Mean Girls Reference Quotes

Okay. I picked up a movie to watch tonight. You can watch it with me if you like. It's a chick movie. Merri Lee said that means girls like it, not that there are small birds in it.

If a guy can‘t handle it when you talk about quantum physics, Manga, or Dungeons and Dragons, then he probably isn‘t the guy for you. If he gets embarrassed by your bluntness, you‘re probably not a good match. If he doesn‘t get your jokes, references, etc., then do you really want to pursue it? We tend to feel flawed and want to change ourselves to be accepted. We are good mimics and we think that we can mimic being the kind of girl that guys will like. By all means work on yourself, but most important, be yourself.

When you think a girl looks pretty, say it. But don’t reference the thing that might reveal you are aware of the backstage process: e.g., say, “You look gorgeous tonight,” not “I like how you did your makeup tonight.” Also, a compliment means less if you compliment the thing and not the way the girl is carrying it off. So say, “You look so sexy in those boots,” rather than “Those boots are really cool.” I didn’t make the boots! I don’t care if you like the boots’ design! We are magic to you: you have no idea how we got to look as good as we do.

„You don't really want to do this. I'm a good vampire – I mean, like, a vampire with a soul, not that I'm really good at, you know, vamp-stuff. I'm not some monster. Heck, I've only been a vampire for less than a week! I've never even sucked blood” I ducked under the blade and backflipped away. „Really! You can ask my parents! My mum's a university professor, she's a very trustworthy character reference!

If you have read this far in the chronicle of the Baudelaire orphans - and I certainly hope you have not - then you know we have reached the thirteenth chapter of the thirteenth volume in this sad history, and so you know the end is near, even though this chapter is so lengthy that you might never reach the end of it. But perhaps you do not yet know what the end really means. "The end" is a phrase which refers to the completion of a story, or the final moment of some accomplishment, such as a secret errand, or a great deal of research, and indeed this thirteenth volume marks the completion of my investigation into the Baudelaire case, which required much research, a great many secret errands, and the accomplishments of a number of my comrades, from a trolley driver to a botanical hybridization expert, with many, many typewriter repairpeople in between. But it cannot be said that The End contains the end of the Baudelaires' story, any more than The Bad Beginning contained its beginning. The children's story began long before that terrible day on Briny Beach, but there would have to be another volume to chronicle when the Baudelaires were born, and when their parents married, and who was playing the violin in the candlelit restaurant when the Baudelaire parents first laid eyes on one another, and what was hidden inside that violin, and the childhood of the man who orphaned the girl who put it there, and even then it could not be said that the Baudelaires' story had not begun, because you would still need to know about a certain tea party held in a penthouse suite, and the baker who made the scones served at the tea party, and the baker's assistant who smuggled the secret ingredient into the scone batter through a very narrow drainpipe, and how a crafty volunteer created the illusion of a fire in the kitchen simply by wearing a certain dress and jumping around, and even then the beginning of the story would be as far away as the shipwreck that leftthe Baudelaire parents as castaways on the coastal shelf is far away from the outrigger on which the islanders would depart. One could say, in fact, that no story really has a beginning, and that no story really has an end, as all of the world's stories are as jumbled as the items in the arboretum, with their details and secrets all heaped together so that the whole story, from beginning to end, depends on how you look at it. We might even say that the world is always in medias res - a Latin phrase which means "in the midst of things" or "in the middle of a narrative" - and that it is impossible to solve any mystery, or find the root of any trouble, and so The End is really the middle of the story, as many people in this history will live long past the close of Chapter Thirteen, or even the beginning of the story, as a new child arrives in the world at the chapter's close. But one cannot sit in the midst of things forever. Eventually one must face that the end is near, and the end of The End is quite near indeed, so if I were you I would not read the end of The End, as it contains the end of a notorious villain but also the end of a brave and noble sibling, and the end of the colonists' stay on the island, as they sail off the end of the coastal shelf. The end of The End contains all these ends, and that does not depend on how you look at it, so it might be best for you to stop looking at The End before the end of The End arrives, and to stop reading The End before you read the end, as the stories that end in The End that began in The Bad Beginning are beginning to end now.

Hello,” said the beautiful elven maid. “I was just thinking, and I mean no offence, but—how can any fighting force crowded with the softer sex hope to prevail in battle?” “Huh?” said Elliot, brilliantly. “The softer what?” “I refer to men,” said the elf girl. “Naturally I was aware the Border guard admitted men, and I support men in their endeavor to prove they are equal to women, but their natures are not warlike, are they?

Invariably, I will be referred to Gleason Archer's massive Encyclopedia of Bible Difficulties, a heavy volume that seeks to provide the reader with sound explanations for every conceivable puzzle found within the Bible - from whether God approved of Rahab's lie, to where Cain got his wife. (Note to well-meaning apologists: it's not always the best idea to present a skeptic with a five-hundred-page book listing hundreds of apparent contradictions in Scripture when the skeptic didn't even know that half of them existed before you recommended it.)

Stories of the brave, glamorous girl stopped selling so the press changed its angle and turned mean (and dumb); "transvestite", "degenerate", etc. Magazines start to use the pronouns "he" to refer to Christine

Filth, filth, filth, from morning to night. I know they're poor but they could wash. Water is free and soap is cheap. Just look at that arm, nurse.' The nurse looked and clucked in horror. Francie stood there with the hot flamepoints of shame burning her face. The doctor was a Harvard man, interning at the neighborhood hospital. Once a week, he was obliged to put in a few hours at one of the free clinics. He was going into a smart practice in Boston when his internship was over. Adopting the phraseology of the neighborhood, he referred to his Brooklyn internship as going through Purgatory, when he wrote to his socially prominent fiancee in Boston. The nurse was as Williamsburg girl... The child of poor Polish immigrants, she had been ambitious, worked days in a sweatshop and gone to school at night. Somehow she had gotten her training... She didn't want anyone to know she had come from the slums. After the doctor's outburst, Francie stood hanging her head. She was a dirty girl. That's what the doctor meant. He was talking more quietly now asking the nurse how that kind of people could survive; that it would be a better world if they were all sterilized and couldn't breed anymore. Did that mean he wanted her to die? Would he do something to make her die because her hands and arms were dirty from the mud pies? She looked at the nurse... She thought the nurse might say something like: Maybe this little girl's mother works and didn't have time to wash her good this morning,' or, 'You know how it is, Doctor, children will play in the dirt.' But what the nurse actuallly said was, 'I know, Isn't it terrible? I sympathize with you, Doctor. There is no excuse for these people living in filth.' A person who pulls himself up from a low environment via the bootstrap route has two choices. Having risen above his environment, he can forget it; or, he can rise above it and never forget it and keep compassion and understanding in his heart for those he has left behind him in the cruel upclimb. The nurse had chosen the forgetting way. Yet, as she stood there, she knew that years later she would be haunted by the sorrow in the face of that starveling child and that she would wish bitterly that she had said a comforting word then and done something towards the saving of her immortal soul. She had the knowledge that she was small but she lacked the courage to be otherwise. When the needle jabbed, Francie never felt it. The waves of hurt started by the doctor's words were racking her body and drove out all other feeling. While the nurse was expertly tying a strip of gauze around her arm and the doctor was putting his instrument in the sterilizer and taking out a fresh needle, Francie spoke up. My brother is next. His arm is just as dirty as mine so don't be suprised. And you don't have to tell him. You told me.' They stared at this bit of humanity who had become so strangely articulate. Francie's voice went ragged with a sob. 'You don't have to tell him. Besides it won't do no godd. He's a boy and he don't care if he is dirty.'... As the door closed, she heard the doctor's suprised voice. I had no idea she'd understand what I was saying.' She heard the nurse say, 'Oh, well,' on a sighing note.

