M Phelps Quotes

I'm tired of my life, my clothes, the things I say. I'm hacking away at the surface, as at some kind of gray ice, trying to break through to what is underneath or I am dead. I can feel the surface trembling—it seems ready to give but it never does. I am uninterested in current events. How can I justify this? How can I explain it? I don't want to have the same vocabulary I've always had. I want something richer, broader, more penetrating and powerful.

Swimming is normal for me. I'm relaxed. I'm comfortable, and I know my surroundings. It's my home.

In a whirlwind, Reagan quickly knocked off fifty more push-ups, flipped, and did thirty crunches, then turned and landed a kick that dented the metal door. "I'm feeling sick, too, and look at me. What if Babe Ruth had said 'Time to Rest'? Or Michael Phelps? Or Neil Armstrong? Come on, guys–what are we?" "Hungry," Natalie said. "Sleepy," Alistair added. "Grumpy," Fiske said. "Sneezy," Phoenix piped up. "Shot," Nellie said.

Every day after I wake up, I think, 'Wait... this can't be real; I'm still going to wake up.

At the hospital, I was asked for my autograph; I'm right-handed and couldn't sign. So I was asked for photos. While hooked up to IV lines.

I’m a four-time Pulitzer Prize winning admirer. I’m also a 16-time Olympic medalist observer (I saw Michael Phelps on TV).

Most of the time, I feel like Phelps. At least when I’m not winning Olympic gold medals, which is an all the time thing for me.

If I ever meet Michael Phelps, I’m going to tell him that I am that Michael Phelps of random thoughts. Then I’ll challenge him to a game of pool.

The bottom line is that heat kills more people than any other natural disaster, and yet heat waves go unnamed.

How did the apartment look?” Riggle wondered. “Nothing was out of place.

As the years pass by, we’ll glance at faded photographs recalling memories shared with special friends and family, never wanting it to end. Memories are the only thing left within the end.” Judy

I'm doing this for me. If I don't become as successful as you all think I would be or should be and you think it tarnishes my career, then that's your own opinion. I'm doing this because I want to come back and I enjoy being in the pool and I enjoy being in the sport of swimming.

When someone decides to do the Ice Capades version, I'm sure they'll give you a call.

Lots of women are doing time for love and fear.

Ben Espey sat at his desk and looked over his notes.

A fictional character living in a nonfiction world.

The bravest, most difficult thing I have ever done is stay away from you. But once again, I chickened out and here I am. I’m sorry.

My life and my mind, I realized, were screwed up enough without me adding to it with drugs.

Some would call this “volcanic rage”—a mind state that murderers need to enter in order to commit the crime—although they are well aware of what’s going on around them. Another

Bagpipe Music' It's no go the merrygoround, it's no go the rickshaw, All we want is a limousine and a ticket for the peepshow. Their knickers are made of crêpe-de-chine, their shoes are made of python, Their halls are lined with tiger rugs and their walls with heads of bison. John MacDonald found a corpse, put it under the sofa, Waited till it came to life and hit it with a poker, Sold its eyes for souvenirs, sold its blood for whiskey, Kept its bones for dumb-bells to use when he was fifty. It's no go the Yogi-Man, it's no go Blavatsky, All we want is a bank balance and a bit of skirt in a taxi. Annie MacDougall went to milk, caught her foot in the heather, Woke to hear a dance record playing of Old Vienna. It's no go your maidenheads, it's no go your culture, All we want is a Dunlop tyre and the devil mend the puncture. The Laird o' Phelps spent Hogmanay declaring he was sober, Counted his feet to prove the fact and found he had one foot over. Mrs Carmichael had her fifth, looked at the job with repulsion, Said to the midwife 'Take it away; I'm through with overproduction'. It's no go the gossip column, it's no go the Ceilidh, All we want is a mother's help and a sugar-stick for the baby. Willie Murray cut his thumb, couldn't count the damage, Took the hide of an Ayrshire cow and used it for a bandage. His brother caught three hundred cran when the seas were lavish, Threw the bleeders back in the sea and went upon the parish. It's no go the Herring Board, it's no go the Bible, All we want is a packet of fags when our hands are idle. It's no go the picture palace, it's no go the stadium, It's no go the country cot with a pot of pink geraniums, It's no go the Government grants, it's no go the elections, Sit on your arse for fifty years and hang your hat on a pension. It's no go my honey love, it's no go my poppet; Work your hands from day to day, the winds will blow the profit. The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall for ever, But if you break the bloody glass you won't hold up the weather.

