Mary Tape Quotes

The bookstore was a wreck. That much hadn't been a dream. I began to stand and stopped, realizing there was a sheet of paper taped to my coat. Dazedly, I pulled it off. If you leave this bookstore and make me track you, I will make you regret it to the end of your days. ~ Z I began to laugh and cry at the same time. I sat, clutching the paper to my chest, elated. He was alive!.

Superglue after duct tape a girl's best friend.

Whatcha doin', Freak Girl?" --------------------------- "What does it look like, brainiac?" I shot back, even surprising myself with the force of my jab. "I'll give you three guesses. No, wait. Don't strain yourself. Wouldn't want to hurt your head." I waved a flyer in his face, channeling my inner mean girl. "See these? I'm hanging them...on a...wall!" I spoke the last part slowly, as if addressing a dim-witted child. Which wasn't far off the mark, now that I thought about it. "With tape," I added, waving at the dispenser. "You know-sticky, sticky!

For two weeks, I lay awake at night and said Hail Marys over and over to stop my heart from beating too fast. I suddenly realized how much being a husband was about fear: fear of not being able to keep somebody safe, of not being able to protect somebody from all the bad stuff you want to protect them from. Knowing they have more tears in them than you will be able to keep them from crying. I realized that Renee had seen me fail, and that she was the person I was going to be failing in front for the rest of my life. It was just a little failure, but it promised bigger failures to come. Additional ones, anyway. But that's who your wife is, the person you fail in front of. Love it so confusing; there's no peace of mind.

Jesus H. Christ on ice and Mary in the penalty box!

Nixon sent some no-account underling to tell us that he had done more for the American Indian than any predecessor and that he saw no reason for our coming to Washington, that he had more important things to do than to talk with us—presumably surreptitiously taping his visitors and planning Watergate. We wondered what all these good things were that he had done for us.

There were the cages you could see and those that weren't so easy to spot before you were lured into them with sweet promises and lies until you were stuck like a fly on sticky tape with only your shattered innocence for company.

The walls were lined with thick plastic sheets, all held together with some kind of special tape.

If you try this yourself, I recommend doing so when no one is home. Otherwise, you will run the risk of someone walking in on you and having to witness a scene that includes a mirror, the husband’s Stanley Powerlock tape measure, and the half-undressed self, squatting.

Did you listen to that tape? It makes me sound terrible.

Detective Inspector Carver took a picture from the breast pocket of his suit. He handed it to me. ‘This is what you did, Michael. Take a good look. See if it jogs your memory.’ I gawped at the mutilated corpse of a naked young girl lying on a blood-soaked double bed. Her hands were bound to the brass headboard with duct tape. Blood covered her upper body, and her long blonde hair was streaked a murderous shade of red. One eye stared at the ceiling as if searching for salvation, the other, a bloody unrecognisable pulp, bore no relation to its sightless counterpart. ‘Carla Marie Coombs. Twenty-one years of age. Do you recognise her, Michael?

Humans spent thousands of years looking up at the stars and wondering what was out there. You guys never saw stars at all but you still worked space travel. What an amazing people you Eridians must be. Scientific geniuses.' The knot in the tape comes loose, recoils wildly, and smacks Rocky's hand. He shakes the affected hand in pain for a moment, then continues messing with the tape measure. 'Yeah, you're definitely a scientist.

He stops playing with the tape measure for a moment. “♩♪♩?

Back home, my favorite part of Mass was during communion, when I'd stand at the rail and hold a little gold platter under people's chins. The pretty girls would line up for communion (I confess to Almighty God). They'd kneel (and to you my brothers and sisters), cast their eyes demurely down (I have sinned through my own fault), and stick out their tongues (in my thoughts and in my words). Their tongues would shine, reflected in the gold platter, and since the wafer was dry, the girls would maybe lick their lips (and I ask Blessed Mary ever virgin, all the angels and saints, and you my brothers and sisters) before they swallowed (to pray for me to the Lord our God). It was all I could do not to pass out.

