Pat Yourself On The Back Quotes

Don't wrench your shoulder out of its socket trying to pat yourself on the back," Beldin said sourly.

If you want to call attention to your good deed then it isn't a good deed, it's a self-serving one. Why? Not only have you patted yourself on the back but you're fishing for others to do the same.

My old chief taught me three lessons: Never believe anything you hear and only half of what you see. Never go into debt because you will never get out. And never pat yourself on the back because karma will bite you in the ass. Karma, I think, meet ass.

You’ll light your own bloody self on fire if you have to. And then you can pat yourself on the back and tell yourself you knew it all along. Congratulations.

We often forget to thank ourselves for what we have accomplished. Your dedication and hard work provide for you and your loved ones. So thank yourself—pat yourself on the back. After all, it’s your hard work that allows you to live an exciting and easier life. And it’s your daily practice of gratitude that makes your life exceptional.

Pat yourself on the back when you win. And when you don't, just keep moving! So long as you don't stop moving, Soon you may realize just how close you are to winning!

FAIL UP. If something doesn’t go how you planned it, learn from it, do something differently next time. And, by the way, effort deserves credit. Pat yourself on the back!

Give yourself a pat on the back for getting mocked by those who have never tried their hands at anything.

Take out a dollar bill and look at it,” he said. “Now pat yourself on your back because you are looking at a certificate of performance.

You´re going to have to learn how to pat yourself on the back eventually. Start now. It´s not gloating.It´s taking pleasure in life´s goodness

She said, “You disgust me. How do you live with yourself?” So I said, “Like I live with my clone: with many pats on the back, accompanied by high flattery.

Be sure to find a way every day to rock your own world and to pat yourself on the back, the front, or whatever distance you can reach. In all probability ‘nobody does it better’ and self-appreciation is a serious key to self-success. Kathy Golden

Life's about making the most of your present to build a better future and not shed tears in the name of the past! Everyone has had their share of tragedies, but it's time to pat yourself on your back and move on.

Just leave us all alone, to struggle and flounder and weaken and then give us access to prescription drugs so we can die, and pat yourself on the back for respecting our autonomy, while avoiding difficult questions about why so many people in our country want to end their lives in the first place.

I’m pretty sure she’s got an angel job now where she plucks a large handful of flowers and carries them up to God where they will bloom even brighter than on earth.”   Can we ask God to bring her back home?” You know what, she’s already home.” Starla patted her chest. “She’ll always be right here in our hearts.” But I can’t give her a hug.”   Yes, you can . . . if you hug yourself or me or Willa or Daddy or Big Pop or GoGo you’re hugging her because she’s a part of us.

How about you get on my back? So in a way you’re not being carried – you’re riding me.” I paused and then winked. Kat stared. “What?” I laughed, and her eyes immediately narrowed. “You should see yourself right now. Like a kitten – that’s what I keep telling you. Your hackles are raised.” Her eyes rolled as she shuffled behind me. “You should conserve your energy and stop talking.” “Ouch.” “You’ll get over it.” She placed her hands on my shoulders. “Besides, you could be knocked down a peg or two.” ... “Baby, I’m so far up the ladder there aren’t any pegs under me to be knocked down.” “Wow”, she said. “That’s a new one.” “You loved it.” .. “Hold on, Kitten. I’m going to start to glow just a little, and we’re going to go fast.” “I like when you glow. It’s like having my own personal flashlight.” I grinned. “Glad I can be of assistance.” She patted my chest. “Giddy up.

When you get what you want in your struggle for self And the world makes you king for a day Just go to the mirror and look at yourself And see what that man has to say. For it isn’t your father, or mother, or wife Whose judgment upon you must pass The fellow whose verdict counts most in your life Is the one staring back from the glass. He’s the fellow to please – never mind all the rest For he’s with you, clear to the end And you’ve passed your most difficult, dangerous test If the man in the glass is your friend. You may fool the whole world down the pathway of years And get pats on the back as you pass But your final reward will be heartache and tears If you’ve cheated the man in the glass.

Sometimes you deserve a pat on the back, even if you have to do it yourself.

Acknowledge and appreciate these efforts, and give yourself a pat on the back for what you did right. This is absolutely essential for self-encouragement. It’s not enough to merely unhook from all our harsh criticisms and self-judgments; we need to actively appreciate our efforts, especially when we fail to achieve our goals. Each time we do this, we are learning how to be an effective coach. Ineffective coaches focus only on what went wrong, and do so in a harsh, judgmental manner. Effective coaches first acknowledge and appreciate what went right—and then, in a respectful, nonjudgmental manner, they acknowledge what went wrong and turn it into a useful learning experience.

As women, we almost never give ourselves enough credit for what we're capable of, for what we endure and how giving we are. Part of loving yourself is about forgiving yourself - which is something I've always struggled with. It's the messy parts that make us human, so we should embrace them too - pat ourselves on the back for getting through them rather than being angry for having gotten into them in the first place. Because loving yourself is ultimately about self-acceptance, about embracing every part of who you are. And that's never just one thing.

If you do not believe in yourself, Ewan, then you will surely not succeed. Pity in ones own downfalls without the sight to rejoice in your strengths is truly the road to ruin. But if you do decide to pat your own back a little more often, then you will find that you are not the only one who believes it a worthwhile exercise. And there will always be those there to do it for you in times when you may not quite be able to reach.

If you are a serious and analytical parent, it is easy to go right past what went well to what you want to be better. Remind yourself to pat yourself on the back for your accomplishments and celebrate each success, no matter how small it might be. Don’t let one problem rob you of the joy of the good moments.

Brace yourselves, girls: Soda is liquid Satan. It is the devil. It is garbage. There is nothing in soda that should be put into your body. For starters, soda’s high levels of phosphorous can increase calcium loss from the body, as can its sodium and caffeine. [Cousens, Conscious Eating, 475] You know what this means—bone loss, which may lead to osteoporosis. And the last time we checked, sugar, found in soda by the boatload, does not make you skinny! Now don’t go patting yourself on the back if you drink diet soda. That stuff is even worse. Aspartame (an ingredient commonly found in diet sodas and other sugar-free foods) has been blamed for a slew of scary maladies, like arthritis, birth defects, fibromyalgia, Alzheimer’s, lupus, multiple sclerosis, and diabetes.2 When methyl alcohol, a component of aspartame, enters your body, it turns into formaldehyde. Formaldehyde is toxic and carcinogenic (cancer-causing). 3 Laboratory scientists use formaldehyde as a disinfectant or preservative. They don’t fucking drink it. Perhaps you have a lumpy ass because you are preserving your fat cells with diet soda. The Food and Drug Administration (FDA) has received more complaints about aspartame than any other ingredient to date.4 Want more bad news? When aspartame is paired with carbs, it causes your brain to slow down its production of serotonin.5 A healthy level of serotonin is needed to be happy and well balanced. So drinking soda can make you fat, sick, and unhappy.

Stop that." Mortified, she reached out to slam the door shut. "Somebody could come in." "Then stop squirming," he suggested, and gently peeled back the bandage. He nodded in approval. "You did a decent job." Even as she hissed at him, he lowered his head and touched his lips to the cut. "All better," he said with a grin just as the door opened. Peabody gaped, flushed, then stammered out, "Excuse me." "Just leaving," Roarke said, patting the bandage back in place while Eve ground her teeth. "How did you come through this morning's excitement, Peabody?" "Okay, it was... well, actually." She cleared her throat and shot him a hopeful glance. "I got this little nick right here." She rubbed her finger at her jawline, heart fluttering pleasantly when he smiled at her. "So you do." He stepped to her, angled his head, and touched his lips to the tiny cut. "Take care of yourself." "Man, man, oh man," was the best she could manage when he'd left. "He's got such a great mouth. How do you stop yourself from just biting it?" "Wipe the drool off your chin, for Christ's sake. And sit down. We've got a report to write for the commander." "I almost got blown up and got kissed by Roarke all in the same morning. I'm writing it on my calendar." "Settle down." "Yes, sir." She took out her log and got to work. But with a smile on her face.

Before you start patting yourself on the back, remember--it's just typing.

Our failures are always our own. Own them, change them, demand more from yourself than a pat on the back and a better luck next time.

Influenza is caused by three types of viruses, of which the most worrisome and widespread is influenza A. Viruses of that type all share certain genetic traits: a single-stranded RNA genome, which is partitioned into eight segments, which serve as templates for eleven different proteins. In other words, they have eight discrete stretches of RNA coding, linked together like eight railroad cars, with eleven different deliverable cargoes. The eleven deliverables are the molecules that comprise the structure and functional machinery of the virus. They are what the genes make. Two of those molecules become spiky protuberances from the outer surface of the viral envelope: hemagglutinin and neuraminidase. Those two, recognizable by an immune system, and crucial for penetrating and exiting cells of a host, give the various subtypes of influenza A their definitive labels: H5N1, H1N1, and so on. The term “H5N1” indicates a virus featuring subtype 5 of the hemagglutinin protein combined with subtype 1 of the neuraminidase protein. Sixteen different kinds of hemagglutinin, plus nine kinds of neuraminidase, have been detected in the natural world. Hemagglutinin is the key that unlocks a cell membrane so that the virus can get in, and neuraminidase is the key for getting back out. Okay so far? Having absorbed this simple paragraph, you understand more about influenza than 99.9 percent of the people on Earth. Pat yourself on the back and get a flu shot in November. At

She suspected that she was quite like Helena Kraft in that she was capable and ambitious and wanted to get a pat on the back from her superiors. That was not necessarily always a good thing though. With that tendency, if you operate in an unhealthy culture you risk becoming just as unhealthy yourself and — who knows, perhaps it is the will to please that leads people to crime just as often as evil or greed.