Really I don’t. And you know if you get so you can’t see you won’t be able to write.” “I’ll dictate,” Roger said. “Like Milton.” “I know you dictate beautifully,” young Tom said. “But this morning when Miss Phelps tried to take it off the machine it was mostly music.” “I’m writing an opera,” Roger said. “I know you’ll write a wonderful opera, Mr. Davis. But don’t you think we ought to finish the novel first? You took a big advance on the novel.” “Finish it yourself,” Roger said. “You ought to know the plot by now.” “I know the plot, Mr. Davis, and it’s a lovely plot but it has that same girl in it that you had die in that other book and people may be confused.” “Dumas did the same thing.

It’s not easy to find old-school journalism in true crime … yet with Lethal Intent, author Sue Russell proves how integrity, tenacity, brutal truth and honest reporting become essential components to what is a riveting—if not terrifying—narrative of America’s most hated ‘monster,’ Aileen Carol Wuornos. It’s not easy humanizing serial killers, but through an objective lens, clear and defined, Russell paints a graphic portrait of Wuornos’ evil intentions and rough life—a true page-turner, breathless, intense—but also important.

We’ve told you before—rollwhen you land a fancy jump,” Wilford squinted in the sunlight as he yelled. “Use your shoulder to take the brunt of your fall and move with it, or you’re going to twist an ankle or break a wrist one of these days!” Tari—impressively—managed to sound like an angry bear as she translated it into Elvish. Gwendafyn nodded as she stood and gave her sword a test twirl, then yipped when her opponent wrapped a meaty hand around her left ankle and pulled it out from under her. “Stay aware of your surroundings,” Thad instructed as he narrowed his eyes. “No opponent is going to stop and let you catch your breath!” Gwendafyn kicked like a jackrabbit, yanking her leg free, then rolled away from the soldier. “For the love of Lady Tari’s favorite lemon bars,” Grygg grumbled. “What part of ‘fight dirty’ isn’t translating correctly?” “Don’t hold back, Princess,” Wilford advised. “We know you’ve got the edge—you’ve broken Grygg’s nose three times. That’s a new record. Phelps, here, could use a little bone re-arrangement, too.” “Shut up, Wilford!” Gwendafyn’s opponent—Phelps, apparently—growled as he staggered to his feet. Gwendafyn crisply nodded when Tari finished translating, then promptly turned and flung her wooden practice sword at Phelps with deadly accuracy. The soldier swore and had to throw himself to the ground to avoid it. Gwendafyn closed the distance between them with the blink of an eye, extended her elbow, and rammed the soldier in the spine with the hardest bone of her elbow. All of Phelps’ air left him in a painful-sounding exhale, and for a moment, he went limp. “Ouch,” Grygg winced in sympathy. “That had to hurt.

