Lauren Jackson Quotes

Hello, pickle!” her dad said loudly as Pip and Cara made their way downstairs. “Lauren and I have decided that I should come to your kilometer party too.” “Calamity, Dad. And over my dead brain cells.

Well, me and Zach didn’t want to go to the calamity party with Ant and Lauren, because they ignore everyone else anyway, so I went back to Zach’s and we…we played Fortnite, so now the world knows that, then.

We’re your sass, your nonchalance, your fury, your delight, your annoyance . . .” the writer Lauren Michele Jackson told journalist Amanda Hess, who argued that “on the internet, white people outsource their emotional labor to black people.

They found Lauren fully submerged in a duvet fort on the bed, the only sign of her existence a splay of ginger hair poking out from the bottom.

Bow down, peons,” Lincoln said. “I’m a king among men.” “Where are you coming up with this?” Cole asked him. Lincoln pointed at Jackson. “Um, hello—Jackson Burke knows my name.

America fears anger from black people, has always feared anger from black people, considers black people angry even when something more like “despaired” or “fatigued” better suits the mood.

Jackson’s presence in New York had everything to do with the other Carrington sister. He’d been keeping his distance. He’d had to. But today he didn’t want to. He wanted to see her. Needed to see her. He needed Mollie.

Jackson, you can’t just go around asking strange women to move in with you.” “Why not? You need a place to live. I have three extra bedrooms. And you’re hardly strange.” “That’s true. We’re practically family,” she muttered. “Practically. But not.” Something in his tone had Mollie’s head snapping up. Something low and a little bit sexy. They weren’t family. They weren’t related. Jackson leaned forward, his gaze strangely intent. “Come on, Mollie. What do you have to lose?” As she stared at the man she’d once harbored an unhealthy crush on—a crush she was no longer at all sure had dissipated—she realized that the answer to his question was everything. She had everything to lose.

That shut Ant-and-Lauren up.

Jackson slid a finger under the collar of his shirt and tugged. He didn't care what his tailor said. The damn thing was too tight.

No, I mean have dinner. With me. At a restaurant.” Her breath caught at the intensity in his gaze. “Jackson—” “Don’t say no.” She blinked in surprise at his cocky command. “Why shouldn’t I?” His grin was slow and sexy as he braced both hands on the door jamb and leaned in slightly. “Because I really like you in that red dress, Molls.” He backed up before she could respond and gave her a little wink.

You've got it wrong." His voice was harsh. "Jackson—" He cut her off. "No, it's my turn to talk. You've given your speech. And I get it, Mollie, I do. Madison is your sister, and she made you PB&J as a kid when your parents checked out, and that's fine. But open your eyes. You don't owe her anything anymore. You are your own woman, and you are a woman, Mollie. You're not a kid. You're not a girl. And if I've been a complete asshole lately, it's because I'm having a hell of a time coming to grips with the fact that I want you. And fuck, Mollie, I want you. I want you so bad, I'm dying." Mollie had never made the first move on a man in her life. She was old-fashioned like that. But she made the first move now. She took a step forward, placed a hand at the back of his head, and pulled his mouth to hers.

It feels bad to wade in the repercussions of our behavior, it feels good to apologize and disavow and consider oneself exempt moving forward. But being online, being white, being online as a white person, means never being exempt. Antiracist as a noun does not exist. There's only people doing the work, or not. The person genuinely invested in the work doesn't run from discomfort but accepts it as the price of personhood taken for granted.

Are you okay?” she asked. Because she couldn’t not ask. Not after she’d seen the weariness around his eyes, the slight tension in his shoulders. Jackson turned his head so their eyes locked and he frowned before returning his attention to the mermaid. “Nobody ever asks me that.” Her heart squeezed at the lost note in his voice. It was strange to think of someone as big and important as Jackson Burke being lonely, but somehow…somehow she knew he was. Even here, among all these people, he was somehow alone. Apart. Like her.

Jackson hesitated, licking a drop of whisky from his bottom lip with his tongue. Mollie’s stomach tightened a little, but she told herself that it hadn’t. It mostly worked—she’d gotten darn good at telling her body that it had absolutely no response to Jackson Burke.

Mollie pivoted on her seat and glared at him. "Jackson Burke, do not pull that shit with me. You're thirty-five years old. I'm willing to bet that every man in this bar wants to be you, and every woman wants to—" He lifted his eyebrows, and Mollie hesitated only slightly before she forced herself to finish the sentence. "Mate." Jackson burst out laughing. "You still do that?" "Do what?" "Talk about animal mating rituals when you get nervous." "I'm not nervous! Why would I be nervous?" He was studying her. "You tell me." "Don't be weird," she muttered.

