Mixed Signals Quotes

The most confused you will ever get is when you try to convince your heart and spirit of something your mind knows is a lie.

A true gentleman is one that apologizes anyways, even though he has not offended a lady intentionally. He is in a class all of his own because he knows the value of a woman's heart.

I love you. I hate you. I like you. I hate you. I love you. I think you’re stupid. I think you’re a loser. I think you’re wonderful. I want to be with you. I don’t want to be with you. I would never date you. I hate you. I love you…..I think the madness started the moment we met and you shook my hand. Did you have a disease or something?

I've given him more mixed signals than a dyslexic Morse code operator.

If you have feelings for someone, let them know. It doesn’t matter if they can be in your life or not. Maybe, it is just enough for both of you to release the truth, so healing can occur. The opposite is true, as well. If you don’t have feelings for someone then never let another person suggest that you do. Protect your reputation and be responsible for the wrong information spread about you. Never allow anyone to live with a false belief or unfounded hope about you. An honorable person sets the record straight, so that person can move on with their life.

Wow," I said, since it was all I could think of to say. "Wow. That's some outfit." When you've got a big guy wearing Lycra it doesn't leave a whole lot to the imagination. I resisted the temptation to ask Eric to turn around. "I don't believe I could be convincing as a queen," Eric said, "but I decided this sent such a mixed signal, almost anything was possible." He fluttered his eyelashes at me. Eric was definitely enjoying this. "Oh, yes," I said, trying to find somewhere else to look. (Living Dead in Dallas)

Intelligence is not expecting people to understand what your intent is; it is anticipating how it will be perceived.

On the whole, I do not find Christians, outside of the catacombs, sufficiently sensible of conditions. Does anyone have the foggiest idea what sort of power we so blithely invoke? Or, as I suspect, does no one believe a word of it? The churches are children playing on the floor with their chemistry sets, mixing up a batch of TNT to kill a Sunday morning. It is madness to wear ladies’ straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews. For the sleeping god may wake someday and take offense, or the waking god may draw us out to where we can never return.

Jesus. Good thing he’s not a traffic cop, because he’s sending enough mixed signals to cause a ten-car pileup.

It is so simple, yet so hard for some people to do. If you want someone out of your life then you and only “you” must tell him or her to leave. This can only be done by you. Otherwise, your silence shouts, “I am undecided.” When other people get involved it sends mixed signals. If only more people would be so bold, hearts would not linger so long.

Often people that tell others they are "extremely polite" when the situation calls for tact and bluntness are not actually polite people. Instead, they hide behind the word “polite” because they have low self esteem or hidden agendas. Sadly, they impolitely confuse the hell out of everyone, send mixed signals, which then makes people question their sanity and motives.

Why are you giving these guys your time? Why are you settling for crumbs when you deserve the whole damn cake?

Are your goals backed by burning desire or are you giving the Universe mixed signals?

You keep showing me pieces of yourself that I want to collect like seashells.

You either love me or you don't. So stop sending mixed signals because they're causing mixed emotions.

There may be plenty of fish in the sea, but most of those fish are bottom-dwellers with weird lanterns hanging off the front of their faces.

Don't let mixed signals fool you. Indecision is a decision.

The reason a lot of women can't move on from a relationship or people they love is because they need to know why. Why did this happen? Why did you do this? Why don't you care? Why did you hurt me? Why do you believe this about me? Why did you send me mixed signals? Why are these other people in your life acting like you care? Men have it all wrong. Insecurity is not why a lot of women don't let go. Women have a difficult time letting go because men don't communicate why at the level that women require. They don't back up their words with actions that are not confusing or could be misinterrupted as something else. Until, men learn that their actions and their friends and families reactions can create a questionable doubt about how they feel, they will forever have to deal with the drama they create for themselves.

Father, you are sending mixed signals. You dispatched a woman to murder me today and now you’re upset about my wedding reception?

Too bad there wasn’t facial-recognition software out there to interpret mixed signals. I pulled out my phone to make a quick note to check into the concept and brainstorm commercial applications.

But in certain pivotal moments in women’s lives, the “woman” stigma reared its head to obscure their vision, stay their hands, and hold them back. The mixed signals were confusing and disconcerting.

You look nice,” he says, voice hoarse. “I look like a drowned rat.” “A nice one, though.

I predict that there will be many more like him in the future,” she sighed. “People of privilege speaking heroically on behalf of those with whom they have no intention of mixing.

He didn't kiss her," my grandmother offers from the stove. "When she wanted to be kissed." Charlie leans back in his seat with a heavy, disappointed exhale. "Dude." His eyes are like saucers. "You gotta kiss her when she wants to be kissed.

You will never be able to see clearly when people around you distort your view of truth with their own clouded version. You will begin to read into everything incorrectly and find yourself lost in a delusional story stitched together from the crumbs of over analyzed words once spoken, misunderstandings or speculation. Life should not be wasted by collecting clues or piecing together a puzzle about how someone feels. Love is straightforward and it is clearly seen on the cloudiest days of your life. If someone loves you it will be obvious. They won't let you go, until you ask them to.

And I’m left with this girl, this Siren of Mixed Signals, this Norah. She’s a fuck-good kisser, but clearly has some massive consistency issues. I ask her how the fuck she knows Tris, because that is leaving me completely confused, and at first she’s looking at me like I’m this guy she didn’t just start kissing out of nowhere, but then she’s got her hand on my arm in a way that makes me really notice I have an arm, and then she’s making to run away, and at the same time looking at me like I’m some cancer child. Then I take hold of her arm and she resists without really resisting. Finally she pulls away, only to touch my face in this way that reminds me exactly of her kiss.Then she calls me “you poor schmuck.

When you mix with the wrong energy, there's bound to be an explosion. Pay attention and switch lanes when the signal changes. What's really real, is ultimately revealed.

So are we going to fight now, or fuck, because I’m getting some mixed signals here?

Channeling Kingston, I gritted out, “You’re sending me some mixed signals, Tamlin.

I know I can be too much, but I think I’m just enough for you. I have no interest in forcing you into anything,” he continues. “But I want you to know that this past month with you has been the very best I’ve ever had. I should have told you that last night, but I was overwhelmed and nervous and everything came out wrong. Arrangement or no, everything I’ve felt with you, everything I’ve said to you—” He shakes his head slightly, that smile finally tripping from his eyes to the curve of his cheeks. I get the barest hint of a dimple before it’s gone again. “It’s been the most honest—the most real thing I’ve ever felt.

I collect my frustration like Gabe’s wayward assignments and stack it into something neat and tidy in my chest.

Remember that, in any encounter, the only thing you can control is your own actions and reactions. You cannot dictate the actions of the other person, or in this case, the horse, but you can often send the right signals to get what you want. If you are often baffled by the reactions others have to you, it is probably because you are unaware of the silent signals you send through your posture, your facial gestures, your tone of voice, the amount of personal space you maintain, and so forth. Ever wondered why people don't listen when you try to assert yourself, or why people back away when you're trying to be friendly, or why you're never the one people seek out in a crowded room? Body language. Silent signals. Mixed signals. The trick is to focus outward, not inward.

