Nobody Checks On Me Quotes

The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.

Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire's flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It's not desiring the fall; it's terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling 'Don't!' and 'Hang on!', can understand the jump. Not really.

When a state trooper passes me on the highway, I grit my teeth, check my speed, and hope nobody put a dead guy in the trunk while I was in Wal-Mart last night at two a.m.

Self-doubt is healthy! Self-doubt keeps me in check!

All I need is backup. He’s the little angel that sits on my shoulder whispering in my ear, “You can do it!” It’s funny. I’m thirty years old now and I still feel like a little girl. I’m still looking around to check and see what other people are doing to make sure I’m not completely different; I’m still looking around for help, hoping for a quick nudge and a whisper of advice. But I can’t seem to be able to catch anybody’s eye. Nobody else around me seems to be looking around and wondering what to do. Why is it that I feel like I’m the only person who is confused and concerned about the choices I’ve made and where I’m headed? Everywhere I look, I see people just getting on with it. Maybe I should just follow suit and get on with it.

The so-called 'psychotically depressed' person who tries to kill herself doesn't do so out of quote 'hopelessness' or any abstract conviction that life's assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire's flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It's not desiring the fall; it's terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling 'Don't!' and 'Hang on!', can understand the jump. Not really. You'd have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.

Kurogane: That's what you want, isn't it? Underneath that constant grin, you're keeping everyone away. So that nobody gets involved with you. But look. Just now you checked to see if the kid had a fever, and you're relieved that the princess doesn't see the wretched condition of this world. And in the last country, you used your magic. Fai: *smiling* I said it, didn't I? I wasn't going to die. And so... Kurogane: Yeah, but that was all about you not dying on your own account. Dying for somebody else... That's a whole new question. Back then, if you hadn't done anything, we would have been captured, and if we handled it wrong, we might have died. But you decided to use magic on your own. You involved yourself in their lives. Fai: *no longer smiling, looks depressed* I... I don't want to make anyone unhappy because of their involvement with me.

I’m still looking around to check and see what other people are doing to make sure I’m not completely different; I’m still looking around for help, hoping for a quick nudge and a whisper of advice. But I can’t seem to be able to catch anybody’s eye. Nobody else around me seems to be looking around and wondering what to do. Why is it that I feel like I’m the only person who is confused and concerned about the choices I’ve made and where I’m headed? Everywhere I look, I see people just getting on with it.

I turn back to my wood chair and run my hands over it, checking for splinters, because nobody likes a pain in the ass.

Her mouth was cut, her left eye already beginning to swell. There was raw color along her cheekbone. He managed to take a full, almost easy breath. "You're going to have a hell of a bruise." "I've had them before." The medication was seeping in, turning pain into a mist. She only smiled when he stripped her to the waist and began checking for other injuries. "You've got great hands. I love when you touch me. Nobody ever touched me like that. Did I tell you?" "No." And he doubted she'd remember she was telling him now. He'd make sure to remind her. "And you're so pretty. So pretty," she repeated, lifting a bleeding hand to his face. "I keep wondering what you're doing here." He took her hand, wrapped a cloth gently around it. "I've asked myself the same question." She grinned foolishly, let herself float. Need to file my report, she thought hazily. Soon. "You don't really think we're going to make anything out of this, do you? Roarke and the cop?" "I guess we'll have to find out.

Anarchy!" Tony confirmed in sort of a laugh. "Sometimes I think, you know, if there were not cops, I would be fine, and I probably would. I was taught right from wrong when I was a kid. But the truth is, I drive completely different when there is a cop behind me than when there isn't." And what Tony and I were talking about is true. It is hard for us to admit we have a sin nature because we live in a system of checks and balances. If we get caught, we will be punished. But that doesn't make us good people; it only makes us subdued. Just think about the Congress and Senate and even the president. The genius of the American system is not freedom; the genius of the American system is checks and balances. Nobody gets all the power. Everybody is watching everybody else. Is is as the founding fathers knew, intrinsically, that the soul of man, unwatched, is perverse.

Do reflections also travel at the speed of light? What does your buddy Albert think? When the light hits the glass and starts back in the opposite direction doesnt it have to come to a full stop first? And so everything is supposed to hang on the speed of light but nobody wants to talk about the speed of dark. What’s in a shadow? Do they move along at the speed of the light that casts them? How deep do they get? How far down can you clamp your calipers? You scribbled somewhere in the margins that when you lose a dimension you’ve given up all claims to reality. Save for the mathematical. Is there a route here from the tangible to the numerical that hasnt been explored? I dont know. Me either. Photons are quantum particles. They’re not little tennisballs. Yeah, said the Kid. He dredged up his watch and checked the time. Maybe you’d better go eat. You need to keep your strength up if you aim to wrest the secrets of creation from the gods. They’re a testy lot by all accounts.

What joke?” “The one about the guy who rolls a wheelbarrow full of sawdust out of a construction site every night.” “I don’t know that one,” Cochran said. Lucas said, “The security guy keeps checking and checking and checking the wheelbarrow, thinking the guy had to be stealing something. Never found anything hidden in the sawdust, and nobody cared about the sawdust. Couple of years later, they bump into each other, and the security guy says, ‘Look, it’s all in the past, you can tell me now. I know you were stealing something. What was it?’ And the guy says, ‘Wheelbarrows.

There was a huge mistake in the book. Massive one, in fact.” My heart sinks. I checked it so many times. “What was it?” She grins. “It said I have a boyfriend. And as far as I can remember, nobody has asked me to be their girlfriend.” “Hmm. You sure?

I felt a strange sense of calm and realized what I was feeling was the release of responsibility. Nobody expected me to be at work the next day. Nobody was trying to call me. I had no e-mail to check. Ghost enthusiasts weren’t stalking me on Facebook. Our responsibilities were stripped down to the bare biological basics: thirst, hunger, cold. All at once I could see why lifelong convicts got to where they couldn’t function outside of prison walls. You’re almost functioning more at a level for which the human brain was intended.

She chuckled to herself, pressed send, and wandered around the airport for half an hour, sporadically checking Twitter. “I got nothing,” she told me. “No replies.” I imagined her feeling a bit deflated about this—that sad feeling when nobody congratulates you for being funny, that black silence when the Internet doesn’t talk back.

