N Sorry Quotes

You must remember, though, that most normal people have never seen an orogene, let alone had to do business with one, and—” She spreads her hands. “Isn’t it understandable that we might be… uncomfortable?” “Discomfort is understandable. It’s the rudeness that isn’t.” Rust this. This woman doesn’t deserve the effort of her explanation. Syen decides to save that for someone who matters. “And that’s a really shitty apology. ‘I’m sorry you’re so abnormal that I can’t manage to treat you like a human being.

Since I didn't have a candy wrapper to help me with the bad connection I was about to have, I resorted to using vocal sound effects. When Agent Carson picked up, I started my performance. "Agent... Agent Carson," I said, panting into the phone. "Yes, Charley." She seemed unimpressed, but I wasn't about to stop now. "I--I know who the kshshshshshsh are." "I'm a little busy right now, Davidson. What is a Ksh, and why do I care?" "I'm sorry. My kshshsh... is kshshsh... ing." I repeat. What is a Ksh? And why do I care if it is ksh-ing?" She was a tough one. I knew I should have waited and bought a Butterfinger at the Jug-N-Chug. Those wrappers crakled like Rice Krispies on a Saturday morning. "You aren't listeni--kshshsh." "You're really bad at this." "Bank ro-ksh-ers. I know who they kshshsh." "Charley, if you don't cut this crap out." I hung up and turned off my phone before she could figure out what I was trying not to tell her and call back.

I’M SORRY I am developing a new board game. It’s called “I’m Sorry.” It’s also a form of “Self-Help Psychological Therapy!” You take turns moving around the board like Monopoly. But if you land on a Yellow or Green “I’m Sorry Space”… you have to make a Phone call. Both green and yellow cards are labeled- the same with things like: Your Ex, Parental figure, friend, co-worker, boss, children, etc. You get the point… If you land on the yellow space, the game stops, everyone gets quiet and you have to call that person up – on speakerphone. You apologize for something you’ve done in your past. Come on you know you are not perfect and you probably screwed up, hurt or disappointed everyone in your past at one time or another. So you call and you apologize. You explain what you did to them wrong if they forgive you, you move forward 10 places and everyone cheers! No forgiveness back- you move back to the beginning. If you land on the green space- it’s similar. But you call the person up and you try to explain to them how, in someway, they hurt you in the past. If they apologize… cheers and you move forward 10 spaces. No apology… move backward ten spaces. They curse at you- game over. In the original packaging of the yellow and green cards, are mixed in a set of “I’m Sorry Cards.” If you are lucky enough to get to pick up an “I’m Sorry Card,” it’s like a Get Out of Jail Free Card, and you don’t have to make the call. The only catch is that the cards come hermetically sealed. After opening up the package, and the cards are exposed to air, all of the “I’m Sorry Cards,” magically turn into “Deal With it Cards!” And so, you really never get a free ride. In reality, every time you pick up a yellow or green card, you have to- Deal with It! Of course you can always order a new factory set of sealed of “I’m Sorry Cards.” But they only last about 30 minutes and are very expensive, so you’ll have to play fast. Cute Game? Hey, don’t steal my idea!!!

Plato, the first true pope of philosophy (sorry, Socrates), argued for a World of Forms above the reality-a transcendent plane of perfect essences, pure and lovely, where nothing ever gets muddy (including the essence of mud.)

Hey, have you heard that one about the difference between me, Wit, and my loutish cousin, Hilarity? No? Okay, so I walk into a bar, you see, very unassuming, and order a martini. Then the bartender, Hilarity, hauls off and squirts me in the face with a seltzer bottle, ruining my n ice new camel hair suit, dousing my monocle and my watch fob, soaking my cravat. So, do I let him have what for, and blow my top? I do not. I simply say: Sorry, I believe I said 'very dry'.

No, I mean, this is a problem that most people have. A problem of the human condition. We get ahold of some kind of shorthand in understanding people, and we think it works, and we use it to assess, categorize, and then, very often, dismiss people. It's the basis for stereotyping, profiling, and several other very sorry words that end in i-n-g.

The old lady I was sitting next to gaped at me. I shrugged, not even the slightest bit sorry. Okay, well maybe just a little sorry. But he smiled at me. Hennessy goddamned smiled right at me, like I was the reason for his happiness.

I'm sorry. I shouldn't be working." "Of course you should. I'm alright." "Even F.I.N.E.?" She laughed. "Especially that." Fucked-up. Insecure. Neurotic. Egotistical.

Hermione,’ said Hagrid. ‘What about her?’ said Ron. ‘She’s in a righ’ state, that’s what. She’s bin comin’ down ter visit me a lot since Chris’mas. Bin feelin’ lonely. Firs’ yeh weren’ talking to her because o’ the Firebolt, now yer not talkin’ to her because her cat—’ ‘—ate Scabbers!’ Ron interjected angrily. ‘Because her cat acted like all cats do,’ Hagrid continued doggedly. ‘She’s cried a fair few times, yeh know. Goin’ through a rough time at the moment. Bitten off more’n she can chew, if yeh ask me, all the work she’s tryin’ ter do. Still found time ter help me with Buckbeak’s case, mind.… She’s found some really good stuff fer me…reckon he’ll stand a good chance now…’ ‘Hagrid, we should've helped as well—sorry—’ Harry began awkwardly. ‘I’m not blamin’ yeh!’ said Hagrid, waving Harry’s apology aside. ‘Gawd knows yeh’ve had enough ter be gettin’ on with. I’ve seen yeh practicin’ Quidditch ev’ry hour o’ the day an’ night—but I gotta tell yeh, I thought you two’d value yer friend more’n broomsticks or rats. Tha’s all.’ Harry and Ron exchanged uncomfortable looks. ‘Really upset, she was, when Black nearly stabbed yeh, Ron. She’s got her heart in the right place, Hermione has, an’ you two not talkin’ to her—

I did not mean to break that planet it was just in the way when I came into being and I fixed it and I said I was sorry and the planet said OK so since I’m supposed to learn from stuff like that I will tell you don’t break planets, especially the ones with living things on them, or at least fix them if you do break them. Also, don’t go in black holes, no matter how much they look like cute little Nahas. They are not cute! They are actually very bitey and kind of mean. Also just OK I do not want to talk about any of this anymore.

I’m s-sorry!” he cried, tilting his tearstained face back to look at her through watery blue eyes. “I’m s-s-so sorry! J-Jaren said I should f-forgive you, that you d-didn’t have a choice and you o-only lied to protect me, but I was j-just so mad! And you n-nearly drowned thinking I h-hate you! I d-don’t! I don’t hate you, K-Kiva! I couldn’t n-never

What about you and me, Adina?” Duff said, sidling up to her by the railing. “I know I screwed up. But do you think we could start over?” Adina thought about everything that had happened. Part of her wanted to kiss Duff McAvoy, the tortured British trust-fund-runaway-turned-pirate-of-necessity who loved rock ‘n’ roll and mouthy-but-vulnerable bass-playing girls from New Hampshire. But he didn’t exist. Not really. He was a creature of TV and her imagination, a guy she’d invented as much as he’d invented himself. And this was what she suddenly understood about her mother: how with each man, each husband, she was really trying to fill in the sketchy parts of herself and become somebody she could finally love. It was hard to live in the messiness and easier to believe in the dream. And in that moment, Adina knew she was not her mother after all. She would make mistakes, but they wouldn’t be the same mistakes. Starting now. “Sorry,” she said, heading for the bow, where a spot of sun looked inviting. ”Oh, also, about that blog? Just so you know, my dads know a lot of gay lawyers. Bitches will take your ass down if you try to publish that. Peace out.

people use their pain as a means to get people to feel sorry for them because when someone feels sorry for you it’s a form of attention.

