Life Is Like A Cube Quotes

Today I wondered why my eyelashes aren't thick enough and why my feet aren't small enough. Then it hit me. Why do we take these insignificant things like millimeters on lashes and shoeboxes and then try to fit ourselves into those stupid molds? Why do I take the beauty that is me, and measure it up to a shoe size? A length of hair on my eyes? Am I not the more wonderful creation, far more great than those stupid things? Why do we take ourselves and desecrate ourselves daily? Pushing ourselves into cubicles because we think we are supposed to fit into them? Are we ice cubes? And suddenly I just don't understand the inadequacies anymore! Because they're not even inadequacies, at all! I will laugh and be beautiful.

This was like the Rubik's Cube of life. One big glob of scattered, multicolored possibilities she had to sort out and line up in the appropriate manner by twisting endless scenario after scenario in her head. And it sucked. Big, fat wankers.

He was like a nearly-there Rubik's Cube - this sealed box, all perfect edges and matched-up colors, except for the occasional hopeless misalignment, a lost orange square and a yellow piece stuck in a corner. Though why I thought this made me the right person for him I have no idea. I'd never solved one of those fuckers in my entire life.

it. No more. I kept scribbling down “rules” as they came to me: NO HARD DRUGS. Ooh, wasn’t it fun counting these pills and organizing them in their cubes and opening and closing the plastic doors? They were like little pink pill-people living in storage units. La la la. No, drugs were not going to rule my fucking life anymore. This was a new era! I was in control now. I made the rules; I was in charge of how I felt! I determined what happened to—

dear samantha i’m sorry we have to get a divorce i know that seems like an odd way to start a love letter but let me explain: it’s not you it sure as hell isn’t me it’s just human beings don’t love as well as insects do i love you.. far too much to let what we have be ruined by the failings of our species i saw the way you looked at the waiter last night i know you would never DO anything, you never do but.. i saw the way you looked at the waiter last night did you know that when a female fly accepts the pheromones put off by a male fly, it re-writes her brain, destroys the receptors that receive pheromones, sensing the change, the male fly does the same. when two flies love each other they do it so hard, they will never love anything else ever again. if either one of them dies before procreation can happen both sets of genetic code are lost forever. now that… is dedication. after Elizabeth and i broke up we spent three days dividing everything we had bought together like if i knew what pots were mine like if i knew which drapes were mine somehow the pain would go away this is not true after two praying mantises mate, the nervous system of the male begins to shut down while he still has control over his motor functions he flops onto his back, exposing his soft underbelly up to his lover like a gift she then proceeds to lovingly dice him into tiny cubes spooning every morsel into her mouth she wastes nothing even the exoskeleton goes she does this so that once their children are born she has something to regurgitate to feed them now that.. is selflessness i could never do that for you so i have a new plan i’m gonna leave you now i’m gonna spend the rest of my life committing petty injustices i hope you do the same i will jay walk at every opportunity i will steal things i could easily afford i will be rude to strangers i hope you do the same i hope reincarnation is real i hope our petty crimes are enough to cause us to be reborn as lesser creatures i hope we are reborn as flies so that we can love each other as hard as we were meant to.

She liked to keep the leaves simmering away on the stove, even though it made the tea so bitter, it was near undrinkable. She also liked to say that anyone with sense in their skull knew to sweeten life with at least three sugar cubes.

Aloneness – that is what SM feels like to me. Isolated, alone, separated, left out as I silently stand by watching others experience life while the words freeze inside me, afraid to speak up or join in a conversation. Actually feeling the anxiety shaking inside my chest as I try to get up the courage to speak to someone or call or text a friend. SM feels like the child standing alone behind the door watching the other kids in the playground – afraid to ask, 'may I play?' It feels like the teenager standing silently against the wall, listening to classmates laugh and chat, invisible to everyone and wondering what it would be like to have a friend. It feels like the 50-year-old office worker, alone in her cube while others chat and laugh in the aisle, still left out. I live inside a shell, a mask that looks like me, but isn't me. I am in here, but it is really hard to let others see. I'm so grateful for the few dear friends I have now. Most people, though, only see the shell and assume I'm aloof and uncaring because I am quiet. I feel very deeply. I feel others' joy and pain intensely, yet they rarely know. I'm not quiet because I am uncaring. I'm silent because I'm afraid.

There was no sign of life round the domed emplacement of the Moonraker, and the concrete, already beginning to shimmer in the early morning sun, stretched emptily away towards Deal. It looked like a newly laid aerodome or rather, he thought, with its three disparate concrete 'things', the beehive dome,the flat-iron blast-wall, and the distant cube of the firing point, each casting black pools of shadow towards him in the early sun, like a Dali desert landscape in which three objets trouves reposed at carefully calculated random.

Life is so much like a big ice cube; one can see through it but never has an access until it totally melt.

dear samantha i’m sorry we have to get a divorce i know that seems like an odd way to start a love letter but let me explain: it’s not you it sure as hell isn’t me it’s just human beings don’t love as well as insects do i love you.. far too much to let what we have be ruined by the failings of our species i saw the way you looked at the waiter last night i know you would never DO anything, you never do but.. i saw the way you looked at the waiter last night did you know that when a female fly accepts the pheromones put off by a male fly, it re-writes her brain, destroys the receptors that receive pheromones, sensing the change, the male fly does the same. when two flies love each other they do it so hard, they will never love anything else ever again. if either one of them dies before procreation can happen both sets of genetic code are lost forever. now that… is dedication. after Elizabeth and i broke up we spent three days dividing everything we had bought together like if i knew what pots were mine like if i knew which drapes were mine somehow the pain would go away this is not true after two praying mantises mate, the nervous system of the male begins to shut down while he still has control over his motor functions he flops onto his back, exposing his soft underbelly up to his lover like a gift she then proceeds to lovingly dice him into tiny cubes spooning every morsel into her mouth she wastes nothing even the exoskeleton goes she does this so that once their children are born she has something to regurgitate to feed them now that.. is selflessness i could never do that for you so i have a new plan i’m gonna leave you now i’m gonna spend the rest of my life committing petty injustices i hope you do the same i will jay walk at every opportunity i will steal things i could easily afford i will be rude to strangers i hope you do the same i hope reincarnation is real i hope our petty crimes are enough to cause us to be reborn as lesser creatures i hope we are reborn as flies so that we can love each other as hard as we were meant to

What exactly is a Rubik’s Cube party?” Becca asked. “It’s simple: everyone wears different colors - red shirt, blue shorts, green socks, whatever - and once you get to the party, you have to swap clothes with people until you’re wearing all of the same color.” Kinsley tsked. “Sounds like an excuse to see people in their skivvies.” I tossed my luggage onto my bed. “Yes, well, isn’t that basically the meaning of life in the first place?