For years before the Olympic swimmer Michael Phelps won the gold at the 2008 Beijing Olympics, he followed the same routine at every race. He arrived two hours early.1 He stretched and loosened up, according to a precise pattern: eight hundred mixer, fifty freestyle, six hundred kicking with kickboard, four hundred pulling a buoy, and more. After the warm-up he would dry off, put in his earphones, and sit—never lie down—on the massage table. From that moment, he and his coach, Bob Bowman, wouldn’t speak a word to each other until after the race was over. At forty-five minutes before the race he would put on his race suit. At thirty minutes he would get into the warm-up pool and do six hundred to eight hundred meters. With ten minutes to go he would walk to the ready room. He would find a seat alone, never next to anyone. He liked to keep the seats on both sides of him clear for his things: goggles on one side and his towel on the other. When his race was called he would walk to the blocks. There he would do what he always did: two stretches, first a straight-leg stretch and then with a bent knee. Left leg first every time. Then the right earbud would come out. When his name was called, he would take out the left earbud. He would step onto the block—always from the left side. He would dry the block—every time. Then he would stand and flap his arms in such a way that his hands hit his back. Phelps explains: “It’s just a routine. My routine. It’s the routine I’ve gone through my whole life. I’m not going to change it.” And that is that. His coach, Bob Bowman, designed this physical routine with Phelps. But that’s not all. He also gave Phelps a routine for what to think about as he went to sleep and first thing when he awoke. He called it “Watching the Videotape.”2 There was no actual tape, of course. The “tape” was a visualization of the perfect race. In exquisite detail and slow motion Phelps would visualize every moment from his starting position on top of the blocks, through each stroke, until he emerged from the pool, victorious, with water dripping off his face. Phelps didn’t do this mental routine occasionally. He did it every day before he went to bed and every day when he woke up—for years. When Bob wanted to challenge him in practices he would shout, “Put in the videotape!” and Phelps would push beyond his limits. Eventually the mental routine was so deeply ingrained that Bob barely had to whisper the phrase, “Get the videotape ready,” before a race. Phelps was always ready to “hit play.” When asked about the routine, Bowman said: “If you were to ask Michael what’s going on in his head before competition, he would say he’s not really thinking about anything. He’s just following the program. But that’s not right. It’s more like his habits have taken over. When the race arrives, he’s more than halfway through his plan and he’s been victorious at every step. All the stretches went like he planned. The warm-up laps were just like he visualized. His headphones are playing exactly what he expected. The actual race is just another step in a pattern that started earlier that day and has been nothing but victories. Winning is a natural extension.”3 As we all know, Phelps won the record eight gold medals at the 2008 Beijing Olympics. When visiting Beijing, years after Phelps’s breathtaking accomplishment, I couldn’t help but think about how Phelps and the other Olympians make all these feats of amazing athleticism seem so effortless. Of course Olympic athletes arguably practice longer and train harder than any other athletes in the world—but when they get in that pool, or on that track, or onto that rink, they make it look positively easy. It’s more than just a natural extension of their training. It’s a testament to the genius of the right routine.

signs of identity disturbance, being impulse ridden, unstable in love relations, and she can become intensely volatile and angry.

So you’re breaking the law to go straight?” “Exactly.” “I’m not sure that’s how it works.” “Sure it does. You just don’t understand the government.

As the night progressed, the story of Bobbie Jo Stinnett’s murder and the recovery of her stolen child took on gargantuan proportions as talking heads hosted experts in every crime field imaginable on air, trying to understand the nature of the murder, how it could have happened in the heartland of America, and who was this woman who allegedly had committed such an unthinkable crime. Not even an undersea earthquake of biblical proportions, which would occurr in the coming days, was enough to reduce coverage of the Lisa Montgomery story. Because of the size of the quake, reverberations on the surface of the water generated a tsunami that killed a reported 150,000 people, making it one of the deadliest disasters in history.

town. Tracy was living the dream. Here it was, not five months before Doug Benton would turn up missing, and Tracy and Doug were in love, riding, lifting weights side-by-side, dining out with her daughter and taking walks in the park hand-in-hand. It seemed as if they’d carved out a piece of life’s bliss. Doug had been married and divorced twice. Tracy had come from a few tumultuous relationships and marriages herself. Neither had given up on romance, Tracy said,

opposed to behind closed doors. Their psychology. The way they both believed that as long as they told a lie long enough, to as

The way they both believed that as long as they told a lie long enough, to as many people as possible, that it should be believed because they said it. Community

insalubrious, if not downright

They were fooling themselves, however—because they were not experiencing true feelings of love, but the promise of it. They never thought about the sacrament of love or the responsibility that went with it. To them, love was an uncontainable urge, a power beyond their control, out of their hands. They were addicted to it, in a sense. The mere fact that over one hundred miles separated their homes and Jeanne was trying to put a wedge between the relationship early on only made them believe they wanted each other more.

I beg for your forgiveness,” Billy continued. He prayed Nicole wouldn’t break up with him—but not before laying a proverbial guilt trip on her, twisting the situation around, conceivably hoping to shift the blame from himself to the other person involved. He undoubtedly knew how weak Nicole was. How easy it was to manipulate her, especially in the state of numbness she had been in lately. She was vulnerable. Alone. She had no one else in her life to confide in. And Billy knew it. “…I don’t deserve you.

One of the reasons why Nicole’s life at home appeared so disenchanting was that she had set the bar of happiness out of reach. Nothing else, “except him,” she wrote in her journal the day after the argument, would suffice.