My brothers woke me when the sun was beginning to set. “What’s the matter with you, Helen?” Castor cried, shaking me by the shoulder. “How can you sleep at a time like this?” “Are you all right?” Polydeuces put in. “You’re not ill, are you?” He touched my forehead to check for fever. I brushed his hand away gently. “I’m fine, ‘Ione’. You don’t need to fuss over me just because I’m smart enough to catch some sleep before the feast. I’ll still be awake when the two of you are snoring with your heads on the table.” “Ha! If not for us, you’d’ve slept right through the feast,” Castor countered. “I’ll build a temple in your honor to show my thanks,” I said, straight-faced. “Now if you really want to lend a hand, go find a servant to help me get ready. This is a special occasion and I want to look my best.” “Ooooooh, our little sister wants to look nice, does she?” Polydeuces crooned. “I wonder why?” I saw him wink at Castor and knew I was doomed to be teased to death. “Don’t you mean, ‘I wonder who?’” Castor replied. He tried to look sly and all-knowing, but his tendency to go cross-eyed ruined the effect. “Do you think it’s Meleager himself?” “He’s the hero of the day, but I think she’d rather have a brawnier man,” Polydeuces said. “I’ll bet I can guess who. I saw how you looked at him the first night we were here.” He flung his arms around his twin, pitched his voice high, and cried, “Oh, Theseus, you’re sooooooo strong! Make me queen of Athens too!” “Out!” I shouted, snatching up my nearly empty water jug. My brothers retreated at a run, laughing.

Crimson silk sheets. I’m in her and she’s looking at me like I’m her world. The woman undoes me. I flinch. I’m having sex with me, seeing myself from his eyes. I look incredible naked—is that how he sees me? He doesn’t see any of my flaws. I’ve never looked half as good to myself. I want to pull out. It feels perverse. I’m fascinated. But this was not what I was hunting for at all . . . Where are the handcuffs? Ah, grab her fucking head, she’s going down on me again. She’ll make me come. Tie her up. Is she back? How much longer do I have? He senses me there. Get out of my HEAD! I deepen the kiss, bite his tongue, and he is violent with lust. I take advantage, diving deep. There’s a thought he’s shielding. I want it. Nobody home but She for Whom I am the World. Can’t go on like this, can’t keep doing it. Why couldn’t he go on? What couldn’t he keep doing? I’m having sex with him, any way he wants me, while I stare up at him with utter worship. Where was the problem there? Weariness suddenly crashes over me. I’m in his body, and I’m coming beneath him, and I’m checking my eyes warily. What the fuck am I doing here? He knew what he was, what I was. He knew we came from different worlds, didn’t belong together. Yet for a few months there’d been no lines of demarcation between us. We’d existed in a place beyond definitions, where no rules had mattered, and I wasn’t the only one who’d reveled in it. But the entire time I’d been lost in sexual bliss, he’d been aware of time passing, of everything that was happening—that I was mindless, I wasn’t willing, and when I snapped out of it I’d blame him. Keep hoping to see the light in her eyes. Even knowing it’ll mean she’s saying good-bye. I had. Irrational or not, I’d held it against him. He’d seen me naked, body and soul, and I hadn’t seen him at all. I’d been blinded by helpless lust that hadn’t been for him. I had been lust, and he’d been there. Just one time, he’s thinking as we watch my glazed eyes go even emptier. One time, what? Instead of pushing, I try a stealth attack. I pretend to retreat, let him think he’s won, and at the last minute turn around. Instead of lunging for his thoughts, I stay very, very still and listen. He pushes my hair out of my face. I look like an animal. There’s no sentience in my gaze. I’m a cavewoman, with a miniscule, pre-historic brain. When you know who I am. Let me be your man.

Therefore it seeks in Russia the enemy it has lost in France, and appears to say to the universe, or to say to itself. “If nobody will be so kind as to become my foe, I shall need no more fleets nor armies, and shall be forced to reduce my taxes. The American war enabled me to double the taxes; the Dutch business to add more; the Nootka humbug gave me a pretext for raising three millions sterling more; but unless I can make an enemy of Russia the harvest from wars will end. I was the first to incite Turk against Russian, and now I hope to reap a fresh crop of taxes.” If the miseries of war, and the flood of evils it spreads over a country, did not check all inclination to mirth, and turn laughter into grief, the frantic conduct of the government of England would only excite ridicule. But it is impossible to banish from one’s mind the images of suffering which the contemplation of such vicious policy presents. To

Can't Hold Us Down" (feat. Lil' Kim) So what am I not supposed to have an opinion Should I be quiet just because I'm a woman Call me a bitch cos I speak what's on my mind Guess it's easier for you to swallow if I sat and smiled When a female fires back Suddenly big talker don't know how to act So he does what any little boy would do Making up a few false rumors or two That for sure is not a man to me Slanderin' names for popularity It's sad you only get your fame through controversy But now it's time for me to come and give you more to say This is for my girls all around the world Who've come across a man who don't respect your worth Thinking all women should be seen, not heard So what do we do girls? Shout out loud! Letting them know we're gonna stand our ground Lift your hands high and wave them proud Take a deep breath and say it loud Never can, never will, can't hold us down Nobody can hold us down Nobody can hold us down Nobody can hold us down Never can, never will So what am I not supposed to say what I'm saying Are you offended by the message I'm bringing Call me whatever cos your words don't mean a thing Guess you ain't even a man enough to handle what I sing If you look back in history It's a common double standard of society The guy gets all the glory the more he can score While the girl can do the same and yet you call her a whore I don't understand why it's okay The guy can get away with it & the girl gets named All my ladies come together and make a change Start a new beginning for us everybody sing This is for my girls all around the world Who've come across a man who don't respect your worth Thinking all women should be seen, not heard What do we do girls? Shout Out Loud! Letting them know we're gonna stand our ground Lift your hands high and wave 'em proud Take a deep breath and say it loud Never can, never will, can't hold us down [Lil' Kim:] Check it - Here's something I just can't understand If the guy have three girls then he's the man He can either give us some head, sex a roar If the girl do the same, then she's a whore But the table's about to turn I'll bet my fame on it Cats take my ideas and put their name on it It's airight though, you can't hold me down I got to keep on movin' To all my girls with a man who be tryin to mack Do it right back to him and let that be that You need to let him know that his game is whack And Lil' Kim and Christina Aguilera got your back But you're just a little boy Think you're so cute, so coy You must talk so big To make up for smaller things So you're just a little boy All you'll do is annoy You must talk so big To make up for smaller things This is for my girls... This is for my girls all around the world Who've come across a man who don't respect your worth Thinking all women should be seen, not heard So what do we do girls? Shout out loud! Letting them know we're gonna stand our ground Lift your hands high and wave 'em proud Take a deep breath and say it loud Never can, never will, can't hold us down This is for my girls all around the world Who've come across a man who don't respect your worth Thinking all women should be seen, not heard So what do we do girls? Should out loud! Letting them know we're gonna stand our ground Lift your hands high and wave 'em proud Take a deep breath and say it loud Never can, never will, can't hold us down Spread the word, can't hold us down

