No Prob Quotes

Ricky was "L" but he's home with the flu, Lizzie, our "O," had some homework to do, Mitchell, "E" prob'ly got lost on the way, So I'm all of the love that could make it today.

How exactly do you get banned from a pizza delivery place?" "Hey, don't judge me! Those bastards had it out for me!

Because that's bullshit. Okay, maybe the Las Vegas thing was our fault, well mostly Uncle Jared's and Jason's fault, but it was supposed to be a twenty-four hour buffet," he explained. "And that Disneyworld thing," he shook his head in disgust, "was all a simple misunderstanding. There was no need to get the police involved," he said on a sniff.

...there's me, Gurth, Dotti, Grenn an' about a hunnerd shrews. If'n we wants to lie 'round for a day or two then you'll find yore prob'ly outvoted!" Lord Brocktree's eyes told the otter that he was not about to have his decision overruled. Swinging forth his battle blade, he stuck it quivering into the ground. "Lets's be reasonable about this, friend. Let me explain the rules. One Badger Lord carries two hundred votes and his sword carries another hundred. Agreed?" Ruff looked from the sword to the badger. Sunlight gleamed from the blade lighting Brocktree's eyes with a formidable gleam. He smiled nervously at his huge friend. "Reason, that's wot I likes, mate. Vote carried. We go after brekkist tomarrer!

Fella says today, 'Depression is over. I seen a jackrabbit, an' they wasn't nobody after him.' An' another fella says, 'That aint the reason. Can't afford to kill jackrabbits no more. Catch 'em and milk 'em an' turn 'em loose. One you seen prob'ly gone dry.

I won­der if run­ning is just an­oth­er fix to a fix to a fix to a fix to a fix to a prob­lem I can’t re­mem­ber.

Jump ahead ten years, and not much has changed. Ten years of ther­apy, and I’m still in about the same place. This prob­ably isn’t some­thing we should cel­ebrate.

Mr. Ron, I was captive in the devil's prison. That was easy for Miss Debbie to see. But I got to tell you: Many folks had seen me behind the bars in that prison for more than thirty years, and they just walked on by. Kept their keys in their pocket and left me locked up. Now I ain't tryin to run them other folks down, 'cause I was not a nice fella-dangerous-and prob'ly just as happy to stay in prison. But Miss Debbie was different--she seen me behind them bars and reached way down in her pocket and pulled out the keys God gave her and used one to unlock the prison door and set me free.

Who you looking for What is his name you can prob'ly find him at the football game it's a small town you know what I mean it's a small town, son and we all support the team

If on'y they didn' tell me I got to get off, why, I'd prob'y be in California right now a-eatin' grapes an a-pickin' an orange when I wanted. But them sons-a-bitches says I got to get off-an', Jesus Christ, a man can't, when he's tol' to!

[I] threw open the door to find Rob sit­ting on the low stool in front of my book­case, sur­round­ed by card­board box­es. He was seal­ing the last one up with tape and string. There were eight box­es - eight box­es of my books bound up and ready for the base­ment! "He looked up and said, 'Hel­lo, dar­ling. Don't mind the mess, the care­tak­er said he'd help me car­ry these down to the base­ment.' He nod­ded to­wards my book­shelves and said, 'Don't they look won­der­ful?' "Well, there were no words! I was too ap­palled to speak. Sid­ney, ev­ery sin­gle shelf - where my books had stood - was filled with ath­let­ic tro­phies: sil­ver cups, gold cups, blue rosettes, red rib­bons. There were awards for ev­ery game that could pos­si­bly be played with a wood­en ob­ject: crick­et bats, squash rac­quets, ten­nis rac­quets, oars, golf clubs, ping-​pong bats, bows and ar­rows, snook­er cues, lacrosse sticks, hock­ey sticks and po­lo mal­lets. There were stat­ues for ev­ery­thing a man could jump over, ei­ther by him­self or on a horse. Next came the framed cer­tificates - for shoot­ing the most birds on such and such a date, for First Place in run­ning races, for Last Man Stand­ing in some filthy tug of war against Scot­land. "All I could do was scream, 'How dare you! What have you DONE?! Put my books back!' "Well, that's how it start­ed. Even­tu­al­ly, I said some­thing to the ef­fect that I could nev­er mar­ry a man whose idea of bliss was to strike out at lit­tle balls and lit­tle birds. Rob coun­tered with re­marks about damned blue­stock­ings and shrews. And it all de­gen­er­at­ed from there - the on­ly thought we prob­ably had in com­mon was, What the hell have we talked about for the last four months? What, in­deed? He huffed and puffed and snort­ed and left. And I un­packed my books.

No­body wants to wor­ship you if you have the same prob­lems, the same bad breath and messy hair and hang­nails, as a reg­ular per­son. You have to be ev­ery­thing reg­ular peo­ple aren’t. Where they fail, you have to go all the way. Be what peo­ple are too afraid to be. Be­come whom they ad­mire.

You're very ugly for fairies," she said. "Aye, well, the ones you gen'rally see are for the pretty flowers, ye ken," said Rob Anybody, inventing desperately. "We're more for the stingin' nettles and bindweed an' Old Man's Troosers an' thistles, okay? It wouldna be fair for only the bonny flowers tae have fairies noo, would it? It'd prob'ly be against the law, eeh?...

Wasn’t this great?” Nudge asked excitedly. “I can’t believe we’re in the White House! I want to be president someday.” “I’ll be vice president,” the Gasman offered. “You guys would be great,” I said politely. Yes, they could run on the Mutant Party ticket, with a freak-of-nature platform. No prob. I’m sure America is ready for that.