So ... you like her, Gabe?' Lauren pressed. 'Yes,' he answered, starting work on his spreadsheet again in an effort to stave off more questions. 'She's great, isn't she?' Shit. A smile tugged at his mouth and Lauren was standing right next to him. No question she could see it. He tried to cover himself by changing the subject.

Probably best not to mention the whole roommate situation just yet. “As for looks, Mollie, she’s…pretty. Smart as hell. Uh, tall, a little thin…great smile.” There was a moment of prolonged silence, and Jackson glanced around the room to see every person’s lips pressed together as though trying desperately to hold in a laugh. “What?” he asked. “You just said she has a ‘great smile,’ ” Cole said. “And you’re telling me you’re not into this woman?” “Cole has a point,” Penelope said. “Guys only say a woman has a great smile when they’re super not attracted to her or they’re secretly in love with her.” “Oh my God,” Jackson said, running his hands through his hair in irritation.

Do you think I’m making a mistake?” Mollie asked her best friend. “Moving in with Jackson?” Kim was uncharacteristically silent for a long moment. “I think you’re taking a risk.” “Because he’s my former brother-in-law?” Kim patted her knee. “That. And the fact that you used to be in love with him.” There was that. There was definitely that.

When are the boys getting here?' Lauren asked. 'They texted about two minutes ago they were leaving. and no,' Cara snapped, 'We're not waiting for them to put it up for us, Lauren.' 'I wasn't suggesting that.' Cara cracked her knuckles. 'Dismantling the patriarchy, one tent at a time.' 'Canopy,' Pip corrected her. 'Do you want me to hurt you?' 'Ca-nope-y'.

You looking forward to tonight?” he asked, changing the subject. “I am,” she said slowly. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a good…date.” She let the word slide off her tongue as though it were a euphemism for sex. The little devil on her shoulder wanted to bait him, to poke at the sexual tension that seemed to ebb and flow between them, but which neither would give in to. His hand slammed on the counter. “You’re not seriously thinking of sleeping with Mathis,” he said incredulously. “Well, why not? You said he’s a good guy. And news flash—we modern city women don’t adhere to any strict fifth-date rule.” “Fine! Fuck his brains out, for all I care,” Jackson exploded. “You’re shouting,” she said. “I’m not—” He blew out a breath. “Damn it.

Jackson was a little shocked at just how much her apology meant, and surprised them both by flipping his hand over so that they were palm to palm. She jolted a little at the contact but didn’t pull away. He didn’t either. He told himself it was just a friendly touch—a thank-you for being there. For being Mollie. But there was nothing friendly about the way touching her made his pulse quicken and his cock harden.

It wasn't a hard kiss, but it wasn't particularly soft either. It was just perfect. The perfect amount of sweet and hot, and... She put her hands on his chest, shoving him backward. "Please don't mess with me. Please. Just talk to me." Jackson's eyes shadowed with regret as he slowly released her wrist, lifting a hand to her face. The back of his fingers stroked her cheek softly. “Talk to you?” She nodded. “What shall I talk about?” he whispered. “How about the fact that you’re supposed to be in Houston right now? It’s the only reason I came over.” “I was in Houston,” he said. “For what, an hour?” she asked. “Probably about that, yeah.” He was watching her mouth as his thumb brushed softly over her lips. Her breath caught at the tenderness in his touch—in his eyes. “What happened?” His eyes flicked up to hers. “You want the full story, or the important part?” “The important part,” she whispered. “I love you.

But somewhere along the line, Mollie Carrington had ceased to be that awkward kid who talked about bugs at inopportune times. Somewhere along the line, she’d become his rock. The one person in the world, save for perhaps his parents, who always knew the exact right thing to say to make him feel like a human whenever he’d started to feel like a caricature of himself. For years he’d tried to tell himself that it was just sibling affection—that he cared about her the way he would a sister. But then things had gotten worse with Madison—way worse. And Jackson had been hit upside the head with the truth: that maybe he’d married the wrong sister. That he didn’t want to spend the rest of his days married to the beautiful, brittle Madison. He wanted someone who made him laugh. Who listened. Someone who cared more about people than she did about hair appointments. Someone like Mollie. “Fuck,” Jackson muttered under his breath as he took another sip of his drink.

I messed up the toast,” she said quietly. “Nah,” he said, stretching his long legs out in front of him and slouching down a bit to get comfortable. “Just think how many people you educated on the mating ritual of parasitic worms. They should be thanking you.” Mollie groaned. “It was supposed to be romantic. I did a paper about them for my systematics and biotics diversity final. They’re unusual because they’re bonded for life. Most organisms sleep around or, you know, the male dies after mating—” Jackson winced, and Mollie wished she could wither and die just like a male bee.

