Mcgee And Me Quotes

Let me guess: you were one of those kids who had a chair dedicated to you in detention in school." "Was not. They retired my chair after it sort of accidentally caught on fire. There's a plaque there now.

You have a part of me that no one, and I mean no one, has ever had before.

No, you were certainly not trying to seduce me, more like trying to wound my ego, break my heart, I dunno. Did you like how you felt when you walked away? Do you prefer that emotion to this?

If what we are doing isn't enough for you, I need you to tell me now.

You make me greedy for you. I just can't get enough. I wish you would just accept it for what it is and trust me.

Miss Gerhart, the last time I saw you, you had quite a mouthful to shout at me. You’re really quiet today. Cat got your tongue?

First and foremost, I am me. I'm real. I don't write to impress. I write to express.

And, I just can't shake this feeling I have when I'm around him. The chemistry, The electricity I feel when he's close to me or touches me, makes me feel more alive than I've ever felt

I am not going to live in fear of what might happen. The worst they can do to me is kill me. And, as I have learned, that isn't the worst at all.

Do not speak unflatteringly of Jane," Flora said, walking beside Chad. "She is the greatest writer to have ever lived." "I thought that was Shakespeare." "William was, or course, quite good," Flora said. "But no one can compare to Jane Austen.

Jane believes me, don't you Jane?

Old friend, there are people—young and old—that I like, and people that I do not like. The former are always in short supply. I am turned off by humorless fanaticism, whether it's revolutionary mumbo-jumbo by a young one, or loud lessons from scripture by and old one. We are all comical, touching, slapstick animals, walking on our hind legs, trying to make it a noble journey from womb to tomb, and the people who can't see it all that way bore hell out of me.

In the years since, I learned that when I am missing Berk or Asta, I can play my tears through my instruments. And the Monitors think I am just improving. They don't know the truth. I play laughter and frustration. I play feelings I cannot define. But the music defines them for me.

Sometimes silence means more than words filled with pity and regret. He squeezes my hand, and I know that is his way of saying that I’m not alone. That even though he doesn’t know what it feels like to be me, because I hurt, he hurts. For the first time in my life, I find a great deal of comfort knowing that I don’t have to carry this burden alone anymore.

It would be one kind of penance. And there are never enough kinds. Not for him. Not for me. And certainly not for you, my friend.

Sundance, get over here." "Great - You've named me after a guy who dies in that movie.

Didn't you feel me, loving you from across the ocean?

They are friends because they are both beautiful specimens of maledom." "Beautiful specimens of maledom?" "That's right. And there are very few of those species in existence presently, so they need to stick together in order to survive.

She giggled as he nipped and kissed her.He let out a small roar for her, "Mmm. You make me wild like an animal.

Well, I wouldn't be so sure of yourself. I can tell that it's taking you as much self control to not touch me as it is for me to not touch you.

I've missed you, Eris. You and me, we kind of deserve each other, don't we?

I know you probably feel like there's no color left in the world. Like there's no light, instead all darkness. But there's sunshine. There are colorful flowers all around us. And for me, you're the only thing...the only one I see. The only one I've seen in a long time. I know it's hard to imagine, but one day you'll see the colors again.

From now on, it's you and me.

It always pisses me off when I’m calling in to some Morning Zoo radio show to promote God-only-knows what—probably this book, so get ready, I’m comin’—when the DJ actually tries to convince me that there are as many female comics as male ones. Cue hypermasculine Morning Zoo Hacky McGee voice: “So Kath, I don’t know what you chicks are always complaining about.” To which I respond: “Really? Why don’t you call your local comedy club and ask for the Saturday night lineup? I guarantee you the male to female ratio is going to be about nine to one. You dick-wad.

You really want to do something for me?” Eris said suddenly, her lovely face turned up to the sun. She closed her eyes. Her lashes fell in thick brushstrokes across her cheeks. “Live, Avery. With or without Atlas, here in New York or on the damned moon, I don’t care. Just live, and be happy, since I can’t. Promise me that.

Fuck a duck! The asshole has a girlfriend. Great! Just great" "You hear me bitch, or we need to get your ears tested?" Yeah. Walk away Skanks McGee.

The ideal man bears the accidents of life with dignity and grace, making the best of circumstances.

I know you understand what I mean when I say that my position has always defined me.” “It shouldn’t. Your position doesn’t define you; you define your position.

I feel like I've been in a dark tunnel, but now I'm no longer blinded by darkness, but rather by an overwhelming brightness. A brightness that makes me barely able to open my eyes. It's like I have no choice but to gravitate towards it, like it's pulling me out into the light. It's the best feeling in the world. It's my saving grace.

