Ouch Life Quotes

My whole life I've wondered what it feels like to be loved like that. To be loved more.

Life is always going to be a series of ouch-making moments, and the question was, was I going to go all fetal position, or was I going to woman up? I went into fetal position on the bed to think about this. Fetal position turned out to be very comfortable.

For the first time in my life I was admitting defeat.

Unfortunately, when the roots are pruned, the brain-like structures are cut off along with the sensitive tips. Ouch! After that, it is as if this interference makes the trees lose their sense of direction underground.

Humorist Will Rogers said, “There are three kinds of men. Ones that learn by reading, a few who learn by observation, and the rest of us have to pee on an electric fence and find out for ourselves.” Ouch. That’s got to hurt. But let’s face it: some people only learn things the hard way.

Whenever you feel alone, rejected, or misunderstood, stand your situation up next to David’s. The boy had as pure a heart as humanly possible, and his own family blasted him. Ouch. I don’t want to minimize your hurts, but in David you can certainly find someone who has been there, done that.

As you slide down the banister of life, may the splinters never point in the wrong direction—ouch.

How can someone look back at a prison and call it home?

I have to find that silver lining around the dark cloud looming over all of us.

Life is unmanageable when you are stateless.

She never would admit it, but she felt utterly exposed at El Redentor, all those pale eyes gnawing at her duskiness like locusts––and she didn't know how to handle such vulnerability. Did what had always saved her in the past. Was defensive and aggressive and mad overreactive. You said something slightly off-color about her shoes and she brought up the fact that you had a slow eye and danced like a goat with a rock stuck in its ass. Ouch. You would just be playing and homegirl would be coming down on you off the top rope.

The Oscar-nominated documentary The Act of Killing tells the story of the gangster leaders who carried out anti-communist purges in Indonesia in 1965 to usher in the regime of Suharto. The film’s hook, which makes it compelling and accessible, is that the filmmakers get Anwar —one of the death-squad leaders, who murdered around a thousand communists using a wire rope—and his acolytes to reenact the killings and events around them on film in a variety of genres of their choosing. In the film’s most memorable sequence, Anwar—who is old now and actually really likable, a bit like Nelson Mandela, all soft and wrinkly with nice, fuzzy gray hair—for the purposes of a scene plays the role of a victim in one of the murders that he in real life carried out. A little way into it, he gets a bit tearful and distressed and, when discussing it with the filmmaker on camera in the next scene, reveals that he found the scene upsetting. The offcamera director asks the poignant question, “What do you think your victims must’ve felt like?” and Anwar initially almost fails to see the connection. Eventually, when the bloody obvious correlation hits him, he thinks it unlikely that his victims were as upset as he was, because he was “really” upset. The director, pressing the film’s point home, says, “Yeah but it must’ve been worse for them, because we were just pretending; for them it was real.” Evidently at this point the reality of the cruelty he has inflicted hits Anwar, because when they return to the concrete garden where the executions had taken place years before, he, on camera, begins to violently gag. This makes incredible viewing, as this literally visceral ejection of his self and sickness at his previous actions is a vivid catharsis. He gagged at what he’d done. After watching the film, I thought—as did probably everyone who saw it—how can people carry out violent murders by the thousand without it ever occurring to them that it is causing suffering? Surely someone with piano wire round their neck, being asphyxiated, must give off some recognizable signs? Like going “ouch” or “stop” or having blood come out of their throats while twitching and spluttering into perpetual slumber? What it must be is that in order to carry out that kind of brutal murder, you have to disengage with the empathetic aspect of your nature and cultivate an idea of the victim as different, inferior, and subhuman. The only way to understand how such inhumane behavior could be unthinkingly conducted is to look for comparable examples from our own lives. Our attitude to homelessness is apposite here. It isn’t difficult to envisage a species like us, only slightly more evolved, being universally appalled by our acceptance of homelessness. “What? You had sufficient housing, it cost less money to house them, and you just ignored the problem?” They’d be as astonished by our indifference as we are by the disconnected cruelty of Anwar.