I’m an investment. A stock with good growth potential. Invest the nickels and reap the dollars, right? It’s how America works. The trustees could see that far, no prob, but they can’t break out of the cognitive box they’re in.

perhaps all the questions we ask for love, to measure, test, prob, and save it, have the additional effect of cutting it short. Perhaps the reason we are unable to love is that we yearn to be loved. that is, we demand something (love) from our partner instead of delivering ourselves up to him demand-free and asking for nothing but his company

If I'd been a cowboy, it might've ended well. Somewhere on the ramble, I'm sure I'd have to sell My guns along the highway. My coins to the table To make a gambler's double, I'd double debts to pay. Prob'ly shrink and slink away, It mightn't've ended well. What If I'd been a sailor? I think it might've ended well. From August to May For a searat of man drifting through eternal blue, aboard the finest Debris. I might've called the shanties. From daybreak to storm's set, lines stay Taught, over rhythm unbroken. But, oh, there's a schism unspoken, a mighty calling of the lee. An absentminded Pirate, unaccustomed to the sea; To the land, a traitor. I think it mightn't've ended well. What might've worked for me? What might've ended well? Soldier, to bloody sally forth through hell? Teacher of glorious stories to tell? Man of gold, or stores to sell? Lover to a gentle belle? Maybe a camel; A seashell. What mightn't've been a life where it mightn't've ended well?

The crusts, or at least what he assumed was crusts, were already rolled out flat rounds. "How many do we need?" Because he could eat one of these all on his own. "One for Uncle Slayde and Jenny. One for me and Maggie. One for…Who do you share with?" "I think I can probably eat the whole thing by myself." He patted his belly. "What do you think?" Christian looked at him. "You could prob'ly eat a whole elephant.

What story will our kids be telling about us someday, do you suppose?” “It’ll be a lot more romantic than two senators matchmaking,” I said. “They’ll say that we were meant to be together no matter what. For us, stars aligned, the gods smiled—prob’ly there was a tidal wave someplace, too, and we just haven’t heard about it yet.” “A Homeric epic, it sounds like. Have another glass of champagne and tell me more.” *

Usually when her mom gave her warnings like this, Elena would just give her a thumbs up. Like, No prob, Bob. Because it really wasn’t a problem. Avoid men? Done! This had literally never been an issue for her. When other girls complained about how to deal with unwanted male attention, Elena wouldn’t feel jealous exactly, but she would feel curious—how does one go about attracting such attention? And is it impossible to attract just some of it? Just a small, manageable amount? Or was attention from boys all or nothing, like a tap that, once you’d found it, you could never turn off?

Dylan stopped at an intersection and gave Chris a long look. 'Not you. You are original. Unique.' 'That good or bad?' 'Oh definitely good. Very, very good. I'd never go back to an off-the-rack lover again.' 'Naw, you prob'ly ordered your lays from the Williams-Sonoma catalog.' 'Well, I'm done shopping now.'

Emos don't dance much to our music. They actually hate snow patrol and Girls allowed. How could anyone hate them? I haven't got any punk or metal stuff they would like but actually, when they'd had some cider they were dancing along happily to 'Mamma Mia' with us, no probs. Even though they're Emos, they are still like human.

She's just nervous, Paddy. Don't worry, hon," saidSharon , her lips pulled into a generous smile. Her eyes sparkled with warmth and sincerity. "I'm used to these neck nibblers." "No offense,Sharon . But I'd rather have the chocolate," I said. She laughed and slapped her thigh. "Hell's bells, Patrick! She's the reason you've had me eating these Godiva truffles all day?" I looked at Patrick. "You're mean." His black brows formed question marks. Then his lips curled into a smile. "No, not just mean. Cruel." "I had her eat truffles for you," he said. "Are you insane? How is her eating my chocolate in any way helpful?" Sharon chortled. "You might not be able to eat the truffle, sweetie, but you'll taste it. Prob'ly be the best chocolate you ever eat, too." I looked at Sharon , then at Patrick. "Are you telling me that she's gonna taste like chocolate?" "Yes.

You think you’re such hot shit you prob’ly look over your shoulder to make sure your ass ain’t smokin before you wipe yourself.

Fellas, we’ve been spotted. And considerin’ what’s headed our way, ya may wanna make peace with any deity ya happen t’worship, ’cuz we’s prob’ly all about to die.

The Wild West didn't have much in the way of forensics; when you saw the bullet hole you'd say, 'That's prob'ly what kilt 'im.

A ti? Boli te kurac. Otiš'o si, karme prob'o nisi. E pa ne ide to tako. Htio ili ne, konobar na nebu zbraja ti račun.

For us, stars aligned, the gods smiled—prob’ly there was a tidal wave someplace, too, and we just haven’t heard about it yet.

R’bin,” he said, giving up and gazing down at her. “R’bin, d’you know wadda kairos mo…” He hiccoughed. “Mo…moment is?” “A kairos moment?” she repeated, hoping against hope it was not something sexual, something that she would not be able to forget afterwards, especially as the kebab shop owner was listening in and smirking behind them. “No, I don’t. Shall we go back to the office?” “You don’t know whadditis?” he asked, peering at her. “No.” “ ’SGreek,” he told her. “Kairos. Kairos moment. An’ it means,” and from somewhere in his soused brain he dredged up words of surprising clarity, “the telling moment. The special moment. The supreme moment.” Oh please, thought Robin, please don’t tell me we’re having one. “An’ d’you know what ours was, R’bin, mine an’ Charlotte’s?” he said, staring into the middle distance, his unlit cigarette hanging from his hand. “It was when she walk’d into the ward—I was in hosp’tal f’long time an’ I hadn’ seen her f’two years—no warning—an’ I saw her in the door an’ ev’ryone turned an’ saw her too, an’ she walked down the ward an’ she never said a word an,” he paused to draw breath, and hiccoughed again, “an’ she kissed me aft’ two years, an’ we were back together. Nobody talkin’. Fuckin’ beautiful. Mos’ beaut’ful woman I’ve ’ver seen. Bes’ moment of the whole fuckin’—’fmy whole fuckin’ life, prob’bly. I’m sorry, R’bin,” he added, “f’r sayin’ ‘fuckin’.’ Sorry ’bout that.” Robin felt equally inclined to laughter and tears, though she did not know why she should feel so sad.

