Liquid Courage Quotes

He winks at me, and the surge of butterflies in my stomach is so strong I think I may throw up right there. I need something to calm my nerves. The most obvious remedy is more alcohol. They don't call it liquid courage for nothing.

Sometimes life is like living in a chamber of Liquid Oxygen. Liquid don't allow you to live and Oxygen don't let you die.

Words can be more lethal than blades, Magnus. And Loki is a master of words. To beat him, you must find your inner poet. Only one thing can give you a chance to beat Loki at his own game.” “Mead,” I guessed. “Kvasir’s Mead.” The answer didn’t sit right with me. I’d been on the streets long enough to see how well “mead” improved people’s skills. Pick your poison: beer, wine, vodka, whiskey. Folks claimed they needed it to get through the day. They called it liquid courage. It made them funnier, smarter, more creative. Except it didn’t. It just made them less able to tell how unfunny and stupid they were acting.

The Black Horse made its beholder a master of combat. The Golden Egg granted great wealth. The Prophet offered glimpses of the future. The White Eagle bestowed courage. The Maiden bequeathed great beauty. The Chalice turned liquid into truth serum. The Well gave clear sight to recognize one’s enemies. The Iron Gate offered blissful serenity, no matter the struggle. The Scythe gave its beholder the power to control others. The Mirror granted invisibility. The Nightmare allowed its user to speak into the minds of others. The Twin Alders had the power to commune with Blunder’s ancient entity, the Spirit of the Wood.

Last call. It was about that time. He’d probably been drinking liquid courage all night, waiting for his chance to hit on her. I had little choice in assuming he was a three-time loser with a wad-of-cash to wave around and a bozo smile to boot. About to prate his many accomplishments as a man of the world and his travels among the world’s top markets.

Does love make the world go around? Well yes. But whiskey makes it go around twice as fast.

Personality shots,” her roommates used to call the first drinks of the night. Liquid courage. Whatever you called it, the point was to turn off the voice in your head that reminded you of everything wrong in your life.

Without a word, he walked over to the sideboard and grabbed one of the decanters and a crystal glass. He returned to his seat and poured two fingers’ worth of Scotch. He drank half of it in one swallow and thumped his glass down roughly. He waited for the burning sensation in his throat to abate. He waited for the liquid courage to adhere to his insides, fortifying him. But it would take much more Scotch to dull the ache in his heart.

Beer is for barbecue. Tequila is for bad decisions. And whiskey is for all-purpose adjustment. It’s what I always reached for when I drank. But I can’t help you drown your troubles in booze. Or are you looking for liquid courage?

The Loneliness of the Military Historian Confess: it's my profession that alarms you. This is why few people ask me to dinner, though Lord knows I don't go out of my way to be scary. I wear dresses of sensible cut and unalarming shades of beige, I smell of lavender and go to the hairdresser's: no prophetess mane of mine, complete with snakes, will frighten the youngsters. If I roll my eyes and mutter, if I clutch at my heart and scream in horror like a third-rate actress chewing up a mad scene, I do it in private and nobody sees but the bathroom mirror. In general I might agree with you: women should not contemplate war, should not weigh tactics impartially, or evade the word enemy, or view both sides and denounce nothing. Women should march for peace, or hand out white feathers to arouse bravery, spit themselves on bayonets to protect their babies, whose skulls will be split anyway, or,having been raped repeatedly, hang themselves with their own hair. There are the functions that inspire general comfort. That, and the knitting of socks for the troops and a sort of moral cheerleading. Also: mourning the dead. Sons,lovers and so forth. All the killed children. Instead of this, I tell what I hope will pass as truth. A blunt thing, not lovely. The truth is seldom welcome, especially at dinner, though I am good at what I do. My trade is courage and atrocities. I look at them and do not condemn. I write things down the way they happened, as near as can be remembered. I don't ask why, because it is mostly the same. Wars happen because the ones who start them think they can win. In my dreams there is glamour. The Vikings leave their fields each year for a few months of killing and plunder, much as the boys go hunting. In real life they were farmers. The come back loaded with splendour. The Arabs ride against Crusaders with scimitars that could sever silk in the air. A swift cut to the horse's neck and a hunk of armour crashes down like a tower. Fire against metal. A poet might say: romance against banality. When awake, I know better. Despite the propaganda, there are no monsters, or none that could be finally buried. Finish one off, and circumstances and the radio create another. Believe me: whole armies have prayed fervently to God all night and meant it, and been slaughtered anyway. Brutality wins frequently, and large outcomes have turned on the invention of a mechanical device, viz. radar. True, valour sometimes counts for something, as at Thermopylae. Sometimes being right - though ultimate virtue, by agreed tradition, is decided by the winner. Sometimes men throw themselves on grenades and burst like paper bags of guts to save their comrades. I can admire that. But rats and cholera have won many wars. Those, and potatoes, or the absence of them. It's no use pinning all those medals across the chests of the dead. Impressive, but I know too much. Grand exploits merely depress me. In the interests of research I have walked on many battlefields that once were liquid with pulped men's bodies and spangled with exploded shells and splayed bone. All of them have been green again by the time I got there. Each has inspired a few good quotes in its day. Sad marble angels brood like hens over the grassy nests where nothing hatches. (The angels could just as well be described as vulgar or pitiless, depending on camera angle.) The word glory figures a lot on gateways. Of course I pick a flower or two from each, and press it in the hotel Bible for a souvenir. I'm just as human as you. But it's no use asking me for a final statement. As I say, I deal in tactics. Also statistics: for every year of peace there have been four hundred years of war.