I remember bragging to one of my pastors, Thabiti, that I didn’t think of my good friend Christopher as black. Thabiti challenged me: “Huh, that’s interesting, because Christopher certainly experiences life as a black man in America. And you’ve never asked him about that? You must not be a very good friend.” Ouch. But yes, that makes sense.

So,” he began, after several minutes of silence, “how much did it kill you having to text me?” I chuckled. “A lot. I was just glad I didn’t throw away the receipt – I didn’t fancy digging through bags of rubbish.” Danny threw me another half-smile. “So you didn’t throw it out after all? I knew it!” I rolled my eyes. “Your arrogance astounds me … could you be anymore conceited?” “Could you be anymore attracted to me?” He quipped back. I scoffed at him. “In your dreams! Do you really get girls like this?” He quirked an eyebrow and flashed me that adorable crooked grin. “Many. Why – you jealous?” “Hardly,” I shot back at him, “you’re not my type so don’t flatter yourself.” He shrugged. “One hour with me turning on the charm and you’d be singing a different tune … trust me on that.” I laughed. “You know there’s a fine line between being charming and being cocky … and you my friend, fall into the latter. And it’s not something to be proud of – it’s not an attractive quality.” Danny smirked yet again. “Ouch. You really know how to insult a guy. Are you always this pleasant?” “Are you always this obnoxious?” I retorted back. “Ooh touché. You know – if I didn’t know any better – I’d almost mistake your frostiness for flirting.” He flashed me another half-smile and threw me a knowing look. I rolled my eyes again. “Well you would, wouldn’t you Mr Overly-sure-of-himself?” I watched as his confidence seemed to go into overdrive. “Say what you will, but I know you’re secretly charmed by me.” I shrugged. “Whatever … just don’t be too disappointed when I don’t fall at your feet.” He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye. “Well, try not to be too surprised when you do.” I raised an eyebrow at him. “Don’t hold your breath.

George Bailey: [on Mary being caught naked in the bushes after her robe slips off] This is a very interesting situation! Mary: Please give me my robe. George Bailey: A man doesn't get in a situation like this every day. Mary: I'd like to have my robe. George Bailey: Not in Bedford Falls anyway. Mary: [after the bushes' thorns starting hurting her] Ouch! Oh! George Bailey: Gezundheit. Mary: George Bailey! George Bailey: Inspires a little thought! Mary: Give me my robe. George Bailey: I've read about things like this. Mary: Shame on you! I'm going to tell your mother on you. George Bailey: Well, my mother is way up on the corner. Mary: I'll call the police! George Bailey: Well, they're all the way downtown. They'd be on my side. Mary: Then I'll scream! George Bailey: Maybe I can sell tickets.

I felt like I was faking all of this, like I was playing the part of a student. I had the costume and the props, but I didn't really belong here. I'd pinned notes on the stupid corkboard backing of my desk, and I'd highlighted things...But it was all so meaningless. For about an hour, I had an overwheling urge to grab my bag, stuff in a few things, and take the next train to Bristol. I could be back on my parents' couch that night if I got moving. I could admit that I wasn't ready for this, that the semester was a wash. My parents would be thrilled, I was sure. Not about the semester being a wash--but certainly about having me back where they could keep me safe and sound. It would be so easy to do it. The very idea made me warm inside. It was okay to give up. I'd been brave. Everyone would say so. And yet...even as I opened a dresser drawer and figured out which things I would take with me in this hypothetical scenario, i remembered the problem. There would still be ghosts i would still have a future. I would still go back to school eventually. You can't curl up on the sofa and deny life forever. Life is always going to be a series of ouch-making moments, and the question was, was i going to go all fetal position, or was I going to woman up?