This was not going the way I wanted it to. I felt a desperate need to escape before I said something that would screw up my plans. Ren was the dark side, the forbidden fruit, my personal Delilah-the ultimate temptation. The question was…could I resist? I gave his knee a friendly pat and played my trump card…”I’m leaving.” “You’re what?” “I’m going home to Oregon. Mr. Kadam thinks it will be safer for me anyway, with Lokesh out there looking to kill us and all. Besides, you need time to figure out…stuff.” “If you’re leaving, then I’m going with you!” I smiled at him wryly. “That kind of defeats the purpose of me leaving. Don’t you think?” He slicked back his hair, let out a deep breath, then took my hand and looked intently into my eyes. “Kells, when are you going to accept the fact that we belong together?” I felt sick, like I was kicking a faithful puppy who only wanted to be loved. I looked out at the pool. After a moment, he sat back scowling and said menacingly, “I won’t let you leave.” Inside, I desperately wanted to take his hand and beg him to forgive me, to love me, but I steeled myself, dropped my hands in my lap, then implored, “Ren, please. You have to let me go. I need…I’m afraid…look, I just can’t be here, near you, when you change your mind.” “It’s not going to happen.” “it might. There’s a good chance.” He growled angrily. “There’s no chance!” “Well, my heart can’t take that risk, and I don’t want to put you in what can only be an awkward position. I’m sorry, Ren. I really am. I do want to be your friend, but I understand if you don’t want that. Of course, I’ll return when you need me, if you need me, to help you find the other three gifts. I wouldn’t abandon you or Kishan in that way. I just can’t stay here with you feeling obligated to pity-date me because you need me. But I’d never abandon your cause. I’ll always be there for you both, no matter what.” He spat out, “Pity-date! You? Kelsey, you can’t be serious!” “I am. Very, very serious. I’ll ask Mr. Kadam to make arrangements to send me back in the next few days.” He didn’t say another word. He just sat back in his chair. I could tell he was fuming mad, but I felt that, after a week or two, when he started getting back out in the world, he would come to appreciate my gesture. I looked away from him. “I’m very tired now. I’d like to go to bed.” I got up and headed to my room. Before I closed the sliding door, I asked, “Can I make one last request?” He sat there tight-lipped, his arms folded over his chest, with a tense, angry face. I sighed. Even infuriated he was beautiful. He said nothing so I went on, “It would be a lot easier on me if I didn’t see you, I mean as a man. I’ll try to avoid most of the house. It is yours after all, so I’ll stay in my room. If you see Mr. Kadam, please tell him I’d like to speak with him.” He didn’t respond. “Well, good-bye, Ren. Take care of yourself.” I tore my eyes away from him, shut the door, and drew the curtains. Take care of yourself? That was a lame goodbye. Tears welled in my eyes and blurred my vision. I was proud that I’d gotten through it without showing emotion. But, now, I felt like a steamroller had come along and flattened me.

New Rule: Now that liberals have taken back the word "liberal," they also have to take back the word "elite." By now you've heard the constant right-wing attacks on the "elite media," and the "liberal elite." Who may or may not be part of the "Washington elite." A subset of the "East Coast elite." Which is overly influenced by the "Hollywood elite." So basically, unless you're a shit-kicker from Kansas, you're with the terrorists. If you played a drinking game where you did a shot every time Rush Limbaugh attacked someone for being "elite," you'd be almost as wasted as Rush Limbaugh. I don't get it: In other fields--outside of government--elite is a good thing, like an elite fighting force. Tiger Woods is an elite golfer. If I need brain surgery, I'd like an elite doctor. But in politics, elite is bad--the elite aren't down-to-earth and accessible like you and me and President Shit-for-Brains. Which is fine, except that whenever there's a Bush administration scandal, it always traces back to some incompetent political hack appointment, and you think to yourself, "Where are they getting these screwups from?" Well, now we know: from Pat Robertson. I'm not kidding. Take Monica Goodling, who before she resigned last week because she's smack in the middle of the U.S. attorneys scandal, was the third-ranking official in the Justice Department of the United States. She's thirty-three, and though she never even worked as a prosecutor, was tasked with overseeing the job performance of all ninety-three U.S. attorneys. How do you get to the top that fast? Harvard? Princeton? No, Goodling did her undergraduate work at Messiah College--you know, home of the "Fighting Christies"--and then went on to attend Pat Robertson's law school. Yes, Pat Robertson, the man who said the presence of gay people at Disney World would cause "earthquakes, tornadoes, and possibly a meteor," has a law school. And what kid wouldn't want to attend? It's three years, and you have to read only one book. U.S. News & World Report, which does the definitive ranking of colleges, lists Regent as a tier-four school, which is the lowest score it gives. It's not a hard school to get into. You have to renounce Satan and draw a pirate on a matchbook. This is for the people who couldn't get into the University of Phoenix. Now, would you care to guess how many graduates of this televangelist diploma mill work in the Bush administration? On hundred fifty. And you wonder why things are so messed up? We're talking about a top Justice Department official who went to a college founded by a TV host. Would you send your daughter to Maury Povich U? And if you did, would you expect her to get a job at the White House? In two hundred years, we've gone from "we the people" to "up with people." From the best and brightest to dumb and dumber. And where better to find people dumb enough to believe in George Bush than Pat Robertson's law school? The problem here in America isn't that the country is being run by elites. It's that it's being run by a bunch of hayseeds. And by the way, the lawyer Monica Goodling hired to keep her ass out of jail went to a real law school.

Heterodogmatize (v.) To have an opinion different from the one generally held. Just because you are in proud possession of opinions that differ from those of the majority of the population is no reason to start patting yourself on the back. Usually it just means you are wrong. also

To suggest that someone requires a hug is to say something potentially, but only potentially, demeaning. It’s suggesting that they are, at least for the moment, rather like a child. They have the same kinds of emotional needs that we come to think of as essentially childlike. To need a hug is to admit that one is incapable of coping on one’s own, that one requires protection, guidance, the help of someone wiser and more capable, that one needs to have one’s troubles and anxieties reinterpreted by a more mature mind. It is to say, in shorthand, ‘I am at the moment like a child and I need someone else to be, for a while, like a parent.’ Yet even if we don’t usually like to admit it, there are in fact many times when we should be able to revert to a childlike position. There are moments of adult life when one seems petulant, scared, shy and sure that everything suddenly feels totally unfair. One’s ability to look after oneself is terribly depleted. At such times, to get ourselves back together, we need someone else to take the burden from us. We require the equivalent of what the parent does for the child. We are in need of someone to pat us on the head, to put us to bed early, tuck us in and hold us tight.

Her concerned gaze skimmed over him. "Are you able to move much?" Now we're talking. "The hips work just fine, honey. Course, it'd probably be easier if you did all the-- hey, c'mon now, Luna, I was just teasing." He barely managed to hold in his laugh. "Don't storm away." She pivoted on her heel and stomped back toward him. Joe braced himself, waiting for the blast of her ire. She surprised him by drawing a deep breath, then another. And one more. He sighed. She was such a volatile, passionate woman, which made tweaking her temper fun. He raised a brow. "Got control of yourself?" She gave a sharp nod. The little liar. She wanted to bludgeon him. "Good." He patted the side of the bed next to his hip. "So tell me about this 'needing me' stuff. I'm all ears.

Not very pretty for a whore.” The soldier behind her tugged on a strand of her hair. She ducked under his arm, grabbing his wrist and twisting it behind his back to pin him. It was a trick she had learned under the harsh tutelage of Mircea and perfected by practicing on Bogdan and Radu. The soldier shouted angrily and tried to pull away, so she twisted harder, pushing up against the joint. He yelped in pain. “You are prettier than I.” She put more pressure on his arm. “Perhaps you could offer yourself as whore instead.” “Help me!” he gasped. Lada looked up, defiance in her set jaw, to find the other Janissaries grinning in delight. The single-browed soldier, who could not have been more than eighteen or nineteen, laughed and walked forward, patting his trapped comrade on the head condescendingly. “Poor Ivan. Is the little girl picking on you?

THE GUY IN THE GLASS —DALE WIMBROW When you get what you want in your struggle for pelf, And the world makes you King for a day, Then go to the mirror and look at yourself, And see what that guy has to say. For it isn’t your Father, or Mother or Wife, Whose judgement upon you must pass; The feller whose verdict counts most in your life, Is the guy staring back from the glass. He’s the feller to please, never mind all the rest, For he’s with you clear up to the end, And you’ve passed your most dangerous, difficult test, If the guy in the glass is your friend. You may be like Jack Horner and “chisel” a plum, And think you’re a wonderful guy; But the man in the glass says you’re only a bum If you can’t look him straight in the eye. You may fool the whole world down your pathway of years, And get pats on the back as you pass, But your final reward will be heartache and tears If you’ve cheated the guy in the glass.

What happened?” Violet asked Jay, when Mike went to join the girls in the kitchen, giving them a moment alone in front of the fire. Jay shook his head, his expression dark. “You tell me. One minute you were leaning on me, and the next you passed out. It freaked the shit out of me.” “Claire actually screamed,” Chelsea added, rejoining them. She sat down on a wooden chair across from Violet. “I can’t believe you didn’t hear her. I’m with Jay though-it was pretty scary. You’re lucky he caught you before you hit the ground.” Violet cringed. She glanced up at Jay, humiliated. “You…caught me?” He nodded, and she could tell from the look on his face that he was enjoying this part. A lot. “You’re welcome,” he said with a completely straight face. She looked at him again and rolled her eyes, stubbornly refusing to thank him after he’d already so clearly patted himself on the back. Megan came back in, carrying a mug of hot chocolate, and Claire trailed behind her. “Be careful,” Megan warned quietly, handing it to Violet. “It’s kind of hot.” Their fingertips brushed as the mug exchanged hands. Violet locked eyes with the younger girl. “Thank you.” She imparted as much meaning as she could in the two simple words and hoped that it was gesture enough, even if only for herself. She felt bad for the things she’d suspected her of doing. Megan pulled her hand away and glanced down nervously. “You’re welcome.” Her voice was timid and hesitant. “So she gives you hot chocolate and you thank her. I save your life and get nothing. That’s messed up,” Jay complained. Violet smirked at him over the top of her hot cocoa. “Hers tastes better,” she teased, blowing on the steaming liquid and then taking a sip. “Besides, I think you’ve already thanked yourself.