Sherrena nodded reassuringly and said, almost to herself, “I guess I got to stop feeling sorry for these people because nobody is feeling sorry for me. Last time I checked, the mortgage company still wanted their money.

Allison Prouty, who raises her hand for everything, helped give out the scripts while Donatello told us what parts we each had. When she got to me, she said, “Rafe, I think you’d make a fine Paris,” and everyone in the room started laughing, right at me. “Paris?” I asked. “Why do I have to read a girl’s part?” “Paris is a boy,” Donatello told me. “He’s one of Lord Capulet’s best men.” “Yeah, well, he probably still wears tights,” I said, but Donatello ignored me. “Listen to the language as we read through,” she told everyone. “Notice how every line has ten syllables. Notice the subtle rhyming. That’s not easy to do. Nobody wrote like Shakespeare. Nobody!” And I thought—hmmmm. Idea in progress, please stand by. “Let’s begin,” Donatello said. “‘Act One, Scene One.’ ” It turned out that this Paris guy (he really was a guy) doesn’t come in until page 12. That was good. It gave me time to work on my idea. Donatello probably thought I was taking notes like Jeanne Galletta and the other brainiacs, but I was actually hot on the trail of those 30,000 points. Ten syllables per line? Check! Rhyming? Check! By the time we got to my part, there were only a couple

The thing about Zofia and libraries is that she’s always losing library books. She says that she hasn’t lost them, and in fact that they aren’t even overdue, really. It’s just that even one week inside the faery handbag is a lot longer in library-world time. So what is she supposed to do about it? The librarians all hate Zofia. She’s banned from using any of the branches in our area. When I was eight, she got me to go to the library for her and check out a bunch of biographies and science books and some Georgette Heyer novels. My mother was livid when she found out, but it was too late. Zofia had already misplaced most of them.   It’s really hard to write about somebody as if they’re really dead. I still think Zofia must be sitting in her living room, in her house, watching some old horror movie, dropping popcorn into her handbag. She’s waiting for me to come over and play Scrabble.   Nobody is ever going to return those library books now.

In reality, though, it usually worked like this: A female candidate who will buzzkill your weekly happy hour? “Cultural fit.” A soft-spoken Indian or Chinese engineer, quietly competent but incapable of the hard-charging egotism that Americans almost universally wear like they do blue jeans? “Cultural fit.” Self-taught kid from some crappy college you’ve never heard of, without that glib sheen of effortless superiority you get out of Harvard or Stanford? “Cultural fit.” And so it goes. Shaffer’s machine-gun questioning and imperiousness had rattled me. I suspected that I had failed to pass his bar, and I needed to clear my head. The day had been nothing but a series of interrogations inside small, gray, rotten-smelling rooms. The Guantánamo vibe was fatiguing. Despite the NSA-level security on checking in and the way we were handed off like booby-trapped hot potatoes that no one could drop, nobody appeared for the next interview. Wining and dining evidently not in the offing, I wandered off and tried to find something to eat.

Matt Swierad has been broadcasting minor-league baseball for twenty-three years—ever since he graduated from Jacksonville University with a degree in history. He spent seven years in the Class A South Atlantic League before landing the job in Charlotte in 1998. He was only thirty-one at the time and was on the path he wanted to be to get to the major leagues. Seven years later, Swierad was still in Charlotte and beginning to wonder if the major leagues were just a pipe dream. Then came an unexpected—if temporary—opportunity. Jerry Coleman, who had been doing play-by-play for the San Diego Padres forever, was being inducted into the Hall of Fame. The Padres needed someone to fill in for the three games that Coleman would miss during Hall of Fame weekend and put out a notice that anyone interested in the three-day job could send in an application. Swierad almost didn’t bother. “I figured there was no chance, that someone who had an in with someone out there would probably get it,” he said. “My wife finally convinced me that I should at least give it a shot.” The Knights were in Buffalo on a long road trip and had gotten to the hotel early one morning to find that they couldn’t check into their rooms right away—a frequent occurrence of Triple-A travel. When they finally got in their rooms, Swierad walked over to a nearby food court to get some lunch.

The Girl At The Lake by Stewart Stafford She stood at her post rigidly again, By the lakeside in a white dress, Staring sadly down into the water, Wind left hair and clothes unruffled. I waved and called out to her then, She looked up at me and through me, No recognition from her mourner's mask, She went back to staring at lapping water. Jumped in my car to check on her welfare, Driving over to her sole sentinel's mark, Nobody around, just ripples kissing the shore, Arriving home, I saw her at the water's edge. She plunged into the lake in plain sight of me, I dived in with my shoes on to save her, Not suicide, she tricked my life from me, "You can't leave now, darling," as I drowned. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

They will see my pride burning so brightly, though it was confined to a box. My hand will once again be held, warm in the grasp of another. For I was not ready to be forsaken into the earth. I was born in the hot, unforgiving sun, and I finally know my purpose in life. For though I was buried alive, and nobody thought to check on me, I had learned to love again.