Fifteen years ago, a business manager from the United States came to Plum Village to visit me. His conscience was troubled because he was the head of a firm that designed atomic bombs. I listened as he expressed his concerns. I knew if I advised him to quit his job, another person would only replace him. If he were to quit, he might help himself, but he would not help his company, society, or country. I urged him to remain the director of his firm, to bring mindfulness into his daily work, and to use his position to communicate his concerns and doubts about the production of atomic bombs. In the Sutra on Happiness, the Buddha says it is great fortune to have an occupation that allows us to be happy, to help others, and to generate compassion and understanding in this world. Those in the helping professions have occupations that give them this wonderful opportunity. Yet many social workers, physicians, and therapists work in a way that does not cultivate their compassion, instead doing their job only to earn money. If the bomb designer practises and does his work with mindfulness, his job can still nourish his compassion and in some way allow him to help others. He can still influence his government and fellow citizens by bringing greater awareness to the situation. He can give the whole nation an opportunity to question the necessity of bomb production. Many people who are wealthy, powerful, and important in business, politics, and entertainment are not happy. They are seeking empty things - wealth, fame, power, sex - and in the process they are destroying themselves and those around them. In Plum Village, we have organised retreats for businesspeople. We see that they have many problems and suffer just as others do, sometimes even more. We see that their wealth allows them to live in comfortable conditions, yet they still suffer a great deal. Some businesspeople, even those who have persuaded themselves that their work is very important, feel empty in their occupation. They provide employment to many people in their factories, newspapers, insurance firms, and supermarket chains, yet their financial success is an empty happiness because it is not motivated by understanding or compassion. Caught up in their small world of profit and loss, they are unaware of the suffering and poverty in the world. When we are not int ouch with this larger reality, we will lack the compassion we need to nourish and guide us to happiness. Once you begin to realise your interconnectedness with others, your interbeing, you begin to see how your actions affect you and all other life. You begin to question your way of living, to look with new eyes at the quality of your relationships and the way you work. You begin to see, 'I have to earn a living, yes, but I want to earn a living mindfully. I want to try to select a vocation not harmful to others and to the natural world, one that does not misuse resources.' Entire companies can also adopt this way of thinking. Companies have the right to pursue economic growth, but not at the expense of other life. They should respect the life and integrity of people, animals, plants and minerals. Do not invest your time or money in companies that deprive others of their lives, that operate in a way that exploits people or animals, and destroys nature. Businesspeople who visit Plum Village often find that getting in touch with the suffering of others and cultivating understanding brings them happiness. They practise like Anathapindika, a successful businessman who lived at the time of the Buddha, who with the practise of mindfulness throughout his life did everything he could to help the poor and sick people in his homeland.

How are you feeling, Aven?” “Why?” “Because you’ve been sick,” Lando said. “You were sick all week. I was worried about you.” “Why?” Lando laughed. “Are you always this suspicious?” “I just don’t understand why you’d care.” Lando grabbed his chest. “Ouch. Straight to the heart. So what did you have?” Oh my gosh. What did I have? I couldn’t think of anything. “Botulism,” I blurted out. “I had botulism.” Lando looked from me to Zion. Zion nodded seriously. “Yes, that’s what she had.” “Geez,” Lando said. “We learned about that in bio.” Oh, shoot.

This is the worst idea ever,” Lend shouted from behind the closed door as Arianna finished pinning my hair under a brunette wig. “I’ve been having a lot of those lately, but one of us wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for my most recent one.” “Well, you look the part, at least,” Arianna said, standing back to admire her handiwork. I was in a fitted, sleek black pantsuit with a blouse underneath. The blouse was white. I hated it already. That, combined with the too-dark hair and colored eyebrows making my tragically pale skin even white, and I was not loving life. Still, sacrifices had to be made. Jack was lying on the bed with his head hanging over the side, his face slowly turning more and more red as the blood rushed to it. He looked phenomenally bored for someone about to break into a secret international high security facility. I slipped into my favorite stilettos, took one step, and fell over. “Ouch.” Shaking off the shoes, I rubbed at my still-tender feet. The stilettos were so not happening. That did it. If I didn’t already want to destroy the Dark Queen, the fact that she had ruined my ability to wear high heels put her at the very top of my hit list. She was so going down.