As the third evening approached, Gabriel looked up blearily as two people entered the room. His parents. The sight of them infused him with relief. At the same time, their presence unlatched all the wretched emotion he'd kept battened down until this moment. Disciplining his breathing, he stood awkwardly, his limbs stiff from spending hours on the hard chair. His father came to him first, pulling him close for a crushing hug and ruffling his hair before going to the bedside. His mother was next, embracing him with her familiar tenderness and strength. She was the one he'd always gone to first whenever he'd done something wrong, knowing she would never condemn or criticize, even when he deserved it. She was a source of endless kindness, the one to whom he could entrust his worst thoughts and fears. "I promised nothing would ever harm her," Gabriel said against her hair, his voice cracking. Evie's gentle hands patted his back. "I took my eyes off her when I shouldn't have," he went on. "Mrs. Black approached her after the play- I pulled the bitch aside, and I was too distracted to notice-" He stopped talking and cleared his throat harshly, trying not to choke on emotion. Evie waited until he calmed himself before saying quietly, "You remember when I told you about the time your f-father was badly injured because of me?" "That wasn't because of you," Sebastian said irritably from the bedside. "Evie, have you harbored that absurd idea for all these years?" "It's the most terrible feeling in the world," Evie murmured to Gabriel. "But it's not your fault, and trying not to make it so won't help either of you. Dearest boy, are you listening to me?" Keeping his face pressed against her hair, Gabriel shook his head. "Pandora won't blame you for what happened," Evie told him, "any more than your father blamed me." "Neither of you are to blame for anything," his father said, "except for annoying me with this nonsense. Obviously the only person to blame for this poor girl's injury is the woman who attempted to skewer her like a pinioned duck." He straightened the covers over Pandora, bent to kiss her forehead gently, and sat in the bedside chair. "My son... guilt, in proper measure, can be a useful emotion. However, when indulged to excess it becomes self-defeating, and even worse, tedious." Stretching out his long legs, he crossed them negligently. "There's no reason to tear yourself to pieces worrying about Pandora. She's going to make a full recovery." "You're a doctor now?" Gabriel asked sardonically, although some of the weight of grief and worry lifted at his father's confident pronouncement. "I daresay I've seen enough illness and injuries in my time, stabbings included, to predict the outcome accurately. Besides, I know the spirit of this girl. She'll recover." "I agree," Evie said firmly. Letting out a shuddering sigh, Gabriel tightened his arms around her. After a long moment, he heard his mother say ruefully, "Sometimes I miss the days when I could solve any of my children's problems with a nap and a biscuit." "A nap and a biscuit wouldn't hurt this one at the moment," Sebastian commented dryly. "Gabriel, go find a proper bed and rest for a few hours. We'll watch over your little fox cub.

She sat and watched the dockhand when it was sunny and she sat and watched him when it rained. Or when it was foggy, which is what it was nearly every morning at eight o’clock. This morning was none of the above. This morning was cold. The pier smelled of fresh water and of fish. The seagulls screeched overhead, a man’s voice shouted. Where is my brother to help me, my sister, my mother? Pasha, help me, hide in the woods where I know I can find you. Dasha, look what’s happened. Do you even see? Mama, Mama. I want my mother. Where is my family to ask things of me, to weigh on me, to intrude on me, to never let me be silent or alone, where are they to help me through this? Deda, what do I do? I don’t know what to do. This morning the dockhand did not go over to see his friend at the next pier for a smoke and a coffee. Instead, he walked across the road and sat next to her on the bench. This surprised her. But she said nothing, she just wrapped her white nurse’s coat tighter around herself, and fixed the kerchief covering her hair. In Swedish he said to her, “My name is Sven. What’s your name?” After a longish pause, she replied. “Tatiana. I don’t speak Swedish.” In English he said to her, “Do you want a cigarette?” “No,” she replied, also in English. She thought of telling him she spoke little English. She was sure he didn’t speak Russian. He asked her if he could get her a coffee, or something warm to throw over her shoulders. No and no. She did not look at him. Sven was silent a moment. “You want to get on my barge, don’t you?” he asked. “Come. I will take you.” He took her by her arm. Tatiana didn’t move. “I can see you have left something behind,” he said, pulling on her gently. “Go and retrieve it.” Tatiana did not move. “Take my cigarette, take my coffee, or get on my barge. I won’t even turn away. You don’t have to sneak past me. I would have let you on the first time you came. All you had to do was ask. You want to go to Helsinki? Fine. I know you’re not Finnish.” Sven paused. “But you are very pregnant. Two months ago it would have been easier for you. But you need to go back or go forward. How long do you plan to sit here and watch my back?” Tatiana stared into the Baltic Sea. “If I knew, would I be sitting here?” “Don’t sit here anymore. Come,” said the longshoreman. She shook her head. “Where is your husband? Where is the father of your baby?” “Dead in the Soviet Union,” Tatiana breathed out. “Ah, you’re from the Soviet Union.” He nodded. “You’ve escaped somehow? Well, you’re here, so stay. Stay in Sweden. Go to the consulate, get yourself refugee protection. We have hundreds of people getting through from Denmark. Go to the consulate.” Tatiana shook her head. “You’re going to have that baby soon,” Sven said. “Go back, or move forward.” Tatiana’s hands went around her belly. Her eyes glazed over. The dockhand patted her gently and stood up. “What will it be? You want to go back to the Soviet Union? Why?” Tatiana did not reply. How to tell him her soul had been left there? “If you go back, what happens to you?” “I die most likely,” she barely whispered. “If you go forward, what happens to you?” “I live most likely.” He clapped his hands. “What kind of a choice is that? You must go forward.” “Yes,” said Tatiana, “but how do I live like this? Look at me. You think, if I could, I wouldn’t?” “So you’re here in the Stockholm purgatory, watching me move my paper day in and day out, watching me smoke, watching me. What are you going to do? Sit with your baby on the bench? Is that what you want?” Tatiana was silent. The first time she laid eyes on him she was sitting on a bench, eating ice cream. “Go forward.” “I don’t have it in me.” He nodded. “You have it. It’s just covered up. For you it’s winter.” He smiled. “Don’t worry. Summer’s here. The ice will melt.” Tatiana struggled up from the bench. Walking away, she said in Russian, “It’s not the ice anymore, my seagoing philosopher. It’s the pyre.

Every man is a god if he chooses to recognize himself as one. So, the Satanist celebrates his own birthday as the most important holiday of the year. After all, aren't you happier about the fact that you were born than you are about the birth of someone you have never even met? Or, for that matter, aside from religious holidays, why pay higher tribute to the birthday of a president or to a date in history than we do the day we were brought into this greatest of all worlds? Despite the fact that some of us may not have been wanted, or at least were not particularly planned, we're glad, even if no one else is, that we're here! You should give yourself a pat on the back, buy yourself whatever you want, treat yourself like the king (or god) that you are, and generally celebrate your birthday with as much pomp and ceremony as possible.

Dear Sawyer and Quin, If you ever read this and I'm gone I want you to know something that has been weighing on me. I watch you two play and it can be so sad sometimes. You two have been best friends since Sawyer's birth. Always inseparable. It's been adorable , but comes with its challenges. I'm worried when I watch you boys. Quinton, you are always driven by your ego. You're strong and talented, but much too determined to beat down everyone in your efforts to be the best. You push yourself to win a competition, then shove it in someone's face. I’ve rarely seen you compliment others, but you always give yourself a pat on the back. You don't play anything for the love of it, you play to win and normally do. I've seen you tear down your brother so many times just to feel good about yourself. You don't have to do that, dear. You don't have to spend your life trying to prove that you're amazing. One day you'll fail and be alone because you've climbed to the top of a pyramid with only enough room for yourself. Don't let it get to that point and if you do, learn humility from your brother. He could do without so much of it. Sawyer, just because you're most often the underdog and the peaceful introspective kid, don't think I'm letting you off the hook. Your humility has become your worst enemy. It's so intense that I wonder if it will be your vice one day, instead of your greatest virtue. It's one thing to believe you are below all men, even when you're not, but it's another thing to be crippled by fear and to no longer try. Sometimes , dear, I think you fear being good at something because you've tasted the bitterness of being the one who comes in last and you don't want to make others feel that way. That's sweet of you and I smile inside when I see you pretending to lose when you race your younger cousins , but if you always let people beat you they may never learn to work hard for something they want. It's okay to win, just win for the right reasons and always encourage those who lose. Oh, and Sawyer, I hope one day you read this. One day when it matters. If so, remember that the bottom of a mountain can be just as lonely as the top. I hope the two of you can learn to climb together one day. As I'm writing this you are trying to climb the big pine tree out back. Quin is at the top, rejoicing in his victory and taunting Sawyer. And Sawyer is at the bottom, afraid to get hurt and afraid to be sad about it. I'm going to go talk to you two separately now. I hope my words mean something. Love you boys, Mom

When you get what you want in your struggle for self, and the World makes you king for a day; Just go to the mirror and look at yourself, and see what that man has to say. For it isn't your father or mother or wife whose judgment upon you must pass; The fellow whose verdict counts most in your life is the one staring back from the glass. Some people might think you're a straight-shootin' chum and call you a wonderful guy; But the Man in the Glass says you're only a bum if you can't look him straight in the eye. He's the fellow to please -- never mind all the rest! -- for he's with you all the way to the end; And you've already passed your most dangerous test if the guy in the glass is your friend. You may fool the whole World down the pathway of years and get pats on-the-back as you pass; But your final reward will be heartache and tears ... if you've cheated the Man in the Glass !

You have got to be—” Her sentence is cut short when the elevator makes an abrupt stop, jostling both of us into the walls of the small carrier. “Huh, would you look at that?” I glance around the small room, wondering what’s wrong. “No, no, no,” Dottie says over and over again, as she rushes to the panel and presses the emergency button. When nothing happens, she presses all the other buttons. “That’s intelligent,” I say, arms crossed and observing her from behind. “Confuse the damn thing so it has no idea what to do.” She doesn’t answer, but instead pulls her phone out from her purse and starts holding it up in the air, searching for a signal. “It’s cute that you think raising the phone higher will grant you service. We’re in a metal box surrounded by concrete, sweetheart. I never get reception in here.” “Damn it,” she mutters, stuffing her phone back in her purse. “Looks like you’re stuck here with me until someone figures out the elevator broke, so it’s best you get comfortable.” I sit on the floor and then pat my lap. “You can sit right here.” “I’d rather lick the elevator floor.” “There’s a disgusting visual. Suit yourself.” I get comfortable and start rifling through my bag of food. Thank God I grabbed dinner before this, because I’m starving, and if I was stuck in this elevator with no food, I’d be a raging bastard, bashing his head against the metal door from pure hunger. Low blood sugar does crazy things to me. I bring the term hangry to a new level. There’s only— “Why are you smiling like that?” I look up at her. “Smiling like what? I’m just being normal.” “No, you’re smiling like you’re having a conversation inside your head and you think you’re funny.” How would she know that? “Well, I am funny.” I pop open my to-go box filled to the brim with a Philly cheesesteak sandwich and tons of fries. Staring at it, I say, “Oh yes, come to papa.