If you had been blind all your life and could suddenly see, could you distinguish by sight what you knew already by touch—say, a cube from a sphere? Would flowers look like flowers you’d felt and faces like faces, or would they all be confusing patterns?

What a skeletal wreck of man this is. Translucent flesh and feeble bones, the kind of temple where the whores and villains try to tempt the holistic domes. Running rampid with free thought to free form, and the free and clear. When the matters at hand are shelled out like lint at a laundry mat to sift and focus on the bigger, better, now. We all have a little sin that needs venting, virtues for the rending and laws and systems and stems are ripped from the branches of office, do you know where your post entails? Do you serve a purpose, or purposely serve? When in doubt inside your atavistic allure, the value of a summer spent, and a winter earned. For the rest of us, there is always Sunday. The day of the week the reeks of rest, but all we do is catch our breath, so we can wade naked in the bloody pool, and place our hand on the big, black book. To watch the knives zigzag between our aching fingers. A vacation is a countdown, T minus your life and counting, time to drag your tongue across the sugar cube, and hope you get a taste. WHAT THE FUCK IS ALL THIS FOR? WHAT THE HELL’S GOING ON? SHUT UP! I can go on and on but lets move on, shall we? Say, your me, and I’m you, and they all watch the things we do, and like a smack of spite they threw me down the stairs, haven’t felt like this in years. The great magnet of malicious magnanimous refuse, let me go, and punch me into the dead spout again. That’s where you go when there’s no one else around, it’s just you, and there was never anyone to begin with, now was there? Sanctimonious pretentious dastardly bastards with their thumb on the pulse, and a finger on the trigger. CLASSIFIED MY ASS! THAT’S A FUCKING SECRET, AND YOU KNOW IT! Government is another way to say better…than…you. It’s like ice but no pick, a murder charge that won’t stick, it’s like a whole other world where you can smell the food, but you can’t touch the silverware. Huh, what luck. Fascism you can vote for. Humph, isn’t that sweet? And we’re all gonna die some day, because that’s the American way, and I’ve drunk too much, and said too little, when your gaffer taped in the middle, say a prayer, say a face, get your self together and see what’s happening. SHUT UP! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! I’m sorry, I could go on and on but their times to move on so, remember: you’re a wreck, an accident. Forget the freak, your just nature. Keep the gun oiled, and the temple cleaned shit snort, and blaspheme, let the heads cool, and the engine run. Because in the end, everything we do, is just everything we’ve done.

She did not like bigots or brilliant bores or academicians who wore their honors, or scholars who wore their doctorates, like dogtags. But she had an infinite capacity to love peasants and children and great but simple causes across the board and a grace in giving that was itself gratitude and she had a body like sculpture in the thinnest of wire and a face made of a million mosaics in a gauze-web of cubes lighter than air and a piñata of a heart in the center of a mobile at fiesta time with bits of her soul swirling in the breeze in honor of life and love and Good Morning to you, Bon Jour, Muy Buenos, Muy Buenos! Muy Buenos! On Nancy Cunard

I hadn't told him the news yet, but in that same preternatural way he was always aware of what I was feeling or thinking, he could smell my lies a mile away. He was just giving me time to come to him. To tell him I'd be baking his bun for the next seven and a half months. ''I'm okay." Dex's chuckle filled my ears as he wrapped his arms around my chest from behind, his chin resting on the top of my head. "Just okay?" He was taunting me, I knew it. This man never did anything without a reason. And this reason had him resembling a mama bear. A really aggressive, possessive mama bear. Which said something because Dex was normally that way. I couldn't even sit around Mayhem without him or Sonny within ten feet. I leaned my head back against his chest and laughed. "Yeah, just okay." He made a humming noise deep in his throat. "Ritz," he drawled in that low voice that reached the darkest parts of my organs. "You're killin' me, honey." Oh boy. Did I want to officially break the news on the side of the road with chunks of puke possibly still on my face? Nah. So I went with the truth. "I have it all planned out in my head. I already ordered the cutest little toy motorcycle to tell you, so don't ruin it." A loud laugh burst out of his chest, so strong it rocked my body alongside his. I friggin' loved this guy. Every single time he laughed, I swear it multiplied. At this rate, I loved him more than my own life cubed, and then cubed again. "All right," he murmured between these low chuckles once he'd calmed down a bit. His fingers trailed over the skin of the back of my hand until he stopped at my ring finger and squeezed the slender bone. "I can be patient." That earned him a laugh from me. Patience? Dex? Even after more than three years, that would still never be a term I'd use to describe him. And it probably never would. He'd started to lose his shit during our layover when Trip had called for instructions on how to set the alarm at the new bar. "Dex, Ris, and Baby Locke, you done?" Sonny yelled, peeping out from over the top of the car door. "Are you friggin' kidding me?" I yelled back. Did everyone know? That slow, seductive smile crawled over his features. Brilliant and more affectionate than it was possible for me to handle, it sucked the breath out of me. When he palmed my cheeks and kissed each of my cheeks and nose and forehead, slowly like he was savoring the pecks and the contact, I ate it all up. Like always, and just like I always would. And he answered the way I knew he would every single time I asked him from them on, the way that told me he would never let me down. That he was an immovable object. That he'd always be there for me to battle the demons we could see and the invisible ones we couldn't. "Fuckin' love you, Iris," he breathed against my ear, an arm slinking around my lower back to press us together. "More than anything.

You’re right, poltergeists are the third classification. They’re not an entity in their own right, though. They’re altered versions of either spectres or imprints. When a ghost becomes highly emotional—if a researcher taunts them, for instance, or if they see a scene strongly reminiscent of a powerful moment from their life—they can gather additional energy and start affecting the physical world. Usually, that manifests as objects being thrown or as gusts of wind. Sometimes, poltergeists will try to touch you, which I’m told feels like an ice cube being run over your skin.