But what if I don't believe in God? It's like they've sat me in front of a mannequin and said, Fall in love with him. You can't will feeling. What Jack says issues from some still, true place that could not be extinguished by all the schizophrenia his genetic code could muster. It sounds something like this. Get on your knees and find some quiet space inside yourself, a little sunshine right about here. Jack holds his hands in a ball shape about midchest, saying, Let go. Surrender, Dorothy, the witch wrote in the sky. Surrender, Mary. I want to surrender but have no idea what that means. He goes on with a level gaze and a steady tone: Yield up what scares you. Yield up what makes you want to scream and cry. Enter into that quiet. It's a cathedral. It's an empty football stadium with all the lights on. And pray to be an instrument of peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is conflict, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair hope... What if I get no answer there? If God hasn't spoken, do nothing. Fulfill the contract you entered into at the box factory, amen. Make the containers you promised to tape and staple. Go quietly and shine. Wait. Those not impelled to act must remain in the cathedral. Don't be lonely. I get so lonely sometimes, I could put a box on my head and mail myself to a stranger ...

This obscure family of ours was early in the Reformation, and continued Protestants through the reign of Queen Mary, when they were sometimes in danger of trouble on account of their zeal against popery. They had got an English Bible, and to conceal and secure it, it was fastened open with tapes under and within the cover of a joint-stool. When my great-great-grandfather read it to his family, he turned up the joint-stool upon his knees, turning over the leaves then under the tapes. One of the children stood at the door to give notice if he saw the apparitor coming, who was an officer of the spiritual court. In that case the stool was turned down again upon its feet, when the Bible remained concealed under it as before.

I spent nine hard, exasperating, concentrated months on the first chapter of Liars’ Club alone, which was essentially time developing that voice—a watchmaker’s minuscule efforts, noodling with syntax and diction. Were I to add on the time I spent trying to recount that book’s events in poetry and a novel, I could argue that concocting that mode of speech actually occupied some thirteen years (seventeen, if you count the requisite years in therapy getting the nerve up). What was I doing during those nine months? Mostly I just shoved words around the page. I’d get up at four or five when my son was asleep, then work. I’d try telling something one way, then another. If a paragraph seemed half decent, I’d cut it out and tape it to the wall.

In a medium mixing bowl, combine all the ingredients except the meatballs and pour into a labeled 1-gallon freezer bag. Tape this bag to the meatball package and freeze.   To serve, thaw the ingredients of both bags. Pour the soup ingredients into a large saucepan. Bring to boil, reduce the heat, and simmer 30 minutes. Add the meatballs and simmer for 10 to 15 minutes, stirring occasionally.

They were, and still are, largely spared the public shame of this, because the world's media preferred the simplication of "Croat' and "Serb" and only mentioned religion when discussing "the Muslims." But the triad of terms "Croat", "Serb", and "Muslim is unequal and misleading, in that it equates two nationalities and one religion. (The same blunder is made in a different way in coverage of Iraq, with the "Sunni-Shia-Kurd" trilateral.) ...It would have been far more accurate if the press and television had reported that "today the Orthodox Christian forces resumed their bombardment of Sarajevo," or "yesterday the Catholic militia succeeded in collapsing the Stari Most." But confessional terminology was reserved only for "Muslims," even as their murderers went to all the trouble of distinguishing themself by wearing large Orthodox crosses over their bandoliers, or by taping portraits of the Virgin Mary to their rifle butts.

You should give him a picture of you to keep him company, if you know what I mean.” She frowns at me. “Do you know what I mean?” “Like, a sexy picture? No way!” I start backing away from her. “Look, I’ve gotta go to class.” The last thing I want to do is think about Peter and random girls. I’m still trying to get used to the idea that we won’t be together at UVA this fall. Chris rolls her eyes. “Calm down. I’m not talking about a nudie. I would never suggest that for you of all people. What I’m talking about is a pinup-girl shot, but not, like, cheesy. Sexy. Something Kavinsky can hang up in his dorm room.” “Why would I want him to hang up a sexy picture of me in his dorm room for all the world to see?” Chris reaches out and flicks me on the forehead. “Ow!” I shove her away from me and rub the spot where she flicked me. “That hurt!” “You deserved it for asking such a dumb question.” She sighs. “I’m talking about preventative measures. A picture of you on his wall is a way for you to mark your territory. Kavinsky’s hot. And he’s an athlete. Do you think other girls will respect the fact that he’s in a long-distance relationship?” She lowers her voice and adds, “With a Virgin Mary girlfriend?” I gasp and then look around to see if anyone heard. “Chris!” I hiss. “Can you please not?” “I’m just trying to help you! You have to protect what’s yours, Lara Jean. If I met some hot guy in Costa Rica with a long-distance gf who he wasn’t even sleeping with? I don’t think I’d take it very seriously.” She gives me a shrug and a sorry-not-sorry look. “You should definitely frame the picture too, so people know you’re not someone to mess with. A frame says permanence. A picture taped on a wall says here today, gone tomorrow.” I chew on my bottom lip thoughtfully. “So maybe a picture of me baking, in an apron--” “With nothing underneath?” Chris cackles, and I flick her forehead lightning quick. “Ow!” “Get serious then!

