Lori Walls Quotes

No one expected you to amount to much," she told me. "Lori was the smart one, Maureen the pretty one, and Brian the brave one. You never had much going for you except that you always worked hard.

Moya. Vse moya.” Mine. All mine. Inked fingers braced on the wall beside my own. Suds and skin and a raven called Nevermore.

Just remember,” Mom said after examining the blisters, “what doesn’t kill you will make you stronger.” “If that was true, I’d be Hercules by now,” Lori said.

I’d get more than that. I’ll tell you how her ass feels, Rus—” Without a look in the Abelli’s direction, Allister pulled a pistol from his jacket. Pop. The gunshot reverberated off the walls and rang in my ears. Everything but my heart went still.

I suddenly knew this was the only man I wanted to do this with. Happiness pinged off the walls of my chest, leaving me feeling raw.

Lori wanted Mom to try on the glasses, too. Mom slipped them on and, blinking, looked around the room. She studied one of her own paintings quietly, then handed the glasses back to Lori. “Did you see better?” I asked. “I wouldn’t say better,” Mom answered. “I’d say different.

Most recently, and more so than even that, I regretted signing the contract for Adriana. I wanted her sister. In my bed. Against the wall. On her knees.

How many places have we lived?" I asked Lori. "That depends on what you mean by 'lived', "she said. "If you spend one in some town, did you live there? What about two nights? Or a whole week? " I thought. "If you unpack all your things," I said. We counted eleven placed we had lived, then we lost track. We couldn't remember the names of some of the towns or what the houses we had lived in looked like. Mostly, I remember the inside of cars. "What do you think would happen if we weren't always moving around?" I asked. "We'd get caught," Lori said.

He gripped the back of my neck, spun me around, and slammed his lips against mine. Anger still brimmed inside me, and I pushed against his hard chest, but I might as well be trying to move a wall. “Don’t fight me,” he said roughly against my lips. “You won’t win.

I backed up and was only aided when a soft yet consuming grip came to my throat and he lightly pushed me. I fell back a step until I hit the wall. It was an aggressive move, but the way he did it so gently, so absolutely, made something flutter in my chest and spread throughout my body. Want. Need. He stepped

Before I die, I want to be completely myself. Soon the idea spawned over a thousand such walls all over the world: Before I die, I would like to have a relationship with my sister. Be a great dad. Go skydiving. Make a difference in someone’s life. I don’t know if people followed through, but based on what I’ve seen in my office, a good number may have had momentary awakenings, done a little soul-searching, added more to their lists—and then neglected to tick things off. People tend to dream without doing, death remaining theoretical.

There was an honesty in his words that melted the steel wall around my heart.

Just remember,' Mom said after examining the blisters, 'what doesn't kill you will make you stronger.' 'If that was true, I'd be Hercules by now', Lori said.

Her gaze went with her, into a room with walls of frozen earth, and a floor the same, the latter split from corner to corner, and a fissure opened in it from which a flame column rose four or five times the size of a man. There was bitter cold off it rather than heat, and no reassuring flicker in its heart. Instead its innards churned upon themselves, turning over and over some freight of stuff which she failed to recognize at first, but her appalled stare rapidly interpreted. There was a body in the fire, hacked limb from limb, human enough that she recognized it as flesh, but no more than that. Baphomet's doing presumably, some torment visited on a transgressor. Boone said the Baptizer's name even now, and she readied herself for sight of its face. She had it too, but from inside the flame, as the creature there--not dead, but alive, not Midian's subject, but its creator--rolled its head over in the turmoil of flame and looked her way. This was Baphomet. This diced and divided thing. Seeing its face, she screamed. No story or movie screen, no desolation, no bliss, had prepared her for the maker of Midian. Sacred it must be, as anything so extreme must be sacred. A thing beyond things. Beyond love or hatred or their sum, beyond the beautiful or the monstrous or their sum. Beyond, finally, her mind's power to comprehend or catalog.

