Notepads Quotes

I bet," said Mulch, "that you would set the world on fire just to watch it burn." Opal tapped the suggestion into a small electronic notepad on her pocket computer. Thanks for that. Now, tell me everything.

It took teams of LEP warlocks to slow down time for a few hours; the magic required to open a door to the tunnel was stupendous. It would be easier to shoot down the moon. Opal tapped this into her notepad. Reminder. Shoot down the moon? Viable?

Don't let the elegance act fool you," Varen said, drawing out his notepad. "She farts.

It isn't a club," I said calmly. "It's a walking stick." "Six feet long." "It's traditional Ozark folk art." "With dents and nicks all over it." I thought about it for a second. "I'm insecure?" "Get a blanket." He held out his hand. I signed and passed my staff over to him. "Do I get a receipt?" He took a notepad from his pocket and wrote on it. Then he passed it over to me. It read: Received, one six foot tall traditional Ozark walking club from Mr. Smart-Ass.

Have you finished your column for tomorrow's headline?" It was Vee. She came up beside me, jotting notes on the notepad she carried everywhere. "I'm thinking of writing mine on the injustice of seating charts. I got paired with a girl who said she just finished lice treatment this morning.

You are so good at this interrogating stuff, I’d love to take notes,” I say as I pull out my notepad and write at the top: A How-To Guide to Being Evil.

What is his deal? He always looks furious." Danny shakes his head at my notepad and we do a bit more business-miming. "That's his face." "You guys have a weird dynamic going on." "There's no dynamic. No dynamic." I begin swigging at my coffee. It's too hot and a terrible idea. "But you know he's in love with you, right?" I inhale my huge mouthful and being to drown on dry land.

Or rather, I dreamed of her constantly, only as absence, not presence: a breeze blowing through a just-vacated house, her handwriting on a notepad, the smell of her perfume, streets in strange lost towns where I knew she'd been walking only a moment before but had just vanished, a shadow moving away against a sunstruck wall. Sometimes I spotted her in a crowd, or in a taxicab pulling away, and these glimpses of her I treasured despite the fact that I was never able to catch up with her.

My notepad resting on my lap takes the scribbles of unspoken truth: effeminate men are very witty, whereas macho men are duller than death.

I jotted the name down mentally on that tattered notepad I call a memory. The pen skipped.

They scribble on notepads, the sound of their pens scratching the judgemental air.

Miss Rook, on a scale of one to pomegranate, how dangerous would you say this situation has become?" "Dangerous?" I faltered. "Yes, Miss Rook," prompted Jackaby, in your expert opinion." "On a scale of one to pomegranate?" I followed his lead, checking over the notes I had scribbled in my notepad and speaking in my most audible, serious whisper. "I should think ... acorn? Possibly badger. Time alone will tell.

Not that writing on my notepads managed to actually empty my mind - though some would argue - but I was grateful to relieve the overflow.

Want to be a writer? take a good book a good pen and a notepad to bed with you every night of your life.

We are never as beautiful as now. The crushing sadness of hotel rooms; the gelid lights and clean notepads; the blank walls and particles of someone else’s erased life.

It's quite simple. I just don't feel right without a pen in my hand denting a hole through my notepad.

Now that we’ve done the tea party,” Luc said, pushing back the notepad and settling into his chair, “it’s time for our annual review of Rules You Disrespectful Bastards Never Follow.

Footsteps approach the kitchen. Garrett wanders in, wiping sweat off his brow. When he notices Sabrina, he brightens. “Oh good. You’re here. Hold on—gotta grab something.” She turns to me as if to say, Is he talking to me? He’s already gone, though, his footsteps thumping up the stairs. At the table, Hannah runs a hand through her hair and gives me a pleading look. “Just remember he’s your best friend, okay?” That doesn’t sound ominous. When Garrett returns, he’s holding a notepad and a ballpoint pen, which he sets on the table as he sits across from Sabrina. “Tuck,” he says. “Sit. This is important.” I’m so baffled right now. Hannah’s resigned expression doesn’t help in lessening the confusion. Once I’m seated next to Sabrina, Garrett flips open the notepad, all business. “Okay. So let’s go over the names.” Sabrina raises an eyebrow at me. I shrug, because I legitimately don’t know what the fuck he’s talking about. “I’ve put together a solid list. I really think you’re going to like these.” But when he glances down at the page, his face falls. “Ah crap. We can’t use any of the boy names.” “Wait.” Sabrina holds up a hand, her brow furrowed. “You’re picking names for our baby?” He nods, busy flipping the page. My baby mama gapes at me. I shrug again. “Just out of curiosity, what were the boy names?” Grace hedges, clearly fighting a smile. He cheers up again. “Well, the top contender was Garrett.” I snicker loud enough to rattle Sabrina’s water glass. “Uh-huh,” I say, playing along. “And what was the runner-up?” “Graham.” Hannah sighs. “But it’s okay. I have some kickass girl names too.” He taps his pen on the pad, meets our eyes, and utters two syllables. “Gigi.” My jaw drops. “Are you kidding me? I’m not naming my daughter Gigi.” Sabrina is mystified. “Why Gigi?” she asks slowly. Hannah sighs again. The name suddenly clicks in my head. Oh for fuck’s sake. “G.G.,” I mutter to Sabrina. “As in Garrett Graham.” She’s silent for a beat. Then she bursts out laughing, triggering giggles from Grace and eventually Hannah, who keeps shaking her head at her boyfriend. “What?” Garrett says defensively. “The godfather should have a say in the name. It’s in the rule book.” “What rule book?” Hannah bursts out. “You make up the rules as you go along!” “So?

With these rough categorizations established, the strategy works as follows: Schedule in advance when you’ll use the Internet, and then avoid it altogether outside these times. I suggest that you keep a notepad near your computer at work. On this pad, record the next time you’re allowed to use the Internet. Until you arrive at that time, absolutely no network connectivity is allowed—no matter how tempting.

Chris pulled a small notepad from a pocket lining the inside of his jacket. He opened it, putting it on the table before him. He frowned, patting his outside pockets, before pulling out a stubby pencil that looked like it’d been gnawed on repeatedly. “Okay,” he said, opening the notepad to a fresh sheet of paper. “The meeting to get Gordo laid can now commence.

She was constantly taking notes. Writing down thoughts. She'd write ideas down on napkins. Dialogue in the shower on a waterproof notepad.

It was almost noon when the plane touched down at the Triad airport on the outskirts of Greensboro. There was a hire car waiting for me; I waved my notepad at the dashboard to transmit my profile, then waited as the seating and controls rearranged themselves slightly, piezoelectric actuators humming. As I started to reverse out of the parking bay, the stereo began a soothing improvisation, flashing up a deadpan title: Music for Leaving Airports 11 June 2008.

Why would you want to spend your life with twelve-year-olds?' 'Maybe I can help them. When I was twelve, you watched me. You had a notepad just for writing down what you noticed, remember? Maybe everyone needs that kind of attention at that age. I could get a notepad.' She considers him, the dimple deep in her cheek. He thinks, She's still carrying that notepad.