Oh, shut up,” I grumbled. “I suck at cooking and you know it.” He got a glazed, dreamy look on his face and after a while, he said, “I’m sorry, you mentioned sucking and I got distracted. I didn’t hear a word after that.” I rolled my eyes and walked into the kitchen, but he called out, “Your cooking is fine, Tom. But your sucking skills are your true talent.

[Christians] must become, must be known as, the people who don't hold grudges, who don't sulk. We must be the people who know how to say "Sorry," and who know how to respond when other people say it to us. It is remarkable, once more, how difficult this still seems, considering how much time the Christian church has had to think about it and how much energy has been spent on expounding the New Testament, where the advice is all so clear. Perhaps it's because we have tried, if at all, to do it as though it were just a matter of obeying an artificial command--and then, finding it difficult, have stopped trying because nobody else seems to be very good at it either. Perhaps it might be different if we reminded ourselves frequently that we are preparing for life in God's new world, and that the death and resurrection of Jesus, which by baptism constitute our own new identity, offer us both the motivation and the energy to try again in a new way.

And where are you now My trusted friend And I'm so sorry You are not here I cannot think I cannot sleep I need somebody And always will This strange sick darkness Comes creeping on Haunting, calling me Swiftly approaching So come with me My trusted friend Lets refight the war In my dreams

DESPERATELY SEEKING EPIC You’re my father. I don’t know much about you. I know your name is Paul James, you’re a thrill seeker, and once upon a time you did stunts and people called you ‘Epic.’ I’ve been told you don’t know about me. That it’s complicated. But for me it’s simple. Here’s the thing: I’m twelve years old . . . and I’m dying. And as much as this could crush my mother, I have to meet you before I go. In time, I’m sure she’ll understand. She’s still in love with you. So, Epic, if you read this, please come back. You don’t have to be my dad. You don’t even have to tell me you love me or you’re sorry. Just come see me.

Ed è difficile vivere senza chi se n'è andato. E' molto, molto difficile essere quello che deve rimanere a vivere senza chi se n'è andato.

You've settled for a comfortable distance from him so that you can yearn without suffering. Sorry, but you're not in love.

Col, Here's to all the places we went. And all the places we'll go And here's me, whispering again and again and again and again: iloveyou. yrs forever, K-a-t-h-e-r-i-n-e Eventually, he found the bed too comfortable for his state of mind, so he lay down on his back, his legs sprawled across the carpet. He anagrammed "yrs forever" until he found one he liked: sorry fever. And then he lay there in his fever of sorry and repeated the now memorized note in his head and wanted to cry, but instead he only felt this aching behind his solar plexus. Crying adds something: crying is you, plus tears. But the feeling Colin had was some horrible opposite of crying. It was you, minus somthing. He kept thinking about one word -forever-and felt the burning ache just beneath his rib cage. It hurt like the worst ass-kicking- he'd ever gotten. And he'd gotten plenty." 1.Greek: "I have found it." 2.More on that later.

Henry flopped onto his bed, and his steam leaked slowly out. He began telling himself a story in his head. It was about how just and kind and understanding he was. It was about right he had been, how necessary his tone and word choice. It was about a girl who just didn't understand, who was completely ignorant. Then, for some reason, the narrator of the story included an incident in which Henry ha pushed an envelope into a strange place just to see what would happen. It hadn't even been an accident. The incident did not fit with the rest of the story, so Henry tried to ignored it. He couldn't ignore it, so he tried to explain it. Completely different things. The post office was obviously not dangerous. It was yellow. I just wanted to see what the mailman would do. The flashlight was stupid. I didn't shine a flashlight into the post office. She didn't even act sorry. I would have acted sorry. I always act sorry when people get upset. She didn't even care that I probably saved her life. She didn't know. She was unconscious. Oh, shut up.

Now you are being more yourself.” She folded her arms. “Am I?” “Yes. You’re being difficult.” He said it with a sliver of humor. Her arms dropped back to her sides as quickly as she had lifted them. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be.” “And now you’re apologizing, which truly alarms me.

„I'm sorry about Hannah though,” he said. „She has no filter. She called me an ass.” I smiled, leaned over and kissed his cheek. „Don't apologize. I happen to really like ass.” Isaac's mouth fell open, as he blushed a deep scarlet, and I laughed. „Come on, on your feet. I'll wash, you dry.” He shook his head, disbelievingly. „I can't believe you just said that!” „What?” I scoffed. „That you're drying the dishes? Fair's fair, Isaac.” He blushed again and bit his lip. „That's not what I'm talking about, and you know it.” I put the dishes in the sink, laughing. „Yeah, I know. Next time, I'll ask Hannah to call you a dick, because I happen to really like that too.

Sorry?” Loki supplied. “Yes, you’re very sorry, Randolph. We know. But really, Magnus, do you not see the connection? Maybe I need to be clearer. Sometimes I forget how slow you mortals can be. A—giant—has—the—hammer.” He illustrated each word with exaggerated sign language. “Giant—gives—hammer—back—for—Samirah. We—exchange—gifts—at—wedding. Hammer—for—S-K-O-F-N-U-N-G.” “Stop that!” I snarled.

It’s like a group hug of concern, her borough folding gentle arms around her and slapping away all that Wall Street coldness, and for a moment Padmini cries harder. Can’t help it. “I’m okay,” she blurts, taking a tissue from the packet that the young man waves at her. “I’m sorry. It’s just… hard, sometimes. This damn city.” There are nods around her. “Fuck this city,” says the old lady. “That’s how you gotta be to live here, sweetie. Fuck it right in the ass.

repentance,” a serious turning away from patterns of life which deface and distort our genuine humanness. It isn’t just a matter of feeling sorry for particular failings, though that will often be true as well. It is the recognition that the living God has made us humans to reflect his image into his world, and that we haven’t done so. (The technical term for that is “sin,” whose primary meaning is not “breaking the rules” but “missing the mark,” failing to hit the target of complete, genuine, glorious humanness

Delilah cancelled the spell, snapped the mirror shut, and held it out to her. “A late birthday gift for you. Sorry I didn’t wrap it, but I thought the trick would be fun.” Ceony’s lips parted as she looked at the mirror. “Oh, Delilah, it’s so pretty. You didn’t have to—” “Take it, take it,” she laughed, shaking the compact at her. Ceony took it with a smile and traced the Celtic ornament with her fingers as she slipped it into her purse. “Thank you.” “My birthday is in December,” Delilah said matter-of-factly. “Don’t forget.

I suck at this spillin’ my guts stuff. I always have. You know that probably better’n anyone.” “Yeah, well, it’s a lousy excuse. It always has been.” Trevor slowly lifted his head and gave Edgard an incredulous look. “How is that smartass answer supposed to help me?” “Oh, so now you want my help?” “Well yeah, since it’s obvious I f**ked up and it’s obvious you think you know how to fix it.” “Fine.” Edgard pointed to the cell phone clipped on the dash. “Call her. Say, ‘Baby, I’m sorry I was an ass**le. I love you’, but for Christsake don’t qualify it.” “Qualify it, meanin’ what?” “Don’t tack on, ‘I was an ass**le because I’m under stress’, just apologize. Period.” They stared at each other. “That’s it?” “Sometimes the smallest gestures have the biggest impact.” “Can’t be that easy,” Trevor muttered, snatching the phone. He faced out the driver’s side window but didn’t lower his voice.

