Pic Quotes

My manners, abominable at times, can be sweet. As I grew older I became a drunk. Why? Because I like ecstasy of the mind. I'm a wretch. But I love, love.

Hi Hazel Well here I am in the office and it’s dead quiet. What I’ll do is email pics of some of the stuff in the files and the comments with them. This is exactly what you wanted – stuff about the Games people played together with comments people made. Perfect!

Shane: "Bro," he said, in an injured tone, "I had to go out with a flamethrower, and you weren't there to see it." Michael: "Pics or it didn't happen." Shane: "Dude, little busy for pics. You know, throwing flame.

Is this the point where I sing the little song about Pic and London sittin’ in a tree?” “Only if you want the tree shoved up your ass.

Tristan Vega: Thanks for accepting my friend request . I promise to try my hardest to refrain from sending you too many dick pics.

How in the fuck is that even possible? Was Hades sleeping on the job o something?" "Yes, Seth, he took a nap and Perses snuck in the back door and let them out. Then they skipped through the Vale of Mourning, stopped to have a pic-a-nic and then decided to leave the Underworld all slow-like, and all the while Hades was chillin' and doing nothing." That sounded probable.

Pics or it didn't happen." "Dude, little busy for pics. You know, throwing flame.

Yogi was fast on his heels as Dex sped through the lounge, down the busy corridor, and past the training bays. “Excuse me! Coming through!” Shit, shit, shit! Who’d have thought Yogi would like Cheesy Doodles as much as he did? “Give them here!” Yogi growled. “Go find your own pic-a-nic basket!” The deep feral growl he received in response was most likely a “no.

Patience is the essence of clicking great Photographs!!

Imagine saying to someone, “I have a kidney problem, and I’m having a lot of bad days lately.” Nothing but sympathy, right? “What’s wrong?” “My mom had that!” “Text me a pic of the ultrasound!” Then pretend to say, “I have severe depression and anxiety, and I’m having a lot of bad days lately.” They just look at you like you’re broken, right? Unfixable. Inherently flawed. Maybe not someone they want to hang around as much? Yeah, society sucks.

The old Internet rallying cry: pics or it didn’t happen.

Fiecare îsi comunica erorile cum poate iar ele cuprind totdeauna un pic de adevar; ceilalti înteleg cît pot; fiecare spune mai putin decît întelege si întelege mai mult decît i se spune, iar ce întelege nu i se spune, fiindca ce i se spune nu întelege, si asa mai departe.

you are the equal of the idol who has given you your inspiration

A professional headshot in front of a bookshelf says you're an intellectual. A professional headshot peeking though a bookshelf says you're probably under a restraining order.

I like to pic-a-nic more than a bee likes to bumble.

why do u always post pics of ur food!? He did it because it made him feel like he was eating his meals with more people.

Her: Don’t quit your day job, Emily Dickinson. Me: Hey, u didn’t say it had to be GOOD. Her: Touché. D- on the poem. Can’t wait to see your collage. Me: How do u feel about glitter? And dick pics? Her: If there’s a pic of your dick on that collage, I’m photocopying it and passing it around in the student center. Me: Bad idea. You’ll give all the other dudes an inferiority complex. Her: Or an ego boost.

My phone buzzes, and I shut off YouTube so I can access my messages. Logan: Just found the perfect xmas present for you in Boston. A photo promptly appears, summoning a loud groan from my throat. The asshole sent me a pic of a novelty My Little Pony dildo. Damn thing is bright pink, with rainbow sparkles on the handle. Logan: And it’s rechargeable! U don’t have to buy batteries. THAT’S handy! Me: Hardy-har-har. You = comedian. Then I message Grace: Tell your BF to stop being mean to me. She texts back a smiley face. Traitor.

I needed to call him or my parents. Immediately. I rolled my eyes. Couldn't have been that important, because you'd think one of them would've picked up the phone and called me if it had been. That was my family, though. Everyone of them felt as if they should not have to pic up the phone. They were too busy for that, too important. Even my cousin, who apparently had a shit-ton of time to send emails.

I don’t ex­pect you to un­der­stand,” Adam says. “You’re still the eight-​year-​old sit­ting in school, sit­ting in church, be­liev­ing ev­ery­thing you’re told. You re­mem­ber pic­tures in books. They planned how you’d live your whole life. You’re still asleep.

EDMUND: "[...] A fost o mare greșeală că m-am născut om. M-aș fi descurcat mai bine ca pescăruș ori pește. Așa, o să fiu mereu un străin care nu se simte niciodată în largul lui, care nu dorește cu adevărat și nu e dorit cu adevărat, care nu poate să-și găsească niciodată locul și care trebuie să fie tot timpul un pic indrăgostit de moarte". (Eugene O'Neill - Lungul drum al zilei către noapte)

no matter how hard I try to stamp it down, part of me is picturing Sophie’s guy cracking the password and coming up with both hands full of pics of Aislinn riding Cueball Lanigan, with Breslin counting cash in the background.

Unsolicited dick pics would be better if they were wearing tiny hats.

But I want a pic of his face ASAP.” “Can’t do that.” “Why not?” “Because if he takes off his helmet, he’ll die.

Lark: You got a phone??? I love the selfie. Zach: I did. I’ve joined the 21st Century. Lark: Does this mean you’ll send me a dick pic later? Zach: Let’s not get carried away.

As I brush my teeth, I scroll through my phone to see if Sabrina texted when my phone was on silent last night. She didn’t. Damn. I was hoping my speech—and that amazing fucking kiss—might’ve changed her mind about going out with me, but I guess it didn’t. I do, however, find the most mind-boggling conversation in the group chat I have with my roommates. All the messages are from last night, and they’re bizarre as fuck. Garrett: The hells, D?! Dean: It’s not what you think!! Logan: It’s hard to mistake ur romantic bath with that giant pink thing! In ur ass! Dean: It wasn’t in my ass! Garrett: I’m not even going to ask where it was Dean: I had a girl over! Garrett: Suuuuuuuuure Logan: Suuuuuuuuure Dean: I hate you guys Garrett: <3 Logan: <3 I rinse my mouth out, spit, and drop the toothbrush into the little cup on the sink. Then I quickly type out a text. Me: Wait… what did I miss? Since we have practice in twenty minutes, the guys are already awake and clearly on their phones. Two photos pop up simultaneously. Garrett and Logan have both sent me pics of pink dildos. I’m even more confused now. Dean messages immediately with, Why do you guys have dildo pics handy? Logan: ALINIMB Dean: ?? Me: ?? Garrett: At Least It’s Not In My Butt. I snort to myself, because I’m starting to piece it together. Logan: Nice, G! U got that on the first try! Garrett: We spend too much time 2gether. Me: PLEASE tell me u caught D playing w/ dildos. Logan: Sure did. Dean is quick to object again. I HAD A GIRL OVER! The guys and I rag on him for a couple more minutes, but I have to stop when Fitzy stumbles into the bathroom and shoves me aside. He’s got crazy bedhead and he’s buck-naked. “Gotta piss,” he mumbles. “Mornin’, sunshine,” I say cheerfully. “Want me to make you some coffee?” “God. Yes. Please.” Chuckling, I duck out of the bathroom and walk the four or so steps into his kitchenette. When he finally emerges, I shove a cup of coffee in his hand, sip my own, and say, “Dean shoved a dildo up his ass last night.” Fitzy nods. “Makes sense.” I snicker mid-sip. Coffee spills over the rim of my cup. “It really does, huh?