Not a fan of eating breakfast, the chief routinely stopped at the McDonald’s in town and ordered her favorite: peppermint mocha. They knew the chief so well, the local chain restaurant actually stashed some of the peppermint mixture during the off-season specifically for Frizzo. “It was one of the highlights of my morning,” she said.

By April 1990, Alan and Jessica had lived with his parents for nearly two months. They decided to move, however. The best place was Hoover, into Jessica’s mother and stepfather’s house. Sam was a month old. Living in Hoover would be more

for life: a cycle and a circle, all at once. Not much of anything happens in most lives from day to day. And most people take for granted how pleasant that silence and routine can be in the scope of what could happen—as Nelson was about to learn. It’s not until a person’s world blows up in front of his very face that he yearns for the return of that subtle boredom and monotonous sameness that everyday life offers. As Nelson

Driving home from work every day is a metaphor

such

UNSUCCESSFULLY TRYING TO manage a life that

Scott Bathroom Tissue Rebate Scott was offering a rebate on their One-Ply Bathroom Tissue with proof of purchase. So I took a shit, wiped my ass, stuck it in an envelope and mailed it to: Kimberly-Clark Corporation, 351 Phelps Drive, Irving, Texas 75038, U.S.A. Dagummit! It's been a month now and I still haven't got my $5 rebate. I just knew that rebate-offer was full of shit. I wasted a stamp! I'm on my way to Irving, Texas right now to shoot them hoodwinking, hornswoggling crooks, Kimberly and Clark.

it was too

and gave it a serious shake.  “I’m glad to meet you.

Making art can be a mystical, spiritual experience. Sort of like golfing on water, which I haven’t done, because I’m more Michael Phelps and less Michael Phelps.

Back in Beijing, it was 9:56 A.M.—four minutes before the race’s start—and Phelps stood behind his starting block, bouncing slightly on his toes. When the announcer said his name, Phelps stepped onto the block, as he always did before a race, and then stepped down, as he always did. He swung his arms three times, as he had before every race since he was twelve years old. He stepped up on the blocks again, got into his stance, and, when the gun sounded, leapt. Phelps knew that something was wrong as soon as he hit the water. There was moisture inside his goggles. He couldn’t tell if they were leaking from the top or bottom, but as he broke the water’s surface and began swimming, he hoped the leak wouldn’t become too bad.4.18 By the second turn, however, everything was getting blurry. As he approached the third turn and final lap, the cups of his goggles were completely filled. Phelps couldn’t see anything. Not the line along the pool’s bottom, not the black T marking the approaching wall. He couldn’t see how many strokes were left. For most swimmers, losing your sight in the middle of an Olympic final would be cause for panic. Phelps was calm. Everything else that day had gone according to plan. The leaking goggles were a minor deviation, but one for which he was prepared. Bowman had once made Phelps swim in a Michigan pool in the dark, believing that he needed to be ready for any surprise. Some of the videotapes in Phelps’s mind had featured problems like this. He had mentally rehearsed how he would respond to a goggle failure. As he started his last lap, Phelps estimated how many strokes the final push would require—nineteen or twenty, maybe twenty-one—and started counting. He felt totally relaxed as he swam at full strength. Midway through the lap he began to increase his effort, a final eruption that had become one of his main techniques in overwhelming opponents. At eighteen strokes, he started anticipating the wall. He could hear the crowd roaring, but since he was blind, he had no idea if they were cheering for him or someone else. Nineteen strokes, then twenty. It felt like he needed one more. That’s what the videotape in his head said. He made a twenty-first, huge stroke, glided with his arm outstretched, and touched the wall. He had timed it perfectly. When he ripped off his goggles and looked up at the scoreboard, it said “WR”—world record—next to his name. He’d won another gold. After the race, a reporter asked what it had felt like to swim blind. “It felt like I imagined it would,” Phelps said. It was one additional victory in a lifetime full of small wins.4.19

Back in Beijing, it was 9:56 A.M.—four minutes before the race’s start—and Phelps stood behind his starting block, bouncing slightly on his toes. When the announcer said his name, Phelps stepped onto the block, as he always did before a race, and then stepped down, as he always did. He swung his arms three times, as he had before every race since he was twelve years old. He stepped up on the blocks again, got into his stance, and, when the gun sounded, leapt. Phelps knew that something was wrong as soon as he hit the water. There was moisture inside his goggles. He couldn

The bottom line is that heat kills more people than any other natural disaster, and yet heat waves go unnamed. They do not blow in with 100-mile-per-hour winds, a blistering, swirling shadowlike image on radar with a defined eye, or shake the ground in an intense display of drama. No. Heat is a silent killer. It slowly and stealthily moves into a region like a ghost, targeting the vulnerable and unsuspecting.