Mr. Haverstrom closes the door, leaving Patrick and me alone in the hallway. Pat smiles slickly, leaning in toward me. I step back until I press against the wall. It’s uncomfortable—but not threatening. Mostly because in addition to racquetball I’ve practiced aikido for years. So if Patrick tries anything funny, he’s in for a very painful surprise. “Let’s be honest, Sarah: you know and I know the last thing you want to do is give a presentation in front of hundreds of people—your colleagues.” My heart tries to crawl into my throat. “So, how about this? You do the research portion, slides and such that I don’t really have time for, and I’ll take care of the presentation, giving you half the credit of course.” Of course. I’ve heard this song before—in school “group projects” where I, the quiet girl, did all the work, but the smoothest, loudest talker took all the glory. “I’ll get Haverstrom to agree on Saturday—I’m like a son to him,” Pat explains before leaning close enough that I can smell the garlic on his breath. “Let Big Pat take care of it. What do you say?” I say there’s a special place in hell for people who refer to themselves in the third person. But before I can respond, Willard’s firm, sure voice travels down the hall. “I think you should back off, Nolan. Sarah’s not just ‘up for it,’ she’ll be fantastic at it.” Pat waves his hand. “Quiet, midge—the adults are talking.” And the adrenaline comes rushing back, but this time it’s not anxiety-induced—it’s anger. Indignation. I push off the wall. “Don’t call him that.” “He doesn’t mind.” “I mind.” He stares at me with something akin to surprise. Then scoffs and turns to Willard. “You always let a woman fight your battles?” I take another step forward, forcing him to move back. “You think I can’t fight a battle because I’m a woman?” “No, I think you can’t fight a battle because you’re a woman who can barely string three words together if more than two people are in the room.” I’m not hurt by the observation. For the most part, it’s true. But not this time. I smile slowly, devilishly. Suddenly, I’m Cathy Linton come to life—headstrong and proud. “There are more than two people standing here right now. And I’ve got more than three words for you: fuck off, you arrogant, self-righteous swamp donkey.” His expression is almost funny. Like he can’t decide if he’s more shocked that I know the word fuck or that I said it out loud to him—and not in the good way. Then his face hardens and he points at me. “That’s what I get for trying to help your mute arse? Have fun making a fool of yourself.” I don’t blink until he’s down the stairs and gone. Willard slow-claps as he walks down the hall to me. “Swamp donkey?” I shrug. “It just came to me.” “Impressive.” Then he bows and kisses the back of my hand. “You were magnificent.” “Not half bad, right? It felt good.” “And you didn’t blush once.” I push my dark hair out of my face, laughing self-consciously. “Seems like I forget all about being nervous when I’m defending someone else.” Willard nods. “Good. And though I hate to be the twat who points it out, there’s something else you should probably start thinking about straight away.” “What’s that?” “The presentation in front of hundreds of people.” And just like that, the tight, sickly feeling washes back over me. So this is what doomed feels like. I lean against the wall. “Oh, broccoli balls.

His slender hands curled into fists. “You don’t want to change? Do you have any idea what I’ve been through for you? Why do you think I keep coming back to that horrid, dirty, decaying world of yours? Because you changed me! It makes me sick to think of how I have shifted away from what I should be!” I leaned back, terrified of the pure fury in his face. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and releasing all the tension from his facial muscles, returning them back to the mask of perfection. “But this is irrelevant. When I get back to where I am supposed to be, my connection to eternity will be restored and flawless. I will be restored. And you will be connected, too, and we have forever to—” “Whoa, whoa, stop right there, psycho. I’m not coming with you.” He got that infuriating smile, that one that all faeries have that says they know more than you ever will and you can’t even begin to function on the same plane as them but isn’t it cute that you think you have any right to consider yourself a rational creature. It was a condescending head pat in smile form. “Evelyn,” he said, his golden voice trying to pull me in closer. “I love you.

THE TWO CROSSES Many years ago, A. W. Tozer said that whereas the old cross killed the sinner, the new cross redirects the sinner. Consider his timely words: The new cross does not slay the sinner, it redirects him. It gears him into a cleaner and jollier way of living and saves his self-respect. To the self-assertive it says, “Come and assert yourself for Christ.” To the egotist it says, “Come and do your boasting in the Lord.” To the thrill seeker it says, “Come and enjoy the thrill of Christian fellowship.” The Christian message is slanted in the direction of the current vogue in order to make it acceptable to the public. It would seem that in twenty-first century Christianity, there are two crosses—the authentic and the counterfeit. The authentic cross calls us to surrender all while the counterfeit pats us on the back and assures us that we can take the world along for the journey. This is why true, sustained revival continues to evade us. We are becoming like the system we have been commissioned to transform. In compromising with the world by embracing another cross, we offer a great disservice to the very people who are desperately in need of God.

I suggest you stand slowly and walk out with my men,” Zrakovi said, tapping a napkin against his lying, two-faced mouth and putting a twenty on the table to cover the drinks. “If you make a scene, innocent humans will be injured. I have a Blue Congress cleanup team in place, however, so if you want to fight in public and damage a few humans, knock yourself out. It will only add to your list of crimes.” I stood slowly, gritting my teeth when Squirrel Chin patted me down while feeling me up and making it look like a romantic moment. He’d been so busy feeling the naughty bits that he missed both Charlie, sitting in my bag next to my foot, and the dagger attached to my inner forearm. Idiot. Alex would never have been so sloppy. If Alex had patted me down, he’d have found not only the weapons but also the portable magic kit. From the corner of my eye, I saw a tourist taking mobile phone shots of us. He’d no doubt email them to all his friends back home with stories of those crazy New Orleanians and their public displays of affection. I considered pretending to faint, but I was too badly outnumbered for it to work. Like my friend Jean Lafitte, whose help I could use about now, I didn’t want to try something unless it had a reasonable chance at succeeding. I also didn’t want to pull Charlie out and risk humans getting hurt. “Walk out the door onto Chartres and turn straight toward the cathedral.” Zrakovi pulled his jacket aside enough for me to see a shoulder holster. I hadn’t even known the man could hold a gun, although for all I knew about guns it could be a water pistol. The walk to the cathedral transport was three very long city blocks. My best escape opportunity would be near Jackson Square. When the muscular goons tried to turn me left toward the cathedral, I’d try to break and run right toward the river, where I could get lost among the wharves and docks long enough to draw and power a transport. Of course in order to run, I’d have to get away from the clinch of Dreadlocks and Squirrel Chin. Charlie could take care of that. I slipped the messenger bag over my head slowly, and not even Zrakovi noticed the stick of wood protruding from the top by a couple of inches. Not to be redundant, but . . . idiots. None of us spoke as we proceeded down Chartres Street, where, to our south, the clouds continued to build. The wind had grown stronger and drier. The hurricane was sucking all the humidity out of the air, all the better to gain intensity. I hoped Zrakovi, a Bostonian, would enjoy his first storm. I hoped a live oak landed on his head.

To pass the time, he hunted through the apartment, patting surfaces down with his palms in an attempt to find computers, extra phones, more goddamn guns. He’d just returned to the second bedroom when something ricocheted off the window. Wrath unholstered his forty again and back-flatted it on the wall next to the window. With his hand, he sprang the lock and pushed the sheet of glass open a crack. The cop’s Boston accent was about as subtle as a loudspeaker. “Yo, Rapunzel, you going to let down your frickin’ hair, there?” “Shh, you wanna wake the neighbors?” “Like they can hear anything over that TV? Hey, this is the bat epi…” Wrath left Butch to talk to himself, putting his gun back on his hip, pushing the window wide, then heading for the closet. The only warning he gave the cop as he winged the first two-hundred-pound crate out of the building was, “Brace yourself, Effie.” “Jesus Ch—” A grunt cut off the swearing. Wrath poked his head out of the window and whispered, “You’re supposed to be a good Catholic. Isn’t that blasphemy?” Butch’s tone was like someone had pissed out a fire on his bed. “You just threw half a car at me with nothing but a quote from Mrs. fucking Doubtfire.” “Put on your big-girl pants and deal.” As the cop cursed his way over to the Escalade, which he’d managed to park under some pine trees, Wrath headed back to the closet. When Butch returned, Wrath heaved again. “Two more.” There was another grunt and a rattle. “Fuck me.” “Not on your life.” “Fine. Fuck you.” -Butch & Wrath

Aunt Jane came around from the back of the house, her black silk cape fluttering from her shoulders, and a calico sunbonnet hiding her features in its cavernous depth. She walked briskly to the clothes-line and began patting and smoothing the quilts where the breeze had disarranged them. "Aunt Jane," I called out, "are you having a fair all by yourself?" She turned quickly, pushing back the sunbonnet from her eyes. "Why, child," she said, with a happy laugh, "you come pretty nigh skeerin' me. No, I ain't havin' any fair; I'm jest givin' my quilts their spring airin'. Twice a year I put 'em out in the sun and wind; and this mornin' the air smelt so sweet, I thought it was a good chance to freshen 'em up for the summer. It's about time to take 'em in now." She began to fold the quilts and lay them over her arm, and I did the same. Back and forth we went from the clothes-line to the house, and from the house to the clothes-line, until the quilts were safely housed from the coming dewfall and piled on every available chair in the front room. I looked at them in sheer amazement. There seemed to be every pattern that the ingenuity of woman could devise and the industry of woman put together, — "four-patches," "nine-patches," "log-cabins," "wild-goose chases," "rising suns," hexagons, diamonds, and only Aunt Jane knows what else. As for color, a Sandwich Islander would have danced with joy at the sight of those reds, purples, yellows, and greens. "Did you really make all these quilts, Aunt Jane?" I asked wondcringly. Aunt Jane's eyes sparkled with pride. "Every stitch of 'em, child," she said, "except the quiltin'. The neighbors used to come in and help some with that. I've heard folks say that piecin' quilts was nothin' but a waste o' time, but that ain't always so.