Why are you still standing here?" His uncle leaned back, peering out into the hallway. "I need you to come to town with me," he muttered. "You're not on my schedule." His uncle scowled. "I'm not what now?" "I wrote out a schedule. You're not on it." "Uh-huh. Can you fit me on the schedule?" Bo grabbed the notepad off his night table and looked it over. "Well, let's see, maybe I could move-" Grigori snatched the pad from him and tore it up, throwing the tiny pieces at Bo's head. Bo stared at him. You don't think I made a copy?

WHEN I WAS A boy, after my mother died, I always tried hard to hold her in my mind as I was falling asleep so maybe I’d dream of her, only I never did. Or, rather, I dreamed of her constantly, only as absence, not presence: a breeze blowing through a just-vacated house, her handwriting on a notepad, the smell of her perfume, streets in strange lost towns where I knew she’d been walking only a moment before but had just vanished, a shadow moving away against a sunstruck wall.

Will that be all?” I asked the pimply faced teen who ogled my exposed legs as if in heat. My pen tapped impatiently on the notepad while I waited for him to look up. Slowly his dull grey eyes roved over my body and a limp smile drew up his thin, crusted lips making him look more weasel than human. “Yep. That’d be it,” his cheerful, adolescent voice cracked. “Great,” I mumbled, walking back behind the counter.

I took to even the most menial Notepad++ job with pleasure. It’s amazing what you do for love, especially when it’s unrequited.

Those of us who carry notepads to the bedroom or scribble down thoughts during our morning constitutional have tools to abandon self-delusions. Or develop them.

A storm of yellow notepads, broken pencils, papers, and books littered the tables and floor of the room, along with a collection of empty beer cans. It looked as if a party of wild librarians had just cleared out.

The bartender put a notepad and a pencil before me. Breathing hard, the pencil trembling, I wrote: Dear Sinclair Lewis: You were once a god, but now you are a swine. I once reverenced you, admired you, and now you are nothing. I came to shake your hand in adoration, you, Lewis, a giant among American writers, and you rejected it. I swear I shall never read another line of yours again. You are an ill-mannered boor. You have betrayed me. I shall tell H. L. Muller about you, and how you have shamed me. I shall tell the world. Arturo Bandini P.S. I hope you choke on your steak.

What rhymes with insensitive?” I tap my pen on the kitchen table, beyond frustrated with my current task. Who knew rhyming was so fucking difficult? Garrett, who’s dicing onions at the counter, glances over. “Sensitive,” he says helpfully. “Yes, G, I’ll be sure to rhyme insensitive with sensitive. Gold star for you.” On the other side of the kitchen, Tucker finishes loading the dishwasher and turns to frown at me. “What the hell are you doing over there, anyway? You’ve been scribbling on that notepad for the past hour.” “I’m writing a love poem,” I answer without thinking. Then I slam my lips together, realizing what I’ve done. Dead silence crashes over the kitchen. Garrett and Tucker exchange a look. An extremely long look. Then, perfectly synchronized, their heads shift in my direction, and they stare at me as if I’ve just escaped from a mental institution. I may as well have. There’s no other reason for why I’m voluntarily writing poetry right now. And that’s not even the craziest item on Grace’s list. That’s right. I said it. List. The little brat texted me not one, not two, but six tasks to complete before she agrees to a date. Or maybe gestures is a better way to phrase it... “I just have one question,” Garrett starts. “Really?” Tuck says. “Because I have many.” Sighing, I put my pen down. “Go ahead. Get it out of your systems.” Garrett crosses his arms. “This is for a chick, right? Because if you’re doing it for funsies, then that’s just plain weird.” “It’s for Grace,” I reply through clenched teeth. My best friend nods solemnly. Then he keels over. Asshole. I scowl as he clutches his side, his broad back shuddering with each bellowing laugh. And even while racked with laughter, he manages to pull his phone from his pocket and start typing. “What are you doing?” I demand. “Texting Wellsy. She needs to know this.” “I hate you.” I’m so busy glaring at Garrett that I don’t notice what Tucker’s up to until it’s too late. He snatches the notepad from the table, studies it, and hoots loudly. “Holy shit. G, he rhymed jackass with Cutlass.” “Cutlass?” Garrett wheezes. “Like the sword?” “The car,” I mutter. “I was comparing her lips to this cherry-red Cutlass I fixed up when I was a kid. Drawing on my own experience, that kind of thing.” Tucker shakes his head in exasperation. “You should have compared them to cherries, dumbass.” He’s right. I should have. I’m a terrible poet and I do know it. “Hey,” I say as inspiration strikes. “What if I steal the words to “Amazing Grace”? I can change it to…um…Terrific Grace.” “Yup,” Garrett cracks. “Pure gold right there. Terrific Grace.” I ponder the next line. “How sweet…” “Your ass,” Tucker supplies. Garrett snorts. “Brilliant minds at work. Terrific Grace, how sweet your ass.” He types on his phone again. “Jesus Christ, will you quit dictating this conversation to Hannah?” I grumble. “Bros before hos, dude.” “Call my girlfriend a ho one more time and you won’t have a bro.” Tucker chuckles. “Seriously, why are you writing poetry for this chick?” “Because I’m trying to win her back. This is one of her requirements.” That gets Garrett’s attention. He perks up, phone poised in hand as he asks, “What are the other ones?” “None of your fucking business.” “Golly gee, if you do half as good a job on those as you’re doing with this epic poem, then you’ll get her back in no time!” I give him the finger. “Sarcasm not appreciated.” Then I swipe the notepad from Tuck’s hand and head for the doorway. “PS? Next time either of you need to score points with your ladies? Don’t ask me for help. Jackasses.” Their wild laughter follows me all the way upstairs. I duck into my room and kick the door shut, then spend the next hour typing up the sorriest excuse for poetry on my laptop. Jesus. I’m putting more effort into this damn poem than for my actual classes.

Baby smuggling is a serious crime,' he said. 'There were thirty-six babies on that plane. We could charge you with thirty-six counts of kidnapping.' That, at least, got Second to look back at Mr. Reardon. 'Does FBI mean Federal Bureau of Idiots?' he asked. 'If any of you were any good at analyzing footprints, you would know that I fell when I was trying to sneak into the airport grounds, not out.' 'And why would you do that?' Mr. Reardon asked, hunching forward over a notepad. 'It was a dare, all right?' Second snarled. 'I was with my friends and we were talking about what it would be like to stand on a runway when a plane was landing and...we decided to try it out.' 'That's a crime too,' Mr. Reardon said. Second shrugged. 'It ain't thirty-six counts of kidnapping,' he said.

By 2020, the flat panel displays will likely come in a variety of forms. They will be miniaturized to work as wristwatch screens and may be added to eyeglasses or key chains. Eventually, they will become so cheap they will be everywhere: on the backs of airplane seats, in photo albums, in elevators, on notepads, on billboards, on the sides of buses and trains. They may one day be as common as paper.

