Moping Around Quotes

There was no point moping around when you faced imminent death.

I looked so boring, lifeless, immune and unaffected, but in truth I was always furious, seething, my thoughts racing, my mind like a killer’s. It was easy to hide behind the dull face I wore, moping around. I really thought I had everybody fooled. And I didn’t really read books about flowers or home economics. I liked books about awful things—murder, illness, death.

He glanced up at the sky, but the stars were washed out behind the glare of the stadium lights. He wondered – not for the first time – if his mother was looking down at him. He hoped not. She’d beat him to hell and back if she saw him sitting around moping like that.

It's hard to accept that depression is an illness, that moping around from day to day with no will for so many years is not my fault.

Voicemail #1: “Hi, Isabel Culpeper. I am lying in my bed, looking at the ceiling. I am mostly naked. I am thinking of … your mother. Call me.” Voicemail #2: The first minute and thirty seconds of “I’ve Gotta Get a Message to You” by the Bee Gees. Voicemail #3: “I’m bored. I need to be entertained. Sam is moping. I may kill him with his own guitar. It would give me something to do and also make him say something. Two birds with one stone! I find all these old expressions unnecessarily violent. Like, ring around the rosy. That’s about the plague, did you know? Of course you did. The plague is, like, your older cousin. Hey, does Sam talk to you? He says jack shit to me. God, I’m bored. Call me.” Voicemail #4: “Hotel California” by the Eagles, in its entirety, with every instance of the word California replaced with Minnesota. Voicemail #5: “Hi, this is Cole St. Clair. Want to know two true things? One, you’re never picking up this phone. Two, I’m never going to stop leaving long messages. It’s like therapy. Gotta talk to someone. Hey, you know what I figured out today? Victor’s dead. I figured it out yesterday, too. Every day I figure it out again. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I feel like there’s no one I can —” Voicemail #6: “So, yeah, I’m sorry. That last message went a little pear-shaped. You like that expression? Sam said it the other day. Hey, try this theory on for size: I think he’s a dead British housewife reincarnated into a Beatle’s body. You know, I used to know this band that put on fake British accents for their shows. Boy, did they suck, aside from being assholes. I can’t remember their name now. I’m either getting senile or I’ve done enough to my brain that stuff’s falling out. Not so fair of me to make this one-sided, is it? I’m always talking about myself in these things. So, how are you, Isabel Rosemary Culpeper? Smile lately? Hot Toddies. That was the name of the band. The Hot Toddies.” Voicemail #20: “I wish you’d answer.

The first morning after Westley's departure, Buttercup thought she was entitled to do nothing more than sit around moping and feeling sorry for herself. After all, the love of her life had fled, life had no meaning, how could you face the future, et cetera, et cetera.

Sometimes, you know, I just want to curl up and see if anyone notices I’m not there. But I know time is short. Moping around wastes times. I always get attacks of paranoia. Big deal. Fed up of worrying what people think of me and they feel for me. But I wonder what they do feel for me, though. Am I loved? Perhaps in somebody’s bedroom I am secretly fancied? Probably not.

Try not to be self-conscious […] or so critical. Don’t mope around looking for someone else to make you happy, and remember that the vast majority of homosexuals are looking for a superman to love and find it very difficult to love anyone merely human, which we unfortunately happen to be.

Okay, maybe mope around is the wrong word. I’m sulking like a whore without clients.

Moping around with sadness and sorrow… what will come of it? Even dead people can do that. However, I’ll live and stand on my own two legs. If we are going to die one day, wouldn’t it be better to have no regrets?

Guess what? The Nazis didn't lose the war after all. They won it and flourished. They took over the world and wiped out every last Jew, every last Gypsy, black, East Indian, and American Indian. Then, when they were finished with that, they wiped out the Russians and the Poles and the Bohemians and the Moravians and the Bulgarians and the Serbians and the Croatians--all the Slavs. Then they started in on the Polynesians and the Koreans and the Chinese and the Japanese--all the peoples of Asia. This took a long, long time, but when it was all over, everyone in the world was one hundred percent Aryan, and they were all very, very happy. Naturally the textbooks used in the schools no longer mentioned any race but the Aryan or any language but German or any religion but Hitlerism or any political system but National Socialism. There would have been no point. After a few generations of that, no one could have put anything different into the textbooks even if they'd wanted to, because they didn't know anything different. But one day, two young students were conversing at the University of New Heidelberg in Tokyo. Both were handsome in the usual Aryan way, but one of them looked vaguely worried and unhappy. That was Kurt. His friend said, "What's wrong, Kurt? Why are you always moping around like this?" Kurt said, "I'll tell you, Hans. There is something that's troubling me--and troubling me deeply." His friend asked what it was. "It's this," Kurt said. "I cannot shake the crazy feeling that there is some small thing that we're being lied to about." And that's how the paper ended.' Ishmael nodded thoughtfully. 'And what did your teacher think of that?' 'He wanted to know if I had the same crazy feeling as Kurt. When I said I did, he wanted to know what I thought we were being lied to about. I said, 'How could I know? I'm no better off than Kurt.

Take it from me. Now is always the answer. Besides, do you have anything better to do? Mope around for a decade or two?" Casiopea drummed her fingers against her skirt and chewed her lip. The dramatic poetry she'd read would have called for this and more. There was sadness in her, of course, but she didn't wish to crack like fine china either. She could not wither away. In the world of the living, one must live. And had this not been her wish? To live. Truly live.

It's about 65 degrees, so it feels like when the air conditioner is up on high. I can bear it, so I'm going for a walk. Today. Right now. In the sunshine. Because I can. Because I want to. Because I'm not going to just sit around and wait for stuff to happen anymore. I'm still me, and I have a life. It's a weird life, but it's still mine. It's still mine.

A camel in distress isn’t a shy creature. It doesn’t hang around in bars, nursing a solitary drink. It doesn’t phone up old friends and sob at them. It doesn’t mope, or write long soulful poems about Life and how dreadful it is when seen from a bedsitter. It doesn’t know what angst is.

when I moped for too long, letting the poor-me blues clamp around my ankles and drag me down to very bad places, he would fight to get me back,

Michelle, who was never one to mope around and mince words, had told her to 'take a concrete pill and harden the fuck up' because nobody had it easy.

You told me men don’t do this.” “Do what?” She walked around the counter, speaking animatedly. “Two years ago. We were at Firelight, having drinks. Cade and I had split up and you said that men don’t mope around after a breakup. You said that men avoid issues, get drunk, and pick up a new girl to forget the old one—but that you don’t brood.” Ford held out his hands in disbelief. “How do you remember that? And I’m not brooding.” She folded her arms across her chest and looked at him. “I know you’re my friend,” he said. “But please, for once, can you just act like you have a penis? Because I don’t want to talk about this.” She shrugged. “Fine. We’ll just sit here and listen to music.” She reached for his phone again. “Have you heard Taylor Swift’s new song?” “No.” “Well, you’re going to—on endless repeat until you start talking.

there are clear distinctions between what it takes to be decent, what it takes to be good, what it takes to be great, and what it takes to be among the best. If your goal is to be mediocre, then you have a considerable margin for error. You can get depressed when fired and mope around waiting for someone to call with a new job offer. If you hurt your toe, you can take six weeks watching television and eating potato chips.

