Mack Truck Quotes

When people don't express themselves, they die one piece at a time. You'd be shocked at how many adults are really dead inside—walking through their days with no idea who they are, just waiting for a heart attack or cancer or a Mack truck to come along and finish the job. It's the saddest thing I know.

Then again, it was Jace. He'd pick a fight with a Mack truck if the urge took him.

Why, oh why, had Jace picked a fight with a pack of wolves? What had possessed him? Then again, it was Jace. He'd pick a fight with a Mack truck if the urge took him. -Clary, pg.40-

Bipolar illness, manic depression, manic-depressive illness, manic-depressive psychosis. That’s a nice way of saying you will feel so high that no street drug can compete and you will feel so low that you wish you had been hit by a Mack truck instead.

Mr Freeman: "Art without emotion is like chocolate cake without sugar. It makes you gag." He sticks his finger down his throat. "The next time you work on your trees, don't think about trees. Think about love, or hate, or joy, or pain- whatever makes you feel something, makes your palms sweat, or your toes curl. Focus on that feeling. When people don't express themselves, they die on piece at a time. You'd be shocked at how many adults are really dead inside- walking through their days with no idea who they are, just waiting for a heart attack or cancer or a mack truck to come along and finish the job. It's the saddest thing I know.

an electron accelerated to .9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999 9999999999999 times the speed of light would hit you with the same impact as a Mack truck traveling at normal speed.

When people don’t express themselves, they die one piece at a time. You’d be shocked at how many adults are really dead inside—walking through their days with no idea who they are, just waiting for a heart attack or cancer or a Mack truck to come along and finish the job. It’s the saddest thing I know.

Even when life hits you like a Mack truck that's come out of nowhere, there is still a chance that you will survive, and although the road to recover may be slow, long, and even permanent, this doesn't mean you can't enjoy the rest of your life and be happy again.

so I start reciting a couple of Shel Silverstein poems I’ve memorized, and I verse myself all the way across the room to a big round opening you could drive a Mack truck through if you knew how to drive, which I don’t.

Well, well, well. If it isn’t my favorite friend who hates my other friend but wants to bone her anyway and screw up her life because he’s a twisted, disturbed asshole.” He rolled his eyes as he turned to see Michelle stepping into line behind him as he waited for his coffee. “Tell me how you really feel, Shell.” She studied him with a smirk firmly planted on her face for a moment. “Okay. You need to end this thing with her before I have to scoop her lifeless, emotional soul off the highway after you’ve run it down with your Mack truck-sized anger issues.

Too many people, too many times, have come between us. Not again.” This man, this beautiful, unattainable man is mine. And he loves me like a Mack truck—the huge ones that just keep coming and don’t stop for anything in their path. Being the object of such singular focus can be overwhelming, but it’s also the best feeling in the world. “Are you saying you want this for good?” I ask, more confident than I’ve ever been. “For good?” He frowns and gives a quick shake of his head. “For good is too sanitized. I want your dirt and your pain and your darkness. Your weakness and your flaws.” He sprinkles kisses over my cheeks and nose, leaving adoration everywhere he touches me. “I don’t want you for good, Banner,” he says. “I want you forever.” I gasp at hearing the future in his words, of the picture he’s painting. “I love you,” he tells me again. “I didn’t even think I was capable of saying that, much less feeling it, but I feel it for you.

When people don't express themselves, they die one piece at a time. You'd be shocked at how many adults are really dead inside- walking through their days with no idea who they are, just waiting for a heart attack, or cancer, or a Mack truck to come along and finish the job.

Standing in the corner, leaning aginst the wall, is a fifth man. If Grange is a Hummer, this guy's an 18-wheel Mack truck, thinks Roddy. Parked, with its engine idling. He reminds Roddy of Ivan Drago from that Rocky movie. The guy must stand six five and tip the scales at 270. Pure, rock-hard muscle. His crew-cut blond hair is slickly gelled; his face--especially those cheekbones and that lantern jaw--could be carved from granite. He, no doubt, spends counteless hours at some muscle emporium. Pure muscle, but probably clumsy; he would go down fast if Roddy drove a flurry of punches into his gut and face. A gold earring pierces the guy's left earlobe. The drape of the jacket on his Schwarzenegger shoulders shows a bulge on the left side. The guy's packing some serious hardware. Mack Truck stares blankly and stands rock-still, hands clasped in front of his gargantuan body.