We peeled out with a screech, Ice Cube bumping from the brand-new speakers she’d proudly installed herself. Naperville is a relatively wealthy and predominantly Republican suburb a little over an hour outside of Chicago, and I knew I was in trouble the minute I saw how many churches we were driving past as we exited the tollway. Seriously, it was like church, church, Burger King that whole families actually sit down and eat dinner in, church, church, Walmart, church. We saw at least 137 churches in a two-mile stretch, and that was only after I’d actually started counting them.

I go to one of my favorite Instagram profiles, the.korean.vegan, and I watch her last video, in which she makes peach-topped tteok. The Korean vegan, Joanne, cooks while talking about various things in her life. As she splits open a peach, she explains why she gave up meat. As she adds lemon juice, brown sugar, nutmeg, a pinch of salt, cinnamon, almond extract, maple syrup, then vegan butter and vegan milk and sifted almond and rice flour, she talks about how she worried about whitewashing her diet, about denying herself a fundamental part of her culture, and then about how others don't see her as authentically Korean since she is a vegan. I watch other videos by Joanne, soothed by her voice into feeling human myself, and into craving the experiences of love she talks of and the food she cooks as she does. I go to another profile, and watch a person's hands delicately handle little knots of shirataki noodles and wash them in cold water, before placing them in a clear oden soup that is already filled with stock-boiled eggs, daikon, and pure white triangles of hanpen. Next, they place a cube of rice cake in a little deep-fried tofu pouch, and seal the pouch with a toothpick so it looks like a tiny drawstring bag; they place the bag in with the other ingredients. "Every winter my mum made this dish for me," a voice says over the video, "just like how every winter my grandma made it for my mum when she was a child." The person in the video is half Japanese like me, and her name is Mei; she appears on the screen, rosy cheeked, chopsticks in her hand, and sits down with her dish and eats it, facing the camera. Food means so much in Japan. Soya beans thrown out of temples in February to tempt out demons before the coming of spring bring the eater prosperity and luck; sushi rolls eaten facing a specific direction decided each year bring luck and fortune to the eater; soba noodles consumed at New Year help time progress, connecting one year to the next; when the noodles snap, the eater can move on from bad events from the last year. In China too, long noodles consumed at New Year grant the eater a long life. In Korea, when rice-cake soup is eaten at New Year, every Korean ages a year, together, in unison. All these things feel crucial to East Asian identity, no matter which country you are from.

MAKES ABOUT 10 LARGE OR 15 SMALL BISCUITS Cheddar Biscuits Flecks of sharp cheddar cheese add flavor and color to these biscuits. I like to make them smaller, using a 11/2-inch biscuit cutter or small juice glass to cut them out. For a party, these are fantastic filled with ham, fig jam, or my favorite, tomato jam. (For biscuit-making advice, see “Biscuit-Making Tips” on page 259.) 2 cups all-purpose flour plus more for rolling 21/4 teaspoons baking powder 3/4 teaspoon baking soda 1/2 teaspoon salt 6 tablespoons (3/4 stick) butter, chilled and cut into small cubes 3/4 cup sharp cheddar cheese, shredded 1 cup buttermilk 1/4 cup butter, melted 1. Preheat the oven to 425°F. 2. In a large mixing bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Cut the cold

warm little pond” where Darwin supposed life began to the bubbling sea vents that are now the most popular candidates for life’s beginnings—but all this overlooks the fact that to turn monomers into polymers (which is to say, to begin to create proteins) involves what is known to biology as “dehydration linkages.” As one leading biology text puts it, with perhaps just a tiny hint of discomfort, “Researchers agree that such reactions would not have been energetically favorable in the primitive sea, or indeed in any aqueous medium, because of the mass action law.” It is a little like putting sugar in a glass of water and having it become a cube. It shouldn’t happen, but somehow in nature it does. The actual chemistry of all this is a little arcane for our purposes here, but it is enough to know that if you make monomers wet they don’t turn into polymers—except when creating life on Earth. How and why it happens then and not otherwise is one of biology’s great unanswered questions.

He carefully poured the juice into a bowl and rinsed the scallops to remove any sand caught between the tender white meat and the firmer coral-colored roe, wrapped around it like a socialite's fur stole. Mayur is the kind of cook (my kind), who thinks the chef should always have a drink in hand. He was making the scallops with champagne custard, so naturally the rest of the bottle would have to disappear before dinner. He poured a cup of champagne into a small pot and set it to reduce on the stove. Then he put a sugar cube in the bottom of a wide champagne coupe (Lalique, service for sixteen, direct from the attic on my mother's last visit). After a bit of a search, he found the crème de violette in one of his shopping bags and poured in just a dash. He topped it up with champagne and gave it a swift stir. "To dinner in Paris," he said, glass aloft. 'To the chef," I answered, dodging swiftly out of the way as he poured the reduced champagne over some egg yolks and began whisking like his life depended on it. "Do you have fish stock?" "Nope." "Chicken?" "Just cubes. Are you sure that will work?" "Sure. This is the Mr. Potato Head School of Cooking," he said. "Interchangeable parts. If you don't have something, think of what that ingredient does, and attach another one." I counted, in addition to the champagne, three other bottles of alcohol open in the kitchen. The boar, rubbed lovingly with a paste of cider vinegar, garlic, thyme, and rosemary, was marinating in olive oil and red wine. It was then to be seared, deglazed with hard cider, roasted with whole apples, and finished with Calvados and a bit of cream. Mayur had his nose in a small glass of the apple liqueur, inhaling like a fugitive breathing the air of the open road. As soon as we were all assembled at the table, Mayur put the raw scallops back in their shells, spooned over some custard, and put them ever so briefly under the broiler- no more than a minute or two. The custard formed a very thin skin with one or two peaks of caramel. It was, quite simply, heaven. The pork was presented neatly sliced, restaurant style, surrounded with the whole apples, baked to juicy, sagging perfection.