If one were to ask if Linus Baker was lonely, he would have scrunched up his face in surprise. The thought would be foreign, almost shocking. And though the smallest of lies hurt his head and made his stomach twist, there was a chance he would still say no, even though he was, and almost desperately so. And maybe part of him would believe it. He'd accepted long ago that some people, no matter how good their heart was or how much love they had to give, would always be alone. It was their lot in life, and Linus had figured out, at the age of twenty-seven, that it seemed to be that way for him. Oh, there was no specific event that brought along this line of thinking. It was just that he felt...dimmer than others. Like he was faded in a crystal-clear world. He wasn't meant to be seen.

Why are you still here? And why won’t you give me back my key, dammit?” “Because your daughter asked me to check on you five years ago, and for some reason that I can’t explain, I really enjoy that arching thing you do with your eyebrow when you pretend to be shocked by things I’m saying. Very Maleficent of you. You can admit it—you watch the movie and practice, don’t you?” Myrna’s frown deepens to villainess levels at the mention of her daughter. “Ungrateful child. Never comes to visit. Too busy with her superficial life to even remember the woman who gave birth to her.” This isn’t the first time she’s said it, or even the twentieth time. “Yep, she’s really superficial, what with being a member of Congress and all.” “I’m sure she slept her way to the top.” Ouch, Myrna is especially pissed today. I play along with her anyway, because at least this way I know she’s getting her heart rate up. Being pissed off is about as close to cardio as she gets. “You know, I’ll have to check. Chances are she really did—with every man, woman, and tranny in her congressional district. She’s going to need surgery to tighten up that cooch of hers.” “Get out!

I was going to make a confession. Then I remembered I don't make them very well. We still need to see the monkeys." "You don't really think I'm going to let a provocative statement like that slip by,do you?" "Well...I thought the best way to discourage you was to agree to go out with you-to some place like this, which I thought would bore you to distraction-then be as obnoxious as possible." "Have you been obnoxious?" His tone was mild and entirely too serious. "I thought you've been behaving very naturally." "Ouch." Shelby rubbed at the figurative wound under her heart. "In any case, I get the distinct impression that I haven't discouraged you at all." "Really?" Reaching for more popcorn, he leaned close and spoke gently in her ear "How did you come by that?" "Oh-" She cleared her throat. "Just a hunch." He found that tiny show of nerves very rewarding. Yes, the puzzle was coming together, piece by careful piece. It was the way he'd always structured his life. "Odd.And not once since we've been here have I mentioned that I'd like to find a small, dim room and make love to you,over and over." Warily, Shelby slid her eyes to his. "I'd just as soon you didn't. "All right." Alan slipped an arm around her waist. "I won't mention it while we're here." A smile tugged at her mouth, but she shook her head. "It's not going to come to that, Alan.It can't." "We have a fundamental disagreement." He paused on a bridge. Beneath them, swans floated haughtily. "Because to my way of thinking it has to.

February 21 Christ’s Ambassadors We are therefore Christ’s ambassadors, as though God were making his appeal through us.—2 Corinthians 5:20 Pretend you are the only Christian left on planet earth. God is depending on you to reach people for Christ. Will you make a good ambassador? Will people want to follow Christ because of the way you live? Ouch! That hits me right between the eyes. I can think of many times in my life that I set a bad example. I know God must have been sorely disappointed in me. Thank goodness he forgives and forgives and forgives some more. How do we hurt our witness for Christ? When we find fault with the church service we show that we are attending for the wrong reason. When we stay at home on Sunday morning we are sending a strong signal that worshiping and praising God are not top priorities in our lives. Have you heard this before? Let someone else do that job. There are plenty of people in our church. They always ask me. Do ambassadors act this way? We sometimes talk about hypocrites in the church. How easy it is to point the finger toward someone else. How many times do we fail as ambassadors for Christ by judging others? We’ve heard it said, “Your life is like an open book People are reading it every day.” Lost people get their concept of Christianity through your life. Does your book have the following chapters: Whining, Telling Half Truths, General Griping, Lack of Self-discipline, Having a Pity Party and My Glass is Always Half Empty? We have been given the ministry of ambassadorship. Our mission is to tell the world what Jesus did for us. One way we do that is through our lives. Dear Father, help our light to shine before men. Like 2 Philippians 2:15 challenges us, help us to “become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation, in which we shine like stars in the universe.