I take the tiniest of steps back and reach out to place my hand in his. When I do, it’s exactly as I thought – electrifying. Game face, Veronica, game face. I smile as if he has no effect on me at all. I know this works when I am doing my job. I don’t know if it will work for him, but here it goes. “Veronica Johnson,” I confidently reply. He just stands there for a moment grinning. It’s as if he’s happy that I seem unphased by him. I am definitely not used to the reaction he is giving me. Joe’s reaction, now that was the typical reaction. But, this? What the hell is this?

At the mention of children, Connor halted his steps. For a moment Beatrice thought he was going to storm off, turn away from her and never look back. Instead he fell to one knee before her. Time went momentarily still. In some dazed part of her mind Beatrice remembered Teddy, kneeling stiffly at her feet as he swore to be her liege man. This felt utterly different. Even kneeling, Connor looked like a warrior, every line of his body radiating a tensed power and strength. "It kills me that I don't have more to offer you," he said roughly. "I have no lands, no fortune, no title. All I can give you is my honor, and my heart. Which already belongs to you." She would have fallen in love with him right then, if she didn't already love him so fiercely that every cell of her body burned with it. "I love you, Bee. I've loved you for so long I've forgotten what it felt like not to love you." "I love you, too." Her eyes stung with tears. "I get that you have to marry someone before your dad dies. But you can't marry Teddy Eaton." She watched as he fumbled in his jacket for something - had he bought a ring? She thought wildly - but what he pulled out instead was a black Sharpie. Still kneeling before her, he slid the diamond engagement ring off Beatrice's finger and tucked it in the pocket of her jacket. Using the Sharpie, he traced a thin loop around the skin of Beatrice's finger, where the ring had been. "I'm sorry it isn't a real ring, but I'm improvising here." There was a nervous catch to Connor's voice that Beatrice hadn't heard before. But when he looked up and spoke his next words, his face glowed with a fierce, fervent hope. "Marry me.

Open Letter to Neil Armstrong" Dear Neil Armstrong, I write this to you as she sleeps down the hall. I need answers I think only you might have. When you were a boy, and space was simple science fiction, when flying was merely a daydream between periods of History and Physics, when gifts of moon dust to the one you loved could only be wrapped in your imagination.. Before the world knew your name; before it was a destination in the sky.. What was the moon like from your back yard? Your arm, strong warm and wrapped under her hair both of you gazing up from your back porch summers before your distant journey. But upon landing on the moon, as the earth rose over the sea of tranquility, did you look for her? What was it like to see our planet, and know that everything, all you could be, all you could ever love and long for.. was just floating before you. Did you write her name in the dirt when the cameras weren't looking? Surrounding both your initials with a heart for alien life to study millions of years from now? What was it like to love something so distant? What words did you use to bring the moon back to her? And what did you promise in the moons ear, about that girl back home? Can you, teach me, how to fall from the sky? I ask you this, not because I doubt your feat, I just want to know what it's like to go somewhere no man had ever been, just to find that she wasn't there. To realize your moon walk could never compare to the steps that led to her. I now know that the flight home means more. Every July I think of you. I imagine the summer of 1969, how lonely she must have felt while you were gone.. You never went back to the moon. And I believe that's because it dosen't take rockets to get you where you belong. I see that in this woman down the hall, sometimes she seems so much further. But I'm ready for whatever steps I must take to get to her.I have seem SO MANY skies.. but the moon, well, it always looks the same. So I gotta say, Neil, that rock you landed on, has got NOTHING on the rock she's landed on. You walked around, took samples and left.. She's built a fire cleaned up the place and I hope she decides to stay.. because on this rock.. we can breath. Mr. Armstrong, I don't have much, many times have I been upside down with trauma, but with these empty hands, comes a heart that is often more full than the moon. She's becoming my world, pulling me into orbit, and I now know that I may never find life outside of hers. I want to give her EVERYTHING I don't have yet.. So YES, for her, I would go to the moon and back.... But not without her. We'd claim the moon for each other, with flags made from sheets down the hall. And I'd risk it ALL to kiss her under the light of the earth, the brightness of home... but I can do all of that and more right here, where she is..And when we gaze up, her arms around ME, I will NOT promise her gifts of moon dust, or flights of fancy. Instead I will gladly give her all the earth she wants, in return for all the earth she is. The sound of her heart beat and laughter, and all the time it takes to return to fall from the sky,down the hall, and right into love. God, I'd do it every day, if I could just land next to her. One small step for man, but she's one giant leap for my kind.

