Nj Love Quotes

Sometimes it takes losing everything to see the truth in nothing, except love, honor, and death.

He didn’t see any of his siblings on the way out, and he didn’t think it was because it was late. His mother was quiet for once, no reassurances, not even her usual expressions of unconditional love as she walked them to the door. He felt her gaze on him as Josh led him to the car, but he didn’t look back. He couldn’t. He felt if he tried, he’d freeze, trapped forever between what he’d been and what he was, forever longing for something that no longer existed.

It was easy. It didn’t require thought to push closer, to roll faster into the wave of their shared pleasure, a rhythm they didn’t need to discuss—it simply was. A truth they had just needed to let surface from the depths as if they’d hid it from themselves by some trick of the light, or the darkness. Maybe just fear—the kind that lived at the heart of every great love.

Having a man who loves me is one thing, having one I love as well is…surreal. A level of intimacy that can’t be replicated with anyone regardless of how good and experienced they are in satisfying my needs.

You think you know what a man is? You have no idea what a man is. You think you know what a daughter is? You have no idea what a daughter is. You think you know what this country is? You have no idea what this country is. You have a false image of everything. All you know is what a fucking glove is. This country is frightening. Of course she was raped. What kind of company do you think she was keeping? Of course out there she was going to get raped. This isn't Old Rimrock, old buddy - she's out there, old buddy, in the USA. She enters that world, that loopy world out there, with whats going on out there - what do you expect? A kid from Rimrock, NJ, of course she didn't know how to behave out there, of course the shit hits the fan. What could she know? She's like a wild child out there in the world. She can't get enough of it - she's still acting up. A room off McCarter Highway. And why not? Who wouldn't? You prepare her for life milking the cows? For what kind of life? Unnatural, all artificial, all of it. Those assumptions you live with. You're still in your olf man's dream-world, Seymour, still up there with Lou Levov in glove heaven. A household tyrannized by gloves, bludgeoned by gloves, the only thing in life - ladies' gloves! Does he still tell the one about the woman who sells the gloves washing her hands in a sink between each color? Oh where oh where is that outmoded America, that decorous America where a woman had twenty-five pairs of gloves? Your kid blows your norms to kingdom come, Seymour, and you still think you know what life is?" Life is just a short period of time in which we are alive. Meredith Levov, 1964. "You wanted Ms. America? Well, you've got her, with a vengeance - she's your daughter! You wanted to be a real American jock, a real American marine, a real American hotshot with a beautiful Gentile babe on your arm? You longed to belong like everybody else to the United States of America? Well, you do now, big boy, thanks to your daughter. The reality of this place is right up in your kisser now. With the help of your daughter you're as deep in the sit as a man can get, the real American crazy shit. America amok! America amuck! Goddamn it, Seymour, goddamn you, if you were a father who loved his daughter," thunders Jerry into the phone - and the hell with the convalescent patients waiting in the corridor for him to check out their new valves and new arteries, to tell how grateful they are to him for their new lease on life, Jerry shouts away, shouts all he wants if it's shouting he wants to do, and the hell with the rules of hte hospital. He is one of the surgeons who shouts; if you disagree with him he shouts, if you cross him he shouts, if you just stand there and do nothing he shouts. He does not do what hospitals tell him to do or fathers expect him to do or wives want him to do, he does what he wants to do, does as he pleases, tells people just who and what he is every minute of the day so that nothing about him is a secret, not his opinions, his frustrations, his urges, neither his appetite nor his hatred. In the sphere of the will, he is unequivocating, uncompromising; he is king. He does not spend time regretting what he has or has not done or justifying to others how loathsome he can be. The message is simple: You will take me as I come - there is no choice. He cannot endure swallowing anything. He just lets loose. And these are two brothers, the same parents' sons, one for whom the aggression's been bred out, the other for whom the aggression's been bred in. "If you were a father who loved your daughter," Jerry shouts at the Swede, "you would never have left her in that room! You would have never let her out of your sight!

Lyall wanted Tristan’s kisses and his body and to have him close enough his scent would permeate rooms and make him smile when he walked into them. But he didn’t want it more than he wanted Tristan’s words, rushed in a voice messages and often too formal in emails, and in perfectly composed lectures full of masterful analogies. And not just for him, but for other people who needed to hear they didn’t have to be trapped by the vicissitudes of chance, that their bodies could be coaxed into allowing them enough freedom to find happiness—for without freedom there was no happiness possible. The distance would be harder, but it did not mean more than their closeness.

I love you,” I said, and if people say it gets easier the more you say, they’re bullshitting you. It’s the opposite, it gets harder. Because every time you say, you’ve loved them for a longer time, they’ve become more integral to who you are. At some point, “I love you” also means “I need you” and there is nothing more terrifying than admitting that to another person who can walk out any time they like. But I owed it to him, not the love, that he’d earned himself. No, I owed him the truth and the trust because he’d offered them to me. You can love someone on your own, even if they can’t feel the same for you, but truth needs to be heard, and trust needs to be returned.

