Miss Y All Quotes

There was no ‘Miss Woodley.’ There was Willie. Willie was about life, and she grabbed it by the balls. Y’all know that. She loved a stiff drink, a stiff hundred, and she loved her business. And she didn’t judge nobody. She loved everyone equal—accountants, queers, musicians, she welcomed us all, said we were all idiots just the same.

Holy crap, Caleb! You're my uncle." Nick "No!" Caleb "It's worse. He's the half-brother of your great-grandfather." Kody "You're not helping." Caleb "No, but I'm entertaining myself at your adorable expense." Kody "Yeah, y'all are missing the important fact. To a Cajun, that makes him my uncle." Nick "Great. I always wanted to be a monkey's uncle. Nice to know I finally succeeded." Caleb

this Bible situation is problematic. It’s been weaponized by the oppressor to prop up hypocrisy and to justify hate. Hate the sin but not the sinner? Y’all can miss me wit dat!

Thank goodness we don'y meet many people like [Miss Trunchbull] in this world, although they do exist and all of us are likely to come across at least one of them in a lifetime. If you ever do, you should behave as you would if you met an enraged rhinoceros out in the bush--climb up the nearest tree and stay there until it has gone away.

Indeed, O's painting made me wish I could return to a time before my birth, back when I was still steeling myself for the limitations of the body to come. Then I could plan in advance all the ways in which I would dare to be. This was, of course, a pointless fantasy. I was already here, in the thick of this life, a parade of missed opportunities, a second-to-second condemnation of my mediocrity.

We can gather all the Conferences of the world, gather by herds Heads of State, economic experts and champions of all techniques. They will weigh. They will decree. But, basically, they will fail because they will miss the point. The disease of the century is not in the body. The body is sick because the soul is sick. It was she who needed to be healed and revitalized. The real, the big revolution to do is there. Spiritual revolution Or bankruptcy of the century. The salvation of the world is in the will of the souls who believe.

I keeled over sideways. The world turned fluffy, bleached of all color. Nothing hurt anymore. I was dimly aware of Diana’s face hovering over me, Meg and Hazel peering over the goddess’s shoulders. “He’s almost gone,” Diana said. Then I was gone. My mind slipped into a pool of cold, slimy darkness. “Oh, no, you don’t.” My sister’s voice woke me rudely. I’d been so comfortable, so nonexistent. Life surged back into me—cold, sharp, and unfairly painful. Diana’s face came into focus. She looked annoyed, which seemed on-brand for her. As for me, I felt surprisingly good. The pain in my gut was gone. My muscles didn’t burn. I could breathe without difficulty. I must have slept for decades. “H-how long was I out?” I croaked. “Roughly three seconds,” she said. “Now, get up, drama queen.” She helped me to my feet. I felt a bit unsteady, but I was delighted to find that my legs had any strength at all. My skin was no longer gray. The lines of infection were gone. The Arrow of Dodona was still in my hand, though he had gone silent, perhaps in awe of the goddess’s presence. Or perhaps he was still trying to get the taste of “Sweet Caroline” out of his imaginary mouth. I beamed at my sister. It was so good to see her disapproving I-can’t-believe-you’re-my-brother frown again. “I love you,” I said, my voice hoarse with emotion. She blinked, clearly unsure what to do with this information. “You really have changed.” “I missed you!” “Y-yes, well. I’m here now. Even Dad couldn’t argue with a Sibylline invocation from Temple Hill.” “It worked, then!” I grinned at Hazel and Meg. “It worked!” “Yeah,” Meg said wearily. “Hi, Artemis.” “Diana,” my sister corrected. “But hello, Meg.” For her, my sister had a smile. “You’ve done well, young warrior.” Meg blushed. She kicked at the scattered zombie dust on the floor and shrugged. “Eh.” I checked my stomach, which was easy, since my shirt was in tatters. The bandages had vanished, along with the festering wound. Only a thin white scar remained. “So…I’m healed?” My flab told me she hadn’t restored me to my godly self. Nah, that would have been too much to expect. Diana raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’m not the goddess of healing, but I’m still a goddess. I think I can take care of my little brother’s boo-boos.” “Little brother?” She smirked.

If someone who had given up his whole life to thinking about goodness and rightness and truth and still expected nuns to cook him his fish fingers (because after all, nuns haven't got anything else better to do, and none of them are ever going to be priests or become the Pope, because women aren't good enough for that), then something was very wrong. How could he have missed the bit about everyone being equal in the eyes of God?

Writers show us the glades we'd missed, the trickling voices of streams, the eyes of a barn owl watching us. A writer like my father revealed a shape and movement amid it all, layers, meaning, perspective, joy, because he paid such careful attention, and paying attention is about the biggest redemption there is.

The glint does not come from a living being, but from an antique pocket watch - eighteen-carat gold encased with mother of pearl, engraved with the lines from a poem: "Arriving there is what you are destined for, But do not hurry the journey at all..." And there on the back are two letters, or more precisely, the same letter written twice: Y & Y

wondered whats the cause of this headache or why would would it ache so bad...I can remember,usual routines done all along but y does this sudden pain feels eating me brain out out...I only got to have missed a very special woman and she's all i longed to see, but y does it pained my head ...should it have been my heart knowing this love is simply unrequited?ZZZzzzzzzzz...

I have it so good. So absurdly, improbably good. I didn't do anything to deserve it, but I have it. I'm healthy. I've never gone hungry. And yes, to answer your question, I'm- I'm loved. I lived in a beautiful place, did meaningful work. The world we made out there, Mosscap, it's- it's nothing like what your originals left. It's a good world, a beautiful world. It's not perfect, but we've fixed it so much. We made a good place, struck a good balance. And yet every fucking day in the City, I woke up hollow, and... and just... tired, y'know? So, I did something else instead. I packed up everything, and I learned a brand-new thing from scratch, and gods, I worked hard for it. I worked really hard. I thought, if I can just do that, if I can do it well, I'll feel okay. And guess what? I do do it well. I'm good at what I do. I make people happy. I make people feel better. And yet I still wake up tired, like... like something's missing. I tried talking to friends, and family, and nobody got it, so I stopped bringing it up, and then I stopped talking to them altogether, because I couldn't explain, and I was tired of pretending like everything was fine. I went to doctors, to make sure I wasn't sick and that my head was okay. I read books and monastic texts and everything I could find. I threw myself into my work, I went to all the places that used to inspire me, I listened to music and looked at art, I exercised and had sex and got plenty of sleep and ate my vegetables, and still. Still. Something is missing. Something is off. So, how fucking spoiled am I, then? How fucking broken? What is wrong with me that I can have everything I could ever want and have ever asked for and still wake up in the morning feeling like every day is a slog?

Is there room for me to sit with y’all?” Not really, but she was, after all, Miss Teen Ragland. And my sister. “Sure,” I said. “We’ll make room.” I scrunched up next to Bird. “It’s a good thing I like you,” she whispered.

How often have you heard people brag about what great multi-taskers they are? Perhaps you’ve made the same boast yourself. You might even have heard that members of “Gen Y” are natural multi-taskers, having lived their whole lives constantly switching their attention from texting to IMing to Facebooking to watching TV— all supposedly without missing a beat. We even see training classes designed to teach managers how best to multi-task their Gen Y staff, the implication being that asking someone to focus on a single task through to completion has now become ridiculously old-fashioned for, if not downright heretical to, the new world order. Don’t believe it.

If you’ve ever wondered what we’re missing by sitting at computers in cubicles all day, follow Jessica DuLong when she loses her desk job and embarks on this unlikely but fantastic voyage. Deeply original, riveting to read, and soul-bearingly honest, "My River Chronicles" is a surprisingly infectious romance about a young woman falling in love with a muscle-y old boat. As DuLong learns to navigate her way through a man’s world of tools and engines, and across the swirling currents of a temperamental river, her book also becomes a love letter to a nation. In tune with the challenges of our times, DuLong reminds us of the skills and dedication that built America, and inspires us to renew ourselves once again.

Despite all threats, Prudence Crandall opened the school … The Negro students stood bravely by her side. And then followed one of the most heroic—and most shameful—episodes in American history. The storekeepers refused to sell supplies to Miss Crandall.… The village doctor would not attend ailing students. The druggist refused to give medicine. On top of such fierce inhumanity, rowdies smashed the school windows, threw manure in the well and started several fires in the building.

Never mind that she’s been hearing this soliloquy from strangers since she was born, in the Year of the Fire Horse, twin sixes after the nineteen. Never mind the order of questions invariably changes even if the questions themselves do not: 'How long have y’all lived here? Do you even speak English? Oh, well. Your English is so good. Bless your heart, you must miss your people. You stick out like a raisin in a big bowl of oatmeal. Is it true that you worship cows? . . . Have you even heard of the Bible? Don’t get all uppity on me, don’t turn away. I know you think you don’t have to listen. But this is my country. You do. When are y’all heading back? Y’all best be getting back to where you came from, you hear? No need to overstay your welcome.