After you've been to bed together for the first time, without the advantage or disadvantage of any prior acquaintance, the other party very often says to you, Tell me about yourself, I want to know all about you, what's your story? And you think maybe they really and truly do sincerely want to know your life story, and so you light up a cigarette and begin to tell it to them, the two of you lying together in completely relaxed positions like a pair of rag dolls a bored child dropped on a bed. You tell them your story, or as much of your story as time or a fair degree of prudence allows, and they say, Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, each time a little more faintly, until the oh is just an audible breath, and then of course there's some interruption. Slow room service comes up with a bowl of melting ice cubes, or one of you rises to pee and gaze at himself with the mild astonishment in the bathroom mirror. And then, the first thing you know, before you've had time to pick up where you left off with your enthralling life story, they're telling you their life story, exactly as they'd intended to all along, and you're saying, Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, each time a little more faintly, the vowel at last becoming no more than an audible sigh, as the elevator, halfway down the corridor and a turn to the left, draws one last, long, deep breath of exhaustion and stops breathing forever. Then? Well, one of you falls asleep and the other one does likewise with a lighted cigarette in his mouth, and that's how people burn to death in hotel rooms.

A depachika is like nothing else. It is the endless bounty of a hawker's bazaar, but with Japanese civility. It is Japanese food and foreign food, sweet and savory. The best depachika have more than a hundred specialized stands and cannot be understood on a single visit. I felt as though I had a handle on Life Supermarket the first time I shopped there, but I never felt entirely comfortable in a depachika. They are the food equivalent of Borges's "The Library of Babel": if it's edible, someone is probably selling it, but how do you find it? How do you resist the cakes and spices and Chinese delis and bento boxes you'll pass on the way? At the Isetan depachika, in Shinjuku, French pastry god Pierre Hermé sells his signature cakes and macarons. Not to be outdone, Franco-Japanese pastry god Sadaharu Aoki sells his own nearby. Tokyo is the best place in the world to eat French pastry. The quality and selection are as good as or better than in Paris, and the snootiness factor is zero. I wandered by a collection of things on sticks: yakitori at one stand, kushiage at another. Kushiage are panko-breaded and fried foods on sticks. At any depachika, you can buy kushiage either golden and cooked, or pale and raw to fry at home. Neither option is terribly appetizing: the fried stuff is losing crispness by the second, and who wants to deep-fry in a poorly ventilated Tokyo apartment in the summer? But the overall effect of the display is mesmerizing: look at all the different foods they've put on sticks! Pork, peppers, mushrooms, squash, taro, and two dozen other little cubes.

Here’s what the Encyclopedia Galactica has to say about alcohol. It says that alcohol is a colorless volatile liquid formed by the fermentation of sugars and also notes its intoxicating effect on certain carbon-based life forms. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy also mentions alcohol. It says that the best drink in existence is the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster. It says that the effect of drinking a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster is like having your brains smashed out by a slice of lemon wrapped round a large gold brick. The Guide also tells you on which planets the best Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters are mixed, how much you can expect to pay for one and what voluntary organizations exist to help you rehabilitate afterward. The Guide even tells you how you can mix one yourself. Take the juice from one bottle of the Ol’ Janx Spirit, it says. Pour into it one measure of water from the seas of Santraginus V—Oh, that Santraginean seawater, it says. Oh, those Santraginean fish! Allow three cubes of Arcturan Mega-gin to melt into the mixture (it must be properly iced or the benzine is lost). Allow four liters of Fallian marsh gas to bubble through it, in memory of all those happy bikers who have died of pleasure in the Marshes of Pallia. Over the back of a silver spoon float a measure of Qualactin Hypermint extract, redolent of all the heady odors of the dark Qualactin Zones, subtle, sweet and mystic. Drop in the tooth of an Algolian Suntiger. Watch it dissolve, spreading the fires of the Algolian Suns deep into the heart of the drink. Sprinkle Zamphuor. Add an olive. Drink…but…very carefully… The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy sells rather better than the Encyclopedia Galactica.

Mark came home late one frozen Sunday carrying a bag of small, silver fish. They were smelts, locally known as icefish. He’d brought them at the store in the next town south, across from which a little village had sprung up on the ice of the lake, a collection of shacks with holes drilled in and around them. I’d seen the men going from the shore to the shacks on snowmobiles, six-packs of beer strapped on behind them like a half dozen miniature passengers. “Sit and rest,” Mark said. “I’m cooking.” He sautéed minced onion in our homemade butter, added a little handful of crushed, dried sage, and when the onion was translucent, he sprinkled n flour to make a roux, which he loosened with beer, in honor of the fishermen. He added cubed carrot, celery root, potato, and some stock, and then the fish, cut into pieces, and when they were all cooked through he poured in a whole morning milking’s worth of Delia’s yellow cream. Icefish chowder, rich and warm, eaten while sitting in Mark’s lap, my feet so close to the woodstove that steam came off my damp socks.

If you already hate tofu, the term "tofu skin" is probably an effective emetic. But this stuff is addictive. You start by making fresh soy milk. I'm not going to soft-pedal how much work this is: you have to soak, grind, squeeze, and simmer dried soybeans. The result is a thick milk entirely unlike the soy milk you get in a box at Whole Foods in the same way Parmigiano-Reggiano is unlike Velveeta. Then, to make tofu skins (yuba in Japanese), you simmer the soy milk gently over low heat until a skin forms on the surface, then pluck it off with your fingers and drape it over a chopstick to dry. It is exactly like the skin that forms on top of pudding, the one George Costanza wanted to market as Pudding Skin Singles. Yuba doesn't look like much- like a pile of discarded raw chicken skin, honestly. But the texture is toothsome, and with each bite you're rewarded with the flavor of fresh soy milk. It's best served with just a few drops of soy sauce and maybe some grated ginger or sliced negi. "I'm kind of obsessed with tofu skins right now," said Iris, poking her head into the fridge to grab a round of yuba. Me too. In Seattle, I had to buy, grind, boil, and otherwise toil for a few sheets of yuba. In Tokyo, I found it at Life Supermarket, sold in a single-serving plastic tub with a foil top. The yuba wasn't as snappy or flavorful as homemade, but it had that characteristic fresh-soy aroma, which to me smells like a combination of "healthy forest" and "clean baby." Iris and I ate it greedily. (The yuba, not the baby.) Yuba isn't technically tofu, because the soy milk isn't coagulated. Japanese tofu comes in two basic categories, much like underpants: cotton (momen) and silken (kinugoshi). Cotton tofu is the kind eaten most commonly in the U.S.; if you buy a package of extra-firm tofu and cut it up for stir-frying, that's definitely cotton tofu. Silken tofu is fragile, creamier and more dairy-like than cotton-tofu, and it's the star of my favorite summer tofu dish. Hiya yakko is cubes of tofu, usually silken, drizzled with soy sauce and judiciously topped with savory bits: grated ginger or daikon, bonito flakes, negi. It's popular in Japanese bars and easy to make at home, which I did, with (you will be shocked to hear) tons of fresh negi.