It’s the social-media edition of ‘Old MacDonald Had a Farm,’” Zander finally says, wiping his eyes. “Dick-pick to a chick-chick, everywhere a dick-pic. Here a dick, there a pic, everywhere a dick-pick.” “E-i-e-i-o,

Tera, I need a favor. I need you to translate something." "Indeed. And why should I help you?" Lucia said, "To stop an apocalypse." Then she explained where she and MacRieve were and the highlights of the threat. Once she'd finished, Tera sighed. "Can you take a picture of the symbols and e-mail them?" "What's your e-mail addy?" Lucia asked. "Hmm. Thegreatestarcherever at gmail dot com." "Surely the greatest archer ever had already taken that one?" Tera said tightly, "Terafey at thenoblefey dot com." "Pics are on their way.

I'm mad because girls as young as eight years old are being shamed about their bodies. Fifth graders go on diets and admire Instagram pics of celebs in waist trainers. Some of the people I'm closest to have struggled with eating disorders. I'm mad at an industry that suggests that painfully thin is the only acceptable way to be. Please don't get on me for skinny shaming. If that's how you are shaped, God bless, but we gotta mix it up, because it's upsetting and confusing to women with other body types.

Mr. Smith was an art-ist, as well as an in-vent-or, and he paint-ed a pic-ture of a riv-er which was so nat-ur-al that, as he was reach-ing a-cross it to paint some flow-ers on the op-po-site bank, he fell in-to the wa-ter and was drowned.

She always called him Luca, in the Italian manner, and said it with that funny trans-European intonation, the accent oddly placed on the first syllable: 'Where's Loo-ka?', just like Audrey Hepburn saying, 'Take the pic-ture,' in Funny Face.

hey hey its Brooke im 12 and having trouble my teacher told me to get on here sooo yaaa see ya soon pic uplaodin soon!!!!!!!!!!!!

A smiley face brightens cyber space. Smiling pics and emoticons are good netiquette. NetworkEtiquette.net

Ah non ! C'est un peu court jeune homme On pourrait dire, O Dieu, bien des choses en somme En variant le ton, par exemple, tenez: Agressif: moi monsieur, si j'avais un tel nez Il faudrait sur le champ que je me l'emputasse ! Amical: mais il doit tremper dans votre tasse Pour boire faîtes-vous donc fabriquer un hanap. Descriptif: c'est un roc ! c'est un pic ! c'est un cap ! Que dis-je, c'est un cap ? c'est une péninsule !

The new trend of capturing pics instead of enjoying the experience is not new. Human mind has been doing that for ages. Your mind tries to capture the experience by naming, defining, judging, comparing and categorizing everything. As a result, your soul misses the live dance of colours, sounds, shapes and sensations happening before you.

Jay, I … It’s all your fault, you know. You turned me into this. So fuck you. I hope you’re miserable. I hope your days seem bleak and endless. I hope you look at my pics and feel like paying millions for one hug. I hope you can’t sleep, and when you do, I hope you dream of me, and when you wake up, you feel cold and want to go back to sleep, but you can’t.

So there are pics of Tucker’s mighty wang on the internet?” “I haven’t been tagged on Instagram yet, so I’m hopeful they aren’t out there. But thanks for calling my dick mighty. We appreciate that.” Amusement colors his words. “We? As in you and your penis?” “Yup,” he says cheerfully. I snuggle deeper under the covers. “You have a name for your penis?” “Doesn’t everyone? Guys put a name on everything that’s important to them—cars, dicks. One of my teammates in junior hockey named his stick, which was dumb because sticks break all the time. He’d gone through twelve of them by the end of the season.” “What were the names?” “That’s the thing. He just kept adding a number to the end, like iPhone 6, iPhone 7, except in his case it was Henrietta 1, Henrietta 2, et cetera.” I snicker. “He should’ve used the hurricane naming convention.” “Darlin’, he wasn’t smart enough to come up with two names, let alone twelve.

Part of me wonders if the sluggers send pervy pics back to their home planet for their alien buddies to mock. Check out this mutant we caught. They call it a teenager. It's got five arms, but one is tiny and deformed. It's not really deformed, I swear.

I like every single little thing about Nicholas. He didn’t wait three days to call after the first date. All of his texts are grammatically correct. I have yet to receive an unsolicited dick pic. Already, I want to reserve a ballroom for our wedding reception.

Sometimes, as in a game of chess, we must strategically regress so that we might progress toward our ultimate objective.

I watch as Ronak gyrates his hips a bit, and I narrow my eyes. Is he…? Yep. He’s drawing a dick on the carpet with his urine. A piss dick pic. It’s actually kind of impressive.

Malcolm’s dead-ass ugly profile pic.

nikolai_sokolov: The scary guy in the pic who looks ready to snap some necks is me. Think about that before touching my baby sisters.

It didn't happen without a selfie. It's good Netiquette to take safe pictures of thy self at events. NetworkEtiquette.net

Although there really isn’t an appropriate time for dick pics you didn’t ask for.

Me: FFS. Did u just send me a pic of your chest?! Him: Yup. Did it work? Me: In icking me out? Yes. Success!

By the way, from my sex to yours, a dick pic is not the right way to start a conversation.

Sides, i don't like the posed pics.They're not the real person.They're a reflection of what the person wants the world to think of her-not what she really is.

Norocul e un lucru care apare în mai multe forme. Cone poate să îl recunoască? Totuși aș lua un pic, în orice formă ar fi, și aș plăti cât mi s-ar cere. Aș vrea să văd luminile licărind.

So I telled her my 'maginin's o' places from old books'n'pics in the school'ry. Lands where the Fall'd never falled, towns bigger'n all o' Big I. an' towers o' stars'n'suns blazin' higher'n Mauna Kea, bays of not jus' one Prescient Ship but a mil'yun, Smart boxes what make delish grinds more'n anyun can eat, Smart Pipes what gush more brew'n anyun can drink, places where it's always spring an' no sick, no knucklyin' an' no slavin'. Places where ev'ryun's a beautsome purebirth who lives to be one hun'erd'n'fifty years.

But, Georgie, you work for a company that specializes in an app called TapNext, not the White House.” After a brief beat of silence, we laughed at the same time, and I raised one eyebrow in question. “You’re comparing TapNext to the White House?” “You’re right,” she agreed. “Bad analogy. There’s probably more dick pics there.