I wanna hold 'em like they do in Texas, please Fold 'em, let 'em hit me, raise it, baby, stay with me (I love it) Love game intuition, play the cards with spades to start And after he's been hooked, I'll play the one that's on his heart Oh, whoa, oh, oh Oh, oh-oh I'll get him hot, show him what I got Oh, whoa, oh, oh Oh, oh-oh I'll get him hot, show him what I got Can't read my, can't read my No, he can't read my poker face (She's got me like nobody) Can't read my, can't read my No, he can't read my poker face (She's got me like nobody) P-p-p-poker face, f-f-fuck her face (mum-mum-mum-mah) P-p-p-poker face, f-f-fuck her face (mum-mum-mum-mah) I wanna roll with him, a hard pair we will be A little gamblin' is fun when you're with me (I love it) Russian roulette is not the same without a gun And baby, when it's love, if it's not rough, it isn't fun (fun) Oh, whoa, oh, oh Oh, oh-oh I'll get him hot, show him what I got Oh, whoa, oh, oh Oh, oh-oh I'll get him hot, show him what I got Can't read my, can't read my No, he can't read my poker face (She's got me like nobody) Can't read my, can't read my No, he can't read my poker face (She's got me like nobody) P-p-p-poker face, f-f-fuck her face (mum-mum-mum-mah) P-p-p-poker face, f-f-fuck her face (mum-mum-mum-mah) (Mum-mum-mum-mah) (Mum-mum-mum-mah) I won't tell you that I love you, kiss or hug you 'Cause I'm bluffin' with my muffin I'm not lyin', I'm just stunnin' with my love-glue-gunnin' Just like a chick in the casino Take your bank before I pay you out I promise this, promise this Check this hand 'cause I'm marvelous Can't read my, can't read my No, he can't read my poker face (She's got me like nobody) Can't read my, can't read my No, he can't read my poker face (She's got me like nobody) Can't read my, can't read my No, he can't read my poker face (She's got me like nobody) Can't read my, can't read my No, he can't read my poker face (She's got me like nobody) Can't read my, can't read my No, he can't read my poker face (She's got me like nobody) Can't read my, can't read my No, he can't read my poker face (She's got me like nobody) P-p-p-poker face, p-p-poker face P-p-p-poker face, f-f-fuck her face (she's got me like nobody) P-p-p-poker face, f-f-fuck her face (mum-mum-mum-mah) P-p-p-poker face, f-f-fuck her face (mum-mum-mum-mah) P-p-p-poker face, f-f-fuck her face (mum-mum-mum-mah) P-p-p-poker face, f-f-fuck her face (mum-mum-mum-mah)

The chief engineer shook his head slowly, in the manner of an adult who is reluctant to frighten a child. “It’s not this station, Mr. Thompson,” he said softly. “It’s every station in the country, as far as we’ve been able to check. And there is no mechanical trouble. Neither here nor elsewhere. The equipment is in order, in perfect order, and they all report the same, but . . . but all radio stations went off the air at seven-fifty-one, and . . . and nobody can discover why.” “But—” cried Mr. Thompson, stopped, glanced about him and screamed, “Not tonight! You can’t let it happen tonight! You’ve got to get me on the air!” “Mr. Thompson,” the man said slowly, “we’ve called the electronic laboratory of the State Science Institute. They . . . they’ve never seen anything like it. They said it might be a natural phenomenon, some sort of cosmic disturbance of an unprecedented kind, only—” “Well?” “Only they don’t think it is. We don’t, either. They said it looks like radio waves, but of a frequency never produced before, never observed anywhere, never discovered by anybody.” No one answered him. In a moment, he went on, his voice oddly solemn: “It looks like a wall of radio waves jamming the air, and we can’t get through it, we can’t touch it, we can’t break it. . . . What’s more, we can’t locate its source, not by any of our usual methods. . . . Those waves seem to come from a transmitter that . . . that makes any known to us look like a child’s toy!

The placenta is not alive, and never will be. The woman doesn’t need it. It seems to me that, if a woman is a person, she has the right to remove an unnecessary organ from her body. Certainly if the placenta malfunctions, as in the case of preeclampsia, which can cause liver or kidney damage, it would seem that the woman should have every right to remove this needless organ that is affecting her health. Nobody makes a constitutional case over an appendectomy. If I seem flippant about the whole thing, it is because the legal argument that a fetus has a legal status on par with the woman to whom it is literally attached is illogical trash sprinkled with bad faith and misogyny. Fetal personhood amendments are the state writing a check it cannot cash, then forcing women to cover the bill against their will. It cannot be done in a “free” society. The Thirteenth Amendment flatly prohibits forced labor, and it doesn’t have an exception for labor that white men won’t do themselves but think is really important for others to do for society. When it comes to amending the Constitution, conservatives still haven’t figured out how to grant personhood rights to all of the born people. If you think it’s really important for fetuses to become people, then, by all means, make one yourself.

Yeah. Why?” Aunt Tasha asked. “Ahhh hell nawl! Ma, I’m not sleeping in there! I’ma check my ass into the Four Seasons before I sleep in a room that Big Mama died in. Ion wanna know what the other side looks like. Death doesn’t look good on me. I haven’t come to that kinda peace yet to say I’m ready whenever you are, Lord! Helllll nawl! I don’t believe in messing with God’s plan or my ancestors. I don’t wanna piss nobody off, and then they up there mad telling God, ‘choose that nigga, he ready!’ ‘Cause NO the fuck I’m not ready. They might even mistake me thinking they fucked up with Big Mama and circle back thinking I’m her and grab my ass.