What did we talk about? I don't remember. We talked so hard and sat so still that I got cramps in my knee. We had too many cups of tea and then didn't want to leave the table to go to the bathroom because we didn't want to stop talking. You will think we talked of revolution but we didn't. Nor did we talk of our own souls. Nor of sewing. Nor of babies. Nor of departmental intrigue. It was political if by politics you mean the laboratory talk that characters in bad movies are perpetually trying to convey (unsuccessfully) when they Wrinkle Their Wee Brows and say (valiantly--dutifully--after all, they didn't write it) "But, Doctor, doesn't that violate Finagle's Constant?" I staggered to the bathroom, released floods of tea, and returned to the kitchen to talk. It was professional talk. It left my grey-faced and with such concentration that I began to develop a headache. We talked about Mary Ann Evans' loss of faith, about Emily Brontë's isolation, about Charlotte Brontë's blinding cloud, about the split in Virginia Woolf's head and the split in her economic condition. We talked about Lady Murasaki, who wrote in a form that no respectable man would touch, Hroswit, a little name whose plays "may perhaps amuse myself," Miss Austen, who had no more expression in society than a firescreen or a poker. They did not all write letters, write memoirs, or go on the stage. Sappho--only an ambiguous, somewhat disagreeable name. Corinna? The teacher of Pindar. Olive Schriener, growing up on the veldt, wrote on book, married happily, and ever wrote another. Kate Chopin wrote a scandalous book and never wrote another. (Jean has written nothing.). There was M-ry Sh-ll-y who wrote you know what and Ch-rl-tt- P-rk-ns G-lm-an, who wrote one superb horror study and lots of sludge (was it sludge?) and Ph-ll-s Wh--tl-y who was black and wrote eighteenth century odes (but it was the eighteenth century) and Mrs. -nn R-dcl-ff- S-thw-rth and Mrs. G--rg- Sh-ld-n and (Miss?) G--rg-tt- H-y-r and B-rb-r- C-rtl-nd and the legion of those, who writing, write not, like the dead Miss B--l-y of the poem who was seduced into bad practices (fudging her endings) and hanged herself in her garter. The sun was going down. I was blind and stiff. It's at this point that the computer (which has run amok and eaten Los Angeles) is defeated by some scientifically transcendent version of pulling the plug; the furniture stood around unknowing (though we had just pulled out the plug) and Lady, who got restless when people talked at suck length because she couldn't understand it, stuck her head out from under the couch, looking for things to herd. We had talked for six hours, from one in the afternoon until seven; I had at that moment an impression of our act of creation so strong, so sharp, so extraordinarily vivid, that I could not believe all our talking hadn't led to something more tangible--mightn't you expect at least a little blue pyramid sitting in the middle of the floor?

Y-You love me?” Gazing down at her pert nose and the freckles that made him think of an adorable pixie, he felt his throat constrict. “I want you every hour of the day. I can’t imagine a future without you in it. The idea of returning to my empty house alone is so hellish that I’d rather wander the world at your heels than be without you. Tell me, is that love?” She cast him a blazing smile. “It sounds like it.” “Then I love you, my wonderful, sword-wielding, tart-tongued angel. I want you to be my wife. I want you to preside over my table and accompany me to balls and share my bed.” A most uncharacteristic happiness surged through him. “And I want to have children with you, lots of them, filling every room in Halstead Hall.” A sudden understanding lit her face. His clever love didn’t miss the fact that he was offering her not just himself, but everything else he’d neglected, as well. Everything that he wanted to put to rights. That he needed to put to rights. “Not filling every room, I hope,” she teased, even as tears shone in her eyes. “There are three hundred, after all.” “Then I suppose we’ll have to get started right away,” he said, matching her light tone. His heart near to bursting, he reached again for the buttons on the back of her gown. “These things should never be left until the last minute.” As a laugh of pure joy bubbled out of her, she began to untie his cravat. “I can see you’re going to be quite the lusty husband, aren’t you?” He stripped her gown from her, then turned her around to undo her stays. “You have no idea,” he murmured, and filled his hands with the breasts he’d freed. Moaning, she pressed her bottom against him. “I have some idea.

I'd bet dollars to doughnuts, someone needs someone exactly like you and they're preparing to welcome you into their life. I suspect someone misses you and listens for your footsteps on the stairs. Someone remembers the corner of your smile and laughs out loud when they think of that time y'all two were at the whatchamacallit. Someone knows you exist and cares that you're happy, and all those someones connect you to the great everyone.

She was swamped by a feeling of utter hopelessness as she waited for him to destroy her with a few caustic words. But he continued to watch her silently, his face unreadable. It seemed almost as if he were waiting for some cue from her. The dilemma lasted for several seconds, until Sara solved it by bursting into tears. She jerked her hands up to her face, blotting her streaming eyes. "I'm so sorry," she gasped. Suddenly he was next to her, touching her shoulders and arms lightly and then jerking his hands back as if burned. "No, don't. Don't. You're all right now." Gingerly he reached out to pat her back. "Don'y cry. Everything's fine. Bloody hell. Don't do that." As she continued to weep, Derek hovered over her in baffled dismay. He excelled at seducing women, charming and deceiving them, breaking down their defenses... everything but comforting them. No one had ever required it of him. "There, now," he muttered, as he had heard Lily Raiford say a thousand times to her crying children. "There, now." Suddenly she was leaning on him, her small head testing at the center of his chest. The long skeins of her hair draped everywhere, entangling him in a fine russet web. Alarmed, he lifted his hands to ease her away. Instead his arms slid around her until she was pressed against him length to length. "Miss Fielding," he said with great effort. "Sara..." She nestled deeper against him, muffling her gulping sobs in his shirtfront. Derek swore and furtively pressed his lips to the top of her head. He concentrated on the chilly night air, but his loins began to throb with an all-too-familiar pain. It was impossible to stay indifferent to the feel of her body molded to his. He was a bloody charlatan... no gentleman, no chivalrous comforter of women, only a scoundrel filled with raw desire. He smoothed his hand over her hair and urged her head into his shoulder until she was in danger of being smothered. "It's all right," he said gruffly. "Everything's fine now. Don't cry anymore.

I reviewed in thought the modern era of raps and apparitions, beginning with the knockings of 1848, at the hamlet of Hydesville, N.Y., and ending with grotesque phenomena at Cambridge, Mass.; I evoked the anklebones and other anatomical castanets of the Fox sisters (as described by the sages of the University of Buffalo ); the mysteriously uniform type of delicate adolescent in bleak Epworth or Tedworth, radiating the same disturbances as in old Peru; solemn Victorian orgies with roses falling and accordions floating to the strains of sacred music; professional imposters regurgitating moist cheesecloth; Mr. Duncan, a lady medium's dignified husband, who, when asked if he would submit to a search, excused himself on the ground of soiled underwear; old Alfred Russel Wallace, the naive naturalist, refusing to believe that the white form with bare feet and unperforated earlobes before him, at a private pandemonium in Boston, could be prim Miss Cook whom he had just seen asleep, in her curtained corner, all dressed in black, wearing laced-up boots and earrings; two other investigators, small, puny, but reasonably intelligent and active men, closely clinging with arms and legs about Eusapia, a large, plump elderly female reeking of garlic, who still managed to fool them; and the skeptical and embarrassed magician, instructed by charming young Margery's "control" not to get lost in the bathrobe's lining but to follow up the left stocking until he reached the bare thigh - upon the warm skin of which he felt a "teleplastic" mass that appeared to the touch uncommonly like cold, uncooked liver. ("The Vane Sisters")

To the great astonishment of learned despisers of religion everywhere, who have been predicting the death of God from the middle of the nineteenth century right up to Y2K, religion in all of its manifold varieties has returned. Even to say that is misleading, since religion was reported missing mostly by the intellectuals; no one outside the academy thought that it had gone anywhere at all. Religion has returned even among avant-garde intellectuals who have given it a new legitimacy by discrediting its discreditors, suspecting its suspectors, doubting its doubters, unmasking its unmaskers.

Um, excuse me…” I hear a man’s voice. “She’s all right,” Rami says. “She’s with me. She’s my friend. She’s just a bit upset.” I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Are you all right, miss?” I drag my hands away from my face and look up into an unfamiliar bearded face. “Do you know this man?” the stranger asks me. “Y-yes,” I gasp. “That’s all right then.” He pats me on the shoulder. “There’s a hospital just down the road if you need help,” I hear him tell Rami. “Thanks,” Rami replies. “I guess it doesn’t look too good, me wrestling on the pavement with a screaming girl,” Rami says, a smile in his voice.

Once an opportunist like Mickey, who took the argument when she jumped on some devastated wretch's machine and jackpotted that it was the "cash-ino's money" she was winning, Moon returned after her six month break with the view that the separation had somehow sweetened the honeypot. The sad reality, she quickly learned, was that she was not irreplaceable; as such, the Casino felt no compunction to welcome her back with multi-jackpots. Instead, it took her money everyday and did not once give her a jackpot so that she could say, "Ah. They missed me." Instead, all she could keep saying was, "Verr-y bed. Verr-y bed. Suck-ah all my money!

Energy is a science-y term that psychics like to use a lot, though I’m not sure many of us would say we missed our calling as professors or technology gurus. I’ve met my share of mediums, and I’ve never heard any of them confide, “Gosh, I really wanted to be a physicist, but I knew talking to dead people would make me more popular at parties.” Are you out of your mind? If you handed me a radiometer, I’d probably use it as a paperweight. Even when the kids needed help with their science fair projects growing up, it was a group effort at our house—me, Larry, my parents, we’d all pitch in. And believe me when I say that I was rarely the one steering the rocket ship.

he took the cup from my hand, Adèle, thinking the moment propitious for making a request in my favour, cried out— “N’est-ce pas, monsieur, qu’il y a un cadeau pour Mademoiselle Eyre dans votre petit coffre?” “Who talks of cadeaux?” said he gruffly. “Did you expect a present, Miss Eyre? Are you fond of presents?” and he searched my face with eyes that I saw were dark, irate, and piercing. “I hardly know, sir; I have little experience of them: they are generally thought pleasant things.” “Generally thought? But what do you think?” “I should be obliged to take time, sir, before I could give you an answer worthy of your acceptance: a present has many faces to it, has it not? and one should consider all, before pronouncing an opinion as to its nature.

