Marriage Of Inconvenience Quotes

I’ll tell you what is convenient,” he said after a moment. “To sleep until noon and have someone bring you your breakfast on a tray. To cancel an appointment at the very last minute. To keep a carriage waiting at the door of one party, so that on a moment’s notice it can whisk you away to another. To sidestep marriage in your youth and put off having children altogether. These are the greatest of conveniences, Anushka—and at one time, I had them all. But in the end, it has been the inconveniences that have mattered to me most.

Love didn’t end all at once, no matter how much you needed it to or how inconvenient it was. You couldn’t command love to stop any more than a marriage document could order it to appear. Maybe love had to bleed away a drop at a time until your heart was numb and cold and mostly dead.

Fuck a fucking fuck of fucking ducks.

If she doesn’t learn to weld here, she’ll just learn it on the streets.

If someone can handle you at your worst, they'll stick around for your best.

The best friends are those you can argue with but love anyway.

You’re going to bend, and so am I. We’re going to compromise, negotiate, and distract each other. Being together means our priorities are going to change. That’s what happens when you make space for another person. Comfort zones will be stretched.

When love dies and marriage lies in ruins, the first casualty is honest memory, decent, impartial recall of the past. Too inconvenient, too damning of the present. It's the spectre of old happiness at the feast of failure and desolation. So, against that headwind of forgetfulness I want to place my little candle of truth and see how far it throws its light.

I’m in love with you. You’re my fucking—fucking sunshine. My goddamn everything. You’re the center of my whole fucking universe. I’d give up swearing for you, I swear. If you asked, I’d never say the word fuck ever again, that’s how much I love you. I love you more than fuck, so that’s a whole fuckavalot.

You have alerts set up for me?" I asked before I could consider my words. Alex stared at me, his expression thoughtful. "Would it freak you out if I said I did?" "A little, yes." "Then, no." I studied him for a beat. "You're lying." "Correct.

Now that you’ve crushed this little man’s evil hopes and dreams, I imagine he has a hairless cat to stroke and a monologue to prepare.

I swear Seamus was conceived by anal sex. There’s no other explanation for him being such an asshole.

But still, big fucking kaboom. The earth shook, the angels sang, the heavens opened. St. Pete tossed me a high-five. He might’ve winked—dirty old bird—and I might’ve also forgotten my name.

Don't shit on a plate and tell me it's fudge, Daniel. You called after midnight.

I was dazed. I was amazed and dazed and frazzled and bedazzled. And bewitched. This was the worst. And the best.

Tell her. Confess. If I told her now, she might not give me cake. Daniel, confess. But... cake. No cake until you confess. Shit.

It’s difficult—no, it’s impossible—as a child to see yourself as worthy or worth knowing if no one else does.

- It is like a marriage - said the gardener. - Along with the good things, a few little inconveniences always appear.

Nothing hurts like a hostile farewell.

I said, you fuckfaced shitstain,”—his words were low, slow, measured— “get the fuck away from her, or I will fucking fuckily fuck you the fuck up.” I stared at Dan, my lips parting in wonder. He’d just used some variation of the F-word as a noun, verb, adverb, and adjective all in one sentence. I didn’t know whether to be mortified or impressed.

I realized there was no way she could show all that skin and wear a bra. Unless there was some bra made of witchcraft and the invisible wings of fairies that I didn't know about.

if you’re not just a little bit afraid of letting down one or both of your parents, then you must’ve had shitty parents. I’m not talking about paralyzing fear—paralyzing fear also means shitty parents—I’m talking about a sliver of worry, a shard of concern. Take my parents, for example. I couldn’t care less what my pop thought. He was a shitty parent.

Begging your pardon, but I'm not just a secretary. I seriously, seriously despised it when people called secretaries and administrative professionals just a secretary. Being a secretary was a multitasking marathon, a daily gauntlet of making everyone happy all the time.

A thing has no value except through use and the accumulation of memories from its use,

Potassium is just fine. And water is completely benign. But introduce K to H2O, and shit explodes in real time.

almost every depiction you find in books or movies make people living with paranoid schizophrenia the villains. Can you imagine if books and movies did the same thing to people with cancer?

When love dies and a marriage lies in ruins, the first casualty is honest memory, decent, impartial recall of the past. Too inconvenient, too damning of the present. It's the spectre of old happiness at the feast of failure and desolation.

sometimes people are thoughtless, and they make mistakes. I mean, yeah, ideally, let’s do our best to be responsible. However, no one is perfect. That’s why we have the concept of consequences and forgiveness. Forgiveness doesn’t mean there’s no consequences, it just means we accept and deal with the consequences, and then we move forward.