Disassociation. It is a word I have heard before but never in reference to that mind trick I had used to cope. That trick isn't a figment of my imagination. It was real. It had a name. And if the coping mechanism was real, it means what I have experienced was real too.

As has been true every year since I began my inventory, the majority of babies I delivered were girls. Twenty-seven last year. I do not consider myself a superstitious woman, but I find comfort in these numbers. Every midwife I have ever known has cautioned that an abundance of male births for multiple years in a row means looming war. One of them—old, bitter, and widowed—had buried every child of her own and, in the calcification of her grief, would refer to such boys as “the cannon fodder of kings.” I have never delivered a boy—either from my body or with my hands—and not thought of those words. Of my own nine children, six were girls, and I have always taken this as a good omen. It makes me hopeful that the wars of this country are behind us.

I am a success at last. We get annihilated. There is no mercy. The word “friendly” is never used in the same context again. “Friendly,” according to The Australian Little Oxford Dictionary, means “acting or disposed to act as friend.” The word “act” is very apt. The girls glare at me. They need to put a face to their misery and I’m it. From then on, whenever someone uses the words “the basketball game,” there is no question which one they are referring to. This

Should the girls decide to go for a walk, they would need to change into a different outfit, a light woollen tweed suit and sturdier boots - but on simpler days, such as for the garden party, they make mercifully few changes. Cora, like many married ladies in her position, takes the opportunity on quiet afternoons to take off her corset and wear a teagown for an hour or two before getting into her evening dress. Its huge advantage was that it was always ornately decorated but simply cut, meaning it was the only garment a woman could conceivably get in and out of alone, as it could be worn without a corset underneath. Worn between five and seven o'clock, it gave rise to the French phrase 'cinq a sept'. This referred to the hours when lovers were received, the only time of day when a maid wouldn't need to be there to help you undress and therefore discover your secret. Lady Colin Campbell's divorce had hinged on the fact that her clothes had clearly been fastened by a man who didn't know what he was doing; when her lady's maid saw her for the next change, the fastenings were higgledy-piggledy. But for Cora, the teagown is not for any illicit behaviour, just for respite from her underpinnings.

At this stage, enter dating gurus and pick-up artists. These are people who have suffered equal or more rejections than you, some of which impaled their egos so much that it forced them to make ‘getting girls’ a quest in their lives to prove to themselves they are ‘the man’. They usually like to refer to themselves as ‘alphas’ to massage their highly sensitive egos, which also acts as their G-spot during sex. What it means is that they climax immediately upon hearing a girl refer to them as alpha or its variations, such as master, daddy, which basically means they are their father. This is nothing but a crippling need to be validated by an impressionable girl with daddy issues living in a fantasy world. And these guys desperately require the reiteration of the terms alphas, master or daddy from girls to compensate for the rejections by girls in their past.

At first piecemeal, then point-blank, he let his attention be drawn to a little scene that was being acted out sublimely, unhampered by writers and directors and producers, five stories below the window and across the street. A fair-sized maple tree stood in front of the girls' private school--one of four or five trees on that fortunate side of the street--and at the moment a child of seven or eight, female, was hiding behind it. She was wearing a navy-blue reefer and a tam that was very nearly the same shade of red as the blanket on the bed in van Gogh's room at Aries. Her tam did, in fact, from Zooey's vantage point, appear not unlike a dab of paint. Some fifteen feet away from the child, her dog--a young dachshund, wearing a green leather collar and leash--was sniffing to find her, scurrying in frantic circles, his leash dragging behind him. The anguish of separation was scarcely bearable for him, and when at last he picked up his mistress's scent, it wasn't a second too soon. The joy of reunion, for both, was immense. The dachshund gave a little yelp, then cringed forward, shimmying with ecstasy, till his mistress, shouting something at him, stepped hurriedly over the wire guard surrounding the tree and picked him up. She said a number of words of praise to him, in the private argot of the game, then put him down and picked up his leash, and the two walked gaily west, toward Fifth Avenue and the Park and out of Zooey's sight. Zooey reflexively put his hand on a cross-piece between panes of glass, as if he had a mind to raise the window and lean out of it to watch the two disappear. It was his cigar hand, however, and he hesitated a second too long. He dragged on his cigar. "God damn it," he said, "there are nice things in the world--and I mean nice things. We're all such morons to get so sidetracked. Always, always, always referring every goddam thing that happens right back to our lousy little egos." Behind him, just then, Franny blew her nose with guileless abandon; the report was considerably louder than might have been expected from so fine and delicate-appearing an organ. Zooey turned around to look at her, somewhat censoriously.

Soon, droves of children start to show up, keeping us rather busy. We start tallying up the number of Trolls, Batmans, Lego men, and princesses we see. The most popular costume? Batman and Superwoman with the fabrics and accessories varying from child to child. But my favorite so far is the girl who dressed as Little Debbie, but then again, I may be biased. “I think she might be my new favorite,” Emma says as a little girl dressed as a nurse walks away. “That’s because you’re a nurse, but you can’t play favorites,” I say, reminding Emma of the rules. She levels with me. “This coming from the guy whose favorite child was dressed as Little Debbie.” “Come on.” I lean back in my chair and motion to my head. “She had the rim of blue on her hat. That’s attention to detail.” “And good fucking parenting,” Tucker chimes in, and we clink our beer bottles together. Amelia chuckles next to me as Emma shakes her head. “Ridiculous. What about you, Amelia? What costume has been your favorite so far?” “Hmm, it’s been a tough competition. There has been some real winning costumes and some absolute piss-poor ones.” She shakes her head. “Just because you put a scarf around your neck and call yourself Jack Frost doesn’t mean you dressed up.” “Ugh, that costume was dumb.” “It shouldn’t be referred to as a costume, but that’s beside the point.” I like how much Amelia is getting into this little pretend competition. She’s a far cry from the girl who first came home earlier. I love that having Tucker and Emma over has given me more time with Amelia, getting to know the woman she is today, but also managed to put that beautiful smile back on her face. “So who takes the cake for you?” I ask, nudging her leg with mine. Smiling up at me, she says, “Hands down it’s the little boy who dressed as Dwight Schrute from The Office. I think I giggled for five minutes straight after he left. That costume was spot on.” “Oh shit, you’re right,” I reply as Emma and Tucker agree with me. “He even had the watch calculator.” “And the small nose Dwight always complains about.” Emma chuckles. “Yeah, he has to be the winner.” “Now, now, now, let’s not get too hasty. Little Debbie is still in the running,” Tucker points out. Amelia leans forward, seeming incredibly comfortable, and says, “There is no way Little Debbie beats Dwight. Sorry, dude.” The shocked look on Tucker’s face is comical. He’s just been put in his place and the old Amelia has returned. I fucking love it.