When people don't express themselves, they die one piece at a time. You'd be shocked at how many adults are really dead inside - walking through their days with no idea who they are, just waiting for a heart attack or cancer or a Mack truck to come along and finish the job. It's the saddest thing I know.

When people don't express themselves, they die one piece at a time. You'd be shocked at how many adults are really dead inside -- walking through their days with no idea who they are, just waiting for a heart attack or cancer or a Mack truck to come along and finish the job. It's the saddest thing I know.

Mr Freeman: "[...] When people don't express themselves, they die one piece at a time. You'd be shocked at how many adults are really dead inside - walking through their days with no idea who they are, just waiting for a heart attack or cancer or a Mack truck to come along and finish the job. It's the saddest thing I know.

Oh, everything is fun when I’m around.” Hercules’s knees knocked into the back of my seat as he leaned back. “This one time, when I was ordered by the gods to . . .” I could only think of three words. Fuck. My. Life. “You should drive, because I’m going to end it all. Once we’re on the freeway, I’m going to jump out of this vehicle and throw myself in front of a Mack truck.” Josie’s laugh cut off her yawn. “That’s a little excessive.” Adjusting the sunglasses I’d stolen from Aiden yesterday morning, I smirked. “I do not think anything is excessive when it comes to him.” “But that won’t even kill you.” I sighed. “Yeah, but I’m pretty sure it’ll knock me unconscious for the time being.

Who calls the Prince of the Mud?' … The snapping turtle snapped. Its head shot out to maximum extension—Eliot wouldn’t have believed anything that big could move that fast. It was like a Mack truck coming straight at them. As it bit it turned its head on one side, to take them both in one movement. Eliot reacted fast. His reaction was to crouch down and cover his face with his arms. From the relative safety of this position he felt the day grow colder around them, and he heard a crackle, which at first he took for the pier splintering in the turtle’s jaws. But the end didn’t come. 'You DARE?' Janet said. Her voice was loud now—it made the boards vibrate sympathetically under his feet. He looked up at her. She’d gone airborne, floating two feet above the pier, and her clothes were rimmed with frost. She radiated cold; mist sheeted off her skin as it would off dry ice. Her arms were spread wide, and she had an axe in each hand. They were those twin staves she wore on her back, each one now topped with an axe-head of clear ice. The turtle was trapped in mid-lunge. She’d stopped it cold; the swamp was frozen solid around it. Janet had called down winter, and the water of the Northern Marsh was solid ice as far as he could see, cracked and buckled up in waves. The turtle was stuck fast in it. It struggled, its head banging back and forth impotently. 'Jesus,' Eliot said. He stood up out of his defensive crouch. 'Nice one.' 'You DARE?' Janet said again, all imperious power. 'Marvel that you live, Prince of Shit!

Art without emotion is like chocolate cake without sugar. It makes you gag. The next time you work on your trees, don't think about trees. Think about love, or hate, or joy, or rage - whatever makes you feel something, makes your palms sweat or your toes curl. Focus on that feeling. When people don't express themselves, they die one piece at a time. You'd be shocked at how many adults are really dead inside - walking through their days with no idea who they are, just waiting for a heart attack or cancer or a Mack truck to come along and finish the job. It's the saddest thing i know." -Mr. Freeman

Mr. Freeman: "Art without emotion is like chocolate cake without sugar. It makes you gag." He sticks his finger down his throat. "The next time you work on your trees, don't think about tress. Think about love, or hate, or joy, or rage - whatever makes you feel something, makes your palm sweat or your toes curl. Focus on that feeling. When people don't express themselves, they die one piece at a time. You'd be shocked at how many adults are really dead inside - walking through their days with no idea who they are, just waiting for a heart attack or cancer or a Mack truck to come along and finish the job. It's the saddest thing I know.

I've written about persistence and perseverance and yet for those of us with patchwork lives (projects, earnings, caretaking, home-tending, playing, friending, loving, celebrating, hurting, grieving, healing, assessing, re-grouping) persistence and perseverance has to be allowed in patches, not what from the outside might be viewed as 'normal' (for whatever worth normal has, the top of that overused bell curve). So let me clarify. When I talk about persistence, it isn't about persistence of equal measure every day. It's about not giving up on whatever is important to you, and, especially, not giving up on yourself. Some chapters of your life may allow many facets of your being, others just cannot and the feeling of failure that can arouse is of no value. Sometimes all you can do is ask yourself: What must I do this week? today? next hour? to continue the process as healthily as possible? to accomplish the most? It may be deep immersion in one, or it may be an odd mix. And tomorrow may be different. And an unexpected gift may come and change everything. And a Mack truck may hit and change everything. Our answers to those questions may not look similar but what I hope is similar is the acceptance of what must be. Persist in your own patches. Make your own quilt.

