Periods Pampering Quotes

I decided to text Ellie to let her know I was staying at Ben’s. Me: Bad PMS. And a hangover. He’s pampering me so gonna stay here :) Ellie: Lucky girl. Guys I’ve dated usually want anal sex when I’m on my period. He’s a keeper!

For, apart from the fact that I am a decadent, I am also the reverse of such a creature. Among other things my proof of this is, that I always instinctively select the proper remedy when my spiritual or bodily health is low; whereas the decadent, as such, invariably chooses those remedies which are bad for him. As a whole I was sound, but in certain details I was a decadent. That energy with which I sentenced myself to absolute solitude, and to a severance from all those conditions in life to which I had grown accustomed; my discipline of myself, and my refusal to allow myself to be pampered, to be tended hand and foot, and to be doctored—all this betrays the absolute certainty of my instincts respecting what at that time was most needful to me. I placed myself in my own hands, I restored myself to health: the first condition of success in such an undertaking, as every physiologist will admit, is that at bottom a man should be sound. An intrinsically morbid nature cannot become healthy. On the other hand, to an intrinsically sound nature, illness may even constitute a powerful stimulus to life, to a surplus of life. It is in this light that I now regard the long period of illness that I endured: it seemed as if I had discovered life afresh, my own self included. I tasted all good things and even trifles in a way in which it was not easy for others to taste them—out of my Will to Health and to Life I made my philosophy.... For this should be thoroughly understood; it was during those years in which my vitality reached its lowest point that I ceased from being a pessimist: the instinct of self-recovery forbade my holding to a philosophy of poverty and desperation. Now, by what signs are Nature's lucky strokes recognised among men? They are recognised by the fact that any such lucky stroke gladdens our senses; that he is carved from one integral block, which is hard, sweet, and fragrant as well. He enjoys that only which is good for him; his pleasure, his desire, ceases when the limits of that which is good for him are overstepped. He divines remedies for injuries; he knows how to turn serious accidents to his own advantage; that which does not kill him makes him stronger. He instinctively gathers his material from all he sees, hears, and experiences. He is a selective principle; he rejects much. He is always in his own company, whether his intercourse be with books, with men, or with natural scenery; he honours the things he chooses, the things he acknowledges, the things he trusts. He reacts slowly to all kinds of stimuli, with that tardiness which long caution and deliberate pride have bred in him—he tests the approaching stimulus; he would not dream of meeting it half-way. He believes neither in "ill-luck" nor "guilt"; he can digest himself and others; he knows how to forget—he is strong enough to make everything turn to his own advantage. Lo then! I am the very reverse of a decadent, for he whom I have just described is none other than myself.

I believe there's no such thing as normal, only average and I'd much rather be abnormal then lavished. Is it so deplorable to live like a savage? For some it may seem horrible but to me it feels like an advantage. Cause nature is my storage and the earth is my canvass. I'm hoarding the truth and sharing my standards. But nothings rhetorical because I don't have all the answers. Maybe I'm just ordinary and your above the standard because I can't see anything extraordinary in being pampered. Even if I'm purportedly being hampered or metaphorically a damper, periodically a tramper. I'm still inexorably going to transfer thoughts with an importable laughter like a mad man captured in a portable disaster that only knows the way down the corporate ladder. But in order to matter you may need an assortment of matter that unfortunately doesn't matter. Fuck being normal or subordinately average, I'm inordinately going to salvage a historical palace as I stubbornly traverse upon this flat earth in search of omnipotent caverns.

Being thoroughly a man, one whose nature was rooted in competition, Zachary had experienced jealousy before. But nothing like this. Not this mixture of rage and alarm that shredded his insides. He was no idiot—he had seen the way Holly was looking at Ravenhill in the ballroom, and he had understood it all too well. They were cut from the same cloth, and they shared a past that he'd had no part of. There were bonds between them, memories, and even more, the comfort of knowing exactly what to expect from each other. All of a sudden Zachary hated Ravenhill with an intensity that approached fear. Ravenhill was everything he was not… everything he could never be. If only this were a more primitive time, the period of history when simple brute force overrode all else and a man could have what he wanted merely by staking his claim. That was how most of these damned bluebloods had originated, in fact. They were the watered-down, inbred descendents of warriors who had earned their status through battle and blood. Generations of privilege and ease had tamed them, softened and cultured them. Now these pampered aristocrats could afford to look down their noses at a man who probably resembled their revered ancestors more than they themselves did. That was his problem, Zachary realized. He had been born a few centuries too late. Instead of having to mince and prance his way into a society that was clearly too rarefied for him, he should have been able to dominate… fight… conquer. As Zachary had seen Holly leave the ballroom, her small hand tucked against Ravenhill's arm, it had required all his will to appear collected. He had nearly trembled with the urge to snatch Holly into his arms and carry her away like a barbarian. For a moment, the rational part of his brain had commanded him to let Holly go without a struggle. She had never been his to lose. Let her make the right decisions for herself, the comfortable decisions. Let her find the peace she deserved. The hell I will, he had thought savagely. He had followed the pair, intent as a prowling tiger, letting nothing stand in the way of what he wanted. And now he found Holly sitting here alone in the garden, looking dazed and dreamy, and he wanted to shake her until her hair cascaded loose and her teeth rattled.