He laughed, definitely forced, and glanced around at his security team. The didn't laugh, likely because they weren't in on the joke, nor were they paid to play the role of sycophants to a psychopath.

Illness is a reminder that we don’t really have any control. And I understand why people find schizophrenia frightening, believe me, I get it. Hallucinations, delusions, it’s difficult to imagine having a mind that is not fully your own, just like it’s difficult to imagine having cancer, where your body isn’t fully your own. But people living with paranoid type often experience less dysfunction than people living with other subtypes. They’re often able to live, work, and care for themselves. And yet, almost every depiction you find in books or movies make people living with paranoid schizophrenia the villains. Can you imagine if books and movies did the same thing to people with cancer?

She was just kind and genuine. Pure, even. I hated that her good heartedness and naivety were going to cost her so dearly because I was going to bust up her marriage and take her husband if it were the last thing I did.

I embraced it. Actually, I tackle-hugged it.

So, if you can’t bring yourself to mourn his passing, maybe, instead, mourn the relationship you wished you’d had with your father, so you can let him go.

I will fucking ruin you, do you hear me? You are nothing! Nothing! I sighed, tired of his irrelevant presence. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be sure to file that info right between fuck this and fuck that.

...love was an action, an instinct. A response wrapped by unplanned moments and small gestures. An inconvenience in someone else's favor. How I felt it most when he drove up to New York after work at 3 in the morning just to hold me in a warehouse in Brooklyn after I had discovered my mother was sick. The many times these months he had flown 3000 miles whenever I needed him while he listened patiently through the 5 calls a day I'd been making since June, and though I wished our marriage could begin under more ideal circumstances, it had been these very trials that had assured me he was everything I needed to brave the future that lay ahead.

I’d thought for so long that I would become a schizophrenic, and if I was a schizophrenic, that’s all I would ever be. But a person doesn’t become their diagnosis. Your mom isn’t breast cancer, you don’t become cancer. You live with cancer. So often, we think of a person living with mental illness as their mental illness, and that’s unfair. A person is never their diagnosis, not even my mom. Delilah showed me that. She lives—and has lived—a full life. She has a husband. They travel. She’s a photographer, an artist. She tells the funniest knock-knock jokes I’ve ever heard. She takes her meds every day, but still has hallucinations from time to time. She is not schizophrenic. She lives with schizophrenia.

Parts of you are ugly and messy. I still want you. I want the ugly and the beautiful and everything in between. You don't pick and choose the parts of a person you want. Shit, I'm the ugliest fucker I know, and I want to give it all to you.

Shards of glass. As Stan escorted me from Caravel, I decided that if I formed a band, I would call it Shards of Glass. And we’d only sing really, really angsty songs about my ex, Dan O’Malley. So many words rhymed with Dan. It was meant to be. Man. Plan. Fan. Ban. Tan. LAN. Uzbekistan. The songs would basically write themselves.

Sometimes the best gifts aren't convenient at the time.

Marriage is a convenient way to remove an inconvenient child.

Wackadoodle. Not to be confused with a wack job. One is fun and fancy-free, the other is nasty and malicious.

I want to ask if you're okay, but I don't want to keep asking if you're okay. So I'm gonna limit myself to asking once every six hours.

I mean, really ponder what God gave you breath for. Most of our suffering means nothing. What are we striving for? To make ourselves more comfortable? To add prestige or honor to our reputation? Buth then you find something - a cause, a person - worth dying for, and you realize that's the best gift God can give you, because until you know what you'd die for, you don't know what you're living for.

We’d spent two years—two fucking years—with a misunderstanding between us. I didn’t want to do that again, not even for two hours. So what am I going to say? It was a particular place to be, this limbo. It had me asking myself philosophical questions and thinking things like, What is love? And, How do you know you’re in love? And, Why does she think she loves me? And, If this shitty feeling is love, I’m going to be so pissed. Because if this shitty feeling was love, if this choking, desperate mix of happiness and pain I felt every time I saw her or thought about her was love, if I’d been in love with her this whole fucking time and I’d been lying to myself and lying to her and wasting time, then I deserved a big, fat fucking punch in the face. “Crap,” I said, shaking my head at myself.