Gabriel's eyes widened, blue and startled. He was stupidly beautiful, but Ray didn't really care about the regularity of his features. He wanted the tenderness on his face, the insecurity born from love—it wasn't possible to love someone and not be a little afraid they'd break. Anything and anyone you loved was always too fragile for your taste, too likely to be damaged—by the world but also by your own words and actions. He straightened, and Ray thought he might cross the space between them. Instead, he opened his arms in invitation and kept his eyes steady on Ray's face—vulnerable and open to Ray's refusal. Ray wasn't sure this was a good idea, but he couldn't leave someone he loved exposed like that without responding.

I get daily physical descriptions of his bowel movements. He calls me at work to tell me about them. My lack of enthusiasm doesn’t affect him. This is his favorite subject.” —Maria, Cherry Hill, NJ

He’s charmingly old-fashioned. He opens doors for women, seats us at the table. Wears bow ties. But he has apoplexy if someone raises his fork before the hostess or wears anything but white on the tennis court. Poor grammar makes him bleed.” —Maria, Stone Harbor, NJ

He gets up ten minutes ahead of me because he has to read the paper first. He scrambles to get to it. By the time I get to see it, it’s all messed up. The sections are all out of order, folded every which way.” —Sally, Bridgewater, NJ

He compares himself to the kids all the time. ‘When I was a kid,’ he says, ‘there were no pocket calculators. You had to memorize the multiplication tables. We didn’t have video games—we played ball.’ Like they care.” —Maria, Stone Harbor, NJ

He buys me this contraption some madam would wear—I don’t even know what you’d call it. It has zippers and slits. He wants me to try it on but I won’t. Hell, I’m embarrassed to return it, much less wear the thing.” —Maxine, Cherry Hill, NJ

Instead of shaking it, Armand slowly brought her hand to his lips and kissed the backs of her knuckles. Gwen’s breath hitched and her eyes widened. Jacque wanted to smash his fist into his cousin’s pearly whites. The bastard was purposely taunting both him and Louis by turning on the charm. Women loved Armand. Young and old, pretty or plain, it didn’t matter. He

Gator Rollins was a badass, tattooed werewolf who loved to cook.

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I love you, Shiv. You. With every beat of my heart and every breath that I take. It's always been you and always will be.

Two recent books that make this case are by James K. A. Smith: Desiring the Kingdom: Worship, Worldview, and Cultural Formation (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2009); and Imagining the Kingdom: How Worship Works (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2013). Smith builds on Augustine’s idea that what makes us what we are is the order of our loves, and therefore what changes us is changing not what we think but what we love. Smith rightly critiques an approach to ministry that is too rationalistic and focused on information transfer and the transmission of right doctrine and beliefs. His response is that we change not by changing what we think as much as by changing what we worship—what we love and fill our imaginations with. He gives much more attention, however, to the liturgy and the shape of worship services, and little to preaching. I believe preaching can carry much of the weight of the ministry task of reshaping the heart. True to Smith’s critique, however, there is a relative dearth of evangelical books on preaching to the heart, in comparison with how to exegete and explain a biblical text. Some exceptions are Sinclair Ferguson, “Preaching to the Heart,” in Feed My Sheep: A Passionate Plea for Preaching (Grand Rapids, MI: Soli Deo Gloria, 2002), pp. 190–217; Samuel T. Logan, “The Phenomenology of Preaching,” in The Preacher and Preaching (Phillipsburg, NJ: Presbyterian and Reformed, 1986), pp. 129–60; and Josh Moody and Robin Weekes, Burning Hearts: Preaching to the Affections (Ross-shire, Scotland: Christian Focus, 2014). I would add that “preaching to the heart” not only is quite biblical but also is an important way to adapt to our secular age, in which inherited religion will be on the decline. People will be coming to church not because they ought to, because it is an entailment of being part of a social body or community, but only if they choose with their hearts to do so.

The moment it was over I knew I shouldn’t have done it. It was fucked up on so many levels that it didn’t even feel right to hold Dan close to me in what had been our bed less than a month earlier. Dan loved me, I knew he did. It wasn’t fair of me to lead him on, even if I had broken up with him just before fucking him. But it wasn’t just that, the rest of it wasn’t right either. The knowledge of what I no longer was in my family’s view but forever, for whoever looked upon me, marked on my body, a lack so fundamental and obvious that some would refuse to call me a man. And what would happen to me because of that, the way my body was even in that moment changing to accommodate someone else’s desires, the way I was becoming what Brennan had decided I needed to be. For the first time, it wasn’t a mere omission but an outright lie. To be in that bed next to Dan was taking up the space that belonged to someone else, someone we had both loved and who was now gone. That life was over, done.