Hey,” Sean said as he stretched. “I just took Scout out.” “Thanks,” Cade said. Sean glanced back and noticed me. “Hey, Fallon.” He smirked at Cade. “Well, guess I’ll be heading to my room now.” Scout raised his head and his tail slapped against the couch. “Three’s a crowd, and all that.” Sean ruffled the fur along Scout’s neck. “Unless, of course, you’re a dog.” He stood and stretched again. “Oh, to be a dog in a crate.” Cade rolled his eyes at Sean’s fly-on-a-wall reference. “ ’Night, Sean,” he grumbled. “See you two crazy kids later.” He strolled out of the room but paused and patted the kitchen wall. “Oh, and FYI, the shower in Cade’s room backs to the kitchen.” God, Sean was like a male version of me. Poor Brinley, always having to put up with my crap. She was a damn good sport. Cade just shook his head and muttered, “Jealous?” “Fuck yeah, I am,” Sean called back as he wandered down the hall. “I’m going to start calling you magic hands.” Though Sean was still fucking around, I sensed Cade losing his patience. “It’s not just his hands,” I said. Sean looked over his shoulder at me. “I mean, call him what you want, but don’t sell him short.” Sean just stared at me, surprised by either what I’d said or the fact I’d said anything at all. I smiled in the way that always drove guys crazy, totally fake but filled with flirtation. “Listen close tonight and maybe you can figure out what I like to call him.” He leaned his head against his door frame and groaned. “Just not even fair.” He picked his head up and glanced at me. “If you get bored, you know I live right down the hall.” I laughed, though Cade didn’t seem to find quite the humor in it I did. He slipped his hand in mine. “Not happening, bro.” Sean raised his hands. “Just throwing it out there.” “Thanks,” I said sweetly. “But my schedule is pretty full with Cade RSVPing to my fuckfest and all…” Cade chuckled. Sean gaped at me then, with a pointed look at Cade, said, “Marry her, dude. Seriously, if you don’t, I will.” He stepped into his room grumbling something about fuckfests. “My roommate is in love with you now. You’re like this hot female version of him. His dream girl.

The man at the desk in the library had seen Martin there so often that he had become quite cordial, always greeting him with a smile and a nod when he entered. It was because of this that Martin did a daring thing. Drawing out some books at the desk, and while the man was stamping the cards, Martin blurted out: "Say, there's something I'd like to ask you." The man smiled and paid attention. "When you meet a young lady an' she asks you to call, how soon can you call?" Martin felt his shirt press and cling to his shoulders, what of the sweat of the effort. "Why I'd say any time," the man answered. "Yes, but this is different," Martin objected. "She - I - well, you see, it's this way: maybe she won't be there. She goes to the university." "Then call again." "What I said ain't what I meant," Martin confessed falteringly, while he made up his mind to throw himself wholly upon the other's mercy. "I'm just a rough sort of a fellow, an' I ain't never seen anything of society. This girl is all that I ain't, an' I ain't anything that she is. You don't think I'm playin' the fool, do you?" he demanded abruptly. "No, no; not at all, I assure you," the other protested. "Your request is not exactly in the scope of the reference department, but I shall be only too pleased to assist you." Martin looked at him admiringly. "If I could tear it off that way, I'd be all right," he said. "I beg pardon?" "I mean if I could talk easy that way, an' polite, an' all the rest." "Oh," said the other, with comprehension. "What is the best time to call? The afternoon? - not too close to meal-time? Or the evening? Or Sunday?" "I'll tell you," the librarian said with a brightening face. "You call her up on the telephone and find out." "I'll do it," he said, picking up his books and starting away. He turned back and asked: "When you're speakin' to a young lady - say, for instance, Miss Lizzie Smith - do you say 'Miss Lizzie'? or 'Miss Smith'?" "Say 'Miss Smith,'" the librarian stated authoritatively. "Say 'Miss Smith' always until you come to know her better." So it was that Martin Eden solved the problem. "Come down any time; I'll be at home all afternoon," was Ruth's reply over the telephone to his stammered request as to when he could return the borrowed books.

The man at the desk in the library had seen Martin there so often that he had be- come quite cordial, always greeting him with a smile and a nod when he entered. It was because of this that Martin did a daring thing. Drawing out some books at the desk, and while the man was stamping the cards, Martin blurted out:- "Say, there's something I'd like to ask you." The man smiled and paid attention. "When you meet a young lady an' she asks you to call, how soon can you call?" Martin felt his shirt press and cling to his shoulders, what of the sweat of the ef- fort. "Why I'd say any time," the man answered. "Yes, but this is different," Martin objected. "She - I - well, you see, it's this way: maybe she won't be there. She goes to the university." "Then call again." "What I said ain't what I meant," Martin confessed falteringly, while he made up his mind to throw himself wholly upon the other's mercy. "I'm just a rough sort of a fellow, an' I ain't never seen anything of society. This girl is all that I ain't, an' I ain't anything that she is. You don't think I'm playin' the fool, do you?" he de- manded abruptly. "No, no; not at all, I assure you," the other protested. "Your request is not ex- actly in the scope of the reference department, but I shall be only too pleased to as- sist you." Martin looked at him admiringly. "If I could tear it off that way, I'd be all right," he said. "I beg pardon?" "I mean if I could talk easy that way, an' polite, an' all the rest." "Oh," said the other, with comprehension. "What is the best time to call? The afternoon? - not too close to meal-time? Or the evening? Or Sunday?" "I'll tell you," the librarian said with a brightening face. "You call her up on the telephone and find out." "I'll do it," he said, picking up his books and starting away. He turned back and asked:- "When you're speakin' to a young lady - say, for instance, Miss Lizzie Smith - do you say 'Miss Lizzie'? or 'Miss Smith'?" "Say 'Miss Smith,'" the librarian stated authoritatively. "Say 'Miss Smith' always - until you come to know her better." So it was that Martin Eden solved the problem. "Come down any time; I'll be at home all afternoon," was Ruth's reply over the telephone to his stammered request as to when he could return the borrowed books.