Since you haven’t got a name,” he said. “I guess you can pick one for yourself. Would you like to pick one for me to write down?” She stopped rocking and looked at him. “I can do that? It’s legal and everything?” He smiled. “It’s a free country again,” he said. “At least in theory.” She nodded. “And when I pick a name it can be any name I want?” He nodded. “What’s your name?” “Victor,” he said. “Vic, for short.” “Okay,” she said, leaning forward and taking the pad from under his large thing hands. “How do you spell that?” He spelled it and she wrote it down. Her handwriting was perfectly small and legible. “Can I be Victor, too?” she said, looking up from the pad. He smirked. “It’s a boy’s name,” he said. “You’re a girl. You have to add an i and an a to the end if you want to make it a girl’s name.” She looked down at the name she had written and added the letters i and a to the end. “Victoria,” she said, passing the notepad back to the cop. “Hello, Victoria,” he said, smiling, taking the pad and pen back and presenting his hand for a shake. “It’s nice to meet you, officially.

Bowman immediately went to work, writing furiously in his notepad. A staff colonel asked what he was doing, and the major said, “I’m making a wish list.” If he’d read the scene correctly, he said, “We are going to get called in to see General Tolson in about fifteen minutes, and we’re about to get everything we need.

Why do you love Crown?” Nona thought about it. “She has lovely hair. And when she hugs you she smells like cinnamon, and her breasts feel nice, and she’s pretty.” Palamedes looked at her and then took the notepad out of Camilla’s capacious pockets. Nona despaired: there was always a tick somewhere if she mentioned breasts.

I'm not sure if people understand what it means to be a writer. It's not like it feels so great. I mean, most of the time you are sitting at your desk and bleeding out onto your computer screen, your notepad, your notebook... there's a lot of bleeding that goes on when you're a writer! You don't just work to sell books, you work to bind your wounds and put your skin back together again after opening yourself up all over the place! I don't know how other writers write... but this is how I write.

I already knew what I’d research. I wrote the words ‘Courtly love’ on my notepad in swirly script, then caught Hayden peering at it. ‘Courtly love? Sorry, Aurora, but I think I’ve already got that one in the bag.’ ‘I think you’d better think again, because I’ve already claimed it,’ I replied. ‘You just said you’re not the Mills & Boon type and, technically, courtly love could be considered historical romance.’ He grinned. ‘As you don’t want to pollute your mind with any clichéd topics, you should probably leave that one to me.’ ‘You, discussing romance? Ha!’ Hayden put on a hurt face. ‘I think I might be alright at it. After all, I’ve been doing a lot of observing lately.’ He gave me a significant look. ‘Observing?’ I repeated, curiosity getting the better of me. ‘Well, you keep accusing me of spying on your dates,’ he said, and shrugged. ‘So, technically, I guess I’m learning about romance firsthand. It seems kind of brutal, judging from the goodnight ritual I saw last night.’ My blood wasn’t boiling, but it was pretty warm. Despite that, I was not going to lose my temper. I was determined that this year Hayden Paris wasn’t going to destroy my composure.

I know I miss a lot of life by being on my phone all the time (that’s the point). But out here in nature, I feel bad about not paying attention. I decide that for the rest of the hike, I will not use the Internet or text with anyone. I’m only allowed to use my phone as a notepad to record what I see around me. I am going to notice things.

SUGA explains what was behind the lyrics of “Born Singer”: ______I remember in the week after we debuted, Bang Si-Hyuk said, “We should make a record of how we feel right now,” “We should make it into a song.” He said that, as time went by, we wouldn’t remember these emotions. So when we were at the broadcasting station, I wrote down the lyrics on a notepad.

Writing to her, I was no longer lonely... I could tolerate anything as long as I had a notepad and a pen and could pour my heart out to her in these letters.

Her pen moved across her notepad at warp speed and I found myself wondering what she could possibly be writing and I hadn’t said a word.

notepad

Ideas, tasks, and insights only have value when you capture and then act on them. Keeping notepads everywhere has helped me hold on to a ton of them.

remembered him using the same notepad when

Good. Excellent example,” says Haymitch. He takes a purple marker and writes on a notepad. “Volunteered for sister at reaping

As an author of quotes, I have a high consumption of notepads.

If your screen stays blank or your notepad empty, God cannot use your words.

When I was born, god scattered me endlessly across the universe. I often find myself in notepads and sticky notes, in the margins of used novels and in the scribbles of bathroom stalls. When I recognize a piece as myself, I am delighted. And no matter how odd or unsettling I find the new fragment to be, I braid it into myself without a doubt that it belongs to me.

I look down and see my hands uncapping the pen, turning the notepad right-side up on my knees. My mouth is dry, my stomach is in knots, my life is over, my heart is broken. I start to write.

Tears ran down my mother’s cheeks and dripped loudly onto the leather purse she held in her lap. The woman next to her patted her hand. I slipped my notepad from my jacket pocket and began scribbling notes to one side until my mother slapped her hand on mine and hissed, “You are being disrespectful and embarrassing. Stop or I will make you leave.” I quit writing but kept the pad out, feeling stabbingly defiant. But still blushing.

One of the quips Reagan scribbled on a notepad after waking up after surgery was Winston Churchill’s famous line from his autobiography My Early Life that “there is no more exhilarating feeling than being shot at without result.

The man shoved a tongue depressor down his throat. Just as it started to tickle and would have made him cough, the doctor pulled it out of his mouth. “You have no gag reflex,” the doctor said scribbling on a notepad. “No reflex, huh?” John said with a salacious grin. “I could show you why that is.” The doctor tried to straight face it but failed. He was clearly disgusted. Maybe he'd pushed it a little too far. “They’ll beat that out of you in the brig." “No, I assure you, they won’t. But they’ll try.

I slipped my notepad from my jacket pocket and began scribbling notes to one side until my mother slapped her hand on mine and hissed, “You are being disrespectful and embarrassing. Stop or I will make you leave.” I quit writing but kept the pad out, feeling stabbingly defiant. But still blushing.

The boss had a long list of reasons for letting me go--most of which, I am ashamed to admit, were generously understated. It's true, for instance, that I hogged the photocopier for hours on end and snapped at whoever politely--deferentially--inquired about how much longer I would be. I was intent on achieving definitively sooty, penumbral effects to ensure that copies looked like copies, and that, of course, took time. Some days I spent entire afternoons reproducing blank sheets of paper, ream after ream, to use instead of the "FROM THE DESK OF--" notepads the boss kept ordering for each of us.

He (Brett) handed her the drink over her shoulder. She looked up and smiled, saying thanks. The table was covered with notepads and pens. And when he sat down across from her, she reached in her bag and brought out a pair of glasses. His body froze, hand clutched around his drink. Naughty librarian daydream come to life. Oh, good Christ.

It seemed to calm me, getting anything that might be chaotic behind the eyes onto the page in front of me where it could do me less harm. Along the lines of the saying, "Better out than in," though that refers to vomit. Maybe more like, "Better an empty house than an unhappy tenant." Not that writing on my notepads managed to actually empty my mind—though some would argue—but I was grateful to relieve the overflow.