A thing has no value except through use and the accumulation of memories from its use,” she’d said. “What good would it do to leave such a thing in the china cabinet collecting dust? What value would it have? I remember my grandmother and my mother every time I use this teapot, and I use it with my children, so they’ll remember me.

The weekend break had begun with the usual resentment and had continued with half-repressed ill humour. It was, of course, his fault. He had been more ready to hurt his wife's feelings and deprive his daughter than inconvenience a pub bar full of strangers. He wished there could be one memory of his dead child which wasn't tainted with guilt and regret.

It’s not hard.  You just need to think of what you have instead of what you don’t.

They see you at your worst and don’t run away.  If someone can handle you at your worst, they’ll stick around for your best.

That’s the problem with doing the wrong things.  You’re never satisfied.  At some point, the misbehavior loses its thrill, and you need to seek out something that pushes more boundaries.

You can't evade a thing. Those who try to get around it are weak. Those who meet it gallantly are strong. So many women try to dodge life. They don't economize because it's inconvenient. They don't work because it's tiring. They don't have a child because it's painful. They don't look at the dead because it's saddening. Face them all, Laura. Face them squarely and meet them gallantly... as your grandmother did. For every one of the old experiences will be there... birth... marriage... death... disappointment... grief... little joys... little sorrows. You'll have to meet them all. It's part of the story...

 I stuck out my hand hurriedly as he opened his arms for an embrace, leading to a full minute of the awkward do-we-shake-or-do-we-hug tango, a close relative of the which-side-of-the-sidewalk-are-you-walking-on polka

What an excellent idea, Parkerton," Miranda agreed. "For then you can continue on with your life without a single inconvenience. You can just shake off the dustcovers and everything will be perfectly ordered once again." "And what is wrong with that?" he asked, his ire finally getting the better of him. Miranda came to stand before him. "Because you'll never know the most important thing about marriage." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Which would be?" "Why she married you.

In a healthy relationship, your partner is a great “dream-catcher.” However, when that unformed dream is laughed at, questioned, or belittled, it may not recover. Worse, you may scrap the whole idea. However, if there is one thing a narcissistic person cannot tolerate, it is being inconvenienced. Even just hearing about your bad day is an inconvenience. When you are in a relationship with a narcissist, it can slowly dawn on you that things work well as long as you are convenient.

Oh, you truly are your mother’s daughter,’ said Creesjie, watching her affectionately. ‘Love can be feigned, dear heart. You can even convince yourself of it, if you try hard enough, but it’s impossible to spend an imaginary fortune. Marriage is an inconvenient convenience. It’s the shackle we accept for our safety.

Besides, when you were married to an alcoholic, you got tired of excavating details. Don’t ask, don’t tell. It was easier that way to pretend you had absolutely zero role in anything that happened to you. Or not you. Me. That was what I had always done—wipe away the inconvenient facts to keep my eyes on the prize: forward momentum.

1) The overall success rate for drugs moving from early stage Phase I clinical trials to FDA approval is about one in 10 (10%). —Reuters 2) The average drug can take anywhere from 8 - 18 years from pre-clinical (development) to clinical (phase 1, 2, and 3) to FDA approval. 3) The average cost to bring a drug to market: Phase 1 $15.2 million; Phase 2 $23.4 million; Phase 3 $86.5 million (total = $125.1 million) —FDA.gov

Adevaratul inconvenient al casatoriei este ca te face altruist. Si oamenii altruisti sunt lipsiti de culoare. Le lipseste individualitatea. Cu toate astea, exista anumite temperamente care devin mai complexe in urma casatoriei. Isi pastreaza egoismul si ii adauga mai multe ego-uri. Sunt obligati sa duca mai multe vieti. Devin mult mai bine organizati si a fi foarte bine organizat este, dupa parerea mea, obiectivul existentei umane.

Not all at once, but gradually, over the months, another revelation came to me: None of that other stuff, much as I'd loved it, was what made a marriage. Not restaurant dinners or romantic vacations. Not walks on the beach or visits to wine country in the Boxster. Not oysters and martinis or moonlight over the Bay Bridge." "This was a marriage. As uncomfortable and inconvenient and devastating as it might be to live as we did now, we inhabited this place together.