Next time we will look at this from a much more basic point of view and one antedating all zoology, which, glimpsed only a little after my twentieth year, made write in those days that what is most valuable in man is his eternal and almost divine discontent, a discontent which is a kind of love without a beloved, and like an ache which we feel in members of our body that we do not have. Man is the only being that misses he has never had. And the whole of what we miss, without ever having had it, is never what we call happiness. From this one could start a meditation on happiness, an analysis of that strange condition which makes man the only being who is unhappy for the very reason that he needs to be happy. That is, because he needs to be what he is not.

February 22, 2005 Right now the rumor on leaving is the latest the 22nd, but I am still supposed to leave on the first. Hopefully. I want to get home to see my baby and my son. I miss both of y’all something awful. Time is going a little faster now because of working again. I had a long enough break and it’s about time I got back out. I’m still making a name for myself by adding to my numbers. I know I never say it, but it does feel good to have all the people talking about me in a good way. Anyway, I love you and miss you. You mean the world to me. Please take care of yourself and I will call you soon. Smoooooooooch!!!!! I can’t wait to give you a real one. Carefully go over every inch of your body. I am soooo horny! I love you, baby! -XOXOXOXOXXXXX

I woke up hollow, and … and just … tired, y’know? So, I did something else instead. I packed up everything, and I learned a brand-new thing from scratch, and gods, I worked hard for it. I worked really hard. I thought, if I can just do that, if I can do it well, I’ll feel okay. And guess what? I do do it well. I’m good at what I do. I make people happy. I make people feel better. And yet I still wake up tired, like … like something’s missing. I tried talking to friends, and family, and nobody got it, so I stopped bringing it up, and then I just stopped talking to them altogether, because I couldn’t explain, and I was tired of pretending like everything was fine. I went to doctors, to make sure I wasn’t sick and that my head was okay. I read books and monastic texts and everything I could find. I threw myself into my work, I went to all the places that used to inspire me, I listened to music and looked at art, I exercised and had sex and got plenty of sleep and ate my vegetables, and still. Still. Something is missing. Something is off. So, how fucking spoiled am I, then? How fucking broken? What is wrong with me that I can have everything I could ever want and have ever asked for and still wake up in the morning feeling like every day is a slog?

Cups and Rings and Drawings. I stopped by a famed park, Picked a blank sheet And drew a cup. For me, it represented me holding myself up in a storm, It represented the start of life, Something to pour out every lesson learnt Out of every misfortune we’ve ever been. The cup — the container to hold chocolate drink Water. Wine and strawberries. I drew a ring, A marriage between blessing and joy The bloom of flowers in spring The sprouting of leaves in midsummer And the smell of fresh grasses at night. I drew Monalisa I painted art I became Michaelangelo Da Vinci I became the Renaissance I healed through art “Don’t you know that you are gods?” So the first day, I cleared the storms out of my life. The second day, I dried all my tears The third day, I reinvented myself. The fourth day, I finally remembered what it felt like to be happy Like two children drawing arts on a canvass. Delilah & Annabelle Arts curled out of girls trying to reinvent the world Or the colours of the rainbow. The fifth day, I opened the windows wide To let the lights shine in. “When I’m down on my knees you’re how I pray.” The sixth day I created my favourite masterpiece — Baroque. The seventh day, I admired myself in the mirror. I missed me I missed the time I had so much optimism I miss you And I miss writing so innocently.

Heuristics for testing your goals Assess your goals using these guidelines: Does your goal start with a verb (“launch,” “build,” “refactor,” etc.)? Then you probably have an action, so reframe it to describe the outcome you want. Often, this takes the form of translating “X so that Y” into “Y via X” (and consider if you need X in there at all). A helpful trick to figure out the proper framing is to read the goal out, ask yourself why, answer that question, then do that a couple of times until the true goal comes into focus. (See Table 2 for an example.) Do you have “engineering goals” and “business goals,” or something similar? Stop it. Are your goals more than one page, more than three to five objectives, or more than three to five KRs per objective? No one will read them—let alone remember them. When you (or your team) look at your goals, do you wince and think, “What about X? I was really hoping to get to that this quarter”? If not, you probably haven’t focused enough, and your goals are not adding value. Could one team member think a goal is achieved and another one completely disagree? Then your goal isn’t specific enough. (By contrast, if everyone feels it’s mostly successful but the assessments range from 60–80 percent done, who cares?) Can you imagine a scenario where the goal is achieved but you’re still dissatisfied with where you ended up? Then your goal isn’t specific enough, or an aspect is missing. Could you be successful without achieving the goal? Then your goal is overly specific, and you should rethink how to define success.

Oh,Ella. I wish you'd had a better time at the ball." "Fuhgeddaboudit," I muttered. Greaseball. Freddy. Freak. "It's not like she and I were ever going to be BFFs." "I wasn't just referring to Amanda." Of course he wasn't. "I'll try," I moaned into the crook of my elbow. "Oh, Lord.I'll try to carry on." "That sounds rather dramatic, even for you." "It's Styx," I told him. "After your time, before mine. I don't know all the words,but those work for the moment. And for the record, I'm being ironic, not dramatic." "If you say so." I ignored him. "I have had my last flutter over Alex Bainbridge. I mean it. Frankie was right.How many signs do I need that we are never, ever going to have...anything...before I get it? Obviously, it doesn't matter that we realte to the same schizo seventies songs. Or that we can discuss antique Japanese woodblock prints. Or that when he sits next to me, he kinda takes my breath away. You would think that would count for a lot,wouldn't you?" Edward gets the concept of rhetorical questions, so I went on. "I wouldn't even want to hazard a guess about what makes Amanda's pulse go all skittery, but I would bet anything it's not Alex. And he's still with her. He doesn't belong with her, but apparently he feels he belongs to her. Explain that,please." "Oh,Ella.We men are not always the best at looking beyond the...er..." "Boobs,Edward. You can say it. Amanda Alstead has boobs and blonda hair. Beyond that, I can't see a single thing that's special about her." "Because there isn't a single thing. Beyond the...er, obvious. You,on the other hand,are a creature of infinite charms. Shall I list them alphabetically or from the top down?" I scowled up at him. "Y'know, you are beginning to sound a little too much like Frankie and Sadie,my deluded Greek chorus." "yes,well,I rather thought that's what friends are for." "You're not supposed to be my friend," I muttered. "You're supposed to be my Prince Charming." "Ahem." Edward's sculpted lips compressed into a grim line. "Have you looked at me lately? I am supposed to be startling and even a bit scary." "Nope.Neither." I rested my chin on my forearm. "To me,you are perfect. You are loyal and reliable and completely lacking in surprises." "That is a good thing?" "Absolutely," I said. "It's an excellent thing.I don't want any more surprises, over." "Hardly an admirable goal,that." "Maybe not," I agreed, "but pleasant. Among all the other bizarreness tonight, I found something new to be afraid of. Evil girlfriends." "Now,Ella. You can't go on being afraid forever." "Oh,yes,I can. As far as Amanda Alstead is concerned, I can." Edward tilted his head and studied me for a moment. He looked annoyed. "Why do you insist on having these conversations with me when you ignore everything I have to say?" It was a pretty good question. "Fine." I sat up straight and folded my hands in my lap. Home Truth time. "Go ahead. On this night when we celebrate the mysteries of life and death..Say something profound, something startling." There was a long silence. Then, "Boo," Edward said. "Thank you,Mr. Willing." "Don't mention it, Miss Marino. I am yours to command.

Creating “Correct” Children in the Classroom One of the most popular discipline programs in American schools is called Assertive Discipline. It teaches teachers to inflict the old “obey or suffer” method of control on students. Here you disguise the threat of punishment by calling it a choice the child is making. As in, “You have a choice, you can either finish your homework or miss the outing this weekend.” Then when the child chooses to try to protect his dignity against this form of terrorism, by refusing to do his homework, you tell him he has chosen his logical, natural consequence of being excluded from the outing. Putting it this way helps the parent or teacher mitigate against the bad feelings and guilt that would otherwise arise to tell the adult that they are operating outside the principles of compassionate relating. This insidious method is even worse than outand-out punishing, where you can at least rebel against your punisher. The use of this mind game teaches the child the false, crazy-making belief that they wanted something bad or painful to happen to them. These programs also have the stated intention of getting the child to be angry with himself for making a poor choice. In this smoke and mirrors game, the children are “causing” everything to happen and the teachers are the puppets of the children’s choices. The only ones who are not taking responsibility for their actions are the adults. Another popular coercive strategy is to use “peer pressure” to create compliance. For instance, a teacher tells her class that if anyone misbehaves then they all won’t get their pizza party. What a great way to turn children against each other. All this is done to help (translation: compel) children to behave themselves. But of course they are not behaving themselves: they are being “behaved” by the adults. Well-meaning teachers and parents try to teach children to be motivated (translation: do boring or aversive stuff without questioning why), responsible (translation: thoughtless conformity to the house rules) people. When surveys are conducted in which fourth-graders are asked what being good means, over 90% answer “being quiet.” And when teachers are asked what happens in a successful classroom, the answer is, “the teacher is able to keep the students on task” (translation: in line, doing what they are told). Consulting firms measuring teacher competence consider this a major criterion of teacher effectiveness. In other words if the students are quietly doing what they were told the teacher is evaluated as good. However my understanding of ‘real learning’ with twenty to forty children is that it is quite naturally a bit noisy and messy. Otherwise children are just playing a nice game of school, based on indoctrination and little integrated retained education. Both punishments and rewards foster a preoccupation with a narrow egocentric self-interest that undermines good values. All little Johnny is thinking about is “How much will you give me if I do X? How can I avoid getting punished if I do Y? What do they want me to do and what happens to me if I don’t do it?” Instead we could teach him to ask, “What kind of person do I want to be and what kind of community do I want to help make?” And Mom is thinking “You didn’t do what I wanted, so now I’m going to make something unpleasant happen to you, for your own good to help you fit into our (dominance/submission based) society.” This contributes to a culture of coercion and prevents a community of compassion. And as we are learning on the global level with our war on terrorism, as you use your energy and resources to punish people you run out of energy and resources to protect people. And even if children look well-behaved, they are not behaving themselves They are being behaved by controlling parents and teachers.