Luck­ily for Georgie, Lady Finch, an old fam­ily friend, had writ­ten her de­tail­ing the wild ru­mors cir­cu­lat­ing the gos­sipy ton re­gard­ing her im­pend­ing be­trothal to Lord Har­ris. Know­ing Uncle Phineas, Georgie had lit­tle doubt that he prob­a­bly would have in­formed her of her nup­tials with just enough time to dress for the cer­e­mony. Es­pe­cially con­sid­er­ing that her in­tended bride­groom had al­ready buried nine wives. Georgie had no in­ten­tion of being the tenth. Why, even that hor­rid old sot Henry the Eighth had had the good sense to go and die after six.

Text him and see what he's doing later. Prob hanging out around the house. Good. So he doesn't intend on going anywhere. Why? Am I planning on drugging and kidnapping him? We'll use that as a last resort.

Rea­sons Why I Loved Be­ing With Jen I love what a good friend you are. You’re re­ally en­gaged with the lives of the peo­ple you love. You or­ga­nize lovely ex­pe­ri­ences for them. You make an ef­fort with them, you’re pa­tient with them, even when they’re side­tracked by their chil­dren and can’t pri­or­i­tize you in the way you pri­or­i­tize them. You’ve got a gen­er­ous heart and it ex­tends to peo­ple you’ve never even met, whereas I think that ev­ery­one is out to get me. I used to say you were naive, but re­ally I was jeal­ous that you al­ways thought the best of peo­ple. You are a bit too anx­ious about be­ing seen to be a good per­son and you def­i­nitely go a bit over­board with your left-wing pol­i­tics to prove a point to ev­ery­one. But I know you re­ally do care. I know you’d sign pe­ti­tions and help peo­ple in need and vol­un­teer at the home­less shel­ter at Christ­mas even if no one knew about it. And that’s more than can be said for a lot of us. I love how quickly you read books and how ab­sorbed you get in a good story. I love watch­ing you lie on the sofa read­ing one from cover-to-cover. It’s like I’m in the room with you but you’re in a whole other gal­axy. I love that you’re al­ways try­ing to im­prove your­self. Whether it’s running marathons or set­ting your­self chal­lenges on an app to learn French or the fact you go to ther­apy ev­ery week. You work hard to be­come a bet­ter ver­sion of your­self. I think I prob­a­bly didn’t make my ad­mi­ra­tion for this known and in­stead it came off as ir­ri­ta­tion, which I don’t re­ally feel at all. I love how ded­i­cated you are to your fam­ily, even when they’re an­noy­ing you. Your loy­alty to them wound me up some­times, but it’s only be­cause I wish I came from a big fam­ily. I love that you al­ways know what to say in con­ver­sa­tion. You ask the right ques­tions and you know ex­actly when to talk and when to lis­ten. Ev­ery­one loves talk­ing to you be­cause you make ev­ery­one feel im­por­tant. I love your style. I know you think I prob­a­bly never no­ticed what you were wear­ing or how you did your hair, but I loved see­ing how you get ready, sit­ting in front of the full-length mir­ror in our bed­room while you did your make-up, even though there was a mir­ror on the dress­ing ta­ble. I love that you’re mad enough to swim in the English sea in No­vem­ber and that you’d pick up spi­ders in the bath with your bare hands. You’re brave in a way that I’m not. I love how free you are. You’re a very free per­son, and I never gave you the sat­is­fac­tion of say­ing it, which I should have done. No one knows it about you be­cause of your bor­ing, high-pres­sure job and your stuffy up­bring­ing, but I know what an ad­ven­turer you are un­der­neath all that. I love that you got drunk at Jack­son’s chris­ten­ing and you al­ways wanted to have one more drink at the pub and you never com­plained about get­ting up early to go to work with a hang­over. Other than Avi, you are the per­son I’ve had the most fun with in my life. And even though I gave you a hard time for al­ways try­ing to for al­ways try­ing to im­press your dad, I ac­tu­ally found it very adorable be­cause it made me see the child in you and the teenager in you, and if I could time-travel to any­where in his­tory, I swear, Jen, the only place I’d want to go is to the house where you grew up and hug you and tell you how beau­ti­ful and clever and funny you are. That you are spec­tac­u­lar even with­out all your sports trophies and mu­sic cer­tifi­cates and in­cred­i­ble grades and Ox­ford ac­cep­tance. I’m sorry that I loved you so much more than I liked my­self, that must have been a lot to carry. I’m sorry I didn’t take care of you the way you took care of me. And I’m sorry I didn’t take care of my­self, ei­ther. I need to work on it. I’m pleased that our break-up taught me that. I’m sorry I went so mental. I love you. I always will. I'm glad we met.

How can we tell whether the rules which we "guess" at are really right if we cannot analyze the game very well? There are, roughly speaking, three ways. First, there may be situations where nature has arranged, or we arrange nature, to be simple and to have so few parts that we can predict exactly what will happen, and thus we can check how our rules work. (In one corner of the board there may be only a few chess pieces at work, and that we can figure out exactly.) A second good way to check rules is in terms of less specific rules derived from them. For example, the rule on the move of a bishop on a chessboard is that it moves only on the diagonal. One can deduce, no matter how many moves may be made, that a certain bishop will always be on a red square. So, without being able to follow the details, we can always check our idea about the bishop's motion by finding out whether it is always on a red square. Of course it will be, for a long time, until all of a sudden we find that it is on a black square (what happened of course, is that in the meantime it was captured, another pawn crossed for queening, and it turned into a bishop on a black square). That is the way it is in physics. For a long time we will have a rule that works excellently in an over-all way, even when we cannot follow the details, and then some time we may discover a new rule. From the point of view of basic physics, the most interesting phenomena are of course in the new places, the places where the rules do not work—not the places where they do work! That is the way in which we discover new rules. The third way to tell whether our ideas are right is relatively crude but prob-ably the most powerful of them all. That is, by rough approximation. While we may not be able to tell why Alekhine moves this particular piece, perhaps we can roughly understand that he is gathering his pieces around the king to protect it, more or less, since that is the sensible thing to do in the circumstances. In the same way, we can often understand nature, more or less, without being able to see what every little piece is doing, in terms of our understanding of the game.