You are of the blood, Arvan. It will carry you through, he said Words! Just words. Blood was merely dark liquid — it carried no secrets, no mysteries. Courage was a thing of the soul and not a gift that a man could bestow on his sons

The clung to me as I dug through my bag of the keys to the house, it was a warm rain, and it looked gray as it came down from the sky. I imagined it to be liquid armor, shaping itself to my body where it made contact. Shielding me from everything

The rain clung to me as I dug through my bag of the keys to the house, it was a warm rain, and it looked gray as it came down from the sky. I imagined it to be liquid armor, shaping itself to my body where it made contact. Shielding me from everything

I see you have no need of a sword.” “Very difficult, these days, to get them through security,” she pointed out without changing expression. “You’re extremely accurate with that weapon.” “With all weapons. My father was an exacting man.” “You’re a very dangerous woman, Azami Yoshiie.” Sam meant it as an admiring compliment. One eyebrow raised. Her mouth curved and she flashed a heart-stopping smile. “You have no idea how dangerous.” She said his own words right back to him and he believed her. “And you’re as adept with a sword as you are with your other weapons?” he asked curiously. “More so,” she admitted with no trace of bragging—simply stating a fact. “I said so, didn’t I?” Sam turned on his heel and strode toward her purposefully. “I’m about to kiss you, Ms. Yoshiie. I’m fully aware I’m breaching every single international law of etiquette there is, and you might, rightfully, stick that knife of yours in my gut, but right at this moment I don’t particularly give a damn.” Her eyes widened, but she didn’t move. He’d known she wouldn’t. She was every bit as courageous as any member of his team. She would stand her ground. Thorn moistened her lips. “It might be your heart,” she warned truthfully. “Still, I have no choice here. I really don’t. So pull the damn thing out and be ready.” She felt her body go liquid with heat, a frightening reaction to a woman of absolute control. “If you’re going to do it, you’d best make it really good, because it very well might be the last thing you ever do. I have no idea how I’ll react. I’ve never actually kissed anyone before.

That morning, she was wearing an orange cotton dress; she looked like a burning sunset, and Chika knew immediately that his story would end with her, that he would drown in her large liquid eyes and it would be the perfect way to go. There was nothing boiling in him, just a loud and clear exhale, a weight of peace wrapping around his heart. Kavita looked up and smiled at him, and somehow Chika found the liver to ask her to lunch.