Great. A vampire with bruised feelings is a disaster waiting to happen. He's either terrorizing Will or moping around like Hamlet.

You've been moping around for too long...It's time you grew into your next self.

she had been moping around school, not wanting to do anything besides painting and reading books.

Marion and Alice were all for not using and so all went to sleep that night with a grim resolve. They got up about noon, smoked a joint with their coffee, feeling good about the fact that they werent giving any thought to not using, and sat around for a while, watched a little television, talked about maybe eating something, but not really feeling like it, then sort of moped around thinking and talking about the various things that should be done that day and making plans for doing them, then watched a little more TV, and more coffee, and more grass, spending much of the time dabbing at their running eyes and noses, and by three oclock they realized they were making a big deal out of nothing, that if they really wanted to stop using they certainly could, they were proving that right then, but it was stupid to panic and to think the world was coming to an end just because they couldnt score for any uncut weight right now, so they got back into the spoon. Their noses and eyes cleared up and they listened to music as they ate. A

If you get sick again? Alec, stop hiding behind that. We start dying the day we are born. If everyone thought the way you do, no one would ever go after their dreams. There would be a ton of unhappy people moping around.

If it makes you feel any better, he’s been all sad doll lately too.” “What are you talking about, Chels?” Chelsea stopped walking and stared at Violet. “Jay. I’m talking about Jay, Vi. I thought you might want to know that you’re not the only one who’s hurting. He’s been moping around school, making it hard to even look at him. He’s messed up . . . bad.” Just like the other night in Violet’s bedroom, something close to . . . sympathy crossed Chelsea’s face. Violet wasn’t sure how to respond. Fortunately sympathetic Chelsea didn’t stick around for long. She seemed to get a grip on herself, and like a switch had been flipped, the awkward moment was over and her friend was back, Chelsea-style: “I swear, every time I see him, I’m halfway afraid he’s gonna start crying like a girl or ask to borrow a tampon or something. Seriously, Violet, it’s disgusting. Really. Only you can make it stop. Please make it stop.

There’s no biological advantage to grief. In fact, in the wild, it can be downright dangerous to be moping around or swearing off food. I couldn’t look at that matriarch and say I was watching a conditioned behavior. That was sorrow, pure and simple.

People around depressives expect them to get themselves together: our society has little room in it for moping. Spouses, parents, children, and friends are all subject to being brought down themselves, and they do not want to be close to measureless pain.

Arch glared at him. “I've spent hundreds of years watching you mope around because you thought you lost your soul mates. You wouldn't recognize a soul mate if she walked up to you and hit you in your face. Even after all this time, you still haven't figured it out.

After the thing went off, there was tremendous excitement at Los Alamos. Everybody had parties, we all ran around. I sat on the end of a jeep and beat drums and so on. But one man, I remember, Bob Wilson, was just sitting there moping. I said, “What are you moping about?” He said, “It’s a terrible thing that we made.” I said, “But you started it. You got us into it.” You see, what happened to me—what happened to the rest of us—is we started for a good reason, then you’re working very hard to accomplish something and it’s a pleasure, it’s excitement. And you stop thinking, you know; you just stop. Bob Wilson was the only one who was still thinking about it, at that moment.

hope I never love someone so much that they could hurt me the way Langston was hurt, so wounded all he could do was cry and mope around the house and ask me to make him peanut butter and banana sandwiches with the crusts cut off, then play Boggle with him, which of course I always did, because I usually do whatever Langston wants me to do.

I would give you a crown if I could,” he said. “I would show you the world from the prow of a ship. I would choose you, Zoya. As my general, as my friend, as my bride. I would give you a sapphire the size of an acorn.” He reached into his pocket. “And all I would ask in return is that you wear this damnable ribbon in your hair on our wedding day.” She reached out, her fingers hovering over the coil of blue velvet ribbon resting in his palm. Then she pulled back her hand, cradling her fingers as if they’d been singed. “You will wed a Taban sister who craves a crown,” she said. “Or a wealthy Kerch girl, or maybe a Fjerdan royal. You will have heirs and a future. I’m not the queen Ravka needs.” “And if you’re the queen I want?” She shut her eyes. “There’s a story my aunt told me a very long time ago. I can’t remember all of it, but I remember the way she described the hero: ‘He had a golden spirit.’ I loved those words. I made her read them again and again. When I was a little girl, I thought I had a golden spirit too, that it would light everything it touched, that it would make me beloved like a hero in a story.” She sat up, drew her knees in, wrapped her arms around them as if she could make a shelter of her own body. He wanted to pull her back down beside him and press his mouth to hers. He wanted her to look at him again with possibility in her eyes. “But that’s not who I am. Whatever is inside me is sharp and gray as the thorn wood.” She rose and dusted off her kefta. “I wasn’t born to be a bride. I was made to be a weapon.” Nikolai forced himself to smile. It wasn’t as if he’d offered her a real proposal. They both knew such a thing was impossible. And yet her refusal smarted just as badly as if he’d gotten on his knee and offered her his hand like some kind of besotted fool. It stung. All Saints, it stung. “Well,” he said cheerfully, pushing up onto his elbows and looking up at her with all the wry humor he could muster. “Weapons are good to have around too. Far more useful than brides and less likely to mope about the palace. But if you won’t rule Ravka by my side, what does the future hold, General?” Zoya opened the door to the cargo hold. Light flooded in, gilding her features when she looked back at him. “I’ll fight on beside you. As your general. As your friend. Because whatever my failings, I know this: You are the king Ravka needs.

His whole life was a conspiracy of other people helping him, other people teaching him this or that. He felt like Hamlet, just moping around waiting for the world to assuage his grief, petulantly soliloquizing and fainting while everyone else fed him bananas and candy bars. Hamlet died at the end, of course. “The rest is silence,” Hamlet declared,

Birthdays are a time when one stock takes, which means, I suppose, a good spineless mope: I scan my horizon and can discern no sail of hope along my own particular ambition. I tell you what it is: I'm quite in accord with the people who enquire 'What is the matter with the man?' because I don't seem to be producing anything as the years pass but rank self indulgence. You know that my sole ambition, officially at any rate, was to write poems & novels, an activity I never found any difficulty fulfilling between the (dangerous) ages of 17-24: I can't very well ignore the fact that this seems to have died a natural death. On the other hand I feel regretful that what talents I have in this direction are not being used. Then again, if I am not going to produce anything in the literary line, the justification for my selfish life is removed - but since I go on living it, the suspicion arises that the writing existed to produce the life, & not vice versa. And as a life it has very little to recommend it: I spend my days footling in a job I care nothing about, a curate among lady-clerks; I evade all responsibility, familial, professional, emotional, social, not even saving much money or helping my mother. I look around me & I see people getting on, or doing things, or bringing up children - and here I am in a kind of vacuum. If I were writing, I would even risk the fearful old age of the Henry-James hero: not fearful in circumstance but in realisation: because to me to catch, render, preserve, pickle, distil or otherwise secure life-as-it-seemed for the future seems to me infinitely worth doing; but as I'm not the entire morality of it collapses. And when I ask why I'm not, well, I'm not because I don't want to: every novel I attempt stops at a point where I awake from the impulse as one might awake from a particularly-sickening nightmare - I don't want to 'create character', I don't want to be vivid or memorable or precise, I neither wish to bathe each scene in the lambency of the 'love that accepts' or be excoriatingly cruel, smart, vicious, 'penetrating' (ugh), or any of the other recoil qualities. In fact, like the man in St Mawr, I want nothing. Nothing, I want. And so it becomes quite impossible for me to carry on. This failure of impulse seems to me suspiciously like a failure of sexual impulse: people conceive novels and dash away at them & finish them in the same way as they fall in love & will not be satisfied till they're married - another point on which I seem to be out of step. There's something cold & heavy sitting on me somewhere, & until something budges it I am no good.