And here’s thing,” Gunner said. “I kin understand it when a man throws back a few too many drinks on a lonesome night, gets sour inside, and sucks at the teat of a musket for jus’ long enough so that big ole ‘fuck you’ we scream at the world bounces back as ‘fuck me’ and he pulls the trigger. I kin understand when a girl climbs a tree and tries on a noose necklace for size and once she got it on thinkin’, ‘I come this far, why not?’ and takin’ that hop. Prob’ly e’ryone who looks oft a cliff thinks a taking the sharp drop with a sudden stop. E’ery sailor has thought of takin’ that swim what fattens sharks. We all got the black moment when the evil eye of the barrel dares a starin’ contest. And we’re all a hair trigger’s pull from the musket’s dare. It’s the devil’s gift, ain’t it? It’s the heritage o’ man, aye?

Now, we all have stories of how we got here, and prob-probably some of you feel angry who whoever it is who's left you here. But you must try and remember that they were like that because that's how they were taught to be. You m-must try to forgive them. Baby cuckoos can't unlearn their bad habits. But we should try to, and because what you learn as a ch-child you will pass on to people around you, from now on this house is going to be a house of happiness. From this evening on every single one of us is going to consider other people's feelings.

He narrowed his eyes at me, pushed out of the booth and stomped over to the cash desk where Ash had returned and was playing a game on his mobile phone. "Sorry, sir," he echoed, dead-pan, and then added: "She is the owner." He dropped his voice to a stage whisper. "And she's righ' crazy, so I wouldn't mess with her. She stabbed someone with a plastic fork just last week." "A--a plastic fork?" the man said, looking over at me nervously. "Yeah, and you would not believe the mess. A carving knife woulda made cleaner work of it." The man slapped a few coins on the counter near the cash and, clutching the remains of his paper, dashed out the door. "Thanks, Ash," I said, absently. "No probs," he said. "Chasing zombies on my phone--fair inspirational, aye?

You, er, want us to attack him?" said the guard miserably. Thick though the palace guard were, they were as aware as everyone else of the conventions, and when guards are summoned to deal with one man in overheated circumstances it's not a good time for them.The bugger's bound to be heroic, he was thinking. This guard was not looking forward to a future in which he was dead. "Of course, you idiot!" "But, er, there's only one of him" said the guard captain. "And he's smilin'," said a man behind him. "Prob'ly goin' to swing on the chandeliers any minute," said one of his collegues. "And kick over the table, and that." "He's not even armed!" shrieked Wonse. "Worse kind, that," said one of the guards, with deep stoicism."They leap up, see, and grab one of the ornamental swords behind the shield over the fireplace." "Yeah," said another, suspiciously. " And then they chucks a chair at you." "There's no fireplace! There's no sword! There's only him!Now take him!" screamed Wonse. A couple of guard grabbed Vimes tentatively by the shoulders. "You're not going to do anything heroic, are you?" whispered one of them. "Wouldn't know where to start," he said.

Ah reckon we can git us some rest'rant vittles," Pa said, and led her along the pier toward the Barkley Cove Diner. Kya had never eaten restaurant food; had never set food inside. Her heart thumped as she brushed dried mud from her way-too-short overalls and patted down her tangled hair. As Pa opened the door, every customer paused mid-bite. A few men nodded faintly at Pa; the women frowned and turned their heads. One snorted, "Well, they prob'ly can't read the shirt and shoes required." Pa motioned for her to sit at a small table overlooking the wharf. She couldn’t read the menu, but he told her most of it, and she ordered fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, white acre peas, and biscuits fluffy as fresh-picked cotton. He had fried shrimp, cheese grits, fried “okree,” and fried green tomatoes. The waitress put a whole dish of butter pats perched on ice cubes and a basket of cornbread and biscuits on their table, and all the sweet iced tea they could drink. Then they had blackberry cobbler with ice cream for dessert.

Sean was watching me, though. And Sean wiped the bryozoa residue from his hand across my stomach. This was the third time a boy had ever touched my bare tummy, and I’d had enough. Through gritted teeth, like any extra movement might spread the bryozoa further across my skin, I told him, “I like you less than I did.” I bailed over the side of the boat-the side opposite where the bryozoa returned to its native habitat. Deep in the warm water, I scrubbed at my tummy with both hands. A combination of bryozoa waste and Sean germs: it was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Leaning toward worst, because now I had slime on my hands. Or maybe this was psychosomatic. Holding my hands open in front of me in the water, I didn’t see any slime. I rubbed my hands together anyway. Something dove into the water beside me in a rush of bubbles. I came up for air. Sean surfaced, too, tossing sparkling drops of water from his hair. “You still like me a lot, though, right?” “No prob. Green is the new black.” Giving up on getting clean, I swam a few strokes back toward the platform to get out again. What I needed was a shower with chlorinated water and disinfectant soap. I might need to bubble out my belly button with hydrogen peroxide. “What if I made it up to you?” He splashed close behind me. “What if I helped you get clean? We don’t want you dirty.” He moved both hands around me under the water, up and down across my tummy. It was the fourth time a boy had touched my tummy! And it was very awkward. He bobbed so close behind me that I had a hard time treading water without kicking him. I needed to choose between flirting and breathing. Cameron and my brother leaned over the side of the boat and gaped at us, which didn’t help matters. I’d been afraid of this. Flirting with Sean was no fun if the other boys acted like we were lepers. Well, okay, it was fun, but not as fun as it was supposed to be. Obviously I would need to give McGullicuddy the little dolphin talk. I wasn’t sure I could do this with Cameron-Cameron and I didn’t have heart-to-heart convos-but I might need to make an exception, if he continued to watch us like we were a dirty movie on Pay-Per-View (which I’d also seen a lot of. Life with boys). BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE- Sean and I started and turned toward the boat. Still behind the steering wheel, Adam had his chin in his hand and his elbow on the horn. -EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE Damn it! I turned around to face Sean and gave him a wry smile, but he’d already taken his hands away from my tummy. The horn really ruined the mood. -EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE Sean hauled himself up onto the platform. I followed close behind him, and (glee!) he put out a hand to help me. Cameron and my brother yelled at Adam. -EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP. “Oh!” Adam said as if he’d had no idea he’d been laying on the horn. He looked at his elbow like it belonged to someone else. I was in the boat with Sean now, and he was still holding my hand. Or, maybe I was still clinging to his hand, but this is a question of semantics. In any case, I pulled him by the hand past the other boys to the bow. We didn’t have privacy. There was no privacy on a wakeboarding boat. At least we had the boat’s windshield between us and the others. As I turned to sit down on the bench, I stuck out my tongue at Adam behind the windshield. He crossed his eyes at me.