Chicks appreciate a nice cock shot. Trust me.” Hollis presses his lips together like he’s trying not to laugh. “Uh-huh. Sure.” I flick my ash on the grass and take another drag. “Just out of curiosity, what constitutes a ‘nice cock shot’? I mean, is it the lighting? The pose?” I’m being sarcastic, but Dean responds in a solemn voice. “Well, the trick is, you’ve gotta keep the balls out of it.” That gets a loud hoot out of Tucker, who chokes mid-sip on his beer. “Seriously,” Dean insists. “Balls aren’t photogenic. Women don’t want to see them.” Hollis’s laughter spills over, his breaths coming out in white puffs that float away in the night air. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this, man. It’s kinda sad.” I laugh too. “Wait, is that what you do when you’re in your room with the door locked? Take photos of your cock?” “Oh, come on, like I’m the only one who’s ever taken a dick pic.” “You’re the only one,” Hollis and I say in unison. “Bullshit. You guys are liars.” Dean suddenly realizes that Tucker hadn’t voiced a denial, and wastes no time pouncing on our teammate’s silence. “Ha. I knew it!

PIC abolition is a vision of a restructured society in a world where we have everything we need: food, shelter, education, health, art, beauty, clean water, and more things that are foundational to our personal and community safety.

Me: FFS. Did u just send me a pic of your chest?! Him: Yup. Did it work? Me: In icking me out? Yes. Success!” Him: In changing your mind. I’m trying to butter u up here. Me: Ew. Go butter up someone else. PS—I’m posting that pic on my-bri.

Alors que la lumière s'épuise de faire des trous dans les nuages, je me couche sur la plage, devant un feu de bois, les chiens contre le flanc, la kayak remonté de moitié sur la rive et, écoutant la musique de la houle, je regarde griller mes poissons embrochés sur des pics de bois vert en pensant que la vie ne devrait être que cela: l'hommage rendu par l'adulte à ses rêves d'enfant.

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by Facebook, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through photo slideshows at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connections of their youth through the machinery of night, who clicking and poking and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural brightness of tiny screens floating across the tops of cities contemplating likes, who bared their brains to the network and saw who got pregnant and who got fat and who’s living the life best lived by posting Instagrams of themselves staggering on tenement roofs illuminated, who passed through newly cropped profile pics with radiant cool eyes obsessing over whose ex’s new lover is the best looking ex-lover’s lover, who breaking their backs falling out of ergonomic chairs while shouting into the icy streets, Everybody look how clever I am, Look how much fun I am having, Look at this amazing party I went to, Look at how well-liked I am, Look at my effortless carefully constructed casual desperate thrown together fun, Everybody look, This is fun, Look, Look, I swear to God I am having so much fun.

PIC-R knows it must find a power source, and soon, before the battery is emptied, and it is plunged into unknowing once more. It couldn't allow that. The robot feels the call again, stronger than anything else. There's a place it must go. Power. It needs power.

The building looked even more spectacular to Ngozi than it had in Femi’s phone pic.  A pale cream rather than true white, it was two stories high with cappuccino trim and dark,  reflecting windows. A central balcony overlooked the driveway. “Wow,” Ngozi murmured. “The White House.

Puterile mele active sunt dezacordate şi cufundate într-o trândăvie plină de nelinişte; nu pot să stau fără să fac nimic, şi totuşi nici nu sunt în stare să fac ceva. Nu mai am pic de imaginaţie, nu mai simt nimic în faţa naturii, iar cărţile mă dezgustă. Când ne lipsim nouă înşine, totul ne lipseşte. Îţi jur că, de multe ori, aş vrea să fiu muncitor cu ziua numai ca să pot avea dimineaţa, când mă scol, o nădejde în ziua care începe, un imbold, o speranţă.

When my sister starts dating someone, I expect a full report. Vivid descriptions, photos, videos, oil paintings—I don’t care. Even those dick pics I mentioned, which you never sent.” “Isabel.” I lowered my voice. “Shut up. He will hear you.” We were only a few feet away from the group. She cocked an eyebrow and then tilted her head slowly. Dammit. “He is dating you. What’s the big deal with him hearing you talk about it with your sister? You’ve seen his penis. We are allowed to discuss it.” She rolled her eyes. “Actually, I think we are expected to do that. I’m sure he’s talked to his friends about your bubbies.

It’s a good pic,” I say absently. Drew smirks. And I glare. “What? It has artistic merit.” “It’s man candy,” Johnson says. “Look at you, all thoughtfully flexing your muscles. Did you flex your ass too?” “Nothing to flex. That’s just my natural form.” I give him a look. “Jealous?” Rolondo laughs. “Yeah, he is.

– Întrebam şi eu, nu-i nevoie să faceţi mutra asta, domnule doctor. De altfel, dacă e să fim sinceri, ţin să vă spun că, din partea mea, am fost cât se poate de corect în ce priveşte medicamentele, iar dumneavoastră de asemenea în privinţa bolii. Aşa că terminaţi odată cu aerul ăsta de vinovăţie. Nu e vina dumneavoastră dacă trebuie să daţi veşti neplăcute oamenilor anunţându-i că suferă de tot felul de boli incurabile cu nume latineşti. Destindeţi-vă niţel, relaxaţi-vă, ce naiba, că doar nu dumneavoastră sunteţi Dumnezeu Tatăl. Nu sunteţi dumneavoastră cel care comandă naturii.Dumneavoastră nu sunteţi decât un reparator. Nu mai fiţi aşa încordat, domnule doctor, ce naiba, nu vă mai daţi atâta importanţă, altminteri nu veţi putea continua multă vreme meseria asta. Uitaţi-vă numai un pic ce mutră faceţi!

He offers a sheepish grin. “Remember that girl I was dating last year? Sheena? Well, she texted me a picture of her tits. Said I had to return the favor.” Dean’s jaw falls open. “Dick for tits? Dude, you got played. No way are those even remotely comparable.” “What’s the equivalent of tits then?” Hollis asks curiously. “Balls,” Dean declares, before taking a deep pull of the joint. He blows out a ring of smoke as everyone laughs at his remark. “You just said women don’t want to see balls,” Hollis points out. “They don’t. But any idiot knows that a dick pic requires a full frontal shot in return.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s common sense.