He patted her hand. “But I will settle for an amiable wife.” It was as close to making a declaration of his intentions as he’d come. So of course Mr. Pinter chose that inopportune moment to enter the breakfast room. “And whose amiable wife are you settling for, sir?” he said in a snide tone. His gaze dropped to the viscount’s hand resting on hers, then darkened. She resisted the urge to snatch her hand free. The viscount bristled, tightening his hand almost possessively on hers. “Do I know you, sir?” “Not yet. The name is Jackson Pinter.” He came to stand directly across the table and bent forward over it to offer his hand to Lord Basto, forcing the viscount to release her hand to take it. “Some would call me Mrs. Plumtree’s ‘lackey,’” he added with a side glance at Celia. “Though I work for Lord Stoneville.” She colored, remembering the conversation they’d had a few months ago, when she’d called him that. He was clearly spoiling for a fight. No doubt he was still smarting over her pulling a pistol on him last night. “Mr. Pinter does investigations of all kinds,” she explained. “For money.” Mr. Pinter’s slate-gray eyes bore into her. “Some of us cannot live on our family’s fortune, my lady.” “While some of us are very fond of biting the hand that feeds them.” If he could throw her past words at her, then she could throw back what he’d said to her months ago. She was surprised when a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “A hit direct, madam. Perhaps I should get out of the line of the fire while I still have my head.” “Perhaps you should refrain from putting yourself in the line of fire in the first place,” she quipped. “An officer of the law ought to know better.” “Know better than what?” Oliver asked as he entered with the duke at his side. Generally, she liked being in a room full of men. But when it was her brother, two suitors, and the only man whose kisses had ever affected her, there was a bit too much manliness in the air for her taste. “Your sister and I were just having one of our usual discussions,” Mr. Pinter said. “You mean she was raking you over the coals again?” Oliver said. “I believe the coal raking was mutual this time,” she said lightly. Oliver snorted. She could feel the viscount’s gaze on her, and the duke seemed to be watching both her and Mr. Pinter. It was very unsettling.

always been that way. And you will not share her. She is yours. Vanished into your car; traceless. It has gone very, very well. As well as could have been expected. You have to admit to being a little bit pleased. You have to admit that you allowed yourself a pat on the back. Have you been lucky, even? Maybe. You need luck. Everyone does. You are no different, at least not in that regard. In some others, yes. In some other ways, you are very different. Better. More clear-sighted. More decisive. So maybe it wasn’t luck, after all. No, you don’t think it was. It was down to good planning. Yes, you prefer that. It was down to good planning. And ability, of course. Nerve and skill. It was you who’d done it, you who’d made it happen. Luck was not part of it. Not that you are becoming complacent. That would not do. That way, disaster lies. Complacency is the path to failure. And you did not take

36. We All Struggle With Motivation Sometimes Shock, horror…yes, even I feel unmotivated occasionally! I am human. So don’t worry when you feel a little demotivated - it is normal. Just give yourself a short break, take a nap, go for a walk, make a cup of tea, then pick yourself up and make the conscious decision to get charging. It is always best not to deny to yourself that you might occasionally suffer from a little bit of stinkin’ thinkin’ - so give it its moment, then boot it out! So don’t beat yourself up about having a bad day - I have had loads of them and will have many more in the future. Take a deep breath, pat yourself on the back for being human after all, then get out there and get moving again. Champions don’t stay down for long. Oh, and I have a good trick for doing stuff, like exercising, when I really am not in the mood…I tell myself that I can quit, but only after three minutes. I have to at least begin. Invariably after three minutes of running, I find I am in the groove and want to keep going. The hard bit is always getting going, so I commit at least to start, with my ‘three-minute-get-out clause’…which, of course, then doesn’t get used! Whatever works for you…but keep feeding the motivation into your brain and soul every day. Remember the previous chapter on armpits!

What did you learn? What did you handle well? What do you deserve to give yourself a pat on the back for?

Let’s say you are trying to run further than you ever have. When you start to feel tired, you tell yourself you are just going to get to the end of this road. When you do, you mentally give yourself a pat on the back for achieving it. You see it as a sign that you are on the right track. This internal reward to yourself gives you a dopamine release. This suppresses the noradrenaline that causes you to give up. As a result, you get an extra boost to keep going for a bit longer.

Peter shouted, and wanted to go on and say how much smarter, braver, and better-natured she was than Marika would ever be, even if she were to really try, but Shani, who felt sorry for Marika, held his hand up to stop him. “Enough, Marika,” he said softly, “stop blaming yourself. You had no way of changing the course of events, and your mother will be all right, she’s a smart and courageous woman and she has always managed to take care of herself.” “But she’s all alone now! Without anyone to protect her!” Marika wailed, burying her face in her hands. Shani, who looked uncomfortable, stood behind her and patted her back. “I have to go,” he said eventually, “if Magda wakes up, she’ll die from worry. Are you coming, Peter?” “I’ll stay with Marika,” Peter said quickly. Despite his anger at the way she’d spoken about Sophie, he found it difficult to abandon her in such a pitiful state. “As you wish,” Shani said, shrugging and getting to his feet. “You have a key, right?” “Yes,” Peter answered, sitting on the arm of Marika’s chair and hugging her. Shani rushed out, and Marika continued to sob. Peter stayed

helps to have small rewards along the way. Not so much external rewards, but internal ones. That emotional pat on the back you provide for yourself when you congratulate yourself for your efforts and acknowledge that it has been worth it because you are heading in the right direction. Doing this helps you to lean back into effort, knowing that you are on the way towards the changes you want to see.

At the end of the line, he hugs me. He pats me on the back and says, “Don’t worry, Jing Jing. Focus on yourself. You’ll figure things out. You get it from me. You’re my daughter.

Gratitude isn’t just a fancy way to pat yourself on the back or feel smug about saying “thank you” to the barista who spelled your name wrong. Nope, it’s a full-on life upgrade that doesn’t require a subscription or Wi-Fi. It’s a mindset, a way to see life that makes even a cold cup of coffee feel like a small win. When we show gratitude, we’re not just hoarding all the good vibes; we’re actually tossing them back out into the world like confetti, starting a chain reaction of positive energy. But let’s be honest—when was the last time you truly asked yourself: What am I grateful for? And no, your Wi-Fi signal doesn’t count. Life’s a busy, chaotic mess. Between trying to remember your passwords, dodging traffic, and figuring out what’s for dinner (again), it’s no wonder we forget to appreciate the little things. That’s where gratitude comes in, giving us a chance to hit the brakes on our runaway thoughts and realize that, hey, maybe we do have it pretty good. That shift from “Ugh, my life is a series of unfortunate events” to “Wow, I have a roof over my head and socks without holes” can do wonders for your outlook. Gratitude is like the mental equivalent of putting on glasses—suddenly, everything comes into focus. It grounds you in the now, making you realize that even during your worst “can’t-even” moments, there are still little gems worth celebrating. Whether it’s your friend’s cheesy joke, your pet’s goofy antics, or the sheer joy of finding that one comfy spot on the couch, these snippets of life, when recognized, add up to a sense of well-being that no amount of scrolling through social media can match. The magic of practicing gratitude is that it turns “not enough” into “more than enough.” It’s like discovering you’ve been living in a treasure chest all along. And here’s the kicker: gratitude isn’t just about feeling warm and fuzzy; it’s also about spreading that warmth to others. Your good vibes become a beacon, making people wonder, “What’s their secret?” Spoiler: It’s not a miracle supplement. But let’s talk about giving back. What does it mean to share gratitude with the world? It’s not complicated. It’s about realizing that by being aware of what we’re thankful for, we create an atmosphere where appreciation becomes a thing. That sincere “thank you” you offer to the overworked delivery driver or the moment you pause to notice the sunset—those actions radiate positivity more than you know. Gratitude is the gift that keeps on giving, even when you’re not keeping tabs on it. If you want to research this more, Google is full of studies and numbers. But the real takeaway? Life experience shows us that gratitude is more than just a practice; it’s a game-changer. It shifts our focus to what we have, building mental resilience and helping us find peace and strength in the present. It’s a reminder that life’s value isn’t in towering achievements or shiny things but in the love, laughter, and moments that make us human.

What about him?” one of Brisco’s entourage asked, glaring at Jablonski. They all were, actually. He wasn’t a popular man. I pretended to think about it. “Well, here’s the thing. I promised I wouldn’t kill him if he did everything I told him to, and he did.” I patted Jablonski on the back. “So I guess here’s where we part ways. Nice seeing ya, buddy.” “Wait,” Jablonski said, his head on a swivel as he backed up against the guardrail. “You can’t leave me here!” “Sure I can. Look, all you have to do is make it from here to the exit by yourself. It’s not like you went out of your way to give every man in here a reason to hate you, right? What do you think, Brisco? What are his odds?” Brisco slapped his fist into his open palm. “Not good.” Jablonski tried to run. He made it two, maybe three steps before they fell on him. Then it was all fists and feet and strangled pleading, and we left Brisco and his boys to their revenge.

Walt had a way of communicating that was just magical,” composer Richard Sherman told me. “Simple, but magical. He would give you a challenge and say, ‘I know you can do this.’ He made you believe anything was possible. He made you proud to be on his team. And it really was a team effort—Walt would roll up his sleeves and go to work alongside the rest of us. “He saw potential in people who had never really done anything great. My brother Robert and I really had no track record in the music industry, but Walt heard a few of our songs and he gave us an opportunity and inspired us to keep topping ourselves. Without Walt to inspire us, I don’t know where we’d be today. “Walt always wanted you to find something wonderful in yourself, to believe in it and consider it God’s gift to you. God gives you the gift, and the rest is up to you. Walt taught me that what you do with that gift is your gift back to God.

Once you develop a model, don’t pat yourself on the back just yet. Predictions don’t help unless you do something about them. They’re just thoughts, just ideas. They may be astute, brilliant gems that glimmer like the most polished of crystal balls, but hanging

The honeymoon phase of a placement is actually the Shock/Denial stage of grieving. Children in this stage are often so numb that they are obedient, compliant, and eager to please. They may be robot-like in their behavior, not showing any emotional reaction at all to the move into your house. They may fool you into thinking that the adjustment is going fine and you will be patting yourself on the back for being such wonderful foster parents. This is just a stage. Be gentle and understanding.

Why won’t you marry me?” “Gracious, you are persistent.” She patted the bun he’d so expertly fashioned. “Has it occurred to you if I marry you all my wealth and independence would be forfeit?” “If you don’t trust me to leave your fortune in peace, transfer your wealth to your brother’s name. He’ll steward it as you direct.” Gayle would be more conscientious with her money than she was, which was saying something. “And what of my freedom, my independence?” How such a big man could move so quickly was beyond her. One moment Maggie was looking around for her boots and stockings, the next she was flat on her back with fifteen stone of determined earl poised above her. “You call it independence, but you never so much as go for a drive in the park, Maggie Windham. You do not make social calls except on your family members, you do not entertain, and you do not permit yourself even a dog for companionship. As my countess, you’ll have the run of the society functions, your invitations will be accepted by all and sundry, and you will have my charming and devoted company at your beck and call, even and especially in your confinements. Plural, God willing. Marry me.” Devoted

Very sexy, babe,” Sierra says, eyeing Doug’s Speedo. Doug is walking like a penguin, waddling while trying to get comfortable. “I swear to God I’m taking these off as soon as I get in the hot tub. They’re choking my balls.” “TMI,” Brittany chimes in, covering her ears with her palms. She’s wearing a yellow bikini, leaving very little to the imagination. Does she realize she looks like a sunflower, ready to rain sunshine on all who look down upon her? Doug and Sierra climb into the tub. I hop into the tub and sit beside Brittany. I’ve never been in a hot tub before, and am not sure about hot-tub protocol. Are we going to sit here and talk, or do we break off into couples and make out? I like the second option, but Brittany looks nervous. Especially when Doug tosses his Speedo out of the tub. I wince. “Come on, man.” “What? I want to be able to have kids one day, Fuentes. That thing was cutting off my circulation.” Brittany hops out of the tub and pulls a towel around her. “Let’s go inside, Alex.” “You guys can stay in here,” Sierra says. “I’ll make him put the marble bag back on.” “Forget it. You two enjoy the tub. We’ll be inside,” Brittany says. When I’m out of the tub, Brittany hands me an extra towel. I put my arm around her as we walk to the cabin. “You okay?” “Absolutely. I was thinking you were upset.” “I’m cool. But…” Inside, I pick up a blown-glass figurine and study it. “Seein’ this house, this life…I want to be here with you, but I look around and realize this will never be me.” “You’re thinking too much.” She kneels on the carpet and pats the floor. “Come here and lie on your stomach. I know how to give Swedish massages. It’ll relax you.” “You’re not Swedish,” I say. “Yeah, well, neither are you. So if I do it wrong you’ll never know the difference.” I lie next to her. “I thought we were gonna take this relationship slow.” “A back rub is harmless.” My eyes roam over her kick-ass bikini-covered bod. “I’ll have you know I’ve been intimate with girls wearin’ a lot more.” She slaps me on the butt. “Behave yourself.