And then she caught the song. She fell upon it and music poured from the fiddle’s hollow, bright and liquid like fire out of the heart of the earth. Pierre-Jean drew back and stood mesmerized. The room around Fin stirred as every ear bent to the ring of heartsong. It rushed through Fin and spread to the outermost and tiniest capillary reaches of her body. Her flesh sang. The hairs of her arms and neck roused and stood. She sped the bow across the strings. Her fingers danced on the fingerboard quick as fat raindrops. Every man in the room that night would later swear that there was a wind within it. They would tell their children and lovers that a hurricane had filled the room, toppled chairs, driven papers and sheets before it and blew not merely around them but through them, taking fears, grudges, malice, and contempt with it, sending them spiraling out into the night where they vanished among the stars like embers rising from a bonfire. And though the spirited cry of the fiddle’s song blew through others and around the room and everything in it, Fin sat at the heart of it. It poured into her. It found room in the closets and hollow places of her soul to settle and root. It planted seeds: courage, resolve, steadfastness. Fin gulped it in, seized it, held it fast. She needed it, had thirsted for it all her days. She saw the road ahead of her, and though she didn’t understand it or comprehend her part in it, she knew that she needed the ancient and reckless power of a holy song to endure it. She didn’t let the music loose. It buckled and swept and still she clung to it, defined it in notes and rhythm, channeled it like a river bound between mountain steeps. And a thing happened then so precious and strange that Fin would ever after remember it only in the formless manner of dreams. The song turned and spoke her name—her true name, intoned in a language of mysteries. Not her earthly name, but a secret word, defining her alone among all created things. The writhing song spoke it, and for the first time, she knew herself. She knew what it was to be separated out, held apart from every other breathing creature, and known. Though she’d never heard it before and wouldn’t recall it after, every stitch of her soul shook in the passage of the word, shuddered in the wake of it, and mourned as the sound sped away. In an instant, it was over. The song ended with the dissonant pluck of a broken string.

What had been a region of model farming became almost a desert, for more than half the population was exiled or sent to concentration camps. The young people left the villages, the boys to go to the factories if they could get jobs, or to become vagabonds if they couldn’t. *** An echo of the tragic fate of Russia’s German Protestant population reached the world when the Mennonites flocked to Moscow and sought permission to leave the country. Some of these Germans had tried to obey the government and had formed collective farms, only to have them liquidated as Kulak collectives. Being first-class farmers, they had committed the crime of making even a Kolkhoz productive and prosperous. Others had quite simply been expropriated from their individual holdings. All were in despair. Few were allowed to leave Russia. They were sent to Siberia to die, or herded into slave labor concentration camps. The crime of being good farmers was unforgivable, and they must suffer for this sin. *** Cheat or be cheated, bully or be bullied, was the law of life. Only the German minority with their strong religious and moral sense—the individual morality of the Protestant as opposed to the mass subservience demanded by the Greek Orthodox Church and the Soviet Government—retained their culture and even some courage under Stalin’s Terror.

He reached a finger toward the Seiko, which now proclaimed the time to be ninety-one minutes past seven--A.M. and P.M.--and pulled it back just before touching the glass above the liquid crystal display. "Tell me, dear boy--is this 'watch' of yours boobyrigged?" "Huh? Oh! No. No, it's not boobyrigged." Jake touched his own finger to the face of the watch. "That means nothing, if it's set to the frequency of your own body," the Tick-Tock Man said. He spoke in the sharp, scornful tone Jake's father used when he didn't want people to figure out that he didn't have the slightest idea what he was talking about. Tick-Tock glanced briefly at Brandon, and Jake saw him weigh the pros and cons of making the bowlegged man his designated toucher. Then he dismissed the notion and looked back into Jake's eyes. "If this thing gives me a shock, my little friend, you're going to be choking to death on your own sweetmeats in thirty seconds." Jake swallowed hard but said nothing. The Tick-Tock Man reached out his finger again, and this time allowed it to settle on the face of the Seiko. The moment that it did, all the numbers went to zeros and then began to count upward again. Tick-Tock's eyes had narrowed in a grimace of potential pain as he touched the face of the watch. Now their corners crinkled in the first genuine smile Jake had seen from him. He thought it was partly pleasure at his own courage but mostly simple wonder and interest. "May I have it?" he asked Jake silkily. "As a gesture of your goodwill, shall we say? I am something of a clock fancier, my dear young cully--so I am." "Be my guest." Jake stripped the watch off his arm at once and dropped in onto the Tick-Tock Man's large waiting palm.