Nobody special had come around to replace Duane, and she was moping, going to bed alone every night with a box of Velveeta and a fork.

You sat around this fucking place moping like a damn child for the last six days. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re having your goddam man-period right now.

I understand that you want to have fun. That you like to distract yourself from life by going and doing these ridiculous things and laughing the whole time while you do them. I know you want to pretend that everything’s okay by trying your best to act normal, but I don’t. I want to sit in this house and mope around and be sad and revel in the fact that my life is complete shit from here on out.

This ability to feel remorse is one of the many ways in which dogs are better than cats. Cats have the morals of Hannibal Lecter. If you come home and find your cat inside your parakeet’s cage, holding your dead parakeet in its jaws, your cat will be like, “Obviously this parakeet committed suicide.” Meanwhile your dog, if you have one, will be moping around under the cage going, “I did it! I ate the bird!

And you just had to rush right over here to rub my face in it." "Nope. I rushed right over here to slap your face in it." "A rude but effective wake-up call," Laura commented and earned a shocked stare. "I expected better from you." "You shouldn't have." Hands brisk and competent, she affixed a shiny silver bow to the box. "If you don't want to tell us what happened between you and Josh,fine.But you can't expect us to sit around quietly while you mope." "I have not been moping." "We've been cleaning up the blood spilling out of your heart for weeks." Kate passed Laura her credit card. "Face it,pal, you're just no fun anymore." "And that's all this friendship is about?Fun? I thought I might get a little support,a little sympathy, a little compassion." "Sorry," Laura imprinted the card with a steady sweep. "Fresh out.

Painful sunlight spilled into Darcy’s bedroom. He groaned and buried his head beneath his pillow. “Good morning, Master Darcy,” called Niles’s cheerful voice. “Nice day out; just a few clouds. Might have some rain later today. What would you like for your breakfast?” “Darkness,” Darcy growled into his pillow. “And more sleep.” Niles clicked his tongue and walked over to his master’s bed. “You’ve got a town to rule and a castle to mope around. And it’s a bright, beautiful day!

Young people today no longer have gout, but mope around on diets: noodles without butter, butter without bread, bread without sauce, sauce without meat, meat without truffles, truffles without scent, scent without bouquet, bouquet without wine, wine without drunkenness, drunkenness without gaiety….Saints of Paradise! I would rather have gout than deprive myself of all of life’s charms. ÉDOUARD DE POMIANE, VINGT PLATS QUI DONNENT LA GOUTTE (TWENTY DISHES THAT GIVE YOU GOUT), 1938, TRANSLATED BY JESSICA GREEN

How did you deal with the grief?" "I realized that by moping around and feeling sorry for myself, I was doing her a disservice. She loved me because I was angry and noisy and a pain in the arse. And by not living my life, by being scared and hiding away, I was letting her down." "So, what did you do?" "I went to the protests against the poll tax and ended up getting arrested in a riot. I spent three days in a prison after that." "Goodness," Stanley said. "But I felt alive again. For the first time since she died, I felt alive.

I never thought I’d get her. It’s a miracle, plain and simple, and undeserved at that. I’m a lucky man. I’m gonna make Glenna Dobbs happy every day of her life. Or if she wants to mope around in her black hoodies, that’s cool, too. As long as she shoots me those shy smiles.

Stop moping!" she would cry: "Look at the harlequins! "What harlequins? Where?" "Oh, everywhere. All around you. Trees are harlequins, words are harlequins. So are situations and sums. Put two things together jokes, images and you get a triple harlequin. Come on! Play! Invent the world! Invent reality!

Stop moping!" she would cry: "Look at the harlequins! "What harlequins? Where?" "Oh, everywhere. All around you. Trees are harlequins, words are harlequins. So are situations and sums. Put two things together jokes, images and you get a triple harlequin. Come on! Play! Invent the world! Invent reality!

I would choose you." The words were out before he thought better of them, and there was no way to pull them back. Silence stretched between them. Perhaps the floor will open and I'll plummet to my death, he thought hopefully. "As your general?" Her voice careful. She was offering him a chance to right the ship, to take them back to familiar waters. And a fine general you are. There could be no better leader. You may be prickly, but that what Ravka needs. So many easy replies. Instead he said, "As my queen." He couldn't read her expression. Was she pleased? Embarrassed? Angry? Every cell in his body screamed for him to crack a joke, to free both of them from the peril of the moment. But he wouldn't. He was still a privateer, and he'd come too far. "Because I'm a dependable soldier," she said, but she didn't sound sure. It was the same cautious, tentative voice, the voice of someone waiting for a punch line, or maybe a blow. "Because I know all of your secrets." "I do trust you more than myself sometimes- and I think very highly of myself." Hadn't she said there was no one else she'd choose to have her back in a fight? But that isn't the whole truth, is it, you great cowardly lump. To hell with it. They might all die soon enough. They were safe here in the dark, surrounded by the hum of engines. "I would make you my queen because I want you. I want you all the time." She rolled on to her side, resting her head on her folded arm. A small movement, but he could feel her breath now. His heart was racing. "As your general, I should tell you that would be a terrible decision." He turned on to his side. They were facing each other now. "As your king, I should tell you that no one could dissuade me. No prince and no power could make me stop wanting you." Nikolai felt drunk. Maybe unleashing the demon had loosed something in his brain. She was going to laugh at him. She would knock him senseless and tell him he had no right. But he couldn't seem to stop. "I would give you a crown if I could," he said. "I would show you the world from the prow of a ship. I would choose you, Zoya. As my general, as my friend, as my bride. I would give you a sapphire the size of an acorn." He reached in to his pocket. "And all I would ask in return is that you wear this damnable ribbon in your hair on our wedding day." She reached out, her fingers hovering over the coil of blue velvet ribbon resting in his palm. Then she pulled back her hand, cradling her fingers as if they'd been singed. "You will wed a Taban sister who craves a crown," she said. "Or a wealthy Kerch girl, or maybe a Fjerdan royal. You will have heirs and a future. I'm not the queen Ravka needs." "And if you're the queen I want?" ... She sat up, drew her knees in, wrapped her arms around them as if she would make a shelter of her own body. He wanted to pull her back down beside him and press his mouth to hers. He wanted her to look at him again with possibility in her eyes. "But that's not who I am. Whatever is inside me is sharp and gray as the thorn wood." She rose and dusted off her kefta. "I wasn't born to be a bride. I was made to be a weapon." Nikolai forced himself to smile. It wasn't as if he'd offered her a real proposal. They both knew such a thing was impossible. And yet her refusal smarted just as badly as if he'd gotten on his knee and offered her his hand like some kind of besotted fool. It stung. All saints, it stung. "Well," he said cheerfully, pushing up on his elbows and looking up at her with all the wry humour he could muster. "Weapons are good to have around too. Far more useful than brides and less likely to mope about the palace. But if you won't rule Ravka by my side, what does the future hold, General?" Zoya opened the door to the Cargo hold. Light flooded in gilding her features when she looked back at him. "I'll fight on beside you. As your general. As your friend. Because whatever my failings, I know this. You are the king Ravka needs.