Endless gratitude to my posse of pals who fielded countless calls and texts, and took so many walks down memory lane with me, with plenty of liquor nearby: Bob Peterson, Matt Lombardi, Lori Beecher, Lauren Osborn, Nicolla Hewitt, Brian Goldsmith, and Tony Maciulis. (If these walls could talk—oh wait, they just did.

For a while I considered dropping out of Barnard to help. It felt unbearably selfish, just downright wrong, to be indulging myself with an education in the liberal arts at a fancy private college while Mom and Dad were on the streets. But Lori convinced me that dropping out was a lamebrained idea. It wouldn’t do any good,

when Antonio was warm, he was like the sun. Everyone wanted his attention because, when he gave it, it was absolute, as though you were the only one who had ever mattered. Regardless of the heartache he’d caused me, the walls I’d put up and some I still maintained, I wasn’t a match. Now, I had to figure out how to give up the sun.

Huffing from her exertion, her face flushed and her expression happy, she looked toward the door—and went still. Dare pushed past Trace and went to the wall unit to turn down the music. Into the silence, Chris asked, “Everyone having fun?” “God, Chris,” Dare said. “Trace is going to kill you if you don’t shut up.” “Really?” Priss struck a pose of annoyance, one hip cocked out, her arms crossed, her chin elevated. “And here Molly and Chris assured Matt that you weren’t the type to cause bodily harm.” “They must have been jesting.” Trace was well used to Chris’s warped sense of humor, so Chris wasn’t in any danger. But Matt . . . Trace zeroed in on him. In a tone more lethal for the quietness of it, he asked, “What are you doing?” “Harmless dancing?” Matt replied in a nervous question, unsure of the right answer. Priss suddenly stepped in front of Matt, which left Matt bemused. “Don’t act snarky with him, Trace. I asked him to dance with me. We had some time to kill before this crud comes out of my hair. And you were nowhere to be found.” Matt pulled her aside, earning a glare from Trace. He quickly held up his hands, palms out, to prove he wasn’t touching her. “Speaking of time, we can go wash your hair right now, if everyone will just excuse us.” “I need a minute with Priss first.” Trace eyed her militant stance, and had to fight a smile. She had a backbone of steel. He liked that. “Alone.

She must have seen my hesitation. “Please,” she said. “I know it’s not a picnic, but I can’t go to those cancer people. It’s like a cult. They call everyone ‘brave,’ but what choice do we have, and besides, I’m terrified and still cringe at the sight of the needles like I did as a kid getting my shots. I’m not brave and I’m not a warrior fighting a battle. I’m just an ordinary college professor.” She leaned forward on the couch. “They have affirmations on their walls. So, please?

For a while I considered dropping out of Barnard to help. It felt unbearably selfish, just downright wrong, to be indulging myself with an education in the liberal arts at a fancy private college while Mom and Dad were on the streets. But Lori convinced me that dropping out was a lamebrained idea. It wouldn’t do any good, she said, and besides, dropping out would break Dad’s heart. He was immensely proud that he had a daughter in college, and an Ivy League college at that. Every time he met someone new, he managed to work it into the first few minutes of conversation. Mom and Dad, Brian pointed out, had options. They could move back to West Virginia or Phoenix. Mom could work. And she was not destitute. She had her collection of antique Indian jewelry, which she kept in a self-storage locker. There was the two-carat diamond ring that Brian and I had found under the rotten lumber back in Welch; she wore it even when sleeping on the street. She still owned property in Phoenix. And she had the land in Texas, the source of her oil-lease royalties.

Mom and Dad rented a great big U-Haul truck. Mom explained that since only she and Dad could fit in the front of the U-Haul, Lori, Brian, Maureen, and I were in for a treat: We got to ride in the back. It would be fun, she said, a real adventure, but there wouldn’t be any light, so we would have to use all our resources to entertain one another. Plus we were not allowed to talk. Since it was illegal to ride in the back, anyone who heard us might call the cops. Mom told us the trip would be about fourteen hours if we took the highway, but we should tack on another couple of hours because we might make some scenic detours.