When presented with an open door in your job, drive a Mack truck through it.

Diesel had gotten his nickname because he was built like a Mack truck. .... He stood six feet, six inches tall and his muscles had muscles.

How cool,” she says, directing a melting stare at Luca. “I’d love to live in a place like this--just pull a cord when you need someone to bring something…” “It is very old and falling down,” Luca says depressingly, propping his shoulders against the wall and crossing his legs at the ankles. “And it costs so much to heat, in the winter we live in one small room.” “Oh, I’m sure that’s not true!” she coos. “Si, invece. In the peasants’’ houses, they have the big fireplace,” he informs her. “With the stone panchini--” He looks at Catia, who provides him with the word “benches.” “Ecco,” he continues. “With the stone benches to sleep next to the fire, to stay warm. Often I say to my mother, we need them here too.” Paige giggles. “You need an American heiress,” she says teasingly. “Like in the nineteenth century in England. Kendra and I saw the miniseries. These American girls with tons of money went to England and married the dukes and earls ‘cause those guys needed money to keep up their stately homes, and the girls wanted to be duchesses. Or princesses,” she adds pointedly. “Subtle, Paige,” Kendra says. “Subtle like a Mack truck.” Paige giggles again. “I’m just saying,” she points out, tossing her blond curls. “I’d looove to be a princess.” “There are many princes in Italy,” Luca says. “And almost all of them are very poor.” “Awesome,” Paige says with relish. “We’re not all this bad,” Kendra says to me and Kelly in an undertone. “Honestly.” “I think she’s funny,” Kelly says back. “I mean, she’s only saying what everyone’s thinking. I sort of admire her for coming straight out with it.

When the alarm rang at the Cedar Cove firehouse, Mack and his fellow firefighters jumped into action. The address was relayed as he leaped onto the fire truck, and the familiarity of it struck him immediately, although he didn’t have time to think about it. Not until the truck, lights flashing and sirens blaring, turned onto Eagle Crest Avenue did he realize the house belonged to Ben and Charlotte Rhodes. Mack had visited there often, taking his daughter, Noelle, to see her grandparents. The smoke billowing out of the house came from the back, where the kitchen was located

Time started stretching in unpredictable ways. Maybe orange juice would help. My first appointment that morning after slugging down a quart of orange juice was a mother who wanted to talk to me about her son’s alcoholism. Once your moorings come a little loose, that sort of thing happens and happens and happens until you just can’t pick yourself up off the floor anymore. Snowflakes hit with the force of Mack trucks. The floor and ground got a little springy, sort of like I was walking on a trampoline.

When people don’t express themselves, they die one piece at a time. You’d be shocked at how many adults are really dead inside—walking through their days with no idea who they are, just waiting for a heart attack or cancer or a Mack truck to come along and finish the job. It’s the saddest thing I know.

And it hits me. Like a goddamn Mack truck. Sheldon Soleskin is utterly adorable. Asshole.

What the fuck? Understanding slammed into me like a Mack truck. These were directed at me. They had to be. Catherine had written her scathing opinion of me on the bottom of my daily schedules, then precisely cut them off and saved them in an envelope. There must have been over a hundred. One for each day she’d worked for me. Holy shit. That little… My head fell back as laughter rolled out of me. Thick, rumbling laughter from deep in my chest traveled down my limbs through my veins. I knew it. All these months, I knew Catherine had been biting her tongue. It had always been there, right in front of me, but she’d cut it off. Every time she’d wanted to tell me my cyborg was showing or ask me if I was human, she’d stop herself and save it for her morning ritual. Christ, this woman. She was something else. I should have fired her for putting me through weeks of being driven insane by paper length, but this was too funny to be angry over. My little prim and pressed Catherine Warner was an undercover firecracker. I’d always known it, but seeing the undeniable proof was wholly gratifying. Her insults were so creative and cutting I couldn’t stop myself from reading more. P.S. Rocks have more emotions than you do.

No one says anything for a minute. I notice from the corner of my eye that Rachel has reached over to hold Cal’s hand. “They’re gonna answer,” Cal says at last. “They’re gonna answer for all of what they’ve done.” Rachel nods and leans forward. “They will. Maria is on the warpath, and we all know what that means. So, Anna, you can either come with us now and return here when we do, or you can stay with Mack and then join us in six weeks when everyone starts gathering.” The drive in Cal’s truck takes less than two days, but on foot like Maria and her crew the trip takes almost two weeks. We need a lot of time to gather forces. I clear my throat and turn back toward Mack. There’s a long moment when I’m really not sure what he’ll decide. But then he drops his eyes and mutters, “Stay with me.” My heart does a silly bounce. “Really?” “Yeah. Stay with me.