I Never Told You You can fill a book with everything I never said Or the lines of a poem Or an Empty pool Or an empty bedroom, the candles all blown out I never told you how the reflection of myself in your eyes Was the only mirror I could bear to look at Or how I fought every day To transfuse the girl I saw there with the girl I am I tried to breathe in the words you made me: beautiful good brave I tried to be them for you even though they were weighted with impossibility I never told you how I always feared the rough edges of myself were too sharp for you and how I fought everyday to blunt them To bring down the walls To let you in without cutting you because I could never bear to hurt you like the others did Every day a fierce pride roared in me I was so lucky to know the truth I was the beneficiary of your radiance I basked in it and felt special And if not for the pain of your solitude I would have been content to be the only one I never told you How your touch made me feel like laughing and crying and singing all at once How your hand passing over my skin where atrocities Had not yet sloughed off, Skin cells remembering the worst touches Was like a tide washing over the ruddy sand And leaving it whole and smooth You made my skin forget Gave me new memories New sensations that didn't drag the shadows from the past In your arms I could start again, Start over. There is no greater gift in all the world Than you to the wreckage that is me... I never told you How I longed to kiss away your every bruise until there was no evidence No ghosts of your own suffering To put your pieces back together Seal the cracks Vanish them like they never were And never, ever Leave a scar I never told you I would take your pain if I could I would drink it down And take my comfort In making you ache a little less For a little while Did I? I'll never know because I never told you that I loved you I love you I love you It's too lat to say it now The time has passed for words How pathetic and small and weak On the phone Or on a piece of paper Starving Without the force of my own vitality My voice My breath My blood singing n my veins for you To give them power They are lost I love you It's too late but I love you And I'm sorry I never told you.

Perhaps Calpurnia sensed that my day had been a grim one: she let me watch her fix supper. “Shut your eyes and open your mouth and I’ll give you a surprise,” she said. It was not often that she made crackling bread, she said she never had time, but with both of us at school today had been an easy one for her. She knew I loved crackling bread. “I missed you today,” she said. “The house got so lonesome ’long about two o’clock I had to turn on the radio.” “Why? Jem’n me ain’t ever in the house unless it’s rainin’.” “I know,” she said, “but one of you’s always in callin’ distance. I wonder how much of the day I spend just callin’ after you. Well,” she said, getting up from the kitchen chair, “it’s enough time to make a pan of cracklin’ bread, I reckon. You run along now and let me get supper on the table.” Calpurnia bent down and kissed me. I ran along, wondering what had come over her. She had wanted to make up with me, that was it. She had always been too hard on me, she had at last seen the error of her fractious ways, she was sorry and too stubborn to say so. I was weary from the day’s crimes. After supper, Atticus sat down with the paper and called, “Scout, ready to read?” The Lord sent me more than I could bear, and I went to the front porch. Atticus followed me. “Something

I’m sorry Chase, but I can’t.” “No. No, no n–” “I can’t be with you. I love Brandon, I’m sorry.” I whispered. “Baby don’t say that. I will fight for you, I will. Please just give us a shot.” “A part of me will probably always love you too, but I can’t take chances with you Chase. You’ll leave me one day, and it will kill me when you do.” “Wha– No! I wouldn’t, I swear I wouldn’t.” He reached for me then and I let him hold me. “You can’t stay with any one girl, that’s just how you are. And that’s fine Chase, it’s fine. You’re with different girls every night, but when I think about love I think about forever. You can’t give me that, so I’m not going to hurt myself by only having you for a short time.” He lifted my face and stared into my eyes, his were filled with unshed tears and the sight of it almost knocked me off my feet, “I haven’t been with anyone but you since you started dating Brandon. I knew then there would never be anyone else like you, and I wasn’t going to waste time being with someone else.” I wanted to believe it, and truthfully I did. He was never with girls anymore, but that didn’t change anything. Chase had left me again. No matter what he said, he would always leave me. I gently kissed the corner of his mouth and stepped out of his arms, “I love you Chase.” “Baby please, don’t do this!” “I have to, I’m sorry.” He held onto my hand, “Why? Why can’t you be with me?” I

There’s my girl.” He tossed the rag to the hearth. “Now, cuddle up. Do you know, I think you put bruises on my arse, woman?” He stretched out on his side, right smack beside her. “You have slain me, Emmie Farnum.” He sighed happily and felt cautiously for her in the dark. His hand found her hair, which he smoothed back in a tender caress. “I badly needed slaying, too, I can tell you.” He bumped her cheek with his nose and pulled back abruptly. “I would have said you were in need of slaying, as well,” he said slowly, “but why the tears, Emmie, love?” There were women who cried in intimate circumstances, a trait he’d always found endearing, but they weren’t Emmie, and her cheek wasn’t damp. It was wet. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, pulling her over his body. He positioned her to straddle him and wrapped an arm around her even while his hand continued to explore her face. He thought he’d been careful, but at the end, he’d been ardent—or too rough? “Sweetheart.” He found her cheek with his lips. “I am so heartily sorry.” “For what?” she expostulated, sitting up on him. “I am the one who needs to apologize. Oh, God, help me, I was hoping you wouldn’t learn this of me, and I tried to tell you, but I couldn’t… I just…” She was working herself up to a state. Even in the dark, her voice alone testified to rising hysteria. “Emmie.” He leaned up and gathered her in his arms. “Emmie, hush.” But she couldn’t hush; she was sobbing and hiccupping and gulping in his arms, leaving him helpless to do more than hold her, murmur meaningless reassurances, and then finally, lay her gently on her side, climb out of bed, and fish his handkerchief out of his pockets. All the while though, he sorted through their encounter and seized upon a credible source of Emmie’s upset. “You were not a virgin,” he said evenly as he tucked the handkerchief into her hand and gathered her back over him. “I was n-n-not,” she said, seizing up again in misery. “And I h-h-hate to cry. But of course you know.” I do now, he thought with a small smile, though had he thought otherwise, he wouldn’t have been so willing to bed her—he hoped. “Cease your tears, Emmie love.” He tucked her closer. “I am sorry for your sake you are so upset, and I hope your previous liaisons were not painful, but as for me, I am far more interested in your future than your past.” A moment of silence went by, his hands tracing lazy patterns on her lovely back, and then she looked up at him. “You cannot mean that.” “I can,” he corrected her gently. “I know you were without anyone to protect you, and you were in service. One of my own sisters was damned near seduced by a footman, Emmie. It happens, and that’s the end of it. Has your heart been broken?” She nodded on a shuddery breath. “Shall I trounce him for you? Flirt with his wife?” “That won’t be necessary,” she said, her voice sounding a little less shaky.

Gulag Archipelago brings to a logical conclusion what was outlined first in August, 1914. The book is the manifesto of a vicious enemy of the Russian people. We read on page 277: 'There is a simple truth, but it must be suffered and lived through: in war it is not victories but defeats that must be blessed. For it is governments that need victories, the people need defeats... The Victory of the Russian troops at Poltava brought nothing but misfortune to Russia: two centuries of great strain, ruin and slavery, and more wars... We are so used to being proud of our victory over Napoleon that we leave out a very important thing: it is because of that victory that the emancipation of peasants did not take place half a century earlier, it is because of this victory that the Russian tsar, whose position became much stronger than before, managed to smash the Decembrists. (As for the French. they could not possibly have occupied Russia).' This monstrous hodgepodge needs no other comment but this: that in making this admission of hatred for everything that is sacred to a Russian, the slanderer has exposed himself. The above-quoted passage may be regarded as a kind of introduction to Solzhenitsyn's treatment of the Great Patriotic War of the Soviet people (1941-1945). It is hard to believe, but he is genuinely sorry that we won a victory in the life-and-death struggle with Nazism and saved humanity from Nazi enslavement. The Soviet people rejoiced in the victory which finally came on May 9, 1945, but for Solzhenitsyn 'that wearisome spring with its music of Victory marches became the spring of retribution for my generation.' (A. Solzhenitsyn. Gulag Archipelago, Paris, 1973, pp. 244)

