Mayhem Best Quotes

I cope with it the best way I know - by being completely unreasonable and trying to force everything else in the world to obey me and do all the nonsensical things I want.

Don't ever let that feeling that you were meant to do great things turn out to be a lie.

To this day I never know which version of myself I’m going to wake up to. It can happen that the smallest chores or decisions—brushing my teeth, hanging up a towel, should I have tea or coffee—overwhelm me. Sometimes I find the best way to get through the day is by setting myself tiny, achievable goals that take me from one minute to the next. If you sometimes feel like that, you are not alone, and I urge you to talk about it to someone. It’s easy to bask in the sun, not so easy to enjoy the rain. But one can’t exist without the other. The weather always changes. Feelings of sadness and happiness deserve equal mental screen time.

Malo has the best chance to make it, not because he is exempt from mischief and even mayhem but because he is a listener and observer.

The best=laid plans, one's most fastidious contingency strategies have revealed themselves in the cold light of day to be laughably inadequate, no match for the happenstance that seems of late only to promise death, mayhem, poverty, flood. And here you are, having spent all that time protecting your home from the oncoming elements only to find that it has been shored up with crackers.

I live in a world in which 40 men control wealth equal to that of nearly 80 countries, where to maintain their hegemony, countless acts of mayhem and massacre must occur every day. This is the reality that forms and reforms my days as it does those of all people on this hapless planet. I do not think any more that writing - mine or another's - can change the world. Perhaps in their small way, writers can answer for those who are voiceless in their extreme deprivation and suffering, but at best, in the very smallest scheme, writing can provide a moment of grace, both for her who writes and him who reads, in a very dark world.

I can’t stay away from you. I think about you constantly. I pull up memories of your smile. Your laugh. Your eyes…especially when they burn for me, like they’re doing now. And I’m not strong enough to ignore your pull. So any time you want, I urge you to push me out of your life and shut the door. To do what’s best for you. But until then, I’m at your mercy.

It doesn't matter if you're seventeen or fifty-seven, if you come from a poor background or a rich one, if you went to the best schools or the worst. It. Doesn't. Matter. What matters is listening to the small voice at the back of your head that says *This is what gives me joy.* It's about fighting naysayers and self-doubt when you feel you can't fight for even one more second. It's about standing up when all you want to do is lie down until life stops hitting you. It's not easy. It was never *meant* to be easy. But it can be done if we *choose* to do it.

Maybe it won’t be the best blow job of his life, but like in class, I’m going to put in the effort and hopefully scrape together something passable. Because not giving your partner one hundred and ten percent during sex is the anti-frat.

It's common to think of people in the military as conformists. But that's far from the truth in our community. Some pretty capable and colorful types join the SEAL teams, looking for bigger challenges than their high-flying careers or other interesting backgrounds can offer. Whether doctors, lawyers, longshoreman, college dropout, engineer or NCAA Division I superathlete, they were more than just good special operators. They were a cohesive team whose strength came from their widely diverse talents, educational backgrounds, upbringings, perspectives, and capabilities. They're all-American and patriotic, with a combination of practical intelligence and willpower that you don't want to get crossways with. Streetwise, innovative, adaptable, and often highly intellectual--these are all words that apply to the community. And the majority are so nice that it can be hard to envision their capacity for violent mayhem. BUD/S filters out four of five aspirants, leaving behind only the hardest and most determined--the best. I was so proud and humbled to be part of the brotherhood.

Is it your conviction that small-town life, centered on church, tradition, and fear of God, is our best bulwark against murder and mayhem? Well, think again. As Europe became more urban, cosmopolitan, commercial, industrialized, and secular, it got safer and safer. And that brings us back to the ideas of Norbert Elias, the only theory left standing. Elias

Every morning I wake up to have the same hope, that mankind had survived its own greed, its own desire to self-destruct, its own monopoly to destroy the environment regardless of the consequences, its own religious and ideological dogma that kept it in turmoil since inception….I listen to the morning news to find out that nothing had changed, and realize more certainly that we are living on a barrowed time, and sometime in the future, if we wake up there will be fewer and fewer of us who will wonder but never learn what went wrong….this is human history, keep repeating itself in destruction, greed and chaos, at the best of times it is organized chaos….and at the worst of time it is mayhem, all to serve the few….who leaves crumbs for us to continue the cycle…