Life is short and that seems to be on people’s minds quite a lot these days. We have entered the era of the bucket list. No longer is it sufficient to tell anyone who wants to listen, or even cares, that you are thinking about a fancy five-star holiday. No, every proposed trip is now qualified as ‘It’s on my bucket list.’ Really? If you want to go on safari, see the Northern Lights, surf off the Maldives, or whatever, save up, drop into the travel agent or book online. We don’t care. Why should I feel inadequate about preferring a week in Blackpool to a week in Bali? And as for ‘experiences’, bungee-jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge, swimming with sharks, are you off your head? That is a guaranteed bucket list, a ‘death wish’ list. Show your videos to someone who cares. Does anyone? If you want to do something useful, look after people, even those you don’t know, listen to them: you may be very interesting but others are too in their own way – and, above all, be kind.

Jamie guessed he wasn’t sure if calling it a homeless shelter when it was filled with homeless people was somehow offensive. He’d had two complaints lodged against him in the last twelve months alone for the use of ‘inappropriate’ language. Roper was a fossil, stuck in a by-gone age, struggling to stay afloat. He of course wouldn’t have this problem if he bothered to read any of the sensitivity emails HR pinged out. But he didn’t. And now he was on his final warning. Jamie left him to flounder and scanned the crowd and the room for anything amiss.  People were watching them. But not maliciously. Mostly out of a lack of anything else to do. They’d been there overnight by the look of it. Places like this popped up all over the city to let them stay inside on cold nights. The problem was finding a space that would house them. ‘No, not the owner,’ Mary said, sighing. ‘I just rent the space from the council. The ceiling is asbestos, and they can’t use it for anything, won’t get it replaced.’ She shrugged her shoulders so high that they touched the earrings. ‘But these people don’t mind. We’re not eating the stuff, so…’ She laughed a little. Jamie thought it sounded sad. It sort of was. The council wouldn’t let children play in there, wouldn’t let groups rent it, but they were happy to take payment and let the homeless in. It was safe enough for them. She pushed her teeth together and started studying the faded posters on the walls that encouraged conversations about domestic abuse, about drug addiction. From when this place was used. They looked like they were at least a decade old, maybe two. Bits of tape clung to the paint around them, scraps of coloured paper frozen in time, preserving images of long-past birthday parties. There was a meagre stage behind the coffee dispenser, and to the right, a door led into another room. ‘Do you know this boy?’ Roper asked, holding up his phone, showing Mary a photo of Oliver Hammond taken that morning. The officers who arrived on scene had taken it and attached it to the central case file. Roper was just accessing it from there. It showed Oliver’s face at an angle, greyed and bloated from the water.  ‘My God,’ Mary said, throwing a weathered hand to her mouth. It wasn’t easy for people who weren’t exposed to death regularly to stomach seeing something like that.  ‘Ms Cartwright,’ Roper said, leaning a little to his left to look in her eyes as she turned away. ‘Can you identify this person? I know it’s hard—’ ‘Oliver — Ollie, he preferred. Hammond, I think. I can check my files…’ She turned and pointed towards the back room Jamie had spotted. ‘If you want—’ Roper put the phone away.

the measuring tape and saw Michael standing alone on the small rise. The man seemed a part of the scenery as he stood, hands on hips, his hair whipped by the wind like the meadowsweet at his feet, his jaw set like the granite rocks. “He must love his job,” she said to Bobby. Bobby looked up and followed her gaze to his brother, standing

But what if I don’t believe in God? It’s like they’ve sat me in front of a mannequin and said, Fall in love with him. You can’t will feeling. What Jack says issues from some still, true place that could not be extinguished by all the schizophrenia his genetic code could muster. It sounds something like this: Get on your knees and find some quiet space inside yourself, a little sunshine right about here. Jack holds his hands in a ball about midchest, saying, Let go. Surrender, Dorothy, the witch wrote in the sky. Surrender, Mary. I want to surrender but have no idea what that means. He goes on with a level gaze and a steady tone: Yield up what scares you. Yield up what makes you want to scream and cry. Enter into that quiet. It’s a cathedral. It’s an empty football stadium with all the lights on. And pray to be an instrument of peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is conflict, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope… What if I get no answer there? If god hasn’t spoken, do nothing. Fulfill the contract you entered into at the box factory, amen. Make the containers you promised to tape and staple. Go quietly and shine. Wait. Those not impelled to act must remain in the cathedral. Don’t be lonely. I get so lonely sometimes, I could put a box on my head and mail myself to a stranger. But I have to go to a meeting and make the chairs circle perfect. He kisses his index finger and plants it in the middle of my forehead, and I swear it burns like it had eucalyptus on it. Like a coal from the archangel onto the mouth of Isaiah.