She returned to the floor, and a tray appeared beside her with a sandwich, glass of milk, and some cubes of cantaloupe. She didn't know who brought it in, but she picked up a piece of the cantaloupe and examined it. The color matched some of the roses in the lady's garden, exactly what she needed for the flowers she'd drawn behind her butterfly. Yellow, white, and a dab of red- she combined them on the plate until a soft peach colored her palette. Walter thought she should grow up, like the lady wanted Oliver to do, but grown-ups didn't spend their nights dancing in gardens. Or painting. "I will stay a girl forever," she whispered, changing the lyrics from 'Peter Pan.' "And be banished if I don't." She began to paint her butterfly. "I'll never grow up," she chanted as she worked. It wasn't until the first rays of dawn spilled across her paper that she began to feel sleepy. Her floor was covered with pictures and papers, but where others might see a mess, she saw a new world. There were flowers and trees and butterflies she'd brought to life with her hands. And her heart. A lot of people thought she wasn't good at anything, but it wasn't true. She was good at making things.

So, you have a nice time with Luca?” says a sharp, high voice right behind me. I turn to see Elisa. “Luca likes to kiss the girls.” Elisa seems to be confiding, but also manages to smirk at the same time, which is sort of impressive. “Many girls. Molte ragazze. Every summer, the foreign girls. Very many.” Cold spreads across my rib cage as if she’s held an ice cube to my breastbone. But Elisa isn’t the first mean girl I’ve met in my life, and I’ve got plenty of experience dealing with them. “Don’t be jealous!” I say, tilting my head to one side and giving her my best faux-sympathetic smile. “He’s free now.” I glance sideways and spy at Luca, who’s standing by the bar table, finishing his Prosecco as coolly as if he’s entirely unaffected by what just happened between us. “You could go over and see if he’ll kiss you. Though I warn you, I’m a hard act to follow.

after two praying mantises mate, the nervous system of the male begins to shut down while he still has control over his motor functions he flops onto his back, exposing his soft underbelly up to his lover like a gift she then proceeds to lovingly dice him into tiny cubes spooning every morsel into her mouth she wastes nothing even the exoskeleton goes she does this so that once their children are born she has something to regurgitate to feed them now that.. is selflessness i could never do that for you so i have a new plan i’m gonna leave you now i’m gonna spend the rest of my life committing petty injustices i hope you do the same i will jay walk at every opportunity i will steal things i could easily afford i will be rude to strangers i hope you do the same i hope reincarnation is real i hope our petty crimes are enough to cause us to be reborn as lesser creatures i hope we are reborn as flies so that we can love each other as hard as we were meant to.

With what do you fill an empty life? Amorous figures, the self in a dream, the self replicated in another self, the two stacked together, though the arms and legs are always perfectly shaded as in an urn or bas relief. Inside, ashes of the actual life. Ashes, disappointment- And all he asks is to complete his work, to be suspended in time like an orange slice in an ice cube-

Now imagine that an anthropologist specializing in primitive cultures beams herself down to the natives in Silicon Valley, whose way of life has not advanced a kilobyte beyond the Google age and whose tools have remained just as primitive as they were in the twenty-first century. She brings along with her a tray of taste samples called the Munsell Taste System. On it are representative samples of the whole taste space, 1,024 little fruit cubes that automatically reconstitute themselves on the tray the moment one picks them up. She asks the natives to try each of these and tell her the name of the taste in their language, and she is astonished at the abject poverty of their fructiferous vocabulary. She cannot comprehend why they are struggling to describe the taste samples, why their only abstract taste concepts are limited to the crudest oppositions such as “sweet” and “sour,” and why the only other descriptions they manage to come up with are “it’s a bit like an X,” where X is the name of a certain legacy fruit. She begins to suspect that their taste buds have not yet fully evolved. But when she tests the natives, she establishes that they are fully capable of telling the difference between any two cubes in her sample. There is obviously nothing wrong with their tongue, but why then is their langue so defective? Let’s try to help her. Suppose you are one of those natives and she has just given you a cube that tastes like nothing you’ve ever tried before. Still, it vaguely reminds you of something. For a while you struggle to remember, then it dawns on you that this taste is slightly similar to those wild strawberries you had in a Parisian restaurant once, only this taste seems ten times more pronounced and is blended with a few other things that you can’t identify. So finally you say, very hesitantly, that “it’s a bit like wild strawberries.” Since you look like a particularly intelligent and articulate native, the anthropologist cannot resist posing a meta-question: doesn’t it feel odd and limiting, she asks, not to have precise vocabulary to describe tastes in the region of wild strawberries? You tell her that the only things “in the region of wild strawberry” that you’ve ever tasted before were wild strawberries, and that it has never crossed your mind that the taste of wild strawberries should need any more general or abstract description than “the taste of wild strawberries.” She smiles with baffled incomprehension.

Emerence no longer wished to live, because we'd destroyed the framework of her life and the legend attached to her name. She had been everyone's model, everyone's help, the supreme exemplar. Out of her starched apron pockets came sugar cubes wrapped in paper and linen handkerchiefs rustling like doves. She was the Snow Queen. She stood for certainty - in summer the first ripening cherry, in autumn the thud of falling chestnuts, the golden roast pumpkin of winter, and, in spring, the first bud on the hedgerow.

I can't get why people are afraid of books or films which are horror. What's the scary of the film "Cube 1,2,3" - Yeah it was brutal I get scary, but after an hour I'm fine. I just continue to live my life. I check out "Saw", the most brutal film ever watched, yeah I could have some kind a bad thoughts and other stuff about the film. Like to think that this guy "Saw", is there with the bike, but after few days everything it went on the right path. I had chance to see what is the real face of the killers - "Saw" and what does goverment do "Cube"! GreenMile was a sad story, I still can't believe that Stephen King has written it!