His eyes flickered with amusement, reflecting sunlight and shade. The rough beard on his chin gave him a wild, dangerous look. Stiffly, she lifted herself onto her toes, bracing a hand against his shoulders. He was steel beneath her grasp. Did he have to watch her so intently? She closed her eyes. It was the only way she would have the courage to do this. Still he waited. It would be a brief meeting of lips. Nothing to be afraid of. If only her heart would remember to keep beating. Holding her breath, she let her lips brush over his. It was the first time she’d ever kissed a man and her mind raced with it. She hardly had a sense of his mouth at all, though the shock of the single touch rushed like liquid fire to her toes. Her part of the bargain was fulfilled. It could be done and over right then. Recklessly, after a moment’s hesitation, she touched her lips once again to him. This time she lingered, exploring the feel of him little by little. His mouth was warm and smooth and wonderful, all of it new and unexpected. He still hadn’t moved, even though her knees threatened to crumble and her heart beat like a thunder drum. Finally he responded with the barest hint of pressure. The warmth of his breath mingled with hers. Without thinking, she let her fingers dig into the sleek muscle of his arms. A low, husky sound rumbled in his throat before he wrapped his arms around her. Heaven and earth. She hadn’t been kissing him at all. The thin ribbon of resistance uncoiled within her as he took control of the kiss. His stubble scraped against her mouth, raking a raw path of sensation through her. She could do nothing but melt against him, clutching the front of his tunic to stay on her feet. A delicious heat radiated from him. His hands sank low against the small of her back to draw her close as he teased her mouth open. His breath mingled with hers for one anguished second before his tongue slipped past her lips to taste her in a slow, indulgent caress. A sigh of surrender escaped from her lips, a sound she hadn’t imagined she was capable of uttering. His hands slipped from her abruptly and she opened her eyes to see his gaze fixed on her. ‘Well,’ he breathed, ‘you do honour your bets.’ Though he no longer touched her, it was as if the kiss hadn’t ended. He was still so close, filling every sense and thought. She stumbled as she tried to step away and he caught her, a knowing smile playing over his mouth. Her balance was impeccable. She never lost her footing like that, just standing there. His grip tightened briefly before he let her go. Even that tiny, innocent touch filled her with renewed longing. In a daze, she bent to pick up her fallen swords. Her pulse throbbed as if she had run a li without stopping. In her head she was still running, flying fast. ‘Now that our bargain is settled…’ she began hoarsely ‘…we should be going.’ To her horror her hands would not stop shaking. Brushing past him, she gathered up her knapsack and slung it over her shoulder. ‘You said the next town was hours from here?’ He collected his sword while a slow grin spread over his face. She couldn’t look at him without conjuring the feel and the taste of him. Head down, she ploughed through the tall grass. ‘A good match,’ she attempted. He caught up to her easily with his long stride. ‘Yes, quite good,’ he replied, the tone rife with meaning. Her cheeks burned hot as she forced her gaze on the road ahead. She could barely tell day from night, couldn’t give her own name if asked. She had to get home and denounce Li Tao. Warn her father. She had thought of nothing else since her escape, until this blue-eyed barbarian had appeared. It was fortunate they were parting when they reached town. When he wasn’t looking she pressed her fingers over her lips, which were still swollen from that first kiss. She was outmatched, much more outmatched than when they had crossed swords.

I harken to the call of my heart, embracing the depth that flows liquid ambered and animal soft within my cells. The dark abyss of denial has always been a poor mans trade for the guiding light of emotional wisdom. This crust of mortal skin is baptised with tear streaked holy waters. I rise to my heart with an uncommon courage and wade soul deep. Tissue thin ripples of redemption drift across the pain towards my future self, bathing me in hope. I rise and step closer to all that I AM. Kristin Granger

I harken to the call of my heart, embracing the depth that flows liquid ambered and animal soft within my cells. The dark abyss of denial has always been a poor mans trade for the guiding light of emotional wisdom. This crust of mortal skin is baptised with tear streaked holy waters. I rise to my heart with an uncommon courage and wade soul deep. Tissue thin ripples of redemption drift across the pain towards my future self, bathing me in hope. I rise and step closer to all that I AM.