Korie’s parents came to the house to see me, and I sat on the couch with Johnny and Chrys. It was not pretty. The argument was so loud that Alan came out of his room. He looked at us and asked, “What in the world is going on?” Johnny was making all of his arguments, and I was acting like a little punk, twisting his words to put them in my favor, which only made him madder and madder. Johnny told me that according to studies he’d read, 50 percent of all marriages between young people ended in divorce. He had the articles with him to support his arguments. “So you’re calling that right now?” I asked him. “In all your wisdom, you know we’re going to get divorced?” “I’m not saying that,” Johnny told me. “You just said it,” I responded. “You just said half end in divorce. Well, what if we’re the good half?” Then Johnny went on to say that if we got married, he didn’t want me coming to him for advice. But then later on in the conversation, he told me I could ask him about anything. He was completely irrational, and I, of course, had to point that out to him. “You just said I couldn’t ask you for advice,” I told him. He was so mad, I thought he was going to leap off the couch and hit me. Before they left, Johnny looked at me and asked me one last question. “What’s your plan?” he asked. “What’s my plan?” I said to him. “What exactly is your plan?” he said. “Where are you going to work? Where are you going to live?” “Well, I reckon I’ll just buy a trailer and put it on the back property at Phil’s house,” I told him. That threw Johnny over the top. He and Chrys stormed out of Alan and Lisa’s house, and I was convinced there was no way they were going to give us their blessing to get married. I called Korie to tell her how the meeting went. “It went terrible,” I told her. “We were yelling at each other. It was pretty ugly.” Then Korie had to hang up because her parents were calling her phone. She called me back a few minutes later. Much to my surprise, her parents told her, “Okay, if you’re determined to do this, we’re going to support you.” Johnny didn’t say much to me for the next few months, during the planning of the wedding, and I knew Korie’s parents still didn’t like the idea of her getting married so young. I told Phil that Korie’s parents didn’t want us getting married and asked him what I should do. “Here’s what I’d do,” Phil said, while sitting back in his recliner. “I’d call them up and say, “Y’all missed that. The wedding was last week when we went to the justice of the peace and got married. Y’all missed the whole thing.

For some reason, Jase thought it would be really funny to lock me out of the house, and I was furious. I kept banging on the door, but Jase had turned the music up loud so he wouldn’t hear me. He kicked his feet up on a table and kept yelling, “I can’t hear you. I can’t hear you.” I went to Granny’s house and told Kay what Jase had done. Kay went marching back to our house and was hotter than a catfish fry in July. She started banging on the door, but Jase thought it was still me and just kept blaring the music and enjoying having the house to himself. Kay got so angry that she banged on the glass pane and her fist went right through the window, cutting up her hand pretty badly. This caught Jase’s attention. When he saw her hand, he knew he was in big trouble. “When your dad gets home, he’s going to whip y’all’s butts,” Kay told us. I hadn’t even done anything, but Phil didn’t usually conduct and investigation to find out who was at fault. He just whipped whoever was in the vicinity of the crime. Jase and I ran back to our room and padded up with anything we could find-socks, underwear, and pillowcases. We sat on our bed with our butts padded, waiting for Phil to get home, certain we were in big trouble. Phil came into our house and saw the bandage on Kay’s hand. “What in the world did you do?” Phil asked her. “Look at what these boys did,” Kay told him. “Jase locked Willie out of the house, and I was banging on the door for him to let us in. My hand went right through the window.” “Kay, that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Why would you bang on a glass window?” Phil said. Phil walked right by her and took a shower. Jase and I were standing there with padded behind, our mouths wide open with relief. Phil was always in charge of disciplining us, but sometimes Kay tried to take matters into her own hands. Unfortunately for Kay, she was really an uncoordinated disciplinarian. One day when Phil was out fishing, Kay announced that she was going to whip us. She grabbed a belt that had a buckle on one end and told us to line up for a whipping. Now, Kay never liked whipping us and always closed her eyes when she swung because she didn’t want to watch. This time, she reared back and swung and missed, and the buckle flew back and hit her right in the forehead. Jase and I just looked at her, started laughing, and took off running into the backyard. I really don’t know how she survived raising us four boys. Korie: Poor Kay! All that testosterone in one house! Maybe that’s why she is so great to us daughters-in-law. She is thankful we took them off her hands. She has definitely enjoyed all of her granddaughters. She has set up a cute little library and a place for tea parties. They have coloring contests and dress-up parties. She didn’t get to do any of that with her four boys so our daughters have gotten the full “girly” grandma treatment.

Hell wasn’t what Rincewind had been led to expect, although there were signs of what it might once have been – a few clinkers in a corner, a bad scorch mark on the ceiling. It was hot, though, with the kind of heat that you get by boiling air inside an oven for years – Hell, it has been suggested, is other people. This has always come as a bit of a surprise to many working demons, who had always thought hell was sticking sharp things into people and pushing them into lakes of blood and so on. This is because demons, like most people, have failed to distinguish between the body and the soul. The fact was that, as droves of demon kings had noticed, there was a limit to what you could do to a soul with, e.g., red-hot tweezers, because even fairly evil and corrupt souls were bright enough to realise that since they didn’t have the concomitant body and nerve endings attached to them there was no real reason, other than force of habit, why they should suffer excruciating agony. So they didn’t. Demons went on doing it anyway, because numb and mindless stupidity is part of what being a demon is all about, but since no-one was suffering they didn’t enjoy it much either and the whole thing was pointless. Centuries and centuries of pointlessness. Astfgl, [the current Demon King,] had adopted, without realising what he was doing, a radically new approach. Demons can move interdimensionally, and so he’d found the basic ingredients for a very worthwhile lake of blood equivalent, as it were, for the soul. Learn from humans, he’d told the demon lords. Learn from humans. It’s amazing what you can learn from humans. You take, for example, a certain type of hotel. It is probably an English version of an American hotel, but operated with that peculiarly English genius for taking something American and subtracting from it its one worthwhile aspect, so that you end up with slow fast food, West Country and Western music and, well, this hotel. It’s early closing day. The bar is really just a pastel-pink paneled table with a silly bucket on it, set in one corner, and it won’t be open for hours yet. And then you add rain, and let the one channel available on the TV be, perhaps, Welsh Channel Four, showing its usual mobius Eisteddfod from Pant-y-gyrdl. And there is only one book in this hotel, left behind by a previous victim. It is one of those where the name of the author is on the front in raised gold letters much bigger than the tittle, and it probably has a rose and a bullet on there too. Half the pages are missing. And the only cinema in the town is showing something with subtitles and French umbrellas in it. And then you stop time, but not experience, so that it seems as though the very fluff in the carpet is gradually rising up to fill the brain and your mouth starts to taste like an old denture. And you make it last for ever and ever. That’s even longer than from now to opening time. And then you distil it.

Sky's The Limit" [Intro] Good evening ladies and gentlemen How's everybody doing tonight I'd like to welcome to the stage, the lyrically acclaimed I like this young man because when he came out He came out with the phrase, he went from ashy to classy I like that So everybody in the house, give a warm round of applause For the Notorious B.I.G The Notorious B.I.G., ladies and gentlemen give it up for him y'all [Verse 1] A nigga never been as broke as me - I like that When I was young I had two pair of Lees, besides that The pin stripes and the gray The one I wore on Mondays and Wednesdays While niggas flirt I'm sewing tigers on my shirts, and alligators You want to see the inside, I see you later Here comes the drama, oh, that's that nigga with the fake, blaow Why you punch me in my face, stay in your place Play your position, here come my intuition Go in this nigga pocket, rob him while his friends watching And hoes clocking, here comes respect His crew's your crew or they might be next Look at they man eye, big man, they never try So we rolled with them, stole with them I mean loyalty, niggas bought me milks at lunch The milks was chocolate, the cookies, butter crunch 88 Oshkosh and blue and white dunks, pass the blunts [Hook: 112] Sky is the limit and you know that you keep on Just keep on pressing on Sky is the limit and you know that you can have What you want, be what you want Sky is the limit and you know that you keep on Just keep on pressing on Sky is the limit and you know that you can have What you want, be what you want, have what you want, be what you want [Verse 2] I was a shame, my crew was lame I had enough heart for most of them Long as I got stuff from most of them It's on, even when I was wrong I got my point across They depicted me the boss, of course My orange box-cutter make the world go round Plus I'm fucking bitches ain't my homegirls now Start stacking, dabbled in crack, gun packing Nickname Medina make the seniors tote my Niñas From gym class, to English pass off a global The only nigga with a mobile can't you see like Total Getting larger in waists and tastes Ain't no telling where this felon is heading, just in case Keep a shell at the tip of your melon, clear the space Your brain was a terrible thing to waste 88 on gates, snatch initial name plates Smoking spliffs with niggas, real-life beginner killers Praying God forgive us for being sinners, help us out [Hook] [Verse 3] After realizing, to master enterprising I ain't have to be in school by ten, I then Began to encounter with my counterparts On how to burn the block apart, break it down into sections Drugs by the selections Some use pipes, others use injections Syringe sold separately Frank the Deputy Quick to grab my Smith & Wesson like my dick was missing To protect my position, my corner, my lair While we out here, say the Hustlers Prayer If the game shakes me or breaks me I hope it makes me a better man Take a better stand Put money in my mom's hand Get my daughter this college grant so she don't need no man Stay far from timid Only make moves when your heart's in it And live the phrase sky's the limit Motherfuckers See you chumps on top [Hook]