Criminals were people who operated outside social constraint. They were driven by their own dark impulses: mental illness, greed, despair, anger. Weisburd had been taught that the best way to understand why criminals did what they did was to understand who they were. “I call it the Dracula model,” Weisburd said. “There are people and they’re like Dracula. They have to commit crime. It’s a model that says that people are so highly motivated to commit crime, nothing else really matters.” Yet if criminals were like Dracula, driven by an insatiable desire to create mayhem, they should have been roaming throughout the 72nd. The kinds of social conditions that Draculas feed on were everywhere. But the Draculas weren’t everywhere. They were only on particular streets.

Hero Intercedes”: His hands flickered upward, and before I knew it, they were cupping my face. So, damnably fast now. Demonic-like fast. Trent reeled me closer. Our foreheads joined. He held me, while I trembled in his arms. I was vaguely aware of Evans and Maxwell watching, although it didn’t seem important. Nothing seemed important whenever he did this. It felt like we were enclosed in our own personal bubble made only for the two of us. Trent murmured something in my ear. We stood like that until my shaky legs gradually regained strength. I shut my eyes and pretended my body wasn’t sizzling with heat-lightning because Trent stood so close. My hormones always decided to rebel whenever he put his arms around me. And it wasn’t totally awkward and uncomfortable. No, it felt like the best thing I’d experienced since before Dad’s death. And that’s saying a lot.

We walked among the different plants and by using The Book, we did our best to identify them and understand how to use them. Some were easy- spearmint, "for refreshment, strength, and healing," and rosemary, "for remembrance, and the prevention of nightmares." We also found a swathe of sage, which could be used "to cultivate wisdom and intelligence." When I came across a bunch of plants with dark green leaves and tiny white flowers, it took us quite a while to identify it by its drawing in The Book: gotu kola, an herb that could "restore the senses and clear confusion." "Oh, look at this one," I said. "Saffron, for success. I should probably bake with that." "If only it grew here," said Vik. Finally, on the bank of a small stream, we found gigantic thyme stems, almost two feet tall and topped with plump clusters of purple flowers. "What's thyme good for?" I asked Vik as I plucked a dozen stems and inhaled their herbaceous scent. "Thyme attracts affection, loyalty, and the goodwill of others," read Vik, "and can foster strength and courage when needed.

If you could have a gigantic billboard anywhere with anything on it, what would it say and why? “Discipline equals freedom.” Everyone wants freedom. We want to be physically free and mentally free. We want to be financially free and we want more free time. But where does that freedom come from? How do we get it? The answer is the opposite of freedom. The answer is discipline. You want more free time? Follow a more disciplined time-management system. You want financial freedom? Implement long-term financial discipline in your life. Do you want to be physically free to move how you want, and to be free from many health issues caused by poor lifestyle choices? Then you have to have the discipline to eat healthy food and consistently work out. We all want freedom. Discipline is the only way to get it. What is one of the best or most worthwhile investments you’ve ever made? Ever since I have had a home with a garage, I have had a gym in my garage. It is one of the most important factors in allowing me to work out every day regardless of the chaos and mayhem life delivers. The convenience of being able to work out any time, without packing a gym bag, driving, parking, changing, then waiting for equipment . . . The home gym is there for you. No driving. No parking. No little locker to cram your gear into. In your home gym, you never wait for equipment. It is waiting for you. Always. And, perhaps most important: You can listen to whatever music you want, as loud as you want. GET SOME.