I want to start everything in New, what's the bad point?? I don't want to have problems with people which we can be friends or nothing, but not argue as before. What's the purpose what did you gain??? Points?? Money?? PS3??? Xbox??? Nothing just useless and making troubles with people, if we must discuss something let's to be about the fucking Bulgarian Schools, talk about them, I hate them as much as you hate them, I hate the Bulgarian as much as you hate them, I hate the fucking teachers in the fucking schools with which just have fucking problems. How can somebody joke with your spelling or with your mistakes for months???? ... What more to tell you??? That I'm sorry that I'm a Bulgarian guy, because I'm sorry, I can't live with this fucking people, what do they created??? Nothing just staying home and jerkoff non-stop, very creative! And guest what happened??? Here come the "?" people which are terrorists in france and have killed a lot of people and here will be planed the same....,what more only the thought that somebody has graduated from the best school existed in Bulgaria and to have fails with the writing like making so easy mistakes that nobody will make ever, to make mess on the sheets and many other things and this on very important day. A day in which you choose the president or the pre-minister or some kind like this, which is important. I'm very sorry that I'm Bulgarian guy, I don't want to be the cases are this, I want to be an American or a guy from Great Britain, but whatever to be, but to know this language. All people use it, and we are the only people which or some others as one User said that France and Germany are also with the worst English in case that Germany words are like English, but little fucked like spelled and written different like Sänger - singer songster schreiben WOw, this is really fucked just look how arae spelled how are written little like joking with English, aren't they??? If they aren't okay, that's your opinion _ I don't have something against it! If there was chance to be other race no matter what American guy or whatever ot to change my country ot my native language I will do it. If there is chance to and learn English, I go and learnt it without giving and shit about the fucking Bulgarian, I won't call my parents, friends and everything, just everything will be mainly for learning English the best way as possible. I fill fucked there are people which can't read, english, to don't talk about bulgarian, all day I'm seeing how mass media brain washes. I don't see how can be improved Bulgaria it's a fail I know why Adolf Hitler wanted to destroyed it and why Churchill Wanted also, I'm not sure about Churchill, but for HItler I'm sure that he wanted to kill us because of that, whatever you understand me what level we are as nation. I hate the fucking Bulgarian people what to learn from them to joke with people badly??? Very Creative??? To jerkoff all time and to don't give a damn shit about the things around the world?? Or to be with friends which can't think or people which are so much stupid that I'm sorry about them... Whatever, read it if you want if you don't want don't read it, but first check it before you block me. Thank you I appreciate your reading!

What about her?” she asked with a curious tone. “My memory came back of the night I was attacked. She was being dragged into the forest toward the river. And I ran after them.” She gasped. “Oh, Knox. Do we know if she’s okay?” “I tried contacting her and her father, but nobody picked up.” He gulped back the acid in his throat. “I hope she somehow got away.” “Didn’t Nick mention the river once? Maybe we should check it out.” They hurried to the farthest side of the house, down the same pathway Lisa had been dragged, until they reached the raging river. He doubted someone could cross that. The only other option was a guest had brought those people with them. Back at the house, he continued trying to contact Lisa and her father. A call to her father’s office told him that Lisa’s dad was at his vacation home in the mountains. There was no way to reach him and no other information they could share. “Uh-oh,” Scarlett crossed her arms over her chest. “I know that face. Someone’s going to hack something.” He grinned at the way she whispered it. “Babe, we’re home. There’s no one else here but us. You don’t have to whisper.” “So what are you looking for?” “Just John’s mountain home address. I want to go up there and see him. Find out if she’s okay.” “Did you call their house?” He nodded, emailed himself the address, and grabbed her hand. “Yes. Nobody would give me any information other than John was gone. They knew nothing of Lisa.” “Damn.” “Ready for a quick trip?” he asked as they walked outside again. The sound of helicopter blades reached them. “Thank goodness. I really didn’t want to fly on your back again.” He chuckled at her teasing and helped her into the chopper. An hour later, they touched down in the area near the cabin. He gave the chopper instructions to land at the nearest helipad with availability and he’d give them a call when ready to go. They ran to the front door and knocked repeatedly. Nobody answered. “Maybe they’re out back,” Scarlett said and they went around the house. They walked down a trail. He sniffed but got nothing. His senses told him something was wrong. And a new animal decided

Scott ejected the disc. The Club Red disc was by far the superior, which left Scott wondering what the missing disc showed. He dug out Melon’s interview with Richard Levin to make sure he had it right, and reread the handwritten note: R. Levin—deliv sec vid—2 discs— EV # H6218B Scott decided to phone Cowly. “Joyce? Hey, it’s Scott James. Hope you don’t mind. I have a question about these discs.” “Sure. What’s up?” “I was wondering why you gave me only one of the Club Red discs and not both.” Cowly was silent for a moment. “I gave you two discs.” “Yeah, you did. One from Tyler’s and one from Club Red, but there are supposed to be two from Club Red. Melon has a note here saying two discs were logged.” Cowly was silent some more. “I don’t know what to tell you. There was only the one disc from Club Red. We have the LAX stuff, the disc from Tyler’s, and the disc from Club Red.” “Melon’s note says there were two.” “I hear you. Those things were screened, you know? All we got was a confirmation of arrival and departure times. Nobody saw anything unusual.” “Why is it missing?” She sounded exasperated. “Shit happens. Things get lost, misplaced, people take stuff and forget they have it. I’ll check, okay? These things happen, Scott. Is there anything else?” “No. Thanks.” Scott felt miserable. He hung up, put away the discs, and stretched out on the couch. Maggie came over, sniffed for a spot, and lay down beside the couch. He rested his hand on her back. “You’re the only good part of this.” Thump thump.

Of course, I know many fine rich people,” the Governor said, perhaps thinking of his campaign contributors. “But most of them are like a rich old feller I know down in Plaquemines Parish, who died one night and never done nobody no good in his life, and yet, when the Devil come to get him, he took an appeal to St. Peter. “’I done some good things on earth,’ he said. ‘Once, on a cold day in about 1913, I gave a blind man a nickel.’ St. Peter looked all through the records, and at last, on page four hundred and seventy-one, he found the entry. ‘That ain’t enough to make up for a misspent life,’ he said. ‘But, wait,’ the rich man says. ‘Now I remember, in 1922 I give five cents to a poor widow woman that had no carfare.’ St. Peter’s clerk checked the book again, and on page thirteen hundred and seventy-one, after pages and pages of this old stump-wormer loan-sharked the poor, he found the record of that nickel. “’That ain’t neither enough,’ St. Peter said. But the mean old thing yelled, ‘Don’t, sentence me yet. In about 1931 I give a nickel to the Red Cross.’ The clerk found that entry, too. So he said to St. Peter, ‘Your Honor, what are we going to do with him?’” The crowd hung on Uncle Earl’s lips the way the bugs hovered in the light. “You know what St. Peter said?” The Governor, the only one in the courthouse square who knew the answer, asked. There was, naturally, no reply. “He said: ‘Give that man back his fifteen cents and tell him to go to Hell.