If the thought of Jackson dating someone caused a funny little pang in her stomach, Mollie ignored it. It was just that for a moment there, when the two of them had stood face-to-face in his apartment, she could have sworn there was a little sizzle of something between them. Nothing inappropriate. Not even interest. Just…awareness. She’d always been aware of Jackson Burke. She’d accepted that as one of the facts of her life. But this was the first time she’d sensed that maybe he’d been aware of her. Thank you, little red dress. Mollie mentally slapped herself. No. That was not what this was about.

If absolutely everything important is only happening on such a small screen, isn’t that a shame? Especially when the world is so overwhelmingly large and surprising? Are you missing too much? You can’t imagine it now, but you’ll look like me one day, even though you’ll feel just the same as you do now. You’ll catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and think how quickly it’s all gone, and I wonder if all the time you used watching those families whose lives are filmed for the television, and making those cartoons of yourselves with panting dog tongues, and chasing after that terrible Pokémon fellow…well, will it feel like time well spent? “Here lies Ms. Jackson, she took more steps than the other old biddies on her road”—is that the best I can leave behind? Is it all just designed to keep us looking down, or to give us the illusion that we have some sort of control over our chaotic lives? Will you do me a small favor, dears, and look up? Especially you New Yorkers and Londoners and other city dwellers who cross all those busy streets. How else will you take in the majesty of the buildings that have stood there for hundreds of years? How else will you run into an acquaintance on the street who might turn into a friend or a lover or even just recommend a good restaurant that no one has complained about on that app yet? If you never look out the window of the subway car, how will you see the boats gliding by on the East River, or have an idea that only you could have? Just look up for no reason, just for a moment here and there, or maybe for an entire day once in a while. Let the likes go unchecked and the quality of sleep go unnoticed. Que sera sera, my dears—whatever will be will be, whether we’re tracking it on our GPS devices or not.

His eyes narrowed slightly as a thought struck him. “Mollie, is that why you went all Rain Man on me during dinner? Because you wanted to say yes but thought you shouldn’t?” “Rain Man?” He winced. “God, tell me you’ve seen it. I know I’m old, but it’s a classic.” “I’ve seen Rain Man. I just don’t think I am Rain Man.” “Molls, you rattled off like the fifty most common diseases I was likely to die from. You paused only when the server brought over our food, and then you proceeded to tell him the diseases he was likely to die from.” She waved this away. “I tend to talk diseases when I’m nervous. That and animal mating habits, apparently.” He gave her a little smile. “I know.” And that right there was every reason she should move in, and every reason she shouldn’t. He knew her inside and out—knew what made her laugh, what made her babble. What he didn’t know was what made her moan. What made those bright blue eyes go hazy with desire. Having her within arm’s reach… Jackson jerked his eyes away from her as he realized he’d been staring at her legs. Mollie wandered away, seemingly unaware of his inner turmoil. And definitely unaware of his hardening cock.

AT 45 DEGREES NORTH, the night comes early in November. They rolled out a few minutes after seven-thirty into the kind of autumn darkness that comes only with a thick cloud layer, no hint of starlight or moonlight, and no prospect of any. Lauren drove. She was already dressed in her black brushed-cotton suit. Her hood, and her equipment, were locked in a concealed box behind the second row of seats. They chitchatted on the way across town, through enough traffic to keep things slow; Jackson wasn’t mentioned.

Imagination is the highest kite one can fly. -- Lauren Bacall

Lincoln lifted an eyebrow at the expression on Jackson’s face. “You know it’s supposed to be the actual people going on the date that get cold feet, right? Not the one doing the matchmaking?

A dark-haired man whose name Jackson couldn’t remember spoke up. “Shit, no way, Sharpe. Is that his name? I had no idea. I mean, it’s not like we’ve been having staff meetings with him for weeks or anything. I’m pretty sure we all know each other’s names.” There was a moment of awkward silence as Jackson stared at the man who was not Cole, not Lincoln, whose name was… Fuck. He had no idea.

It was on the tip of Jackson’s tongue to snap that Lincoln wouldn’t be doing anyone, but he bit it back. He didn’t care whom Mollie slept with. Maybe if he repeated it enough, it would be true.

Jackson slowly unclenched his fist. Clenched it again. “We done here?” Cassidy stood. “Yeah. We’re done. And since you didn’t take notes, I’ll recap. Quit being a diva. Get over yourself. And for God’s sake, quit being such an antisocial loner before you end up lonely.

Life sucks for me here, it will probably suck for me there. Doesn’t really matter where I go.

Life sucks for me here, it will probably suck for me there. Doesn’t really matter where I go.

Hyde is the night, Jackson is the day. Hyde is the moon, Jackson the sun. Hyde is my dark past, while Jackson is the belief I can one day escape it. Hyde ignites my body, Jackson touches my heart.

If I wasn’t broken, my pieces wouldn’t fit together with Jackson’s broken pieces. We wouldn’t make up one imperfect, perfect whole together.