As they lifted off, Aaron watched the white, puffy clouds and thought, "I'm going to die here. This is it." But God had a lot more for this child of mine, more than he could have ever imagined...

[1]  I do not want to sound as though I am in any way blaming Judy Nilan for what happened to her, but I want to say something here to any female reading this book. If you are a jogger/walker, I beg of you to take a different route each time you head out for a run, even if you change it up just a little bit. No matter where you live, no matter how safe you think you are, there could be a psychopath like Scott Deojay lurking in the shadows, watching you run/walk by his house or place of employment every single day, and as each day passes, he might become more and more obsessed with you to the point where he needs to act out on the twisted fantasies flowing through his mind. Don’t give him that satisfaction. Take a different route. And also, please check the sex offender’s registry in your area with a quick Google search and find out where the sex offenders in your neighborhood live. Believe me, no matter where you live, there are sex offenders near you. Again, I am in no way blaming Judy Nilan for what happened to her by saying this, but let us learn something from Judy’s brutal murder.

Behold, in example I grieve my heart out for that so sweet young girl; I give my blood for her.... I give my time, my skill, my sleep; I let my other sufferers want that so she may have all.” —Bram Stoker, Dracula

suggests, rather extraordinary with regard to accusation and speculation. Take, for example, this excerpt from page 9: (One source) states in a recorded telephone conversation that he

Many that live deserve death. And some die that deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then be not too eager to deal out death in the name of justice, fearing for your own safety. Even the wise cannot see all ends.

You know I love you. You know I do. It's not just the idea of you. I know you. You also know I'm not coming to Topeka.

could be stretching the truth

Company,

The gut speaks—and rarely lies—of what is and what is to come.

what

an enormous

Adrianne and Jo commenced a catfight. They yelled and screamed at each other. F-bombs here. “You bitch” there.

It’s a funny thing how hope has a way of always hovering there in the background, even when one’s gut says it’s over.

Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.” —Søren Kierkegaard

Katie was displaying signs of antisocial personality disorder and extreme narcissism. Those who display a pattern of disregard for right and wrong, persistent lying, arrogance, impulsiveness, lack of empathy and remorse, along with other symptoms, fall within the antisocial/sociopath spectrum.

who is not on those DVDs?” Then, without waiting for her to answer, he added: “It’s not Adam!

Don't claim to know what is good for me while you dangle from a noose with only a brick to balance on.

Serial killers suck the life out of the people around them. They harbor an effortless capability of donning what psychopathy pioneer and psychiatrist Hervey Cleckley coined in 1941 as “the mask of sanity.” It was Cleckley’s work before his death in 1984 that flexed Canadian psychologist Dr. Robert Hare’s mental muscle enough to develop his Psychopathy Checklist (PCL-R): twenty characteristics defining psychopathic behavior. Used properly, the PCL-R checklist is an accurate way to determine the psychopath from the non-psychopath.

Dr. Kent Kiehl, neuroscientist and author of The Psychopath Whisperer, a man who’s dedicated his life’s work to clinical brain imaging in order to understand mental illness, especially criminal psychopathy, says, “The best current estimate is that just less than one percent of all noninstitutionalized males age eighteen and over are psychopaths.

Shuttle Murder Case.

NE OF THE MOST FAMOUS ARSENICAL POISONING cases on record (which could never be emphatically proven beyond a reasonable doubt) is, of course, that of Napoleon Bonaparte, who was said to have been poisoned to death with arsenic over a period of time by one (or several) of his own men. Regardless

with himself for getting so drunk the

Well, evil to some is always good to others.” —Jane Austen, Emma

It is rare in life to be graced with a true best friend. Someone who is willing to do anything for you. Good or bad times. Drop his or her life to be there, without any personal expectations. Nothing can replace the warm touch, kind embrace, or simple gestures best friends lavish on each other.

limits