I am having nightmares about sitting my exams naked,’ Franz said with an earnest expression as he sat down across from them. ‘Most disturbing.’ ‘If it’s any consolation I have nightmares about Franz sitting exams naked too,’ Shelby whispered to Laura. ‘One’s where I’m sat at the desk right behind his.’ ‘Oh, thanks very much for that mental image. Especially when I’m trying to concentrate,’ Laura said. ‘Thing is,’ Shelby whispered, ‘in the dream he’s really nervous because of the exam and so he’s sweating a lot.’ ‘OK, I am really not listening to you any more,’ Laura said, grimacing. ‘It gets worse because then he . . .’ Shelby leant over and whispered something in Laura’s ear. ‘Is Laura OK?’ Wing asked Otto quietly on the other side of the cluster of desks. ‘She appears to have suddenly gone quite pale.’ Otto looked over at Laura who was now repeatedly hitting Shelby with one of her notepads. Shelby meanwhile was laughing uncontrollably at the look of pure disgust on Laura’s face. ‘Shelby Trinity, there is something seriously wrong with you,’ Laura said, shaking her head. ‘You know, I am thinking Laura is struggling to be coping with the stress of the exams,’ Franz said sadly as he watched Laura rubbing at her temples as if desperately trying to erase something from her brain.

I decided to channel my inner “smart reporter” so I would feel more confident. A pencil behind the ear for emergency notes and flair? Check. Shimmery Savvy Girl lip gloss? Check. Spearmint-fresh breath for interviews? Check. Notepad for capturing my brilliant thoughts (and awesome doodles)? Check. Intellectual-looking and slightly uncomfortable pumps? Check. I was trying my hardest to be a sassy, journalistic girl genius and NOT the slightly illiterate writer I felt like inside.

He could see JB's love for him in his paintings of him. He remembered one summer in Truro, watching JB sketch, and he had known from the expression on JB's face, his little smile, and the lingering, delicate way his large forearm moved over the page, that he was drawing something he treasured, something that was dear to him. "What're you drawing" he'd asked, and JB had turned to him, and held up the notepad, and he had seen it was a picture of him, of his face. Oh, JB, he thought. Oh, I will miss you.

He walked out and closed the door. Linda had the feeling that she was imprisoned, not with a lock and key, but by the imposed time limit. She decided to write down what she was going to say in a note-book, and pulled one across the table towards her. When she flipped it open she was confronted with a bad sketch of a seductively posed naked woman. To her surprise she saw it was Martinsson’s notepad. But why should that surprise me? she thought. All the men I know spend an enormous amount of mental energy undressing women in their minds.

You married, Zig?“ I asked him. "Yeah, twenty-one years.” He actually glanced at his wedding ring as he said it. “You?” I looked down at my bare left hand. I’d never had the compulsion to do that before. How lame. “I’m, uh… .” Great, I couldn’t say it. But I had to. The longer I waited, the worse my anxiety would be. And I couldn’t imagine it feeling any worse than it did already. “I’m moving in with someone. Just as soon as we find a place that’s not haunted.” Say it, Vic. Damn it. Tell him. “That a common problem, spirit activity in a …?” “Jacob Marks. From the Twelfth. You know him? I’m moving in with him.” Zig almost did a spit-take. The color drained from his ruddy cheeks, leaving him a strange shade of gray. His already-bulging eyes bulged even more. And then a barrier slammed down somewhere behind them and he pressed his lips together hard. Shit. I’d thought I was up for the conversation, but evidently I was a much bigger pussy than I realized. My stomach clenched up and I fought the urge to tell Zig I was just kidding, and laugh, and give him a hearty, heterosexual clap on the back. God, I hate confrontation. I steeled myself for the tirade that was sure to come. The one where I was a drug addict, a shitty cop, and a miserable excuse for a human being. Zig blinked. He cleared his throat. “Marks,” he said. “Sure. We’ve met.” And then he looked back at his notepad with every ounce of attention he had.

I doubted it, but perhaps I was wrong. I wished, then, that I could go with Tim-quit my job at the record store, just take off and go. Maybe never return. Stay in Israel forever. Become a citizen. Convert to Judaism. If they'd have me. Tim could probably swing it. Maybe in Israel I'd stop mixing metaphors and remembering poems. Maybe my mind would give up trying to solve problems in terms of recycled words. Used phrases, bits ripped from here and there: fragments from my days at Cal in which I had memorized but not understood, understood but not applied, applied but never successfully. A spectator to the destruction of my friends, I said to myself; one who records on a notepad the names of those who die, and did not manage to save any of them, not even one

The next day, muscles sore but spirits reinvigorated, we were asked to come to a big hangar. We assumed we would be issued our personal weapons but no weapons were to be seen. Instead we were given a pocket-size notepad and a pen with a string to attach to our shirt pocket. “This,” the commander said, “is one of your most important weapons. Write down every task you are assigned to do, and don’t tear off the page until every task is accomplished.” Half a century later, I haven’t shaken that habit. Every day I still write down tomorrow’s tasks and cross off what got done from yesterday’s list. Following through on details is not a pedantic compulsion. I know of no other way to get things done. Most of the people I have known who achieve big goals follow up on small details. The

Christmas Cookie Bonanza?” “Christmas Cookie Bonanza,” I confirm. “You’re making my favorite, right?” Josh gives me puppy-dog eyes, which always makes me laugh, because it’s so un-Josh. “You’re such a dork,” I say, shaking my head. “What’s your favorite?” Peter asks him. “Because I think the list is pretty set.” “I’m pretty sure it’s already on the list,” Josh says. I look from Josh to Peter. I can’t tell if they’re kidding or not. Peter reaches out and tickles Kitty’s feet. “Read us the list, Katherine.” Kitty giggles and rolls over to her notepad. Then she stands up and grandly says, “M&M cookies are a yes, cappuccino cookies are a maybe, Creamsicle cookies are a maybe, fruitcake cookies are a no way--” “Wait a minute, I’m a part of this council too,” Peter objects, “and you guys just turned down my fruitcake cookies without a second thought.” “You said to forget the fruitcake cookies, like, five seconds ago!” I say. “Well, now I want them back under consideration,” he says. “I’m sorry, but you don’t have the votes,” I tell him. “Kitty and I both vote no, so that’s two against one.” My dad pops his head into the living room. “Put me down as a yes vote for the fruitcake cookies.” His head disappears back into the kitchen. “Thank you, Dr. Covey,” Peter crows. He drags me closer to him. “See, I knew your dad was on my side.” I laugh. “You’re such a suck-up!” And then I look over at Josh, and he is staring at us with a funny, left-out look on his face. It makes me feel bad, that look. I scoot away from Peter and start flipping through my books again. I tell him, “The list is still a work in progress. The cookie council will strongly consider your white-chocolate cranberry cookies.” “Greatly appreciated,” Josh says. “Christmas isn’t Christmas without your white-chocolate cranberry cookies.” Kitty pipes up, “Hey, Josh, you’re a suck-up too.” Josh grabs her and tickles her until she’s laughing so hard she has tears in her eyes.