Mark swings his own door open and meets us by the tailgate. "Why don't we ask Emma who she's coming with? I mean, it's her choice, right?" The look Galen gives me is clear: Take care of this, or I will. Or maybe it's more like, It would be my pleasure to take care of this. Either way, I don't want Mark taken care of. Standing between them, the testosterone-to-air ratio is almost suffocating. If I pick Galen, the chances of Mark ever calling me again are as good as Galen eating a whole cheesecake by himself. If I choose Mark, the changes of Galen not wielding his built-in brass knuckles are as good as Rayna giving someone a compliment. My desire to salvage this date with Mark is almost as strong as my desire to salvage his face from certain disfigurement. But salvaging the date as opposed to his face would be selfish in the long run. I sigh in defeat. "I'm sorry, Mark." Mark lets out a gust of air. "Ouch." Scratching the back of his neck, he chuckles. "I guess I should be more superstitious, huh?" He's right. I screwed this up. I should have salvaged the date, his pride. And I should have broken Galen's Royal nose with my own Syrena fist. I turn to His Highness. "Galen, could you give me a minute please? You'll have the next hour to talk to me since you're taking me straight home." Without a word, Galen nods and walks away. I can't quite meet Mark's eyes when I say, "I'm so sorry. I don't know what his deal is. He never acts like this." Except that time he beat Toraf like a stepchild on the beach when he kissed me. But only because Toraf betrayed Rayna. Right? Mark smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Can't say I blame him. I can already tell you're worth it. I just never had the guts to ask you out. Chloe threatened my life. You know that chick could hit like a man, right? She said you were too good for me. I think she was right." "Wh...what? Chloe knew you liked me?" "Yeah. She never told you? Course not. She thought I was a player." I not, still too stunned that my best friend also acted as my bodyguard without me knowing. "She did think you were a player. And she couldn't definitely hit like a man." "That's what my friend Jax says anyway." Then a little lower, "Geez, Galen's watching me like a hawk right now. He has serial-killer eyes, you know that?" I giggle. "What do you think he'd do if I kissed you good-bye on the cheek?" he whispers conspiratorially. "Don't worry, I'll protect you." He has no idea how serious I am. As he leans in, I brace myself. At the slightest spark of electricity, I'm prepared to turn around with my fists up. But the lightning doesn't strike. Galen is behaving for now. As Mark pulls away from his barely there peck, he sighs. "Do me a favor," he whispers. "Mmm?" "Keep my number. Give me a call if he screws up again." I smile. "I will, I promise. I had a good time tonight." Did the date and Mark's face get salvaged? Do I have a chance to redeem myself with him? He chuckles. "Yeah, glad we got to drive here from Middle Point together. next time, we'll make it a real adventure and take the bus. See you at school, Emma." "Bye.

Now we are getting to the heart of how the Gospel differs from the moral grid. As one writer put it, 'The main thing between you and God is not your sins, but your damnable good works.' Ouch. And herein lies the whole reason why we must cease striving through good works: they do not save. If there is a gospel of self-improvement, it is a damning one. It is a gospel that is not good news at all. It will wall you if, shrivel you up, and destroy your sensitivity to God's pursuit. This is why it must be utterly destroyed and replaced with the true gospel of life-transforming grace.

world is full of passive bystanders to injustice and immorality—watching us wreck our lives as we go down dangerous moral and mental roads without someone to love us enough to help us by saying, “That’s not the best place for you to be,” or “That could affect your family, so why do it?” or “That’s not who you really are, so don’t waste your life playing around with something that will hurt you.” We are so afraid not to offend; we don’t want to say anything, and we don’t know how to do it without bringing far more flesh than Jesus into it because (brace yourself for an ouch) we have a lazy relationship with the Holy Spirit. At the core of it all is self-interest. We often do not get involved, not because we care about honoring others’ independence but because we care about preserving ourselves.