She's the one married to Dad." "That was her choice," I said. "She needs to be firmer, lay down the law for Dad instead of getting hysterical all the time. What Dad needs is a strong woman." "A caryatid wouldn't be strong enough for Dad." "What's that?" "Pillars shaped like women," Lori said. " "The ones holding up those Greek temples with their heads. I was looking at a picture of some the other day, thinking, Those women have the second toughest job in the world.

training needs to be part of the overall organization: “Training in a good organization should be work. It should be part of the expectation. [Otherwise] it’s stuck on the wall with chewing gum. Everything else you do and now you have to fit in training.

Bucket list,” Julie said in session as we tried to envision her Holland. “It’s such a funny term, isn’t it?” I had to agree. What do we want to do before we kick the bucket? Often people think about bucket lists when somebody close to them dies. That’s what happened for Candy Chang, an artist who, in 2009, created a space on a public wall in New Orleans with the prompt Before I die _____. Within days the wall was completely filled. People wrote things like Before I die, I want to straddle the international dateline. Before I die, I want to sing for millions. Before I die, I want to be completely myself. Soon the idea spawned over a thousand such walls all over the world: Before I die, I would like to have a relationship with my sister. Be a great dad. Go skydiving. Make a difference in someone’s life. I don’t know if people followed through, but based on what I’ve seen in my office, a good number may have had momentary awakenings, done a little soul-searching, added more to their lists—and then neglected to tick things off. People tend to dream without doing, death remaining theoretical.

Can one unearth above-average fund managers, who can consistently or over time beat the market? Once again, the academic research is gloomy for the investment industry. Using the database first started by Jim Lorie’s Center for Research in Security Prices, S&P Dow Jones Indices publishes a semiannual “persistence scorecard” on how often top-performing fund managers keep excelling. The results are grim reading, with less than 3 percent of top-performing equity funds remaining in the top after five years. In fact, being a top performer is more likely to presage a slump than a sustained run.18 As a result, as Fernando’s defenestration highlighted, the hurdle to retain the faith of investors keeps getting higher, even for fund managers who do well.* In the 1990s, the top six deciles of US equities-focused mutual funds enjoyed investor inflows, according to Morgan Stanley.19 In the first decade of the new millennium, only the top three deciles did so, and in the 2010–20 period, only the top 10 percent of funds have managed to avoid outflows, and gathered assets at a far slower pace than they would have in the past.

Focus on one thing at a time whenever possible. You might think of an organized person as juggling many things at once, but actually it’s been proven more efficient to handle things one at a time. A recent Wall Street Journal article discussed how managing two important mental tasks at once reduces the brainpower available for either task. So, while people think they are saving time by multitasking, they are actually doing both tasks ineffectively.

One must ask why government is so reluctant to publish factual data on children in its care.  Unlike the single issue anti-Vietnam War protesters of the 1960s, the more recent “Occupy Wall Street” protesters on the streets and on college campuses nationwide have been protesting not only the larger issue of "corporate greed" and the "buying of Congress," but also resulting issues of a bleeding economy such as the rising cost of tuition, insurmountable student debt, biased economics classes and 15%  unemployment. There has never  been mass protesting  against profits outweighing the needs of the children and adults trapped in America’s failed Foster Care, Adoption and Prison systems  --  in part because each of these complex industries separate, isolate  and effectively censor and brainwash its victims under color of state confidentiality laws. 

By then we had passed through the small town beyond the Bar None Bar. Dad was driving and smoking with one hand and holding a brown bottle of beer with the other. Lori was in the front seat between him and Mom, and Brian, who was in back with me, was trying to trade me half of his 3 Musketeers for half of my Mounds. Just then we took a sharp turn over some railroad tracks, the door flew open, and I tumbled out of the car. I rolled several yards along the embankment, and when I came to a stop, I was too shocked to cry, with my breath knocked out and grit and pebbles in my eyes and mouth. I lifted my head in time to watch the Green Caboose get smaller and smaller and then disappear around a bend. Blood was running down my forehead and flowing out of my nose. My knees and elbows were scraped raw and covered with sand. I was still holding the Mounds bar, but I had smashed it during the fall, tearing the wrapper and squeezing out the white coconut filling, which was also covered with grit.