It’s about to rain forks and knives,” Winterborne reported, water drops glittering on his hair and the shoulders of his coat. He reached for a glass of champagne from a silver tray on the table, and raised it in Tom’s direction. “Good luck it is, for the wedding day.” “Why is that, exactly?” Tom asked, disgruntled. “A wet knot is harder to untie,” Winterborne said. “The marriage bond will be tight and long lasting.” Ethan Ransom volunteered, “Mam always said rain on a wedding day washed away the sadness of the past.” “Not only are superstitions irrational,” Tom said, “they’re inconvenient. If you believe in one, you have to believe them all, which necessitates a thousand pointless rituals.” Not being allowed to see the bride before the ceremony, for example. He hadn’t had so much as a glimpse of Cassandra that morning, and he was chafing to find out how she was feeling, if she’d slept well, if there was something she needed. West came into the room with his arms full of folded umbrellas. Justin, dressed in a little velveteen suit, was at his heels. “Aren’t you supposed to be upstairs in the nursery with your little brother?” St. Vincent asked his five-year-old nephew. “Dad needed my help,” Justin said self-importantly, bringing an umbrella to him. “We’re about to have a soaker,” West said briskly. “We’ll have to take everyone out to the chapel as soon as possible, before the ground turns to mud. Don’t open one of these indoors: It’s bad luck.” “I didn’t think you were superstitious,” Tom protested. “You believe in science.” West grinned at him. “I’m a farmer, Severin. When it comes to superstitions, farmers lead the pack. Incidentally, the locals say rain on the wedding day means fertility.” Devon commented dryly, “To a Hampshireman, nearly everything is a sign of fertility. It’s a preoccupation around here.” “What’s fertility?” Justin asked. In the sudden silence, all gazes went to West, who asked defensively, “Why is everyone looking at me?” “As Justin’s new father,” St. Vincent replied, making no effort to hide his enjoyment, “that question is in your province.” West looked down into Justin’s expectant face. “Let’s ask your mother later,” he suggested. The child looked mildly concerned. “Don’t you know, Dad?

Let me be your big brother, Harry had told Catherine at their last meeting in Hampshire, making it clear that he wanted to attempt the kind of familial relationship they had never been capable of before. With no small amount of unease. Catherine reflected that she was about to test his claim far sooner than either of them could have expected. And they were still practically strangers. But Harry had altered greatly during the short time of his marriage to Poppy. He was far kinder and warmer now, and certainly willing to think of Catherine as something more than an inconvenient half sister who didn't belong anywhere.

A marriage, or a marriage partner, may be compared to a great tree growing right up through the center of one’s living room. It is something that is just there, and it is huge, and everything has been built around it, and wherever one happens to be going––to the fridge, to bed, to the bathroom, or out the front door––the tree has to be taken into account. It cannot be gone through; it must respectfully be gone around. It is somehow bigger and stronger than oneself. True, it could be chopped down, but not without tearing the house apart. And certainly it is beautiful, unique, exotic; but also, let’s face it, it is at times an enormous inconvenience.

But there is a dark and deadly side to this fascination with comfort and convenience. Among the developed nations, every 5 seconds the life of an unborn child is snuffed out through abortion.[1] The reason usually given? “We’re just not ready to have a baby now.” Translated into plain English, this means that having the baby would be too inconvenient. If a new human life should happen to get in the way of our career and income goals, school schedules or marriage plans, the first choice is ruthless and simple: kill it. Nothing is allowed to get in the way of feeling good. Abortion is one of the most shocking, yet entirely logical, extensions of this obsession with comfort, convenience and luxury.

Day after day, in the “Advice to the Lovelorn” columns of the newspapers, one would read the complaints of women who had been deceived into marriage by a mask—(they would not mention their own). However, the answers would be just as irrelevant and irresponsible: “The insincerity of not once showing his face during the engagement is deplorable. But you are still thinking in terms of a life with a real face. The mask does not deceive and is not deceived. How about putting on a new mask, turning over a new leaf, and starting another life? On these days of masks, we can put on a new look unconcerned with yesterday or tomorrow.” No matter how great the deception, it’s the inconvenience that would be discussed; the pain of deception would never outweigh the pleasure it provided. While there would be many conflicts, the fascination with masks would be predominant.