On September 12, in a report to the British parliament, Mervyn, without naming names, sharply criticized the ECB and the Fed. “The provision of such liquidity support . . . encourages excessive risk-taking, and sows the seeds of future financial crises,” he wrote. In other words, there would be no Bank of England put. Mervyn’s concern explained why the Bank of England had not joined the ECB and the Swiss National Bank in proposing currency swap agreements with the Fed. By the time of our September 18 announcement, however, Mervyn appeared to have changed his mind. On the day after our meeting, the Bank of England for the first time announced it would inject longer-term funds (10 billion pounds, or roughly $20 billion, at a three-month term) into British money markets. Later in the crisis I observed, “There are no atheists in foxholes or ideologues in a financial crisis.” Mervyn had joined his fellow central bankers in the foxhole.

You allowed the girl to stay just long enough to ensure that Gareth would become enchanted with her — then, when he annoyed you, as he inevitably would, you sent her away. How very cruel, my friend!  To use the poor girl to punish your brother!  But no. That is not like you to be so heartless. Thus, I can only conclude that you are up to something, though what it could be, I have yet to fathom."  He shot Lucien a sideways glance. "Are you certain she's the one Charles was so smitten with?" Lucien was sitting back, smiling and idly watching the musicians. "Dead certain." "And the child?" "The spitting image of her father." "And yet you sent them away."  Fox shook his head. "What were you thinking of?" The duke turned his head, raising his brows in feigned surprise. "My dear Roger. You know me better than that. Do you think I would actually banish them?" "'Tis what your sister told me when I arrived." 'Ah, but 'tis what I want my sister to believe," he countered, smoothly. "And my two brothers — especially, Gareth."  He sipped his port, then swirled the liquid in the glass, studying it reflectively. "Besides, Roger, if you must know, I did not send the girl away — I merely made her feel so awkward that she had no desire to remain." "Is there a difference?" "But of course. She made the decision to leave, which means she maintains both her pride and a small modicum of respect, if not liking for me — which I may find useful at a future date. Gareth thinks I sent her away, which means he is perfectly furious with me. The result? She leaves, and he chases after her, which is exactly what I wanted him to do."  He chuckled. "Oh, to be a fly on the wall when he finds her and the two of them discover my hand in all this..." "Lucien, your eyes are gleaming with that cunning amusement that tells me you're up to something especially Machiavellian." "Is that so? Then I fear I must work harder at concealing the obvious." Fox gave him a shrewd look. "This is most confusing, as I'm sure you intend it to be. You know the child is Charles's and yet you will not acknowledge her ... and this after Charles expressly asked you to make her your ward?" "Really, Roger. There is no need to make the child my ward when Gareth, in all likelihood, will adopt her as his daughter." The barrister narrowed his eyes. "You have some superior, ulterior motive that evades us mere mortals." "But of course," Lucien murmured yet again, lifting his glass and idly sipping its dark liquid. "And perhaps you can explain it to this mere mortal?" "My dear Fox. It is quite simple, really. Drastic problems call for drastic solutions. By sending the girl away, I have set in motion my plan for Gareth's salvation. If things go as I expect, he will stay so furious with me that he will not only charge headlong to her rescue — but headlong into marriage with her." "Bloody hell!  Lucien, the girl's completely ill-suited for him!" "On the contrary. I have observed them together, Fox. They compliment each other perfectly. As for the girl, what she lacks in wealth and social standing she more than makes up for in courage, resolve, common sense, and maturity. Gareth, whether he knows it or not, needs someone just like her. It is my hope that she will — shall I say — reform him." Fox shook his head and bit into a fine piece of Cheshire. "You're taking a risk in assuming Gareth will even find her." "Oh, he'll find her. I have no doubt about that."  Lucien gestured for a footman, who promptly stepped forward and refilled his glass. "He's already half in love with her as it is. Gareth is nothing if not persistent." "Yes, and he is also given to rashness, poor judgment, and an unhealthy appetite for dissolute living." "Indeed. And that, my dear Fox, is exactly what I believe the girl will cure him of.