Why can’t I find a single human being that I connect with? My standards are not impossible. I want someone who makes me laugh. Who cares about what I do and what I say and what I think. I want to sit on the couch with someone in blissful, perfect, comfortable silence—pizza on the coffee table and my feet tucked under their thigh. I want someone to hand me the recipe section of the local paper while they read the headlines. I want to share all of my small, silly, silent moments. I want someone to give me butterflies.

Where are you from?” he asks. The depths of hell. Sent to destroy men who lie on the internet and are mean to those in the service industry.

Has anyone ever fought for her the way she deserves?

She’s sending more mixed signals than a malfunctioning Super-8 ball.

Let’s be honest: our world offers us mixed signals about what kind of Force is at work behind the scenes.

Oh no, Jack, you're mixing up premonitions with intuition now. Come, now, Sir Alington, you must admit that premonitions are real?" To a certain extent, perhaps," admitted the physician cautiously. "But coincidence accounts for a good deal,and then there is the invariable tendency to make the most of a story afterwards -- you've always got to take that into account." "I don't think there is any such thing as premonition," said Claire Tent, rather abruptly. "Or intuition, or a sixth sense, or any of the things we talk about so glibly. We go through life like a train rushing through the darkness to an unknown destination.

How is it so easy to push a person you pulled towards you? Why a person with heartache is being considered as an emotional fool? When did playing games in a relationship, sending the mixed signals, leaving a person without words became a trend? From (The Awakening)

Let me give some morons out there a lesson on jealousy : people who get jealous are the ones who’ll typically harbor an attachment and fixation in the absence of which, there can never be any jealous reaction if you’re looking for one. So, good luck with the unsavory mind games and mixed signals.

Authors are curators of experience. They filter the world's noise, and out of that noise they make the purest signal they can-out of disorder they create narrative. They administer this narrative in the form of a book, and preside, in some ineffable way, over the reading experience. Yet no matter how pure the data set that authors provide to readers-no matter how diligently prefiltered and tightly reconstructed-readers' brains will continue in their prescribed assignment: to analyze, screen, and sort. Our brains will treat a book as if it were any other of the world's many unfiltered, encrypted signals. That is, the author's book, for readers, reverts to a species of noise. We take in as much of the author's world as we can, and mix this material with our own in the alembic of our reading minds, combining them to alchemize something unique. I would propose that this is why reading "works": reading mirrors the procedure by which we acquaint ourselves with the world. It is not that our narratives necessarily tell us something true about the world (though they might), but rather that the practice of reading feels like, and is like, consciousness itself: imperfect; partial; hazy; co-creative.

Where body language is giving mixed signals (eg. a smile that borders on a grimace or fails to involve the eyes) then the more negative, less socially desirable component is usually the more telling. This is because we are more often motivated to conceal unpleasant truths and anti-social feelings than pleasant, benign ones.

Few things exasperate a child more than inconsistency. Pity the horse that has a rider who gives it mixed signals, digging his heels into its side and pulling the reins at the same time. Even more, pity the child who has the rules changed by a capricious father, and who is always exasperated because of the conflicting messages he receives.

I am so tempted to get up from my seat, walk through the tables, and step into the ocean. It sounds infinitely more appealing than another moment with Bryce.

It is not that you want me. It is that you like the way I want you and you don’t want that feeling to go to someone else.

of the worst kinds of verbal abuse are quiet; silence in answer to a question asked or a comment made can pack a mightier wallop than a loud rant. Silence effectively ridicules and shames. The child subjected to quiet abuse often experiences more emotional confusion than one who’s being yelled at or insulted, precisely because the absence of rage sends mixed signals, and the motivation behind willful silence or a refusal to answer is impossible for a child to read. There’s a special kind of hurt in being treated as though you’re invisible or that you are so unimportant in the scheme of things that you’re not even worth answering. Is there anything more chilling and hurtful than seeing your mother act as though she can’t see you, her face calm?

Matilda?" he said softly as he lowered his head to mine, his eyes shifting to gaze at my lips, then back to my eyes. He was going to kiss me. (...) "Y-yes?" I breathed. His lips were almost on mine. His body bent over me, closer, closer. I thought I'd burst for want. I held my breath and closed my eyes. His fingers squeezed the back of my neck, gentle and possessive. "If you make me late," he murmured, his breath warm across my mouth, "I will throttle you." Wait. What? My eyes snapped open. (...) By the time I pulled my thoughts together, he was already out the door. His voice floated back to me. "Move, Matilda. We're late." That was it? No kiss? What was wrong with that man? He was sending off more mixed signals than a three-armed traffic cop.

Be honest with yourself. You were at your lowest and broken down. You were unsure and lost hope. You were hiding your fears until you showed them on your sleeve. You felt like everything and everyone was the hammer and you were the nail as they were beating down on you, and it was never-ending. Their empty threats had you scared and you were always running because your weakness was exposed. You were their prey. You didn’t know who to believe because of their mixed signals. You might not see it now, but you are stronger than you can ever imagine. You cannot become comfortable in your pain. You have to let the pain that you feel turn you into a rose without thorns. There are sixteen pieces on the chessboard. The king is the most important piece, but the difference is that the queen is the most powerful piece! You are a queen, you can maneuver around your opponents; they do not have the power over your life, your mind or soul. You might think you’ve been a prisoner, but that is your past’. Look in the now and work your way to how you want your future to be. Exercise your thoughts into a pattern of letting go, and think positively about more of what you want than what you do not want. Queen! You are a queen! As a matter of fact, you are the queen! Act as if you know it! You are powerful, determined, strong, and you can make the biggest and most extravagant move and put it into action. Lights, camera, strike a pose and own it! It is yours to own! Yes, you loved and loved so much. You also lost as well, but you lost hurt, pain, agony, and confusion. You’ve lost interest in wanting to know answers to unanswered questions. You’ve lost the willingness to give a shit about what others think. You’ve surrendered to being fine, that you cannot change the things you have no control over. You’ve lost a lot, but you’ve gained closure. You are now balanced, centered, focused, and filled with peace surrounding you in your heart, mind, body, and soul. Your pride was hurt, but you would rather walk alone and be more willing to give and learn more about the queen you are. You lost yourself in the process, but the more you learn about the new you, the more you will be so much in love with yourself. The more you learn about the new you, the more you will know your worth. The more you learn about the new you, the happier you are going to be, and this time around you will be smiling inside and out! The dots are now connecting. You feel alive! You know now that all is not lost. Now that you’ve cut the cord it is time to give your heart a second chance at loving yourself. Silence your mind. Take a deep breath and close your eyes. As you open your eyes, look at your reflection in the mirror. Aren’t you beautiful, Queen? Embrace who you are. Smile, laugh, welcome the new you and say, “My world is just now beginning.