Almost as though this thought had fluttered through the open window, Vernon Dursley, Harry’s uncle, suddenly spoke. “Glad to see the boy’s stopped trying to butt in. Where is he anyway?” “I don’t know,” said Aunt Petunia unconcernedly. “Not in the house.” Uncle Vernon grunted. “Watching the news . . .” he said scathingly. “I’d like to know what he’s really up to. As if a normal boy cares what’s on the news — Dudley hasn’t got a clue what’s going on, doubt he knows who the Prime Minister is! Anyway, it’s not as if there’d be anything about his lot on our news —” “Vernon, shh!” said Aunt Petunia. “The window’s open!” “Oh — yes — sorry, dear . . .” The Dursleys fell silent. Harry listened to a jingle about Fruit ’N Bran breakfast cereal while he watched Mrs. Figg, a batty, cat-loving old lady from nearby Wisteria Walk, amble slowly past. She was frowning and muttering to herself. Harry was very pleased that he was concealed behind the bush; Mrs. Figg had recently taken to asking him around for tea whenever she met him in the street. She had rounded the corner and vanished from view before Uncle Vernon’s voice floated out of the window again. “Dudders out for tea?” “At the Polkisses’,” said Aunt Petunia fondly. “He’s got so many little friends, he’s so popular . . .” Harry repressed a snort with difficulty. The Dursleys really were astonishingly stupid about their son, Dudley; they had swallowed all his dim-witted lies about having tea with a different member of his gang every night of the summer holidays. Harry knew perfectly well that Dudley had not been to tea anywhere; he and his gang spent every evening vandalizing the play park, smoking on street corners, and throwing stones at passing cars and children. Harry had seen them at it during his evening walks around Little Whinging; he had spent most of the holidays wandering the streets, scavenging newspapers from bins along the way. The opening notes of the music that heralded the seven o’clock news reached Harry’s ears and his stomach turned over. Perhaps tonight — after a month of waiting — would be the night — “Record numbers of stranded holidaymakers fill airports as the Spanish baggage-handlers’ strike reaches its second week —” “Give ’em a lifelong siesta, I would,” snarled Uncle Vernon over the end of the newsreader’s sentence, but no matter: Outside in the flower bed, Harry’s stomach seemed to unclench.

It’s never too late to say that you are sorry.

“Oh, Kelly, you make my legs weak like jelly. Oh, Kelly… I get butterflies in my belly. Oh, Kelly, uh, your perfume is so sweet and smelly, Kelly…” She’s giggling now. “Sorry,” Evan says, plucking a final chord. “Turns out even I can’t make smelly into a compliment.” “Two out of three isn’t bad,” I point out, very impressed with Evan’s skills. He can sketch out a tune really fast, and switch between styles; one moment he’s doing a blues song, then pop, and the one he made up for me was like something from a musical. As if he’s reading my mind, he echoes, turning to look at me, drawing out the syllables: “Don’t forget, Vio-let--Dive in!” This time he ends the line low and gentle, and it isn’t a musical number anymore. It’s almost a love song. “You mind if I work on that?” he asks, leaning on the guitar, looking at me. “That’s kinda nice. I could do something with that.” “Oh!” I don’t quite know what to say. “Sure,” I add. “Ooh! Evan’s writing Violet a love song!” Paige whoops, coming over and retrieving her magazine. “Evan and Violet sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!” I expect Evan to look embarrassed, or to tell Paige to shut up, but he just grins again, bending over his guitar, starting to strum it again, quite unaffected by his sister. “Paige,” he sings to me, “needs to act her age… Such a shame She’s such a pain It’s a terrible strain…” I laugh and settle back on the lounger, watching him play, his hands moving with surprising lightness and dexterity on the strings.

Andrew warned me to leave before you got here, but you're early." "I am, sorry. Lola offered me a lift, and taking Cindy Crawford is better than a bus, even if it means almost dying." They both stared at me. Andrew put his arm around me and chuckled. "Mom, Cindy Crawford is Lola's car." She put her hand to her heart. "Oh.

Salad on a Stick The big selling point of this salad is that it’s F-U-N, fun! I mean, sure…it might be just as easy (okay, easier) to throw salad ingredients into a bowl and toss them with the dressing. But I ask you: What mark are we trying to make here on the world, people?!? Are we men or are we mice? Are we bold and courageous or are we standard and predictable?!? I think you need to spend some time taking a good, hard look at yourself and evaluating whether or not you really want to be here!!!!!! Sorry. I sound like a high school football coach.

Oh . . . thanks, Ron. . . . I’m sorry. . . .” She blew her nose and hiccuped. “It’s just so awf-ful, isn’t it? R-right after Dumbledore . . . I j-just n-never imagined Mad-Eye dying, somehow, he seemed so tough!” “Yeah, I know,” said Ron, giving her a squeeze. “But you know what he’d say to us if he was here?” “‘C-constant vigilance,’” said Hermione, mopping her eyes. “That’s right,” said Ron, nodding. “He’d tell us to learn from what happened to him. And what I’ve learned is not to trust that cowardly little squit, Mundungus.

im only 13, life is too short for my 51 year old self. but like, hey ... sorry this isnt a real quote lol

AT: oKAYYYY, mY BROMO SAPIEN, AT: r U READY, AT: tO GET STRAIGHT IN, FLAT DOWN, BROAD SIDE, SCHOOL FED UP THE BONE BULGE, AT: bY A DOPE SMACKED, TRINKED OUT, SMOTHER FUDGING, AT: tROLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL, TG: dont care AT: oK, lET ME, AT: oRGANIZE MY NOTES HERE, AT: oKAYYY, AT: (tURN ON SOME STRICT BEATS MAYBE, iT WILL HELP TO LISTEN TO THEM WHILE i DESTROY YOU,) AT: wHEN THE POLICE MAN BUSTS ME, aND POPS THE TRUNK, AT: hE'S ALL SUPRISED TO FIND I'M TOTING SICK BILLY, AT: wHOSE, AT: gOAT IS THAT, hE ASKS, wHILE HE STOPS TO THUNK AT: aBOUT IT, aND i'S JUST SAY IT'S DAVE'S, yOU SILLY AT: gOOSE, AT: bUT THE MAN SAYS, gOOSE! wHERE, lET ME SEE YOUR HANDS, AT: aND i SAY SHIT SORRY, i DIDN'T KNOW IT WAS HONKTRABAND, AT: wOW, oK, AT: i AM GETTING OFF THE POINT, wHICH WAS, AT: aBOUT THIS HOT MESS DAVE, tHAT YOU GOT LANDED IN, AT: lIKE THE COP i MENTIONED, bUT INSTEAD OF YOUR BADGE, AT: aND YOUR GUN, IT'S YOUR ASS THAT YOU HANDED IN, AT: (aND THEN GOT HANDED BACK TO YOU,) AT: cAUSE THAT'S HOW HUMANS GET SERVED, AT: aND GUYS LIKE YOU DESERVE TO UNDERSTAND THAT iT'S, AT: a CIRCLE AND HORNS IN YOUR BUTT THAT GOT BRANDED IN, AT: (uMM, bEFORE i GAVE YOUR ASS BACK TO YOU, i DID THAT, iS WHAT i MEAN,) AT: bUT i MEAN, gETTING BACK TO THE POINT, oR MAYBE TWO ACTUALLY, AT: tHE FIRST IS YOU SUCK, aND THE SECOND IS HOW i SMACKEDYOUFULLY, AT: (oH YEAH, tHAT RHYME WAS SO ILLLLLLLLL,) AT: bUT NO, jUST JOKING, lET'S SEE, hOW CAN i PUT THIS TACTFULLULLY, AT: i MEAN THE POINTS ON THE HORNS ON MY HEAD, AT: cOMING AT YOU THROUGH TRAFFIC, AT: aIMED AT THE TARGET ON YOUR SHIRT THAT IS RED, AT: wE'RE ABOUT TO GET MAD HORNOGRAPHIC, AT: (i MEAN SORT OF LIKE A GRAPHIC CRIME SCENE, nOT LIKE,) AT: (aNYTHING SEXUAL,) AT: (eRR, wHOAAAAA,) AT: (nEVERMIND,) AT: oK, gETTING BACK TO THE ACTUAL, tACTICAL, vERNACULAR SMACKCICLE, AT: i'M FORCING YOU TO BE LICKING, (aND lIKING,) AT: gRAB MY HORNS AND START KICKING, lIKE YOU'RE RIDING A VIKING, AT: cAUSE i'M YOUR BULLY, aND YOU'RE NOT IN CHARGE, AT: yOU THINK YOU'RE IN CHARGE BUT YOU'RE NOT IN CHARGE, AT: i'M IN CHARGE, cAUSE i'M CHARGING IN, AT: yOUR CHINASHOP, AT: bREAKING, uH, yOUR PLATES AND STUFF, WHICH i DON'T REALLY KNOW, AT: wHAT THE PLATES ARE SUPPOSED TO REPRESENT, bUT, AT: (fUCK,) AT: iT'S JUST THAT YOU THINK YOU ARE THE COCK OF THE WALK'S HOT SHIT AT: bUT WHEN IN FACT YOU ARE NOT, mORE LIKE YOU ARE, AT: sOMETHING THAT RHYMES WITH THE COCK OF THE WALK'S HOT SHIT, AT: bUT IS SO MUCH WORSE THAN THE COCK'S SHIT, AT: sO, gIVEN THAT, lET ME BE THE FIRST, AT: tO SAY YOU ACT LIKE YOU'RE GOLD FROM PROSPIT, AT: wHEN YOU'RE REALLY COLD SHIT FLUSHED FROM DERSE,