Dr. Al Rosen. He is a former accounting professor, one of the most reputable forensic accountants in North America. Dr. Rosen has consulted or given independent opinions on over 1,000 litigation-related engagements. In recent years he has written two books, which have sounded alarm bells about the state of the accounting profession, but the profession makes more money by not heeding his warnings. What concerns him should concern us all. His first book was titled “Swindlers” and went into detail about how easy it is to financially dupe investors in Canada and the U.S. His book gave examples from cases he has handled in his career. His second book “Easy Prey Investors” is also a must read for anyone investing in Canada or the U.S. In it he reveals the tricks and traps of the accounting industry that no others in the industry have the courage or the moral freedom to voice. The story below, from the UK, gives a snapshot and a link to the kind of accounting fraud that Dr. Al Rosen has long been warning us about. January 15, 2018 On Monday, Carillion, the U.K.’s second-largest construction company, announced that it would go into compulsory liquidation. Carillion is a construction company, it also provides facilities management and maintenance services such as cleaning and catering in the U.K.’s National Health Service hospitals, providing meals in 900 schools, and maintaining prisons. It holds a number of government contracts, including for the construction of a high-speed rail link and for the maintenance of roads. 43,000 employees worldwide, 20,000 work in the U.K.; the company also has a significant presence in the

- Welcome to the 21st Century: Where SEX is FREE & LOVE is EXPENSIVE, where LOSING phone is more PAINFUL than LOSING your VIRGINITY, where MODERNIZATION means NUDITY, where if you don't SMOKE or DRINK you are out of FASHION, where if you don't CHEAT so you are not SMART, where the BATHROOMS have become PHOTO STUDIOS, where TEMPLES become DATING POINTS, where doing WORSHIP TO GOD is DIFFICULT, where LIES become REALITIES, where the WOMEN fear PREGNANCY more than STD's , where a PIZZA DELIVERY is FASTER than EMERGENCY RESPONSE. PERSPECTIVES & DRIP DECIDE the value of person, where the BOYS/GIRLS are AFRAID of MARRIAGE but they love HAVING SEX, where KILLING HUMAN is a PLEASURE,where INSULTING THE GOD becomes the TRENDS of the era, where REVILING is a COURAGE where whoever PLAYS the MINDS always get happiness but whoever PLAYS the HEART gets HURT ,.... MODERNITY LOVE and LIQUID EDUCATION !!!

I met a girl named Shelby once or twice. For some reason, the image of a car sprung to mind. After some liquid courage, I asked her. How she would like to make my babies. She blocked me on that one social media network. I was expecting a business plan. See, her father tricked me. He made me believe I was dealing with a rational human being. But, hey, maybe we all learned something... didn't we?

…we dipped down into the tunnel taking us under the Hudson River and into the heart of the “Big Apple.” I knew New York City well, so it only took minutes before I found my way to 42nd Street and was on the Great White Way! There was a sense of excitement being surrounded by people who all seemed to be in a hurry to get somewhere. I ambled over to 8th Avenue, and found one of many bars advertising two drinks for the price of one. I entered thinking that in uniform I looked old enough to be served, but was still surprised when it happened. I don’t remember how much money I had on me, but it couldn’t have been much. Sitting at the bar, I blended in and no one seemed to care, so I had the second glass of what must have been the cheapest whiskey ever sold. Fortified by liquid courage, I started to feel bigger than life, and I thought to myself that if nobody else cared, why should I? The world was my oyster and I was the “King of the Hill.” The bartender asked if I wanted another drink. Looking at my watch I suddenly realized that it was later than I thought…. Where had the time gone? I had to get back! I had just arrived in the City and couldn’t believe how fast the time had flown by. I hurried to the new Port Authority Bus Terminal two blocks away and luckily caught the bus to Perth Amboy just in time. I felt a little lightheaded, but had it together enough to realize that I was racing against the clock. The bus seemed to take forever, making many more stops for red lights than I expected….

The changes can be extremely subtle: something that feels internally like a rock, for example, may suddenly seem to melt into a warm liquid. These changes have their most beneficial effect when they are simply watched, and not interpreted. Attaching meaning to them or telling a story about them at this time may shift the child’s perceptions into a more evolved portion of the brain, which can easily disrupt the direct connection established with the reptilian core. Bodily responses that emerge along with sensations typically include involuntary trembling, shaking, and crying. The body may want, slowly, to move in a particular way. If suppressed or interrupted by beliefs about being strong (grown up, courageous), acting normal, or abiding by familiar feelings, these responses will not be able to effectively discharge the accumulated energy.