Seein’ this house, this life…I want to be here with you, but I look around and realize this will never be me.” “You’re thinking too much.” She kneels on the carpet and pats the floor. “Come here and lie on your stomach. I know how to give Swedish massages. It’ll relax you.” “You’re not Swedish,” I say. “Yeah, well, neither are you. So if I do it wrong you’ll never know the difference.” I lie next to her. “I thought we were gonna take this relationship slow.” “A back rub is harmless.” My eyes roam over her kick-ass bikini-covered bod. “I’ll have you know I’ve been intimate with girls wearin’ a lot more.” She slaps me on the butt. “Behave yourself.

By the time first period was over, my head felt back to normal, and I was well on my way to congratulating myself on my quick recovery from my encounter with Alex Crawford. Right up until the moment I walked out of the classroom and straight into his arms. It was hard not to. He was standing right outside the door. His hands came up to grasp and steady me at the same time as he flashed me that mind-numbing smile. How on earth did he get here so fast? I wondered. “Hey, Jo O’Connor,” he said. “Hey, yourself,” I mumbled. At that moment, I made a snap decision, a thing I usually avoid. My usual new school adjustment techniques just didn’t seem to be getting me anywhere, at least not with Alex Crawford. If at first you don’t succeed, try try again. Only a fool tries the same thing twice, though. If fading into the background wasn’t going to work, maybe standing out by being obnoxious would. “What did you say your name was, again?” I asked. Alex laughed. Oh, nice move, O’Connor; I thought. It was the same kind of laugh he’d given before. Open, easy, unselfconscious. A laugh that softened all my defenses and pretty much made my heart want to melt like one of those little pats of butter you get at Denny’s, left out in the sun.

Seein’ this house, this life…I want to be here with you, but I look around and realize this will never be me.” “You’re thinking too much.” She kneels on the carpet and pats the floor. “Come here and lie on your stomach. I know how to give Swedish massages. It’ll relax you.” “You’re not Swedish,” I say. “Yeah, well, neither are you. So if I do it wrong you’ll never know the difference.” I lie next to her. “I thought we were gonna take this relationship slow.” “A back rub is harmless.” My eyes roam over her kick-ass bikini-covered bod. “I’ll have you know I’ve been intimate with girls wearin’ a lot more.” She slaps me on the butt. “Behave yourself.” When her hands move over my back, I let out a groan. Man, this is torture. I’m trying to behave, but her hands feel too damn good and my body has a mind of its own. “You’re tense,” she says in my ear. Of course I’m tense. Her hands are all over me. My answer is another groan. After a few minutes of Brittany’s mind-numbing massage, loud moaning, groaning, and grunting from the hot tub floats into the room. Doug and Sierra have obviously skipped the back rub portion of the evening. “Do you think they’re doing it?” she asks. “Either that, or Doug’s a very religious guy,” I say, referring to the screaming Oh, God! every two seconds. “Does it make you horny?” she sings quietly into my ear. “No, but you keep massagin’ me like that and you can forget about that goin’ slow bullshit.” I sit up and face her. “What I can’t figure out is if you know you’re a tease and are fuckin’ with me or whether you really are innocent.” “I’m not a tease.” I cock an eyebrow, then look down at my upper thigh where she’s parked her hand. She snatches it away. “Okay, I didn’t mean to put my hand there. Well, I mean, not really. It just kinda…wh…what I mean to say is--” “I like it when you stutter,” I say as I pull her down next to me and show her my own version of a Swedish massage until we’re interrupted by Sierra and Doug.

You and I have all the power in the world to doubt and no independent power at all to believe. So if you are living by faith, don’t proudly pat yourself on the back as if you did something great. No, raise your eyes and your hands toward heaven and thank God for gifting you with the desire and ability to believe.

I guess there’s nothing else to say.” “Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said, crooking a finger. “Come here.” Her throat went dry, and her heart gave a thud. On instinct, she shook her head. His expression turned ruthlessly intent. “Maddie, I’ve been thinking about that mouth of yours for almost twenty-four hours straight. You don’t think I’m going to let you go without touching you, do you?” Had it only been one day? How was that even possible? It seemed as though a lifetime had passed since she’d run out on her wedding. “Um . . .” She swallowed hard and squeaked out, “Yes?” A long pause filled with sexual awareness so thick it practically coated the air. How did he do it, flip the mood? Only moments ago, she’d felt bereft, but with one wicked glance she’d forgotten everything dogging her. “I’ll tell you what.” He smiled, and it was so filled with cunning that the fine hairs on her neck rose in anticipation. “Tell me you won’t regret it and we can end things right here with a friendly pat on the back.” “I-I d-don’t know what you mean,” she lied, loving and hating the direction the conversation had taken. “Do I need to spell it out?” “No?” The word was a question instead of the statement she’d intended. “You want to take care of yourself, right?” She nodded, sensing a trap but unable to stop playing into his hands. He leaned close, placing his elbow on the console, taking up every spare inch of breathing room. “You’re ready to ditch the good Catholic girl and start doing what you want?” The strange mixture of lust and irritation he evoked pulled in her stomach. “Well, when you put it that way.” The curve of his lips held a distinct sexual tilt. “If you get out of this car untouched, tell me you won’t lie in bed late at night and regret it. Tell me you won’t wonder and wish you’d done things differently.” Her pulse hammered and her throat dried up, leaving her unable to breathe, let alone speak. He stroked a path over the line of her jaw, and Maddie forced her eyes to stay open instead of fluttering closed from sheer desire. Why did it feel like an eternity since he’d touched her? Even more troubling, why did his hands feel so right? The slightly rough pads of his fingers trailed down the curve of her neck, leaving an explosion of tingles coursing through her. “And remember, Princess,” he said, in a deep rumble of a voice that vibrated through her as though he were her own personal tuning fork. “Lying is a sin.” She gasped, sucking in the last available bit of air left in the car. “That’s a low blow.” He gave a seductive laugh, filled with heat and promise and the kind of raw passion she’d always dreamed about. “I’m not above playing dirty.” A sly smirk as he rubbed a lazy circle over skin she hadn’t known was sensitive. “In fact, I think you prefer it that way.” “I do not!” Her heart beating far too fast, she clutched at the credit card hard enough to snap it in two. “Liar.” He slipped under the collar of her T-shirt to wrap a possessive hand around the nape of her neck. “I’m waiting.” She gritted her teeth to keep from moaning. How did one man feel so good? Hot and sinful. Irresistible. She whispered, “For what?” “My answer,” he said, inching closer. Their mouths mere inches away. She swallowed hard. The truth sat on the tip of her tongue, and for once in her life, she decided to speak it instead of stuffing it back down. “I’d regret it.” “Exactly,” he said, the word a soft breath against her skin. The pad of his thumb brushed over her bottom lip, sliding over the dampness until it felt swollen. Needy. “I can’t live with myself unless I’ve tasted this mouth.” This

What’s she doing here?” Pete whispers vehemently. “Eating fucking pancakes!” I hiss back. “Now mind your own business!” “You are my business, dumbass.” He shakes his head. “Seriously, did you bang her?” “Don’t fucking talk about her like she’s…less than what she is.” I shove his shoulder. He whistles. “Oh, it’s like that, is it?” “Fuck you. It’s been like that for a long time. I really like her.” He opens my fridge and comes back with a container of yogurt. “I already knew you didn’t bang her.” “You did not.” “Did so.” “Shut up.” “Want to know how I knew?” He sings it out like a playful song. “No.” “Because her damp panties are over the shower bar in the guest bathroom instead of in your bathroom. If you’d slept with her, she’d be washing her unmentionables in your sink.” “If they’re unmentionables, then why the fuck are you talking about them?” “What did you two do last night?” “We watched the cook-off show.” “Oh, hell no.” He moans. “You got better game than that! Did I teach you nothing?” He throws his hands up. “Yes, you taught me nothing.” I grin at him. “What happened after the cook-off show?” He watches my face intently. “Nothing. We went to sleep.” “You didn’t fuck her.” “I already told you I didn’t, and I told you to stop talking about her like that. Now get the fuck out.” “Did she sleep in your bed?” I draw in a deep breath through my nose. “She did. But you didn’t fuck her.” He pats my shoulder like I’m a good puppy. “Good boy.” “This one matters,” I say quietly. “I get it.” He’s serious all of a sudden. Pete may act like a dick, but he’s my brother. He’s my twin. He’s my other half. “This one is special.” “I think she likes me.” “Don’t fuck it up by being yourself or anything.” He grins and grabs me in a headlock. I can’t fight with him while I’m on crutches. He turns me loose and I hop to get my balance.