Everyday I rewrite her name across my ribcage so that those who wish to break my heart will know who to answer to later She has no idea that I’ve taught my tongue to make pennies, and every time our mouths are to meet I will slip coins to the back of her throat and make wishes I wish that someday my head on her belly might be like home like doubt to doubt resuscitation because time is supposed to mean more than skin She doesn’t know that I have taught my arms to close around her clocks so they can withstand the fallout from her Autumn She is so explosive, volcanoes watch her and learn terrorists want to strap her to their chests because she is a cause worth dying for Maybe someday time will teach me to pick up her pieces put her back together and remind her to click her heels but she doesn’t need a wizard to tell her that I was here all along Lady let us catch the next tornado home let us plant cantaloupe trees in our backyard then maybe together we will realize that we don’t like cantaloupe and they don’t grow on trees we can laugh about it then we can plant things we’ve never heard of I’ve never heard of a woman who can make flawed look so beautiful the way you do The word smitten is to how I feel about you what a kiss is to romance so maybe my lips to yours could be the penance to this confession because I am the only one preaching your defunct religion sitting alone at your altar, praising you out of faith I cannot do this hard-knock life alone You are all the softness a rock dreams of being the mistakes the rain makes at picnics when Mother Nature bears witness in much better places So yes I will gladly take on your ocean just to swim beneath you so I can kiss the bends of your knees in appreciation for the work they do keeping your head above water

And it was okay because it had to be. There wasn't any other choice. Sometimes it is a relief not to have a choice. I will have to get Meyer to explain this concept to me.

Everywhere I go, you catch up to me. Everywhere I run, I keep seeing you. Every time, you happen to me, all over again.

She didn't stir me. Challenge me. Make me desperately want to be everything she needed. Protect her at all costs.

I swear that I'll keep it safe. Everywhere I go, that part of you will come with me, and I will guard and treasure it. Always.

I’ve found that while a grilled cheese won’t solve my problems for me, it makes them a bit easier to manage. Don’t you agree?

He stared at me. “Strange you should do all this for her.” “Pity, I guess.” “One of the worst traps of all, McGee.

She looks me dead in the face and says, “The safe word is going to be ‘immigration,’ because you know I’ll stop it.

Didn’t you feel me, loving you from across the ocean?

Mr. McGee, don't make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.

I don’t often do this much talking for so little reason, McGee. You have a nice touch. You’re an eager listener. You smile in the right places. It puts people on. And, of course, you haven’t leveled with me.

I had that fractional part of consciousness left which gave me a remote and unimportant view of reality. The world was a television set at the other end of a dark auditorium, with blurred sound and a fringe area picture.

Believe me, David had a checkered career. This is the reason he suffered—he let sin enter his life. But above it all was a faith in God that never failed. He wanted more than all else to have a wonderful relationship with God.

No, Ma." Kara shook her head. "I won't leave you and Pop. I can't." "But why?" "I don't know," Kara said. "I can't explain it. But it just doesn't feel right." "But your dream....," Ma said. "I'll just have to find a new dream.

This is the church that Stanley High spoke of when he said: The church has failed to tell me that I am a sinner. The church has failed to deal with me as a lost individual. The church has failed to offer me salvation in Jesus Christ alone. The church has failed to tell me of the horrible consequences of sin, the certainty of hell, and the fact that Jesus Christ alone can save. We need more of the last judgment and less of the Golden Rule, more of the living God and the living devil as well, more of a heaven to gain and a hell to shun. The church must bring me not a message of cultivation but of rebirth. I might fail that kind of church, but that kind of church will not fail me.

Justification Justification means that God not only has forgiven me of my sins but also has granted me the righteousness of Christ. Because of justification, I bear Christ’s righteousness, and I am therefore fully pleasing to the Father (Rom. 5:1).

I found that for me, the bottom line was that God was creation itself. I was praying to whatever caused things to exist. I thought that it also inhabited those things. For me, God was both the prerequisite for existence and its animating, incarnating element.