You mind if I join you?” he asked. She straightened and her eyes immediately cleared and narrowed. She was one tough customer. “Knock yourself out,” she said coolly. He pulled out a chair and set his coffee cup in front of him. “You seem upset, Ellie. Was it something I said?” “It was something you didn’t say,” she replied. “Oh? What was that?” “You’re hired,” she said. “I thought I should give all the applicants a fair shot.” “Are you kidding me? I sat in my car outside waiting for my turn. I saw the other applicants—all two of them. One could barely get up the stairs; not a good bet for moving furniture. The other one had such a mean schnobble, she could break glass with her face.” “Schnobble?” he asked. “What my gramma used to call a sourpuss. Now, that’s a church lady, all right—if you’re looking for one as mean as a junkyard dog.” He laughed before he could reel it in. “Who knew you were checking out the competition.” Jack brought the pie, put it in front of them and got the heck out of there. Noah lifted a fork. “Pretty accurate, too. But I told you I’d get in touch.” “If you do, it’ll be to say I didn’t get the job.” He was quiet a moment, then he said, “Have some pie. Nobody makes pie like Preacher.” “Preacher? You made the pie?” “No, the cook—he goes by the nickname Preacher. That could lead to problems.” He nodded toward the plate. “Try it.” “Thanks,” she said. “I’m not hungry.” “Give it a chance, you’ll be amazed. And between bites, tell me why I don’t get the benefit of the doubt.” Slowly,

GPS—whose voice I had decided sounded unnervingly like Chris Teasley’s, Westerfield’s assistant—took me to a storefront off Connecticut Avenue. It was a used-CD store, manned by a few slow-moving clerks. The customers were mostly in their twenties, along with a few smudged, bearded music lovers about my age. I walked up to one young man behind the register, flashed my ID along with a security picture of the Asian man who’d collected the gold coins in New Jersey, a perp in the Graham forgery case. He claimed he knew nothing. I asked four or five other people. Nobody seemed to know anything about funny checks or the Asian. Finally,

We were in Jon's car. "I have the first part I need. The pain-killer. You see I had to go to a doctor for an ingrown toenail. He operated. Then he gave me a pain-killer afterwards. It worked great..." "Where are we going?" "You'll see. Anyhow, I had to go back to get the toe checked. I said to the doctor, 'That pain-killer was great, it lasted ten hours. Tell me about it.' He told me about it. Then I asked him, 'Can I see it?' And he took me to this medicine cabinet and pointed it out. 'Very interesting,' I said. We talked a bit more, then I left. But I had a bag with me, a small travelling bag. I left it by the medicine cabinet. Then I left the office, came back. 'Oh,' I told the receptionist, 'I left my bag.' I went to get the bag and there was nobody around. I opened the cabinet and took the pain-killer." "You can't do this," I told Jon. "I must, " he answered.

Feeling totally disconnected from the world, I was about to cross the street. I checked to see if any cars were coming when this horrible thought passed through my mind: What would happen if I just stepped out in front of that big truck that is coming my way? As it passed by in front of me, I continued my slow walk homeward. Thoughts like, Nobody would come to my funeral anyway circled in my mind. I had this deep conviction that I truly did not belong in this world; that’s how worthless I felt.

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

The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person [whose] invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who jump from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view . . . The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump . . . Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.5

If we know that thoughts and feelings are not facts but they are causing us distress, it makes sense to check it out and see whether it is a true reflection of reality or whether an alternative would be more helpful. When we treat our current thoughts and emotions as facts, we allow them to determine our thoughts and actions of the future. Then life becomes a series of emotional reactions rather than informed choices.

You know what it is?” I murmured to myself. “Someone must’ve drugged me.” “Nobody drugged you. And if they did, I would kill them.” “Well then, maybe I should check myself into the psych ward because I know that there isn’t a seven-foot-tall, muscular-as-hell demon standing in my living room with two loads of his cum dripping down my thighs right—” Wait…

We’ve talked about this,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’m on lease. Nobody’s purchased me, so therefore no one needs to be ‘checking up on me.

No, listen, it’s your time on earth and I’m not here to judge anyone in this life (except people who don’t like dogs—how do you not like dogs?), but that drug sounds horrible. Self-doubt is healthy! Self-doubt keeps me in check! It’s the rare social interactions when I DON’T hate myself that keep me up at night.

We saw in just a couple of days how the media could begin to pass along a story that it seemed nobody ever checked out, but that everyone might believe regardless—amplifying the false information. There was a valuable lesson for me in all this. For some time, I had been saying that setting the record straight was one big part of our pursuit of justice in the case of Emmett Till. Now I could see very clearly how disinformation and misinformation were two sides of the same coin—public understanding.

checked my phone, remembered that there’s no signal worth a damn on Lammergeier Lane, and spent five minutes trying to make it talk to the house internet. (Which is also terrible out here, don’t get me wrong. Nobody is running cable down rural roads unless they have a pressing reason.) My phone informed me that it was absolutely talking to the internet, it was happy to talk to the internet, it loved talking to the internet, then as soon as I tried to check my email, it told me it had never heard of the internet and wasn’t entirely sure it existed.

Whether consciously or not, you see people nervous when, as a young black male, he approaches. You see people cross the road, assume he won’t have a ticket on a train; he’s stopped at customs, checked for drugs, asked for drugs on holidays, stopped by the police more. Anyone who says this structural racist shit is not happening any more just needs just to follow him for a month. It’s a really sad way to grow up. One

Whether consciously or not, you see people nervous when, as a young black male, he approaches. You see people cross the road, assume he won’t have a ticket on a train; he’s stopped at customs, checked for drugs, asked for drugs on holidays, stopped by the police more. Anyone who says this structural racist shit is not happening any more just needs just to follow him for a month. It’s a really sad way to grow up. One of the reasons he says he loves having a baby, apart from obviously having the actual baby and being a father, is because for the first time in his life, people in the street smile at him. When he’s with her, especially when he has her in a sling, he goes from ‘young black male’ to ‘sling-carrying male’ or ‘dad’. I think he would like a baby strapped to him for the rest of his life for this reason.