Aren’t our dresses exquisite?” Performing a few happy waltz steps, Corinna turned in a circle. “Um, yes. Pull your sleeves up, Juliana, will you?” She tugged at them, but the dress was designed to be off the shoulder. “They won’t go.” He eyed their dresses’ high waistlines and scooped necklines, designed to accentuate the bust. “You’re all going to cover”—at an apparent loss for words, he patted his own chest—“with one of those scarf things, right?” “A fichu?” Madame sniffed. “I think not. These are evening gowns, my lord.” “They don’t look like the pictures my sisters showed me.” “The pictures were but a starting point, my lord. By the time the fashion plates make it here from France, they’re already beginning to pass out of style.” “We shall not be caught in last month’s fashions,” Juliana added. “These gowns are the thing.” “Not in this house, they aren’t!” “Griffin. Good news. The foundry will have the new part cast by the end of the day.” Tris walked in, scanned the room with a low whistle, and settled on Alexandra. “By George, you ladies will put every other girl to shame.” “My sisters won’t be wearing these dresses,” Griffin said. “Of course they will.” Tris tore his gaze from Alexandra and turned to his friend. “While I take apart the pump, you’ll want to head out to the vineyard and see that work on the new pipeline is resumed.” “Very well.” Griffin turned to leave, then swiveled back. “I’m not paying for those dresses,” he warned. “Not until they’re made decent.” Madame Rodale gave a little French-sounding “hmmph.” Tris laughed. “Listen to yourself, old man. You’ve been on campaign far too long. Don’t you want men to find your sisters appealing? Irresistible? Marriageable?” “Not if they’re men like…” “Like us?” Tris suggested helpfully. Griffin’s “hmmph” put the mantua-maker’s to shame. “I need to get to the vineyard,” he muttered and left. “Madame

I’m eating breakfast the morning after Brittany’s warehouse visit when I glimpse a shaved head peeking through my front door. “Paco, if that’s you I’d stay the hell away from me,” I call out. Mi’amá slaps me on the back of my head. “That’s no way to treat your friends, Alejandro.” I go back to eating while she opens the door for that…traitor. “You’re not still mad at me, Alex,” Paco says, “are you?” “Of course he’s not mad at you, Paco. Now sit down and eat. I’ve made some chorizo con huevos.” Paco has the gall to pat me on the shoulder. “I forgive you, man.” I look up then, first at mi’amá to make sure she isn’t paying attention, then at Paco. “You forgive me?” “You’ve got yourself a real fat lip, Paco,” she says, examining the damage I’d done to it. Paco touches his lip lightly. “Yeah, I fell onto a fist. You know how it is.

Dad, I’m going out in the field later. I’m undercover. Have you forgotten what you used to look like when you were the most respected homicide detective in your squad? Back before you got stuck behind a desk, forced to kiss bureaucratic ass?” His father’s glare was enough to make him back off. “How dare you insult me or my position?” Michaels looked his father in the eye. “I apologize, Sir. That was disrespectful and completely out of line.” “You’re damn right it was.” Michaels sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just don’t know what the hell I have to do to make you proud.” His dad looked at him dolefully before placing his strong hands on both of his shoulders, and turning Michaels to face him. “I am proud of you, son. Everyday. I just—” A sigh escaped his father before he continued. “I just don’t want you limiting yourself. You have the potential to lead, son. It’s in your blood. Following God and Day is not going to put you in that position. You’re the leader, not the follower.” “I can make sergeant, lieutenant and any other rank as long as I continue to be a good cop.  Working with them, I’m able to finally show what I’m capable of. So many departments have egomaniac lieutenants that are so afraid of rules and regulations that they’re barely able to let their detectives make an arrest. I just want to be able to show what I can do, and God and Day let me do that.” “Like dropkicking a man through a window.” He saw the amused glint in his father’s eye. “Yeah. Like that.” Michaels laughed. The story of their last bust - when he’d taken down three men, one of whom he’d kicked through a window - had circulated pretty fast. His father laughed with him, patting his cheek. “I’m damn proud of you, son. I’m just being a father I guess.” “I’m good Dad. Really. I’m happy with what I do. The guys are great, I trust them, and they trust me. We do good work together.” “You do, son. I can’t dispute that. I didn’t mean to insult you, either.” “I know.” His father turned to get in his car. “I’ll see you at the house tomorrow night, right?” “Tomorrow?

Physical touch is one of my primary love languages. For those of us who share this love language, touching is an endearing gesture of affection, appreciation, and connection. It is not intended to be inappropriate in any way when we hug you upon meeting, pat your back, or squeeze your arm. For us, it is an enthusiastic demonstration of friendship. However, there are many people who do NOT like to be touched—men or women. In spite of our good intentions, touching can make others feel awkward, offended, and in the worst-case scenario, violated. It is crucial to be vigilant and socially aware enough that you can read people’s cues to know when to pull back and contain yourself.

Every time you express yourself in code, you should pat yourself on the back. Every time you write a comment, you should grimace and feel the failure of your ability of expression.

You look nice,” he said, as a headlight splashed across the interior. “Give yourself a pat on the back; you bought it. I really wish you didn’t keep filling my closet. I’m never going to be able to pay you back.” “I would not take payment for something that is my duty.” That’s what I liked about Justus; he would never admit that he enjoyed shopping for me. At first, I thought I wasn’t up to snuff and he was trying to change me. As it turns out, it was the only way he knew how to express his affection. Wearing one of his dresses was the equivalent of a hug

Incidentally, the word pelf in the first line of the poem means “wealth.” When you get what you want in your struggle for pelf, And the world makes you King for a day, Then go to the mirror and look at yourself, And see what that guy has to say. For it isn’t your Father, or Mother, or Wife, Who judgement upon you must pass. The feller whose verdict counts most in your life Is the guy staring back from the glass. He’s the feller to please, never mind all the rest, For he’s with you clear up to the end, And you’ve passed your most dangerous, difficult test If the guy in the glass is your friend. You may be like Jack Horner and “chisel” a plum, And think you’re a wonderful guy, But the man in the glass says you’re only a bum If you can’t look him straight in the eye. You can fool the whole world down the pathway of years, And get pats on the back as you pass, But your final reward will be heartaches and tears If you’ve cheated the guy in the glass. © 1934 by Dale Wimbrow (1895–1954) Used by permission.

I suggest you stand slowly and walk out with my men,” Zrakovi said, tapping a napkin against his lying, two-faced mouth and putting a twenty on the table to cover the drinks. “If you make a scene, innocent humans will be injured. I have a Blue Congress cleanup team in place, however, so if you want to fight in public and damage a few humans, knock yourself out. It will only add to your list of crimes.” I stood slowly, gritting my teeth when Squirrel Chin patted me down while feeling me up and making it look like a romantic moment. He’d been so busy feeling the naughty bits that he missed both Charlie, sitting in my bag next to my foot, and the dagger attached to my inner forearm. Idiot. Alex would never have been so sloppy. If Alex had patted me down, he’d have found not only the weapons but also the portable magic kit. From the corner of my eye, I saw a tourist taking mobile phone shots of us. He’d no doubt email them to all his friends back home with stories of those crazy New Orleanians and their public displays of affection. I considered pretending to faint, but I was too badly outnumbered for it to work. Like my friend Jean Lafitte, whose help I could use about now, I didn’t want to try something unless it had a reasonable chance at succeeding. I also didn’t want to pull Charlie out and risk humans getting hurt. “Walk out the door onto Chartres and turn straight toward the cathedral.” Zrakovi pulled his jacket aside enough for me to see a shoulder holster. I hadn’t even known the man could hold a gun, although for all I knew about guns it could be a water pistol. The walk to the cathedral transport was three very long city blocks. My best escape opportunity would be near Jackson Square. When the muscular goons tried to turn me left toward the cathedral, I’d try to break and run right toward the river, where I could get lost among the wharves and docks long enough to draw and power a transport. Of course in order to run, I’d have to get away from the clinch of Dreadlocks and Squirrel Chin. Charlie could take care of that. I slipped the messenger bag over my head slowly, and not even Zrakovi noticed the stick of wood protruding from the top by a couple of inches. Not to be redundant, but . . . idiots. None of us spoke as we proceeded down Chartres Street, where, to our south, the clouds continued to build. The wind had grown stronger and drier. The hurricane was sucking all the humidity out of the air, all the better to gain intensity. I hoped Zrakovi, a Bostonian, would enjoy his first storm. I hoped a live oak landed on his head.

He’d be glad you were there, standing in for him.” “I was just telling him about it and I thought, shit, I don’t even know how much of him is in there.” “None,” Jack said. “He’s moved on.” Paul hit his chest with a fist. “I still have him here.” “Of course. Everyone who loved him has him there. I think that’s the point.” “I shouldn’t have been the one tonight. It should’ve been him. She misses him so much.” “Look, we all have different paths, Paul. His led him there, yours led you here.” Paul sniffed and wiped at his face. “The house is about done,” he said. “Vanni will be up and around in no time and I can’t hang around here anymore. I have to get back. To Grants Pass.” “Yeah,” Jack said. “But you’ll be back pretty soon. You have strong ties here.” “I don’t know about that….” “Give her time, Paul. It’s still a little raw, but that’s going to change.” “What are you talking about?” he asked, looking at him in the dark. “Oh, Jesus, I wondered. You don’t remember. You got a little drunk and—No, you got a lot drunk and kind of let it slip about how you saw her first.” “No. I couldn’t have.” “Take it easy. Just to me. You had the discretion to pass out before you told anyone else. So listen to me for once, okay? Because this is important. You already know this, but right now you think you’re the only man who’s ever been in this position. I married a widow. Remember? It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t quick—getting over that long, ugly hump of wondering where I fit in. It was goddamn humbling, if you want the truth. But, Paul, it was worth every sleepless night I invested. It’s just that it takes whatever time it takes.” Paul thought a minute. He fixed his lips tight, as if he were struggling. “I have to get back to Grants Pass.” “But you come back here before long,” Jack said. “Come back regular. I’m telling you, if you don’t, you’ll regret it.” “But I can’t stay much longer, Jack. It’s eating me up. I gotta get out of here. He was my best friend, and he’s dead, and I helped his baby into the world, and—” “And you want his woman. I know this is a rough patch, Paul, but if you’re the kind of guy who cuts and runs, oh man, you’re going to hate yourself.” Paul hung his head. “Come on,” Jack said. “People want to say good-night. They want to pat you on the back one more time.” “Can’t you just leave me out here?” “Nah,” he said, turning Paul away from the grave with a hand behind his neck. “The general wants to tell you—Matt picked a name. They’ve made a few adjustments on account of his death—adjustments that were Vanessa’s idea. Matt wanted to name him Paul. But they’ve settled on Matthew Paul. I think you should drink to it. And think to it.

Again, I beg to differ with your opinion. I’d hardly call the lives of the immortals quiet. And why is it that God can write a fucking book and I can’t?” I shot back, leaning back in my chair and waiting for her to play favorites in favor of my brother—again. My mother was the only one in the Universe that could get away with calling me a little shit and live to speak of it. The only reason I let it go was because I’d heard her call God the same thing. I knew the bastard phoned her on a regular basis. It chafed my ass that my brother had racked up more brownie points with our certifiable matriarch than I had. God was the ultimate kiss ass and I was the ultimate bad boy. “God didn’t write a tell all,” Mother Nature said, confused. “Lucifer’s referring to the bible,” my father explained, fondly patting her bottom. “Oh for the love of everything good, evil, and somewhere in between,” my mother groused and stamped her tiny Jimmy Choo clad foot causing a small tremble in Hell. “God wrote a history book.” “And I did as well,” I said, defending my life story. “At least my book wasn’t passed down by word of mouth for hundreds of years and then written in a dead language only to be translated innumerable times and interpreted by halfwits. Mine is straight from the guilty bastard’s mouth.” “Little harsh on your brother there—not to mention yourself,” Bill muttered. “Yes, well the truth hurts,” I informed him, doing my best imitation of my mother’s raised brow. “This is why lies are so much more fun.