I prayed to a mystery. Sometimes I was simply aware of the mystery. I saw a flash of it during a trip to New York that David and I took before we were married. We were walking on a busy sidewalk in Manhattan. I don't remember if it was day or night. A man with a wound on his forehead came toward us. His damp, ragged hair might have been clotted with blood, or maybe it was only dirt. He wore deeply dirty clothes. His red, swollen hands, cupped in half-fists, swung loosely at his sides. His eyes were focused somewhere past my right shoulder. He staggered while he walked. The sidewalk traffic flowed around him and with him. He was strange and frightening, and at the same time he belonged on the Manhattan sidewalk as much as any of us. It was that paradox -- that he could be both alien and resident, both brutalized and human, that he could stand out in the moving mass of people like a sea monster in a school of tuna and at the same time be as much at home as any of us -- that stayed with me. I never saw him again, but I remember him often, and when I do, I am aware of the mystery. Years later, I was out on our property on the Olympic Peninsula, cutting a path through the woods. This was before our house was built. After chopping through dense salal and hacking off ironwood bushes for an hour or so, I stopped, exhausted. I found myself standing motionless, intensely aware of all of the life around me, the breathing moss, the chattering birds, the living earth. I was as much a part of the woods as any millipede or cedar tree. At that moment, too, I was aware of the mystery. Sometimes I wanted to speak to this mystery directly. Out of habit, I began with "Dear God" and ended with "Amen". But I thought to myself, I'm not praying to that old man in the sky. Rather, I'm praying to this thing I can't define. It was sort of like talking into a foggy valley. Praying into a bank of fog requires alot of effort. I wanted an image to focus on when I prayed. I wanted something to pray *to*. but I couldn't go back to that old man. He was too closely associated with all I'd left behind.

When I rent out an entire restaurant, it's only because it seems unfair to all the other guests when I show up,' he went on. 'They've gone out to celebrate something – a birthday, a friend moving to town, maybe just the fact that it's Friday – and then I appear, and the spotlight shifts from them to me. It feels selfish to steal everyone's night like that.

How terribly dear!” she said. “How ineffably buddy-buddy! I shouldn’t have gone running to him with my little heartache, Mr. McGee. It was selfish of me. It upset him, and it didn’t do me any particular good. How can he check up on anything anyway? Why don’t you just invent some soothing little story for him and go down and tell it to him and then go back to your beach-bum career, whatever it is?

McGee is sort of a private eye who lives in Florida on a houseboat he won in a poker game. While solving mysteries, he helps a lot of ladies in distress. The way he helps them is by fucking their brains out and letting them cook his meals, do his laundry, and scrub the deck of his boat for a few weeks. These women, McGee calls them “wounded birds,” are always very grateful that he does this for them.

When I was placed upon the block,” Hughes remembered, “a Mr. McGee came up and felt of me and asked me what I could do. ‘You look like a right smart nigger,’ said he, ‘Virginia always produces good darkies.’” In fact, more than two-thirds of the people transported to New Orleans between July 1829 and the end of 1831 came from the three states of North Carolina, Virginia, and Maryland. The combined share for North Carolina and the Chesapeake—the oldest

In my return to church, I had learned the hard way to avoid assumptions about other people's faith. For one thing, people kept surprising me. If I listened carefully to them, my conjectures about what they thought usually turned out to be wrong. For another thing, I was insecure enough about my own faith, such as it was, to resent other people telling me what they thought I believed and why they thought I believed it. So I tried to hear what my friends say about joining their loved ones after death without assuming I knew exactly what they meant.

We want out. In the end, it’s that simple. We want out, where the law is, where you prosper or you fail according to your own merits as a person. Is that so damned much? I don’t want white friends. I don’t want to socialize. You know how white people look to me? The way albinos look to you. I hope never to find myself in a white man’s bed. I don’t want to integrate. I just don’t want to feel segregated. We’re after our share of the power structure of this civilization, Mr. McGee, because, when we get it, a crime will merit the same punishment whether the victim is black or white, and hoods will get the same share of municipal services, based on zoning, not color. And a good man will be thought a credit to the human race. Sorry. End of lecture. The housemaid has spoken.

Sinner’s Prayer Heavenly Father, I come to you in prayer asking forgiveness for my sins. I believe that Jesus died for my sins and was resurrected sitting on the right hand of the Father. Through Jesus, I believe I have eternal life. I believe that His death and resurrection provided for my forgiveness. I trust in Jesus and Jesus alone as my personal Lord and Savior. Thank you Lord, for saving me and forgiving me! I ask you right now to come into my heart and I give you my life. I accept Jesus as my personal savior. I confess with my mouth that I am born again. Fill me with your Holy Spirit and cleanse me Lord. Make me new in you. I receive your Holy Spirit and can begin a new life now in you Jesus. Help and guide me daily to read your word and to walk with you God. In Jesus’ name Amen.