Picture it. Nineteenth-century man with his horses, dogs, carts, slow motion. Then, in the twentieth century, speed up your camera. Books cut shorter. Condensations. Digests, Tabloids. Everything boils down to the gag, the snap ending.” “Snap ending.” Mildred nodded. “Classics cut to fit fifteen-minute radio shows, then cut again to fill a two-minute book column, winding up at last as a ten- or twelve-line dictionary resume. I exaggerate, of course. The dictionaries were for reference. But many were those whose sole knowledge of Hamlet (you know the title certainly, Montag; it is probably only a faint rumor of a title to you, Mrs. Montag), whose sole knowledge, as I say, of Hamlet was a one-page digest in a book that claimed: now at last you can read all the classics; keep up with your neighbors. Do you see? Out of the nursery into the college and back to the nursery; there’s your intellectual pattern for the past five centuries or more.” Mildred arose and began to move around the room, picking things up and putting them down. Beatty ignored her and continued: “Speed up the film, Montag, quick. Click, Pic, Look, Eye, Now, Flick, Here, There, Swift, Pace, Up, Down, In, Out, Why, How, Who, What, Where, Eh? Uh! Bang! Smack! Wallop, Bing, Bong, Boom! Digest-digests, digest-digest-digests. Politics? One column, two sentences, a headline! Then, in mid-air, all vanishes! Whirl man’s mind around about so fast under the pumping hands of publishers, exploiters, broadcasters that the centrifuge flings off all unnecessary, time-wasting thought!” Mildred smoothed the bedclothes. Montag felt his heart jump and jump again as she patted his pillow. Right now she was pulling at his shoulder to try to get him to move so she could take the pillow out and fix it nicely and put it back. And perhaps cry out and stare or simply reach down her hand and say, “What’s this?” and hold up the hidden book with touching innocence. “School is shortened, discipline relaxed, philosophies, histories, languages dropped, English and spelling gradually gradually neglected, finally almost completely ignored. Life is immediate, the job counts, pleasure lies all about after work. Why learn anything save pressing buttons, pulling switches, fitting nuts and bolts?

Gustavo Solivellas dice: "Happiness consists in realizing it is all a great strange dream" (Jack Kerouac)

AIN’T NEVER NOBODY LOVED ME like I love myself, cept my mother and she’s dead.

You should go in there and take a pic of him in a compromising position. That would sell magazines.” Austin Reese

Captain! You can't hold them off! I tried! I swear! They've been artificially enhanced, sir! But all the humans died out - there's bones out there by the millions! They were all suffocated by cuteness! The World is full of kiitens, oh the horror! 'My God,' Hadrian said. "They've finally did it! All those oh-so-cute-my-cuddy-kittens-here's-a-pic bastards! They finally went and did it!

Am călătorit un pic mai aproape de suflul otrăvit al bestiei. De data aceasta zgomotul bolborosit al lavei chiar suna ca respirația unui Dragon adormit. Atât de aproape de sursă din care palpita acea prezență de mit, dragonul de foc, și forța lui... am simțit o fluturare în stomac. Pielea care ar fi trebuit să-mi ardă în proximitatea focului care clocotea la picioarele mele, era stimulată ca la o mângâiere, urechile parcă se alungiseră de la gâdilatul morocănos al muntelui, iar ochii străluceau fără lacrimi în lumina focului. Nimic din această imagine de groază nu mă rănea. Era ceva familiar aici, ca o voce de departe care mă chema să mă alătur.

Cat de mult seamana viata din zilele noastre cu un bal mizerabil: un pic de lumina, un pic de muzica, putin dans, apoi intuneric. Priveste. Luminile au fost deja stinse, resturile de mancare au fost deja aruncate cainilor.

I think I have PTSD from when I was one of the few Asian kids in kindergarten and all the white kids made fun of my "smelly" and "weird" lunch. And now that we're all grown up, those same white kids (I mean literally the same people) like to post pics of their chimichurri bone marrow dish, and I'm like, Bitch, you used to call me a fucking vulture for eating my meat to the bone and sucking out the marrow. Now you're fishing for "Likes" with it??

Înveți la un moment dat pe propria piele că locul iubirii e în creier, că de acolo este coordonat tot ce simțim. Fericirea, furia, îndrăgostirea, vina, ca și amintirile, sunt în cap, nu în inimă. Tot ce ești tu îți este în minte. Iar lipsa iubirii poate face mintea să-și construiască un univers propriu, care nu întotdeauna să se suprapună cu realitatea. Poate că inima le dă doar un pic de culoare în plus sentimentelor. Ca un filtru pe Instagram.

Aseară m-a vizitat un berbec cu două rânduri de coarne. Era imens, atingea cu coarnele tavanul, stătea în două copite. Nu behăia, era cuminte, şi totuşi nu ştiu de ce silueta lui părea ameninţătoare. Aveam laptopul deschis, lumina era stinsă căci mă culcasem de câteva ore, iar pâlpâitul arunca umbre prin cameră, berbecul apărea şi dispărea. La un moment dat mi-am dat seama că ţine o ţigară, neaprinsă, în colţul gurii. Prima chestie la care m-am gândit a fost că vrea să-mi ceară un foc. Mă pregăteam chiar să bâjbâi după brichetă, pe urmă mi-am dat seama că, dacă ar fi vrut, şi-ar fi aprins şi singur ţigara. Cred că semăna un pic cu iepurele lui donnie darko. Stătea acolo şi mă privea în timp ce încercam să adorm. Părea singuratic, şi îmi era un pic milă de el. Mă enerva doar că nu zice nimic, nu face nimic, doar se uită aşa la mine. Don’t just stand there, for fuck’s sake, man, i-am zis în gând.

Imagine saying to someone, “I have a kidney problem, and I’m having a lot of bad days lately.” Nothing but sympathy, right? “What’s wrong?” “My mom had that!” “Text me a pic of the ultrasound!” Then pretend to say, “I have severe depression and anxiety, and I’m having a lot of bad days lately.” They just look at you like you’re broken, right? Unfixable. Inherently flawed. Maybe not someone they want to hang around as much? Yeah, society sucks. My mental problems made me feel ashamed. I felt like I had to hide them until I could “work through it” on my own. Which I never did, because I didn’t know how. And I didn’t feel brave enough to make fixing my mind a priority because I didn’t think anyone would understand.

No women like photos like that. We’re just told that we’re supposed to by a lazy patriarchal culture that assumes that women must like the inverse of what men like. Men like topless boob pics, ergo, women must love bare chest shots … it’s just lazy.” He

I HAVE A STALKER. NOT the kind to send flowers, chocolate, or even dick pics. No, he sends my dates skidding under speeding buses, or slipping on tiles and cracking their skulls in the men’s room. Wanna date me? Might as well watch Final Destination just to warm up.

Most people aren’t happy. They sing songs like they are. Make up cute little stories. Post pics of the rare times when life wasn’t dreadful. Most people are stomaching this whole affair called life. Are these people complainers? Probably. Most are. But they’re also just blokes who’re too afraid to take a risk. So they live lives in a redundant cycle of complacent apathy. Then these people wallow around day after day in their unhappiness. The more you do that, the more you lose sight of the chances you could take to make things better.

Daisy didn’t have a computer, so she did everything on her phone, from texting to writing fan fiction. She could type on it faster than I could on a regular keyboard. “Have you ever gotten a dick pic?” she asked in lieu of saying hello. “Um, I’ve seen one,” I said, scooting into the bench across from her. “Well, of course you’ve seen one, Holmesy. Christ, I’m not asking if you’re a seventeenth-century nun. I mean have you ever received an unsolicited, no-context dick pic. Like, a dick pic as a form of introduction.” “Not really,” I said.