I hope I never love someone so much that they could hurt me the way Langston was hurt, so wounded all he could do was cry and mope around the house and ask me to make him peanut butter and banana sandwiches with the crusts cut off, then play Boggle with him, which of course I always did, because I usually do whatever Langston wants me to do.

If it makes you feel any better, he’s been all sad doll lately too.” “What are you talking about, Chels?” Chelsea stopped walking and stared at Violet. “Jay. I’m talking about Jay, Vi. I thought you might want to know that you’re not the only one who’s hurting. He’s been moping around school, making it hard to even look at him. He’s messed up . . . bad.” Just like the other night in Violet’s bedroom, something close to . . . sympathy crossed Chelsea’s face. Violet wasn’t sure how to respond. Fortunately sympathetic Chelsea didn’t stick around for long. She seemed to get a grip on herself, and like a switch had been flipped, the awkward moment was over and her friend was back, Chelsea-style: “I swear, every time I see him, I’m halfway afraid he’s gonna start crying like a girl or ask to borrow a tampon or something. Seriously, Violet, it’s disgusting. Really. Only you can make it stop. Please make it stop.” Violet didn’t want to, but she couldn’t help smiling at the absurd picture that Chelsea painted of Jay. And even though she knew it wasn’t very mature to feel smug at a time like this, especially over the delusional image concocted by her mentally unhinged friend, she couldn’t help herself; she laughed anyway. Still, she didn’t want to talk about it with Chelsea. Not even the kinder, more sensitive Chelsea. “I’m sure he’s fine, Chels. And if he’s not, he’ll get over it.

There's nothing worse than having someone moping around feeling sorry for themselves, is there?" "A damned nuisance," he agreed lightly as he drew her into the private car. "How much did you take me for in there?" It took her a minute to realize he'd changed the subject. "Oh,I don't know-five,six hundred." "I'll put breakfast on your tab," he said as the doors opened to his and Serena's suite. Her laugh pleased him as much as the hug she gave him. "Just like a man," Serena stated as she came into the room. "Waltzing in with a beautiful woman at the crack of dawn while the wife stays home and changes the baby." She held a gurgling Mac over her shoulder. Justin grinned at her. "Nothing worse than a jealous woman.

I saw someone leaving the house and I thought it was Lilias,” I said, clutching at the first plausible lie I could think of. “So when I saw you go out of the gate I panicked—” “Haven’t you ever heard of sleep ?” the boy snapped. “Isn’t that what normal people do at this time of night?” “I don’t think they sneak around clifftops on mopeds either, do they?

It’s the photos that hit me the hardest, though. A woman cradling her husband’s limp body. A crowd looking on, emotionless, as police shine a flashlight on a woman’s bloodied corpse. A couple, half on the ground and half tangled in their moped, their blank faces turned toward the camera and sprays of blood on the pavement behind their heads. Sisters gathered around their baby brother’s body lying in its small casket. A body with its head covered in a dirty cloth left in a pile of garbage on the side of the street. Grayish-green corpses stacked like firewood in an improvised morgue. There’s even a short video of grainy security cam footage in which a masked motorcyclist pulls up next to a man in an alleyway, shoots him point-blank in the side of the head, then drives away. In high definition, I see the victims’ wounds, their oddly twisted limbs, their blood and brain matter sprayed across familiar-looking streets. In every dead body, I see Jun. I want to look away. But I don’t. I need to know. I need to see it. These photographers didn’t want to water it down. They wanted the audience to confront the reality, to feel the pain that’s been numbed by a headline culture.

During one of his incoherent pre-game Pep talks he said he was preparing us in case we ever had to storm the beaches at Iwo Jima. Hey coach, we already won that war! He never mentioned trying to win a game, it was always about killing or hurting the other team. He did mention blood a lot. But if we ever lost, we were required to mope around like it was the worst thing to ever happen in history, and it was definitely our fault, and besides we hadn’t even killed anybody on the other team.

... I was disturbed by how many of my classmates disliked Thoreau, railed against him even, as if he (who claimed never to have learned anything of value from an old person) was an enemy and not a friend. His scorn of commerce--invigorating to me--nettled a lot of the more vocal kids in Honors English. "Yeah, right," shouted an obnoxious boy whose hair was gelled and combed stiff like a Dragon Ball Z character--"some kind of world it would be if every-body just dropped out and moped around in the woods--

How did the name misfit even come about?" Sam asked. "It's so... dumb." Willo laughed. "Well, it's really not," she said. "We used to call them all sorts of slang terms: kooks, greasers, killjoys, chumps, and we had to keep changing the name as times changed. We used nerds for a long time, and then we started calling them dweebs." Willo hesitated. "And then a group of kids wasn't so nice to your mom." "I had braces," Deana said. "I had pimples. I had a perm. You do the math." She smiled briefly, but Sam could tell the pain was still there. Deana continued: "And I worked here most of the time so I really didn't get a chance to do a lot with friends after school. It was hard." This time, Willo reached out to rub her daughter's leg. "Your mom was pretty down one Christmas," she said. "All of the kids were going on a ski trip to a resort in Boyne City, but she had to stay here and work during the holiday rush. She was moping around one night, lying on the couch and watching TV..." "... stuffing holiday cookies in my mouth," Deana added. "... and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer came on. She was about to change the channel, but I made her sit back down and watch it with me. Remember the part about the Island of Misfit Toys?" Sam nodded. Willo continued. "All of those toys that were tossed away and didn't have a home because they were different: the Charlie-in-the-Box, the spotted elephant, the train with square wheels, the cowboy who rides an ostrich..." "... the swimming bird," Sam added with a laugh. "And I told your mom that all of those toys were magical and perfect because they were different," Willo said. "What made them different is what made them unique." Sam looked at her mom, who gave her a timid smile. "I walked in early the next morning to open the pie pantry, and your mom was already in there making donuts," Willo said. "She had a big plate of donuts that didn't turn out perfectly and she looked up at me and said, very quietly, 'I want to start calling them misfits.' When I asked her why, she said, 'They're as good as all the others, even if they look a bit different.' We haven't changed the name since.

Kahlen. Oh Kahlen, just don’t give up. I know it’s been hard on you, but you have to hold on. You’re capable of so much; I’ve felt it from the beginning. You can’t stop trying to live. You can either sit here and mope, or you can let this be an adventure for you. It’s an amazing ride if you just hold on. Think of Miaka. You’ll mean so much to her. You’ve meant the world to me. I think once it all disappears, I’ll still manage to miss you. Try to make the most of this time. Breathe in all the wonders around you. Take a deep breath, Kahlen. Hold on tight.