Such gratitude! It hurt me to see you lose your professional standing, McGee. Like you were going soft and sentimental. So, through my own account, I put us into Fletcher and rode it up nicely and took us out, and split the bonus right down the middle. It's short-term. It's a check. Pay your taxes. Live a little. It's a longer retirement this time. We can gather up a throng and go blundering around on this licentious craft and get the remorses for saying foolish things while in our cups. We had a salvage contract, idiot, and the fee is comparatively small but fair." "And you are comparatively large but fair." "I think of myself that way. Where did the check go? Into the pocket so fast? Good." he looked at his watch. "I am taking a lady to lunch. Make a nice neat deck there, Captain." And away he went, humming.

You don't have to say that," she insisted. "I mean - I'll understand, if you hate me." "I could never hate you, Bee. I just...I miss you." There was no reproach in Connor's words, only a weary, unflinching truth. "I miss you, too." she said, and meant it. Beatrice's tears were coming more freely now, but that wasn't surprising. Nothing in life hurt more than hurting the people you loved. Yet Beatrice knew she had to say all of this. She and Connor had loved each other too fiercely for her to let him go without a proper goodbye. "I am...forever changed by you," she added, her voice catching. "I gave you part of my heart a long time ago, and I've never gotten it back." "You don't need it back." His voice was rough with unshed tears. "I swear that I'll keep it safe. Everywhere I go, that part of you will come with me, and I will guard and treasure it. Always." A sob escaped her chest. She hurt for Connor and with Connor and because of Connor, all at once. This wasn't how breakups were meant to go. In the movies they always seemed so hateful, with people yelling and throwing things at each other. They weren't meant to be like this, tender and gentle and full of heartache. "Okay," she replied, through her tears. "That part of my heart is yours to keep." Connor stepped back, loosening his hand from hers, and Beatrice felt the thread between them pull taut and finally snap. She imagined that she could hear it - a crisp sort of sound, like the stem of a rose being snapped in two. Her body felt strangely sore, or maybe it was her heart that felt sore, recognizing the parts of it that she had given away, forever. "You're such an amazing person, Connor. I hope you find someone who deserves you." Again he attempted a crooked smile. "It won't be easy on her, trying to live up to the queen. For a small person, you cast quite the shadow," he said, and then his features grew serious once more. "Bee - if you ever need me, I'll be there for you. You know that, right?" She swallowed against a lump in her throat. "The same promise holds for me, too. I'm always here if you need me." As she spoke, the steel panel began to lift back into the ceiling. Beatrice straightened her shoulders beneath the cool silk of the gown, drew in a breath. Somehow she managed to gather up the tattered shreds of her self-control, as if she wasn't a young woman who'd just said goodbye to her first love - to her best friend. As of she wasn't a young woman at all, but a queen.

Science is getting knocked on all sides these days, not only from religious fundamentalists, but from all kinds of people who perceive science as arrogant, one-sided, and the source of the troubles that come with the technology it produces. It's true that individuL scientists can be so arrogant and narrowly focused, they're blind to any but their own truths, and that new discoveries bring new problems with them. Still, I don't know many people who would refuse a biopsy for a newly discovered lump because they think science needs to be taken down a peg or two. Religion gets knocked for the same kinds of reasons as science: for its arrogance, narowmindedness, and tendency to create more trouble than it's worth. Religion is also accused of concealing reality under a comforting blanket of measureless faith -- the flip side, perhaps of the scientist for whom nothing can be real until she has measured it. My own sojourn into religion convinced me that good religion reveals rather than conceals. Religion is the soul in search of itself and its relationship to the cosmos. This journey requires looking at all of it: the joy, the sorrow, the beauty and the horror of life. We hope for the best. We want meaning and love to exist not only in ourselves, but in the very soul of the universe. At times this great hope might tempt us to pick and choose only the data that supports our desires. But in religion as in boat-building, the design must be tested in all conditions. When I say that I'm trying to pay attention, and that paying attention means being willing to look at all of it, I think I'm trying for the same moment of clarity that Graham experienced when the wind blew all over his theory. Looking at all of it is what good science is about. I believe that it's also what good religion is about.

In summary, let me quote Professor McGee once again:           Judging from the Record, Standard Oil did not use predatory price discrimination to drive out competing refiners, nor did its pricing practice have that effect . . . I am convinced that Standard did not systematically, if ever, use local price cutting in retailing, or anywhere else, to reduce competition. To do so would have been foolish; and, whatever else has been said about them, the old Standard organization was seldom criticized for making less money when it could readily have made more. A

Now do me like I’m a wildly unqualified presidential hopeful!

I don’t want to seem too easy, but the conversation has lasted less than a minute, and already his looks make me want to Hulk-rip my clothes off. Given that, I’m sort of impressed that I’m so restrained.