Steve Jobs knew from an early age that he was adopted. “My parents were very open with me about that,” he recalled. He had a vivid memory of sitting on the lawn of his house, when he was six or seven years old, telling the girl who lived across the street. “So does that mean your real parents didn’t want you?” the girl asked. “Lightning bolts went off in my head,” according to Jobs. “I remember running into the house, crying. And my parents said, ‘No, you have to understand.’ They were very serious and looked me straight in the eye. They said, ‘We specifically picked you out.’ Both of my parents said that and repeated it slowly for me. And they put an emphasis on every word in that sentence.” Abandoned. Chosen. Special. Those concepts became part of who Jobs was and how he regarded himself. His closest friends think that the knowledge that he was given up at birth left some scars. “I think his desire for complete control of whatever he makes derives directly from his personality and the fact that he was abandoned at birth,” said one longtime colleague, Del Yocam. “He wants to control his environment, and he sees the product as an extension of himself.” Greg Calhoun, who became close to Jobs right after college, saw another effect. “Steve talked to me a lot about being abandoned and the pain that caused,” he said. “It made him independent. He followed the beat of a different drummer, and that came from being in a different world than he was born into.” Later in life, when he was the same age his biological father had been when he abandoned him, Jobs would father and abandon a child of his own. (He eventually took responsibility for her.) Chrisann Brennan, the mother of that child, said that being put up for adoption left Jobs “full of broken glass,” and it helps to explain some of his behavior. “He who is abandoned is an abandoner,” she said. Andy Hertzfeld, who worked with Jobs at Apple in the early 1980s, is among the few who remained close to both Brennan and Jobs. “The key question about Steve is why he can’t control himself at times from being so reflexively cruel and harmful to some people,” he said. “That goes back to being abandoned at birth. The real underlying problem was the theme of abandonment in Steve’s life.” Jobs dismissed this. “There’s some notion that because I was abandoned, I worked very hard so I could do well and make my parents wish they had me back, or some such nonsense, but that’s ridiculous,” he insisted. “Knowing I was adopted may have made me feel more independent, but I have never felt abandoned. I’ve always felt special. My parents made me feel special.” He would later bristle whenever anyone referred to Paul and Clara Jobs as his “adoptive” parents or implied that they were not his “real” parents. “They were my parents 1000%,” he said. When speaking about his biological parents, on the other hand, he was curt: “They were my sperm and egg bank. That’s not harsh, it’s just the way it was, a sperm bank thing, nothing more.

(p.112-114) This past, the Negro's past, of rope, fire torture, castration, infanticide, rape; death and humiliation; fear by day and night, fear as deep as the marrow of the bone; doubt that he was worthy of life, since everyone around him denied it; sorrow for this women, for his kinfolk, for his children, who needed his protection, and whom he could not protect; rage, hatred, and murder, hatred for white men so deep that it often turned against him and his own, and made all love, all trust, all joy impossible - this past, this endless struggle to achieve and reveal and confirm a human identity, human authority, yet contains, for all its horror, something very beautiful. I do not mean to be sentimental about suffering - enough is certainly as good as a feast - but people who cannot suffer can never grow up, can never discover who they are. That man who is forced each day to snatch manhood, his identity, out of the fire of human cruelty that rages to destroy it knows, if he survives his effort, and even if he does not survive it, something about himself and human life that no school on earth - and indeed, no church - can teach. He achieves his own authority, and that is unshakable. This is because, in order to save his life, he is forced to look beneath appearances, to take nothing for granted, to hear the meaning behind the words. If one is continually surviving the worst that life can bring, one eventually ceases to be controlled by a fear of what life can bring; whatever it brings must be borne. And at this level of experience one's bitterness begins to be palatable, and hatred becomes too heavy a sack to carry. The apprehension of life here so briefly and inadequately sketched has been the experience of generations of Negroes, and it helps to explain how they have endured and how they have been able to produce children of kindergarten age who can walk through mobs to get to school. It demands great force and great cunning continually to assault the mighty and indifferent fortress of white supremacy, as Negroes in this country have done so long. It demands great spiritual resilience not to hate the hater whose foot is on your neck, and even greater miracle of perception and charity not to teach your child to hate. The Negro boys and girls who are facing mobs today come out of a long line of improbable aristocrats - the only genuine aristocrats this country has produced. I say "this country" because their frame of reference was totally American. They were hewing out of the mountain of white supremacy the stone of their individuality. I have great respect for that unsung army of black men and women who trudged down back lanes and entered back doors, saying "Yes, sir" and "No, Ma'am" in order to acquire a new roof for the schoolhouse, new books, a new chemistry lab, more beds for the dormitories, more dormitories. They did not like saying "Yes, sir" and "No Ma'am", but the country was in no hurry to educate Negroes, these black men and women knew that the job had to be done, and they put their pride in their pockets in order to do it. It is very hard to believe that they were in anyway inferior to the white men and women who opened those back doors. It is very hard to believe that those men and women, raising their children, eating their greens, crying their curses, weeping their tears, singing their songs, making their love, as the sun rose, as the sun set, were in any way inferior to the white men and women who crept over to share these splendors after the sun went down. ... I am proud of these people not because of their color but because of their intelligence and their spiritual force and their beauty. The country should be proud of them, too, but, alas, not many people in this country even know of their existence.

But why Guerrera?” He wanted to know. “In Spanish, guerrero means ‘warrior’ or ‘fighter,’ and guerrera—with an a on the end—refers to a female.” The judge took a moment to digest her words before his eyes reflected comprehension. “Warrior girl.” She inclined her head in acknowledgment. “I’ve given up on hope,” she said quietly, then lifted her chin. “From now on, I fight.

The disposable girl should develop a drink problem or take drugs. She should become the victim of someone else, somewhere else. At best she becomes a campaigner against whatever she was a victim of. Nothing can happen to her that doesn't refer back to the attack. She has been branded. But that's not true because the world is full of us. One in five. We are as perennial as love. We go about our business, raising kids, running countries, starting wars and solving crimes. We don't tell our stories because, if we've survived, that can only mean that what happened wasn't so very bad after all. It never means that we are fucking amazing. I am fucking amazing. When I was nineteen I ran so fast I left a branding behind. And I have stories to tell that are more than titillating details or pleas for your pity. This is just one of them.

Is this the source of the social trouble your sister is having?” “I think so. She seems to want to be friends with them, but I’m not sure why. They seem awful.” “Like the Plastics.” “Like the what?” “From the movie Mean Girls.” “I haven’t seen it.” Marie was tickled that she could pull out an American pop culture reference Leo didn’t know.

I just mean you have us, all of us. We’re kind of like the Island of Misfit Toys over here. The hotdog girl who isn’t musical but has a killer voice? You’ll fit right in.” Julie couldn’t help but grin. “Was that a Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer reference?” It was Luke’s turn to blush. “No.

Why are those characters running and jumping, and that girl character is watching and giggling at the side? Why, when I was at school, were no celebrated scientists, musicians, or playwrights, women? Why are we only taught about the achievements of men? Why, when women unite and come together with their voices raised, does the term 'witch hunt' get bandied around? Why are some of my natural characteristics referred to as 'tomboy'?

After I woke from my dream within a dream, I clung to what you’d said in the dream about “reference auras.” It seemed to point to a way of trying to live with this unbearable absence. Once someone is in your reference aura, they stay there forever. Couldn’t forever include after death? I mean, if someone has died, they are still in your reference aura and so continue to grow in your heart like a living person. That little boy Ritchie was carrying in his arms was about a year old. “This is the way we do it,” Ritchie said in the dream, and perhaps this is the way to do it.