The parallels with my own experience are numerous – but so are the differences. If the same source was beaming ideas to both Phil and me, the messages got our individual flavors mixed into them as we decoded the signals.

See . . . um . . . the thing is, I met with Lisa a few days ago. She wanted to apologize for . . . Halloween, and not calling . . . Thing is, her previous story . . . um . . . She wanted me to read it. She . . . wanted to explain her issues. She was jealous . . . of you and me becoming friends and . . . kinda lost it, I guess. My point is, um . . . she used the story to put it into words . . . I think she is writing messages. . . to you.

There was, of course, a whole complex range of people in the ghettoside world. Some men liked hurting people. Some didn't. Some men started out not liking it but became brutalized and sadistic. Maybe the mix would differ in other groups of Americans. Maybe some other racial or ethnic cohort would contain a higher ratio of regular guys, or a lower ratio of men susceptible to becoming violent. Maybe the gnawing fear of getting murdered-- estimated as high as one in thirty-five by a Justice Department report in the 1990s-- would influence another group of men differently. But this was hairsplitting. Take a bunch of teenage boys from the whitest, safest suburb in America and plunk them down in a place where their friends are murdered and they are constantly attacked and threatened. Signal that no one cares, and fail to solve murders. Limit their options for escape. Then see what happens.

I think gender can take a lesson from sadomasochism (S/M): gender needs to be safe, sane, and consensual. Gender is not safe. If i change my gender, I'm at risk of homocide, suicide or a life devoid of half my responsibilities. If I'm born with a body that gives mixed gender signals, I'm at risk of being butchered - fixed, mutilated. Gender is not safe. And gender is not sane. It's not sane to call a rainbow black and white. It's not sane to demand we fit into one or the other only. It's not sane that we classify people in order to oppress them as women or glorify them as men. Gender is not sane. And gender is not consensual. We're born: a doctor assigns us a gender. It's documented by the state, enforced by the legal profession, sanctified by the church, and it's bought and sold in the media. We have no say in our gender - we're not allowed to question it, play with it, work it out with our friends, lovers or family. Gender is not consensual. Safe gender is being who and what we want to be when we want to be that, with no threat censure or violence. Safe gender is going as far in an direction as we wish with not threats to our health, or to anyone else's. Safe gender is not being pressured into passing, not having to lie, not having to hide. Sane gender is asking questions about gender - talking to people who do gender and opening up about our gender histories and our gender desires. Sane gender is probably very, very funny. Consensual gender is respecting each others definitions of gender , and respecting the intentions of others to be inclusive in their own time. Consensual gender is non violent in that it doesn't force its way in on anyone. Consensual gender opens its arms and welcomes all people as gender outcasts - whoever is willing to admit to it. Gender has a lot to learn from S/M.

Good people, your food is digested by various juices in the stomach. There is a stomach juice for everything you eat. There is a juice for meat and a juice for potatoes. There is a juice for chitterlings and a juice for sweet potato pie. There is a juice for buttermilk and a juice for hopping John. But sometimes it happens these juices get mixed up and the wrong juice is applied to the wrong food. Now you might eat corn on the cob which has just been taken out of the pot and it’s so hot you burn your tongue. Well, your mouth gets mixed up and sends the wrong signal to your stomach. And your stomach hauls off and lets go with the juice for cayenne pepper. Suddenly you got an upset stomach and the hot corn goes to your head. It causes a burning fever and your temperature rises. Your head gets so hot it causes the corn to begin popping. And the popped corn comes through your skull and gets mixed up with your hair. And that’s how you get dandruff. Dusty Fletcher at the Apollo Theater on 125th Street in Harlem

I tell you this because"—she scoops her spoon around the outer edge, eyes far away— "I tell you this because you are so like your grandfather." "I see things that aren't really there? " My stomach swoops low. "I embellish?" "No," she says with a steely thread of determination. "Because you love with your whole, entire heart. And that is a beautiful thing.

To fill the days up of his dateless year Flame from Queen Helen to Queen Guenevere? For first of all the sphery signs whereby Love severs light from darkness, and most high, In the white front of January there glows The rose-red sign of Helen like a rose: And gold-eyed as the shore-flower shelterless Whereon the sharp-breathed sea blows bitterness, A storm-star that the seafarers of love Strain their wind-wearied eyes for glimpses of, Shoots keen through February's grey frost and damp The lamplike star of Hero for a lamp; The star that Marlowe sang into our skies With mouth of gold, and morning in his eyes; And in clear March across the rough blue sea The signal sapphire of Alcyone Makes bright the blown bross of the wind-foot year; And shining like a sunbeam-smitten tear Full ere it fall, the fair next sign in sight Burns opal-wise with April-coloured light When air is quick with song and rain and flame, My birth-month star that in love's heaven hath name Iseult, a light of blossom and beam and shower, My singing sign that makes the song-tree flower; Next like a pale and burning pearl beyond The rose-white sphere of flower-named Rosamond Signs the sweet head of Maytime; and for June Flares like an angered and storm-reddening moon Her signal sphere, whose Carthaginian pyre Shadowed her traitor's flying sail with fire; Next, glittering as the wine-bright jacinth-stone, A star south-risen that first to music shone, The keen girl-star of golden Juliet bears Light northward to the month whose forehead wears Her name for flower upon it, and his trees Mix their deep English song with Veronese; And like an awful sovereign chrysolite Burning, the supreme fire that blinds the night, The hot gold head of Venus kissed by Mars, A sun-flower among small sphered flowers of stars, The light of Cleopatra fills and burns The hollow of heaven whence ardent August yearns; And fixed and shining as the sister-shed Sweet tears for Phaethon disorbed and dead, The pale bright autumn's amber-coloured sphere, That through September sees the saddening year As love sees change through sorrow, hath to name Francesca's; and the star that watches flame The embers of the harvest overgone Is Thisbe's, slain of love in Babylon, Set in the golden girdle of sweet signs A blood-bright ruby; last save one light shines An eastern wonder of sphery chrysopras, The star that made men mad, Angelica's; And latest named and lordliest, with a sound Of swords and harps in heaven that ring it round, Last love-light and last love-song of the year's, Gleams like a glorious emerald Guenevere's.

But in the Europe of 1903–14, the reality was even more complex than the ‘international’ model would suggest. The chaotic interventions of monarchs, ambiguous relationships between civil and military, adversarial competition among key politicians in systems characterized by low levels of ministerial or cabinet solidarity, compounded by the agitations of a critical mass press against a background of intermittent crisis and heightened tension over security issues made this a period of unprecedented uncertainty in international relations. The policy oscillations and mixed signalling that resulted made it difficult, not just for historians, but for the statesmen of the last pre-war years to read the international environment. It would be a mistake to push this

mood has a measurable influence on what you think: what you notice in your environment, what you retrieve from your memory, how you make sense of these signals. But mood has another, more surprising effect: it also changes how you think. And here, the effects are not those you might imagine. Being in a good mood is a mixed blessing, and bad moods have a silver lining. The costs and benefits

All of these fuckers and their assbackward ideas,” Bina said with a curl of her mouth. I thought she was talking about Devon, but she was responding to Altaf. “I’m tired of idiots who try to drag people down because they’d rather everyone remain in the gutter. The frightening thing about this is that so many people, men especially, are attracted to the kind of power a reign of stupidity brings.