Drea, she had a bob.” Apparently the conversation couldn’t wait until Monday. “I thought in the pictures you showed me that her hair was just up. Nope. It was a full-on bob.

here is turning me into a real feminist.

I was invited to the wedding of my ex-wife’s niece, Desiree McGee, who was marrying a man named Sylvester Bascom on Saturday at Caesar’s in South Lake Tahoe. I was surprised to be invited, and my first inclination had been to decline, but the prospect of a day of skiing in Tahoe won me over. The night before, Julia, my ex, had called to instruct me on proper behavior.

Am I part of this or is this all for me?

She asked me what Meyer had meant about her having a broken wing. I said he was one of the last of the great romantics. I said there used to be two. But now there was just the one left. The hairy one.

A gaggle of giggles?” Meyer said, trying that one on me. My turn. “How about a prance of pussycats?” “Not bad at all. Hmmm. A scramble of scrumptious?

When I play with my cat, who knows but that she regards me more as a plaything than I do her? —MICHEL EYQUEM DE MONTAIGNE

You lie to me and to Jeff, and most of all you lie to yourself.

I haven’t put her down since she said her water broke, and I’m a little terrified that if she stands on her own two feet, the baby will fall out. I realize this isn’t possible, but I’m not exactly thinking rationally right now. Marie comes to sit down beside me and pushes the hair out of Tessa’s face. “You’re doing great. We radioed the hospital. They’ll be waiting at the docks for us.” “It’s not me and the baby I’m worried about. It’s Twitchy McGee over here.

Her ears felt pinched. She reached up, realizing that she'd accidentally slept in the diomand earrings from the Crown Jewels Collection. Oops. She unscrewed them and tossed them onto her bedside table, then lunged for her phone, suddenly desperate to know whether Teddy had texted.

not me,” Sam said sullenly. She turned to her friend Nina, in the chair on her other side.

He was an American college senior, school-champion wrestler, consistent honor student, president of the Student Foreign Missions Fellowship, amateur poet, and class representative on the Student Council. Jim was warmly admired by fellow students. He was known as “one of the most surprising characters” on campus. Able to recite such poems as “The Face on the Barroom Floor” and Robert Service’s “The Cremation of Sam McGee,” he was at the same time recognized as a man of spiritual stature above his classmates. George Macdonald said, “It is the heart that is not yet sure of its God that is afraid to laugh in His presence.” Jim spoke of “joking with God.” “Every now and again,” he said, “I ask for something—a little thing, perhaps, and something answers. Maybe it’s only me, but something answers, and makes the request sound so funny that I laugh at myself and feel that He is smiling with me. I’ve noticed it several times lately, we two making fun of my ‘other self’ who does so hate to be laughed at!

A stewardess took a special and personal interest in me. She was a little bigger than they usually are, and a little older than the norm. She was styled for abundant lactation, and her uniform blouse was not. She had a big white smile and she was mildly bovine,

Theo’s been teaching me to shoot.” Jules allowed her hoodie and coat to drop back into place, covering the gun. “He said I’m a natural.” “She’s a good shot,” Theo said without looking away from the display. He picked up several folding knives and handed them out. Even though Otto already had his, he accepted another. He had a feeling that it would be a good time to carry a spare. Unfolding her knife, Grace examined it before closing it again and slipping it into her pocket. “I’m not. I’m terrible. Hugh, tell Otto how terrible I am at shooting.” There was an underlying tension to her voice, to all their voices, that told Otto they were eaten up with worry for Sarah. Grace’s attempt at joking sounded forced, and he knew she was trying to distract them from the dangers they were all facing. “She’s bad,” Hugh agreed. “I’m not getting better, either,” Grace admitted. “Every time we go to the range, I get fewer and fewer holes in the target. It’s a little annoying, especially with Straight-Shooter McGee over there.” She jerked her thumb at Jules, who gave a tight smile.

Did you just take the fall for me?’ ‘That’s what fake boyfriends are for, isn’t it?

I once spent a weekend on Earth, With two men (of Science and God) One man convinced me I did not exist, And the other that I was a fraud. In both men I saw the same reason, In both men I saw the same light. So, I left for another dimension, Assuming that both men were right." - The Alien

When I was growing up, the kids would always say to me "Mr. McGee, Don't make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry." It was a famous quote from the Hulk.