Neil Josten let his cigarette burn to the filter without taking a drag. He didn't want the nicotine, he wanted the acrid smoke that reminded him of his mother. If he inhaled slowly enough, he could almost taste the ghost of gasoline and fire. It was at once revolting and comforting, and it sent a sick shudder down the spine. [...] He glanced up at the sky, but the stars where washed out behind the glare of stadium lights. He wondered - not for the first time - if his mother was looking down at him. He hoped not. She'd beat him to hell and back if she saw him sitting around, moping like this.

Wild horses wouldn't have made Daniel admit that his wife, Anna, would have lectured him for an hour if she'd known what he was up to.Daniel considered it basic strategy not to tell her until it was done. "Since she's been moping and sighing around here," he lied without qualm, "I thought I'd bury my pride and call you myself.It's time you took a weekend and came to see your mother." Alan lifted a wry brow, knowing his father all too well. "I'd think she'd be all wrapped up in her first prospective granchild. How is Rena?" "You can see for yourself this weekend," Daniel informed him. "I-that is, Rena and Justin have decided they want to spend a weekend with the family. Caine and Diana are coming too." "You've been busy," Alan murmured. "What was that? Don't mumble, boy." "I said you'll be busy," Alan amended prudently. "For your mother's sake, I can sacrifice my peace and quiet.She worries about all of you-you especially since you're still without wife and family.The firstborn," he added, working himself up, "and both your brother and sister settled before you. The eldest son,my own father's namesake, and too busy flitting around to do his duty to the MacGregor line." Alan thought about his grueling morning and nearly smiled. "The MacGregor line seems to be moving along nicely. Maybe Rena'll have twins.

When you feel tempted to judge yourself by the way you look rather than what you do; that is the way of the contemporary Male. A sad state of “looks before performance” is plaguing the world. If you think looks trump performance, ask the last girl you slept with. Skinny jeans, androgynous bodies and limp character populate Our World. I ask you, “What would Conan do?” Conan wouldn’t stand by and let others determine his attitude. He wouldn’t mope around like a sad, pathetic dog when things don’t go his way. And he sure as hell doesn’t tuck tail when defeated. Stand up and show the world who you are and what you can do. Bleed success. Eat. Sleep. Mate. Defend. – Jim Wendler

the agonisingly stilted telephone call with George. Chapter 5 Disturbing Siesta Time Marigold deigned to join me for a stroll around the village in lieu of the promised dip. An enormous pair of rather glamorous sunglasses paired with a jaunty wide-brimmed straw sunhat, obscured her face, making it impossible to read her expression though I guessed she was still miffed at being deprived of her swim. As we walked past the church and the village square the leafy branches of the plane trees offered a shaded canopy against the sun. Our steps turned towards one of the narrow lanes that edged upwards through the village, the ancient cobbles worn smooth and slippery from the tread of donkeys and people. The sound of a moped disturbed the peace of the afternoon and we hastily jumped backwards at its approach, pressing our bodies against a wall as the vehicle zapped past us, the pensioned-off rider’s shouted greeting muffled by the noisy exhaust. Carrier bags of shopping dangling from the handlebars made me reflect the moped was the modern day equivalent of the donkey, though less useful; the old man was forced to dismount and cart the bags of shopping on foot when the cobbled lane gave way to steps. Since adapting to village life we had become less reliant on wheels. Back in Manchester we would have thought nothing of driving to the corner shop, but here in Meli we delighted in exploring on foot, never tiring of discovering

He was taking a nap,” Kate explained. “He’s a very sound sleeper.” But once awake, Newton refused to be left out of the action, and with a slightly more awake bark, he leaped up onto the chair, landing on Kate’s lap. “Newton!” she squealed. “Oh, for the love of—” But Anthony’s mutterings were cut short by a big, sloppy kiss from Newton. “I think he likes you,” Kate said, so amused by Anthony’s disgusted expression that she forgot to be self-conscious about her position on his lap. “Dog,” Anthony ordered, “get down on the floor this instant.” Newton hung his head and whined. “Now!” Letting out a big sigh, Newton turned about and plopped down onto the floor. “My goodness,” Kate said, peering down at the dog, who was now moping under the table, his snout lying sorrowfully on the carpet, “I’m impressed.” “It’s all in the tone of voice,” Anthony said archly, snaking a viselike arm around her waist so that she could not get up. Kate looked at his arm, then looked at his face, her brows arching in question. “Why,” she mused, “do I get the impression you find that tone of voice effective on women as well?” He shrugged and leaned toward her with a heavy-lidded smile. “It usually is,” he murmured. “Not this one.” Kate planted her hands on the arms of the chair and tried to wrench herself up. But he was far too strong. “Especially this one,” he said, his voice dropping to an impossibly low purr. With his free hand, he cupped her chin and turned her face to his. His lips were soft but demanding, and he explored her mouth with a thoroughness that left her breathless. -Kate & Anthony

I would choose you." The words were out before he thought better of them, and there was no way to pull them back. Silence stretched between them. Perhaps the floor will open and I'll plummet to my death, he thought hopefully. "As your general?" Her voice careful. She was offering him a chance to right the ship, to take them back to familiar waters. And a fine general you are. There could be no better leader. You may be prickly, but that's what Ravka needs. So many easy replies. Instead he said, "As my queen." He couldn't read her expression. Was she pleased? Embarrassed? Angry? Every cell in his body screamed for him to crack a joke, to free both of them from the peril of the moment. But he wouldn't. He was still a privateer, and he'd come too far. "Because I'm a dependable soldier," she said, but she didn't sound sure. It was the same cautious, tentative voice, the voice of someone waiting for a punch line, or maybe a blow. "Because I know all of your secrets." "I do trust you more than myself sometimes- and I think very highly of myself." Hadn't she said there was no one else she'd choose to have her back in a fight? But that isn't the whole truth, is it, you great cowardly lump. To hell with it. They might all die soon enough. They were safe here in the dark, surrounded by the hum of engines. "I would make you my queen because I want you. I want you all the time." She rolled on to her side, resting her head on her folded arm. A small movement, but he could feel her breath now. His heart was racing. "As your general, I should tell you that would be a terrible decision." He turned on to his side. They were facing each other now. "As your king, I should tell you that no one could dissuade me. No prince and no power could make me stop wanting you." Nikolai felt drunk. Maybe unleashing the demon had loosed something in his brain. She was going to laugh at him. She would knock him senseless and tell him he had no right. But he couldn't seem to stop. "I would give you a crown if I could," he said. "I would show you the world from the prow of a ship. I would choose you, Zoya. As my general, as my friend, as my bride. I would give you a sapphire the size of an acorn." He reached in to his pocket. "And all I would ask in return is that you wear this damnable ribbon in your hair on our wedding day." She reached out, her fingers hovering over the coil of blue velvet ribbon resting in his palm. Then she pulled back her hand, cradling her fingers as if they'd been singed. "You will wed a Taban sister who craves a crown," she said. "Or a wealthy Kerch girl, or maybe a Fjerdan royal. You will have heirs and a future. I'm not the queen Ravka needs." "And if you're the queen I want?"... She sat up, drew her knees in, wrapped her arms around them as if she would make a shelter of her own body. He wanted to pull her back down beside him and press his mouth to hers. He wanted her to look at him again with possibility in her eyes. "But that's not who I am. Whatever is inside me is sharp and gray as the thorn wood." She rose and dusted off her kefta. "I wasn't born to be a bride. I was made to be a weapon." Nikolai forced himself to smile. It wasn't as if he'd offered her a real proposal. They both knew such a thing was impossible. And yet her refusal smarted just as badly as if he'd gotten on his knee and offered her his hand like some kind of besotted fool. It stung. All saints, it stung. "Well," he said cheerfully, pushing up on his elbows and looking up at her with all the wry humour he could muster. "Weapons are good to have around too. Far more useful than brides and less likely to mope about the palace. But if you won't rule Ravka by my side, what does the future hold, General?" Zoya opened the door to the Cargo hold.Light flooded in gilding her features when she looked back at him. "I'll fight on beside you. As your general. As your friend. Because whatever my failings, I know this. You are the king Ravka needs.