I was one to one with a big nurse. Afraid to move and ask, ‘Whose blood is it so cold?’ … drop by drop … inside my small body. But the blood from the looks of these opposite men was not cold. It was hot, even very hot, pumping into my head. One man, another, and one more, some older than others, some even with temples of grey hair. But what united them all was the interest in a ten-year-old girl.” (-- Angelika Regossi, “Love in Communism. A Young Woman’s Adult Story”. Chapter 1: The Girl Felt a Woman) “We sat together, at the bottom of the trench, on the cold and dry ground. The sun slowly was going down, and the first signs of the cold September evening appeared. Tanya pulled out the matches and lit the cigarette butts, and we started to smoke; two small girls of seven and five. We thought that nobody was seeing us making the fumes. Suddenly, I saw Tanya’s sister go out to the balcony of their flat, looking around the yard. When she noticed the fumes from the trench, she screamed at the whole yard, ‘Tanya! Tanya! I see you. Come immediately home!’ ‘Why! Am I cold?’ shouted back Tanya, pressing the cigarette butt in the trench soil. ‘No! You want to eat!’ screamed her sister. They both imitated a joke about a caring mother. Tanya stood up, climbed out of the trench, and left. I remained sitting alone, and it was getting dark. I also wanted to go home, wash my hands and eat. When suddenly, I heard a soft man’s voice from the darkness, ‘Let me help you to get out of the trench, little girl.’” (-- Angelika Regossi, “Love in Communism. A Young Woman’s Adult Story”. Chapter 2: The Paedophile Play) “In the USSR, at schools, sometimes was carried a medical check-up for teenage girls from fourteen to seventeen years old, till the end of their school life. It was a very psychologically traumatic and humiliating experience because of the process itself, and because the results were reported to the school director, parents, and sometimes, even to the police. The girls were tested for virginity, but the boys were not.” (-- Angelika Regossi, “Love in Communism. A Young Woman’s Adult Story”. Chapter 3: Long Ten Years) “At that time, execution was allowed in the USSR, also for women. The maximum that prisoners could get was fifteen years. After that, capital punishment was the last measure. Mainly, the execution took place in the prison corridor by shooting the back of the inmate when he or she was taken to go somewhere, or in the prison yard. Executions were usually done by policemen.” (-- Angelika Regossi, “Love in Communism. A Young Woman’s Adult Story”. Chapter 4: Prison for Woman)

Noticing thought biases sounds obvious, and it is simple. But it’s not always easy. When we’re in the moment, we don’t only experience a thought that we can see clearly. We experience the mess of emotions, physical sensations, images, memories and urges, all at once. We are so used to doing everything on autopilot that stopping to check out the details of the process can take a lot of practice.

When we focus on trying to fix the problem, it is easy to underestimate the power of simply being there. Most people don’t want to be told what to do. But they do want someone to keep showing up to check in and show they care.

(...) even as a little girl I'd never never remarked how beautiful the tress were, how fine the leaves and bushes were, how beautiful flowerbeds were, truly, I'd never noticed, till then, how beautiful vegetables were, vegetables watered by fat ladies dressed in just their enormous aprons, aprons nobody put on anymore. Actually, a whole transformation was brought about by the person striding next to me like my nanny, my tutor, no need for the person to explain, or lecture, in fact it suited me fine and dandy, I was stubborn, took after my mother, let him try preaching to me, I wouldn't have looked at a thing on purpose, or noticed, I would have sulked, teared up, stared at the ground... But he just walked beside me, gazing around, and I looked where he looked, saw almost what he did, didn't check my watvh, I almost wished time would quit, so I might have walked in that space we had entered together, forever.

It’s funny. I still feel like a little girl . I’m still looking around to check and see what other people are doing to make sure I’m not completely different; I’m still looking around for help, hoping for a quick nudge and a whisper of advice. But I can’t seem to be able to catch anybody’s eye. Nobody else around me seems to be looking around and wondering what to do. Why is it that I feel like I’m the only person who is confused and concerned about the choices I’ve made and where I’m headed?

He laughed for a brief second and looked around to check if nobody was there and then asked me, “You really want to know?” “Yes, I do” I replied. Everything about him was so interesting and mysterious that I wanted to know more. “Then come closer” He requested. As I went close to him, he whispered in my ear, “My connection to other dimension appears as madness to them. I see what they cannot see. I feel what they cannot feel. Don’t share with them they won’t believe you” He replied with a wink.

as well have stuck my fingers in my ears. Warm air blew softly down the hall with a low roar that, coupled with a buzz from the lights and a hum from the elevator shaft, swallowed all other sounds, no matter how hard I concentrated. But that could work both ways. I padded down the hall, noiseless in sneakers. The hall branched to the left several times, forming the bottom end of a T. At each branch I listened intently, then bobbed my head into the hallway for a quick check. I reached the end of the hall. Nothing. Nobody. No Charles Manson or Ted Bundy or Vlad the Impaler. Definitely no Michael Wheeler. I considered for a second. I didn’t know which office I was looking for and could spend half the night checking doors and poking my head into rooms while Amanda might or might not be stuck in an elevator. And if Wheeler was holed up somewhere on this floor, it would be child’s play to sneak up and pop me while I was going up and down hallways, rattling doorknobs. It wasn’t a one-man job and I could afford to wait for backup. My first priority was to make sure Amanda was safe. Quick but cautious, I headed back to the elevators. Halfway there, my cell buzzed in my pocket. I answered. “Singer.” “Detective Singer, this is the dispatcher with the George Washington University police. We spoke earlier. Are you in the Krueger building?” “Yeah,” I said, keeping my head up and watching the doors to at least a dozen classrooms as I continued the walk back to the elevator. “I’m on the ninth floor now.” “Is Ms. Lane in danger?” “I don’t know.” I explained how I’d lost the call. “We’ll need to get someone to override

I knew another good man whose wealth was estimated at more than nine billion dollars. He’s in heaven now, but he’d made it big in the oil business after starting with nothing. He loved God and always helped others. Among many other things, he owned a big retreat center where people could come and get away for a weekend and be refreshed. One time a couple showed up at the retreat’s front desk when the receptionist had stepped away. My friend the multibillionaire just happened to be there. He was an older man, very friendly and humble. He checked in the couple, gave them their keys, then grabbed their suitcases and carried them to the room. He set them up, laid out their bags, and even brought ice for them. He was about to leave them when the lady pulled a five-dollar bill from her purse and gave him a tip. She thought he was the bellman. He just smiled and said, “Thank you, Lord, now I’ve got nine billion and five dollars!” I love the fact that he wasn’t too important to serve. He didn’t say, “Excuse me, I don’t need a tip. I own it all. Do you know who I am?” It takes a big person to do something small. It takes humility to say, “I don’t have to do this. It’s not required of me. I could have somebody else do it. Nobody would fault me if I didn’t, but I know in order to serve God, I need to serve other people.