I like you,” his friend said, and it sounded like an admission. It had to be an admission, following what Josh had said about liking men, even as Josh insisted, “I really like you, Ray.” Even as Ray arched into the soft, feathery kisses Josh was planting down his throat, he realised he wanted to know more. But the words wouldn’t come. He let his eyes flutter closed to focus on the sensation of Josh’s mouth and Josh’s hand sliding up his naked thigh, pulling his shorts down. Whatever else Josh felt or didn’t feel, this was true, he thought. His hands and his mouth and the way he was already hardening again against Ray’s side. He hadn’t asked about himself in particular, himself… before. He didn’t know how. He knew he was wanted, but he didn’t know how to ask if he was loved.

Once their basic needs were met, everyone desired love. But what all creatures craved even more was someone to listen to them, to honestly see them and care.

She loved him, and she hated me. Whatever I’d do, how many times I’d claim her, Cosimo had made her his forever. I hurt her because she’d never be mine.

how could I stop hating the man who threatened to kill me, let alone forgive him? The man who used everything and everyone to do what was best for him and only him? I might have understood my sister’s love for him, but his love for her… That was beyond my comprehension

I had no choice. Well, I did. Everybody had a choice. I chose to free murderous monsters so other violent murders in my family wouldn’t occur. Selfish? Weak? Immoral? Absolutely. But what would you do when the lives of the people you loved the most were at the mercy of brutal criminals, and you were the only one that could spare them? Say no? Fight? I did, at first. The result was a broken hip, a kidney that couldn’t be salvaged and a scar across my back that would never go away.

Not every Beauty can fall in love with Beast.

I like to think that all the best stories have some sort of lesson you, as a reader, can take away from it and if there’s one thing I hope you took away from this, it’s that you deserve to be happy. You deserve to feel loved. My wish for all of you is to find something that makes your heart sing and run with it. Go lie in the rain—when it is safe—and feel whatever it is you need to feel. Life is too short to think you’re anything but enough.

Every person possesses their own unique ability to love someone, and that mutable capability is independent of the person of which they are trying to love.

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Love was time, most of all—the time you gave, the one you were given.

Ray wanted an egalitarian relationship, there was no way in hell he was putting anyone through anything even close to what he'd been through. Revenge was just violence dressed up as justice, not the real thing.

I like you,” his friend said, and it sounded like an admission. It had to be an admission, following what Josh had said about liking men, even as Josh insisted, “I really like you, Ray.” Even as Ray arched into the soft, feathery kisses Josh was planting down his throat, he realised he wanted to know more. But the words wouldn’t come. He let his eyes flutter closed to focus on the sensation of Josh’s mouth and Josh’s hand sliding up his naked thigh, pulling his shorts down. Whatever else Josh felt or didn’t feel, this was true, he thought. His hands and his mouth and the way he was already hardening again against Ray’s side. He hadn’t asked about himself in particular, himself… before. He didn’t know how. He knew he was wanted, but he didn’t know how to ask if he was loved. He didn’t know how to ask if it was him or the omega wolf. But that wasn’t the real problem; he could have accepted either answer—painful as it might have been. It was something else that scared him: that maybe Josh couldn’t tell the difference. And that… that Ray couldn’t bear.

A Good Start in Financial History You really can’t learn enough financial history. The following, listed in descending order of importance, are landmarks in the field. Edward Chancellor. Devil Take the Hindmost. New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1999. What manias look like; how to recognize—and hopefully avoid—irrational exuberance. Benjamin Roth. The Great Depression: A Diary. New York: PublicAffairs, 2009. What the bottoms look like; how to keep your courage and your cash up. Roger G. Ibbotson and Gary P. Brinson. Global Investing. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1993. Five hundred years of hard and fiat money, inflation, and security returns in a small, easy-to-read package. Adam Fergusson. When Money Dies. New York: PublicAffairs, 2010; Frederick Taylor. The Downfall of Money. New York: Bloomsbury Press, 2013. What real inflation looks like. Be afraid, very afraid. Benjamin Graham. Security Analysis. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1996. You’re not a pro until you’ve read Graham “in the original”—the first edition, published in 1934. An authentic copy in decent condition will run you at least a grand. Fortunately, McGraw-Hill brought out a facsimile reprint in 1996. Charles Mackay. Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds. Petersfield, U.K.: Harriman House Ltd., 2003. If you were smitten with Devil Take the Hindmost, you’ll love this nineteenth-century look at earlier manias. Sydney Homer and Richard Sylla. A History of Interest Rates, 4th ed. Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons, 2005. Loan markets from 35th-century B.C. Sumer to the present.