I’m sorry this happened to you,” I said to her, then stood.

Many people, including many Christians, live out their lives under a weight of unforgivenness, blaming themselves for things that have gone wrong in their lives, blaming other people, particularly parents, children and spouses, for things that have gone wrong, feeling the weight of everyone else doing the same thing to them. Many people live with a sense of great obligation: obligation to God, to be impossibly perfect; obligation to other people, to be everything they need all the time; obligation to themselves, to achieve the highest results and position they possibly can. And since these obligations are usually impossible to attain, we live out our lives under a burden of guilt. Often people whom others regard as happy and sunny, outgoing and successful, are crippled inside with a sense of failure and inadequacy. And then there are, of course, the real sins, the real shortcomings: the violent temper, the sexual wrongdoings, the subtle cheating and lying and financial trickery to which most are tempted and many are prone. And over all this sorry mess, guilt both real and imaginary, is written the words, ‘It is finished.’ Jesus has dealt with it. The only reason for hanging on to that guilt and sense of failure is if you want to stop being one of Jesus’ friends. If you are a friend, you are a forgiven friend. Calvary achieved it. When you are invited to walk the way of the cross you are invited to do so as a forgiven friend. You’ve got nothing to prove any more. The only person worth trying to please loves you already so much that he died for you. If you are one of Jesus’ friends, every breath you take you should breathe in that sense of relief, of letting the past go, of forgiveness. That is the birthright of all who travel the way of the cross. This is the reality to be inserted into the tissue of the rest of our life.

Feeling myself slipping, Cecelia pleads for me to hold on, apologies pouring from her lips. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.” Focusing on my brother, I see my fate solidify in his eyes and, in return, give him words I know he’ll understand. Words that, deep down, he’s always understood and a truth I’ve always known. “Nous savions tous les deux que je n’allais jamais voir mes trente ans, mon frère. Prends soin d’elle.” We both know I was never going to make it to thirty, brother. Take care of her.

Yessir, I needed that fer a long time. An’ I reckon I oughta be sayin’ I’m sorry to the Lord for thinkin’ all this time He didn’t hear me, yet He did and got me safe outta that war and kept me in one piece.” He shook his head, remembering the many times he faced death and finally realized that God had indeed delivered him to safety. “He musta done it for this very day.” He sighed heavily, lifting his shoulders, shook his head, and said, “Yessir.

Sorry. I have a chronic, raging case of oral Montezuma's revenge.

Four days ago, I realized that being alone was better than having his sorry ass company making me miserable every fucking day. Four days ago, I realized that being alone was better than living every day lonely with him.

I have no idea how long I doze, but when I open my eyes again, the sirens have quieted. Ryder’s lying beside me, our shoulders touching. “You awake?” he asks. “Yeah,” I mumble sleepily. “Is it morning yet?” “Not quite. Soon.” I nod, and we both fall silent. Inexplicably, I find myself scooting closer to him, fitting myself against his side, seeking his warmth. He puts an arm around me, drawing me closer. I let out a contented sigh. There’s something so familiar--and yet so foreign--about his closeness. I think about those shared cribs, the communal Pack ’n Plays our mothers insisted on. Maybe that explains it--old memories, too far out of reach to be easily accessed, but there all the same. That’s why this feels so…right. It must be. I feel Ryder’s fingers in my hair, combing through it absently. His heart is thumping noisily against my ear, his chest rising and falling with each breath. “Jem?” I swallow hard before answering. “Yeah?” “I’ve been thinking about what you said--you know, about the eighth-grade dance. I’ve been racking my brain, trying to figure out what you were talking about. And”--he swallows hard--“there’s something I need to tell you.” Why is he bringing this up now? “You don’t have to, Ryder,” I say, my heart accelerating. “You were right. It was a long time ago.” “I know, but, well…just hear me out, okay?” I nod, mentally bracing myself. I’m not sure I want to hear this--to open those old wounds again. “I said some things that night, things I’m not proud of. And…it occurred to me that someone might have told you, and--” “I heard you, Ryder,” I say, cutting him off. “I was there, hiding in those trees by the rock. I heard everything.” He lets out his breath in a low whistle. “Shit. I am so sorry, Jemma. I didn’t think--I mean, not that it makes any difference, but I didn’t know. I figured you’d had second thoughts or something and decided you didn’t want to go with me.” “I wish,” I mumble.

The poor sorry Buck Answering a fake matting call. How long will you wander, my Deer? Wander/lust right into the crosshairs.

I would have felt sorry for her if she really wanted this child, but I knew that wasn’t the case. She

On the one hand, I felt like, as his woman, I should take my ass back downstairs and put her out. On the other, I felt sorry for how she must have felt when her dream was snatched away from her.

Now he laughed again. “I’m sorry. I just tend to get on the defensive.” “That’s okay. I tend to get on the clueless. So we’re even.” He

I felt sorry for her, but I felt sorrier for the unhappy girl that I was when I was with her.

I'm sorry, Gabrielle,” Drew laughed. “I'm just giving Braden a hard time.” He sat down in a chair next to us and sipped a Coke. “He's just jealous.” “Damn right I'm jealous. You get to sleep with your girlfriend tonight and I'm going out with my sister. There would be something wrong with me if I weren't jealous, dude.” “Stop thinking about my sex life.” “Just make sure you don't remind me of it later. Don’t forget that my room is right next to yours and the walls are thin.

Jeremy walked back in with bags and boxes from In N Out. “I hate you.” I grumbled as I caught a big whiff of the delicious food. “Sorry sis,” he grinned and started passing out the food, “I got you a cup of ice.” I narrowed my eyes and everyone but Brandon laughed.

I love this word 'Sorry'. It has the greatest affection that can outrule the world concurring pleasures and people

I’m sorry. I’m a little on edge.” “No need to remind me,” Mg. Aviosky quipped just as a real person emerged from that second right, some sort of ledger in his hands. “There are guests at the door,” the man said, closing the ledger. The ensuing burst of air rustled his wavy black hair. In words pitched at a light baritone, he added, “And I would have thought the knock gave it away.