How big was your graduating class in high school?” Butters blinked. “What?” “Just answer me.” “Uh, about eight hundred.” “All right,” I said. “Last year in the U.S. alone more than nine hundred thousand people were reported missing and not found.” “Are you serious?” “Yeah,” I said. “You can check with the FBI. That’s out of about three hundred million, total population. That breaks down to about one person in three hundred and twenty-five vanishing. Every year. It’s been almost twenty years since you graduated? So that would mean that between forty and fifty people in your class are gone. Just gone. No one knows where they are.” Butters shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “So?” I arched an eyebrow at him. “So they’re missing. Where did they go?” “Well. They’re missing. If they’re missing, then nobody knows.” “Exactly,” I said. He didn’t say anything back. I let the silence stretch for a minute, just to make the point. Then I started up again. “Maybe it’s a coincidence, but it’s almost the same loss ratio experienced by herd animals on the African savannah to large predators.” Butters drew his knees up to his chest, huddling farther under the blanket. “Really?” “Yeah,” I said. “Nobody talks about this kind of thing. But all those people are still gone. Maybe a lot of them just cut their ties and left their old lives behind. Maybe some were in accidents of some kind, with the body never found. The point is, people don’t know. But because it’s an extremely scary thing to think about, and because it’s a lot easier to just get back to their lives they tend to dismiss it. Ignore it. It’s easier.

I don't like your little games Don't like your tilted stage The role you made me play Of the fool, no, I don't like you I don't like your perfect crime How you laugh when you lie You said the gun was mine Isn't cool, no, I don't like you (Oh!) But I got smarter, I got harder in the nick of time Honey, I rose up from the dead, I do it all the time I've got a list of names and yours is in red, underlined I check it once, then I check it twice, oh! Ooh, look what you made me do Look what you made me do Look what you just made me do Look what you just made me Ooh, look what you made me do Look what you made me do Look what you just made me do Look what you just made me do I don't like your kingdom keys They once belonged to me You asked me for a place to sleep Locked me out and threw a feast (What?) The world moves on, another day, another drama, drama But not for me, not for me, all I think about is karma And then the world moves on, but one thing's for sure Maybe I got mine, but you'll all get yours But I got smarter, I got harder in the nick of time Honey, I rose up from the dead, I do it all the time I've got a list of names and yours is in red, underlined I check it once, then I check it twice, oh! Ooh, look what you made me do Look what you made me do Look what you just made me do Look what you just made me Ooh, look what you made me do Look what you made me do Look what you just made me do Look what you just made me do I don't trust nobody and nobody trusts me I'll be the actress starring in your bad dreams I don't trust nobody and nobody trusts me I'll be the actress starring in your bad dreams I don't trust nobody and nobody trusts me I'll be the actress starring in your bad dreams

Josh leaned next to me against the examining table where I sat with my bare legs dangling. He held my hand so I couldn’t fidget. “Does it always take this long?” he asked, checking his watch. His wedding ring was on his watch hand and I smiled at it, despite being cold and nervous. The inscription inside his ring said “okay.” I’d had my ring sized, and Josh had it inscribed with “my universe.” We were adorable. We were also hungry. It had been almost a half an hour since the ultrasound tech finished taking images. Nobody had been back since, and I’d had to fast for a glucose test. Josh hadn’t eaten in solidarity, so we were both starving. I sighed. “I don’t know how long this takes. I’ve never had a pre-op for a hysterectomy before.” We’d been married four weeks. It had been a hectic month. Josh had moved in with me, but we realized almost on day one that we needed a place closer to Sloan. Both of us were there more than we were at home. We asked her to move in with us and she’d flatly refused. We asked to move in with her and she refused that too. So we’d been house hunting in addition to merging our lives, launching our new line of doghouses, and taking care of my best friend. Josh had taken on all the home repairs that Brandon hadn’t gotten to. He cooked most of our meals, and I spent almost every day still getting her out of bed, cleaning her house, trying to cheer her up. She wasn’t getting any better.

WHAT!? “A million dollars!” I shouted. “A million dollars!!” shouted Alexia. “A million dollars!!!!” shouted Ryan. In case you were wondering, we were all shouting, “A million dollars.” Everybody started yelling and screaming and shrieking and hooting and hollering and generally freaking out. You should have been there! Nobody could believe Ella Mentry was actually giving the school a million dollars. Man, that lady must have a ton of money to be giving away so much of it. No wonder she needs such big checks. There are a lot of zeroes in a million. We gave Mrs. Mentry another standing ovation. Then Mr. Klutz made the shut-up peace sign again and we all got quiet. “We can’t thank you enough, Mrs. Mentry,” he said. “But now we have a problem. What are we going to do with this money?” That’s a problem? If you ask me, a problem is when you have no money at all. “I’ll spend it for you!” shouted our librarian, Mrs. Roopy. Everybody laughed. “Tell you what I’m going to do,” Mr. Klutz said. “We’re going to have a contest to decide what to do with the money.” “Oooooh!” everybody oohed. “Go back to your classrooms and think of some ideas for what we should do with the million dollars,” Mr. Klutz told us. “The class that comes up with

Put something on," Tyler ordered. "And lock the doors. I'll check it out." "No, you won't." She was already marching to her closet. "We'll check it out. Nobody pushes me around," she said as she dragged on a sweater and pants. "Nobody.

It was then, on the eve of my mother’s second divorce, that she gave me her rules for navigating the institution: 1. Don’t drink your feelings. 2. Never let him know he’s hurt you. 3. Don’t ever jump from one man to another. Ever. 4. Check all your joint bank accounts as soon as you find out, and keep records on everything. 5. Hire the best lawyer.