It's not really negativity or sadness anymore, it’s more just this detached, meaningless fog where you can’t feel anything about anythingeven the things you love, even fun things—and you’re horribly bored and lonely, but since you’ve lost your ability to connect with any of the things that would normally make you feel less bored and lonely, you’re stuck in the boring, lonely, meaningless void with-out anything to distract you from how boring, lonely, and meaningless it is. ...I noticed myself wishing that nothing loved me so I wouldn’t feel obligated to keep existing. The absurdity of working so hard to continue doing something you don’t like can be overwhelming. And the longer it takes to feel different, the more it starts to seem like everything might actually be hopeless bullshit. I don’t like when I can’t control what reality is doing. Which is unfortunate because reality works independently of the things I want, and I have only a limited number of ways to influence it, none of which are guaranteed to work. I still want to keep tabs on reality, though. Just in case it tries to do anything sneaky. It makes me feel like I’m contributing. The illusion of control makes the helplessness seem more palatable. And when that illusion is taken away, I panic. Because, deep down, I know how pointless and helpless I am, and it scares me. I am an animal trapped in a horrifying, lawless environment, and I have no idea what it’s going to do to me. It just DOES it to me. I cope with that the best way I know—by being completely unreasonable and trying to force everything else in the world to obey me and do all the nonsensical things I want.

How was Houston?" I asked as he set me down. Dad's warm brown eyes crinkled with his smile. "Hot. But the food was great, and I've got a lot to write about." 'What was your favorite bite?" I asked. "Savory or sweet?" he asked, grinning. "Savory first, then sweet," I said, grinning back. "Well, I had an incredible pork shoulder in a brown sugar-tamarind barbecue sauce. It was the perfect combination of sweet and sour." Dad has an amazing palate; he can tell whether the nutmeg in a soup has been freshly grated or not. "That sounds delicious. And the best dessert?" "Hands down, a piece of pecan pie. It made me think of you. I took notes- it was flavored with vanilla bean and cinnamon rum. But I bet we could make one even better." "Ooh," I said. "Maybe with five-spice powder? I think that would go really well with the sweet pecans." "That's my girl, the master of combining unusual flavors.

The day wore on.While yet Rycca slept, Dragon did all the things she had said he would do-paced back and forth, contemplated mayhem,and even honed his blade on the whetstone from the stable.All except being oblivious to her,for that he could never manage. But when she awoke,sitting up heavy-lidded, her mouth so full and soft it was all he could do not to crawl back into bed with her,he put aside such pursuits and controlled himself admirably well,so he thought. Yet in the midst of preparing a meal for them from the provisions in the pantry of the lodge,he was stopped by Rycca's hand settling upon his. "Dragon," she said softly, "if you add any more salt to that stew, we will need a barrel of water and more to drink with it." He looked down, saw that she was right, and cursed under his breath. Dumping out the spoiled stew, he started over. They ate late but they did eat.He was quite determined she would do so,and for once she seemed to have a decent appetite. "I'm glad to see your stomach is better," he said as she was finishing. She looked up,startled. "What makes you say that?" "You haven't seemed able to eat regularly of late." "Oh,well,you know...so many changes...travel...all that." He nodded,reached for his goblet, and damn near knocked it over as a sudden thought roared through him. "Rycca?" She rose quickly,gathering up the dishes. His hand lashed out, closing on her wrist. Gently but inexorably, he returned her to her seat. Without taking his eyes from her,he asked, "Is there something you should tell me?" "Something...?" "I ask myself what sort of changes may cause a woman to be afflicted with an uneasy stomach and it occurs to me I've been a damned idiot." "Not so! You could never be that." "Oh,really? How otherwise would I fail to notice that your courses have not come of late? Or is that also due to travel,wife?" "Some women are not all that regular." "Some women do not concern me.You do,Rycca. I swear,if you are with child and have not told me, I will-" She squared her shoulders,lifted her head,and met his eyes hard on. "Will what?" "What? Will what? Does that mean-" "I'm sorry,Dragon." Truly repentant, Rycca sighed deeply. "I was going to tell you.I was just waiting for a calmer time.I didn't want you to worry more." Still grappling with what she had just revealed,he stared at her in astonishment. "You mean worry that my wife and our child are bait for a murderous traitor?" "I know you're angry and you have a right to be.But if I had told you, we wouldn't be here now." "Damn right we wouldn't be!" He got up from the table so abruptly that his chair toppled over and crashed to the floor.Ignoring it,Dragon paced back and forth,glaring at her. Rycca waited,trusting the storm to pass. As she did,she counted silently, curious to see just how long it would take her husband to grasp fully what he had discovered. Nine...ten... "We're going to have a baby." Not long at all. She nodded happily. "Yes,we are, and you're going to be a wonderful father." He walked back to the table,picked her up out of her chair,held her high against his chest,and stared at her. "My God-" Rycca laughed. "You can't possibly be surprised.It's not as though we haven't been doing our best to make this happen." "True,but still it's absolutely incredible." Very gently,she touched his face. "Perhaps we think of miracles wrongly. They're supposed to be extraordinarily rare but in fact they're as commonplace as a bouquet of wildflowers plucked by a warrior...or a woman having a baby." Dragon sat down with her still in his arms and held her very close.He swallowed several times and said nothing. Both could have remained contentedly like that for a long while, but only a few minutes passed before they were interrupted. The raven lit on the sill of the open window just long enough to catch their attention,then she was gone into the bloodred glare of the dying day.