The American middle-class is being squeezed to death by a vise. (See Chart 9) In the streets we have avowed revolutionary groups such as the Students for a Democratic Society (which was started by the League for Industrial Democracy, a group with strong C.F.R. ties), the Black Panthers, the Yippies, the Young Socialist Alliance. These groups chant that if we don't "change" America, we will lose it. "Change" is a word we hear over and over. By "change" these groups mean Socialism. Virtually all members of these groups sincerely believe that they are fighting the Establishment. In reality they are an indispensible ally of the Establishment in fastening Socialism on all of us. The naive radicals think that under Socialism the "people" will run everything. Actually, it will be a clique of Insiders in total control, consolidating and controlling all wealth. That is why these schoolboy Lenins and teenage Trotskys are allowed to roam free and are practically never arrested or prosecuted. They are protected. If the Establishment wanted the revolutionaries stopped, how long do you think they would be tolerated?   ----   Chart 9   [Insert pic p125]

Because, let’s face it, genitalia—all genitalia, no matter the animal—range from distressing to disturbing to horrifying. Human vaginas look like sea creatures that slurp their food—and probably regurgitate half of it—and penises are startling, no matter the situation. If someone made a horror movie entitled, Dick Pics and just showed various dick pics? It would be the scariest, most distressing movie ever made. The only species that does reproductive systems visually right are angiosperms (flowering plants). When you’re smelling a flower, you’re basically smelling a dick. Let that sink in.

Woke and using it to get into your knickers. I appreciate that there is no man to be trusted less than the one who has feminist in his Twitter bio.’ ‘This is true,’ said Nadia, giggling. ‘The man with feminist in his bio is the one who tells you how much he likes women, at the same time as telling you he doesn’t have the gag-reflex to go down on you.’ Gaby hooted with laughter. ‘Ha! Yes. The man with feminist in his bio doesn’t mansplain, he passionately defends.’ Nadia nodded in agreement. ‘The man who has feminist in his bio reads a bell hooks book and then lets YOU know the ways in which YOU’RE oppressed!’ ‘He pushes the men in his life away in disgust, leaving the women in his life to do his emotional labour!’ ‘He asks permission before sending a dick pic!’ ‘This is a fun game,’ Gaby said. ‘Yeah,’ said Nadia. ‘Hashtag not-all-men.’ That was enough to make them both burst out laughing again. They expected any man to be a feminist in the same way they expected any man to like oxygen and breathing. Of course they did.

Natanael, am să-ți vorbesc despre așteptări. Am văzut câmpia după arșița verii, așteptând; așteptând un pic de ploaie. Praful de pe drumuri devenise prea ușor și fiecare adiere îl stârnea. Nu mai era nici măcar o dorință; era o temere. Pământul crăpa de secetă pentru a primi mai bine ploaia. Miresmele florilor de câmpie deveneau aproape de nesuportat. Totul leșina sub soare.

Don't get killed. Don't get robbed. Don't get billed for jobs that were abandoned. Don't let your house burn or your pipes burst or your children curse. Don't let your purse get stolen. Don't get trapped underwater. Don't get food poisoning or the flu. For God's sake get vaccinated. Don't get cancer. Seriously. Do. Not. Get. Cancer. Don't get t-boned by a drunk. Don't get struck by lightning. Don't get allergies. Don't get depressed. Don't get noticed by the IRS. Don't get catfished or gaslit. Don't get ghosted by an ex. Don't get talked into a bigger car. Don't get bit by a rabid dog. Don't get your boo angry. Don't get cheated on. Don't get called out, dragged, tagged in pics you don't remember. Don't get raped cause the jack asses and idiots will say that's your fault, too.

Lane,” it said curtly. “I was afraid you were still out of the country,” Cecily said with relief. “Are you all right?” “A few new scars,” he said, with lightness in his tone. “How about a pizza? I’ll pic you up…” “I’m in South Dakota.” “What?” “It’s a long story. Leta has a comfortable sofa. Can you come out here right away?” There was a pause. “If you miss me that much, maybe we’d better get married,” he pointed out. “I’m not marrying a man who shoots people for a living,” she replied with a girn. “I only shoot bad people,” he protested. “Besides…I know what a foramen magnum is.” “Darling!” she exclaimed theatrically. “Get the license!” He chuckled. “That’ll be the day, when you take me on. What sort of mischief are you up to, Cecily?” “No mischief. Just an artifact-buying trip. But I need you.” “In that case, I’m on the way. I’ll rent a car at the airport. See you soon.” He hung up. “You’re not going to marry Colby Lane,” Leta said like a disapproving parent. “But he knows what a foramen magnum is,” she said teasingly. “A who?” “It’s the large opening at the back of the skull,” Cecily said. “Gory stuff.” “Not to an archaeologist,” Cecily said. “Did you know that we can identify at least one race by the dentition of a skull? Native Americans are mongoloid and they have shovel-shaped incisors.” This caused Leta to feel her teeth and ask more questions, which kept her from thinking too much about Colby’s mock proposal.

Hey Pete. So why the leave from social media? You are an activist, right? It seems like this decision is counterproductive to your message and work." A: The short answer is I’m tired of the endless narcissism inherent to the medium. In the commercial society we have, coupled with the consequential sense of insecurity people feel, as they impulsively “package themselves” for public consumption, the expression most dominant in all of this - is vanity. And I find that disheartening, annoying and dangerous. It is a form of cultural violence in many respects. However, please note the difference - that I work to promote just that – a message/idea – not myself… and I honestly loath people who today just promote themselves for the sake of themselves. A sea of humans who have been conditioned into viewing who they are – as how they are seen online. Think about that for a moment. Social identity theory run amok. People have been conditioned to think “they are” how “others see them”. We live in an increasing fictional reality where people are now not only people – they are digital symbols. And those symbols become more important as a matter of “marketing” than people’s true personality. Now, one could argue that social perception has always had a communicative symbolism, even before the computer age. But nooooooothing like today. Social media has become a social prison and a strong means of social control, in fact. Beyond that, as most know, social media is literally designed like a drug. And it acts like it as people get more and more addicted to being seen and addicted to molding the way they want the world to view them – no matter how false the image (If there is any word that defines peoples’ behavior here – it is pretention). Dopamine fires upon recognition and, coupled with cell phone culture, we now have a sea of people in zombie like trances looking at their phones (literally) thousands of times a day, merging their direct, true interpersonal social reality with a virtual “social media” one. No one can read anymore... they just swipe a stream of 200 character headlines/posts/tweets. understanding the world as an aggregate of those fragmented sentences. Massive loss of comprehension happening, replaced by usually agreeable, "in-bubble" views - hence an actual loss of variety. So again, this isn’t to say non-commercial focused social media doesn’t have positive purposes, such as with activism at times. But, on the whole, it merely amplifies a general value system disorder of a “LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT HOW GREAT I AM!” – rooted in systemic insecurity. People lying to themselves, drawing meaningless satisfaction from superficial responses from a sea of avatars. And it’s no surprise. Market economics demands people self promote shamelessly, coupled with the arbitrary constructs of beauty and success that have also resulted. People see status in certain things and, directly or pathologically, use those things for their own narcissistic advantage. Think of those endless status pics of people rock climbing, or hanging out on a stunning beach or showing off their new trophy girl-friend, etc. It goes on and on and worse the general public generally likes it, seeking to imitate those images/symbols to amplify their own false status. Hence the endless feedback loop of superficiality. And people wonder why youth suicides have risen… a young woman looking at a model of perfection set by her peers, without proper knowledge of the medium, can be made to feel inferior far more dramatically than the typical body image problems associated to traditional advertising. That is just one example of the cultural violence inherent. The entire industry of social media is BASED on narcissistic status promotion and narrow self-interest. That is the emotion/intent that creates the billions and billions in revenue these platforms experience, as they in turn sell off people’s personal data to advertisers and governments. You are the product, of course.