Have either of you seen…” But who do I want to talk to, Christina or Tobias? “Four?” Caleb says, decided for me. “I saw him in the genealogy room earlier.” “The…what room?” “They have our ancestors’ names on display in a room. Can I get a piece of paper?” he asks Peter. Peter tears a sheet from the back of his notepad and hands it to Caleb, who scribbles something on it--directions. Caleb says, “I found our parents’ names there earlier. On the right side of the room, second panel from the door.” He hands me the directions without looking at me. I look at his neat, even letters. Before I punched him, Caleb would have insisted on walking me himself, desperate for time to explain himself to me. But recently he has kept his distance, either because he’s afraid of me or because he has finally given up. Neither option makes me feel good. “Thank you,” I say. “Um…how’s your nose?” “It’s fine,” he says. “I think the bruise really brings out my eyes, don’t you?” He smiles a little, and so do I. But it’s clear that neither of us knows what to do from here, because we’ve both run out of words.

The opponent seemed to shift slightly in the seat. His index finger tapped a card, just a couple strokes. There it was the card that ruined his hand. Her hazel eyes release the player across from her to steal a glance registering the emotion of observers around the table then to her best friend. Sophie looks like a Nervous Nelly-she, always worries. She knows the girl will put too much emphasis on a lost hand. The striking man with his lusty brown eyes tries to draw Sophie closer. Now that he has folded and left the game, he is unnecessary, and the seasoned flirt easily escapes his reach. He leaves with a scowl; Sophie turns and issues knowing wink. Ell’s focus is now unfettered, freeing her again to bring down the last player. When she wins this hand, she will smile sweetly, thank the boys for their indulgence, and walk away $700 ahead. The men never suspected her; she’s no high roller. She realizes she and Sophie will have to stay just a bit. Mill around and pay homage to the boy’s egos. The real trick will be leaving this joint alone without one of them trying to tag along. Her opponent is taking his time; he is still undecided as to what card to keep—tap, tap. He may not know, but she has an idea which one he will choose. He attempts to appear nonchalant, but she knows she has him cornered. She makes a quick glance for Mr. Lusty Brown-eyes; he has found a new dame who is much more receptive than Sophie had been. Good, that small problem resolved itself for them. She returns her focuses on the cards once more and notes, her opponent’s eyes have dilated a bit. She has him, but she cannot let the gathering of onlookers know. She wants them to believe this was just a lucky night for a pretty girl. Her mirth finds her eyes as she accepts his bid. From a back table, there is a ruckus indicating the crowd’s appreciation of a well-played game as it ends. Reggie knew a table was freeing up, and just in time, he did not want to waste this evening on the painted and perfumed blonde dish vying for his attention. He glances the way of the table that slowly broke up. He recognizes most of the players and searches out the winner amongst them. He likes to take on the victor, and through the crowd, he catches a glimpse of his goal, surprised that he had not noticed her before. The women who frequent the back poker rooms in speakeasies all dress to compete – loud colors, low bodices, jewelry which flashes in the low light. This dame faded into the backdrop nicely, wearing a deep gray understated yet flirty gown. The minx deliberately blended into the room filled with dark men’s suits. He chuckles, thinking she is just as unassuming as can be playing the room as she just played those patsies at the table. He bet she had sat down all wide-eyed with some story about how she always wanted to play cards. He imagined she offered up a stake that wouldn’t be large but at the same time, substantial enough. Gauging her demeanor, she would have been bold enough to have the money tucked in her bodice. Those boys would be eager after she teased them by retrieving her stake. He smiled a slow smile; he would not mind watching that himself. He knew gamblers; this one was careful not to call in the hard players, just a couple of marks, which would keep the pit bosses off her. He wants to play her; however, before he can reach his goal, the skirt slips away again, using her gray camouflage to aid her. Hell, it is just as well, Reggie considered she would only serve as a distraction and what he really needs is the mental challenge of the game not the hot release of some dame–good or not. Off in a corner, the pit boss takes out a worn notepad, his meaty hands deftly use a stub of a pencil to enter the notation. The date and short description of the two broads quickly jotted down for his boss Mr. Deluca. He has seen the pair before, and they are winning too often for it to be accidental or to be healthy.

So what do they do with their hands? Curiously, the most popular image of the listening psychoanalyst ascribes a notepad to them. When the New York department store Macy’s staged a window display of a psychoanalyst’s office in the 1950s, complete with patient on the couch, the analyst was depicted taking notes. Yet at that time this was by no means a habitual practice, and Edmund Bergler would swiftly publish an article about the myth of the note-taking analyst. Freud had advised against it, and in fact, a survey of analytic literature up to the present day shows that the single most common recorded practice for the listening psychoanalyst is not note-taking but knitting.

Assign a file or paper tray to collect single-side printed paper for reuse. Boycott paper sourced from virgin forests and reams sold in plastic. Cancel magazine and newspaper subscriptions; view them online instead. Digitize important receipts and documents for safekeeping. Digital files are valid proofs for tax purposes. Download CutePDF Writer to save online files without having to print them. Email invitations or greeting cards instead of printing them (see “Holidays and Gifts” chapter). Forage the recycling can when paper scraps are needed, such as for bookmarks or pictures (for school collages, for example). Give extra paper to the local preschool. Hack the page margins of documents to maximize printing. Imagine a paperless world. Join the growing paperless community. Kill the fax machine; encourage electronic faxing through a service such as HelloFax. Limit yourself to print only on paper that has already been printed on one side. Make online billing and banking a common practice. Nag the kids’ teachers to send home only important papers. Opt out of paper newsletters. Print on both sides when using a new sheet of paper (duplex printing). Question the need for printing; print only when absolutely necessary. In most cases, it is not. Repurpose junk mail envelopes—make sure to cross out any barcode. Sign electronically using the Adobe Acrobat signing feature or SignNow.com. Turn down business cards; enter relevant info directly into a smartphone. Use shredded paper as a packing material, single-printed paper fastened with a metal clip for a quick notepad (grocery lists, errands lists), and double-printed paper to wrap presents or pick up your dog’s feces. Visit the local library to read business magazines and books. Write on paper using a pencil, which you can then erase to reuse paper, or better yet, use your computer, cell phone, or erasable board instead of paper. XYZ: eXamine Your Zipper; i.e., your leaks: attack any incoming source of paper.

p2 I'd seen a photo of the actual red and white checked notebook that was Anne [Frank]'s first diary. I longed to own a similar notebook. Stationery was pretty dire back in the late fifties and early sixties. There was no such thing as Paperchase. I walked round and round the stationery counter in Woolworths and spent most of my pocket money on notebooks, but they weren't strong on variety. You could have shiny red sixpenny notebooks, lined inside, with strange maths details about rods and poles and perches on the back. (I never found out what they were!) Then you could have shiny blue sixpenny notebooks. That was your lot. I was enchanted to read in Dodie Smith's novel I Capture The Castle that the heroine, Cassandra, was writing her diary in a similar sixpenny notebook. She eventually progressed to a shilling notebook. My Woolworths rarely stocked such expensive luxuries. Then, two thirds of the way through the book, Cassandra is given a two-guinea red leather manuscript book. I lusted after that fictional notebook for years. I told my mother, Biddy. She rolled her eyes. It could have cost two hundred guineas - both were way out of our league... My dad, Harry, was a civil servant. One of the few perks of his job was that he had an unlimited illegal supply of notepads watermarked SO - Stationery Office. I'd drawn on these pads for years, I'd scribbled stories, I'd written letters. They were serviceable but unexciting: thin cream paper unreliably bound with glue at the top. You couldn't write a journal with these notepads; it would fall apart in days... My spelling wasn't too hot. It still isn't. Thank goodness for the spellcheck on my computer!