I been thinkin'," he said. "I been in the hills, thinkin', almost you might say like Jesus went into the wilderness to think His way out of a mess of troubles. Seems like Jesus got all messed up with troubles, and He couldn't figure nothin' out, an' He got to feelin' what the hell good is it all, an' what's the use fightin' an' figurin'. Got tired, got good an' tired, an' His sperit all wore out. Jus' about come to the conclusion, the hell with it. An' so He went off into the wilderness." "I ain't sayin' I'm like Jesus," the preacher went on. "But I got tired like Him, an' I got mixed up like Him, an' I went into the wilderness like Him, without no campin' stuff. Nighttime I'd lay on my back an' look up at the stars; morning I'd set an' watch the sun come up; midday I'd look out from a hill at the rollin' dry country; evenin' I'd foller the sun down. Sometimes I'd pray like I always done. On'y I couldn' figure what I was prayin' to or for. There was the hills, an' there was me, an' we wasn't separate no more. We was one thing. An' that one thing was holy." "An' I got thinkin', on'y it wasn't thinkin, it was deeper down than thinkin'. I got thinkin' how we was holy when we was one thing, an' mankin' was holy when it was one thing. An' it on'y got unholy when one mis'able little fella got the bit in his teeth an' run off his own way, kickin' an' draggin' an' fightin'. Fella like that bust the holiness. But when they're all workin' together, not one fella for another fella, but one fella kind of harnessed to the whole shebang—that's right, that's holy. An' then I got thinkin' I don't even know what I mean by holy." He paused, but the bowed heads stayed down, for they had been trained like dogs to rise at the "amen" signal. "I can't say no grace like I use' ta say. I'm glad of the holiness of breakfast. I'm glad there's love here. That's all." The heads stayed down. The preacher looked around. "I've got your breakfast cold," he said; and then he remembered. "Amen," he said, and all the heads rose up.

There can be a mismatch of attachment expectations. As mentioned earlier, not all relationships have to be attachment-based, but ideally all parties involved in the relationship need to agree about this. Very painful and confusing situations can arise when one person wants a certain relationship to meet their attachment needs, but the other person does not want the same level of involvement, or if a person wants an attachment-based relationship in theory but is practically or situationally unable to provide at that level. When I see clients struggling with attachment anxiety because a partner gives mixed signals or is inconsistent in their responsiveness, support, or availability, it is important to explore whether or not they are expecting this partner to be an attachment figure for them. If they are, then it is paramount for them to dialogue with their partner about whether or not that partner wants to be in the role of an attachment figure for them, as well as honestly assessing if the partner has enough time, capacity and/or space in their life and other relationships to show up to the degree required for being polysecure together. Some people prefer not to define their relationships, preferring to explore and experience them without labels or traditional expectations. As long as this level of ambiguity or relationship fluidity is a match for everyone involved, it can be a very liberating and satisfying way to relate with others. But when someone casts a partner in the role of attachment figure, but that person is unable or unwilling to play the part, much pain, frustration, disappointment, heartache and attachment anxiety ensues.

  Bear with me then, if lawful what I ask;   Love not the heav'nly Spirits, and how thir Love   Express they, by looks onely, or do they mix   Irradiance, virtual or immediate touch?     To whom the Angel with a smile that glow'd   Celestial rosie red, Loves proper hue,   Answer'd. Let it suffice thee that thou know'st   Us happie, and without Love no happiness.   Whatever pure thou in the body enjoy'st   (And pure thou wert created) we enjoy   In eminence, and obstacle find none   Of membrane, joynt, or limb, exclusive barrs:   Easier then Air with Air, if Spirits embrace,   Total they mix, Union of Pure with Pure   Desiring; nor restrain'd conveyance need   As Flesh to mix with Flesh, or Soul with Soul.   But I can now no more; the parting Sun   Beyond the Earths green Cape and verdant Isles   HESPEREAN sets, my Signal to depart.

The repeated finding that people with happier, less troubled thought patterns can suffer more illness seems to defy common sense. The general belief is that positive emotions must be conducive to good health. While it is true that genuine joy and satisfaction enhance physical well-being, “positive” states of mind generated to tune out psychic discomfort lower resistance to illness. The brain governs and integrates the activities of all organs and systems of the body, simultaneously coordinating our interactions with the environment. This regulating function depends on the clear recognition of negative influences, danger signals and signs of internal distress. In children whose environment chronically conveys mixed messages, an impairment occurs in the developing apparatus of the brain. The brain’s capacity to evaluate the environment is diminished, including its ability to distinguish what is nourishing from what is toxic.

It remains to be seen to which side I'm gonna lean. Which road will I choose, what will I gain, what will I lose? Am I gonna come to my senses and see the light in letting go of what I want in order to do what's right? Oh but right by whom? By me or by you? It’s just a crossroads. Is the light red or is it green? I’m getting mixed signals, I really don’t know what they mean. If I wasn’t temporarily blind, if I could only take one look I know I’d find how simple it all is. How much do I really own this? Is enough not enough? Am I really in love? Or is it nothing but a test? Well if you wanna try me go ahead and be my guest. Cos I myself would like to know which way we're to go. I guess it’s undecided yet so I’ll take it slow, but as I regain my sight, I know I will do what’s right. Indeed it’s just a crossroads. Now that I’m willing to clearly see things for what they really are and not what I’d like them to be. There’s nothing left to think about. I know the way now, I’ve no more doubt. I let go and release. You do the same for me, please.

IS CARDIO BEST BEFORE OR AFTER LIFTING? NEITHER! Doing cardio right before or after lifting can seriously hinder muscle and strength gains. Why? Researchers from RMIT University worked with well–trained athletes in 2009 and found that “combining resistance exercise and cardio in the same session may disrupt genes for anabolism.” In laymen’s terms, they found that combining endurance and resistance training sends “mixed signals” to the muscles37. Cardio before the resistance training suppressed anabolic hormones such as IGF–1 and MGF, and cardio after resistance training increased muscle tissue breakdown. Several other studies, such as those conducted by Children’s National Medical Center38, the Waikato Institute of Technology39, and the University of Jyvaskyla (Finland)40 , came to same conclusions: training for both endurance and strength simultaneously impairs your gains on both fronts. Training purely for strength or purely for endurance in a workout is far superior. Cardio before weightlifting also saps your energy and makes it much harder to train heavy, which in turn inhibits your muscle growth. So, how do you do it right?