SIMONE "It comes up inside me and it won't go away. It comes up, like a slow geyser of thick chemicals, and spreads through me. It makes me want something. I want it so much but I don't know what it is. It comes up from the bottom like a small seed, just floating there, and it bleeds around inside, looking for me." The empty loading dock corridor. Empty trailers. Her shoes on broken glass. Ice cubes. Her hands. SIMONE "And it makes me so sad that I will never figure out what it is, just enough to let it be, all by itself. And because I want it, it won't go away. It needs me to need it. And want me back. I can feel it moving. I can hear it and I can see it. I can almost touch it, and it is some kind of life. It is beautiful and warm and gentle and it is your friend. And then it turns, when you try to put it away, or when you can't carry it anymore, and it isn't allowed.

Berry Good Smoothie When trying to eat healthy, smoothies are your best friend. They taste great, they are packed full of fruit, and they're healthy. I feel as though we often forget about smoothies in our day to day life. Take full advantage of using smoothies when trying to keep a well-balanced diet. They make great snacks in between meals, are refreshing, and can cure cravings when you're looking for something sweet. When it comes to smoothies there's some really cool creations you can make and you can decide what you like the best, but here’s three great short recipes to get you started. Ingredients– - 1 Banana - 1/2 cup of Strawberries - 1/3 cup of Blackberries - 1/2 cup of Blueberries - 1/2 cup of Greek or Regular Yogurt - 5-6 Ice Cubes - 1/4 cup of Orange Juice Directions– Blend all of that goodness together. If consistency is too thick, add a bit more of milk to fit liking. Adjust flavors to fit desired taste. Serve.

Gangsta Rap Made Me Do It" [Female Insert] Maestro!!! [Ice Cube] Blame me [Intro: Ice Cube] You niggas know my pyroclastic flow You niggas know my pyroclastic flow flow You niggas know my pyroclastic flow it's R-A-W, R-A-W [Ice Cube] You looking at the grand wizard, war lord vocal chord so vicious And I don't have to show riches to pull up pull off with some bad bitches And it ain't about chivalry It's about dope lyrics and delivery It's about my persona ain't nothing like a man that can do what he wanna Ain't nothing like man on that you knew on the corner See 'em come up and fuck up the owner See 'em throw up Westside California Nigga I'm hot as Phoenix Arizona I'm Utah I got multiple bitches It's a new law keep a hold of yo riches Dumb nigga don't spend it as soon as you get it And recognize I'm a captain and you a lieutenant [Chorus 1] I can say what I want to say ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it If I call you a nigga ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it I can act like an animal ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it If I eat you like a cannibal ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it [Ice Cube] I'm raw as a dirty needle Choke an eagle Just to feed all my people Lyrically I'm so lethal Plant thoughts in they mind just to defeat you Ice Cube is a saga y'all spit saliva And I spit lava I got the fearless flow Don't get near this ho If you sacred to go I keep it gangsta and why should change that fuck you all you motherfuckers trying to change rap But aren't you the same cat that sat back when they brought cocaine back I'm trying to get me a Maybach how you motherfuckers gonna tell me don't say that you the ones that we learned it from I heard nigga back in 1971 [Chorus 2] So if I act like a pimp ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it If I call you a nappy headed ho ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it If I shoot up your college ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it If I rob you of knowledge ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it [Ice Cube] Thank God when I bless the mic You finally get to hear the shit that you like A nigga talking bout real life so you can try to get this shit right Use your brain not your back use your brain not a gat It's a party not a jack (for real) Don't be scared of them people Walk up in there and show them that you equal (fuck them fuck them) Don't be material a nigga grew up on milk and cereal I never for got vaness and imperial Look at my life Ice Cube is a miracle It could be you if you was this lyrical It could be her if she was this spiritual Cause me and Allah go back like cronies I don't got to be fake cause he is my homie [Chorus 3] If I sell a little crack ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it If I die in Iraq ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it If I take you for granted ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it If I fuck up the planet ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it [Intro] [Ice Cube] Oh yeah and another thing For all ya niggas that don't do gangsta rap Don't get on TV talking about gangsta rap Cause 9 times at a 10 you don't know the fuck you talk about Talk about that bullshit rap you do Stay the fuck out of mine

I am indeed a kind of alien," siad Momo. "Your legends do not entirely miss the mark. We do have ray guns and flying saucers. But my homeland is not one of your space's planets. I'm from the All, Joe Cube. A world of four dimensions. I climbed down through a tunnel to get to Spaceland- to your world. Spaceland lies in an endless cavern like a strange, subterranean sea. Spaceland very nearly lacks a fourth dimension; it extends less than a nanometer in the direction of your vinn and vout- which actually point in the direction of our up and down. Spaceland appears to us as something like a rug- but unlike a rug, Spsaceland is cunningly filled with motion and life. It seems the Creator put Spaceland in place to separate the All in two. My people the Kluppers, live up above it, and another fold called the Dronners live down below. They are our enemies, hidden below Spaceland.” Momo paused, as if agitated by the thought of the Dronners. “You’ll turn the tide against them Joe.

I am indeed a kind of alien," siad Momo. "Your legends do not entirely miss the mark. We do have ray guns and flying saucers. But my homeland is not one of your space's planets. I'm from the All, Joe Cube. A world of four dimensions. I climbed down through a tunnel to get to Spaceland- to your world. Spaceland lies in an endless cavern like a strange, subterranean sea. Spaceland very nearly lacks a fourth dimension; it extends less than a nanometer in the direction of your vinn and vout- which actually point in the direction of our up and down. Spaceland appears to us as something like a rug- but unlike a rug, Spsaceland is cunningly filled with motion and life. It seems the Creator put Spaceland in place to separate the All in two. My people the Kluppers, live up above it, and another folk called the Dronners live down below. They are our enemies, hidden below Spaceland.” Momo paused, as if agitated by the thought of the Dronners. “You’ll turn the tide against them Joe.