Dan’s features showcased a mixture of intense confusion and frustration, and a small little voice in my head wondered if it was too late. If our chance had passed. I glared at that voice and shut a door in its face. What a stupid voice. You can’t sit here, voice. NEVER COME BACK! While I was berating my doubt, the cloud of confusion hovering over Dan’s features abruptly cleared and his stare cut to mine. It startled me because—lo and behold—the sexy eyes were back. Boy oh boy, were they back. Dan was legit bringing sexy back. Whoa. In the next moment, his mouth hooked upward and he pushed away from the wall, sauntering toward me. Instinctively, I took two steps back. “Kit-Kat.” He wagged a finger at me, like I’d been naughty. “You liked me.” “You liked me, you just said so,” I volleyed back, the words sounding like an accusation. “I did.” His grin grew and his voice deepened. “And I do.” Oh. Okay. Here we go.

I now perceive that it will be a very unfortunate one for Harriet. You will puff her up with such ideas of her own beauty, and of what she has a claim to, that, in a little while, nobody within her reach will be good enough for her. Vanity working on a weak head, produces every sort of mischief. Nothing so easy as for a young lady to raise her expectations too high. Miss Harriet Smith may not find offers of marriage flow in so fast, though she is a very pretty girl. Men of sense, whatever you may chuse to say, do not want silly wives. Men of family would not be very fond of connecting themselves with a girl of such obscurity — and most prudent men would be afraid of the inconvenience and disgrace they might be involved in, when the mystery of her parentage came to be revealed. Let her marry Robert Martin, and she is safe, respectable, and happy for ever; but if you encourage her to expect to marry greatly, and teach her to be satisfied with nothing less than a man of consequence and large fortune, she may be a parlour-boarder at Mrs. Goddard’s all the rest of her life — or, at least, (for Harriet Smith is a girl who will marry somebody or other,) till she grow desperate, and is glad to catch at the old writing-master’s son.

After a series of promotions—store manager at twenty-two, regional manager at twenty-four, director at twenty-seven—I was a fast-track career man, a personage of sorts. If I worked really hard, and if everything happened exactly like it was supposed to, then I could be a vice president by thirty-two, a senior vice president by thirty-five or forty, and a C-level executive—CFO, COO, CEO—by forty-five or fifty, followed of course by the golden parachute. I’d have it made then! I’d just have to be miserable for a few more years, to drudge through the corporate politics and bureaucracy I knew so well. Just keep climbing and don't look down. Misery, of course, encourages others to pull up a chair and stay a while. And so, five years ago, I convinced my best friend Ryan to join me on the ladder, even showed him the first rung. The ascent is exhilarating to rookies. They see limitless potential and endless possibilities, allured by the promise of bigger paychecks and sophisticated titles. What’s not to like? He too climbed the ladder, maneuvering each step with lapidary precision, becoming one of the top salespeople—and later, top sales managers—in the entire company.10 And now here we are, submerged in fluorescent light, young and ostensibly successful. A few years ago, a mentor of mine, a successful businessman named Karl, said to me, “You shouldn’t ask a man who earns twenty thousand dollars a year how to make a hundred thousand.” Perhaps this apothegm holds true for discontented men and happiness, as well. All these guys I emulate—the men I most want to be like, the VPs and executives—aren’t happy. In fact, they’re miserable.  Don’t get me wrong, they aren’t bad people, but their careers have changed them, altered them physically and emotionally: they explode with anger over insignificant inconveniences; they are overweight and out of shape; they scowl with furrowed brows and complain constantly as if the world is conspiring against them, or they feign sham optimism which fools no one; they are on their second or third or fourth(!) marriages; and they almost all seem lonely. Utterly alone in a sea of yes-men and women. Don’t even get me started on their health issues.  I’m talking serious health issues: obesity, gout, cancer, heart attacks, high blood pressure, you name it. These guys are plagued with every ailment associated with stress and anxiety. Some even wear it as a morbid badge of honor, as if it’s noble or courageous or something. A coworker, a good friend of mine on a similar trajectory, recently had his first heart attack—at age thirty.  But I’m the exception, right?