I was not really sure what my father did in the army. His job seemed mainly to involve two activities: One was rushing to his station to signal an alert drill daily at 9:00 p.m...The other activity was catching runaway soldiers...I could not get the adults to explain why anyone wanted to run away. Where were they going? There were soldiers everywhere. They were used as a general workforce, sweeping the streets, driving cars, hauling stuff around. Others were always marching somewhere. Often they would waylay schoolkids near a store and ask them to go in to buy something. They were afraid to go in themselves because they might be spotted by a patrol on the lookout for soldiers absent from their unit without leave. The soldiers didn't look particularly happy, but neither did they seem so unhappy they might be thinking of running off into the forest. As I found out later, they were running away because of dedovshchina ("bullying"). Bullying of raw recruits by older soldiers reached such a level that in 1982 the minister of defense had to issue a secret order, "On Combating Nonregulation Relations," thereby recognizing it as a widespread practice. Hazing became a self-replicating system. You joined the army, got beaten up, your money was taken from you, and you were forced to scrub floors and do the laundry of the "older" soldiers, who joined the army just a year and a half before you. After all these humiliations, you just waited for your turn to beat up the rookies, because that was just the way it was, a necessary part of army life, something that transformed a civilian wimp into a real man. The system was often tacitly endorsed by officers, who saw it as a self-regulating system of training and discipline. For example, some rural idiot joins the army, fails to understand elementary commands, looks scruffy, and is generally hopeless. So then the staff sergeant punches him a couple of times in the middle of the chest ("in the soul"), which really huts (you cannot punch him in the face, because the marks would show), and he immediately comes to his senses and starts behaving like a seasoned soldier. Needless to say, such an idiotic practice did nothing to improve discipline, and fundamentally undermined respect for the army. Soldiers returning home after two years of national service luridly described the bullying to those yet to be conscripted. It closely resembled the revelations of people returning from prison. Mothers listened in horror and then had no wish to send their sons off to the army. Periodically, after yet another unfortunate young man, unable any longer to bear the hazing, committed suicide or shot his abusers, the army would launch another anti-bullying campaign, which never did any good. The practice is institutionalized and can only be combated by changing the institution, primarily by creating an army in which professional servicemen and servicewomen are paid a salary to defend the county. What is not needed is an army that depends on hapless youths taken from their families (for two years in the U.S.S.R., and nowadays for one) who are forced to spend their time in an institution that is a bizarre form of survival school. Curiously, the army takes a certain pride in this constant imbecility, as I began to notice as I grew older. It was regularly remarked that our soldiers and officers were so inured to carrying out ridiculous orders-for example, with my own eyes I saw soldiers painting grass green before inspection-that, under fire, they would perform miracles of discipline. Because they lived in such poverty and were so used to hardship, there could be no doubt that in the event of war the pampered Americans, with their luxurious barracks and individual apartments for officers, would be defeated.

Because my own dangerous susceptibility makes it important that I not follow Ellery’s hypnotic suggestions too closely or get too deeply involved, I find myself, in my comfortable navy-blue seat, going farther and farther away inside my head, sort of Creatively Visualizing a kind of epiphanic Frank Conroy-type moment of my own, pulling mentally back, seeing the hypnotist and subjects and audience and Celebrity Show Lounge and deck and then whole motorized vessel itself with the eyes of someone not aboard, visualizing the m.v. Nadir at night, right at this moment, steaming north at 21.4 knots, with a strong warm west wind pulling the moon backwards through a skein of clouds, hearing muffled laughter and music and Papas’ throb and the hiss of receding wake and seeing, from the perspective of this nighttime sea, the good old Nadir complexly aglow, angelically white, lit up from within, festive, imperial, palatial… yes, this: like a palace: it would look like a kind of floating palace, majestic and terrible, to any poor soul out here on the ocean at night, alone in a dinghy, or not even in a dinghy but simply and terribly floating, a man overboard, treading water, out of sight of all land. This deep and creative visual trance—N. Ellery’s true and accidental gift to me—lasted all through the next day and night, which period I spent entirely in Cabin 1009, in bed, mostly looking out the spotless porthole, with trays and various rinds all around me, feeling maybe a little bit glassy-eyed but mostly good—good to be on the Nadir and good soon to be off, good that I had survived (in a way) being pampered to death (in a way)—and so I stayed in bed.

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