Thomson’s tidal solution was something like the inverse of Bush’s lawnmower. The surveying machine would read the land’s data of hills and dips and even manhole covers and output a graph; the tide machine invented by Thomson and his brother, which they christened the harmonic analyzer, took a graph as input. The operator stood before a long, open wooden box resting on eight legs, a steel pointer and a hand crank protruding from its innards. With his right hand, he took hold of the pointer and traced a graph of water levels, months’ data on high tides and low; with his left, he steadily turned the crank that turned the oiled gears in the casket. Inside, eleven little cranks rotated at their own speeds, each isolating one of the simple functions that added up to the chaotic tide. At the end, their gauges displayed eleven little numbers—the average water level, the pull of the moon, the pull of the sun, and so on—that together filled in the equation to state the tides. All of it, in principle, could be ground out by human hands on a notepad—but, said Thomson, this was “calculation of so methodical a kind that a machine ought to be found to do it.

Instead you might consider adopting a simple routine: 1. Keep a notepad at your bedside. 2. Every morning, when you wake up, or every night, when you go to bed, use the notepad to list five things that happened the day before that you’re grateful for. These objects of gratitude occasionally will be big (a job promotion, a great first date), but most of the time, they will be small (sunlight streaming in through the bedroom window, a kind word from a friend, a piece of swordfish cooked just the way you like it, an informative article in a magazine). 3. You will probably feel a little silly and even self-conscious when you start doing this. But if you keep it up, you will find that it gets easier and easier, more and more natural. You also may find yourself discovering many things to be grateful for on even the most ordinary of days. Finally, you may find yourself feeling better and better about your life as it is, and less and less driven to find the “new and improved” products and activities that will enhance it.

notepad

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3 Proven Method for Rapid Weight Gain Looking for a healthy and balanced technique of quick weight gain for the following stage of your physical fitness strategy ? Fast weight gain is feasible via just all-natural techniques. Also if you believe you are consuming sufficient to get weight, you might not also be making up for the additional calories shed by your exercise. A weight loss (or gain, in this instance) calculator will certainly take your dimensions, physical task degree, and also preferred weight to provide you a needed calorie consumption each day. Lots of individuals believe they require to exercise extra in order to attain fast weight gain. However, that breaks down the muscle mass without providing the body a possibility to restore itself. Looking for a healthy and balanced approach to fast weight gain for the following stage of your physical fitness strategy? There are rather a couple of weight gainer tablets out there, however exactly how do you understand which ones are healthy and balanced? Fast weight gain is feasible via just all-natural techniques. A weight loss (or gain, in this situation) calculator will certainly take your dimensions, physical task degree, as well as preferred weight to offer you a needed calorie consumption each day. Integrating this with your online tracking website allows you rapidly as well as quickly see if you are fulfilling your calorie objectives for the day. Trying to find weight gain pills for females? Check out this page weightgainofficial dot com There are changes you could make while you are in the fitness centre to speed up your weight gain. Considerably overwhelming a details muscle mass team with enhancing quantities of weight will certainly optimize your gains in dimension from one exercise to the following. Numerous individuals believe they require to exercise extra in order to attain fast weight gain, however that just breaks down the muscular tissues without providing the body a possibility to reconstruct itself. Usage of the internet calorie checking devices and also weight loss calculators to establish objectives as well as track your development. You had to look up every food in a calorie publication and also compose down your computations in a notepad. Currently, you could conveniently input the food you simply consumed right into an online calorie counting website as well as it will certainly look up the calories for you. This might appear like an apparent pointer, yet problem obtaining weight typically suggests you are not consuming anywhere near sufficient food. Also if you assume you are consuming sufficient to acquire weight, you might not also be making up for the added calories shed by your exercise. Many individuals undervalue the large quantity of calories required to acquire also one extra pound.

If you want me to believe you about not wanting me to fuck you raw, you should probably stop looking at me like that. Like you’re already mine,” he said, his eyes still focused on his notepad. I looked away,

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Then came Dani’s turn to read a question. “‘Who’s in charge in the bedroom?’” Much to the group’s amusement, none of them got a match, and Sean didn’t think they would either as he held up his notepad. “‘I am, since I carry the big stick.’” Emma read hers with a remarkably straight face. “‘Sean, because he has a magic penis.’” “Wow. Um…so Sean and Emma have a point,” Dani said as the men nearly pissed themselves laughing. No way in hell was he leaving that unpunished, and he winked at Emma when Kevin read the next question. “‘Where’s the kinkiest place you’ve had sex?’” The fact that Joe and Keri had done the dirty deed on the back of his ATV led to a few questions about the logistics of that, but then it was Emma’s turn. “‘In bed, because Sean has no imagination.’” Roger threw an embarrassed wince his way, but his cousins weren’t shy about laughing their asses off. Sean just shrugged and held up his notepad. “In the car in the mall parking lot. Emma’s lying because she doesn’t want anybody to know being watched turns her on.” Her jaw dropped, but she recovered quickly and gave him a sweet smile that didn’t jibe with the “you are so going to get it” look in her eyes. Beth asked the next question. “‘Women, where does your man secretly dream of having sex?’” Keri knew Joe wanted to have sex in the reportedly very haunted Stanley Hotel, from King’s The Shining. Dani claimed Roger wanted to do the deed on a Caribbean beach, but he said that was her fantasy and that his was to have sex in an igloo. No amount of heckling would get him to say why. And when it came to Kevin, even Sean knew he dreamed of getting laid on the pitcher’s mound at Fenway Park. Then, God help him, it was Emma’s turn to show her answer. “‘In a Burger King bathroom.’” The room felt silent until Dani said, “Ew. Really?” “No, not really,” Sean growled. “Really,” Emma said over him. “He knows that’s the only way he can slip me a whopper.” As the room erupted in laughter, Sean knew humor was the only way they’d get through the evening with their secret intact, but he didn’t find that one very funny, himself. It was the final answer that really did him in, though. The question: “If your sex had a motto, what would it be?” Joe and Keri’s was, not surprisingly, Don’t wake the baby Kevin and Beth wrote, Better than chocolate cake, whatever that was supposed to mean. Dani wrote, Gets better with time, like fine wine, and Roger wrote, Like cheese, the older you get, the better it is, which led to a powwow about whether or not to give them a point. They probably would have gotten it if they weren’t tied with Keri and Joe, who took competitive to a cutthroat level. When they all looked at Sean, he groaned and turned his paper around. They’d lost any chance of winning way back, but he was already dreading what the smart-ass he wasn’t really engaged to had written down. “‘She’s the boss.’” The look Emma gave him as she slowly turned the notepad around gave him advance warning she was about to lay down the royal flush in this little game they’d been playing. “Size really doesn’t matter,” she said in what sounded to him like a really loud voice. Before he could say anything—and he had no idea what was going to come out of his mouth, but he had to say something--Cat appeared at the top of the stairs. “I hate to break up the party,” she said, “but it’s getting late, so we’re calling it a night.” Maybe Cat was, but Sean was just getting started.