I wanted to be alone.” “I see.” Except she didn’t, exactly. When had this child become a mystery to her own mother? “Why?” Sophie glanced at herself in the mirror, and Esther could only hope her daughter saw the truth: a lovely, poised woman—intelligent, caring, well dowered, and deserving of more than a stolen interlude with a convenient stranger and an inconvenient baby—Sophie’s brothers’ assurances notwithstanding. “I am lonely, that’s why.” Sophie’s posture relaxed with this pronouncement, but Esther’s consternation only increased. “How can you be lonely when you’re surrounded by loving family, for pity’s sake? Your father and I, your sisters, your brothers, even Uncle Tony and your cousins—we’re your family, Sophia.” She nodded, a sad smile playing around her lips that to Esther’s eyes made her daughter look positively beautiful. “You’re the family I was born with, and I love you too, but I’m still lonely, Your Grace. I’ve wished and wished for my own family, for children of my own, for a husband, not just a marital partner…” “You had many offers.” Esther spoke gently, because in Sophie’s words, in her calm, in her use of the present tense—“I am lonely”—there was an insight to be had. “Those offers weren’t from the right man.” “Was Baron Sindal the right man?” It was a chance arrow, but a woman who had raised ten children owned a store of maternal instinct. Sophie’s chin dropped, and she sighed. “I thought he was the right man, but it wasn’t the right offer, or perhaps it was, but I couldn’t hear it as such. And then there was the baby… It wouldn’t be the right marriage.” Esther took her courage in both hands and advanced on her daughter—her sensible daughter—and slipped an arm around Sophie’s waist. “Tell me about this baby. I’ve heard all manner of rumors about him, but you’ve said not one word.” She meant to walk Sophie over to the vanity, so she might drape Oma’s pearls around Sophie’s neck, but Sophie closed her eyes and stiffened. “He’s a good baby. He’s a wonderful baby, and I sent him away. Oh, Mama, I sent my baby away…” And then, for the first time in years, sensible Lady Sophia Windham cried on her mother’s shoulder as if she herself were once again a little, inconsolable baby. ***

If the claims of the papacy cannot be proven from what we know of the historical Peter, there are, on the other hand, several undoubted facts in the real history of Peter which bear heavily upon those claims, namely: 1. That Peter was married, Matt. 8:14, took his wife with him on his missionary tours, 1 Cor. 9:5, and, according to a possible interpretation of the "coëlect" (sister), mentions her in 1 Pet. 5:13. Patristic tradition ascribes to him children, or at least a daughter (Petronilla). His wife is said to have suffered martyrdom in Rome before him. What right have the popes, in view of this example, to forbid clerical marriage?  We pass by the equally striking contrast between the poverty of Peter, who had no silver nor gold (Acts 3:6) and the gorgeous display of the triple-crowned papacy in the middle ages and down to the recent collapse of the temporal power. 2. That in the Council at Jerusalem (Acts 15:1–11), Peter appears simply as the first speaker and debater, not as president and judge (James presided), and assumes no special prerogative, least of all an infallibility of judgment. According to the Vatican theory the whole question of circumcision ought to have been submitted to Peter rather than to a Council, and the decision ought to have gone out from him rather than from "the apostles and elders, brethren" (or "the elder brethren," 15:23). 3. That Peter was openly rebuked for inconsistency by a younger apostle at Antioch (Gal. 2:11–14). Peter’s conduct on that occasion is irreconcilable with his infallibility as to discipline; Paul’s conduct is irreconcilable with Peter’s alleged supremacy; and the whole scene, though perfectly plain, is so inconvenient to Roman and Romanizing views, that it has been variously distorted by patristic and Jesuit commentators, even into a theatrical farce gotten up by the apostles for the more effectual refutation of the Judaizers! 4. That, while the greatest of popes, from Leo I. down to Leo XIII. never cease to speak of their authority over all the bishops and all the churches, Peter, in his speeches in the Acts, never does so. And his Epistles, far from assuming any superiority over his "fellow-elders" and over "the clergy" (by which he means the Christian people), breathe the spirit of the sincerest humility and contain a prophetic warning against the besetting sins of the papacy, filthy avarice and lordly ambition (1 Pet. 5:1–3). Love of money and love of power are twin-sisters, and either of them is "a root of all evil." It is certainly very significant that the weaknesses even more than the virtues of the natural Peter—his boldness and presumption, his dread of the cross, his love for secular glory, his carnal zeal, his use of the sword, his sleepiness in Gethsemane—are faithfully reproduced in the history of the papacy; while the addresses and epistles of the converted and inspired Peter contain the most emphatic protest against the hierarchical pretensions and worldly vices of the papacy, and enjoin truly evangelical principles—the general priesthood and royalty of believers, apostolic poverty before the rich temple, obedience to God rather than man, yet with proper regard for the civil authorities, honorable marriage, condemnation of mental reservation in Ananias and Sapphira, and of simony in Simon Magus, liberal appreciation of heathen piety in Cornelius, opposition to the yoke of legal bondage, salvation in no other name but that of Jesus Christ.

appropriate for her to do so, considering he was

But never close the door. As long as she has breath, she can change.

think you’d put the horses in the house, though,” he guffawed.