You don't have to lie to someone saying that you love him just to sleep with him. Let's accept it that there is something called as (uncontrollable) physical attraction. ;) Gr r r r r r No it's not taboo or bad. It is natural and It is oh k if both of you are equally attracted. ;) :) Applies to all men, women and transgenders. Stop saying I love You casually n let's not add it to the list of Thank You and Sorry. Say it only when u mean it!

I’m sorry’ goes a long way for a woman. Sometimes we just want a brother to acknowledge his wrong, without making excuses for it.

Another thing to be noted about functions is that the important ones have names; and the really important ones have special symbols to denote them. The function I’ve sampled in Table 3-1 has the name “The Prime Counting Function” and the symbol π (N), which is pronounced “pi of N.” Yes, I know, this is confusing. Isn’t π the ratio of a circle’s circumference to its diameter, the ineffable 3.14159265358979323846264…? It is indeed, and this new use of the symbol π is nothing whatever to do with that. The Greek alphabet has only 24 letters and by the time mathematicians got round to giving this function a symbol (the person responsible in this case is Edmund Landau, in 1909—see Chapter 14.iv), all 24 had been pretty much used up and they had to start recycling them. I am sorry about this; it’s not my fault; the notation is now perfectly standard; you’ll just have to put up with it.

Four days ago, I realized that being alone was better than having his sorry ass company making me miserable every fucking day. Four days ago, I realized that being alone was better than living every day lonely with him. “I

I knew then that he had nothing to do with Aeysha’s murder. I knew that he felt sorry for me when, after putting metal to his brain, he let me live.

He extended his hand up toward her voice, unaware that she, at the same time, was beginning to lean down.  His fingers plunged through cloth and into the plush softness of a breast, and he heard her surprised gasp as he jerked his hand back, curling his fingers into his palm, into a fist, and cursing himself for his inadvertent liberty. "Miss Leighton, I am dreadfully sorry —" "N-no, you couldn't see what you were doing, there's nothing to be s-sorry about," she managed, in a breathless little voice. "Shall we try again?" "Yes — " a nervous little laugh — "yes, let's." He tentatively extended his arm.  God help him, the feel of her breast, so soft, so firm, so ripe, was still seared on his fingertips, imprinted on his brain.  Charles didn't even realize his hand was still fisted until he felt her gently prying apart his fingers. It was all he could do not to pull her down into his arms, to put his hands all over her so that he could see, through his touch, the face of this woman who had done so much for him, who was the only light in his world of darkness, who seemed to intuitively understand and protect for him those things he needed most.  Dignity.  Rest.  Space to heal. But he could not put his hands on her, of course.  He could not go about touching people.  He could not, would not, go about touching young women, especially those to whom he wasn't engaged to be married. 

I’m sorry,” he said. He sounded apologetic and looked frustrated. “It’s okay.” I sat up and fixed my clothes while he had them buzzed in. When he was done I looked at him and smiled. “Don’t worry. We’ll have the opportunity to get seriously freaky soon.” I know — I’m just so wonderfully warm and romantic sometimes. A sweet talker like me should write for Hallmark.

You want to kiss me?” I ask. “More than anything,” he says quickly. I grin and look away from him. “Good.” I open the door to the stairwell and walk through it. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks my retreating back. “Nothing,” I toss over my shoulder. My heart feels a lot lighter than it did a few minutes ago, probably because there are about a million butterflies fluttering around in my gut. My belly flips when I meet his gaze. “I’m glad you want to kiss me, is all.” I shrug again. “So can I?” he asks softly. He’s following me to the street and toward my car now. I beep the locks so I can open the door. I start to pull bags out and load him up. “Can you what?” I ask. He grins. “You know what.” I drop my voice down to a whisper. “You might have to spell it out for me, Matt.” “I W-A-N-T T-O K-I-S-S Y-O-U,” he spells out, laughing. I laugh, too. “Good,” I say again. I get out the last of the bags. He’s carrying most of them, so my load is pretty light. I step up onto my tiptoes and kiss him really quickly on the cheek. “Thanks for helping with the bags. And for the pizza. And for rushing over when Seth called you. I’m sorry if he ruined your night.” “You can make it up to me,” he says. He puckers his lips. I can’t keep the smile from my face. “You coming up?” I ask. He holds up the bags like he has no other choice. “Run while you can, Mr. Reed,” I say, and I try to take a bag from him. “I don’t think so,” he says.

What do you want? An apology? Then I apologize. You must remember, though, that most normal people have never seen an orogene, let alone had to do business with one, and—” She spreads her hands. “Isn’t it understandable that we might be… uncomfortable?” “Discomfort is understandable. It’s the rudeness that isn’t.” Rust this. This woman doesn’t deserve the effort of her explanation. Syen decides to save that for someone who matters. “And that’s a really shitty apology. ‘I’m sorry you’re so abnormal that I can’t manage to treat you like a human being.

~Z L/ti ~0"I/~ Z t4 k Lt(n. I/ ~ Z L When I awake, I am still with You. -PSALM 139:18 Isn't it great to know that even though we sleep eight to ten hours, when we awake God is still with us? He hasn't dozed off during the early hours of the morning. I know that when I am the closest to Jesus, my prayers come more easily and more often. During dry seasons of life I have to consciously set a time for prayer-and often it's more out of duty than desire. As I abide with my Savior, I don't have to say, "It is time for me to get to my task and pray." No, I pray when there is a need, regardless of the time of day or night. These last few years have brought me to God's throne because I want to go there, not because I have fallen back to the law. If you aren't there yet, just wait. The sufferings of life will cause you to drop to your knees in earnest prayer. Earlier in my Christian walk it was hard to understand the meaning behind I Thessalonians 5:17, where it says, "Pray without ceasing." Now I have experienced that in real, living color. I pray literally without ceasing. I pray when I wake, pray at mealtime, pray throughout the day-and I end my day with a prayer of thanksgiving for getting me through the day. When a friend calls to tell you of a prayer need, you don't say, "I'm sorry, but I don't pray again until I go to bed tonight." Of course you wouldn't say that! In fact, I recommend that you pray with the person who's making the request. That way you are sure to pray for their particulars rather than getting distracted with a busy schedule. No longer is prayer a burden. It's a privilege to be able to pray, not because of the law, but because of the grace of the cross. Embrace this privilege and make it a regular, important part of each day. Be faithful in prayer so you can know of God's faithfulness. PRAYER Father God, what a privilege it is to pray without ceasing. You have given me the

She whimpered as he forced another helpless moan from her lips. Moments later, he paused and raised his head, meeting her gaze across her recumbent form. "Did you say something?" 'N-no," she whispered, shuddering at the cessation of his caresses. "Oh. My mistake. Shall I continue?" Continue tormenting her, he meant. Still, how could she say no? "Please, Jack." "Please, what?" Despite their intimacy, she felt her cheeks flush. "Y-you know." "I'm sorry. I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific." She blushed and groaned. "Don't do this." "Do what?" "T-torment me." "Is that what I'm doing? I thought I was pleasuring you." "You are, but you're not letting me-" "Letting you what?" he drawled in a devil's voice. "God, I don't know how much more I can take." His eyes darkened. "Oh, you can take more. A lot more. Then again, just say the words and I'll give you what you want. Tell me how much you need this from me. Tell me how much you love this from me.

She loved him. He loved her. They both got married, not to each other. :) Down on one knee WILL U MARRY ME? I don't love you and i don't think i ever will held out my ring, will u marry me? I've read my vows to someone else took an oath to keep her safe Wake up next to me for the rest of my mornings when i'm thru with dreams of her and me will u hold my hand? when my flesh is ill n keep me warm against the harsh winter breeze she once held my heart n i don't recall taking it back will u marry me? i'm truly sorry, i am bt all i can offer is a heartless, lifeless version of me will u spend the remainder of our lives together, have children, build a house shut'em people's mouth make them believe, they can all be Juliets n Romeos but there'll not certainly be a love like ours. So will you marry me???