In the ending, we lose or let go of our old outlook, our old reality, our old attitudes, our old values, our old self-image.2 We may resist this ending for a while. We may try to talk ourselves out of what we are feeling, and when we do give in, we may be swept by feelings of sadness and anger. Why is this happening to me? My friends aren't troubled by such things! •​Next, we find ourselves in the neutral zone between the old and new—yet not really being either the old nor the new. This confusing state is a time when our lives feel as though they have broken apart or gone dead. We get mixed signals, some from our old way of being and some from a way of being that is still unclear to us. Nothing feels solid. Everything is up for grabs. Yet for that very reason, it is a time when we sometimes feel that anything is possible. So the in-between time can be a very creative time too. •​Finally, we take hold of and identify with some new outlook and some new reality, as well as new attitudes and a new self-image. When we have done this, we feel that we are finally starting a new chapter in our lives. No matter how impossible it was to imagine a future earlier, life now feels as though it is back on its track again. We have a new sense of ourselves, a new outlook, and a new sense of purpose and possibility.

Moving on, while he wondered, the dark through which Mr. Lecky's light cut grew more beautiful with scents. Particles of solid matter so minute, gases so subtle, that they filtered through stopping and sealing, hung on the unstirred air. Drawn in with Mr. Lecky's breath came impalpable dews cooked out of disintegrating coal. Distilled, chemically split and reformed, they ended in flawless simulation of the aromas of gums, the scent of woods and the world's flowers. The chemists who made them could do more than that. Loose on the gloom were perfumes of flowers which might possibly have bloomed but never had, and the strong-smelling saps of trees either lost or not yet evolved. Mixed in the mucus of the pituitary membrane, these volatile essences meant more than synthetic chemistry to Mr. Lecky. Their microscopic slime coated the bushed-out ends of the olfactory nerve; their presence was signaled to the anterior of the brain's temporal lobe. At once, thought waited on them, tossing down from the great storehouse of old images, neglected ideas - sandalwood and roses, musk and lavender. Mr. Lecky stood still, wrung by pangs as insistent and unanswerable as hunger. He was prodded by the unrest of things desired, not had; the surfeit of things had, not desired. More than anything he could see, or words, or sounds, these odors made him stupidly aware of the past. Unable to remember it, whence he was, or where he had previously been, all that was sweet, impermanent and gone came back not spoiled by too much truth or exact memory. Volatile as the perfumes, the past stirred him with longing for what was not - the only beloved beauty which you will have to see but which you may not keep. Mr. Lecky's beam of light went through glass top and side of a counter, displayed bottles of colored liquid - straw, amber, topaz - threw shadows behind their diverse shapes. He had no use for perfume. All the distraction, all the sense of loss and implausible sweetness which he felt was in memory of women. Behind the counter, Mr. Lecky, curious, took out bottles, sniffed them, examined their elaborately varied forms - transparent squares, triangles, cones, flattened ovals. Some were opaque, jet or blue, rough with embedded metals in intricate design. This great and needless decoration of the flasks which contained it was one strange way to express the inexpressible. Another way was tried in the names put on the bottles. Here words ran the suggestive or symbolic gamut of idealized passion, or festive night, of desired caresses, or of abstractions of the painful allure yet farther fetched. Not even in the hopeful, miracle-raving fancy of those who used the perfumes could a bottle of liquid have any actual magic. Since the buyers at the counters must be human beings, nine of every ten were beyond this or other help. Women, young, but unlovely and unloved, women, whatever they had been, now at the end of it and ruined by years or thickened to caricature by fat, ought to be the ones called to mind by perfume. But they were not. Mr. Lecky held the bottle in his hand a long while, aware of the tenth woman.

She leans back again against the pine’s trunk. Some slight change in the atmosphere, the humidity, and her mind becomes a greener thing. At midnight, on this hillside, perched in the dark above this city with her pine standing in for a Bo, Mimi gets enlightened. The fear of suffering that is her birthright—the frantic need to steer—blows away on the wind, and something else wings down to replace it. Messages hum from out of the bark she leans against. Chemical semaphores home in over the air. Currents rise from the soil-gripping roots, relayed over great distances through fungal synapses linked up in a network the size of the planet. The signals say: A good answer is worth reinventing from scratch, again and again. They say: The air is a mix we must keep making. They say: There’s as much belowground as above. They tell her: Do not hope or despair or predict or be caught surprised. Never capitulate, but divide, multiply, transform, conjoin, do, and endure as you have all the long day of life. There are seeds that need fire. Seeds that need freezing. Seeds that need to be swallowed, etched in digestive acid, expelled as waste. Seeds that must be smashed open before they’ll germinate. A thing can travel everywhere, just by holding still. The next day dawns. The sun rises so slowly that even the birds forget there was ever anything else but dawn. People drift back through the park on their way to jobs, appointments, and other urgencies. Making a living. Some pass within a few feet of the altered woman. Mimi comes to, and speaks her very first Buddha’s words. “I’m hungry.” The answer comes from right above her head. Be hungry. “I’m thirsty.” Be thirsty. “I hurt.” Be still and feel.

I am, reluctantly, a self-confessed carbon chauvinist. Carbon is abundant in the Cosmos. It makes marvelously complex molecules, good for life. I am also a water chauvinist. Water makes an ideal solvent system for organic chemistry to work in and stays liquid over a wide range of temperatures. But sometimes I wonder. Could my fondness for materials have something to do with the fact that I am made chiefly of them? Are we carbon- and water-based because those materials were abundant on the Earth at the time of the origin of life? Could life elsewhere—on Mars, say—be built of different stuff? I am a collection of water, calcium and organic molecules called Carl Sagan. You are a collection of almost identical molecules with a different collective label. But is that all? Is there nothing in here but molecules? Some people find this idea somehow demeaning to human dignity. For myself, I find it elevating that our universe permits the evolution of molecular machines as intricate and subtle as we. But the essence of life is not so much the atoms and simple molecules that make us up as the way in which they are put together. Every now and then we read that the chemicals which constitute the human body cost ninety-seven cents or ten dollars or some such figure; it is a little depressing to find our bodies valued so little. However, these estimates are for human beings reduced to our simplest possible components. We are made mostly of water, which costs almost nothing; the carbon is costed in the form of coal; the calcium in our bones as chalk; the nitrogen in our proteins as air (cheap also); the iron in our blood as rusty nails. If we did not know better, we might be tempted to take all the atoms that make us up, mix them together in a big container and stir. We can do this as much as we want. But in the end all we have is a tedious mixture of atoms. How could we have expected anything else? Harold Morowitz has calculated what it would cost to put together the correct molecular constituents that make up a human being by buying the molecules from chemical supply houses. The answer turns out to be about ten million dollars, which should make us all feel a little better. But even then we could not mix those chemicals together and have a human being emerge from the jar. That is far beyond our capability and will probably be so for a very long period of time. Fortunately, there are other less expensive but still highly reliable methods of making human beings. I think the lifeforms on many worlds will consist, by and large, of the same atoms we have here, perhaps even many of the same basic molecules, such as proteins and nucleic acids—but put together in unfamiliar ways. Perhaps organisms that float in dense planetary atmospheres will be very much like us in their atomic composition, except they might not have bones and therefore not need much calcium. Perhaps elsewhere some solvent other than water is used. Hydrofluoric acid might serve rather well, although there is not a great deal of fluorine in the Cosmos; hydrofluoric acid would do a great deal of damage to the kind of molecules that make us up, but other organic molecules, paraffin waxes, for example, are perfectly stable in its presence. Liquid ammonia would make an even better solvent system, because ammonia is very abundant in the Cosmos. But it is liquid only on worlds much colder than the Earth or Mars. Ammonia is ordinarily a gas on Earth, as water is on Venus. Or perhaps there are living things that do not have a solvent system at all—solid-state life, where there are electrical signals propagating rather than molecules floating about. But these ideas do not