One hundred years of solitude. "There is always something left to love." I think about wanting you back. I think of not wanting you back. And all the things in between. Sometimes I miss you. Sometimes I don't. Like my weakness, I go back to remembering you all the time. So I built myself an imaginary friend, wandered through all its dark shelves. I made it home. I brought genie out of its bottle. I didn't want a wish because you are a dangerous thing to have. I've been there before, and nothing came out of it. I listened to music. All those tears rushed back in. I remembered the dream I had once. I thought I had prayed it away. Then I realized, "I only delayed it." My vulnerabilities started coming in. "Do I terrify?" But no, even my imaginary friend leaves me. And I realize that, "Hey, this is who I am." I have to make the best of this. I have to make your emptiness home. I have to write you away. Perhaps that'll bring the clarity. And these last tears will be the last to fall for you

Indeed, O’s painting made me wish I could return to a time before my birth, back when I was still steeling myself for the limitations of the body to come. Then I could plan in advance all the ways in which I would dare to be. This was, of course, a pointless fantasy. I was already here, in the thick of this life, a parade of missed opportunities, a second-to-second condemnation of my mediocrity.

When I signed my record deal with Sony Nashville, the first thing I bought was a four-wheeler for my brother and me. We grew up surrounded by woods, but we couldn't afford those sorts of things when we were kids. So we raced around on our four-wheelers, having all the fun we thought we'd missed out on.

Taki As a prolific author and journalist, Taki has written for many top-rated publications, including the Spectator, the London Sunday Times, Vanity Fair, National Review, and many others. Greek-born and American-educated, Taki is a well-known international personality and a respected social critic all over the world. In June 1987, I was an usher at the wedding of Harry Somerset, Marquis of Worcester, to Tracy Ward. The wedding and ensuing ball took place in the grand Ward country house, attended by a large portion of British society, including the Prince and Princess of Wales. Late in the evening, while I was in my cups, a friend, Nicky Haslam, grabbed my arm and introduced me to Diana, who was coming off the dance floor. We exchanged pleasantries, me slurring my words to the extent that she suddenly took my hand, looked at me straight in the face, and articulated, “T-a-k-e y-o-u-r t-i-m-e.” She mistook my drunken state for a severe speech impediment and went into her queen-of-hearts routine. Nicky, of course, ruined it all by pulling her away and saying, “Oh, let him be, ma’am; he’s drunk as usual.” We occasionally met after that and always had a laugh about it. But we never got further than that rather pathetic incident. In 1994, I began writing the “Atticus” column for the Sunday Times, the bestselling Sunday broadsheet in Britain. By this time Diana and Charles had separated, and Diana had gone on the offensive against what was perceived by her to be Buckingham Palace plotting. As a confirmed monarchist, I warned in one of my columns that her popularity was enough to one day bring down the monarchy. I also wrote that she was bonkers. One month or so later, at a ball given in London by Sir James Goldsmith and his daughter Jemima Khan, a mutual friend approached me and told me that Princess Diana would like to speak with me. As luck would have it, yet again I was under the weather. When I reached her table, she pulled out a seat for me and asked me to sit down. The trouble was that I missed the chair and ended up under the table. Diana screamed with laughter, pulled up the tablecloth, looked underneath, and asked me pointblank: “Do you really think I’m mad?” For once I had the right answer. “All I know is I’m mad about you.” It was the start of a beautiful friendship, as Bogie said in Casablanca.

For so-called conscious rappers, it is an opportunity to rap about ways to educate others about African American history, politics and even relationships: all of which would be missed if society merely focused on the “hook” and ignored the influence.

I had just drifted off to sleep when Jerry woke me up. “Hey, we’re going to take the Humvee and pick up the rest of the platoon. They’re done with the gravel run. There’s no mission. We need empty seats in the Humvee. I just wanted you to know that we’re leaving. Go back to sleep,” Jerry whispered. I leapt right off my cot and said, “No, sir. If you go, I go. If y’all go and something happens I will never forgive myself. And what if y’all get into an awesome firefight? I’m itching for that. I’m not going to miss that. I am going and I am driving the lead vehicle.” Jerry protested. “What about Gebhardt? He doesn’t want you driving.” “He can yell at me when we get there,” I said. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s just go. And I want to drive. I never get to drive,” Jerry said. “Jerry, you’re not driving. You can ride in the Humvee with me but you’re not driving. I’m not going to let you.” Now, Jerry outranked me, which meant he could do whatever he wanted. But that was also why he wasn’t supposed to drive. I was talking to Jerry as a friend now, though. I reminded him of that conversation we had in the gym before we deployed. “I told you that I was never going to let anything happen to you. I would jump in front of a bullet to keep you from getting hurt. Nothing will ever happen to you while I’m around. You’re not driving.” He finally relented and said, “Okay.” We piled into the Humvees and headed out. Jerry rode with me in the lead vehicle. That’s not following protocol. The platoon leader should be in the middle of the convoy, but neither Jerry nor I ever wanted to be there. We wanted to be in the lead, always.

Me and Jason against you and Stacy.” Alana handed Alexis a badminton racket and grinned. “Yay,” Alexis said without even a smidgeon of enthusiasm. “Do you want to serve?” Stacy asked Alexis when Jason and Alana moved to the other side of the net. “Serve you what? There’s no staff here to take care of your every whim, princess,” Alexis said lowly so the others wouldn’t hear. Stacy recoiled at the remark, then her temper flared. “You know what I was asking,” she replied coolly. “You can serve. Here’s the birdie,” Alexis replied and handed it to her on her middle finger. “Shuttlecock,” Stacy corrected. “Butthole…cock.” Alexis shrugged when Stacy glared at her. “That’s what we used to call them.” “Uh-huh,” Stacy said as she prepared to serve. The birdie sailed over the net,and volley began. This went on for a few minutes, then Alexis heard a hard thwack behind her, and the birdie stung her on the back of the thigh. She turned and looked at Stacy with fire in her eyes. “My bad,” Stacy said nonchalantly.Alexis picked up the birdie and hit it toward Jason. He served again. Stacy returned and nailed Alexis in the back of the head. “I’m so sorry,” Stacy said with an acerbic smile. “I’m having a hard time getting my shuttlecock up for you.” ...An intense volley began, and Alana said, “Uh, hey, y’all are supposed to be hitting it to us.” Jason watched in fascination. “I think they’re trying to kill the birdie.” Alexis finally missed and snatched it off the ground. “We were just warming up.” “Yeah, I’m good and hot now,” Stacy added between clenched teeth...“My serve,” Alexis said as she whirled around, then lowered her voice as she passed Stacy. “You’re about to find out whywe call them butthole cocks.” Stacy held her racket out like a sword. “How about I just waffle your ass now?” Alexis struck a fencing pose, or at least she thought she did. “On guard, biatch.”...Alana rushed under the net and stepped between the two staring daggers at each other. “Hey, we want to be able to use these rackets again. Maybe we should take a break since y’all kind of murdered the birdie.” Alana laughed. “It’s missing two plastic feathers...

I didn’t believe that these nice liberals would have missed seeing the film 12 Years a Slave, in which Solomon Northup’s friend Patsey was played so well by Lupita Nyong’o, who won the Oscar for the role. “Patsey the slave!” I said. “Y’all keep whipping me and whipping me and you never give me any money or any way to do my damn job. I am not going to be your whipping girl! From this time on, we’re keeping the money we raise, is that clear? Patsey is keeping her money!” I could

Have you met Terry? The housekeeper?” Molly nods. “Actually, she’s Jack’s mother.” Dina perks up. “Wait a minute. Terry Gallant? I went to high school with her! I didn’t know Jack was her kid.” “Yep,” Molly says. Waving a chunk of hot dog around on her fork, Dina says, “Oh, how the mighty have fallen.” Molly gives Ralph a what the fuck? look, but he just gazes placidly back. “It’s sad what happens to people, y’know?” Dina says, shaking her head. “Terry Gallant used to be Miss Popular. Homecoming Queen and all that. Then she got knocked up by some Mexican scrub—and now look at her, she’s a maid.” “Actually, he was Dominican,” Molly mumbles. “Whatever. Those illegals are all the same, aren’t they?” Deep breath, stay cool, get through dinner. “If you say so.” “I do say so.