C-c-cold,” she muttered when the sound of his footsteps caused her to open one eye a trifle wider. “Tell N-Nolan…sorry.” She doesn’t even recognize me. “I am Nolan, sweetheart,” he said, “and you have nothing to apologize for. I’m going to take good care of you,” he told her, leaning down close so she could see him. “You’re going to be fine, sweetheart,” he promised, though he had no idea if he was telling the truth or not.

I’m here to make it up to you, Sarah. Run away with me, and we’ll get married, and I’ll introduce you to th’ boys. We’ll have a fine life—you’ll see. A couple of ’em are married, too, or they have lady friends here ’n’ there that ride along with us from time to time.” She couldn’t believe her ears. “You think I’d even consider leaving with you to live an outlaw’s life, always on the run?” “Aw, Sarah, we have a grand time, livin’ high off the hog. We’re free to do whatever we want, whenever we want. We eat the best food, drink the best wine—our ladies are drippin’ in jewelry and fancy clothes. But I’m willin’ to leave it all if you insist.” “‘Leave it all’?” “Sure. That’s how much I love you, sweetheart. If you don’t want to live free as a bird, I’ll come back and have that ranch with you. We’ll let Milly stay there, too, of course, but it ain’t fittin’ for no lady to be runnin’ a ranch anyway.” “I told you, Milly’s married now,” she managed to say, in the midst of the temper that was threatening to boil over into angry words. “I think her husband might take exception to that idea.” “We’ll buy him out, then,” he said grandly. “They can go find some other ranch. I know you always set great store by that old place.” She was conscious of the handful of other diners in the restaurant, and remembered again that her mother said ladies did not make a scene in public. She folded her hands in her lap and looked away. “I’m sorry, Jesse. I loved you, and I prayed every night during the war for your return, but now—” He straightened. “Loved me? You don’t love me any more? There’s someone else, isn’t there?” he demanded, his narrowed eyes twin smoldering fires. She looked away from his glare. She didn’t want to tell him about Nolan, didn’t want to hear his reaction to the news that his former fiancée was in love with one of the very Yankees he hated so much, especially since she and Nolan hadn’t even had the chance to explore their new feelings for one another yet. But she wouldn’t lie, not about the relationship that had come to mean so much to her. She just wouldn’t say any more than she had to. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I’m sorry, there is. I wish you well, Jesse. And now I’d best be getting home.

I’m s-sorry!” he cried, tilting his tearstained face back to look at her through watery blue eyes. “I’m s-s-so sorry! J-Jaren said I should f-forgive you, that you d-didn’t have a choice and you o-only lied to protect me, but I was j-just so mad! And you n-nearly drowned thinking I h-hate you! I d-don’t! I don’t hate you, K-Kiva! I couldn’t n-never hate you! I l-love you! Please b-believe me!

If you’re allergic to the sight of blood, maybe you should take time to take an antihistamine first,” I suggested. “Good one, Ivy,” Hayden said. He gave me a nod of appreciation for what he considered a remark of levity. “I’m really sorry to have to do this, you know. You seem like nice people, and, Ivy, your salad and cookies were very good. But you’re just a little too nosy.

I should not touch what is not mine. I’m sorry.

Jan Roos mag z'n zegje komen doen voor 15 minuten in een talkshow.

Life in People (The Sonnet) A rich egotist came and said, You 'n I are quite the same you see, You control people with words, I control people with money. I burst out in laughter 'n replied, I feel sorry for you, o poor mental. You look for life in the palace, While I found my life in people. You keep hoarding luxury, While I chose a life of simplicity. You crawl all life fearing death, I made friends out of death ‘n destiny. You stay aloof on pedestal patronizing people. I labor at love’s altar egalitarianizing people.

I'm sorry to step you in your corners but the truth must be told that you can't Loved by all people cause you not the money.

To introduced myself to you in this nightmare story.I'm a victim of rape on my childhood stage l'd experienced rape in my life the victim were my sibblings and community members as I told you that on my growth. My mum was upsent it were only my dad, sister and brother in my house my dad were living with heart condition desease than my mom choose to hunting work live us with dad on my toddler stage hape you imagine the situation.By telling you this I don'nt expected your pitty or. being sorry for me but I'm going somewhere I want to speak with someone who condem,look him or herself down lost confident with same and other stuation.There's hope if l managed to survive on my situations you can to.God favoured me my introduced himself to me on my teenage stage ashored me that he love me and transformed my life mostly healed me day by day couse this situations is deep it a proccess to be heal in it l use to say it like living in fire where you need to live with God himself in it.Why I say this? allow me to say it some sort of journey of chosen people.The reason is other people take it easy as we have different categories of help and high science source to cure this the truth is it can't why?Rape destroy the whole life of person as human divided into 3 part which is body,soul spirit as I experience it not once several times till I reach the stage where I can rescure myself by confronting the victims,shortly it spoiled my whole 3 part you see I needed my creater to rebuid me and that not heppening overnight I personally say rape victims needed. Lifesaviour and Lifeguide who is God himself to rescue and guide you in life journey course this thing is a beast that never die if you never experience it you'll never understand it thanks for your trying don't need to.what I need is your support,how? pray for me,not feeling sorry,give hope,listen me,never judge ,stop gossip rather ask the ask,allow me to take my own decisions, give me time,be partient of me,avoid to remind me my past,believe in me,be careful on showing me my weekest sport rather put me on the spot where I can see for myself, give me chance of proving myself. This is what I can do;Forgive,move on,not forget,love other people not trust them 100% ,(truely fall in love conditional),Over protective while others says I'm selfish,depend on God's hand 100%, sensetive person, enjoy my space,help others, prayful person,other people says I'm moody person when I separate myself to meet with God in his present,can think wise things and do big things,focus on something that can keep my mind busy to escape on thinking about past,fight to change, enjoy to spend time with fruitfull freinds, rocking on doing my own business, on my own space,Not easy to accept people in my space till I know him or her better,enjoy nature things,love to be me,layalt pertionate & kind person.

My name is Nub.” Nub said. “Oh, I’m sorry.” FadedGZ said. “Noob. Am I saying it right?” “No, it’s Nub. N… U… B.” Nub answered. “Knob.” “No, it’s Nub. Nu-b.” “Wub.” “NUB!” “Cub?” “NUB!!” “Dub?” “IT’S NUB-!” “Nuts?” “NUB-!” Annie silenced him with a glare. “Yes, it’s Nuts.” Nuts said.

I wrote an article two days ago trying to explain insanity in simple language, in fact, that was indeed the title: Insanity Explained In Simple Language. I received a letter yesterday asking me for more information on the subject. I do so enjoy interacting with the general public, especially ones who ask complicated questions. This person a lady, whose name shall remain anonymous, asked– “If sanity is the simple state of mind one feels whilst one’s life is suspended in an insane space as you purport, how can one tell if the space one finds oneself in is insane or not? Yours faithfully, One, In Disguise. I wrote this as my explanation——- The only way to tell if the space you’re in is insane or not is to test your own sanity. It is my belief you will need four things to test for any debilitating state of affairs in your surroundings. Firstly, you will need; you. Next, someone who is definitely insane. Of course, then comes someone who is sane, and finally, a pencil and paper. That’s five things I know but who’s splitting hairs over a pencil and paper? Not me. I haven’t enough paper to split. I will stop digressing. I suggest I am the one you invite to fill the third category, the being sane one, but only if you’re testing for sanity on a day with the letter N in it. If the day of your choice has not the letter ’N,’ then I cannot help but feel sorry for you. However, in that case my intuitive nature compels me to propose I fill the second category for your cause, leaving you to find someone who is sane. Good luck with that last one and God Save The King. That’s if he has any time left on the throne. DK. © 2022, Daniel Kemp. All rights reserved.