You don’t know everything,” he says softly. “Not yet you don’t. And when you see those good things—and I promise you, there are so many good things—they’re going to be so much brighter for you than they are for other people, just like the abyss seems deeper and bigger when you stare at it. If you stick it out, it’s all going to feel worth it in the end. Every moment you live, every darkness you face, they’ll all feel worth it when you’re staring light in the face. Okay?” I swallow the knot in my throat. “How do you know?” He smiles and rustles my hair. “Because you’re like me. And when you came home with us, everything changed. I saw my whole life for what it had really been, and even though I was goddam terrified of all the things that could happen to you, when I looked at you it was like all the bad things had been a dream, and I was finally waking up. That’s how I know, sugar cube. This is only the beginning. If you want the good, you can’t give up.

Ah, "never give up," the ultimate mantra for life's champions! When obstacles try to play their game of whack-a-mole, I'll be the sneaky mole that keeps popping up, saying, "Not today, my friend!" It's like facing a Rubik's cube with a sassy smile, determined to twist and turn until all the colors align. So, to the hurdles that dare cross my path, I've got a witty comeback: You can't stop me—I'm a tenacious force with a side of stubborn!

Ah, "never give up," the ultimate mantra for life's champions! When obstacles try to play their game of whack-a-mole, I'll be the sneaky mole that keeps popping up, saying, "Not today, my friend!" It's like facing a Rubik's cube with a sassy smile, determined to twist and turn until all the colors align. So, to the hurdles that dare cross my path, I've got a witty comeback: You can't stop me—I'm a tenacious force with a side of stubborn!

Ah, "never give up," the ultimate mantra for life's champions! When obstacles try to play their game of whack-a-mole, I'll be the sneaky mole that keeps popping up, saying, "Not today, my friend!" It's like facing a Rubik's cube with a sassy smile, determined to twist and turn until all the colors align. So, to the hurdles that dare cross my path, I've got a witty comeback: You can't stop me—I'm a tenacious force with a side of stubbornness!

He is schizophrenic, this is how he was diagnosed with the CIA, and his schizophrenia is his strength, he comes out of a personality, directly impersonating a new one, a completely different one, which he experiences as if he had in it for his whole life. This is every professional agent’s strong point, but it comes at such a high price that it in many cases often ends up in a whiff of insanity. Therefore, they must be monitored and psychologically evaluated on a periodic basis. The last thing the agency wants is a suicidal agent with a message exposing many secrets, or a biased towards their opponents, or a madman circling the streets babbling from here and there. It takes its responsibilities towards them, these people suffer a lot, and the more they train, the more they work, the more professional they become, and the crazier they are. But there was something different about him, which Alex did not miss. Not that schizophrenia that she knew; When sitting with him, talking to him, all the paper reports seem as if they were written about a different person, as if deep down another person about whom no one knows anything yet, and as if all these characters he played are one character as if everything grows from inside him. What she was most concerned about is whether he is honest in being an intelligence agent, or is it a role he plays, as are the dozens of roles he played and plays for the agency. Many doubts revolve around him, officers were unable to manage him, and deal with him. The agency changed the liaison officer with him every few months, he is somewhat out of control, but at the same time, it is unable to terminate his services. The closer the agency got to making that decision, the more he did something that made them stick to it more, creative, distinct, and innovative, that we cannot easily let go of. Until Alex arrived, the only liaison officer he had worked with for years. His condition stabilized, he was no longer that mysterious brawler, she understood him completely, she threw all the reports, papers, and opinions behind her back, and dealt with him directly, without barriers. He was not simply pretending, he was not acting, he was really him. Every character he played, every lie he lied, every mess he made, it was him, without acting. And he said to her, they are all composite characters. If you look at each character, you will find something that connects them to the other, that they are like cubes, I build them on top of each other, I do not play them. What you need is to look at the details, and you will find a fine thread connecting them. He trusted her, and so did she. She became his friend, perhaps the only one in this world until Katrina entered his life. She knows nothing of what happened to him lately, but she knows that man deep inside him at the bottom of the pyramid of the cubes, “he will not hurt me, I trusted him before, I trust him today, his chivalry will not accept treachery, not of this kind, he will not do it”.

When we are able to moment by moment realize and live into a life of truth, beauty, and love we are free and nothing can disturb the peace at the core of our lives. What would our lives be like if we were able to be fully conscious of the truth of each moment and our decisions were based on, “What is the most loving thing to do and the most loving way to be in this moment?

Maybe God is maple syrup. Maybe God is carbonated lime juice. Maybe God is sugar cubes and ice cream and red velvet cake. Maybe religion doesn’t have to be about prophets, saviors, or saints. Maybe, to some people, their salvation can lie in the everyday. Maybe God is the something sweet we need when everything else in life looks and tastes and feels like dirt.

The curious fact about Oxo cubes is that we have probably never really needed them. These little cubes of salt, beef extract and flavourings were, and I suppose still are, used to add ‘depth’ to stews, gravies and pie fillings made with ‘inferior’ meat. Two million are sold in Britain each day. Yet any half-competent cook knows you can make a blissfully flavoursome stew with a bit of scrag and a few carrots, without recourse to a cube full of chemicals and dehydrated cow. Apart from showing disrespect to the animal that has died for our Sunday lunch (imagine bits of someone else being added to your remains after you have been cremated), the use of a strongly seasoned cube to ‘enhance’ the gravy successfully manages to sum up all that is wrong about the British attitude to food. How could we fail to understand that the juices that drip from a joint of decent meat as it cooks are in fact its heart and soul, and are individual to that animal. Why would anyone need to mask the meat’s natural flavour? By making every roast lunch taste the same, smothering the life out of the natural pan juices seems like an act of culinary vandalism, and people did, and still do, just that on a daily basis.

He got in his truck and drove off, and I wondered if she was taking a shower now. Stripping the bed. What if I’d shown up just an hour later? Would she have slept with us both on the same day? Did she lie there with him after like she did with me? Talking and kissing? I put the truck in drive and went home before I did something fucking stupid. When I got back to my apartment, the tower of boxes still standing in my living room taunted me. A reminder that I’d spent the last two months giving all my free time to a woman who didn’t fucking want me, who could sleep with someone else without giving it a second thought. I kicked the bottom box and the whole thing toppled over, spilling clothes all over the floor. I grabbed another box and flung it across the room and stood there, panting, in my shitty cube of an apartment. Done. I was fucking done. I didn’t want any of this anymore. I didn’t want this fucking life. I didn’t want to live here. I didn’t want my shitty job. I wished I could un-know her. Go back and never meet her, never come here.