Dear Jon, A real Dear Jon let­ter, how per­fect is that?! Who knew you’d get dumped twice in the same amount of months. See, I’m one para­graph in and I’ve al­ready fucked this. I’m writ­ing this be­cause I can’t say any of this to you face-to-face. I’ve spent the last few months ques­tion­ing a lot of my friend­ships and won­der­ing what their pur­pose is, if not to work through big emo­tional things to­gether. But I now re­al­ize: I don’t want that. And I know you’ve all been there for me in other ways. Maybe not in the lit­eral sense, but I know you all would have done any­thing to fix me other than lis­ten­ing to me talk and al­low­ing me to be sad with­out so­lu­tions. And now I am writ­ing this let­ter rather than pick­ing up the phone and talk­ing to you be­cause, de­spite every thing I know, I just don’t want to, and I don’t think you want me to ei­ther. I lost my mind when Jen broke up with me. I’m pretty sure it’s been the sub­ject of a few of your What­sApp con­ver­sa­tions and more power to you, be­cause I would need to vent about me if I’d been friends with me for the last six months. I don’t want it to have been in vain, and I wanted to tell you what I’ve learnt. If you do a high-fat, high-pro­tein, low-carb diet and join a gym, it will be a good dis­trac­tion for a while and you will lose fat and gain mus­cle, but you will run out of steam and eat nor­mally again and put all the weight back on. So maybe don’t bother. Drunk­en­ness is an­other idea. I was in black­out for most of the first two months and I think that’s fine, it got me through the evenings (and the oc­ca­sional af­ter­noon). You’ll have to do a lot of it on your own, though, be­cause no one is free to meet up any more. I think that’s fine for a bit. It was for me un­til some­one walked past me drink­ing from a whisky minia­ture while I waited for a night bus, put five quid in my hand and told me to keep warm. You’re the only per­son I’ve ever told this story. None of your mates will be ex­cited that you’re sin­gle again. I’m prob­a­bly your only sin­gle mate and even I’m not that ex­cited. Gen­er­ally the ex­pe­ri­ence of be­ing sin­gle at thirty-five will feel dif­fer­ent to any other time you’ve been sin­gle and that’s no bad thing. When your ex moves on, you might be­come ob­sessed with the bloke in a way that is al­most sex­ual. Don’t worry, you don’t want to fuck him, even though it will feel a bit like you do some­times. If you open up to me or one of the other boys, it will feel good in the mo­ment and then you’ll get an emo­tional hang­over the next day. You’ll wish you could take it all back. You may even feel like we’ve en­joyed see­ing you so low. Or that we feel smug be­cause we’re win­ning at some­thing and you’re los­ing. Re­member that none of us feel that. You may be­come ob­sessed with work­ing out why ex­actly she broke up with you and you are likely to go fully, fully nuts in your bid to find a sat­is­fy­ing an­swer. I can save you a lot of time by let­ting you know that you may well never work it out. And even if you did work it out, what’s the pur­pose of it? Soon enough, some girl is go­ing to be crazy about you for some un­de­fin­able rea­son and you’re not go­ing to be in­ter­ested in her for some un­de­fin­able rea­son. It’s all so ran­dom and un­fair – the peo­ple we want to be with don’t want to be with us and the peo­ple who want to be with us are not the peo­ple we want to be with. Re­ally, the thing that’s go­ing to hurt a lot is the fact that some­one doesn’t want to be with you any more. Feel­ing the ab­sence of some­one’s com­pany and the ab­sence of their love are two dif­fer­ent things. I wish I’d known that ear­lier. I wish I’d known that it isn’t any­body’s job to stay in a re­la­tion­ship they don’t want to be in just so some­one else doesn’t feel bad about them­selves. Any­way. That’s all. You’re go­ing to be okay, mate. Andy

For many Jews during Talmudic times, conversion to Christianity prob- ably did not appear as a major change: Christianity looked like a slightly di erent version of the Jewish religion, with the same core belief in one God and the Torah but with fewer demanding requirements. For many Jewish households that earned their living from farming—and especially the poorer ones that struggled to support their families and, as illiterate, were made to feel like outcasts (ammei ha-aretz) by the local rabbis and lit- erate Jews—Christianity probably seemed a welcome change: it enabled them to believe in the same God without having to obey several costly norms, including the one that required fathers to educate their sons.

danas s pravom možemo reći da je neodlučnost i neefikasnost djelovanja medj zajednice povodom agresije na BiH vezana prvenstveno za činjenicu da su na početku agresije velesile stale na stanovište - implicitno ili izričito - da to nije prob od globalnog značaja. Smatraalo se da spada u kateg ratova #bez svjetskog značaja# koji vode male i siromašne zemlje. Bushova dmin je smatrala da agresija na BiH za razliku od invazije Iraka na Kuvajt 1990. ne predstavlja stratešku prijatenju ni za Sad NI ZA SVIJET. Nije teško doći do uvjerenja da su sve te zemlje (Islamske konferencije) svoju sudbinu, na neki način, poistovjetile sa sudbinom BiH kao države prema kojoj je primijenjen kriterij posve suprotan onome koji je samo nešto ranije primijenjen u poznatom Golsfskom ratu i odvijao se na njihovom geografskom prostoru.