I still gotta try bone marrow, though." I groan. "Oh, god. Please don't remind me of that conversation." "What? I thought it was enlightening." He wags his eyebrows. My knees buckle. "Yeah, right," I mutter, fighting back a smile. I yank off my glasses. "I still can't believe I said those words to you," I mutter as I clean my lenses with the hem of my ratty T-shirt. "What words?" I tilt my head at him. "You know exactly what I'm talking about." "Refresh my memory." Maybe it's the two glasses of whiskey playing tricks on my perception, but I could swear there's a teasing undercurrent to Max's softly growled request. "Um, okay." I glance down at my scuffed white sneakers to buy myself an extra second to figure out how I want to play this. But then I stop myself. Why overthink it? I've spent the past year and a half crushing on Max and being too freaked out to do anything about it. I need to just live in the moment and say exactly what I'm thinking. "I still can't believe I went on and on about sucking and licking and tonguing in front of you yesterday morning." I'm proud of the way I maintain unwavering eye contact with Max as I speak the words that sent me into a humiliation spiral yesterday. But today? Today those words earn me a sexy crooked grin. And right now I feel like a brazen badass for having the guts to say them again.

I wonder what would happen if the days were not pushed? What would happen if the time flowed in its natural sequence? The sky edging from darkness to gray, rising like a tide of light, pushing the flotsam of cloud upward. And then the sun’s rim, liquid gold, the slant of light through twigs and leaf. What would happen if you watched time’s river rise and flow, lifting you on its back and carrying you on its crest, until, lying back, you rested on the receding light, languishing in the slow pools of afternoon, the tips of the firs trembling and lifting, the ropes of birch leaves swaying in the light like sea kelp. To the west, the evening glow would linger, holding on to color. What if you could watch until the last drops spilled from the edge and then you came to know the night? Oh, but what would be served by such a life? Observation. Contemplation. Deliberation. What if your life came unplugged, disconnected, out of sync with the rest of the world? What if you rode this planet on one full circle round its star paying attention to light and plants and water? Seeing the way rain gathers in puddles or dew beads on grass, noticing the day violets open under the firs or ants appear in the bathroom? You could, you know. Shut off the bells. You could cut loose, unplug, begin. You could improve the nick of time.

Liquid courage is another one of mankind’s greatest discoveries.

When, amazingly, no monsters showed up, Substance X was no longer just some disgusting hell-liquid. It was a disgusting hell-liquid that repelled monsters, which I happened to drink gallons of. In hindsight, chugging monster repellent couldn’t have looked good on me, but I didn’t have the courage to overanalyze their opinions on the matter.

I'd love to cook," she says, "but who has the time? I can't afford to spend two days baking a cake." The implication, of course, is that only unimportant people have that kind of time. Unimportant people like me. I wait for Adam to jump in and save me, but instead he shoves a forkful of lamb into his mouth and feigns deep interest in the contents of his dinner plate. For someone with Adam's political ambitions and penchant for friendly debate, I'm always amazed at the lengths he goes to avoid confrontation with his parents. "I have a full-time job," I say, offering Sandy a labored smile, "and somehow I manage." Sandy delicately places her fork on the table and interlaces her fingers. "I beg your pardon?" My cheeks flush, and all the champagne and wine rush to my head at once. "All I'm saying is... we make time for the things we actually want to do. That's all." Sandy purses her lips and sweeps her hair away from her face with the back of her hand. "Hannah, dear, I am very busy. I am on the board of three charities and am hosting two galas this year. It's not a matter of wanting to cook. I simply have more important things to do." For a woman so different from my own mother- the frosted, well-groomed socialite to my mother's mousy, rumpled academic- she and my mother share a remarkably similar view of the role of cooking in a modern woman's life. For them, cooking is an irrelevant hobby, an amusement for women who lack the brains for more high-powered pursuits or the money to pay someone to perform such a humdrum chore. Sandy Prescott and my mother would agree on very little, but as women who have been liberated from the perfunctory task of cooking a nightly dinner, they would see eye to eye on my intense interest in the culinary arts. Were I a stronger person, someone more in control of her faculties who has not drunk multiple glasses of champagne, I would probably let Sandy's remark go without commenting any further. But I cannot be that person. At least not tonight. Not when Sandy is suggesting, as it seems everyone does, that cooking isn't a priority worthy of a serious person's time. "You would make the time if you wanted to," I say. "But obviously you don't.