Even stranger than our teeth-brushing behaviour is our preference for stripy toothpaste. When it first appeared, in a product called Stripe, it aroused a great deal of debate over how it was made. Many people dissected the empty container; others froze a full tube and then cut it open in a cross section.* What was strange was that nobody ever asked ‘Why?’ After all, the moment toothpaste enters your mouth, all the ingredients are mixed together, so what was the point of keeping them separate in the tube? There are two explanations: 1) simple childish novelty and 2) psycho-logic. Psychologically, the stripes serve as a signal: a claim that a toothpaste performed more than one function (fighting cavities, tackling infection and freshening breath) was thought to be more convincing if the toothpaste contained three visibly separate active ingredients. In general, people are impressed by any visible extra effort that goes into a product: if you simply say ‘this washing powder is better than our old powder’, it is a hollow claim. However, if you replace the powder with a gel, a tablet or some other form, the cost and effort which have gone into the change make it more plausible to the purchaser there may have been some real innovation in the new contents.

Their eyes met. For a split second she caught a glimpse of heat in his eyes. Then Jake banked the flame and broke out of her embrace. Marnie felt a hot blush rise from her toes to her nose. It took a moment for her eyes to focus and her brain to function. Bewildered, she looked up to find him watching her. His heavy-lidded eyes held a strange desperation as he reached back and unhooked the vice of her ankles from around his wiast. Her legs dropped. Her heels thumped against the cabinet. Beneath his hawklike gaze she felt stripped bare and vulnerable. He studied her face, seeming to see more than her features. He seemed to delve into her mind, to touch things deep and frightening—parts of herself Marnie was still exploring. The muscles in his jaw knotted and unknotted. After a moment he stepped back and casually, but with difficulty, adjusted his jeans Heat flooded her cheeks. Legs splayed, nipples peaked to his clinical gaze, she’d never experienced such acute embarrassment in her life. Her breath hitched as she jumped off the counter, tugging her top down and her pants up. At a loss for hers, she half laughed. “I have absolutely no idea what to say.” Which was a reasonable start, she guessed. It was rare for her to be speechless. But then, this was a day of firsts. “I told you you weren’t my type.” The brass button on his jeans closed like the clasp of a miser’s purse. Other than a faint flush on the ridge of his cheekbones and what looked like a painful erection, he seemed totally unaffected by what had just happened. She stared at him. “Not your t—What do you call what just happened?” Marnie was confused. It was out of character for her to be sexually aggressive. But now that she’d done it, she wasn’t sorry. “What part of ‘I don’t want you’ didn’t you understand?” He’d wanted her. He might lie about it, but his body had been honest. He was as hard as petrified wood. “Then what”—she pointed—“is that?” He ignored the bulge in his jeans. “Just because I have it doesn’t mean I intend to use it.” Marnie stepped forward and touched his arm. He jerked away from her as if she’d used a cattle prod. “Was it something I said?” she asked quietly, dropping her hand to her side. “Look, I have a tendency to sort of speak without running the words through my brain first. But I know I didn’t give out mixed signals just now. I wanted to make love with you. It was very good. No, darn it, it was excellent. So if you have some sort of medical condition, let’s talk about i—” He moved backward, almost tripping over Duchess sprawled on the floor. The dog rose to hover anxiously between them. Jake’s eyes turned as he said, “I do not have a medical condition.” Marnie backed up—mentally as well as physically. Her hip bumped the counter. “Good.” He scowled and swore under his breath. “That is good, isn’t it?” she asked tentatively.

could stand to be a little scared. “No, let’s spook them,” I whispered back. Lake grinned, Carla shook her head. “They’ll turn us in,” Carla said. “They’ll tell the others.” “They won’t,” I whispered and then motioned for them to get close. When they did, I let them in on the plan. “Let’s sneak around the back. Carla, do you have your flashlight.” With it being a clear night, and the moon glowing above, we hadn’t needed the flashlight. Carla had brought it, though.  She pulled it out of her pocket and held it up. “You stand back,” I told her, figuring she’d want this job. “Shine the light toward the back of the tent. Lake, you and I stand close to the tent wall. When Carla shines the light, you pretend to be a bear and roar. And we’ll make shadows.” “Sounds good to me,” Lake said. “Only we have to be quiet from here out,” I whispered. “North can hear everything.” I wasn’t so sure he couldn’t hear us out here now with his supersonic hearing. Maybe he was asleep... The girls followed me as I tiptoed my way around wide toward the back of the tent. Carla positioned herself near the trees, so her light would cast a good glow. Lake and I stood halfway between. Lake stood really close to me. “So we don’t look like two people,” she explained when I started to back away from her. I realized she was right. Standing together, we’d make one big shadow. We stood hip to hip and I counted down with hand signals to Carla. Three. Two. One. Go! Carla lit up the beam, creating a strong enough glow to spread across the back of the tent wall. She even angled from below so the beam went up, making our shadow taller. Lake raised a curled hand like a claw and growled, doing a great bear impression. I raised my own hand on the other side—another claw. The tent erupted with the sounds of grunts, curses, and a few squeals. “Kota!” Gabriel’s voice erupted over the mix of noises. “Bear!” “Bears don’t have flashlights,” Kota said. “Shit,” Gabriel said. “Fuck. Shit. Fuck.” “Enough,” North said. The three of us outside giggled and started making our way back around the tent, when I was tackled, and on the ground in a heap before I even realized what had happened. The smell of leather and cedar wafted over me. I’d recognize the big bulk of muscle anywhere. “It’s just us!” I cried out in an eruption of giggling, struggling for breath with him on top of me. “I knew it was you,” Nathan said, leaning back while still sitting on my hips. “No one else at this campground would dare.” The others had been tackled, too. Silas was on top of Lake. Luke was on top of Carla. “Get off,” Lake said but she was laughing, pushing on Silas, only Silas