Básicamente, todas las emociones son modificaciones de una emoción primordial, indiferenciada, que tiene su origen en la pérdida de conciencia de quién es usted más allá del nombre y de la forma. Por su naturaleza indiferenciada, es difícil encontrar un nombre que describa precisamente esta emoción. “Miedo” se aproxima, pero además de una sensación continua de amenaza, también incluye un profundo sentido de abandono y falta de plenitud. Puede ser mejor usar un término que es indiferenciado al igual que esta emoción básica y llamarla simplemente “sufrimiento”. Una de las principales tareas de le mente es combatir o suprimir este sufrimiento emocional, lo cual es una de las razones para su incesante actividad, pero todo lo que puede lograr es ocultarlo temporalmente. De hecho, cuanto más se esfuerza la mente por librase del sufrimiento, mayor es este. La mente nunca puede encontrar la solución, ni puede permitirse dejar que usted la encuentre, porque ella misma es una parte intrínseca del “prob-lema”.

Kicker5525: SOS! TooDamn-Funky: where r u? Kicker5525: public bus. not totally sure it’s the right 1. TooDamn-Funky: r u running away???? don’t let evan run you away!!! unless ur coming here! then def run away!!! Kicker5525: no. just ran out on massage with R. TooDamn-Funky: she took u 4 massage? but u hate when strangers touch u!!! Kicker5525: I KNOW!!!! TooDamn-Funky: y did you not TELL HER THAT? Kicker5525: I think I just did. I think I just told the whole place. TooDamn-Funky: wow when u explode u explode. Kicker5525: beginning to sense that. TooDamn-Funky: what now? Kicker5525: soccer practice. then prob get grounded. again. TooDamn-Funky: sending you good vibes. Kicker5525: thnx. love ya! TooDamn-Funky: u 2 my poor misguided freak girl.

But ... there's military law, isn't there?" "Well, yes ... but when it's pissing with rain and when you're up to your tonk– your waist in dead horses and someone gives you an order, that ain't the time to look up the book of rules, miss. Anyway, of it's about when you're allowed to get shot, sir." "Oh, I'm sure there's more to it than that, sergeant." "Oh, prob'ly, sir," Colon conceded diplomatically. "I'm sure there's lots of stuff about not killing enemy soldiers who've surrendered, for instance." "Oh, yerss, there's that, captain. Doesn't say you can't duff 'em up a bit, of course. Give 'em a little something to remember you by." "Not torture?" said Angua. "Oh, no, miss. But ... " Memory Lane for Colon had turned into a bad road through a dark valley "... well, when your best mate's got an arrow in his eye an' there's blokes and horses screamin' all around you and you're scared shi– you're really scared, an' you come across one of the enemy ... well, for some reason or other you've got this kinda urge to give him a bit of a ... nudge, sort of thing. Just ... you know ... like, maybe in twenty years' time his leg'll twinge a bit on frosty days and he'll remember what he done, that's all.

One of the most toxic relationships we endure is the relationship we have with ourselves. The most common yet subtle behavior I witness my clients suffer from is through the defense mechanism of "projectizing," a psychological term I coined, which is a deeper and more dangerous form of perfectionism. Projectizing = Making oneself a project that needs to be fixed. When we make ourselves a project, we disconnect from our true self because we do not know who we are or what we want, need, and feel. We are trying to fix ourselves instead. We are not a prob

Wish we could choose our problems...eg; god bolte, beta 60 probs hai teri poori life mai... Bata kaunse 60 chahiye.. and then bargaining with god "ye nahi wo dijiye" "ye thoda kum nahi ho sakta" "usko itna simple wala diya, muje bhi waisa wala dijiye na" ;) haha

When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much he had learned in seven years. Mark Twain (attributed but prob not true - shame - I shall pretend it was him)

reading makes you forget your normal life

My advice is that, inna famous words of Abraham Lincoln unless maybe it was George Washington or from a movie I saw sometime, who knows, is that the truth is your friend, even when it sure as shit don’t look that way, and now that I think of it, it mighta been what’s-his-name, Clint Eastbrook, but where I’m goin’ wit’ this is that if you’re tryin’ to get somewhere, pretty much anywhere, the shortest route is by way of the truth, which, by the way, prob’ly also has the least traffic whereas Bullshit Boulevard is always jammed.

I’ve got to clean it.” “You’ll prob’ly find everything you need right over there by that sign that says, ‘Godliness.’ The cleanin’ stuff’s right next to it.

Why, that be one man who ain’t got nothin’ but hate poisonin’ his blood. But there ain’t been no one born that be that way from the start. No, somethin’ done put that poison in him. We prob’ly won’t never know what put it there, but it been put there sho ‘nuff. You gots to pity a man like that. Now, I be hatin’ the things he be doin’ as much as anybody else, but it won’t be doin’ my heart no good to be hatin’ him. That won’t do nothin’ but put poison in my own blood. No, I reckon I’ll keep on pitying that poor empty shell of a man.

If you really want to leave, we could probably hike out on snowshoes. It’d take at least a day, prob’ly two. It’s up to you.” She didn’t turn, and after a while he wondered if she’d heard him. Her voice was small when she spoke. “No, I’d rather wait.” He didn’t question too strongly the relief that flooded through him.

Why, that be one man who ain’t got nothin’ but hate poisonin’ his blood. But there ain’t been no one born that be that way from the start. No, somethin’ done put that poison in him. We prob’ly won’t never know what put it there, but it been put there sho‘nuff. You gots to pity a man like that. Now, I be hatin’ the things he be doin’ as much as anybody else, but it won’t be doin’ my heart no good to be hatin’ him. That won’t do nothin’ but put poison in my own blood. No, I reckon I’ll keep on pitying that poor empty shell of a man.

Come sit on my lap,' she said. Soon, very soon, he would think himself too big for lap-sitting. He got down from his chair and she picked him up; he was solid as anything. She held him close and swayed her body a little, like a cradle rocking, and soon he looked at her with the lovely solemnity that seemed to be a hallmark of their Jack Tyler, and said, ' I could prob'ly have a deviled egg now.

as historians such as E. P. Thompson have famously shown, actual historical class struggles have always encompassed a recognition dimension, as work- ing people fought not only to mitigate or abolish exploitation, but also to defend their class cultures and to establish the dignity of labor. In the process, they elabo- rated class identities, often in forms that privileged cultural constructions of mascu- linity, heterosexuality, “whiteness,” and/or majority nationality, thus in forms prob- lematic for women and/or members of sexual, “racial,” and national minorities. In such cases, the recognition dimension of class struggle was not an unalloyed force for social justice. On the contrary, it incorporated and exacerbated, if it did not itself performatively create, gender, sexual, “racial,” and/or national misrecognition. But of course the same is true for recognition struggles focused on gender, “race,” and sexuality, which have typically proceeded in forms that privileged elites and middle-class people, as well as other advantaged strata, including “whites,” men, and/or heterosexuals, within the group.

in business doing nothing is often the hardest thing. (And not just in business. Harold Macmillan, prime minister during the Cuban missile crisis, mused then ‘on the frightful desire to do something, with the knowledge that not to do anything was prob. the right answer’.)