How does she do that?” Bird asked. I didn’t have to ask who the she was. I knew it was Tiffany. Nor did I have to ask what Bird was referring to. Jason and Mac were leaning toward Tiffany, listening to whatever it was she was saying, like it was the most interesting thing in the world. “Does she wear, like, turn-’em-stupid perfume or something?” Bird asked. “I don’t know. Maybe guys like thinking they’re way smarter than girls.” “It’s gotta be an act. No one is that brainless.” She grimaced. “I don’t mean to dis your sister, but really, does anyone think the moon actually turns blue?” Yeah, Tiffany had asked, “So when does the moon turn blue?” Mac had laughed and explained that a blue moon was the second full moon in a month, that a full moon appeared every twenty-nine nights, and so it was truly rare to have two full moons in any given month. He’d said he’d taken a class in astronomy. “Oh, I love astronomy. I’m a Pisces. What sign are you?” Which had made Mac laugh again, and he started to explain the difference between astronomy and astrology. Tiffany was apparently absolutely fascinated…and fascinating. His gaze--and Jason’s--was riveted on her. I gave another little shrug, feeling a need to defend my sister, who might be in need of a trip down the yellow brick road to ask the wizard for some brains. “I wasn’t exactly sure what a blue moon was, either.” “But you know the difference between astronomy and astrology.

Well, I know you don’t want to talk about it anymore, but I signed you up for that computer match thingy.” Why is it that so many people over the age of sixty refer to everything on the Internet as some sort of “computer thing”? Helen was trying to contain her laughter. “Laura, do you mean Match.com?” My father was groaning audibly now. “Yes, that’s it. Charles helped me put up her profile.” “Oh my god, Mother. Are you kidding me?” Helen jumped out of her seat and started running toward the computer in my dad’s home office, which was right off the dining room. “Get out of there, Helen,” my dad yelled, but she ignored him. I chased after her, but she stuck her arm out, blocking me from the monitor. “No, I have to see it!” she shouted. “Stop it, girls,” my mother chided. “Move, bitch.” We were very mature for our age. “This is the best day of my life. Your mommy made a Match profile for you!” “Actually, Chuck made it,” my mother yelled from across the hall. Oh shit. Helen typed my name in quickly. My prom picture from nine years ago popped up on the screen. My brother had cropped Steve Dilbeck out of the photo the best he could, but you could still see Steve’s arms wrapped around my purple chiffon–clad waist. “You’re joking. You’re fucking joking.” “Language, Charlotte!” my dad yelled. “Mom,” I cried, “he used my prom photo! What is wrong with him?” I still had braces at eighteen. I had to wear them for seven years because my orthodontist said I had the worst teeth he had ever seen. You know how sharks have rows of teeth? Yeah, that was me. I blame my mother and the extended breastfeeding for that one, too. My brother, Chuck the Fuck, used to tease me, saying it was leftovers of the dead Siamese twin I had absorbed in utero. My brother’s an ass, so it’s pretty awesome that he set up this handy dating profile for me. In case you hadn’t noticed, our names are Charlotte and Charles. Just more parental torture. Would it be dramatic to call that child abuse? Underneath my prom photo, I read the profile details while Helen laughed so hard she couldn’t breath. My name is Charlotte and I am an average twenty-seven year-old. If you looked up the word mediocre in the dictionary you would see a picture of me—more recent than this nine-year-old photo, of course, because at least back then I hadn’t inked my face like an imbecile. Did I forget to mention that I have a tiny star tattooed under my left eye? Yes, I’d been drunk at the time. It was a momentary lapse of judgment. It would actually be cute if it was a little bigger, but it’s so small that most people think it’s a piece of food or a freckle. I cover it up with makeup. I like junk food and watching reality TV. My best friend and I like to drink Champagne because it makes us feel sophisticated, then we like to have a farting contest afterward. I’ve had twelve boyfriends in the last five years so I’m looking for a lifer. It’s not a coincidence that I used the same term as the one for prisoners ineligible for parole. “Chuck the Fuck,” Helen squeaked through giggles. I turned and glared at her. “He still doesn’t know that you watched him jerk off like a pedophile when he was fourteen.” “He’s only three years younger than us.” “Four. And I will tell him. I’ll unleash Chuck the Fuck on you if you don’t quit.” My breasts are small and my butt is big and I have a moderately hairy upper lip. I also don’t floss, clean my retainer, or use mouthwash with any regularity. “God, my brother is so obsessed with oral hygiene!” “That’s what stood out to you? He said you have a mustache.” Helen grinned. “Girls, get out of there and come clear the table,” my dad yelled. “What do you think the password is?” “Try ‘Fatbutt,’ ” I said. “Yep, that worked. Okay, I’ll change your profile while you clear the table.

Seein’ this house, this life…I want to be here with you, but I look around and realize this will never be me.” “You’re thinking too much.” She kneels on the carpet and pats the floor. “Come here and lie on your stomach. I know how to give Swedish massages. It’ll relax you.” “You’re not Swedish,” I say. “Yeah, well, neither are you. So if I do it wrong you’ll never know the difference.” I lie next to her. “I thought we were gonna take this relationship slow.” “A back rub is harmless.” My eyes roam over her kick-ass bikini-covered bod. “I’ll have you know I’ve been intimate with girls wearin’ a lot more.” She slaps me on the butt. “Behave yourself.” When her hands move over my back, I let out a groan. Man, this is torture. I’m trying to behave, but her hands feel too damn good and my body has a mind of its own. “You’re tense,” she says in my ear. Of course I’m tense. Her hands are all over me. My answer is another groan. After a few minutes of Brittany’s mind-numbing massage, loud moaning, groaning, and grunting from the hot tub floats into the room. Doug and Sierra have obviously skipped the back rub portion of the evening. “Do you think they’re doing it?” she asks. “Either that, or Doug’s a very religious guy,” I say, referring to the screaming Oh, God! every two seconds. “Does it make you horny?” she sings quietly into my ear. “No, but you keep massagin’ me like that and you can forget about that goin’ slow bullshit.” I sit up and face her. “What I can’t figure out is if you know you’re a tease and are fuckin’ with me or whether you really are innocent.” “I’m not a tease.” I cock an eyebrow, then look down at my upper thigh where she’s parked her hand. She snatches it away. “Okay, I didn’t mean to put my hand there. Well, I mean, not really. It just kinda…wh…what I mean to say is--” “I like it when you stutter,” I say as I pull her down next to me and show her my own version of a Swedish massage until we’re interrupted by Sierra and Doug.