„De treizeci şi cinci de ani presez hârtie veche şi cărţi, de treizeci şi cinci de ani mă murdăresc cu litere, astfel încât mă asemăn dicţionarelor enciclopedice, din care, în tot acest timp, am presat treizeci de chintale. Sunt ca un ulcior plin cu apă vie şi cu apă moartă, destul să mă apleci un pic şi încep să curgă din mine idei frumoase. Sunt educat împotriva voinţei mele, de aceea nici măcar nu ştiu care sunt ideile mele şi care cele citite. Aceşti treizeci şi cinci de ani i-am petrecut singur, doar eu cu mine însumi şi cu lumea din jurul meu. Atunci când citesc, nu citesc de fapt, iau doar frazele frumoase, le savurez ca pe bomboane, ca pe un pahar de lichior pe care-l beau încet, până când simt că ideea se răspândeşte în mine, ca alcoolul. Şi astfel, ideea se resoarbe în mine, se resoarbe în creierul şi în inima mea, făcând să-mi pulseze venele până la rădăcină. În felul acesta, într-o singură lună presez circa douăzeci de chintale de cărţi. Ca să găsesc destulă forţă pentru această umilă muncă, în aceşti treizeci şi cinci de ani am băut atâta bere cât să umplu un bazin de înot, lung de cincizeci de metri, loc de joacă pentru crapii de Crăciun

Subject: Some boat Alex, I know Fox Mulder. My mom watched The X-Files. She says it was because she liked the creepy store lines. I think she liked David Duchovny. She tried Californication, but I don't think her heart was in it. I think she was just sticking it to my grandmother, who has decided it's the work of the devil. She says that about most current music,too, but God help anyone who gets between her and American Idol. The fuzzy whale was very nice, it a little hard to identify. The profile of the guy between you and the whale in the third pic was very familiar, if a little fuzzy. I won't ask. No,no. I have to ask. I won't ask. My mother loves his wife's suits. I Googled. There are sharks off the coast of the Vineyard. Great big white ones. I believe you about the turtle. Did I mention that there are sharks there? I go to Surf City for a week every summer with my cousins. I eat too much ice cream. I play miniature golf-badly. I don't complain about sand in my hot dog buns or sheets. I even spend enough time on the beach to get sand in more uncomfortable places. I do not swim. I mean, I could if I wanted to but I figure that if we were meant to share the water with sharks, we would have a few extra rows of teeth, too. I'll save you some cannoli. -Ella Subject: Shh Fiorella, Yes,Fiorella. I looked it up. It means Flower. Which, when paired with MArino, means Flower of the Sea. What shark would dare to touch you? I won't touch the uncomfortable sand mention, hard as it is to resist. I also will not think of you in a bikini (Note to self: Do not think of Ella in a bikini under any circumstanes. Note from self: Are you f-ing kidding me?). Okay. Two pieces of info for you. One: Our host has an excellent wine cellar and my mother is European. Meaning she doesn't begrudge me the occasional glass. Or four. Two: Our hostess says to thank yur mother very much. Most people say nasty things about her suits. Three: We have a house kinda near Surf City. Maybe I'll be there when your there. You'd better burn this after reading. -Alexai Subect: Happy Thanksgiving Alexei, Consider it burned. Don't worry. I'm not showing your e-mails to anybody. Matter of national security, of course. Well,I got to sit at the adult table. In between my great-great-aunt Jo, who is ninety-three and deaf, and her daughter, JoJo, who had to repeat everyone's conversations across me. Loudly. The food was great,even my uncle Ricky's cranberry lasagna. In fact, it would have been a perfectly good TG if the Eagles han't been playing the Jets.My cousin Joey (other side of the family) lives in Hoboken. His sister married a Philly guy. It started out as a lively across-the-table debate: Jets v. Iggles. It ended up with Joey flinging himself across the table at his brother-in-law and my grandmother saying loud prayers to Saint Bridget. At least I think it was Saint Bridget. Hard to tell. She was speaking Italian. She caught me trying to freeze a half-dozen cannoli. She yelled at me. Apparently, the shells get really soggy when they defrost. I guess you'll have to come have a fresh one when you get back. -F/E

I walk out of the cafe on a high. I met a stranger, had coffee and a great conversation. My first friend-date. A roaring success. But I don’t know how to proceed at this point. Do I contact Abigail again? Wait for her? This is when my friendship mentor, Rachel B, steps in. ‘My biggest piece of advice is make the first move and also make the second move.’ I take out my phone and text Abigail: ‘I hereby promise to never send you a dick pic.’ Abigail texts me back to promise me the same thing. She says she’d love to meet up again, but for the next few weeks this she’s very busy with book edits. We agree to get in touch in a month or so.

Senses impaired, I knew I was there for a cover shoot but felt unfazed when I saw the wardrobe rack full of bras, panties, and nothing else... after having just come from a party full of naked people, with me in my skivvies, and still coming down from rolling, I wasn’t feeling like my more modest self... The shoot began with pics of me half-naked in bed—first, with a white sheet concealing just my breasts, which is the shot that made the cover, and then with my legs open to the camera but the private stuff covered... [the next shot] turned out to be my favorite picture from the day. I’m leaning forward, tits heaving, on a set of stairs.

she trails off with a pointed look to the left, and we follow her gaze to see Ronak who undoes his pants, grabs his junk, and pees all over the carpet. I pinch the bridge of my nose and shake my head. “Duru is gonna be so pissed,” I say. Then I snort at my own joke. I watch as Ronak gyrates his hips a bit, and I narrow my eyes. Is he…? Yep. He’s drawing a dick on the carpet with his urine. A piss dick pic. It’s actually kind of impressive. “Should I, umm, take him outside, my lady?” the servant asks nervously. Ronak chooses that moment to turn around full-frontal, flashing her with his impressive cooch cork. “Ronak!” I snap. “Put your shmecky away, that is not polite!