wore a suit, but even in that Kelly could see his body was hard and fit under it—his tall, lean form toned and strong. His intense gaze made her breath go ragged. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be alone in the room with him if he had this kind of effect on her with his aunt and cousin with them. Jack sat on the edge of his desk, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles in front of him, arms crossed over his chest. He watched her quietly while she finished chatting with his aunt. Kelly wrapped things up and ushered Mabry out the door by four o’clock as she made excuses about her fiancé needing to get back to work. She closed the door behind his aunt and turned to Mr. Sutton. That’s when Kelly felt the ground fall out from under her and her world tilt on its axis. As she faced Jack Sutton she found herself feeling shaken and uneasy. She looked up at him and realized that, in essence, she had just waltzed into his office and proposed. “I can’t believe I did that.” She began to pace frantically. She wrapped her arms around her waist and circled the room. “Oh God, oh God, oh God.” She might hyperventilate. She slid down onto the couch that sat along the longest wall in Jack’s office and tried to breathe, but ended up taking in huge gulps of air that felt as if they might choke her. For the first time since she came up with her harebrained scheme to get her hands on enough money to attend Yale Law School, the reality of what she had done hit her like a ton of bricks. She’d just proposed to one of the country’s most eligible bachelors. And he’d said yes.

What are you?” I asked. “The hunger that cramps your stomach. The decay that shrivels your crops.” He dragged his fingers along the wall. It blistered and rotted beneath his touch. “The shadows that carve into your cheeks.” He folded his elegant, slender hands at his waist. His golden- brown eyes were soft and warm and terrifying. “I have been known as Famine. But call me Irra.

The pictures on the walls would show his family and friends and Lori and no towheaded Amish-clad spawn of Satan, and

She wouldn’t allow a woman looking such as herself in the door, for fear she’d nick the silver. Vera let the mop lean against the wall and centered herself at the mirror, turning her chin one way and the other. Vera Scaldwell prided herself on being the woman no one had to wonder about. But did they not wonder about her, or did they not think of her at all?

At three, I open Skype and click Call, expecting to find John sitting in an office at a desk. Instead, the call connects and I’m looking into a familiar house. It’s familiar to me because it’s one of the main sets of a TV show that Boyfriend and I used to binge-watch on my sofa, arms and legs entwined. Here, camera and lighting people are moving about, and I’m staring at the interior of a bedroom I’ve seen a million times. John’s face comes into view. “Hang on a second” is how he greets me, and then his face disappears and I’m looking at his feet. Today he’s wearing trendy checkered sneakers, and he seems to be walking somewhere while carrying me with him. Presumably he’s looking for privacy. Along with his shoes, I see thick electrical wires on the floor and hear a commotion in the background. Then John’s face reappears. “Okay,” he says. “I’m ready.” There’s a wall behind him now, and he starts rapid-fire whispering.

The path ahead dipped around another bend, and the walls continued to close in tighter up to that point. Srak motioned for Lorie to wait as he went on alone. Carefully, stalking silent as a cat, Srak reached the bend of the path and slowly stuck his head around it. He pulled it back just as slowly and motioned Lorie up to him. "Path opens wide. Great cavern.

Eventually, even Mom acknowledged that I’d done all right. “No one expected you to amount to much,” she told me. “Lori was the smart one, Maureen the pretty one, and Brian the brave one. You never had much going for you except that you always worked hard.

That’s what happened for Candy Chang, an artist who, in 2009, created a space on a public wall in New Orleans with the prompt Before I die _____. Within days the wall was completely filled. People wrote things like Before I die, I want to straddle the international dateline. Before I die, I want to sing for millions. Before I die, I want to be completely myself. Soon the idea spawned over a thousand such walls all over the world: Before I die, I would like to have a relationship with my sister. Be a great dad. Go skydiving. Make a difference in someone’s life.

And then he did something I never expected. Maybe it was from disbelief, or maybe he thought I was ridiculous. I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. He laughed. Softly, darkly. The kind of laugh that has no good intentions. The kind of laugh the walls don’t forget.