It was as she remembered, a haven of comfort and serenity. With a glad sigh, she kicked off her shoes and sat down on the side of the bed.Smiling, she patted the mattress beside her. Her husband scowled. It seemed to have become his habit. "We aren't here to relax." "Wolscroft may not even be in the area. It could take days for this to be settled." "He's here," Dragon said with certainty. "He will know what happened at Winchester, and he will be looking for a way to stop us before we can threaten him further." Privately, Rycca believed the same but she saw no reason to stress it. Nothing would happen until dark. Of that she was confident. Which meant... "We have hours to fill.Any ideas?" When he realized her meaning,he looked startled. With a laugh,she scrambled off the bed and went to him. "Oh,Dragon,for heaven's sake, do you really want to mope around here all day? I certainly don't. I still haven't gotten over being afraid Magnus was going to kill you,and I simply don't want to think about death anymore. I want to celebrate life." "There are three hundred men out there-" "Which is why we're in here." She raised herself on tiptoe, bit the lobe of his ear, and whispered, "I promise not to yell too loudly." A shudder ran through him. Even as his big hands stroked her back,he said, "Warriors don't mope." "No,of course they don't.It was a poor choice of words.But you'll be pacing back and forth, looking out the windows, or you'll go get that whetstone I noticed in the stable and sharpen your sword endlessly, or you'll be staring off into space with that dangerous look you get when you're contemplating mayhem. You'll be totally oblivious to me and-" He laughed despite himself and drew her closer. "Enough! Heaven forbid I behave so churlishly." "Speaking of heaven..." With the covers kicked back,the bed was smooth and cool.They undressed each other slowly, relishing the wonder of discovery that still came to them fresh and pure as their very first time. "Remember?" Rycca murmured as she trailed her lips along his broad, powerfully muscled shoulder and down the solid wall of his chest. "I was so nervous..." "Really?" Fooled me....Ah..." "I'd never seen anything so beautiful as you." "Not...beautiful...you are..." "I can't believe how strong you are. Why am I never afraid with you?" "Know I'd die 'fore hurting you? Sweetheart..." "Ohhh! Dragon...please..." His hands and lips moved over her, sweetly tormenting. She clutched his shoulders, her hips rising, and welcomed him deep within her. Still he tantalized her, making her writhe and laughing when she squeezed him hard with her powerful inner muscles. But the laughter turned quickly to a moan of delight. She looked up into his perfectly formed face,more handsome than any man had a right to be, and into his tawny eyes that were the windows of a soul more beautiful than any physical form. A piercing sense of blessedness filled her that she should be so fortunate as to love and be loved by such a man. Her cresting cry was caught by him, hismouth hard against hers, the spur to his own completion that went on and on,seemingly without end.

Mum was always so generous to Lara and me growing up, and it helped me develop a very healthy attitude to money. You could never accuse my mum of being tight: she was free, fun, mad, and endlessly giving everything away--always. Sometimes that last part became a bit annoying (such as if it was some belonging of ours that Mum had decided someone else would benefit more from), but more often than not we were on the receiving end of her generosity, and that was a great spirit to grow up around. Mum’s generosity ensured that as adults we never became too attached to, or attracted by money. I learned from her that before you can get, you have to give, and that money is like a river--if you try to block it up and dam it (that is, cling to it), then, like a damned river, the water will go stagnant and stale, and your life will fester. If you keep the stream moving and keep giving stuff and money away, wherever you can, then the river and the rewards will keep flowing in. I love the quote she once gave me: “When supply seems to have dried up, look around you quickly for something to give away.” It is a law of the universe: to get good things you must first give away good things. (And of course this applies to love and friendship, as well.) Mum was also very tolerant of my unusual aspirations. When I found a ninjutsu school through a magazine, I was determined to go and seek it out and train there. The problem was that it was at the far end of the island in some pretty rough council estate hall. This was before the moped, so poor Mum drove me every week…and would wait for me. I probably never even really thanked her. So, thank you, Mum…for all those times and so much more. By the way, the ninjutsu has come in real handy at times.

For crying out loud, absurd things can happen, none of us is spared.” He reached out and gave her a soft pat on the back. “So screw it, lovey. Enjoy every second you’ve got and stop moping around.” - Intomesee

After a week of moping around London like a sick dog, I decided that the only cure for my humiliating disease was to see you in the flesh and prove that nothing uncanny had taken place when I saw that miniature.” “And what happened?” she asked, praying for him to say he hadn’t been disappointed. He’d spoken lightly of falling in love, but he was yet to say the words that every inch of her soul longed to hear. He gave her that smile that always made her silly. “You know precisely what happened. Miss Flora opened the door, and my fate was sealed.” “Oh,” she said, too stirred up to summon anything more meaningful. “Straightaway I saw the qualities I’d observed in the picture, the qualities your father had described. They were all there in the lassie who tried to leave me out in the rain.” “So you thought you’d found the perfect wife.” He burst out laughing and caught her hand. “My darling Charlotte, you’re bonny, but nobody in their right mind would call you a perfect wife.” “Is that so?” she asked in a dangerous voice. “I’ll have you know that—” Her scolding ended in a gasp as he lunged forward and tumbled her back against the rumpled bedding. “Now, before you fly up into the boughs, let me finish. You’re an impatient wee lass, my love.” She regarded him with sulky displeasure, even as happiness flowed through her veins, turning the cold night to bright summer. The sheet separated their bodies, but she could feel that, like her, he was becoming interested in more than conversation. However fascinating. “It had better be good.” “It is.” He kissed her with a thoroughness that stole her breath. When he raised his head, they were both panting. “I don’t want perfection, Charlotte. I want a wife who will stand up to me, and make me crazy with wanting her, and set me laughing with joy, and turn every day into an adventure. I doubt we’ll lead a quiet life, but by God, it will be interesting and worthwhile, and purposeful and passionate.” “And

I put my hand on a bishop, my would be assassin, and thought of my father's heights when he won, how he galloped around. The depths of his despair at losing, I expected, would be equal to the peaks. He'd mope about, his face fallen and miserable, his posture stooped as if his back ached. I took my hand from the piece and leaned back in deliberation.