Indian Express (Indian Express) - Clip This Article at Location 721 | Added on Sunday, 30 November 2014 20:28:42 Fifth column: Hope and audacity Ministers, high officials, clerks and peons now report for duty on time and are no longer to be seen taking long lunch breaks to soak in winter sunshine in Delhi’s parks. Reform is needed not just in economic matters but in every area of governance. Does the Prime Minister know how hard it is to get a passport? Tavleen Singh | 807 words At the end of six months of the Modi sarkar are we seeing signs that it is confusing efficiency with reform? I ask the question because so far there is no sign of real reform in any area of governance. And, because some of Narendra Modi’s most ardent supporters are now beginning to get worried. Last week I met a man who dedicated a whole year to helping Modi become Prime Minister and he seemed despondent. When I asked how he thought the government was doing, he said he would answer in the words of the management guru Peter Drucker, “There is nothing quite so useless as doing with great efficiency something that should not be done at all.” We can certainly not fault this government on efficiency. Ministers, high officials, clerks and peons now report for duty on time and are no longer to be seen taking long lunch breaks to soak in winter sunshine in Delhi’s parks. The Prime Minister’s Office hums with more noise and activity than we have seen in a decade but, despite this, there are no signs of the policy changes that are vital if we are to see real reform. The Planning Commission has been abolished but there are many, many other leftovers from socialist times that must go. Do we need a Ministry of Information & Broadcasting in an age when the Internet has made propaganda futile? Do we need a meddlesome University Grants Commission? Do we need the government to continue wasting our money on a hopeless airline and badly run hotels? We do not. What we do need is for the government to make policies that will convince investors that India is a safe bet once more. We do not need a new government that simply implements more efficiently bad policies that it inherited from the last government. It was because of those policies that investors fled and the economy stopped growing. Unless this changes through better policies, the jobs that the Prime Minister promises young people at election rallies will not come. So far signals are so mixed that investors continue to shy away. The Finance Minister promises to end tax terrorism but in the next breath orders tax inspectors to go forth in search of black money. Vodafone has been given temporary relief by the courts but the retroactive tax remains valid. And, although we hear that the government has grandiose plans to improve the decrepit transport systems, power stations and ports it inherited, it continues to refuse to pay those who have to build them. The infrastructure industry is owed more than Rs 1.5 lakh continued... crore in government dues and this has crippled major companies. No amount of efficiency in announcing new projects will make a difference unless old dues are cleared. Reform is needed not just in economic matters but in every area of governance. Does the Prime Minister know how hard it is to get a passport? Does he know that a police check is required even if you just want to get a few pages added to your passport? Does he know how hard it is to do routine things like registering property? Does he know that no amount of efficiency will improve healthcare services that are broken? No amount of efficiency will improve educational services that have long been in terminal decline because of bad policies and interfering officials. At the same time, the licence raj that strangles private investment in schools and colleges remains in place. Modi’s popularity with ordinary people has increased since he became Prime Minister, as we saw from his rallies in Kashmir last week, but it will not la

I’ve been giving my armpits mixed signals, may they come to know peace, prosperity, and perspiration.

Genar-Hofoen had arrived a few days after the end of Tier’s annual Festival. There was an air of autumnal desuetude mixed with high-summer torpor about the place when he arrived; people were cleaning up, calming down, getting back to normal and generally behaving themselves. He’d signalled ahead and succeeded in booking the services of an erotroupe as well as reserving a garden penthouse in the View, the best hotel on Level Three.

Inspirational dreams stimulate us to explore and inquire. Constructive dreams encourage us to solve intractable problems and defeat our competitors. Working on personal or professional problems throughout a dreamy night assists us surmount personal frustrations, overcome cognitive obstructions, and surmount somatic barriers. Sensual dreams endorse pair bonding; promote the principle of natural selection, the desire of the individual to find the best mate and to achieve the optimum genetic mixing. Carnal dreams stimulate the human reflex to reproduce the species; such dreams oftentimes conflict with human values of fidelity and mating for life. Nightmares act as omens, warning us to beware of dangers. Lurid dreams signal us to exercise caution and personal restraint.

Menu Decoder AMenù a la carte Choose whatever you like from the menu. AMenù di degustazione Degustation menu, usually consisting of six to eight 'tasting size' courses. AMenù turistico The 'tourist menu' usually signals mediocre fare – steer clear! APiatto del giorno Dish of the day. AAntipasto A hot or cold appetiser. For a tasting plate of different appetisers, request an antipasto misto (mixed antipasto).

The first step in getting your child comfortable about the bathroom is to change her diapers in the bathroom instead of in her room or wherever else you have a changing area. You want your kiddo to start doing bathroom things in the bathroom, because that is what will be expected once you put her in underwear. Changing your child all over the house gives mixed signals. Once she feels comfortable being changed in the bathroom, it will be easier for her to feel comfortable sitting on the potty.

on the steps to the cross there were stumbles not by you but by us. mixed signals, cross purposes, bad karmas how could we miss your loving so clear. mixed signals, cross purposes, bad karmas our answers were wanting our visions unclear.

Mixed signals. Those kinds of mixed signals mess with your head.

I wish I had a dictionary to translate mixed signals.

Lost Sparks- Canyon City Bet on You- The Man Who Chasing Fire (Stripped)- Lauv To Be Alone With You- Sufjan Stevens Better Together- Jack Johnson Take Me Out- Franz Ferdinand Just You and I- Tom Walker Before I Fall To Pieces- Razorlight Mixed Signals- The Night Café Laughing On The Outside- Bernadette Carroll In The Middle- dodie Hallucinogenics- Matt Maeson

When I see clients struggling with attachment anxiety because a partner gives mixed signals or is inconsistent in their responsiveness, support or availability, it is important to explore whether or not they are expecting this partner to be an attachment figure for them. If they are, then

Why is this complicated? If you're already in love, you're going to get hurt no matter what if you don't stop sending him mixed signals.

contained a suture kit, more water purification tablets, Russian aspirin, blood-clotting gauze, an Israeli-style wrap bandage, tweezers, six Russian-style Band-Aids of varying sizes, two antibacterial wipes, a small tube of antiseptic ointment, and an electrolyte drink mix. The fourth and final pouch in the ditch kit was emblazoned with words Harvath didn’t know. Opening it up, he looked inside. As soon as he saw the signal mirror, he knew exactly what this bag was—a SERE kit. In addition to the mirror, there was a compass, a whistle, more stormproof matches, more water purification tablets, a small notebook and pen, a silk scarf printed with panels containing survival instructions, more hextabs, a flint and striker, a packet of sunscreen, and some mosquito wipes. Opening the flare gun case, he examined its contents. In keeping with similar setups from the Soviet days, the kit included the pistol itself and four flares, beneath which was a conversion tube. When inserted into the barrel, it allowed for firing of .45 or .410 ammunition. Two cardboard boxes with five rounds of each

I’ve run hot and cold on you. Gave you mixed signals. I freaked out and abandoned you after you poured your heart out. Cal, I’m so sorry.