Stomach issues aren’t typical. But let me do some research.” Trexler scribbles on a notepad. “What about breathing problems? That’s usually what we see in cases of methane contamination.” “She has asthma,” Shelby says. Trexler’s face lights. “There’s a known connection between asthma and methane migration.

The humidity in particular had been like nothing he’d ever encountered. Mel, trying to take notes for his article, had had to give it up. First, the ink from his gel pen wouldn’t dry on the page, but ran down it in streaks instead. Then, when he’d borrowed a pencil from Scofield, the point tore through the limp sheets. And as the last straw, by the end of the first hour, the glue in the binding of his notepad had liquefied and the pages had come apart in his hand.

Alerted by the door’s subtle chime, Dr. Ricard emerged from an interior room. She had shoulder-length silver hair that didn’t match her youthful face. Square black glasses, minimal makeup, black knit pants with a deep-cut black-and-white silk top—Ricard was an odd mixture of hippie and hip. She couldn’t be more than forty, but Taylor wasn’t very good with ages. Ricard crossed the room and held out her hand. Taylor shook it, then followed when the doctor gestured, leading the way into her inner sanctum. The room was filled with sunlight—facing east, the early morning sun spilled through the windows, lending an air of good cheer to the surroundings. Two heavy couches faced one another across a second art deco glass coffee table; a large wing chair covered in black velvet bore the markings of frequent use. Sure enough, Ricard crossed the room, curled like a cat with her feet tucked under her, laid the notepad and pen on the coffee table and indicated Taylor should sit with a nod of her head. Taylor did, amazed at the control the woman exuded without even speaking. After a moment, the doctor spoke, her accented voice making Taylor feel like she was on a museum tour in Great Britain.

spring and summer. Not this one. He continued a quarter mile through heavy scrub oak, pine, and aspen. At a bend to the left, a light shimmered in the tree branches. Buzz drove toward it, onto a gravel drive leading to a double-wide. Before he’d parked, a man pushed out the front door and descended three wooden stairs, crossing a dirt yard cluttered with unstacked firewood, scrap metal, and an empty clothesline. Buzz checked the name he’d jotted on his pocket notepad and got out. The air, smelling of pine, was heavy with the weight of impending snow. First of the season. His girls would be excited. The ground, starting

took out a notepad, and seemed ready to pounce on everything laid on the table. Half an hour later,

This.” He pointed to himself, then to me. “You’re supposed to help me. Why aren’t you? I’m supposed to be stronger, steadier, more in control. That’s what you promised you’d do. Help me be better. I need to be stronger if she’s going to stay with me, but I’m just as weak as I was before.” Blame. I wrote this down, the notepad held at an angle so he couldn’t see it. “I never promised anything, Tyler. Any progress you make is because of the work you complete. I can only offer suggestions. If you don’t follow my advice, there’s not much I can do.

steps that you need to follow: Reversing assumptions: Earlier, you did the exercise of reversing the assumption. In that exercise, after writing down the opposite statement. You asked yourself, “Why might it be true?” and “How can I make these ideas happen”? When you answer these questions, you find new frames. How many new frames did you find earlier? Please list them down. Now do the same exercise one more time. Try to find a few more new frames. What is your total now? Changing your questions: Like above, earlier at the end of the chapter, “Change Your Frame, Change Your Game”, you did the exercise of finding new frames by changing your question. How many new frames did you find earlier? Please list them down. Now do the same exercise one more time. Here you can use the technique of “wearing different hats” to your advantage. Try to find a few more new frames. The more the hats of different people you wear, the more frames you can discover. What is your total now? Random Words Technique: In this chapter, by using the random word “bicycle”, we created 11 frames, and after connecting the diverse dots from different frames, we created 5 more frames. So, with one random word, we could generate 16 frames. By following the same technique, how many random words would you need to create One hundred frames? You can use as many random words as you can to generate the maximum number of frames. Adding dots to the frames: As seen in this chapter, it is easy to add dots (ideas) to reach the magic figure of one hundred once you have enough frames. Allow your mind to wander: You have understood how our subconscious mind feeds us with ideas. At any point in time, you feel that the task has become too daunting for you, allow your mind to wander. When it comes back, it will bring a few golden nuggets (more frames) for you. Flex your ideas muscle: You have built strong ideas muscle by doing so many exercises after every chapter. It’s time to demand more from it. Sleep on your challenge: After a night’s sleep, your subconscious mind will not let you stop at one hundred ideas. It will keep on bringing you more and more. Always keep your notepad and pen ready.

I’m annoyed by his tone—smug, self-satisfied. I can picture him writing in his notepad, hand hurrying across the page to describe my silence.

What kind of reader are you?” I asked, notepad in hand. “I liked maths in school. Numbers always made more sense than people. That’s why my favorite books are by the ancient Greeks: Pythagoras and Heraclitus. We’re still using their work, their ideas. “I’m not like Boris and Miss Reeder. I’m not good with the public.” She slid a fourth pencil into her hair. “But I hope that in some small way, my contribution here matters. For over a decade, I’ve filled entire books with tales of generous donors and knowledgeable staff who work long hours, only I write vertical columns instead of horizontal lines.

So you’re a nun now, Elizabeth?” Elizabeth nods quickly, raising a finger to acknowledge that this is a good question. “Donna, like any modern woman, I am any number of things, as and when the need arises. We have to be chameleons, don’t we?” She takes a notepad and pen from an inside coat pocket and places them on the table. “But Joyce takes the credit for that one.

The train of thought went like this: I scribbled down the most "sophisticated" foods I could think of. Foie gras. Truffles. Expensive wine. Caviar. Ibérico ham. The one that struck a chord with my Jewish brain was caviar. Caviar served with blinis, little pancakes hailing from eastern Europe. In Russia they served blinis with caviar and sour cream. But even if I could make a hundred and fifteen blinis in the time allowed (since we had to make a few extras for beauty shots and mistakes), I couldn't just serve them with caviar and sour cream. That wasn't transformative enough. Original enough. What else was served with blinis? I tapped my pen thoughtfully against my Chef Supreme notepad. We were getting to the end of our planning session, and the way the others around me were nodding and whispering to themselves was making me nervous. Sadie, they all know exactly what they're doing, and you don't, I thought to myself. And then I nodded, confirming it. Jam. Blinis were served sweet-style with jam. But even if I made my own jam, that wouldn't be enough. I needed a wow factor. What if... what if I made sweet blinis, but disguised them as savory blinis? Ideas ran through my head as we were driven to the grocery store. I wasn't hugely into molecular gastronomy, but even I knew how to take a liquid or an oil and turn it into small gelatinous pearls not unlike fish eggs. I could take jam, thin it out, and turn it into caviar. Then what would be my sour cream? A sweetened mascarpone whip? And then I needed something to keep all the sweetness from becoming overwhelming. I'd have to make the jam nice and tart. And maybe add a savory element. A fried sage leaf? That would be interesting...