Well, Mimi Mackson, tell me what you like to bake." "Lots of things- brownies, cookies, pies, tarts, scones. But cupcakes are my favorite. I like to flavor them with unusual spices and herbs." "I see. And what's the last thing that you made?" "Double-chocolate brownies with cinnamon and cayenne, to welcome someone home." "And prior to that?" "Cheddar-chive biscuits." She waved her hand in front of her face like she smelled something bad. "No, no, my word, that will not do at all. Just sweet things, please." She stood and paced behind the desk. "Ha! Cheese and chives! I wouldn't dream of baking, eating, or even serving those, not to win the world." Well, that was strange. Sweet isn't sweet without savory. One isn't good without the other- I thought everyone knew that. Even the most sugary dessert needs a dash of salt. Mrs. T sat again. "So tell me then, young Mimi. The best sweet thing you've ever, ever made?" "Hmm... lemon-lavender cupcakes, I guess. To celebrate friendship.

It is a painful irony that silent movies were driven out of existence just as they were reaching a kind of glorious summit of creativity and imagination, so that some of the best silent movies were also some of the last ones. Of no film was that more true than Wings, which opened on August 12 at the Criterion Theatre in New York, with a dedication to Charles Lindbergh. The film was the conception of John Monk Saunders, a bright young man from Minnesota who was also a Rhodes scholar, a gifted writer, a handsome philanderer, and a drinker, not necessarily in that order. In the early 1920s, Saunders met and became friends with the film producer Jesse Lasky and Lasky’s wife, Bessie. Saunders was an uncommonly charming fellow, and he persuaded Lasky to buy a half-finished novel he had written about aerial combat in the First World War. Fired with excitement, Lasky gave Saunders a record $39,000 for the idea and put him to work on a script. Had Lasky known that Saunders was sleeping with his wife, he might not have been quite so generous. Lasky’s choice for director was unexpected but inspired. William Wellman was thirty years old and had no experience of making big movies—and at $2 million Wings was the biggest movie Paramount had ever undertaken. At a time when top-rank directors like Ernst Lubitsch were paid $175,000 a picture, Wellman was given a salary of $250 a week. But he had one advantage over every other director in Hollywood: he was a World War I flying ace and intimately understood the beauty and enchantment of flight as well as the fearful mayhem of aerial combat. No other filmmaker has ever used technical proficiency to better advantage. Wellman had had a busy life already. Born into a well-to-do family in Brookline, Massachusetts, he had been a high school dropout, a professional ice hockey player, a volunteer in the French Foreign Legion, and a member of the celebrated Lafayette Escadrille flying squad. Both France and the United States had decorated him for gallantry. After the war he became friends with Douglas Fairbanks, who got him a job at the Goldwyn studios as an actor. Wellman hated acting and switched to directing. He became what was known as a contract director, churning out low-budget westerns and other B movies. Always temperamental, he was frequently fired from jobs, once for slapping an actress. He was a startling choice to be put in charge of such a challenging epic. To the astonishment of everyone, he now made one of the most intelligent, moving, and thrilling pictures ever made. Nothing was faked. Whatever the pilot saw in real life the audiences saw on the screen. When clouds or exploding dirigibles were seen outside airplane windows they were real objects filmed in real time. Wellman mounted cameras inside the cockpits looking out, so that the audiences had the sensation of sitting at the pilots’ shoulders, and outside the cockpit looking in, allowing close-up views of the pilots’ reactions. Richard Arlen and Buddy Rogers, the two male stars of the picture, had to be their own cameramen, activating cameras with a remote-control button.