I’m so sorry, I can’t imagine—” She shrugged and managed a strangled laugh. “Well, that’s life for you, isn’t it? It would make a very good novel, I think.

wala na akong itatanggi, i admit all this because of my stupidity lalong lumalala 'to. i'm trying my best for yves to forgive me because i don't want to leave with regrets. as for Iovelorn i'm sorry i you got dragged into this. i've apologize to you guys many times already, and i know na hindi n'yo tinatanggap that's why i'm asking you guys to tell me what should i do? i'm willing to do anything para lang mapatawad n'yo ako.

I was just coming down here to check on my flowers when I saw you all alone. Well, with Oreo, of course.” And she leaned down. “How are you, pretty hound? Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t bring you cinnamon cookies. I didn’t know you’d be here! Don’t be mad, okay? I’ll keep some in my pocket for next time.

Me and him are kind of buddies, in fact,” said Avery, nodding her head at Shade, while Arthur rolled his eyes—slowly. “Of course, as much as my kind can be friends with his kind.” “Oh, Ave,” Arthur breathed, looking at her like he felt sorry for her. “What?! It’s true. If our magic didn’t hurt each other every time we worked together, we would be,” Avery said. Heat spilled down the length of me—the bad kind. “What do you mean?” “Just that. His shadows hurt me, and my godlight hurts him. Not hurt hurt, but…you know. Very unpleasant,” she said, and words Arti said to me that day we first trained came to my mind. But it must have been much, much different for them than it was for me because Shade’s shadows never hurt me. His darkness was my safe place.

That’s not how the fight went down. I’m sorry, Shi. I hope I’m wrong, but something doesn’t feel right.

You’re a screamer, babe,” Colt said as gently as he could. “I—” I supposed I got loud, especially when I was close to coming. “Um…I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was doing something wrong. I won’t do that anymore.” “No!” Colt and Keelan shouted at the same time.

I’m sorry that I don’t deserve you,” Shade whispered, and my eyes popped open. “But you do.

I only have one,” said Miles, red touching his cheeks as he tried to smooth the edges of the piece of paper. “Sorry—I’ve had it in my pocket since the day we made the deal.” He smiled, then offered it to me. Live. It only had one word on it—live.

Fine. You are the one for me, Rebecca, you always have been, and I'm sorry it took me so long to admit that, but I do. I love you, Princess, always have, always will. And if I have to carve my heart out from my chest and give it to you, just say the word. It’s already yours, and I don’t care if you put me on my knees everyday for the rest of my life, for you I will fall, every single day I will fall.

It was natural, then, for the musicians’ families to turn first to the White Star Line for financial benefits under the Workmen’s Compensation Act. Sorry, said White Star, the bandsmen were Second Class passengers and not covered by the Act. The Line suggested that the families contact C. W. and F. N. Black, the real employers. Sorry, said the Blacks. The problem wasn’t their responsibility. They carried insurance to cover such matters, and any claims should be laid at the insurer’s door. Sorry, said the insurance company, the bandsmen were not workmen as covered by the policy. They were independent contractors, using the Blacks as a booking agency, and the insurance company was under no liability. Months passed while White Star, the Blacks, and the insurer tossed this hot potato back and forth. Finally, in exasperation the families took the Blacks to court. The judge was sympathetic, but that was all. The bandsmen, he decided, were not the employees of anybody. They were passengers in the case of the White Star Line, and independent contractors in the case of the Blacks and the insurers.

She’s wearing a red dress, inappropriately revealing. Her clothes always seem like a disguise, an attempt at masking her true identity – her self-loathing and low self-esteem. Ironically, this is all I see, and I can’t help but feel hopelessly sorry for her.

But I feel like something’s missing or like I know there could be more. I miss him. I miss the way he makes me laugh. I miss the comfort of him being there with us. We don’t feel complete without him. I don’t mean you’re inadequate, Jamie. He…he feels different. Not more or less. Just different. I’m sorry if that doesn’t make sense, but I don’t entirely understand it myself.

Have you seen those kids nowadays? What they’re like? They’re f****** nightmares. And you do feel like strangling them. At times. They scream like banshees or maniacs. They’re mini sociopaths in the making. It should be illegal to scream like they do. It’s criminal. They should be arrested or silenced with———————. Yeah, whatever. While you wonder why the f*** they’re screaming like crazy, their mom shows up and tell you that they actually sh** their pants. Sorry. ‘Diapers.’ They sh** their ‘diapers’. So, take a hint. And turns out that all along, they were hungry, thirsty for coconut water. Or is it milk? Oh that’s right, ‘nuts.’ Babies are pros at juggling nuts while having colic nanoseconds ago. Either way, they’re diminutive unruly monsters whose terrorizing skills should not be underestimated.

When it was just me and him, the air between us crackled with tension. He had to be able to feel it. I wasn’t imagining it. The way he looked at me, hot and familiar, but guarded now. Like he’d moved on and it was too late. Like he was sorry, but it was too late.

That’s a question I have never asked myself, Anna Arkadyevna...The same as in war— one doesn’t ask oneself whether one is sorry or not sorry.

There's too much good in my life to be sorry.

Every morning for the last two weeks, I have woken drenched in sweat and writhing in the agony of terrors I can barely describe,” Neptune began. “I cannot see the exact nature of the terrors — I can merely feel them.” “You feel them?” I asked. “You mean like someone’s hurting you?” “No one is there. No one is near. There is only myself,” Neptune replied. “And my mind.” “Your mind? You mean you’re imagining the terrors?” Aaron asked. Neptune’s eyes darkened. For a moment he looked more like his usual self. “Imagining?” he said angrily. “You think the king of all the oceans IMAGINES terrors?” Aaron gulped. “N-no, Your Majesty,” Aaron stammered. “I’m sorry. I thought you said —

English French Pronunciation Hi Salut SAH-loo What’s up? Ça va? SAH-vah? Yes Oui We No Non Noh OK D’accord DA-core Let’s go On y va OHN-e-vah Wait Attends AH-tahn I’m hungry J’ai faim JAY-fah What Quoi Kwah I don’t understand Je n’ai pas compris Jeh-NAY-paw-COHM-pree Sorry Pardon PAHR-don Repeat Répétez REH-peh-tay

So what was the divine purpose hidden within that long story of Israel under Mosaic law? In Romans 7 Paul comes up with a striking answer, which leads directly to his fullest and clearest statement of the means by which the goal was attained. The law was given, he argues boldly, in order to draw “Sin” on to one point, so that it could be condemned there once and for all. The story of “Israel under the Torah” was designed, he says, in order to accumulate sin, to heap it up into one place—and simultaneously to lead to Israel’s representative, the Messiah. The double narrative we see in “twin” passages like Psalms 105 and 106—the resonant and hopeful story of election, rescue, and promise and the dark and sorry story of rebellion, failure, and exile—would run together at last, as the Messiah, the focal point of hope and promise, met the Sin that the law had heaped up. His death would then be the means by which “Sin,” accumulated precisely through the Torah, would finally be dealt with. If we want to understand what the early Christians meant by “he died for our sins,” this passage will offer us the fullest account.

You see? Silbermann assures us that this technique has added years to the sexual life of his patients. But, of course, one must be a born fighter to profit by it. In this respect we are rather backward in France; a certain lack of persistence and determination causes us to lose out in the race of pleasure. It’s different in the United States. There are people band together, organize group therapy sessions, make pornographic films, found institutes and clinics, all dedicated to combating the Decline of erection. America is the largest true phallocracy. By comparison, we French are a sorry lot of quitters.