Who wanted to pass someone on the street and greet them only to be rewarded with a miserable sigh?

You know, I hope you don’t judge

Taking her hands in his, he sank down to kneel before her. “I know we already are engaged, but I never went about it properly. Lydia Price, would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?” Gasps permeated the room as Vincent reached into his pocket with his other hand and pulled out a small jewel case. He flicked the box open to reveal a golden ring filigreed with Celtic knots and adorned with a large diamond surrounded by a rainbow of other jewels. Lydia’s heart lodged in her throat even as unmitigated happiness warmed her body. “When?” The word escaped aloud before she was aware. “Now.” From another pocket in his waistcoat, Vincent withdrew a small sheaf of papers. “I have with me a marriage contract and a special license. I’ve also managed to procure a parson at this late hour.” Everyone’s gazes flew to the stranger, whose identity was now revealed. The parson yawned as if in emphasis of the inconvenience. All eyes shifted to Lydia, awaiting her reply. Her knees quaked beneath her gown, threatening to give out and topple her. “Please, Lydia,” he said achingly. “I cannot bear another night of you not being mine.” “Yes.

Taking her hands in his, he sank down to kneel before her. “I know we already are engaged, but I never went about it properly. Lydia Price, would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?” Gasps permeated the room as Vincent reached into his pocket with his other hand and pulled out a small jewel case. He flicked the box open to reveal a golden ring filigreed with Celtic knots and adorned with a large diamond surrounded by a rainbow of other jewels. Lydia’s heart lodged in her throat even as unmitigated happiness warmed her body. “When?” The word escaped aloud before she was aware. “Now.” From another pocket in his waistcoat, Vincent withdrew a small sheaf of papers. “I have with me a marriage contract and a special license. I’ve also managed to procure a parson at this late hour.” Everyone’s gazes flew to the stranger, whose identity was now revealed. The parson yawned as if in emphasis of the inconvenience. All eyes shifted to Lydia, awaiting her reply. Her knees quaked beneath her gown, threatening to give out and topple her. “Please, Lydia,” he said achingly. “I cannot bear another night of you not being mine.” “Yes.” The word escaped her lips past the joy swelling within. As if afraid she’d change her mind, Vincent quickly slipped the elaborate ring on her third finger and rose to his feet, retaining his grip on her hand. “You’ve made me the happiest of men,” he replied.

And he wasn’t the marrying kind. No matter the inconveniences, what he craved at the end of a working day was his private space, clean and ordered, organised exactly as he liked it, free of emotional storms, from guilt and recriminations, from demands to service Hallmark’s idea of romance, from a life where someone else’s happiness was his responsibility.

infotainment.

Oh.' I sighed, real loud. Because I'm frustrated, OKAY?

Oh.' I sighed, real loud. Because I'm frustrated, OKAY?.

some rough waters. She said, “Ryan has at times said he was sorry. But then he expects me to say it back, even if I don’t feel like I should have to because he was the cause of the fight in the first place. That just doesn’t work for me. I want him to say he’s sorry and not expect anything in return. That would mean that he is truly sorry.” Sometimes we hurt people and don’t realize it. It was certainly not intentional. Good relationships are fostered by expressing regret even when we did not intend to hurt them. If I bump into someone getting out of an elevator, I murmur, “I’m sorry,” not because I intentionally bumped him but because I identify with his inconvenience or irritation with my unintentional bump. The same principle is true in close relationships. You may not realize that your behavior has upset your spouse, but when it becomes apparent, then you can say, “I’m sorry that my behavior caused you so much pain. I didn’t intend to hurt you.” Regret focuses on dealing with one’s own behavior and expressing empathy for the hurt it has caused the other person. Insincerity is also communicated when we say “I’m sorry” simply to get the other person to stop confronting us with the issue. Rhonda sensed this when she said, “Early in our marriage, my husband did something

Marriage is about being in love,” I say. “And love isn’t about what’s convenient. Sometimes it’s really fucking inconvenient. Not to mention insane, stupid, unexpected, and crazy.

The marriage of convenience lasts until you become an inconvenience.

For a long time, I refused to believe that angels of death existed. But then I got married and ended up living with one.

Being a secretary was a multitasking marathon, a daily gauntlet of making everyone happy all the time.