Heartbreak is the universe's way of giving you a vision test! Sure, they sting like crazy, but they also come with a side of 20/20 clarity. It's like life's saying, "Hey, I'm breaking your heart, but I'm also giving you some serious insight." So, when love decides to play rough, grab your popcorn because you're about to get a seat to a masterclass in self-discovery. Who knew heartbreak could be so enlightening? It's like getting a crash course in emotional intelligence with a side of "ouch.

New motherhood gives you an opportunity to embrace the chaos and know that you are doing the best you ca—including in your sex life.

Other than James. I knew if I could win him, I would have everything I ever wanted. A husband, kids.” Her voice broke and she lifted a hand to wipe tears from her eyes. “I told him that your mother had moved on. Said she’d never really cared for him.” Ouch. It wasn’t merely that he’d chosen her Ginny over her mother; Ginny really had stolen him. “I take it Mom had done no such thing?” “She was planning to look for a job in Jacksonville when she got out of college. It’s a long drive, but within driving distance of here. She wanted to marry him.” “But you married him first.” Andie didn’t have to ask; she knew. Ginny had married James the spring that her mother had been a junior in college. “She didn’t come for the wedding, of course. Only Mama. Athena had passed away from an overdose a couple months before, and Grandmother wasn’t healthy enough to make the drive.” They’d originally been from a small town in northeast Georgia. Andie’s grandmother hadn’t passed away until Andie was seven, and she and Cassie had never visited her. She seemed to remember Cassie going to the funeral, though. Alone. “Mama couldn’t forgive Cassie for not coming down for the wedding, especially after losing Athena earlier in the year. She didn’t know what had transpired between us.” That made sense. So Cassie had lost the love of her life, her sister, and her mother all at the same time. Not to mention her other sister dying that same year and her father the year before. No wonder she was

Feeling happy and confident about your sex life is not about how much sex you have. It is about understanding that you get to decide what is right for you.

Dear friends and enemies, Season’s greetings! It’s me, Serge! Don’t you just hate these form letters people stuff in Christmas cards? Nothing screams “you’re close to my heart” like a once-a-year Xerox. Plus, all the lame jazz that’s going on in their lives. “Had a great time in Memphis.” “Bobby lost his retainer down a storm drain.” “I think the neighbors are dealing drugs.” But this letter is different. You are special to me. I’m just forced to use a copy machine and gloves because of advancements in forensics. I love those TV shows! Has a whole year already flown by? Much to report! Let’s get to it! Number one: I ended a war. You guessed correct, the War on Christmas! When I first heard about it, I said to Coleman, “That’s just not right! We must enlist!” I rushed to the front lines, running downtown yelling “Merry Christmas” at everyone I saw. And they’re all saying “Merry Christmas” back. Hmmm. That’s odd: Nobody’s stopping us from saying “Merry Christmas.” Then I did some research, and it turns out the real war is against people saying “Happy holidays.” The nerve: trying to be inclusive. So, everyone … Merry Christmas! Happy Hannukah! Good times! Soul Train! Purple mountain majesties! The Pompatus of Love! There. War over. And just before it became a quagmire. Next: Decline of Florida Roundup. —They tore down the Big Bamboo Lounge near Orlando. Where was everybody on that one? —Remember the old “Big Daddy’s” lounges around Florida with the logo of that bearded guy? They’re now Flannery’s or something. —They closed 20,000 Leagues. And opened Buzz Lightyear. I offered to bring my own submarine. Okay, actually threatened, but they only wanted to discuss it in the security office. I’ve been doing a lot of running lately at theme parks. —Here’s a warm-and-fuzzy. Anyone who grew up down here knows this one, and everyone else won’t have any idea what I’m talking about: that schoolyard rumor of the girl bitten by a rattlesnake on the Steeplechase at Pirate’s World (now condos). I’ve started dropping it into all conversations with mixed results. —In John Mellencamp’s megahit “Pink Houses,” the guy compliments his wife’s beauty by saying her face could “stop a clock.” Doesn’t that mean she was butt ugly? Nothing to do with Florida. Just been bugging me. Good news alert! I’ve decided to become a children’s author! Instilling state pride in the youngest residents may be the only way to save the future. The book’s almost finished. I’ve only completed the first page, but the rest just flows after that. It’s called Shrimp Boat Surprise. Coleman asked what the title meant, and I said life is like sailing on one big, happy shrimp boat. He asked what the surprise was, and I said you grow up and learn that life bones you up the ass ten ways to Tuesday. He started reading and asked if a children’s book should have the word “motherfucker” eight times on the first page. I say, absolutely. They’re little kids, after all. If you want a lesson to stick, you have to hammer it home through repetition…In advance: Happy New Year! (Unlike 2008—ouch!)