SO TELL ME honestly.” I glanced over at Rachel, who was lying down beside me, and raised an eyebrow. “Can you feel it, Kash?” Her eyes widened and she slapped down on the mattress. “Can you feel the difference this mattress makes?” The saleswoman kept rambling on about the statistics of this bed and I tried not to laugh as Rachel acted as if what she was saying was from the Bible. “Isn’t this one just great?” The woman leaned over the bed to look at us. Her drawl was so thick that her great sounded more like gright. “Feels just like a cloud, you were so right!” Rachel smiled sweetly at her. “Oh, I knew y’all would just love this one! But c’mon over to the other side of the store, I have a few more to show you. And they just blow this one right out of the water,” she said, and walked away to the next set of mattresses. Rachel swung her legs over to the side and looked back at me, that same sweet smile plastered on her face. “It feels exactly like the last six except it’s an extra two thousand dollars. So that just makes it so much better!” She scrunched up her nose on the last few words and smacked her hand down on the mattress again. I rolled off the mattress and pulled her with me as I followed the saleswoman. “You look like a Miss America contestant on shrooms,” I whispered to Rachel, and she snorted. She began waving at no one in particular like she was in a pageant, and her smile widened.

Miss Kay In the midst of that low place, the darkest place I have ever been emotionally, with thoughts of sleep and rest filling my mind, through my sobs I heard the scurry of little feet headed toward the bathroom door. I could tell all three boys, in their house shoes, were coming to talk to me. Alan spoke first: “Mom, don’t cry. Don’t cry anymore. God will take care of us.” I was silent for a moment. Then I heard Jase ask, “Did she quit crying?” And I could hear Willie doing something he did often, making smacking noises while sucking on two of his fingers. In an instant, it was like a lightbulb came on for me. “What am I doing?” I asked myself. “I have three little boys. I can’t leave them with a drunk.” I spoke to my sons through the door. “I’m okay. I love y’all. I’ll be out in a minute.” I then got on my knees and prayed. “God, help me. Just help me. I don’t want to leave these kids. I don’t know what to do or where to find You. Just lead me to somebody who can help me.

Going to the office wasn't as pleasant lately, Sam thought, as he made his way through the back entry to the detectives' division. There weren't so many people there that day, and it seemed like a lot of them were avoiding the place, just staying away as much as they could. He could understand that. After almost ten years as a Denver cop, Sam was sick of seeing what humanity was really capable of. He had grown up reading cop stories, always seeing how the cops would save the day, watching them rescue the innocent and punish the guilty every week on TV, until he finally knew that he had to be one himself. After a short stint in the Army that never even got him out of the country, he'd come home and applied for the academy. He'd been accepted, and that was the start of an illustrious career. Now, it was all he could do to drag himself out of bed in the mornings, make himself come in and see what new horrors he'd have to deal with. The past four months he'd been on loan to the DEA, and they'd made some big drug busts, shut down some of the most evil purveyors of sin and death that ever lived, but they were like the mythical hydra—as soon as you cut off one of its heads, three more grew back to take its place. Sam wanted to stop cutting off heads and find the creature's heart, but there was almost no evidence as to where that heart might be. They knew there was something big behind the drug operations in the city, but it was so well organized and so carefully designed that no one seemed to have any idea where or how to find it. His cell rang as he sat down at his desk, and he saw his partner's number. Dan Jacobs was already out on his station, watching one of the dealers they'd identified the day before. “Yo,” Sam answered. “Sam, it's Dan. I been thinkin', and it seems to me that we might be lookin' in the wrong direction, y'know?” Sam blinked a couple of times. “Danny, I've been awake for about fifteen minutes, and haven't even opened my Starbuck's yet. What the heck are you talkin' about?” “I'm sayin', maybe we're goin' about this all the wrong way, tryin' to find dealers and trail 'em, follow the tracks up the ladder. There's something about this whole setup that smacks of serious organization, something big enough to hide in plain sight, know what I mean? If it's that well laid out, we can follow minions all day long, we're never gonna find the top guy, because they don’t ever see the top guys.” Sam nodded. “Yeah, you're probably right,” he said, “but unless you got a crystal ball lead on where else to go, I don’t know what good it's doin' us. Where else we gonna find any leads at all? Got a clue, there?” “Maybe,” Dan said. “We've been tailing a lot of these clowns the past few weeks, right? Have you noticed one thing they all do the same?” Sam thought about it, but nothing jumped out at him. He looked at it from a couple of different angles, then shook his head. Into the phone, he said, “Nope. So, what is it?” “Facebook. No matter what else they're doin', these bastards never miss checking in on Facebook every day, several times a day. They go on, look at what people are sayin' on their pages, sometimes they answer and sometimes they don't, and then they go back to their drug dealin' ways.” Sam rubbed his temple. “Dan, everyone does that. Everyone on freakin' earth is on Facebook, and always checkin' it out. That's just part

Up to My Earballs I'm up to my earballs in booze Yes, I'm up to my earballs in booze I've been drinkin' all day down that skeleton juice Now I must plug my eyes up and snooze Cuz I'm up to my earballs, up to my earballs, I'm up to my earballs in booze I'm up to my earballs in debt Yes, I'm up to my earballs in debt The higher them horse odds, the deeper I get When I unfold my bill wad and bet Cuz I'm up to my earballs, up to my earballs, I'm up to my earballs in debt I'm up to my earballs in sin Yes, I'm up to my earballs in sin Y'see, Miss Katie-Lou never did say "I do" Still we done it again and again Now it's six sets of triplets and twelve pairs of twins And I'm up to my earballs in sin Oh, they say that I must quit my ramblin' And they say that I must quit my gamblin' They pray for the Savior to change my behavior But I'm going to my grave for to spoil And I'll be up to my earballs, up to my earballs, In worms when I'm sunk in the soil

And she saw Mr. Nobley clearly. The thin wrinkles just beginning at the corners of his eyes, the whiskers on his chin darkening already after his morning shave, the hint of lines around his mouth that suggested he might smile more in real life. He had the kind of face you wanted to kiss--lips, forehead, cheeks, eyelids, everywhere except his chin. That you wanted to bite. Jane thought: I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers. Miss Erstwhile thought: My, what a catch. How the society page would rant! “I think you should stay away from him, Miss Erstwhile.” Mr. Nobley turned his back on Martin and took her arm, returning her to the path. “I don’t know why you care, sir,” she said, doing her best to sound Austen-y, “but I certainly will, if you’ll do me a favor. Perform in the theatrical.” “Miss Erstwhile…” “Oh, come on! It will please me to no end to see you so uncomfortable. You’re not afraid, are you? You seem so stuck on being proper all the time, but there can’t be anything really wrong in doing a little theatrical. This is, after all, the nineteenth century. So perhaps your protests stem from your fear of appearing the fool?” “You accuse me of vanity. It may be that the enterprise simply does not seem to me amusing. And yet in part you are right. I am not much of an actor.” “Aren’t you?” She looked at him meaningfully. He flinched and recovered. “My true concerns, however, are in regards to the delicate sentiments of our good hostess.” “And if we propose the recreation to her and she approves, will you participate?” “Yes, I suppose I must.” He tightened his lips, in annoyance or against a smile, she wasn’t sure. “You are infuriatingly persistent, Miss Erstwhile.” “And you, Mr. Nobley, are annoyingly stubborn. Together we must be Impertinence and Inflexibility.” “That was clever.” “Was it? Thanks, it just came to me.” “No forethought?” “Not a lick.” “Hm, impressive.” Jane jabbed him with her elbow. When they caught up to the rest of the party, Miss Charming was engaging Colonel Andrews in a discussion on the “relative ickiness of tea” and Captain East and Amelia were either walking in silence or whispering their hearts’ secrets. “We’re going to do the theatrical,” Jane announced to the others. “Mr. Nobley is clay in my hands.

Two hours later, the drawing room converted, the costumes wrapped, the electric-kerosene lamps flickering in a semicircle at their feet, the performers enacted the thirty-minute ode to love and the Mediterranean, Home by the Sea. Miss Charming kept a ferocious grip on her script and gave oily air kisses to Colonel Andrews. Amelia was calm and sweet, melting into her dialogue with Captain East as though into his arms. Jane knelt beside Mr. Nobley, the wounded war captain, as he nearly died, and did her best to sound earnest. Old Jane would’ve run away or laughed self-consciously throughout. New Jane decided to feel as enchanting as Miss Charming and performed each line with relish and passion. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t a very good actress. Mr. Nobley’s character miraculously recovered all the same, leading to the part where he stood and took her hands. They were still cold. He paused, as though trying to remember what came next. He looked. Looked at her. At her and into her. Into her eyes as though he couldn’t bear to look away. And there was a delicious curl in his smile. “I love you,” he said. Zing, thought Jane. It was his line, more or less, though simplified. Stripped of similes and farms and rain and moon and all, it pierced her. She opened her mouth to say her own line but couldn’t remember a single word. And she didn’t want to. He leaned. She leaned. Then Aunt Saffronia, who’d been laughing encouragingly during the parts that were supposed to be sad and clapping gleefully whenever a new character came onstage, now cleared her throat as though intensely uncomfortable. Mr. Nobley hesitated, then kissed Jane’s cheek. His lips were warm, his cheek slightly scratchy. She smiled and breathed him in. At length, the six actors stood side by side, pretending the bright yellow wall of the drawing room opened to a view of the Mediterranean Sea, and said their closing lines. Jane: Trying to sound actress-y. “At last, we are all truly happy.” Miss Charming: Pause. Crinkling of paper. Frantic searching for line. “Indeed.” Amelia: With a shy smile for the tall man beside her. “Our travels are ended.” Captain East: With a manly smile for his lady. “We can rest peacefully in each other’s arms.” Colonel Andrews: As always, with panache! “And no matter where we may roam…” Mr. Nobley: A sigh. “This will always be our home.” His voice unhappy with the line. “By the sea.” And, silence as the audience waited for who knows what--a better ending line? A better play? Colonel Andrews cleared his throat, and Jane inclined her head in a hurried curtsy. “Oh,” Aunt Saffronia said and started the applause. The audience clapped enthusiastically and arhythmically, and the cast bowed, Miss Charming giggling. Jane squinted past the lamps to get her first good look at the audience, now that the play was over and stage fright couldn’t prickle her. Aunt Saffronia, beaming. Mrs. Wattlesbrook, looking for all the world like a proud schoolmarm. Matilda, bored, and a few other servants, equally bored.