Mack, like the truck.

Marriage is the Mack truck driving through your life, revealing your flaws and humbling your reactions.

Hearing those four little words, 'Your child has autism,' can hit parents like a Mack Truck, leaving them scared, confused,and overwhelmed. Once that happens, how can anyone possibly be expected to take care of their special needs child when they can barely take care of themselves? That's why I wrote the book: to let parents know they're going to be okay - and that they can do a good job raising their child and still have a successful life.

Whoever said God doesn’t give you more than you can handle was full of shit, because this—this grief that slams me over and over like a Mack truck, this weight of missing Will that presses down on all sides until I can’t breathe—is going to kill me.

the curse of the trauma always remained in the shadows, lingering there for a moment when recall occurred, and it could all come rushing back like a Mack truck.

I was in the middle of a road, watching the headlights of a Mack truck coming right at me.

If looking at him was a punch in the gut, hearing him was like getting steamrolled by a Mack truck.

He sees something he likes- like Adam, his hat, his hair, his truck- and he takes it. I want to be like that. I don't want to overanalyze every detail. I just want to let go and take it.

Grief is nonlinear. It’s sneaky and sharp, like a serial killer in a movie where there’s no warning. No suspenseful music. No screeching of violins. And one night, when you think you’re fine and everything is fine and oh, look at me living my life—thriving, even—it’s like, BOOM BANG, then suddenly you’re on the floor with no memory of how you got there. Grief put a roofie in your drink and now the room is spinning. Grief is supposed to be a Mack truck but, really, it’s a Prius with its lights off. No way to know it’s coming until you are under its wheels.

Carter follows me as I slip out into the garage, and the only word he seems to be able to say is no as he watches me slip the key to his truck off my key ring and grab my car keys off the hook. I haven’t driven this thing in four months and the only way I know it’ll still run is because Carter turns it on once a week to keep the battery from dying. So considerate, always.

It had been four years since he’d seen the government agent, but he looked like he’d aged twice that. A bad patch. That’s the way it happened. A body could hold the line for a decade, one Christmas photo just like the ten previous, then bam, the years zoomed up and flattened you like a Mack truck. The last of the man’s football-hero good looks had been swallowed by age and carbohydrates. Now he was a blocky head on a big rectangular body, like a microwave atop a refrigerator.

For the suffix -son, you might always see a smaller version of the main thing you’re picturing. For example, for Robinson, you could see a robin and a smaller robin—its son. Or, you could use the sun in the sky as your standard. For Mc- or Mac-, you could always picture a Mack truck; for -itz or -witz, picture brains (wits); for -berg, see an iceberg; for -stein, picture a beer stein; for -ton, see the item weighing a ton; for a -ger ending, we usually picture either a wild animal growling (grr), or a cigar

Try to tell him that free soloing is dangerous, and he will argue the point, every time. The closest I've come so far is to get Alex to admit that the "consequences" of a fall while free soloing would be "disastrous." But then he'll quickly point out that just because a consequence may be severe, its probability of occurring does not increase. The consequences, he'll say, are equally dire if your hand slips off the steering wheel and you swerve into the oncoming lane and collide head-on with a Mack truck.

Mack grew up in this swampy city. For tourists, the party begins and ends at dawn. For Mack, the day begins with fog on his headlights and a toolbox in the back of his truck; it ends with a man he loves in his arms and a to-do list just as long as when the day began. The first and last items on that list: a man named Chase.

I took it all in. The soft snores, the flicker of flames on each of the lit candles swaying to a draft I couldn't feel, the cinnamon sticks simmering in a pot atop the stove, their aroma adding to the coziness. How is it possible, I asked myself, that I'd arrive at a place in life where everything felt perfect? A man like me, who had made so many bad choices and mistakes, was waylaid by detours and false hopes, and wasn't always smart enough to get out of the way of the Mack trucks full of crazy? The snow had turned everything into a wonderland, but I knew it would one day melt. I knew that Will might not make it to another Christmas, and that, yes, Atticus was getting older as well, and would eventually leave me behind. Yet I felt blessed. p168

none of us are perfect, but be careful of the ones driving a Mack truck full of crazy.