He took a lock of my wet hair in his fingers. “It was pretty nice of me to save your life, wasn’t it? Is that why you kissed me?” There were a lot of reasons why I had kissed him, but I wasn’t going to tell him all of them. “I am grateful,” I said. “But in general, I don’t kiss guys for that reason.” “So you kiss a lot of guys?” “No, you’re the first one, but we can’t do it again.” “Ouch,” he replied. I smiled down at him. Our kiss had been a mistake. His plan to leave Vegas when we finished with Sebastian hadn’t changed. And we had other more important things to be concerned with. “I think it was probably pretty good for a first kiss,” I said, “but I don’t want to be kissing anyone right now. I don’t need or want to be distracted while I learn what you and Brandy can teach me. You should limit your distractions, too. We need to concentrate on confronting Sebastian right now.” Ian smiled wickedly. “You’re right, but when this is over, I’m going to kiss you again.” “You keep telling yourself that,” I said.

Did you pack all those clothes?” “Of course.” “Where are they?” Alessandra blinked at him. “In my overnight bag. On the backseat.” “Open it, will you?” Harry finished the Pepsi. They were going to have to stop soon to get some coffee. He was exhausted. On the other hand, all he had to do to stay awake was breathe. Every time he inhaled, his side felt as if it were on fire. He took a deep breath. Ouch. Alessandra didn’t move. “You want me to . . . ?” “Grab your bag and open it,” he said patiently. “You have about three pairs of really tight pants somewhere in there. One black, one gray, and one navy blue, I think. Get ’em out. We need to talk about your clothes.” “They’re leggings,” she informed him, wrestling the cheap nylon bag George had bought for her up into the front seat. “Whatever. And that black turtleneck,” Harry said. “The tight one with the lines.” “It’s a rib knit,” she said, unzipping the bag and rummaging around. “Rib knit. At last. My life is surely more complete now that I know that.

Yeah, sorry, I’m fine. It was just a bit weird to see Tom and Penny again,’ Otto said with a sigh. ‘It just seems so long ago, you know, life before this place. Sometimes I feel like I’m never going to see the real world again. That I’m never going to leave. Do you know what I mean?’ ‘Of course I do,’ Laura said. ‘I’m sure we all feel like that sometimes but there’s going to be a life after H.I.V.E. you know. For all of us.’ ‘Assuming we survive till then,’ Otto said with a wry smile. ‘Well, there is that,’ Laura said, ‘although it’s been several months since anyone tried to kill us so that has to be a good sign.’ ‘And yet here we are working on a device that will probably end up getting us killed. It’ll either explode or Doctor Nero will catch us with it. Either way we’re dead,’ Otto said cheerily. ‘I’ll have you know that there’s a remarkably low chance of this exploding,’ Laura said with mock indignation. ‘If you’d designed it on the other hand, well, then we might as well be playing hopscotch in a minefield.’ ‘Ouch, suppose I asked for that,’ Otto said with a grin.

You can't curl up on the sofa and deny life forever. Life is always going to be a series of ouch-making moments, and the question was, was I going to go all fetal-position or was I going to woman up?