Are you sure?” she asked. Soon thereafter she was clambering into the ever-intimidating sidesaddle and whispering, “Easy, there, donkey friend,” when Captain East appeared. “Going for a ride, Miss Erstwhile.” “Yes, and I wish you would come.” He had agreed before Amelia walked her horse into view. Captain East flinched but couldn’t back out now. Jane was determined to keep distant from the couple and have a little alone time with prince charming. Captain East didn’t make her heart patter, but he was beyond high school quarterback cute, and being fake-courted by him would make for an interesting vacation at the very least. Then, like a bumbling fool, Mr. Nobley kept letting his horse trot forward, separating Jane and Captain East, and leaving Amelia riding alone. Jane would correct it, and Mr. Nobley would mess it all up again. She glared. And still he didn’t get it. Then he was glaring, and she glared back the why-are-you-glaring-at-me glare, and his eyes were exasperated, and she was about to call him ridiculous, when he said, “Miss Erstwhile, you look flushed. Will you not rest for a moment? Do not trouble yourself, Captain East, you go on with Miss Heartwight and we will follow straightaway.” When the other two were out of hearing range, Jane turned her glare into words. “What are you doing? I’m just fine.” “Pardon, Miss Erstwhile, but I was trying to allow Captain East and Miss Heartwright a few moments alone. She confided in me about their troubled past, and I hoped time to talk would help ease the strain between them.” “Okay,” Jane laughed, “so I’m a little slow.” She knew she didn’t sound the least bit Austen-y, but for some reason she just couldn’t make herself try to approximate the dead dialect around Mr. Nobley.

I have it so good. So absurdly, improbably good. I didn't do anything to deserve it, but I have it. I'm healthy. I've never gone hungry. And yes, to answer your question, I'm-I'm loved. I lived in a beautiful place, did meaningful work. The world we made out there, Mosscap, it's-it's nothing like what your originals left. It's a good world, a beautiful world. It's not perfect, but we've fixed so much. We made a good place, struck a good balance. And yet, every fucking day in the City, I woke up hollow, and... and just... tired, y'know? So, I did something else instead. I packed up everything, and I learned a brand new thing from scratch, and gods, I worked hard for it. I worked really hard. I thought, if I can just do that, if I can do it well, I'll feel okay. And guess what? I do do it well. I'm good at what I do... And yet I still wake up tired, like... like something's missing. I tried to talk to friends, and family, and nobody got it, so I stopped bringing it up, and then I just stopped talking to them altogether, because I couldn't explain, and I was tired of pretending like everything was fine. I went to doctors, to make sure I wasn't sick and that my head was okay. I read books and monastic texts and everything I could find. I threw myself into my work, I went to all the places that used to inspire me, I listened to music and looked at art, I exercised and had sex and got plenty of sleep and ate my vegetables, and still. Still. Something is missing. Something is off. So, how fucking spoiled am I, then? How fucking broken? What is wrong with me that I can have everything I could ever want and have ever asked for and still wake up in the morning feeling like every day is a slog?

I have it so good. So absurdly, improbably good. I didn’t do anything to deserve it, but I have it. I’m healthy. I’ve never gone hungry. And yes, to answer your question, I’m—I’m loved. I lived in a beautiful place, did meaningful work. The world we made out there, Mosscap, it’s—it’s nothing like what your originals left. It’s a good world, a beautiful world. It’s not perfect, but we’ve fixed so much. We made a good place, struck a good balance. And yet every fucking day in the City, I woke up hollow, and … and just … tired, y’know? So, I did something else instead. I packed up everything, and I learned a brand-new thing from scratch, and gods, I worked hard for it. I worked really hard. I thought, if I can just do that, if I can do it well, I’ll feel okay. And guess what? I do do it well. I’m good at what I do. I make people happy. I make people feel better. And yet I still wake up tired, like … like something’s missing. I tried talking to friends, and family, and nobody got it, so I stopped bringing it up, and then I just stopped talking to them altogether, because I couldn’t explain, and I was tired of pretending like everything was fine. I went to doctors, to make sure I wasn’t sick and that my head was okay. I read books and monastic texts and everything I could find. I threw myself into my work, I went to all the places that used to inspire me, I listened to music and looked at art, I exercised and had sex and got plenty of sleep and ate my vegetables, and still. Still. Something is missing. Something is off. So, how fucking spoiled am I, then? How fucking broken? What is wrong with me that I can have everything I could ever want and have ever asked for and still wake up in the morning feeling like every day is a slog?

The wood floor is- so splintery on my flip-flops like nails are sticking up, poking me and crap, the boards are all cracked and you can see down one story, or more at times. Besides, some floorboards are missing altogether; I feel like I could go through the floor at any time. (Room 202) There is no light coming anywhere but her light she is giving off, looking over everything in its interiority, I see that there are boards over the old glass smashed glass window panes; not even the smallest glimmer or flicker of a star or moonlight at this point to guide me, nothing to show the way other than spun web cover over everything, even the hole that should not be cover seemed roached out, look at all the spiders crawling all down me, I don’t go in there I was thinking. I went at night so no one would find me. Look even going down the hall the lockers start to bang themselves like humpers of the past. I could see kissing here doing that too. Like I could see it all in my mind too, like they all did when the kids slammed their looker in these unhallowed halls, look now there are papers everywhere, just left behind like love notes of the past, I want to read yet it has nothing there to be said, I could get some of it, yet not all… I don’t have anything wrong with me, I can’t see, should I take it with me? I do- (It was tucked in her underwire right strap, her outfit when cut off to be laid out for viewing.) -It was Nevaeh and Chiaz’s first love note. (Now) You can foresee what's going to happen… can’t you- I sure did not in the past nor do I know, yet I do at times. It’s a new day, she sat back- crap let's do it a new way today- damn (‘Like- I want to choke down my rabbit,’) it works for me it's well to get that right, or so Jenny said. Yet I was feeling more than that below, and so was she, in my mouth. ‘If you are going through hell keep on going don’t slow down, if you are scared don’t show it…!’ My love was singing to be willing to do this, yet you can’t hear that and if you do, you’ll hear Maggie coming out. (Back at the old school) The hollowing sound of her voices in my face, its blows’ a-crossed me and spooks me out, it is so haunted within these falling walls, yet see is not scaring me at this point, I feel somewhat safe. As well as the wind howling as my thought makes, makes me think of who she maybe thinks I am. I see the hand-covered handrails going up past the old Gym and girl’s locker room, looking into the showers it’s like- I could see bare-ass naked girls and the steam in the air. With the sounds of: ‘O-op-e-s-y- don’t drop the soap!’ All along with the sounds of girls giggling, hell- I don’t want to know what’s going on. Water running, just guessing like them… I had the bad thoughts and photos running in my little-wicked mind. Like the sands of time… not fading all away or turning all too black and write. Up till now the water and sound or the girls are from the past, or so I think and have been long gone, for them to be real girls, it was abandoned for years, like what is this crap…? Like the snapping of a towel, my head spun around, as the little girl pulled me to the next room by her resenting glow, In the locker part of the room- I see all the old desked linked together, she's sitting there proverb her story to me, her hair braids are freaking cute to me; like no girl does that anymore. Yet who are these girls, I think- I know, yet they don’t, see me. They don’t even think I see them all up in it. I heard these stories and believe it yet; I don’t believe it seeing it now unfolding in front of me. There is some random b*tch putting the redhead face in the capper, with the sound of the flush! I am good, she said.

Y’all carried secrets because that’s what I taught you, but secrets . . . just . . . fester

Ask your date if she thinks you’re cute, and if she says yes, leave her wherever y’all are. She’s a liar. Or, she’s missing some marbles. Either way, that’s not good for the family tree.