Christianity and Judaism place great emphasis on a God of love, although some verses of the Bible appear to really jumble this message. What are we to think of a God who allows – or even orders – some of His holy men to commit mass murder? In Elijah’s slaughter of the Baal priests, he does not even say this was commanded by the Lord as is the justification in some other Old Testament atrocities. Should any serious Bible student just ignore such mayhem? Or should one accept that this is God’s way of punishing the wicked and no man has the right to question His methods? I say this is totally contrary to the action of love. Honesty demands that we recognize that much of the Bible was not inspired by a God of love. A God that commands or disregards mass murder by his holiest people is not a God most people would like to spend eternity with. I think the better view is that God did not inspire the writings of the Bible to any more of a degree than He inspired the writing of this book or any other book. What we read in the Bible came from the thoughts of the biblical authors. Many penned their best understanding of God within the cultural and social fabric of their day and age.

That was… wow. You’re so fucking good.” Zak’s exhale turned into a breathless laugh. He pushed on Stitch’s arm and rolled him onto his back. With his face flushed red and a big smile on his face, he looked like the happiest man alive. “You have no idea how hard it was for me not to come right away. You’re so fucking hot you make me turn into a teenager,” whispered Zak, landing in the covers next to Stitch. He immediately rolled closer and pulled him against his chest. The movement made sperm drip out of Stitch. Stitch hugged Zak close and smiled back. “Did the teen-Zak wet himself over fucking a big, bad biker?” He kissed Zak’s sweaty forehead. Just a few hours ago, Stitch wouldn’t even consider bottoming, and now it felt like the best idea on the planet. He felt so light he could fly

Those [yearly family holidays at Eurocamp in France] were the best holidays of my life, no question. Fresh baguettes. Discovering Nutella.

They were all part of the regular rough and tumble of a normal childhood. At the very least, they were not part of the cloistered upbringing I could have had forced upon me. I'd have been a very different person if I hadn't been given the opportunity to experience the ups and downs of a normal life alongside the madness of being part of Harry Potter. As it was, I had the best of both worlds.

I'm no longer shy of putting my hands up and saying: I'm not okay. To this day I never know which version of myself I'm going to wake up to. It can happen that the smallest chores or decisions - brushing my teeth, hanging up a towel, should I have tea or coffee - overwhelm me. Sometimes I find the best way to get through the day is by setting myself tiny, achievable goals that take me from one minute to the next.

12. WHY ARE MY ANKLES SWOLLEN? Salt intake, circulation issues, hot weather, your name is Hillary Clinton, you just got off a plane that crossed over Texas, or someone put a curse on you. Who knows. All I know is that if I’m traveling anywhere, by the time I land, my ankles will look like a python who snuck out of its cage at a pet store and paid a visit to a colony of rats. Bring water pills with you, and wear compression socks (they look just like regular socks). For most people, swollen ankles are seasonal, really only affecting them at a time of the year when people will actually see their ankles. The best news is that you probably still have your Docs, and this is indeed the very best time to wear them.

Islam’s blasphemy codes are probably the aspect of Islamic intolerance best known in the West today—because mayhem and murders routinely break out whenever Western people criticize Islam and its prophet. YouTube videos and European cartoons about Muhammad, academic papal speeches, and even teddy bears have occasioned mass riots, death, and destruction all around the Islamic world.

All in all, I think it's fair to say that the behaviour of the Felton brothers that evening was, at best, mixed.

Shirley offered to drive us in her car, but Roger and I thought it was best if we took his car, since we knew that his vehicle was not equipped with a hidden button that you could press to make spikes burst out of the seats. Not that we thought Shirley's car had the spiked-seat feature, but it could have something ghastly, like a cobra compartment, and it just seemed like a wise idea not to let the possible serial killer drive.