But for all the colour of his character, his reputation was earned and maintained through his genius. There is a lovely story published in a 1965 issue of Life magazine that suggests just how highly respected he was. Henry Ford's fledgling car manufacturing company was once having trouble with one of the generators that powered the production line. They called Steinmetz in to consult on the problem and he solved it by lying down in the room where the generator was housed. For two days and nights he listened to its operation, scribbling calculations on a notepad. Eventually he got up, climbed up on the giant machine, and marked a point on the side with a chalk cross. He descended and told the engineers to replace sixteen of the generator's wire coils, the ones behind his chalk mark. They did what they were told, turned the generator back on, and discovered to their utter astonishment that it now worked perfectly. That story alone would be alone would be enough, but it gets better. From their headquarters in Schenectady, New York, General Electric sent forth a $10,000 dollar invoice for Steinmetz's services. Ford queried the astronomical sum, asking for a breakdown of the costs. Steinmetz replied personally. His itemized bill said, "Making chalk mark on generator: $1.00. Knowing where to make mark: $9,999.00" Apparently the bill was paid without further delay.

liked that. He made a note, using a blue pen on a small notepad he had started carrying around

Make a bug list: Every minute of every day, we come into contact with people and situations, some of which somehow seem suboptimal. When I first moved to the United Kingdom more than 20 years ago, I wondered why most bathroom sinks had separate spigots for hot water and cold water. Why not let mixed hot and cold water—adjusted to just the right temperature—be mixed within the faucet instead of in the bowl? My advice is that you carry with you a notepad (or use an app on your phone) and make note of everything you encounter that “bugs you”—that is, could be done better.

What can I get you guys?” I asked, pulling out my small notepad that I took orders on.  As if on cue, all four of them slammed their menus down onto the table, and Ford tapped his fingers over the top of it. “For you to be our fake girlfriend, too.” My jaw fell open, and I looked over at Theo. He threw his hands up before showing off his gleaming-white teeth. “I told them you were mine.” I lowered my voice, leaning into his space. “I’m not your fake girlfriend, Theo.” “So, you’re my real girlfriend?”  “I could slap you,” I mumbled.

We don’t want your stupid birth right,” Roxy muttered bitterly before trying to jerk her hand out of my grip. But she was going to have to try harder than that if she expected to break free of a Dragon's strength and I smirked at her before tugging her right back. She gasped as I knocked her off balance in her towering heels and in the next moment, her ass landed in my lap and the beast in me raised its head in contentment as I claimed the treasure I'd been aching for. Mine. Caleb met my gaze with an irritated scowl and I gave him a taunting grin as I wound an arm around her waist and repositioned her so that her ass was firmly seated on my crotch and her side pressed to my chest. I laughed as she gripped my thigh in an attempt to balance herself better and her back arched against me at the sound, giving me even more ideas I shouldn't have been indulging in over her. But that was damn hard with her round ass currently grinding against my cock and giving it plenty of encouragement. “Drink with us,” I insisted, moving my mouth to her ear and feeling her shiver as my stubble grazed her neck. I waved at the bartender through the glass window beside us and the girl who had assigned herself as our personal bartender for the night nodded to show she'd seen me. “I swear we won’t lay a finger on you unless you want us to," I added to Roxy in a low voice, letting my mouth graze against her ear for the briefest moment and loving the way I felt her body react to that despite her trying to hide it. “Well I didn’t want you to drag me into your lap but that didn’t seem to stop you,” she muttered, but she wasn't going anywhere and I wasn't holding her tight enough to force her to stay if she didn't want to. I laughed again and she glanced up at me from beneath dark lashes like she wasn't sure what to make of me when I wasn't scowling and working to intimidate her. I could feel Caleb's attention still on us and I suppressed a growl as he moved closer to us, reaching out to brush his fingers against her arm, despite the fact that I'd clearly beat him to claiming her tonight. Asshole. “I’ll even promise not to bite you tonight if you want?” he offered and I scowled at him while he flipped me off behind her back where no one else could see. I was going to punch him for that later. Roxy looked across the table to her sister, the two of them entering into some kind of silent twin communication and I took the opportunity to slip my Atlas from my pocket and shoot Lance a quick message. Darius: The Vegas just showed up here looking terrified and saying something was chasing them. They said they heard a rattle too. Lance: Stay with them. Keep them safe and I'll scout the area with Francesca. I wasn't going to complain about staying as close as I needed to to the girl currently perched on my ever more solid cock, so I slipped my Atlas back in my pocket and turned my attention back to the girls. “I guess we could stay for one drink,” Gwen said hesitantly as Max stroked her arm, his gifts pushing against all of us as he worked to make them feel amenable to the idea. I shifted Roxy on my lap before she got a really clear idea about how much I wanted her to stay from the feeling of my cock trying to punch a hole in the ass of her jeans and she released a shaky breath as my skin brushed against hers. “One drink then,” she agreed finally and I relaxed as I got what I wanted just as easily as that. The bartender appeared with a smile and a notepad ready to take our order and Seth perked up with a look in his eyes which promised he would be getting utterly shit faced tonight. “Better make it a big one then if you’ll only stay for one,” Seth said as he ordered for all of us. I leaned back in my chair, pulling Roxy closer so that I could steal a moment with her for myself and brushing her hair away from her ear so that I could speak to her alone.(Darius POV)

I told you I’ve obsessed over you. Did you think that meant writing your name over and over in a notepad and drawing little hearts around it?

I spend most of my Mondays with blood. I am a hematologist by training. I study blood and treat blood diseases, including cancers and precancers of white blood cells. On Monday, I arrive much earlier than my patients, when the morning light is still aslant across the black slate of the lab benches. I close the shutters and peer through the microscope at blood smears. A droplet of blood has been spread across a glass slide, to make a film of single cells, each stained with special dyes. The slides are like previews of books, or movie trailers. The cells will begin to reveal the stories of the patients even before I see them in person. I sit by the microscope in the darkened room, a notepad by my side, and whisper to myself as I go through the slides. It’s an old habit; a passerby might well consider me unhinged. Each time I examine a slide, I mumble out the method that my hematology professor in medical school, a tall man with a perpetually leaking pen in his pocket, taught me: “Divide the main cellular components of blood. Red cell. White cell. Platelet. Examine each cell type separately. Write what you observe about each type. Move methodically. Number, color, morphology, shape, size.” It is, by far, the favorite time of my day at work. Number, color, morphology, shape, size. I move methodically. I love looking at cells, in the way that a gardener loves looking at plants—not just the whole but also the parts within the parts: the leaves, the fronds, the precise smell of loam around a fern, the way the woodpecker has bored into the high branches of a tree. Blood speaks to me—but only if I pay attention.

But much more important than that, only one in “I don’t know how many thousands” will take a large notepad, write the problem at the top of the page, and then deliberately turn on his thinking apparatus.

you forget to save in the right encoding, you may be able to fix it, as follows. When you get an Jutoh error indicating an encoding problem (or the file doesn’t show properly in the finished book or the editor), open the file in an encoding-savvy application such as Programmer’s Notepad. It should auto-detect the encoding, which

When I stay silent, too stunned to answer, he says gently, “I told you I’ve obsessed over you. Did you think that meant writing your name over and over in a notepad and drawing little hearts around it?” “Please hold. I’m feeling queasy.