I couldn’t do it. Be a monster hunter on purpose. I’d never stop hyperventilating. Like, when do you have time to make comic books?” “My proclivities are prob’ly indicative of some profound underlying psychological damage,” the Stranger said. “But I reckon you play the hand the dealer gives you.

Oh, shut it. Look, the pills have to be taken with food. You got a ham 'n' cheese on rye on you? I don't." "I'da made you some linguine with Sal sauce and brought it over for you. Give me more notice next time." Rehv headed out of the office. "You mind not being thoughtful. Makes me feel like shit." "Your prob, not mine.

A good but plain-Jane drill you prob’ly know pits the shooter against two to four standard IDPA/ USPSA cardboard torso targets. Using a shot-timer like the PACT Club Timer III, from the beep, put two rounds in each, slow enough to assure all hits are in top-scoring zones. Check your elapsed times. Push faster until you start dropping rounds outside the sweet spots, then back off, slow down and work your way up again. Maybe you integrate a reload. It’s sound, but it lacks panache. Kick it up. Between and around those full-size cardboards, add in half-size*, and some 10" and 5" mini-torsos**. Vary your drills; don’t just shoot left-to-right and back again. Shoot the little guys first, then the larger ones or vice versa or “Connor-versa,” which appears to onlookers to be a spazz-pattern. It is actually coldly calculated — by a spazz. Me. The variety is healthy. You can snap-shoot the full and half-size targets, but the minis force you to concentrate, bear down and get squinty. Sure, program reloads in too, and switching from right to left hand. Now add more fun with malfunction drills: Say you have 10 identical 15-round magazines and six inert dry-fire rounds. In six mags, stagger placement of duds, like second round in one, sixth round in another, blah-blah. Then mix the mags up so you don’t know where the surprises are. And on the timer, give yourself no slack for correcting your malf’s. Now for the spicy stir-fry sauce: Between sweeps of the targets, while gripping your pistol in one hand, bring your other hand back, touch your thumb to your nose, waggle your fingers vigorously, and shout as loudly as possible “O ye sinners, now shall ye repent! Let the Great Slaying begin!” or, “For freedom, Fritos and chicken-fried steak!” or, “Back awaaay from the bulgogi and nobody gets hurt!” Note: Never mess with my bulgogi. Never. Or, try shouting “I love you and blood sausage too!” — but shout it in German; makes it confusing and terrifying. Ich liebe dich und blutwurst auch! Exercising exemplary muzzle control and strictly observing all range safety protocols, slump your shoulders, hang your head and slowly turn around, looking dazed, lost, spaced-out ... Then, by degrees, “recover consciousness” and smile. It’s unlikely anyone will be there by this point, so that smile can be very genuine. If any looky-lou’s are still present, they’ll prob’ly be frozen like deer caught in headlights. Perfecto! If you see me at the range and I’m munchin’ a sammich and sippin’ coffee, stop and say howdy. But if I’m shooting drills, well ... Trouble not, etcetera. Connor OUT

Lugilla’s fingers reached to Precious’ hand, but Precious slipped her fingers from the table and placed them in her lap. “I hope you understand, though I trust you and you’ve been good to me, I cannot call you my friend – prob’ly ever – because we are from two separate worlds, Mrs. Sanders.” Lugilla swallowed and tried to sip her tea. “I do. Believe me. I do. But do not hesitate to confide in me or say so if I’m not treating you fair like.” “One day on the other side…” “Yes, one day when Jesus wipes away all tears from our eyes, we will be like Him and we will be true friends, I’m sure of it.

Be the kind of person you would like to meet <3

This time it was with FIFA, the organization that oversees soccer throughout the world and organizes the Women’s World Cup. FIFA, along with the Canadian Soccer Association, or CSA, planned to put every game of the 2015 Women’s World Cup on artificial turf, something that had never been proposed for a senior World Cup before, including all 20 men’s World Cups prior. Artificial turf has become a necessity in some climates where it’s hard to maintain grass or at venues that need to stand up to constant use. Where natural grass isn’t a viable option, artificial turf is the next-best alternative. But generally, soccer is supposed to be played on natural grass. Players report getting injured more and recovery time taking longer when they play on artificial turf. Some studies have supported this perception, while some have been inconclusive. But when Sydney Leroux posted a photo of her legs covered with bloody scrapes from slide tackling on artificial turf, it was a clear example of why there’s a consensus among soccer players. Kelley O’Hara responded to Leroux’s photo: “You should probs tweet that to FIFA.” It may be less of an issue in other sports, but in soccer, turf can be especially hard on a player’s body.

Yet from the standpoint of justice, this approach has serious limitations and pitfalls. Just as physicians take basic human anatomy as given when treating patients, policymakers working within the medical model treat the background structure of society as given and focus only on alleviating the burdens of the disadvantaged. When it comes to the ghetto poor, this generally means attempting to integrate them into an existing social system rather than viewing their unwillingness to fully cooperate as a sign that the system itself needs fundamental reform. In short, features of society that could and should be altered often get little scrutiny. This is the prob lem of status quo bias. In addition, the technocratic reasoning of the medical model marginalizes the po liti cal agency of those it aims to help. The ghetto poor are regarded as passive victims in need of assistance rather than as potential allies in what should be a collective effort to secure justice for all.