All you can do is your best. The rest?" Samuel shrugged. "You live with it.

Emmie had not told her vicar she would marry him, but as October drifted into November, St. Just knew she hadn’t turned the man down, either. It had taken some time to see why the decision was difficult, though he’d initially considered that he held the trump card—Winnie. Except there were low cards in his hand, as well, something he was finding it difficult to come to grips with. In the army, his men had become loyal to him for three reasons. He did not have charm, luck, or diplomacy in sufficient quantity to inspire followers, but he was, first, foremost, and to the marrow of his bones, a horseman. In the cavalry, a man who truly admired and understood the equine, and the cavalry mount in particular, was respected. St. Just’s unit was always a little better mounted, their tack in a little better shape, and their horses in better condition, primarily because St. Just saw to it. He commandeered the best fodder, requisitioned the best gear, and insisted on sound, sane animals, though it might cost him his personal coin to see to it. The second attribute that won him the respect of his subordinates was a gentleman’s quotient of simple common sense. Stupid orders, written for stupid reasons, were commonplace. St. Just would not disobey such an order, but he would time implementation of it to ensure the safety of his men. In rare cases, he might interpret an order at variance with its intended meaning, if necessary, again, to protect the lives of his men and their mounts. But when battle was joined, St. Just’s third strength as a commander of soldiers manifested itself. His men soon found those fighting in St. Just’s vicinity were safer than their comrades elsewhere. Once the order to charge was given, St. Just fought with the strength, size, speed, and skill of the berserkers of old, leaving murder, mayhem, and maiming on all sides until the enemy was routed. His capacity for sheer, cold-blooded brutality appalled, even as it awed, particularly when, once victory was assured, his demeanor became again the calm, organized, slightly detached commanding officer. And Emmie Farnum had no use for that latent capacity for brutality. She’d seen its echoes in his setbacks and his temper, in his drinking and insomnia, and St. Just knew in his bones she was smart enough to sense exactly what she’d be marrying were she to throw in with him. Barbarians might be interesting to bed, but no sane woman let one take her to wife. Nonetheless, having reasoned to this inevitable, uncomfortable conclusion, St. Just was still unable to fathom why, on the strength of one intimate interlude, he could not convince himself to stop wanting her to do just that.

Good heavens, those men really did hit your head hard, didn’t they?” Millie pressed the wet cloth into Reverend Gilmore’s hand before heading Everett’s way. Reaching out, she plucked the meat off his face and peered into his eyes. “Your pupils seem to be working all right, but . . . perhaps we should summon the physician to make certain you haven’t been grievously injured.” “My wits aren’t addled.” “I imagine that’ll change once Caroline hears about your latest foray—which means venture—into brawling.” Everett simply stared at Millie for a long moment before he laughed. “There’s nothing funny about this, Everett. Caroline is determined to pull off the ball of the summer season tonight, and she’ll be hard-pressed to do that if everyone at the ball spends their time discussing your recent activities.” “She probably won’t even notice the new bruises I incurred today.” “Do you think she’s not going to notice that your father is sporting bruises as well, and Reverend Gilmore’s lip is twice its normal size?” “I wasn’t planning on attending the ball, dear,” Reverend Gilmore said. “And I was only punched because one young gentleman got a little too enthusiastic when the mayhem began.” Fletcher smiled but then winced as if smiling caused him pain. “That certainly did put an end to everything rather quickly, once everyone realized an elderly gentleman—and a man of the cloth, at that—had been pulled into the fray.” Reverend Gilmore suddenly looked a little smug. “I’m sure the local churches will see an increase in their attendance, especially since I just couldn’t seem to resist suggesting all those gentlemen repent and make reparations for speaking such vile things about my lovely Lucetta.” Everett grinned. “That was the best part of the whole brawl.” Reverend Gilmore returned the grin. “I do still have my uses, son, but . . .” He rose slowly to his feet and sighed. “I think I’ll go have a nice lie down. As Fletcher so kindly pointed out, I am an elderly gentleman, and brawls can be rather taxing on us, even though, truth be told, I’ve never been in the midst of one before today.” Everyone

She woke me up in the middle of the night and told me that at church you told them that you are gay, and then had a menacing Arab man pick you up and beat up the priest. She thought you’d come to your senses and come back in the evening, but when that didn’t happen, she decided her best bet was to wake me up and tell me that I made you like this... somehow. I don’t even want to know what she thinks our home life looks like if that’s her idea.