Songs that felt like Wyatt: “Iris” by Goo Goo Dolls “A Murder of One” by Counting Crows “Take It Easy on Me” by Little River Band “Hold You in My Arms” by Ray LaMontagne “Wild Horses” by The Rolling Stones “Thinking Out Loud” by Ed Sheeran “Yellow” by Coldplay Songs that took me to the beach: “Watermelon Sugar” by Harry Styles “Sunshine on My Shoulders” by John Denver “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” by The Beach Boys Songs to make Sam cry: “Who Knew” by Pink “Wrecking Ball” by Miley Cyrus “1 Step Forward, 3 Steps Back” by Olivia Rodrigo “So Far Away” by Carole King “Romeo and Juliet” by Dire Straits “Stay” by Rihanna “Sam, I Am” by Missy McGee

Here. I’ve found that while a grilled cheese won’t solve my problems for me, it makes them a bit easier to manage. Don’t you agree?

Thomas Jefferson quote: “Were it left to me to decide whether we should have a government without newspapers, or newspapers without a government, I should not hesitate a moment to prefer the latter.

You really didn’t see any of that stuff you said, did you?” Louis asked. “No,” Nicholas admitted. “I didn’t see a thing.” “Man—” Louis shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes Monday. You’re going to catch it good.” Nicholas had to nod. It was one thing to be forgiven by God. But quite another to face the other kids.

In just a few minutes Nick had gone from Conquering Hero to Pie Face, to Powdered Doughnut, to Chocolate-Covered Peanut, to something the folks at Kentucky Fried Chicken might be eyeing. It was terrible. All this plus the constant laughing, mocking and finger pointing from his once-adoring audience.

The Earwood family was special to me then. They are still special to me now. I suppose that we all have those too-brief relationships, where we can’t help but think back and wonder how much different it might have been if the timeline of our lives had run more parallel instead heading off into a hundred different directions like the rails in that train yard. But that doesn’t make me any less thankful for the one spot where they intersected.

Here’s the information: To practice Wim Hof’s breathing method, start by finding a quiet place and lying flat on your back with a pillow under your head. Relax the shoulders, chest, and legs. Take a very deep breath into the pit of your stomach and let it back out just as quickly. Keep breathing this way for 30 cycles. If possible, breathe through the nose; if the nose feels obstructed, try pursed lips. Each breath should look like a wave, with the inhale inflating the stomach, then the chest. You should exhale all the air out in the same order. At the end of 30 breaths, exhale to the natural conclusion, leaving about a quarter of the air left in the lungs, then hold that breath for as long as possible. Once you’ve reached your breathhold limit, take one huge inhale and hold it another 15 seconds. Very gently, move that fresh breath of air around the chest and to the shoulders, then exhale and start the heavy breathing again. Repeat the whole pattern three or four rounds and add in some cold exposure (cold shower, ice bath, naked snow angels) a few times a week. This flip-flopping—breathing all-out, then not at all, getting really cold and then hot again—is the key to Tummo’s magic. It forces the body into high stress one minute, a state of extreme relaxation the next. Carbon dioxide levels in the blood crash, then they build back up. Tissues become oxygen deficient and then flooded again. The body becomes more adaptable and flexible and learns that all these physiological responses can come under our control. Conscious heavy breathing, McGee told me, allows us to bend so that we don’t get broken.

As you may recall, when Nick first moved to Eastfield, he was anything but liked. That’s why he invented the story about the scary Indian and the mysterious house. It was a great story—one that made everyone love him. . . for about three days. Then they found out he was lying, and then he was about as popular as a take-home test over Christmas vacation.

one man, under stress, react in … in a noble way, a selfless way. But to me, organized religion, the formalities and routines, it’s like being marched in formation to look at a sunset. I don’t knock it for other people. Maybe they need routines, rules, examples, taboos, object lessons, sermonizing. I don’t.

at a hundred and seventy miles an hour on its hundred and eighty horses. Coop is always ecstatic at the chance to fly me anywhere in the state. I buy the gas and pay the landing fees. He can’t charge for the flight or his services because he built his airplane from a kit. The FAA classifies it as an Experimental Amateur Built airplane. Coop paid $7200 for the kit. He is one of five or six hundred people who fly planes made from the same kit. He put in twenty hours a week for forty weeks, and the FAA, who had been looking over his shoulder as he built it, watched him climb into it and fly it, and gave it an airworthiness certificate

A lot of my motivation had been to show him that I had value, that I was valued by the world, and so I was worthy of his love and his respect. He had never shown me love or respect.

Filter for a Frail Horizon: I lose a breath while I'm thinking, Misplace a second as it passes out of time. A splice of memories now missing, I think a moment passed where I forgot to die. And so this day is becoming... High in tide that will take me home, Conceals a current running straight through hell. It caught me drifting from the world I know, A broken crest on a rising swell. And surely hope is resigning...; I think I'm waking from another dream, I won't remember how I made it out alive. The focus centres on uncertainty, The null and voids have become a way of life. And so my self is descending...