It's technically illegal to camp outside of a registered campsite, Lauren said, kicking the canvas in retaliation. 'Well let's hope the camping police don't check Instagram, because I've announced it to the world. now hush,' Cara said.

It's technically illegal to camp outside of a registered campsite, Lauren said, kicking the canvas in retaliation'. 'Well let's hope the camping police don't check Instagram, because I've announced it to the world. now hush,' Cara said.

And for their incredible scholarship and friendship, my thanks to: Andrea Ballestero, Lauren Berlant, Alex Blanchette, David Bond, John Borneman, Ella Butler, Summerson Carr, Molly Cunningham, Paul Edwards, Didier Fassin, Cassie Fennell, Elaine Gan, Stefanie Graeter, Hugh Gusterson, Orit Halprin, Isao Hashimoto, Gabrielle Hecht, Stefan Helmreich, John Jackson, Cory Kratz, Max Liboiron, Mark Maguire, Kai Mah, Kate Mariner, Andrew Mathews, Amy McLachlan, Greg Mello, Ned O’Gorman, Trevor Paglen, Juno Parrenas, Columba Peoples, Kareem Rabie, Laurence Ralph, Patrick Rivers, Michael Rossi, Nick Shapiro, Audra Simpson, Sverker Sorlin, Christian Tompkins, Anna Weichselbraun, Kaya Williams, and Jessica Winegar.

But where a black dollar can be made, white violence follows.

The only way for black and brown small business people to enter is if you can partner with a large funded white business,

Everyone should feel uncomfortable with how white America is setting up generational wealth off of weed when so many Black and Latino men have been incarcerated and lost their livelihood over the same thing”—

America is addicted to hurting black people. America is addicted to watching itself hurt black people. The internet didn’t invent this kind of spectacle, nor is it the source of the disease, but rather collaborates with the country’s disregard for the black lives without which it wouldn’t exist. Black people taught the internet how to go viral. But when virality became enterprise, black people were seldom to be found.

There is time enough, but none to spare.

The innocence reserved for white women alone becomes the source of crisis in their adolescence. Their identity formed out of the residue of everyone else’s stereotype, white women never truly grow up in the eyes of the world.

As Baraka knew, black American life is movement, a living verb: we swing, we get hip, we real cool we. The white American, meanwhile, stands close by and observes—ready to transform life into style and profit, a process Baraka calls “the cultural lag.

In the new millennium, there is All Lives Matter and the more absurd Blue Lives Matter, anti-black counter-slogans that nonetheless cannot escape the rhetorical world black people made. Indeed, as scholars P. Khalil Saucier and Tryon P. Woods have observed, “The meme has become a political Rorschach producing a cornucopia of identitarian hashtags . . . that, at the end of the day, effortlessly obscures or subsumes blackness’s grammar of suffering.

Binding the disparate cultural touchstones in this book, appropriation runs on desire more than hatred, inattention more than intention.

Black enterprise does not go unpunished if unaffiliated with white profits. Whiteness will gleefully disturb black neighborhoods, black accolades, black centers, black classrooms, black archives, and black methods. If not allowed to join in—that is, if prevented from profiting from the goings-on—well, the whole thing might as well go up in flames.†

Newspapers and magazines only, and still reluctantly, cover black death when the buzz borders on frenzy—not because it happened but because it went viral. The media sits and waits for a name to trend that doesn’t belong to a (yet) public figure. Then they make them public. They trot out their Negro writer du jour and the Negro writer produces an aching tribute to being black in America. And another. And another. Et cetera.

The appropriation of black language cannot be stopped, except only if we were to leave for Mars and never come back. At issue isn’t the transmission, but the vacuous want behind it—as if black culture lives to rescue mass culture from boredom.

Cultural theft is only the symptom, the readily identifiable mark of whiteness in crisis.

The hipster seeks out “the Negro” because from who better to learn the transitive properties of living than the community who could never take life for granted?

Black speech cannot sooth the broken white soul. Only revolution can do that.

Everyone has a bit of “Tumblr teen” in them, self-reflexively announcing their social positions as a buffer against the now-cartoonish refrain to “check your privilege.” But while plenty of white people will flag their own whiteness, eagerly so in some cases, these admissions are curiously conditional. When the news broke that several high-profile parents were implicated in a conspiracy to illegally finesse their children into prestigious universities, publications (from Refinery29 to the Atlantic to Vox to, somewhat ironically, U.S. News and World Report) took care to name the collaboration of class and race that enabled such entitlement. On these particular bad actors, my Twitter feed was mostly on the same page. However, once people began reporting their own stories of educational fortitude, the material value of whiteness was suddenly less germane to the conversation. Unlike the children of celebrities, the people I followed implied, they had worked hard and earned it wholesale. It seemed the whiteness of celebrity children worked according to the rule, while everyone else’s whiteness was the exception. The gap between knowing and naming, let alone reckoning, remains vast.