The weekend arrives and I’m on edge, especially working at the trattoria. I’m hyper-aware of everyone around me, twitching at the sight of every youngish-looking guy with a full head of brown hair. The super curly heads are even fewer and farther between, but sightings of those nearly spark heart attacks. Only as the sun sets Sunday night do I let myself truly mope. I know they just started at a new dig site in Tuscany, and I can’t expect Darren to come to Cinque Terre every weekend, but it still stings. I could smack myself on the head for not making sure we had a way to get in touch with each other. Forget about waiting for him to ask me, that’s crap. I can be a take-control girl when I want to be, can’t I? I’m desperate to see his smile, and not just because it’s his, but because moods are in major need of brightening around here.

Yellowfang purred. “I know you’ve been up to something,” she meowed. “But I won’t pry. All I know is that my apprentice seems back to her old self again. Which is good, because she was no use to any cat while she was moping around like a damp mushroom!

The doctors save the handsome man’s life, but he loses one eye. Before a nice glass one can be fitted, they give him a temporary wooden eye. The man becomes very depressed and sits at home, moping around. Eventually his friends come over and drag him out to a disco to try and cheer him up. One of his friends suggests he talk to a cute girl who’s all alone. ‘No, she’ll never go for a man with a wooden eye,’ he says. ‘Okay,’ says his friend, ‘how about that girl over there? She has a really big nose. Maybe she’ll dance with you.’ The man summons up all his courage, walks over to the girl, and says, ‘Would you like to dance?’ The girl gets all excited. ‘Would I?! Would I?!’ she says. To which the man responds ‘Big nose! Big nose!

How do you stop yourself from being your own worst critic? It’s simple. You achieve things. You fulfill your potential. In the end, you only regret the things you didn’t do. People’s lives are ruined by all the moping around they do, worrying about wasting their lives. Worrying about wasting your life is exactly how you waste your life. Instead of worrying, you should be doing stuff ... CONSTANTLY, and then you will have constant achievements, constant things to be proud of, and no one else will have what you have.

I’d follow that woman to the ends of the earth if it meant I could be with her. Enough moping around. It was time I got back to Hailey.

They arrived at the house in silence. Ace preceded Zack inside. Zack locked the door behind him and turned around… into Ace’s fist. The blow shocked him. Ace took advantage of the fact and knocked him down with two more punches and a knee to the balls that had him groaning in agony. Trying to catch his breath, Zack curled into a ball, cognizant of little around him but the excruciating ache between his thighs. Before he could catch his breath, Ace changed and cradled him in his arms. “Sorry about that, but you’ve been asking for it for days.” Zack was going to beat the shit out of him as soon as he could breathe again. Ace carried him into his bedroom and tossed him onto the bed. He ripped Zack’s clothes off, then shoved Zack’s arms and legs apart, staring down at him with hunger in his eyes. “You’re acting like a shit, and I’m tired of it.” “You’re tired of it?” Zack managed to say, lacking the strength to transform. For once, his inner beast remained quiet, shocking him as much as Ace’s attack had. Thank God the pain between his legs finally faded. “Tell me what’s wrong, and I’ll fix it. But no more moping around. You’re acting like a goddamn girl. And don’t tell Kelly I said that.” -Ace & Zack

What about you? What are you going to be?” I knew immediately I shouldn’t have asked. His smile faded, and he looked down at his hands in his lap. I’d about had enough of tiptoeing around his illness. “How do you expect God to heal you if you don’t even believe it?” I spoke firmly to make sure my own heart got the message as well. “I believe that you, Matthew Doyle, are going to be fine someday. So when I ask you what you want to do with your life, I ask cause I know you’re going to have a life! I’m tired of all this moping around waiting to die malarkey.” He raised his eyebrows and pushed himself forward in the chair. “I know what you believe, Ruby. You been saying it since the day you got here. And I ain’t getting any better. You’re just putting me in a position of disappointing you, and I can’t hardly stand that. Don’t you think I want a life?” “I don’t know. Do you?” “Of course I do!

I told you he had calico fever,” he drawled in a Texas twang. “Why else would a young man mope around like a tick-fevered doggie?

A person could only mope around so long feeling sorry for himself and then he needed to get over it and get moving.

cause sitting around moping over a nigga ain’t never got a bitch nowhere.

Friday morning classes dragged. I moped around school hating everyone—because everyone was happy and excited about the stupid dance. Blah.

One thing I have learned as a competitor is that there are clear distinctions between what it takes to be decent, what it takes to be good, what it takes to be great, and what it takes to be among the best. If your goal is to be mediocre, then you have a considerable margin for error. You can get depressed when fired and mope around waiting for someone to call with a new job offer. If you hurt your toe, you can take six weeks watching television and eating potato chips. In line with that mind-set, most people think of injuries as setbacks, something they have to recover from or deal with. From the outside, for fans or spectators, an injured athlete is in purgatory, hovering in an impotent state between competing and sitting on the bench. In my martial arts life, every time I tweak my body, well-intended people like my mother suggest I take a few weeks off training. What they don’t realize is that if I were to stop training whenever something hurt, I would spend my whole year on the couch. Almost without exception, I am back on the mats the next day, figuring out how to use my new situation to heighten elements of my game. If I want to be the best, I have to take risks others would avoid, always optimizing the learning potential of the moment and turning adversity to my advantage. That

So are you doing anything for your anniversary? I mean other than sitting around your backyard with a bottle of wine moping over lost love." Since those were pretty much my plans, I said,"No. I'm going to hire a masseur, like you suggested." After that, there was no turning back.

Accept what?” Her voice was gentle and firm. “That your father is getting older. That I’m getting older.” He thought about it. “I’m trying,” he said. “But?” “But I see that For Sale sign—” “Wood and bricks and nails, Myron.” “What?” She waded through the leaves and took hold of his elbow. “Listen to me. You mope around here like we’re sitting shiva, but that house is not your childhood. It isn’t a part of your family. It doesn’t breathe or think or care. It’s just wood and bricks and nails.

Did the two of you talk about it?” “There was nothing to talk about. Nothing happened.” “And ‘nothing’ makes you jump every time I get near you.” He tipped his bowl, mopping up with a biscuit. “You know he can’t find you here. I’ll keep you safe.” “It’s not a problem.” “Well then, what is? I’ve promised never to hurt you. I’ve promised not to go in debt. I’ll build you a decent house soon as I can pay cash. I’ll get a haircut the minute there’s a barber within a hundred miles.” His thumb slid under the cuff of her sleeve. “Say, you’re not pining away for some poor soldier who didn’t make it back from the War, are you? My older brother’s sweetheart moped around for two years. They weren’t even engaged. Or maybe there’s someone else you’d rather marry, maybe someone who didn’t ask in time.” “There’s no one.” “So what is the problem? Are you homesick? Miss your folks? Just tell me what’s got you so fidgety, and I’ll fix it.” “It’s nothing.

They clearly know I’ve been moping around the house, but they don’t know I cry myself to sleep every night or feel so horrible inside that I don’t feel like things are going to get better.