There’s too much emotion in his eyes, so many mixed-signals considering he’s done everything in his power to ignore me since his mom’s funeral. Since the night I thought maybe he and I were turning over a new leaf. Frustrated, I rip out of his grip and throw myself into the bodies surrounding us.

I’d read that trees had intelligence. Not like humans, but they were smart enough to adapt and change to their surroundings. They communicated with each other, both underground and through the air, using chemicals, hormones, and electric signals. More recently, it was discovered that different varieties actually needed one another. Like it wasn’t good to plant all pines or all maple. Mix them up. Yes, I loved trees. The lungs of the earth.

Chemistry From the middle Dutch boele, which means lover, bully was a term of endearment in the sixteenth century, which meant that a feudal lord could take the hand of his love under the apple trees in spring and exclaim: my bully, feeling adrenaline flood his body as his heart rate tripled and his palms began to release water mixed with urea, ammonia, salt. Essentially, he could feel what I felt over four centuries later when Ian Starkey called me a fag. I was fourteen, and the next day he kicked me twice, spat in my face, took my glasses and wouldn't give them back. And the whole time sweat glands were developing in our armpits and genitals, and our adrenals were releasing corticosteroids, and something about testosterone was why, though I hated him, I kept imagining him with his shirt off. True, Ian Starkey knew how to hurt me, but I doubt he knew why he was doing it or that we feel pain when neurons in the brain convert an electrical signal to a chemical signal and back again, which is also what allows us to feel a kiss or my brain to take strange comfort imagining all the boys of the world leaning into the strong arms of their tormentors in spring under the apple blossoms, saying I forgive you, saying: I can never forgive you, saying, my enemy, my bully, my love.

Within one day of training, Alli was showing exceptional skill at identification. She quickly learned to recognize 300 individual samples in an exercise that asked the dogs to distinguish individual bears by their scat, ignoring the 20 or so samples that weren't correct and signaling to the one that was. Though identifications can be verified with genetics, DNA testing was much more expensive at the time Smith began work with Alli than rescuing a dog and taking a day to teach it what to do. The training is simple: Give the dog a sample of scat to smell. Then, continue to move it farther away until it is hidden or mixed in with other samples. When the dog Identifies it correctly, throw a ball as a reward, Repeat.

It is essential to demonstrate to such a child that his very existence is appreciated. The parent may put out this message verbally, but if she does not live the message by a commitment of time and energy, the child will receive mixed signals at best.

Wie beim Verliebtsein liegen die besten und schlimmsten Momente eng beisammen, weshalb Autor:innen oft mixed signals senden: mal scheint Schreiben das Tollste auf der Welt zu sein, mal das Schwierigste und zum Verzweifeln. Beides ist wahr.

I’m starting to see that she relies on touch to communicate, and I rely on it to understand.

Readers' Favorite Book Reviews and Book Awards Review Rating: 5 Stars - Congratulations on your 5-star review! Reviewed by Asher Syed for Readers' Favorite The Magnificence of the 3 by Timeout A Taumua begins by looking at the connections between neuroscience, atomic structure, and biblical narratives. In it, Taumua draws parallels between the trees of knowledge in the Garden of Eden and the neurons in the human brain, speaking on the function of mirror neurons in memory and learning. Taumua discusses the significance of rhythmic radio signals from space as signs of design and the symbolic importance of the numbers three, six, and nine. He presents atomic structure as a metaphor for moral duality, with stable atoms representing balance and unstable atoms reflecting decay. He also talks at length on subjects like the interconnectedness of emotional dynamics, spiritual beliefs, and genetic factors, suggesting that desire acts as a stabilizing force in existence, guiding behavior and promoting community cohesion through practices like forgiveness and the evolution of the Sabbath. There's a huge amount of information to absorb in The Magnificence of the 3 by Timeout A Taumua, which is delivered in a thoughtful mix of scientific study with spiritual analysis. Taumua's writing style is academic, but I found it also to be accessible and was able to understand the representations of identities of the Tree of Knowledge, the Garden of Eden, the Tree of Life, and the Ark of the Covenant. It was fitting that Taumua would say, "One does not need a scientific degree to see the similarities of both the trees of knowledge and the trees of earth." As the idea of blind faith loses popularity, writers like Taumua become critically important in filling the vacuum that was once exclusively the domain of churches. Overall, this book is more than a philosophical treatise; it challenges readers to reconsider the links between knowledge, morality, and existence, making it an enlightening read for anyone interested in the fusion of science and spirituality. Very highly recommended.

You become constipated because the surge of GLP-1 slows down your gut and its emptying. The food and waste sit inside you longer and find it harder to get out. Similarly, you burp because “the valve that sits at the bottom of the stomach doesn’t open as quickly. The air must go somewhere, so instead of it going down into the small intestine, people start burping.” You become nauseous because the drug creates a sensation of extreme satiety—that you are full and can’t eat any more. The human brain struggles to distinguish between extreme satiety and sickness: the two signals get easily mixed up, which is why, even for people who aren’t taking these drugs, after a really big meal you often feel a little nauseous.

You can’t manifest the life you want with mixed signals, kitten. You’ll only confuse the universe.

You’re a romantic at heart,” he said, pinching a heap of fallen lettuce and nibbling on it. “No one would ever know it because of the mixed signals you give out.” “What signals?” “Slippery When Wet mixed with Library, Next Exit.

Meanwhile, the residents of the 138,000 damaged buildings continued to swelter and suffer. Local Miamians, as well as citizens from Fort Lauderdale and West Palm Beach, attempted to drive bottled water, food, clothes, and other supplies into the stricken area. They were successful during the first few hours; but they were shut down by the end of the first day. The same bureaucrats who were giving mixed signals to Washington seemed to prefer organized suffering to disorganized relief.

Jesus’ emotional state was so intense that it says “…his sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground.” The “sweat” is the Greek word idros. The word “drops” is the Greek word thrombos, a medical word that points to blood that is unusually thickly clotted. When these two words are joined, they depict a medical condition called hematidrosis — a condition that occurs only in individuals who are in a highly emotional state. Because the mind is under such great mental and emotional pressure, it sends signals of stress throughout the human body. These signals become so strong that the body reacts as if it were under actual physical pressure. As a result, the first and second layer of skin separate, causing a vacuum to form between them. Thickly clotted blood seeps from this vacuum, oozing through the pores of the skin. Once the blood seeps through, it mingles with the sufferer’s sweat that pours from his skin as a result of his intense inner struggle. In the end, the blood and sweat mix together and flow down the victim’s face like droplets to the ground.

I make you crazy? I make you crazy? No, you make me crazy! You with your mixed signals and commitment issues and-

confused interpretations of mixed signals. Of course,