RELFECTIONS (Time Machine III) A young man stares at his reflection, And sees an old man looking back. “Where did the time go?” he wonders. And, “How did we ever lose track?” “Is this the same person, that amounts to wondrous things? How long did we spend dreaming? Is this reflection really as it seems? Who are you old man? I’ve seen you in times before. Is this, the face that greets me, the mask I always wore?” The young man drops his stare, And moves towards the door. The boy he thought he was, He can recognize no more.

Mid June 2012 …Continuing Bernard’s story, the adolescent did not adjust well to his first foster home. I spend time with him whenever I could. The poor boy was bullied relentlessly in school and I feared that the bullies, like KiWi and his gang of 3 would eventually drive the boy to suicidal attempts. One day when we met he was crying uncontrollably. After inviting him to have high tea with me at my hostel, he finally confided his secret. Besides suffering the wrath of his father’s drunken beatings; his older brother Jack was as much a tyrant like the old man. Jack had raped the adolescent when he refused his brother’s advances. Bernard was afraid to tell the Reverend in case the minister confronts the brother and he was petrified that his older sibling would come for revenge. By now Bernard was shaking uncontrollably. I had to embrace the boy to calm his distress. It was my duty to report this violent act to Pastor Rick which I did. The Reverend like me was astonished that there was so much abuse in the dysfunctional McGee household. Besides being afraid of his brother and father, Bernard was also bullied by an older boy in his foster home. Nick was taking advantage of the meek and genteel Bernard, ordering him around when his parents were not in the house. My heart reached out to my friend. I offered to assist him anyway I could. He ended up staying with me at the hostel for two months before I departed for London. By then, the Pastor had found the boy a stable family where he was well taken care of.

All of your life, someone is pointing the way, directing you this way and that, determining for you which road is best traveled... Here is your chance to find your own way. Don't ask me how to get to McGee Canyon or Lake Double-Eleven-0. Go, on your own. Be adventuresome. Don't forever seek the easiest way. Take the way you find. Don't demand trail signs and sturdy bridges. Don't demand we show you the mountains. Seek them and find them yourself... Be free enough from intentions to find goodness wherever you are and in whatever is happening. Here for once in your life you needn't do anything, be anywhere at a determined time, walk in a certain direction. You can now live by whim. Here's your one chance to get lost, fall in the creek, find a beautiful place. - Randy Morgenson

Without my realizing it, it had happened so slowly, I had moved a generation away from the beach people. To them I had become a sun-brown rough-looking fellow of an indeterminate age who did not quite understand their dialect, did not share their habits—either sexual or pharmacological—who thought their music unmusical, their lyrics banal and repetitive, a square fellow who read books and wore yesterday's clothes. But the worst realization was that they bore me. The laughing, clean-limbed lovely young girls were as bright, functional, and vapid as cereal boxes. And their young men—all hair and lethargy—were so laid back as to have become immobile.

Mariel shook her head. “No, it’s just . . . Every time I think I’ve figured you out, you do something unexpected.” Eris laughed. “Good luck with that,” she said. “Even I haven’t figured me out, and I’ve been trying for eighteen years.

Here’s the information: To practice Wim Hof’s breathing method, start by finding a quiet place and lying flat on your back with a pillow under your head. Relax the shoulders, chest, and legs. Take a very deep breath into the pit of your stomach and let it back out just as quickly. Keep breathing this way for 30 cycles. If possible, breathe through the nose; if the nose feels obstructed, try pursed lips. Each breath should look like a wave, with the inhale inflating the stomach, then the chest. You should exhale all the air out in the same order. At the end of 30 breaths, exhale to the natural conclusion, leaving about a quarter of the air left in the lungs, then hold that breath for as long as possible. Once you’ve reached your breathhold limit, take one huge inhale and hold it another 15 seconds. Very gently, move that fresh breath of air around the chest and to the shoulders, then exhale and start the heavy breathing again. Repeat the whole pattern three or four rounds and add in some cold exposure (cold shower, ice bath, naked snow angels) a few times a week. This flip-flopping—breathing all-out, then not at all, getting really cold and then hot again—is the key to Tummo’s magic. It forces the body into high stress one minute, a state of extreme relaxation the next. Carbon dioxide levels in the blood crash, then they build back up. Tissues become oxygen deficient and then flooded again. The body becomes more adaptable and flexible and learns that all these physiological responses can come under our control. Conscious heavy breathing, McGee told me, allows us to bend so that we don’t get broken. •