Shitttttttt! Bitch, I wouldn’t never come the fuck home if I had a nigga like that! Y’all will have to file a missing person’s report on my black ass. I can promise you that!” I said, looking at her.

gripping feeling, and no, there has been nothing like it. It’s got to be dangerous, all this heart overload. No wonder Soapie tried to protect her from it. No wonder Greta wouldn’t ever let her pick up the newborn Sandrine. She sits and strokes the little shell-like ear, the soft cheek, the little button of a nose. It’s as though she’s been born again herself, some new raw part of her emerging from the wreckage of her grief and her longing. It makes her want to cry, how close she came to missing out on this. She and Jonathan move through the first few days, sleep-deprived and stunned. He is excellent at keeping people away. He won’t let Andres and Judith Schultz drop by with their baby gift, and he avoids the nice condo dwellers who smile at him in the bright sunny passageways and politely inquire about the new baby. Greta says this is a good thing and is exactly what he should be doing: using his handy Y chromosome to protect

She eyed him. “What does that mean?” “You know exactly what it means, McKenna. Women who take on the world and never back down. Women whose hearts have so much love, they give even when that love isn’t returned.” He was reminded of what he had in his vest pocket for her—the thank-you gift for his saddle. The gift had since turned into the peace offering for missing dinner that night, and now represented so much more . . . Now that he knew how much she cared for him. Even though she might not be able to voice it, or even want to admit it to herself. But he would forever remember the moment she looked up outside the doc’s office, thinking he was dead, and found him alive. The timing hadn’t felt right to give it to her then, but it did now. He reached into his pocket. “I’m talking about a woman who faces life with a courage and a persistence that astounds me. Who has endured so much difficulty in her life and yet keeps pushing on with stubborn grace, step-after-step, day-after-day.” He softened his voice. “A woman who, at first, didn’t trust me.” He touched the side of her face. “But a woman who might just be beginning to trust.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “And who makes this man want to spend the rest of his life proving to her that she can.” He held out the box. “Not to mention a woman who makes the best saddles in all the western territory.” Her eyes widened. “You know?” Oh how he wanted to kiss her. And if he was reading her right, she was more than open to the idea. “What did I tell you about looking at a man that way when he couldn’t do anything about it?” She grinned, and he pulled her to him and kissed her. He’d meant for their first kiss to be more tender, slow and gentle, but the way her arms came around him, pulling him closer, the way she responded, deepening the kiss, drove the desire inside him. Their bodies touching, he memorized the curves of her waist, the small of her back, how she felt pressed up against him. The warmth of her hand as she cradled the back of his neck encouraged him further— Remembering where they were, Wyatt drew back. “McKenna!” he whispered. Her eyes were still closed, her lips parted. She was wearing a purple dress today, one he hadn’t seen before. But he liked it, very much. Especially on her. It buttoned up the front, and the lacey curve of the bodice revealed her neckline. The dress wasn’t at all improper, but the thoughts he was having about her right now bordered on being just that. She blinked. “Y-yes?” He smiled and ran a finger over her mouth, and put more distance between them. “You need to open your gift.” She gave him an intimate look. “I thought I already had.” Oh this woman . . . It was a good thing they were in church. She opened the box in her hand, and giggled. He didn’t mind in the least. He’d had about the same reaction when he’d first seen it. The woman in the store in Denver had called it a charm bracelet. But it was the tiny saddle hanging off it—among other miniature trinkets—that had gained his attention. She held up the bracelet and fingered each tiny charm. “I love it! Thank you, Wyatt.

I’m not, by any means, at the end of this journey. But I have traveled this beautiful new road far enough to know that this is how I want to live the rest of my days. I’m almost forty, feeling midlife-y like crazy, and this is how I want to live the second half of my life. Richard Rohr says the skills that take you through the first half of your life are entirely unhelpful for the second half. To press the point a little bit: those skills I developed that supposedly served me well for the first half, as I inspect them a little more closely, didn’t actually serve me at all. They made me responsible and capable and really, really tired. They made me productive and practical, and inch by inch, year by year, they moved me further and further from the warm, whimsical person I used to be … and I missed her.

Things I'll Neva Forget I'll never Forget my mother The one who loves me most her pretty,priceless smile will forever be kept my life "so called" file her motherly touch had no comparison nor equal it could never be replaced,stopped or re-enacted into a sequel i felt as if her life was all but drawn up without perfection it was done wrong Now she's gone But I'll never Forget my MOTHER I'll never forget father The one who changed my life thanks to him I'll know how to treat my own wife the ultimate villein on my hoodlum chart he's at the top......Wonder Y?........ my daddy es a Flop thus he did lie,cheat & steal in my heart I denounce I'll never forget my FATHER I'll never forget my Family 'My People" The Mohasoa Pride & that 2% Bopape Tribe Our individual ups & downs made it one hell of a roller coaster ride jokes aside "we miss you" the one who died like my mom she was our escutcheon against the dark what a tragic lose of our artery of traffic see throw mi eyes "divided we'll fall....together we shall rise" I'll never forget my FAMILY I'll never forget You Guys "My Friends" Mmmm aaargh "writers block" over-loading there's just too many of y'all BUT I never forget " My Friends" I'll never forget......Who I Am Me the man of my dreams "Lebogang Bopape" The boy who never knew his abilities till he was 7 fucked up everything by the time he turned 11 my 1st day at school "quite funny" didn't talk to anyone for like a week or so till I fell cried so hard I accidentally ran into my very own Jezebel so wrong was I thinking she's the one my feelings weren't intact I had none Uncle said "you'll get them when you turn into a man SON" What happened next an emotional recession the leading cause factor 4 this deception............LIES! call them what y'all want black or white they'er still LIES! all you'll get trouble Shit I'm seeing double losing sight of what is right got my life blue,black,cherry.......Bleary Time will tell I am a bit blind but look behind you Deep in the back of your mind you are who you are I'll never forget ME! Lebogang Yep thats Me Baby!

Etienne’s going to find out stuff about voodoo. Oh, and Roo and I are going to research that little boy who died at the feed store. And Miranda gets Magnolia Gallery--but of course we’ll all help her with that. And…and I guess that’s about it.” “Damn.” Parker did his best to sound disappointed. “I was hoping for a whole lot more.” Nodding sympathetically, Roo swept him with solemn eyes. “How sad. That’s exactly what Ashley always says about you.” “Oh, except for this other idea I had.” Ashley glanced hopefully around the group. “Instead of calling it Ghost Walk, why don’t we call it something else?” “Great idea.” Parker was adamant. “Why don’t we call it off?” “How about”--Ashley paused dramatically, her eyes sparkling--“Walk of the Spirits?” As everyone traded glances, Gage repeated it several times out loud. “Yeah. I like it.” “Me, too,” Miranda spoke up. “I think it’s good.” “I think it’s romantic,” Ashley sighed. “Walk of the Spirits…don’t you think it’s wonderfully romantic?” “I think it’s wonderfully…you.” Etienne patted Ashley’s shoulder. “But could we move a little faster here? I got me a lotta work to do this evening.” “That’s okay, this is just our first outline. We still have to refine it. And we still have a lot more research to do.” Gage nodded. “Then we have to write up a script for the tour. And everything has to be timed. And--” “Enough torture.” Parker glowered at each of them. “I get the idea.” “But hey, y’all.” Ashley fairly glowed with pride. “The important thing is that Miss Dupree loves our project even more now. Did you see the look on her face when she was reading our outline? I’ve never seen her that excited about any assignment before, have you?” “I’ve never seen her excited about anything.” Parker exchanged guy looks with Etienne. “She needs to get laid.” “You know, at some point, we really need to do a trial run of this thing,” Gage advised, ignoring Parker. “Seeing it in daylight is totally different than seeing it at night. If we’re gonna get the full effect, we need to walk it after dark.

Well,” Parker managed to croak. “Better light up your lantern, Miss Ashley. It’s showtime.” Ashley stared. Her eyes went saucer-wide, and she clutched her stomach. “I don’t think I can go out there, y’all. There’s too many people!” As the others stared back at her, Etienne made a strangling motion with his hands. “Shall I do the honors? Or does everybody want a turn?” He and Parker promptly escorted Ashley out the door.

Well,” Parker managed to croak. “Better light up your lantern, Miss Ashley. It’s showtime.” Ashley stared. Her eyes went saucer-wide, and she clutched her stomach. “I don’t think I can go out there, y’all. There’s too many people!” As the others stared back at her, Etienne made a strangling motion with his hands. “Shall I do the honors? Or does everybody want a turn?” He and Parker promptly escorted Ashley out the door. Roo fell into step beside Miranda, with Gage bringing up the rear. “Just watch her.” Roo’s tone held mild but sincere admiration. “She’s a pro.” Roo was right. As Ashley swept onto the steps, an audible sigh went through the crowd. Ashley dipped and swayed, both sweet and seductive, her voice flowing honey-warm. “Why, welcome, y’all. Welcome to our Walk of the Spirits.” And so it went. Step by entertaining step along the Brickway, Ashley enticed and enthralled and utterly charmed the tour group. The history and heritage of St. Yvette came magically alive.

Without the benefit of being married to Ángel, Lina Ruz González had seven children by him, three boys and four girls. She was a simple woman who worked for him as a domestic servant. Fidel was her third child…. Lina married Fidel’s father in 1943, after his first wife, María Luisa Argota y Reyes, who was sarcastically known as the “Princess,” died, leaving her five children behind. From all accounts, it didn’t seem as if anyone missed her. In addition to the five children that María had, there was also a farmhand’s daughter, Generosa, who bore Ángel at least one son, by the name of Martin. Fidel was given his mother’s name “Ruz” before her marriage to his father, but even after his mother’s marriage, when Fidel was a teenager, although he was accepted, he continued to be treated as a bastard child, rather than a son, by his rough-hewn father. Much of Fidel’s early life is obscure, but as a teenager, there were times that he acted impulsively, as with most boys…. Once when he was refused the use of the family car, he threatened to set it on fire. At another time, he rode his bicycle as fast as he could into a stonewall on a dare; of course he got scraped up, but fortunately for him, it didn’t take long before he made a complete recovery.

Oh, and y'know what makes it even better? All the pretty ladies. Japanese ladies always look so young and elegant. They're so exotic! You, too, miss. You're the picture of Yamato Nadeshiko. You have a real pretty charm to you." *Yamato Nadeshiko means the personification of an idealized Japanese woman.* "Who, me?! Um! N-no, I'm not all that pretty..." "C'mon, Tadokoro! Quit being so humble.

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