Kahnawake August 1704 Temperature 75 degrees “It’s me! Mercy Carter! Oh, Mr. Williams! Do you have news?” She flung herself on top of him. Oh, his beautiful beard! The beard of a real father, not a pretend Indian father or a French church father. “My brothers,” she begged. “John and Sam and Benny. Have you seen them? Have you heard anything about them? Do you know what happened to the little ones? Daniel? Have you found Daniel?” Mercy had forgotten that she had taken off her tunic to go swimming. That Joseph did not even have on his breechclout. That Mercy wore earrings and Joseph had been tattooed on his upper arms. That they stank of bear. Mr. Williams did not recognize Joseph, and Mercy he knew only by the color of her hair. He was stupefied by the two naked slimy children trying to hug him. In ore horror than even Ruth would have mustered, he whispered, “Your parents would be weeping. What have the savages done to you? You are animals.” Despair and shock mottled Mr. Williams’s face. Mercy stumbled back from him. Her bear grease stained his clothing. “Mercy,” he said, turning away from her, “go cover yourself.” Shame covered her first. Red patches flamed on her cheeks. She ran back to the swimmers, fighting sobs. She was aware of her bare feet, hard as leather from no shoes. Savage feet. Dear Lord in Heaven, thought Mercy, Ruth is right. I have committed terrible sins. My parents would be weeping. She did not look at Snow Walker but yanked on the deerskin tunic. She had tanned the hide herself, and she and Nistenha had painted the rows of turtles around the neckline and Nistenha had tied tiny tinkling French bells into the fringe. But it was still just animal skin. To be wearing hides in front of Mr. Williams was not much better than being naked. Snow Walker burst out of the water. “The white man? Was he cruel? I will call Tannhahorens.” No! Tannhahorens would not let her speak to Mr. Williams. She would never find out about her brothers; never redeem herself in the minister’s eyes. Mercy calmed down with the discipline of living among Indians. Running had shown weakness. “Thank you, Snow Walker,” she said, striving to be gracious, “but he merely wanted me to be clothed like an English girl. There is no need to call Tannhahorens.” She walked back. On the jetty, Joseph stood with his eyes fixed on the river instead of on his minister. He had not fled like Mercy to cover himself. He was standing his ground. “They aren’t savages, Mr. Williams. And they aren’t just Indians. Those children over there are Abenaki, the boy fishing by the rocks is Pennacook, and my own family is Kahnawake Mohawk.” Tears sprang into Mr. Williams’s eyes. “What do you mean--your family?” he said. “Joseph, you do not have a family in this terrible place. You have a master. Do not confuse savages who happen to give you food with family.” Joseph’s face hardened. “They are my family. My father is Great Sky. My mother--” The minister lost his temper. “Your father is Martin Kellogg,” he shouted, “with whom I just dined in Montreal. You refer to some savage as your father? I am ashamed of you.” Under his tan, Joseph paled and his Indian calm left him. He was trembling. “My--my father? Alive? You saw him?” “Your father is a field hand for a French family in Montreal. He works hard, Joseph. He has no choice. But you have choices. Have you chosen to abandon your father?” Joseph swallowed and wet his lips. “No.” He could barely get the syllable out. Don’t cry, prayed Mercy. Be an eagle. She fixed her eyes upon him, giving him all her strength, but Mr. Williams continued to destroy whatever strength the thirteen-year-old possessed. “Your father prays for the day you and he will be ransomed, Joseph. All he thinks of is the moment he can gather his beloved family back under his own roof. Is that not also your prayer, Joseph?

I think Alfred Edmond from Black Enterprise said it best. He suggests you ask yourself, “Am I using money to buy things or accomplish things?” Buying things refers to purchases like a new car or a plasma television. Accomplishing things means spending money on opportunities that move you forward—like homeownership or an education.

While women have come far in their ability to speak on their own behalf, there are many women who compromise what they want to say and what they actually say. Almost all women experience a dissonance between inner and outer. As a matter of emotional and sometimes physical survival, women have found it necessary to split their speech into two parts. One kind of speech is suppressed, occurring only in safe settings with intimates or within the ultimate safety of a woman's own mind. The second kind of speech is the publicly acceptable type that conforms to social expectations. The injunction to suppress certain feelings or thoughts can be so powerful that a woman may not be aware of it and may honestly believe that publicly acceptable speech is all she has in her. Carol Gilligan's work describes the destructive effects of this splitting of voice, especially in young girls who, as they embark on adolescence, have trouble speaking with clarity and strength. An emphasis on listening cultivates a stronger expression of voice. Listening is a crucial component in Imago Theory, where couples are taught to mirror, or repeat back, each other's thoughts, feelings, and needs as a way of building not only their partner's sense of self, but their own. Our core self becomes stronger when it is mirrored back. Voice that is not mirrored dies. When the process of mirroring is followed by validating and empathizing, a deep listening is done with feeling. All of us need validation -- that who we are, what we think, and how we feel does make sense. And the deepest form of listening is empathy, by which we are able to resonate on a soul level with the feelings and needs of one another. A wise proverb states that "Speech is silver, Silence is gold," reminding us of the forgotten value of silence. Feminist theorist Patrocinio Schweickart chose those words as the title of her article on talking and listening that parallels the inward and outward rhythm of Imago dialogue. She points our attention to the value of quiet as a tool that helps us notice the complex interplay of inner and outer that characterizes any creative process. For something new to happen, we need silence and receptivity as well as action and productivity. While some theorists see speaking as active and listening as passive, Schweickart and Imago Theory both point to the reality that both speaking and listening are active. Listening is a way of meaning-making. Theologian Nelle Morten refers to this dynamic as "hearing each other into speech." Ultimately, the development of authentic voice is a process that involves that involves a flow between speaking and listening. In listening, one becomes attuned to the surroundings so that speech becomes relevant and meaningful. This undulating rhythm of speaking and listening is the bedrock for dialogue in Imago Theory and for all of us who care about relationship.

His voice was soft as he pulled down the covers, “Come on Harper, get in.” The way his voice wrapped around my name sent a warm shiver through my body and I had to fight to keep my eyes away from his now-bare chest as I crawled into his bed. Even the quick glance at his sculpted chest and abs had my heart racing. After he flipped off the lights, I felt the bed sink down from his weight and I sat up. “What are you doing?” “What do you mean?” “You can’t get in here with me!” He chuckled, “It’s my bed, I’m sure I can do what I want.” I know he couldn’t see me, but I glared at him anyway. Flipping the cover off me, I grabbed a pillow and sank down to the floor. “Get back in the bed Princess.” I scoffed at my nickname but didn’t say anything. I could feel his eyes boring into my back and after what felt like an eternity, heard him sigh and the bed shift. I wanted to ask for a blanket but was too stubborn to ask. Next thing I knew I was in the air. “Oh my word! Put me down!” He dropped me onto the bed and crawled over me. “Chase! No!” “Calm down, I’ll stay on my side. We can even put a pillow between us if it’ll make you feel better.” He snickered. I grumbled and scooted to the edge of the bed. Obviously I’ve never been in a bed with a guy before, and the fact that he was inches away had my whole body shaking. “I swear if you touch me, I’ll go Lorena Bobbitt on you.” It didn’t take him long to figure out what I was referring to. He put a pillow over his face to muffle his booming laugh. “Oh my God! Princess! You’re my new favorite!” “That wasn’t a joke.” His body was still shaking with silent laughs as he moved closer and trailed his fingers up my arm. “One of these days, you’ll be begging for me to touch you.” I couldn’t tell if my next shiver was out of pleasure or disgust but I still growled at him and slapped his hand away. “I’m serious Chase. I’m not like all those girls I saw you with tonight.” “That’s an understatement.” He rolled back to his side of the bed and sighed, “Get some sleep Princess, I’ll see you in the morning.