My heart is dead,” he denied, “and the sooner you realize that, the better off you shall be. Ours is a marriage of convenience and nothing more.” And having her examine him was decidedly inconvenient.

Love didn't end all at once, no matter how much you needed it to or how inconvenient it was. You couldn't command love to stop any more than a marriage document could order it to appear. Maybe love had to bleed away a drop at a time until your heart was numb and cold and mostly dead. (pg 586)

I’m the CEO of overthinking, always have been, always will be. The slightest thing can seem like the end of the world and the mildest inconvenience can make me feel like I want to punch a hole through something (although I don’t because breaking the bones in my hand would be a whole new stress to contend with),

now the time to reckon with that question? We may begin to feel tendrils of doubt, the upwelling of inconvenient longings and needs, an uneasy sense that suppression or chronic discord will not be sustainable. We may encounter dread, fear, and a desire to escape through work, or screens, or drink. We’re dimly aware we may have to lose in order to gain, that painful upheavals may be the cost of emotional growth or inner peace. Oscillating between what is and what could be, between reality and possibility, between embracing and relinquishing, we feel disoriented and confused. When

now the time to reckon with that question? We may begin to feel tendrils of doubt, the upwelling of inconvenient longings and needs, an uneasy sense that suppression or chronic discord will not be sustainable. We may encounter dread, fear, and a desire to escape through work, or screens, or drink. We’re dimly aware we may have to lose in order to gain, that painful upheavals may be the cost of emotional growth or inner peace. Oscillating between what is and what could be, between reality and possibility, between embracing and relinquishing, we feel disoriented and confused. When things feel bad, two options may loom up in our minds: endure (for the children, the shared history, the finances, the stability, the vow) or strive (for something more, another chance, a better relationship). Surrender or escape. Give in or start over. Depressive resignation or manic flight. These occur to us largely because it’s not at all clear where else to go. But the thought that soon follows is that we want to be honest, and we ask ourselves, what is the line between seizing vitality and manically defending against decline? What’s the difference between “settling” and acceptance? How might the effort to have more in our lives unwittingly result in less? When does accepting limits help us to make the most of what we have, and when does it signal premature resignation? Our dawning awareness of life’s limits means we know that we’ve reached the point where dismantling what we have and starting something new does not come cheaply. We know there’s really no such thing as “starting over,” only starting something different and trailing the inevitable complications in our wake. The acting out we see around us, which till now we’ve casually dismissed, begins to looks like one way that people try to combat the stasis of depression with the action of escape, attempting to transcend (at least temporarily) the “hitting a wall” feeling that this life stage can induce.

Marriage is an inconvenient convenience. It’s the shackle we accept for our safety.

Clement, shook his head in amusement.  “I did that exactly forty seconds

Sometimes it strengthens a marriage to see the worst and find the sweetness of happiness later.

You just need to think of what you have instead of what you don’t.

I find the easiest way to get what I want is to make him happy.  Marriage is hard work and the woman does a lot of sacrificing, but if she does what he wants, he is happy.  And when he’s happy, things are better for everyone.  How do you think I got the necklace?  He gives me nice things when I do what he wants.” To Sue, this sounded like a dog being rewarded for performing a trick. 

But, she says, if she could break them when they appear inconvenient to her, of what would be their worth? If you only obey God's word when it seems reasonable or profitable to you - well, that isn't really obedience at all. Obedience means you cede someone an authority over you that is there even when you don't agree with him.

Have I not taught you, that marriage is a duty, whenever it can be enter’d into with prudence? What a mean, what a selfish mind must that person have, whether man or woman, who can resolve against entering into the state, because it has its cares, its fatigues, its inconveniencies!

Shh." I reared back an inch. "Shh?" "Yeah, I'm thinking.

What's his full name again?" Seamus was rubbing his chin. Dan hesitated, glancing at me and then away. "Bark Wahlberg," he grumbled.

Honey, you’re out of options. And even if you weren’t, I think it’s the best idea I’ve had all month. And that’s saying a lot because I just bought a gorgeous new rug.

I told you we should have used the taser.” “But then he would have shit his pants,” John motioned to my pants. “Look at those pants. Those are nice pants.” “Yeah,” I agreed, “I don’t want to shit these pants. I like these pants. The pockets are deceptively roomy.” Ricky squatted in front of me, and it was a little like watching a tree bend down. “Danny, you got to come with us. Either we do this the nice way, or we do it the taser-shitting-pants way.