Here are a few notable things that can spark inflammation and depress the function of your liver: Alcohol overload—This is relatively well-known. Your liver is largely responsible for metabolizing alcohol, and drinking too much liquid courage can send your liver running to cry in a corner somewhere. Carbohydrate bombardment—Starches and sugar have the fastest ability to drive up blood glucose, liver glycogen, and liver fat storage (compared to their protein and fat macronutrient counterparts). Bringing in too many carbs, too often, can elicit a wildfire of fat accumulation. In fact, one of the most effective treatments for reversing NAFLD is reducing the intake of carbohydrates. A recent study conducted at KTH Royal Institute of Technology and published in the journal Cell Metabolism had overweight test subjects with high levels of liver fat reduce their ratio of carbohydrate intake (without reducing calories!). After a short two-week study period the subjects showed “rapid and dramatic” reductions of liver fat and other cardiometabolic risk factors. Too many medications—Your liver is the top doc in charge of your body’s drug metabolism. When you hear about drug side effects on commercials, they are really a direct effect of how your liver is able to handle them. The goal is to work on your lifestyle factors so that you can be on as few medications as possible along with the help of your physician. Your liver will do its best to support you either way, but it will definitely feel happier without the additional burden. Too many supplements—There are several wonderful supplements that can be helpful for your health, but becoming an overzealous natural pill-popper might not be good for you either. In a program funded by the National Institutes of Health, it was found that liver injuries linked to supplement use jumped from 7 percent to 20 percent of all medication/supplement-induced injuries in just a ten-year time span. Again, this is not to say that the right supplements can’t be great for you. This merely points to the fact that your liver is also responsible for metabolism of all of the supplements you take as well. And popping a couple dozen different supplements each day can be a lot for your liver to handle. Plus, the supplement industry is largely unregulated, and the additives, fillers, and other questionable ingredients could add to the burden. Do your homework on where you get your supplements from, avoid taking too many, and focus on food first to meet your nutritional needs. Toxicants—According to researchers at the University of Louisville, more than 300 environmental chemicals, mostly pesticides, have been linked to fatty liver disease. Your liver is largely responsible for handling the weight of the toxicants (most of them newly invented) that we’re exposed to in our world today. Pesticides are inherently meant to be deadly, but just to small organisms (like pests), though it seems to be missed that you are actually made of small organisms, too (bacteria

Our emergency liquidity lending took many novel forms.

I’ll need liquid courage before I have an adult conversation with a man who makes my body buzz and my pussy wet with a simple look from across the room.

However, further limitations on emergency authorities, especially if combined with a rollback of the orderly liquidation authority itself, would leave the Fed and other agencies without essential tools to respond to the next crisis.

The bad employment report and our new liquidity measures competed for markets’ attention on Friday.

If liquid courage smelled like cologne and gushed out of my penis, I’d make a better fire fighter than I’m not right now.

Eventually, they were allowed to sit down in the cold mud and each given a small portion of some watery substance. It quickly became apparent that the bowls they shared had been used as chamber pots. The salty liquid slopped into these vessels was evil-smelling and inedible but the women pinched their noses and forced it down in a futile attempt to quench their thirst.

walked in a disorganized jumble to the front of the house, stayed there for a few minutes then shouldered their way to the back of the house again, never grazing, always moving. ‘They were disturbed but I had no idea why. I thought maybe they had had a run-in with poachers. When I got closer, I saw the telltale streaks of stress on the sides of their faces, even the babies’,’ Promise said afterwards, rubbing his own cheek in amazement. An elephant’s temporal gland sits between its eye and ear, and secretes liquid when the animal is stressed, which can create the mistaken impression that it is crying. The elephants at our entrance weren’t crying, but the dark moist lines running down their massive cheeks showed that something had deeply affected them. After about forty minutes, they lined up at the fence separating our home from the bush and their gentle communication started. Solemn rumbles rolled through the air, the same low-frequency language they always used with Lawrence. Mabula, the herd’s dominant bull, paced

They called it liquid courage. It made them funnier, smarter, more creative. Except it didn’t. It just made them less able to tell how unfunny and stupid they were acting.

There. Now you look like a wizizard!” “A what? Imogen, how much have you had to drink?” She held up her thumb and forefinger. “Just a lil’ liquid courage!