My Ren & Stimpy reference wasn’t all that funny when written in the center of someone’s CONDOLENCE CARD. “Fucking Leslie,” I spat. “She threw a bunch of cards on my desk and said they were birthday cards.” Dean proceeded to lose his shit, his cackling laughs echoing inside my office. I glared at him. “It’s not that funny.” “Oh, hell yes it is. You referenced Ren & Stimpy on a sympathy card,” he wheezed. Seriously, fuck you, Leslie. Fuck you, hard. I was convinced I could blame her for everything wrong in my life. Lost my keys? Goddammit, Leslie! Missed the subway? Fuck you very much, Leslie. Another awful dick pic sent to my phone? You’re such an asshole, Leslie.

You read of bulls in the old days accepting thirty, forty, fifty and even seventy pics from the picadors while today a bull that can take seven pics is an amazing animal, and it seems as though things were very different in those days and the bullfighters must have been such men as were the football players on the high school team when we were still in grammar school. Things change very much and instead of great athletes only children play on the high school teams now and if you sit with the older men at the cafe you know there are no good bullfighters now either; they are all children without honor, skill or virtue, much the same as those children who now play football, a feable game it has become

— Nu ştiu dacă sunt bun de soţ, eu simt nevoia să mă mişc liber, sunt un vagabond, s-a scuzat Leo Galupi într-o seară într-o trattoria de pe Via Veneto. — Tocmai asta-mi place la tine, şi eu sunt la fel. Dar am ajuns la o vârstă la care nu ne-ar strica un pic de linişte. — O idee care mă înspăimântă. — Dragostea se aşază în timp... Nu trebuie să-mi răspunzi pe loc, e bine şi mâine, a râs ea. — Nu c-aş avea ceva personal, dacă vreodată mă hotărăsc să mă însor, va fi numai cu tine, îţi promit. — Tot e ceva. — Nu-i mai bine să rămânem amanţi? — Nu e acelaşi lucru. Nu mai sunt la vârsta experienţelor. Vreau un angajament de lungă durată, vreau să dorm noaptea în braţele unui partener permanent. Crezi că am străbătut o jumătate de lume doar ca să-ţi propun să fim amanţi? O să fie plăcut să îmbătrânim mână în mână, ai să vezi. — Ce oroare! a exclamat Galupi, albindu-se la faţă.

Oamenii cred că un suflet pereche este potrivesc perfect, și asta e ceea ce vrea toată lumea. Dar un adevărat suflet pereche este o oglinda, persoana care vă arată tot ceea ce va retine, persoana care te aduce la propriul atenție astfel încât să puteți schimba viata ta. Un adevărat suflet pereche este, probabil, cea mai importanta persoana pe care o vei întâlni vreodată, deoarece acestea dărâma zidurile tale și te pocnesc treaz. Dar pentru a trăi cu un suflet pereche pentru totdeauna? Nah. Prea dureros. Suflete pereche, ei vin în viața ta doar pentru a descoperi un alt strat de tine la tine, și apoi pleca. Un scop suflete pereche este de a vă scuture, despartă ego-ul un pic, arata ce obstacole si dependente, rupe inima deschisă atât de ușor nou poate obține în, te face atât de disperată și de control pe care va trebui să transforme dvs. viață, atunci vă prezint maestrul spiritual ...

Nu știm niciodată în ce direcție ne duce viața, nu știm niciodată cine are să trăiască până la capătul zilei și cine are să cadă răpus, nu știm dacă ultimul adio va fi un sărut, o vorbă amară, o privire tăioasă, e de ajuns ca omul să nu fie un pic atent, să nu se uite la dreapta și să moară, și atunci e prea târziu să-ți iei înapoi vorbele acelea nefericite, prea târziu să zici iartă-mă, prea târziu să spui ce contează, ce-am vrut de fapt să spunem dar n-am putut să punem în cuvinte fiindcă am fost cruzi, obosiți sau înghițiți de rutină, fiindcă n-am avut timp, ai uitat să te uiți în dreapta, n-am să te mai văd niciodată și vorbele pe care mi le-ai spus vor continua să-mi răsune în minte în fiecare zi și în fiecare noapte, și sărutul pe care trebuia să-l primești are să mi se usuce pe buze și-are să se facă o rană care se va deschide de fiecare dată când cineva care nu ești tu are să mă sărute.

I would like to see us grow in developing a deep understanding of the need for healing as an abolitionist practice. Many of us come to this work with our own wounds--whether from childhood trauma, racism, homophobia, or the violence of police and prisons. In fact, many of us draw energy and inspiration from these wounds and the anger they create. But we are also drained by these traumas. Or find ourselves neglecting our bodies and spirits in the same ways that we may have been neglected in the past. As a result, our movement can be very 'head' oriented--talking, planning, thinking, writing--and not body and emotion oriented. This work doesn't have to be individualistic or separate from movement work; we can include it all in our movement spaces and make it a collective activity, just like the community recovery movement. But a movement against a violent and violating phenomenon like the PIC cannot hope to be successful if we don't directly address and heal the effects of that violence.

Once, books appealed to a few people, here, there, everywhere. They could afford to be different. The world was roomy. But then the world got full of eyes and elbows and mouths. Double, triple, quadruple population. Films and radios, magazines, books levelled down to a sort of paste pudding norm [...]. [...] Nineteenth-century man with his horses, dogs, carts, slow motion. Then, in the twentieth century, speed up your camera. Books cut shorter. Condensations, Digests. Tabloids. Everything boils down to the gag, the snap ending. [...] Classics cut to fit fifteen-minute radio shows, then cut again to fill a two-minute book column, winding up at last as a ten- or twelve-line dictionary resume. I exaggerate, of course. The dictionaries were for reference. But many were those whose sole knowledge of Hamlet [...] was a one-page digest in a book that claimed: "now at least you can read all the classics; keep up with your neighbors". Do you see? Out of the nursery into the college and back to the nursery; there's your intellectual pattern for the past five centuries or more. [...] Speed up the film, Montag, quick. Click? Pic, Look, Eye, Now, Flick, Here, There, Swift, Pace, Up, Down, In, Out, Why, How, Who, What, Where, Eh? Uh! Bang! Smack! Wallop, Bing, Bong, Boom! Digest-digests, digest-digest-digests. Politics? One column, two sentences, a headline! Then, in mid-air, all vanishes! Whirl man's mind around about so fast under the pumping hands of publishers, exploiters, broadcasters, that the centrifuge flings off all unnecessary, time-wasting thought! [...] School is shortened, discipline relaxed, philosophies, histories, languages dropped, English and spelling gradually neglected, finally almost completely ignored. Life is immediate, the job counts, pleasure lies all about after work. Why learn anything save pressing buttons, pulling switches, fitting nuts and bolts? [...] The zipper displaces the button and a man lacks just that much time to think while dressing at dawn, a philosophical hour, and thus a melancholy hour. [...] Life becomes one big pratfall, Montag; everything bang, boff, and wow!