Birsha, this is in your best interest!” I conveyed. “Go away Meddler, I have no business with you,” was the reply. “Should we break it down?” Michael asked preparing for mayhem. “No, he will not listen, this is on his head.” Gabriel assured. We left the city gates kicking the dust off our sandals. “Perhaps we shall have better reception from Bera?” I said but I had very little hope. As bad as the streets of Gomorrah were, the lakeside city was far worse.

But the best part—and I say best with utter and unmistakable disgust—is me tearing around the stage screaming, ‘No more wire hangers,’ while the cast twerks in terror.” Finally I’d rendered them mute. They didn’t laugh. They didn’t snicker. They didn’t go for their balls. The cats simply stared in shock.

Once upon a time, there was a girl who dreamed in prose and pretty phrases. She quickly learned that life is at its best unfair and at its worst perversely cruel. Her dreams became nightmares, nightmares made of monsters new and old. And so she summoned them, her five dark horsemen, to wreak havoc and sow chaos, to twist mayhem and denote anarchy, to declare victory over every wicked, ugly thing she’d ever seen. They came to her, those horsemen, and in return for their vile vengeance, they took her heart and held it in their inked hands. They claimed her flesh with carnal delight, but it was her soul that they craved most of all. And to them, she gave it freely and without restraint.

I smiled, because I knew what he was saying, wise old wizard that he is. Tom, he was saying, you haven’t done anything yet. You’re only just getting started. Chapter one may be over, but let’s not look back, let’s look forward. Let’s move on to the next thing, Tom, because the best is yet to come.

It must have been tough for him when Potter changed all our lives: one minute he’s known for being one of Britain’s best fishermen, the next minute everyone’s calling him Draco Malfoy’s brother and shouting “On yer broomstick, mate!” Chris took it in his stride, though, and despite everything that came my way he was truly my hero as I was growing up.

Listen.” Ms. Bristol shifted and gingerly switched the hand still holding the envelope from earlier. “My daughter is a lot like her father was. She always sees the best in people. She can be timid, and she can wreak havoc, but she is true to herself. When it comes to her principles, or matters of the heart, she is immovable. Stubborn as all get out. She believes in you. She trusts you. And I would have to agree with her sentiments. Now it’s just you who has to believe in yourself. You who has to trust yourself. If you could do that, then you would be deserving of her, and her of you. It all comes down to you.

Time to learn how to make the best-tasting thing you’ll put in your mouth today.” “Did you mean to make that sound dirty?

There would be another, less formal tribute to the best of the 1972 series: the name [Phil] Esposito eventually found its way into Russian street slang. Apparently, whenever a luckless Russian hooligan accidentally burns himself on the stove or cuts himself on an unexpectedly sharp knife he winces and shouts out the worst curse imaginable: Esposito!

It is but as yesterday," he claimed, "that darkness and solitude - cut off from the rest of mankind like the lepers of old - the dismal cell, the bed of straw, the iron chain, and the inhuman scourge, were the fearful lot of those who were best entitled to human pity and to human sympathy, as being the victims of the most dreadful of all mortal calamities.

My musings were cut short when Jenna nudged me and pointed out Bruce Sims and his dearly departed wife's best friend, Wendy Haley, standing together across the room.

Ha! You call that violence? You’ve never been outside a Best Buy on Black Friday.

Friendship starts up so innocent and oblivious to what could be –This mayhem has engraved the best yet worst that life can offer all in the name of what you make of it.

Tell me I'm not worth the risk and I swear I'll do my best to stop wanting you.

You and your cousin share a baby’s father, and it’s not fair that she has to struggle while you’re out here living your best life. He left you every damn thing and she deserves to have some type of monetary support from you.