glued them to me. It was like tearing off duct tape. With a harsh wrench, I went on my back. “Sorry,” he said, though he didn’t sound sorry. He finished taking off my pants and straightened. His arms slipped under my legs and around my back, collecting me in his arms. My cold, bare skin burned where it touched his warm body. The numbness of most of my skin kept

According to The Whistleblower Tapes, Brennan and Clapper wiretapped Donald Trump “a zillion times.

U.S. Air Force Lt. General Thomas McInerney (Ret.) and U.S. Navy Admiral James “Ace” Lyons (Ret.) brought our “Whistleblower Tapes” investigation to America’s airwaves on Dr. Dave Janda’s “Operation Freedom” terrestrial radio program on WAAM 1600.

WHISTLEBLOWER TAPES: TRUMP WIRETAPPED “A ZILLION TIMES” BY ‘THE HAMMER,’ BRENNAN’S AND CLAPPER’S SECRET COMPUTER SYSTEM

I could call Wren, but I already know what his advice would be. He’d tell me to tie her up, duct tape her mouth, and only take it off to choke her with my cock until she agrees to hear me out. I get the feeling that Leighton wouldn’t agree to those terms, but my dick seems to think trying it would be worth it.

the Affordable Care Act and his eleventh hour position reversal on the U.S. citizenship question on the U.S. Census also call into question the use of “The Hammer” for leverage to effect an outcome. “The Whistleblower Tapes” particularly cite Supreme Court Justice John Roberts as being under surveillance by “The Hammer.

Theo and I are old tape. We come together, we fall apart fast.

I am not a whole, only disjointed pieces held together the way two ventricles taped to an aorta won’t beat.

Coconut Island Company is a family owned and operated store, created by husband and wife team Doug and Mary. Its goal is to reintroduce handmade, sustainable products that can replace disposable, harmful alternatives that are harmful to us, our children and to the environment. Specialising in Tapee Tea made with 15 different Thai native herbs and spices, Tapee tea has been used as a natural remedy for to help treat a range of chronic diseases and ailments by healers in Asia for generations.

The way he tapped on the steering wheel; the way he hummed along to a song playing in the cassette deck. ‘Don’t Wanna Be a Player’ by Joe, as the tape sleeve said. Followed by ‘Natural Woman’ by Mary J. Blige and Shai’s ‘If I Ever Fall in Love’. ‘Wait, “Mo’s mix”?’ April parted her lips in mock astonishment. ‘I didn’t take Morag for an R&B type of gal.

Silver lines of duct tape crisscross his body, holding what looks like strips of carpet to his torso, arms, and lower legs. It kind of reminds me of armor, and I almost laugh. It’s like he’s some modern day Don Quixote, covered in carpet armor as he heads off to fight windmills. Or zombies.

himself. Out in the hallway, waiting for the john, Muriel asked Tommy Molto what he thought. Molto picked with a fingernail at spots of tomato sauce on his shirt and tie, and said he didn’t know what to think. Muriel wasn’t sure either. When they returned, Anne-Marie had slid her chair beside Collins’s and was holding his free hand. The other was still gripping his Bible. After a minute or two of fiddling with the tape recorders to be sure they were running, Muriel gave the date and time, then asked Collins what happened when they left Paradise. “I followed Erno back to his house, and sat with him in his car. He’d been through some changes that night. We both had. At Paradise, he’d been outta-his-mind angry, then all blown away and subdued. Now he was just flat-out scared, trying to think out every angle not to get caught. He had one lecture after another for me. Make sure and mention to some folks how him and me went out for a pop last night. Don’t ever get myself inebriated and start braggin about all this to my homes or some lady I was after. The big thing on his mind, though, was how to get rid of that apron full of stuff in his trunk — the gun, the wallets, the jewelry, it was all in there. It was past three by now

I sit winding blue tape around my wrists to keep my hands from falling.