Subect: Sigh. Okay. Since we're on the subject... Q. What is the Tsar of Russia's favorite fish? A. Tsardines, of course. Q. What does the son of a Ukranian newscaster and a U.S. congressman eat for Thanksgiving dinner on an island off the coast of Massachusetts? A.? -Ella Subect: TG A. Republicans. Nah.I'm sure we'll have all the traditional stuff: turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes. I'm hoping for apple pie. Our hosts have a cook who takes requests, but the island is kinda limited as far as shopping goes. The seven of us will probably spend the morning on a boat, then have a civilized chow-down. I predict Pictionary. I will win. You? -Alex Subect: Re. TG Alex, I will be having my turkey (there ill be one, but it will be somewhat lost among the pumpkin fettuccine, sausage-stuffed artichokes, garlic with green beans, and at least four lasagnas, not to mention the sweet potato cannoli and chocolate ricotta pie) with at least forty members of my close family, most of whom will spend the entire meal screaming at each other. Some will actually be fighting, probably over football. I am hoping to be seated with the adults. It's not a sure thing. What's Martha's Vineyard like? I hear it's gorgeous. I hear it's favored by presidential types, past and present. -Ella Subject: Can I Have TG with You? Please??? There's a 6a.m. flight off the island. I can be back in Philadelphia by noon. I've never had Thanksgiving with more than four or five other people. Only child of two only children. My grandmother usually hosts dinner at the Hunt Club. She doesn't like turkey. Last year we had Scottish salmon. I like salmon,but... The Vineyard is pretty great. The house we're staying in is in Chilmark, which, if you weren't so woefully ignorant of defunct television, is the birthplace of Fox Mulder. I can see the Menemsha fishing fleet out my window. Ever heard of Menemsha Blues? I should bring you a T-shirt. Everyone has Black Dogs; I prefer a good fish on the chest. (Q. What do you call a fish with no eyes? A. Fish.) We went out on a boat this afternoon and actually saw a humpback whale. See pics below. That fuzzy gray lump in the bumpy gray water is a fin. A photographer I am not. Apparently, they're usually gone by now, heading for the Caribbean. It's way too cold to swim, but amazing in the summer. I swear I got bumped by a sea turtle here last July 4, but no one believes me. Any chance of saving me a cannoli? -A

Cand ajung la o anume varsta si experienta, barbatii prefera sa evite iubirea, li se pare mai simplu sa mearga la curve. Ma rog, nu la curvele din occident, nu merita, sunt adevarate gunoaie umane. Si oricum nu in timpul anului, nu au timp, muncesc prea mult. Drept urmare cei mai multi nu fac nimic, iar unii din cand in cand isi ofera un pic de turism sexual. Si-asta-i cazul cel mai fericit: sa mergi la o curva inseamna sa pastrezi totusi un minim contact uman, multi insa considera mai simplu sa se masturbeze pe internet privind filme porno. «Inteleg», a spus ea dupa un lung rastimp de tacere. «Inteleg ce vrei sa spui, nu crezi totusi ca barbatii sau femeile se pot schimba?» In trecut nu ne putem intoarce, nu cred. Ce ne-asteapta-n viitor? Femeile vor deveni probabil tot mai asemanatoare cu barbatii, pentru un moment raman interesate de seductie, barbatilor insa li se falfaie de seductie, ei vor in primul rand sa reguleze. Seductia nu-i intereseaza decat pe cativa insi fara o viata profesionala pasionanta, in general fara o viata interesanta. Pe masura ce viata profesionala si proiectele personale vor insemna mai mult pentru ele, femeilor li se va parea mai simplu si lor sa plateasca pentru sex, se vor orienta si ele spre turismul sexual; femeile se pot adapta la valorile masculine, uneori cu greu, dar, pot s-o faca, istoria a dovedit-o.

M-am gândit: data viitoare când mă îndrăgostesc, iau și numărul fetei de alături (nu se știe niciodată: poate că sunt predestinat să nu întâlnesc decât femei care stau fix lângă femeia vieții mele).” “Și pe timpul nopții o să ne punem protezele dentare amândoi în același pahar. Dinții noștri vor fi fericiți împreună.” “Noi nu suntem fericiți când suntem împreună. Și e și mai rău când suntem departe unul de altul. Nu mai pot. Trebuie să găsești o soluție.” “Nu mai puteam suporta să fiu asociat cu iepurele. Puțin îmi păsa mie de iepuri. îmi plăceau multe lucruri în viață.” “Astăzi oamenii se despart pentru fleacuri. Până ce moartea vă va despărți, se zice! în ziua de azi, moartea este fie și cel mai mic defect al celuilalt...” “Am mers la Ikea, și ne-am și certat la Ikea. în acest magazin mare, ar trebui să angajeze un consilier conjugal. Fiindcă, dacă există un loc în care inima cuplurilor se dezvăluie, acela este Ikea. Mă întreb chiar dacă nu cumva toată acea mobilă de asamblat nu este decât un pretext pentru a semăna zâzania sentimentală. Sunt aproape sigur că fondatorul magazinului Ikea trebuie să fi fost un suedez depresiv (e aproape un pleonasm), fără viață afectivă, care a găsit mijlocul de a o distruge și pe a altora. Toți studenții la sociologie ar trebui să meargă să facă un stagiu acolo, ar găsi de toate.” “— Uitați-vă la mobila asta. Fritz a montat-o! M-au privit dintr-odată cu o admirație excesivă. Aveam impresia că sunt Gustave Eiffel.” “— Stingem lumina peste tot. îi facem pe părinții mei să creadă că ăsta e un obicei al blocului. Și zicem că în Polonia chiar există obiceiul să faci pe mortul în pauza dintre două feluri de mâncare.” “Voiam să fiu acceptat undeva, să am obiceiuri, să petrec duminici insuportabile poate, dar duminici sigure.” “Nu mă deranjează că vă certați în timpul lecției mele, dar cel mai bine ar fi să faceți asta în germană. Alice a ezitat o clipă (chipul ei era precum al cuiva care așteaptă pe un peron), apoi s-a apucat să mă insulte în germană. Toate astea nu prea aveau nimic în comun cu Goethe. În oricare altă împrejurare, aș fi apreciat cu siguranță această agitație germanică, dar în acel moment mă simțeam depășit. M-am așezat pe canapea și am ascultat-o pe femeia aceea cum mă înjură într-o limbă pe care nu o înțelegeam. Lângă ea, un tânăr lua notițe. Ca să reacționez cumva, m-am gândit în ce limbă aș fi putut da replica. Știam destule cuvinte în limbi străine, însă atât. M-am gândit să contraatac într-un amestec de daneză și croată, dar până la urmă am optat pentru un pic de polonă. Totuși, singura frază care-mi venea în minte era: „Știți cumva unde se află hotelul?" Mă îndoiam că această glumă poloneză ar fi putut să echilibreze forțele. Eram invadat și nu aveam altă opțiune decât să capitulez. întotdeauna se-ntâmpla la fel. Această scenă a avut măcar meritul de a ne fi destins. Poate că ar trebui să ne certăm mereu într-o limbă străină. Benoît ne privea atent; cu siguranță îi ofeream o imagine jalnică a cuplului.