I apologize for judging your culture and for being intolerant of other beliefs. I created a hostile environment, and…” He frowns, like he’s trying to remember his lines. Then he sighs and crumples, looking at me with pain on his face. “I really am sorry. My friends and I can be kind of the worst sometimes. I know my dad thinks that. And I’m sure my teachers do. And…you know, everyone.” I bite my lip. Ricky’s dad seems nicer than he did in the grocery store, but it’s still sad that Ricky feels that way. He takes a breath and continues. “But we really do think your hall-money is cool. Everybody in town does. And I feel really bad that she’s sick. I feel really bad that I said she’s sick. Sometimes my mouth keeps talking even when my brain knows it shouldn’t.” I can’t help but smile. “Thanks,” I say. I didn’t realize how much I was hoping to hear that. How much of a relief it is to know he doesn’t think Halmoni is creepy or scary or whatever. “I don’t think you’re the worst. And I shouldn’t have fed you mud.” I mean this, mostly. But if Halmoni’s right about the spell, it might not be so bad for him. He shrugs. “Mud has vitamins, probably. I’ve eaten worse.” “Oh.” “A worm,” he says. “Only once, though. And also another time, a Raisinet that definitely was not a Raisinet. I’m still not sure…Well, never mind.” I wait to see if he’s joking, but he’s serious. I fight back a smile. “But still. Sorry. It’s not like me to do that.” Then I correct myself. “Or, I guess it is? But I didn’t know that until now.” “It’s okay,” he says. “Let’s stop apologizing now. Apologizing is awkward.” I tug at one of my braids. “Do your friends hate me?” He laughs. “They think you’re supercool. They kept referring to you as Witch Girl. But not in a bad way. Anyone who does something like that is probably worth knowing.” I sneak a glance at him. He’s staring at me, but he looks away fast. His cheeks go splotchy. In that moment, I don’t feel like an invisible girl. But I also don’t want to be known for putting mud in someone’s pudding. I wonder if there’s a way to be a visible person and a good person at the same time. “Is that going to be my reputation in school now?” I ask. He tilts his head, thinking. “Well, yeah. But only until the next big thing.” Then after a moment, he adds, “I think it’s nice that you’re doing something to help your halmoni.” He still says it wrong, like hail-money, but he’s trying, and I appreciate it.

Heterosexual These are people who are physically, emotionally, and romantically attracted to members of the opposite sex. This means that girls like boys and boys who like girls. Sometimes, people who fit into this category are known as being ‘straight.’ Homosexual Being homosexual means you’re physically, emotionally, and romantically attracted to people who are the same sex as you. This means boys who like boys and girls who like girls. Sometimes, people who fit into this category are known as being ‘gay.’ Bisexual Being bisexual means you are attracted to both the same sex as you and people who are the opposite sex as you. This refers to boys who are attracted to both boys and girls and girls who are attracted to both girls and boys. Asexual Being asexual means you’re not attracted to anyone, nor very interested in sex at all. Of course, being asexual means you still want to have emotional relationships with other people, but you may not want the physical act of sexual intercourse.

Nope.” Imp sounded ever so slightly smug. “Wendy already tipped Big Sis off and she’s on her way there right now. I mean, she’s stopping here first to pick us up, but she’s already on her way to kick butts and eat nuts.” “You did not just try to distract me with a Squirrel Girl reference!” Game Boy’s tone was accusatory.

Weddings are supposed to be magical, but the months leading up to mine were anything but. Already, wedding planning was a high-stress, sleep-deprived whirlwind: endless details to manage, from venue deposits and guest lists to dress fittings and vendor contracts. But nothing-and I mean, nothing-compared to the panic that washed over me when I realized that somehow, I had lost access to my Bitcoin wallet-with $600,000 inside. It happened in the worst possible way. In between juggling my to-do lists and trying to keep my sanity intact, I lost my seed phrase. I went through my apartment like a tornado, flipping through notebooks, checking every email, every file-nothing. I sat there in stunned silence, heart pounding, trying to process the fact that my entire savings, my security, and my financial future might have just vanished. In utter despair, I vented to my bridesmaid's group chat for some sympathetic words from the girls. Instead, one casually threw out a name that would change everything in a second: "Have you ever heard of Tech Cyber Force Recovery? They recovered Bitcoin for my cousin. You should call them." I had never heard of them before, but at that moment, I would have tried anything. I immediately looked them up, scoured reviews, and found story after story of people just like me—people who thought they had lost everything, only for Tech Cyber Force Recovery to pull off the impossible. That was all the convincing I needed. From the very first call, I knew I was in good hands. Their team was calm, professional, and incredibly knowledgeable. They explained the recovery process in a way that made sense, even through my stress-fogged brain. Every step of the way, they kept me informed, reassured me, and made me feel like this nightmare actually had a solution. And then, just a few days later, I got the message: "We have recovered your Bitcoin." (EMAIL. support @ tech cyber force recovery . com) OR WHATSAPP (+1 56 17 26 36 97) I could hardly believe my eyes: Six. Hundred. Thousand. Dollars. In my hands again. I let out my longest breath ever and almost cried, relieved. It felt like I woke up from a bad dream, but it was real, and Tech Cyber Force Recovery had done it. Because of them, I walked down the aisle not just as a bride, but as someone who had dodged financial catastrophe. Instead of spending my honeymoon stressing over lost funds, I got to actually enjoy it—knowing that my wallet, and my future, were secure. Would I refer to them? In a heartbeat. If you ever find yourself in that situation, please don't freak out, just call Tech Cyber Force Recovery. They really are the real deal.

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Examples of pimp references permeate every aspect of popular culture. Some argue that the meaning of the word has changed and now reflects something positive.

Past the bouncers outside and the girls smoking long, skinny cigarettes, past the tinted glass doors and the jade stone Novikov has put in near the entrance for good luck. Inside, Novikov opens up so anyone can see everyone in almost every corner at any moment, the same theatrical seating as in his Moscow places. But the London Novikov is so much bigger. There are three floors. One floor is “Asian,” all black walls and plates. Another floor is “Italian,” with off-white tiled floors and trees and classic paintings. Downstairs is the bar-cum-club, in the style of a library in an English country house, with wooden bookshelves and rows of hardcover books. It’s a Moscow Novikov restaurant cubed: a series of quotes, of references wrapped in a tinted window void, shorn of their original memories and meanings (but so much colder and more distant than the accessible, colorful pastiche of somewhere like Las Vegas). This had always been the style and mood in the “elite,” “VIP” places in Moscow, all along the Rublevka and in the Garden Ring, where the just-made rich exist in a great void where they can buy anything, but nothing means anything because all the old orders of meaning are gone. Here objects become unconnected to any binding force. Old Masters and English boarding schools and Fabergé eggs all floating, suspended in a culture of zero gravity.