The eighteen-and-a-half-minute gap on the June 20, 1972, tape. Haldeman’s notes indicated that he and Nixon had discussed Watergate on this first working day back at the White House. The notes talked of a “PR offensive to top this” and “the need to be on the attack—for diversion.” The evidence indicated that only three people could have caused the erasure: Stephen Bull, the presidential assistant; Rose Mary Woods, the President’s secretary; or the President himself.

The bastards who dommed you before needed rope, and duct tape. All I need is a firm grip in your hair, my lips this close to your throat, and the sting of my palm across your ass. That’s the difference, Precious.

Considering that Charles had been convicted of hiring a prostitute to seduce his brother-in-law, taping their illicit encounter, and then sending the recording to his sister at his nephew’s engagement party, I found his condescension a bit out of line.

Heavy stuff, I know. I think I’ve finally graduated from the don’t-knows that don’t know to the don’t-knows that do. Barrons had security cameras in the garage. He’d just given me a tape of myself breaking into it.

right? A camera sends out a flash of light and records the light that’s reflected back through the camera lens. Got it? So, instead of a lens and film, radar uses an antenna and digital computer tapes to record its images. In a radar image, one can see only the light that was reflected back toward the radar antenna. So, what we did was send one of our little birdies up there, ran a few imaging cycles, and whap!” He struck a few keys like a concert pianist finishing a sonata. Instantly an eerie image of the lunar landscape popped up. At its center was a dark-blue mass. “There she is,” said Egan. “Since the image is so dark, we can

Richard Diamond was also seen on TV (1957–60), but the role as played by David Janssen bore little resemblance to the Powell original. The most notable gimmick of the TV series was the addition of a secretary, Sam, who was seen only as a pair of gorgeous legs (which belonged to Mary Tyler Moore). The radio show was charming, though peppered with moments of genuine silliness. A solid run is available on tape. Powell, though at ease with the microphone, did tend to fluff.

Figure 10. Crime Scene Tape in the Gymnasium.

That image—last night’s dream—made me think of the quote I had taped to the top of my screen, Professor Madison paraphrasing Mark Twain. There are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies, and prophecy.

So I start whispering my tale of marital woe to Jack, who sits in the hunched posture of somebody tensing against a blow. Occasionally, he’ll tug a red curl over the crease in his forehead. Eventually, I wind down and ask, what should I do? And I wait for the word salad of his scrambled cortex to spew forth. Instead, his eyes meet mine evenly, and he says—as it seems everybody says—You should pray about it. But what if I don’t believe in God? It’s like they’ve sat me in front of a mannequin and said, Fall in love with him. You can’t will feeling. What Jack says issues from some still, true place that could not be extinguished by all the schizophrenia his genetic code could muster. It sounds something like this: Get on your knees and find some quiet space inside yourself, a little sunshine right about here. Jack holds his hands in a ball shape about midchest, saying, Let go. Surrender, Dorothy, the witch wrote in the sky. Surrender, Mary. I want to surrender but have no idea what that means. He goes on with a level gaze and a steady tone: Yield up what scares you. Yield up what makes you want to scream and cry. Enter into that quiet. It’s a cathedral. It’s an empty football stadium with all the lights on. And pray to be an instrument of peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is conflict, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope… What if I get no answer there? If God hasn’t spoken, do nothing. Fulfill the contract you entered into at the box factory, amen. Make the containers you promised to tape and staple. Go quietly and shine. Wait. Those not impelled to act must remain in the cathedral. Don’t be lonely. I get so lonely sometimes, I could put a box on my head and mail myself to a stranger. But I have to go to a meeting and make the chairs circle perfect. He kisses his index finger and plants it in the middle of my forehead, and I swear it burns like it had eucalyptus on it. Like a coal from the archangel onto the mouth of Moses.

So Mari Carmen went to Radio Shack and bought a tape recorder and audiotapes. Then, she started calling Leslie. Mari Carmen explained to her that she needed a mentor, a woman wise in the ways of the world, who could explain the mysteries of sex to her, who could guide her if she wanted to duplicate Leslie’s experience with the Jocks in the basement.

This is your chance to reinvent yourself,” Heather says. “Do you remember the quote you taped to your bedroom mirror when we were young?” It wasn’t a quote, Sharon thinks. It was the last two lines of the Mary Oliver poem “The Summer Day”: Tell me, what is it you plan to do / with your one wild and precious life?