Ouch,” I say, clutching my heart. “That stings, wife. You know, I love you. You’re my moon and sky and everything in between. You are the light of my life. The apple of my eye. My one true love and the reason I can breathe on this planet. You give me⁠—” “Oh my God, shut up,” she says, thoroughly annoyed with me.

Writing was my escape from the overwhelming storm of emotions.

Ouch! Pinch me as I step into my dream life

Wendell scoots to the edge of his couch, stands up, walks over to me, and, with his very long leg, lightly kicks my foot. Smiling, he returns to his seat. “Ouch!” I say reflexively, even though it didn’t hurt. I’m startled. “What was that?” “Well, you seem like you’re enjoying the experience of suffering, so I thought I’d help you out with that.” “What?” “There’s a difference between pain and suffering,” Wendell says. “You’re going to have to feel pain—everyone feels pain at times—but you don’t have to suffer so much. You’re not choosing the pain, but you’re choosing the suffering.” He goes on to explain that all of this perseverating I’m doing, all of this endless rumination and speculation about Boyfriend’s life, is adding to the pain and causing me to suffer. So, he suggests, if I’m clinging to the suffering so tightly, I must be getting something out of it. It must be serving some purpose for me. Is it?

As Oscar Wilde put it, “Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.” Ouch.

From my youth, I was trained to endure rejections and change them into opportunities.

I love life, how could despair win me over in those times? It happens, and I learned that when it does, it is people who are there for us. It is the support we need, and we will always get once we ask for it.

My mother then turned to me and said the following words, which I will never forget: “If you spent less time doodling, maybe you’d be half as smart as your cousin.” Ouch . . .

Ouch: Buddhism teaches: Humans suffer from the stories we tell ourselves. Those stories can engage us, comfort us, frighten us, motivate us, and keep us from change. They are worth unpacking and paying attention to.

ouched by the wounds of Christ, touched by the Sacred Heart of Jesus Christ...For your life's sake and good health, I am blessed with the gifts of the Holy Spirit of a Sovereign God, that will bring powerful, true and permanent healing to your body, soul and life...Make sure you make a righteous purchase for these Holy Spirit breathed books written by the Finger of God Almighty for your cleansing, healing and protection. Do not rob the Holy Spirit, be holy because he is holy...Purposeful presence of God.

Beirut and I have a complicated relationship. I love, admire, but also fear the city.

As a writer, it’s always the hardest when you want to close a story.

Much of the time my smile is due to my happiness; I’ve been fortunate to have experienced the joy that I have. There is another smile though. It masks my deepest pains

There is no shame in asking for help when people are happy to offer it, and give it out of love. My network is based on that fundamental.

When I think of establishing a network, it’s like I’m looking down at a map of a nation- a nation that I’ve created.

Refugees face appalling living conditions that are unsafe and unsanitary. But a refugee can endure all of this with inborn talents and learned skills.

In displacement, I, Chaker of the World, grew up a prisoner. I am a freedom fighter, and my love for life is my only weapon.

Come to think of it, most of Lebanon’s politicians would be up for an Oscar. I would feel safer with them in movies rather than in power. Ouch!

I have to fight to exist and resist, especially with a virus that is keeping us imprisoned.

I’m always vocal about what I need. My instinctive impulses are difficult to resist.

When things don’t go as planned in the journey to your destination, don’t give up. Defy defeat. Resist submission. Hold into hope.

I also learned that God wants us to question things. How wouldn’t He allow His children to learn through curiosity?

A friend of mine, who is also in recovery, said, “Leave it to a bunch of drunks in recovery to unlock the secrets of life.” Among them: Wherever you go, there you are. You’re only as sick as your secrets. Easy does it. One day at a time. Live and let live. To thine own self be true. HALT: Don’t get too hungry, angry, lonely, or tired. Let go and let God. (I knew I was in trouble when my therapist reminded me that this is the saying—not “Let go and let Brené.” Ouch.)

left shoulder and trying to pretend it hardly hurt at all - ow, ouch - she wondered why her life had to so closely resemble Mr Bean’s. What she wouldn’t give to be sleek and chic and in control at all times.