There’s this new glitch messing everything up. He calls himself Pigrothbrine. He only showed up a couple days ago and already he is in control of everything!” Otis growled and stomped on the ground. “Where is he?” “You … you’ve heard of him?” Trevor gasped. “Look at me, kid,” said Otis. “How do you think I got to look like this?” Trevor looked at Otis and gasped. “But … weren’t you a zombie pigman when you rescued Baby Zeke a couple months ago?” Otis thumped his chest. “I still am. But I have to kill Pigrothbrine in order to get my skin back.” “If that works,” I said. I turned back to Trevor. “What’s Pigrothbrine doing?” Trevor took a deep breath and sighed. He shook his cube sadly. “You remember Cassius the husk, right? Well, after he stirred up all the anger and anxiety of the nether mobs against the surface dwellers, there have been mutterings about his ideology. Pigrothbrine found out about it and is exploiting the anger to mobilize another army. They’re calling themselves the Sons of Cassius.” I shook my head. “That’s terrible. Do you think they’ll actually carry out Cassius’ plans to conquer the Overworld?” “I don’t know. All I know is that anyone who disobeys Pigrothbrine or his generals ends up despawned.” Trevor paused, sniffed, and then began to cry. “Just … just like my parents.” I reached out and touched his cube to console him. “What happened?” “They tried to keep the promise they made to you not to do anything against Minecraft. But when they refused to let their people become members of the Sons of Cassius, they were struck down by bolts of lightning that came out nowhere.” “So, he can make lightning work even in the Nether?” said Heidi. “That’s amazing.” I nodded and then looked at Trevor. “What did you do after your parents were … despawned?” “I had to join the army. Pigrothbrine wouldn’t let me ascend to my rightful place on the throne. He appointed one of his magma cube generals to run the kingdom.” “How did you escape?” I asked. “Pigrothbrine and his generals have us building canals to channel lava rivers into big pools. No one knows why. Earlier today, when I was walking next to a lava stream, I jumped in. I drifted downstream for a while before jumping out and locating a nether portal to the surface. Then, I hopped here as quickly as I could.” Otis looked at me with fire in his eyes. I could tell that his attitude toward pursuing Pigrothbrine had changed from his reluctance just a few hours ago. “Let’s go. Pigrothbrine has only been in existence for a couple of days and it sounds like he’s already causing apocalyptic damage. Let’s go see what we can do about it.” “I don’t know. It seems dangerous.” Otis scowled at me. “Aren’t you the Warrior? We didn’t even know where Pigrothbrine was a few minutes ago, but now we do. We have to take the fight to him.” I looked at Trevor. “Is Pigrothbrine actually down there? I mean, have you seen him recently?” “Part pig, part enderman?” said Trevor. “Exactly.” Trevor nodded his head. “He’s living in the nether fortress inside the kingdom of the magma cubes in a nether wastes biome. If anyone needs to go talk to him that’s where they go. I’ve never been inside the fortress, but that’s where everyone says he is living.” Heidi reached into her inventory and pulled out her newly-acquired netherite sword. “Let’s go get him. With the three of us working together ….” She looked at Trevor and smiled. “With the four of us working together, maybe we can take him out.” “Maybe,” I said. “I guess we go and conduct reconnaissance at least. Maybe when we get back Zeb will have figured something out.” “Well, if we find Pigrothbrine, I’m going to kill him,” snarled Otis. “Reconnaissance is for wimps.” Trevor ignored Otis and said, “Thank you, Baby Zeke. Thank you, everybody.” “So how do we get to this nether portal you used?” “I could take you there, but it comes out inside the Nether near a worksite controlled by Pigrothbrine.

2 tablespoons unsalted butter 1 teaspoon finely chopped garlic 1½ cups (½ bottle) fruity white wine, such as a Sauvignon Blanc About ¾ teaspoon salt, or to taste ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 3 packed cups grated Swiss cheese, preferably Emmenthaler or Gruyère (about 12 ounces) About 36 cubes (each 2 inches square) crusty French-style bread Melt the butter in a sturdy saucepan (preferably enameled cast iron), and add the garlic. Cook for 10 seconds over high heat, then add the wine, salt, and pepper. Bring to a boil to evaporate the alcohol in the wine. (You may flambé it, if you like, at this point, but one way or the other the alcohol will rise in the form of vapor.) Add the cheese, and stir gently with a wooden spatula or spoon until it is totally melted and the mixture is just reaching a boil. Do not let it come to a strong boil. Taste for seasoning, trying the fondue on a piece of the bread, and then correct the seasonings, if necessary. Bring the pan to the table, and set over a burner to keep hot. Instruct guests to use this technique: Impale one piece of bread, soft side first, on a dinner fork, and stir it gently into the mixture until coated with the cheese. With a twist of the wrist, lift the bread from the cheese, and set it on a plate for a few seconds to cool slightly before eating. When only about 1 cup of the mixture is left in the bottom of the pan, make the “soup” by adding a dozen or so pieces of the bread to the pot and mixing well to coat them with the leftover liquid and cheese. Don’t forget to eat the crusty bits of cheese sticking to the bottom of the pan.

Enlightenment is when we allow ourselves to melt like a sugar cube into the hot tea of God.

Life is like a shitty Rubik's cube that is missing the colored tiles all you can do is play with it but you will never know whether or not you have won.

but the hardest bodies are so porous, that, if all matter were compressed to perfect solidity, it might be contained in a cube of a few feet. In like manner, if all the employments of life were crowded into the time which it really occupied, perhaps a few weeks, days, or hours, would be sufficient for its accomplishment, so far as the mind was engaged in the performance. For such is the inequality of our corporeal to our intellectual faculties, that we contrive in minutes what we execute in years, and the soul often stands an idle spectator of the labour of the hands, and expedition of the feet.

Just like any challenge in life, there is no such thing as an impossible cube that cannot be solved, as long as you rise up to it with equal measures of grit and grace.