thinking she would move north permanently so she could be close to Richard. She was in love with him and had pictures of him in frames on her night table and on the wall opposite her bed. Cindy had told her parents about her relationship with Richard and had actually brought her mom and dad to the jail so they could meet him. When Richard first sat across from them in the visiting booth, Cindy said, “Mom, Dad, this is Richard,” as Richard smiled shyly. “I know you’ve heard some bad things about him, but he’s got a lot of good points, too.” Richard sheepishly said hello, waved, and began talking to Cindy’s father, who, like his father, had worked for a railroad. They had “something in common,” as Cindy later put it. Cindy agreed to do several national talk shows—“Donahue” once and “Geraldo” twice—and told the world, in a very passionate voice, that Richard Ramirez had had improper counsel and his convictions should be overturned.

Whatever Richard wanted, Doreen secured for him. He was the boss in their relationship. She made sure Richard had money in his commissary account at the jail and sent him books and magazines, writing paper and stamps.

When a loved one is incarcerated, it's like an atom bomb falls on them, obliterating everything in an instant. Their freedom, their movement, their livelihood, gone. But the bomb's shock waves spread out and envelop close family and friends too. The prison industrial complex eats incarcerated people as the main course but also feasts on their relatives, relationships, and communities. Its appetite is voracious.

When you have to be the only one – to be right – you are in a jail of your own creation.

To lovers out there … If you lie about your partner. You say bad things about them, that they didn’t do. Also ,If you are lying about a partner that doesn't exist, because you want sympathy, likes, retweets, comments and to trend. Know you are committing Gender Based Violence. What you are doing when lying is instigate and influence hate & harm or violence towards other gender or opposite gender. Some people will hate man or women based on the lie you told. Your instigating gender war , so you can thrive and be seen as hero or a good person. Stop telling lies that will get other people to be in danger, trouble ,harmed, , jailed, hurt or violated.

The crude communal myth about black men is that we are in some manner unavailable to black women—either jailed, dead, gay, or married to white women. A corollary myth posits a direct and negative relationship between success and black culture. Before we actually had one, we could not imagine a black president who loved being black. In The Audacity of Hope, Obama describes his first kiss with the woman who would become his wife as tasting “of chocolate.” The line sounds ripped from Essence magazine. That’s the point.

We eat in silence, listening to the rain. Both of us look forlornly at the bar, thinking that we shouldn’t, we mustn’t. On the other hand, we could simply pass out drunk here and maybe they’d take us to jail. There are beds in jail. Soap. New people to meet.

three simple questions beside those theories: How can I be sure that I will be successful and happy in my career? My relationships with my spouse, my children, and my extended family and close friends become an enduring source of happiness? I live a life of integrity—and stay out of jail?

All segregation statutes are unjust because segregation distorts the soul and damages the personality. It gives the segregator a false sense of superiority and the segregated a false sense of inferiority. Segregation, to use the terminology of the Jewish philosopher Martin Buber, substitutes an “I-it” relationship for an “I-thou” relationship and ends up relegating persons to the status of things.

Ye Chand Yahaan kuch chattanon se fisal raha hai... Sayad tumhare yaha kisi daal se jhool raha hoga. Chalo kuch to hai Jise hum dekh lete hain ek sath jaise ek laltain ko dekh kar Kayi Khaidi guzar dete hain sari raat..... Kayi Jailon me bati hai duniya Har jail me khaid hai insaan sab jail me hi to hain koi chote jail me to koi bade...

I had looked into the eyes of those wounds on my mother's hip bones for her; it was the worst thing I'd ever seen, and I would have done it a million times more because that's how much I loved her. I would kill the man who did these things to her and live in jail forever. How did she not know? How had I failed si utterly?

I had looked into the eyes of those wounds on my mother's hip bones for her; it was the worst thing I'd ever seen, and I would have done it a million times more because that's how much I loved her. I would kill the man who did these things to her and live in jail forever. How did she not know? How had I failed so utterly?