To avoid these limits and pitfalls, I advocate thinking about ghettos through a systemic- injustice framework. When we take up the prob lem using this model, both government and ordinary citizens are viewed as having a duty to ensure that the social system of cooperation we all participate in is just. The presence of ghettos in American cities is a strong indication that just background conditions do not prevail. Ref l ection on ghettos, then, serves not only to focus our energies on relieving the im mense burdens the ghetto poor carry but also to make us think, as fellow citizens, about the fairness of the overall social structure we inhabit and maintain. Were the more affl uent in society to think about the matter this way, they would view the ghetto poor, not simply as disadvantaged people in need of their help or government intervention, but as fellow citizens with an equal claim on a just social structure. They might then come to recognize that achieving social justice will require not only eschewing their paternalistic (and sometimes punitive) attitudes toward the black poor but also relinquishing their unjust advantages.

You prob’ly ain’t never heard’a him ’cause he’s a com’unist. They don’t teach ya ’bout com’unists.” “So how do you know, if they don’t teach it?” “Lib’ary got its do’ open, man. Ain’t nobody tellin’ you not to go.” There aren’t too many moments in your life when you really learn something. Jackson taught me something that night in John’s, something I’d never forget.

Today’s problem is replaced by new prob lems in an unending procession. We seem barely to have a chance to catch our breath before new challenges confront us.

Chapter One Outside Buchanan School. 7:50 AM. Stupid ideas don’t seem so stupid when you’re about to go through with the stupid idea. Really stupid ideas shine brighter the second they enter your brain. Like, “Hey, man, you prob’ly shouldn’t do what you’re about to do!” I like to think of a field of kittens when that happens… makes it easier to ignore my common sense. Ahhhhh… field kittens. My name is Max… and I was about to do something really stupid. The air smelled of freshly cut grass as birds chirped from trees full of leaves. I took a deep breath as I stalled, hoping a meteor would crash into the planet so I wouldn’t have to go through with the thing. Kids just getting to school lined the sidewalk, curious about what was happening. I squeezed the handlebars of my bike, listening to the sound of tightening rubber under my fingers. “Max, you okay?” Beck, my best friend, said from somewhere. I didn’t know where exactly since fear was making everything blurry. I shook my head to clear the fog. “Never been better,” I said. “Are… are the thrusters working?” It took him a second to answer. “I’unno. I never tested ‘em.” I nodded bravely like a hero who was about to meet his maker. “Nice.” It became blazingly obvious that the world wasn’t going to end anytime over the next few seconds, which meant I was gonna have to perform the stunt that everyone was waiting to see. The stunt wasn’t anything crazy – just a kid jumping his bike over the bike rack filled with other bikes. In front of the bike rack was a cement lip that curved at the bottom, making a nice little ramp that everyone joked about jumping their bike off of. I was about to be the kid that did it. Easy enough, right? Well, my buddy, Beck, thought it’d be epic if I attached some thrusters to the back of my bike. No rocket fuel or flames – just a couple of cans of ultra-compressed air that would fire when I flipped the switch. It was a rig he built himself – that was kind of Beck’s specialty. Jumping the rack was a stunt that I’d been working on for weeks. I knew I wanted to do it because of all the kids who hadn’t done it before. And I was gonna nail it, and the whole school – no, the whole school district – no… the whole city was gonna talk about it when it was done.

In fact, objects are known only through the subject, while the subject can know himself or her- self only by acting on objects materially and men- tally. Indeed, if objects are innumerable and sci- ence indefinitely diverse, all knowledge of the sub- ject brings us back to psychology, the science of the subject and the subject's actions. The fourth remark: People may say that I thus engage in philosophy or epistemology and no longer in scientific psychology. But, in the research that we pursue, it is impossible to dissociate psychology from epistemology. Indeed, if we study only one level of development (for example, that of the adult or adolescent), it is easy to distinguish the prob- lems: psychological experience, emotions, intelli- gence and its functions, etc., on the one hand, and the broad problems of knowledge (epistemology), etc., on the other. But if we want to study cogni- tive functions and pursue a developmental point of view in order to study the formation and trans- formations of human intelligence (and this is why I specialized in child psychology), then the prob- lems must be formulated very differently: How is knowledge acquired, how does it increase, and how does it become organized or reorganized? These are the very questions that must be answered.

Battles have been won and lost, but you’ve learned to leave everything you have out on the field always. Effort, desire, heart, hustle—life is about earning your reputation and demanding respect.

Do you remember why you play or has it been too long? Is it because you’ve worked so hard to get where you are, or because you love to be part of a team? Is it because you love the roar of the crowd, or the anxiety before the game? Is it because you don’t want to let anyone down or yourself? Is it because you love the sound of the perfect goal, or because you’d rather be on the field than anywhere else in the world? Somewhere behind the athlete you’ve become and the hours of practice, and the coaches who pushed you, and the teammates who believed in you and the fans who cheered for you, is the little girl who shot the ball, made the save—the one who fell in love with the game and never looked back. Play for her!

No prob. The next time you want to do something only semi-legal, I will have changed my number and not tell you about it.

Let's be detectives when we grow up," suggested Douglas. " No," said William. " It's more fun bein' the man that comes along an' finds out all about it when the detectives have stopped tryin'. I'm goin to be one of that sort. I'm goin' to go on readin' myst'ry tales all the time from now till I'm grown up an' then I bet there won't be any way of killin' folks that I won't know all about so I'll be able to catch all the murd'rers there are an' I bet I'll be famous an' they'll put up a stachoo to me when I'm dead." " I bet they won't," said Ginger, irritated by William's egotism. " You'll prob'ly get murdered yourself before you've tound out anythin' at all an' then Douglas an' Henry an' me' 11 find out who did it an' get famous.

You are right in demand­ing that an artist should take an intel­li­gent atti­tude to his work, but you con­fuse two things: solv­ing a prob­lem and stat­ing a prob­lem cor­rectly. It is only the sec­ond that is oblig­a­tory for the artist.

Ho welcome to the feast, you beast, I hopes you trip an’ fall, I’ve got a fat grandpa, ha ha ha, Who’ll prob’ly eat it all. The lark defends his feathery chest, The sun has sunk into his vest, If he don’t bathe before too long, There’ll be an awful pong …