To (Cicero), pride in a job well done is vastly constructive. For instance, it motivates good conduct in early life because, in remembrance, you can make yourself happier when old. To which, aided by modern knowledge, I would add "and, besides, as you pat yourself on the back for behaving well, you will improve your future conduct.

Self-love isn't just about bubble baths and treating yourself – although those are great, too! It's about embracing your flaws, celebrating your victories, and being your own biggest cheerleader. So go ahead, give yourself a pat on the back, throw yourself a compliment or two, and remember that you're pretty darn amazing, flaws and all. After all, when you love yourself unconditionally, you become unstoppable.

Our failures are always our own. Own them, change them, demand more from yourself than a pat on the back and better luck next time.

What you love to do, you do well. What you do well will earn you money. If there is not a formal occupation that honors your vision, then I would say it’s about time you took your creative power and designed a job for yourself. Is this fanciful? Not at all. Look back in history. Those who amassed great fortunes did not follow in the footsteps of structure. They moved with their own creativity. What brings you joy will bring you abundance.

Spit it out, Benedikt Montagov,” she whispered when the silence drew on. Benedikt turned his back to the river. “I think,” he said eventually, so faintly that it seemed like his mind was elsewhere, “you do yourself a disservice by refusing to hope.” Before Juliette could think to respond, Benedikt had already given her a friendly pat on the shoulder and was walking away, leaving her standing at the Bund, one lone girl with her coat billowing in the wind.

Who cares if I read it or I saw the movie? The message is still the same.” Kitty crawls back up by me. I pat her hair. “So what’s the message?” “Don’t kill yourself over a boy.

Like, if the books I liked had been assigned in school, I might have actually gotten into reading. Being forced to read Hamlet and The Great Gatsby and having to analyze everything to death made me hate the concept of literature. Finding meaning in an eyeball and then patting yourself on the back just didn’t make sense to me.

Pat yourself on the back for what you do get done. Use to-do lists, alarm clocks, and other ways of booby-trapping your environment. Form collaborations that will prevent you from never accomplishing anything. Above all, enjoy life.

In this world, if you don’t make your stand and give yourself the pats on the back, no one else will.

If the pushing-yourself-forward is the engine, then the patting-yourself-on-the-back should be the oil to keep going.

you can truly find relief in treatments that are no more effective than a placebo, if you can cast out fear and depression with just words, then you are lucky indeed. If you are highly hypnotizable and can treat your illness through trance, pat yourself on the back. For decades, the world has seen you as too easily influenced and pharmaceutical companies have been aggravated by you. But no longer. From here on out, call yourself what you are: talented.

His black eyes smoldered, a velvet seduction. I need a dream to rid myself of nightmares. She backed away from him, holding a palm outward to ward him off. “Just you keep your ideas to yourself,” she warned. “You have that devil’s look, the one that says no woman is safe.” That is not true, Shea, he denied, the hard edge of his mouth softening into temptation. Only one woman. You. She laughed at him. “I think I’m very grateful you’re in no condition to move around. The sun is coming up, and I have to secure the cottage for daylight. Go back to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.” Shea patted the one comfortable chair she had. You will lie beside me where you should be, he informed her. Shea carefully closed the shutters on the windows and fastened them. She was always cautious in locking her home. During the day she was very vulnerable. Already she could feel her body slowing, becoming heavier, more tired. I want you to lie beside me. His voice was a sinful caress, enticing, insistent. “I think you can manage all by yourself,” she answered, refusing to look into his dark, hypnotic eyes. Instead, she shut off her computer and the generator and locked the door. I have nightmares, little red hair. The only way to keep them at bay is to have you close beside me. He sounded very earnest, innocent, hopeful. Shea found herself smiling as she poured him another unit of blood. She was beginning to think the devil himself had shown up at her doorstep. Jacques was temptation incarnate. “I removed a stake from your heart just a couple of nights ago, and you have a major wound there. If I move around while I sleep, I could easily bump into you and start it bleeding again. You wouldn’t want that, would you?” He took the container from her hand, his fingers curling around the glass precisely over the spot where her fingers had been. He did things like that, intimate things that sent butterfly wings brushing deep within her. Not my heart, Shea. They did not get me in the heart, as they should have. It is here within my body--can you not hear it? Your heart beats with the same rhythm so that it matches mine.

No more pet videos for you. You go finish your book.” I start to shove her out of the bed, and Kitty grabs on to my leg. “Sweet my sister, cast me not away!” Proudly she says, “That’s Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet, in case you haven’t read it.” “Don’t act high and mighty like you were reading Shakespeare. I saw you watching the movie on TV the other day.” “Who cares if I read it or I saw the movie? The message is still the same.” Kitty crawls back up by me. I pat her hair. “So what’s the message?” “Don’t kill yourself over a boy.” “Or a girl.” “Or a girl,” she agrees.

Even if you are having just a bowl of cereal for dinner, eat it with the loving attitude of nourishing yourself. Isn't it tiring to constantly have to care for your body? Pat yourself on the back for the hard work you are doing. Then go to bed one hour earlier as a gift to your body.

The healing message Sevens need to hear and believe is God will take care of you. I know, easier said than done. It will take courage, determination, honesty, the help of a counselor or a spiritual director, and understanding friends to help Sevens confront painful memories and to encourage them to stay with afflictive feelings as they arise in the present moment. If Sevens cooperate with the process, they’ll grow a deep heart and become a truly integrated person. Ten Paths to Transformation for Sevens Practice restraint and moderation. Get off the treadmill that tells you more is always better. You suffer from “monkey mind.” Develop a daily practice of meditation to free yourself from your tendency to jump from one idea, topic or project to the next. Develop and practice the spiritual discipline of solitude on a regular basis. Unflinchingly reflect on the past and make a list of the people who have hurt you or whom you have hurt; then forgive them and yourself. Make amends where necessary. Give yourself a pat on the back whenever you allow yourself to feel negative emotions like anxiety, sadness, frustration, envy or disappointment without letting yourself run away to escape them. It’s a sign you’re starting to grow up! Bring yourself back to the present moment whenever you begin fantasizing about the future or making too many plans for it. Exercise daily to burn off excess energy. You don’t like being told you have potential because it means you’ll feel pressure to buckle down and commit to cultivating a specific talent, which will inevitably limit your options. But you do have potential, so what career or life path would you like to commit yourself to for the long haul? Take concrete steps to make good on the gifts God has given you. Get a journal and record your answers to questions like “What does my life mean? What memories or feelings am I running from? Where’s the depth I yearn to have that will complement my intelligence?” Don’t abandon this exercise until it’s finished. Make a commitment that when a friend or partner is hurting, you will try to simply be present for them while they are in pain without trying to artificially cheer them up.

Yes, but—but maybe I’m just tall for my height,” said Carrot desperately. “After all, if you can have short humans, can’t you have tall dwarfs?” His father patted him companionably on the back of the knees. “You’ve got to face facts, boy. You’d be much more at home up on the surface. It’s in your blood. The roof isn’t so low, either.” You can’t keep knocking yourself out on the sky, he told himself.

Sandipan, why have you not written much of late? What is this thing about occasional prose pieces? This habit of yours has attracted you to the Hungry Hangama—this latest fad. I did forbid you. And you did not trust me. And then you simply distanced yourself gradually. I never stopped Shakti. Shakti is greedy. Utpal too has taken that route. But I knew that you were not greedy. I have often shared a bed with you, stood in the same shadow while walking in the sun. I know very well the contours of my own greed. And therefore, I could instinctively feel that your greed is less than mine. I became deeply uncomfortable, generated some strong aversion to this new phenomenon. I had always felt that to compose in the English language in order to earn cheap accolades in the West is the worst possible form of greed and narcissism. This feeling has deepened this time here, at Iowa. Would you ever like to be an object of curiosity and pity to the outsider? I have met some Hungry wallahs here—it is these that drive them at the bedrock. Every single day I receive some invitation or the other to write in English. I have refused. Steadfastly. There are 7 crores of potential Bangla readers for me. Much more than French and Italian. I am just doing fine. I write poetry and have no intention to translate my sensibilities. If you wish to access my thoughts in English—do translate me. Happily. I had officially come here to do this kind of mutual back-patting. So far I have resisted that lure.

Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog. ‘Shhh!’ hissed Professor McGonagall. ‘You’ll wake the Muggles!’ ‘S-s-sorry,’ sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. ‘But I c-c-can’t stand it – Lily an’ James dead – an’ poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles –’ ‘Yes, yes, it’s all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we’ll be found,’ Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry’s blankets and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid’s shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to have gone out.

Plus, if someone is doing community service for a pat on the back, then they’re wasting their time. Giving of yourself or your money is meaningless if you’re only doing it because you want to be seen or praised.

Yang Yuhuan looked pointedly from Li Jinglong to Hongjun before turning back to Li Jinglong again. “Jinglong,” she said with a smile, “His Majesty said we should offer you a reward. But I told him seeing your special someone happy is better than any reward for yourself. Isn’t that right?” Li Jinglong was dumbstruck. Li Longji patted him on the shoulder. “It’s about time you settled down.” He hadn’t quite puzzled out what the emperor meant by this odd remark when A-Tai burst out laughing. Hongjun, still basking in the joy of his new box of pastries, wore a look of confusion.

When you get what you want in your struggle for pelf, And the world makes you King for a day, Then go to the mirror and look at yourself, And see what that guy has to say.   For it isn't your Father, or Mother, or Wife, Whose judgement upon you must pass. The feller whose verdict counts most in your life Is the guy staring back from the glass.   He's the feller to please, never mind all the rest, For he's with you clear up to the end, And you've passed your most dangerous, difficult test If the guy in the glass is your friend.   You may be like Jack Horner and "chisel" a plum, And think you're a wonderful guy, But the man in the glass says you're only a bum If you can't look him straight in the eye.   You can fool the whole world down the pathway of years, And get pats on the back as you pass, But your final reward will be heartaches and tears If you've cheated the guy in the glass. Dale Wimbrow