What’s the deal with Nick?” I look around the gym, but it’s empty except for us. “What are you talking about? There’s no deal.” He looks at me like I’m an idiot and I grit my teeth. This right here is why I don’t want people to know. I don’t want to deal with the intrusive questions and snide remarks. It’s only a few more months until I graduate and I don’t have to deal with this. “You really expect me to believe there isn’t something going on? Really? Do I look like a dumbass to you?” I open my mouth to respond but he holds up his hand. “Don’t answer that.” I snort and a smile starts to turn up one side of my mouth. “Nick and I are friends, kind of. You know how it is during the season, shit is busy and we really don’t have much time for anything besides school and hockey.” I shrug, trying to play it off like it’s not a big deal, but the ache in my stomach is a weight trying to pull me into the core of the earth. “Bullshit.” I stop the treadmill and stare at him. “Excuse me?” “Bull. Shit,” he enunciates. “You mope around the room when you aren’t in here or in class. Everyone else has a social life. Every. One. Else.” He takes a deep breath and watches me for a minute. “So, go shower, get changed, then go away. I’m kicking you out of the room for the day.” “You can’t kick me out of my own room.” I step down and wipe my face on my T-shirt. “Watch me. I’ll get the guys to help me carry your ass out if I have to.” “What the hell am I supposed to do all day?” “I don’t care.

So, you’ve got a degree in child psychology now or something?” I chuckle snidely. It’s just common sense,” he says in a serious tone. “You’re not doing the people around you any favors when you’re moping all the damn time.

Cass couldn’t deny it: she had been disturbed by the project. It wasn’t just the garage; she was up to her neck in climate change too. Looking at Instagram, eating an ice cream, switching on a light: her most casual act left a toxic trace behind – as if she had a marauding shadow-self that choked the very world she lived in. For weeks she had moped around, paralysed by the inescapability of her own evil. She would stand on the threshold of the back garden, looking at the flowers and grass and the trees in the distance, imagining everything turning black, the birds and the insects falling out of the sky. Even on good days, like when Elaine gave her a bracelet she had two of, she would remember suddenly all of the animals that were going extinct and how the earth was going to flood and everything was doomed – because of the Barnes family.

Ju you should see her, moping around and shit. Pop said when they went to bed last night, she stuffed a pillow to separate him from touching her! Bruh I damn near lost a lung, I laughed so fucking hard,

purred. “I know you’ve been up to something,” she meowed. “But I won’t pry. All I know is that my apprentice seems back to her old self again. Which is good, because she was no use to any cat while she was moping around like a damp mushroom!

…He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being man. Do you know what I think? I think you are finding yourself. You were lost. You didn’t even know who or what you were. You had no purpose. You were living in poverty. You were moping around, burning yourself to feel something. Now look. You have purpose.

Don’t let a day go by without seeing some wonder in it, Cadi. Stop moping around the house wishing for things to change between ye and yer mama. Go out and see what’s there for ye.” God was there. God was everywhere.

Although we had the same upbringing, David has always been more confident. Once, back in high school, we both had Saturday night dates who canceled on us in the late afternoon. I spent the rest of the weekend moping around the house, wondering what was wrong with me. David laughed off the rejection, announcing, “That girl missed out on a great thing,” and went off to play basketball with his friends. Luckily, I had my younger sister, wise and empathetic way beyond her years, to console me.

Moshe dropped to his knees, prayed to G-d for spiritual renewal, felt none, and found himself moping around the back storeroom of the Heaven & Earth Grocery Store, the sole Jewish grocery in Chicken Hill.

of a school year didn’t help. I had lost my fiancée, I had lost my dream, and I wanted to go to a place where I didn’t know anyone. I discovered that the University of Hawaii at Manoa, in Honolulu, offered a master’s degree in oceanography with plans to expand to a Ph.D. program soon. It wasn’t Scripps, but it could get me going again. I had to rush to Honolulu so quickly, I missed graduation at Santa Barbara. I asked the Army for a delay in active duty and began looking for a part-time job. Dr. Norris may not have written the strongest letter of support for me, but he did tell me about his brother, Ken Norris, a UCLA professor who did summer research on whales and dolphins at the Oceanic Institute, east of Honolulu. The institute was connected to Sea Life Park, an aquarium that offered dolphin and whale shows. I zipped out there on a rented moped and soon had two jobs: training dolphins and whales for the tourist shows and helping Dr. Norris with his research when summer rolled around.

Hell, you were moping around here for weeks like you’d lost your best friend. You didn’t even want our baby. Of course, there’s been distance.

Look bud, with the way things are going, we might not have much time left. Quit moping around. I’m serious. This paradise is temporary. Would you sulk around the Garden of Eden? Hell no! You’d be chompin apples left and right.

I’m done moping around, waiting for her to choose me. She’s mine, and she’s going to know it.

Just call her. People do too much by phones and apps. It’s terrible for the human mind. Apps are ruining society.” “And yet those same apps have made you a rich man.” “Why do you think I’m so grumpy all the time? It’s not about turning thirty. I may be having an existential crisis.” “I’m sorry to hear that,” Drew said. “I bought this house with blood money,” Alan said. “I’m not sure that’s what blood money means.” Drew patted his chest. “And I should know. Everything Dad and I purchase is bought with blood money. Teeth bleed. Gums bleed. It’s all blood money.” “Stop trying to make me laugh. I’m turning thirty, and I’ve done nothing but contribute to the further destruction of society’s fabric. I don’t want to feel better.” “Get used to it. When Megan comes over, you’re going to have to lighten up. She doesn’t tolerate people feeling sorry for themselves and moping around. It’s one of the many things I love about her.” Alan raised an eyebrow. “Love?” “Sure,” Drew said, lifting his chin. “I love many things about her. I may even love her.” “Good for you,” Alan said. “I’m happy for you, bro.” He put the marble cheese platters into the fridge to chill then sighed. “Now I know what I forgot,” he said to the closed fridge door. “Flowers. What kind of animal throws a dinner party with no fresh flowers?” Drew rubbed his temples. “I’m sending a psychic message to Megan. I’m asking her to bring over some flowers from the shop.” “You’re crazy.” Drew closed his eyes. “I’ve got a good feeling about this. Megan and I got off to a bad start, but we’ve had excellent, clear communication with each other since then.” “Clear enough for psychic messages?” “Can’t hurt to try. What’s the worst that could happen?

I'm a spoiled rich girl who has the privilege to mope around, feeling sorry for herself for being unemployed. I get it.

even though colossally huge numbers of people mope around complaining about how horrible their lives are, while almost everyone who has ever died has elected to stay dead rather than come back to life and complain about their death experiences.

It's just gonna be a bunch of nekkid Werewolves dancing around and then going all furry," Granny said as she downplayed the magical ceremony and patted Dwayne's head like a dog. "But that sounds like fun," he moped. "I want to get naked and furry too." "Dude," I reminded him and I joined in on the petting. "You're a Vampyre. You don't shift." "I know that," he said with an eye roll. "But I have a fabu faux fur coat that I could slip into after the naked dance.

Life is short; we hear it all the time. So, instead of moping around, let’s both take life by the proverbial horns. Let’s live and appreciate each other and what we have in our lives. Maybe the loss of Thomas can help shape a new outlook on life.” I knew she was right, but I didn’t have it in me

After breakfast, I parted ways with Colin even though he was all about us going for a run or something—and who in the hell did he think I was, that I was going to voluntarily do that? Ha. I went to the library, trolled around in there for hours with no luck, and then finally moped back to my dorm.

She’s moping around?” “Out of everything I said, that was your takeaway? And yes, she is, unfortunately, moping.