I want them to come get us right now.” The little girl drew her mouth down in a pout. “I’m all dirty and hungry. I’m cold too.” “Poor little princess,” her brother mocked. “I’ve got something you can eat.” Kobie’s smile brightened before he dashed across the small clearing to retrieve his backpack. “Just how long are we going to be stuck here?” Wade demanded. He took a step toward the others who were gathered around the fire, then coughed as a wave of thick smoke hit him. “I have important business in Chicago.” “Oh yeah, real important,” Bryan sneered. “You’re just afraid your girlfriend might find someone else before you get back.” “Bryan!” Chelsea spoke in a warning voice. Wade took a step toward his son, his fists clenched and fury showing on his face. Web shifted his weight, prepared to intercede should Wade attempt to strike his son. “Look! M&Ms!” Kobie stepped between the combatants, waving a large package of the candy-coated chocolate pieces over his head, oblivious to the confrontation between Bryan and Wade. He hurried to Rachel’s side. “My grandma gave them to me, but you can have some.” “Perhaps you can share with everyone,” Shalise said. “I think we’re all hungry.” “And thirsty,” Emily added. “Don’t you think it’s ironic that we spent all that time and effort escaping water, and now we don’t have any to drink?” “Actually we do.” It was Cassie’s turn to retrieve her backpack. From its depths she produced a plastic bottle of water and three granola bars, which she quartered and passed around. The tiny squares of breakfast bars and a handful of candy were soon washed down with a squirt of water from the plastic bottle. Web listened for more planes as he munched on his share of the meager rations. Occasionally he caught the drone of the small plane that had flown over earlier, but it seemed to be concentrating its attention on the other side of the main canyon. He wished he could communicate with the sheriff or the pilot of that plane, but his radio and supplies had been left behind in his cruiser. He wouldn’t even have been able to light a fire last night if Bryan hadn’t slipped him a cigarette lighter when his mother wasn’t looking. Gage walked up beside him.“How bad is the slide?” the younger man asked. Web knew he was referring to the slide blocking the trail out of the canyon. “There’s no way we can cross it.” “And there’s no way a chopper can set down here.” Gage answered back, gesturing at the small clearing where they sat dwarfed by towering pines. “By now the water will have receded a great deal, but it will be days before we’ll be able to walk out.” Gage hadn’t heard Cassie approach, but he nodded his head at her words, acknowledging that her judgment was correct. “That means we’ve got to find a spot where the rescuers can reach us.” Gage stared thoughtfully at the steep mountain towering above them. “There is a place . . .” Gage paused and Web turned to him, anxious to hear what he might suggest that could possibly lead them out of this nightmare. CHAPTER 5 Shalise sat beside Chelsea Timmerman on one of the logs near the fire pit. They changed position each time a fickle breeze shifted the plume

What…the…” I breathed. “You were married to…” I blinked. “Wait,” I said to my mother, “you were married?” “To your father,” my mother returned. “Until he died.” “Then does that mean…” I blinked again, and turned to Reed, who gave me a shrug and a shake of the head. “You’re my brother?” Reed nodded. “Half, anyway.” Kat spoke up, drawing my attention along with everyone else’s. “What…the hell is going on here? Can I go yet?” “Stay where you are, Kitten,” my mother snapped at her. “My name is Kat!” A withering glare from my mother caused Kat to flinch. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, chastened. “So Sienna and this dude are brother and sister?” Clary piped up from behind me. “Cuz I thought I caught ro-mantic tension between them. Heh,” he guffawed. “Guess it’s more like BRO-mantic tension!” He burst out in uncontrolled laughter which was echoed by no one. “What?” He turned to Bastian. “Roberto, that is funny! Come on!” I turned to Reed. “All this time you’ve been playing Leia to my Luke and you never told me?” He frowned. “What? I’m totally Luke. You’re the girl. Can you make objects move through the air?” He raised his finger and I felt a gust of wind blow my hair. “No? I’m Luke. You’re Leia. Get it straight.” “So who’s Han Solo?” Clary asked seriously. “And Darth Vader?” “I’m going to kill every last one of you pathetic geeks,” my mother said. “And I’m not even going to be nice about it. I’m going to just start draining souls. Will you please stop with the moronic Star Wars references? The movies came out in the 1970s. Most of you weren’t even born then. Move on with your lives.

each Shakespearean reference is taken from a specific Shakespearean character. These are the characters I paired together: Cady: Miranda in The Tempest. Miranda is an ingenue who has lived most of her life secluded with her father in a remote wilderness, not unlike Cady. (I broke this pairing once, when Cady uses lines borrowed from Hero in Much Ado About Nothing. The quote from Hero was so perfect for the moment that I had to use it. Can you find it?) Janis: Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing. Beatrice has a caustic, biting wit and a fierce loyalty to her friends. Regina: Kate in Taming of the Shrew. Kate, the titular shrew, starts off the play as a harsh woman with a sharp tongue. Gretchen: Viola in Twelfth Night. Viola, dressing as a man, serves as a constant go-between and wears a different face with each character. Karen: Juliet in Romeo and Juliet. Juliet is the youngest of Shakespeare’s heroines. She is innocent and hopeful. Mrs. Heron: Cleopatra in Antony and Cleopatra. Cleopatra is the regal, intelligent woman who has come from Africa. Mrs. George: Lady Macbeth in Macbeth. Lady Macbeth is one of Shakespeare’s cruelest, most cunning villains. Yes, this is unfair to Amy Poehler’s portrayal of Mrs. George, who is nothing but positive and fun. My thought was that anyone who could raise Regina must be a piece of work. Ms. Norbury: Titania in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. There’s little textual connection here—I just love Tina Fey so much that I thought, “Who could represent her except a majestic fairy queen?

So knowing that society has a distorted and unfortunate view of “perfection,” one that completely annihilates our confidence, I have taken a rather brash and audacious step to redefine perfection altogether. Rather than reference it as an end goal, I’m going to turn it into an adjective to describe our “flaws,” which I just so happen to think are the most beautiful things about us. I mean what the hell, right? If I’m going to redefine perfection, I might as well redefine flaws as well. Because I believe that our flaws are, well … flaw-less. So yes, I will use the blasphemous word perfection to describe our awesome uniqueness because I think we are all perfectly and wonderfully flawed. Bam!

eight to twelve hours after death, and fixed after eight to twelve hours from the time of death.[7] “Nonfixed” refers to whether the skin is blanchable: this means that—when lividity is present—if the skin is pressed, the color will disappear, a bit like when you press your own skin now.[8] But this process can be affected by factors such as temperature and changing body position. 3. Algor Mortis Algor mortis refers to the temperature of a body. After death, the body starts to cool until it reaches equilibrium with the ambient temperature (wherever the body is discovered).[9] Typically, the body will lose about 1.5° F per

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