Pics Of Life Quotes

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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?

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??

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.

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.

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.

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.

Within ten seconds, Twinkhunter’s blocked him. Cooper likes the way that feels. So he goes on. He tells the guys who want “masculine only” that they’re just as bad as homophobes, trying to make masculine into some macho gym ideal. He tells the guys who say “whites only” that they’re racist scum. He tells the sixty-year-olds who are looking for “under 18s” that they are pedophiles. He tells the younger guys with naked pics that they should stop prostituting themselves. You’re pathetic, he writes. You’re desperate. Are you afraid to show your face? Is that why you show your dick? Does your boyfriend know you do this? I think there’s something wrong with my screen. I can’t tell if that’s your ass or your face. You’re looking for a good time? Do you really think you’ll find it here? They all start blocking him. Just like that, they disappear from his phone, disappear from his life. Antimatter isn’t on right now, but Cooper feels that if he were, he’d easily find a way to get blocked there, too.

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!

„w Kalifornii nie trzeba mieć domu, bo nigdy nie jest zimno” mówi Slim i śmieje się radośnie. „Rany w życiu nie widziałaś takich ślicznych słonecznych dni, że przez większość roku nawet nie potrzeba płaszcza ani węgla do ogrzewania domu ani zimowych butów ani nic. I nigdy nie umiera się z gorąca w lecie tam na północy we frisco i Oakland i okolicach. Mówię ci, to jest miejsce do życia. I nie da się już pojechać dalej w Ameryce, zostaje tylko woda i Rosja”. „A co jest złego w Nowym Jorku?” warczy matka Sheili. „Och, nic!” Slim pokazuje na okno, „Ocean Atlantycki przynosi diabelne wiatry w zimie i jakiś szatański syn przenosi te wiatry na ulice, tak że człowiek może zamarznąć na progu. Bóg zawiesił słonce nad wyspą Manhattan, ale diabeł nie wpuści go w twoje okno, chyba że kupisz sobie mieszkanie w domu wysokim na mile, ale wtedy nawet nie można wyjść odetchnąć powietrzem, bo można spaść tę milę na dół, o ile w ogóle cię stać na takie mieszkanie. Można pracować, ale wtedy w ogóle nie ma się czasu, bo osiem godzin pracy to dwanaście bo trzeba doliczyć te wszystkie metra, autobusy, windy, tunele, promy, schody i znowu windy i jeszcze czekanie, bo to wielkie i beznadziejne miasto. Ale nie, w Nowym Jorku nie ma nic złego.

Please, focus on my writing, not pic; I am not important; perhaps my way of writing would enlighten your life.

My life journey became wounded; the old pics refresh memories, whether sad or happy

True. I was there, given it was at my house. I kept Bex company because it was her birthday and she looked so lonely.” The kid’s head fell back, hands yanking at his hair. “What the fuck, Bex? It was your birthday? You didn’t even tell me.” She covered her face with her hand. “I know. I should have, but with everything...god, I don’t know why I didn’t tell you, but I didn’t tell Asher either. He found out inadvertently.” “All true.” I slipped my phone from my pocket, running my thumb along the screen, bringing it to life. Approaching Elijah, I turned the screen toward him. “I took some special birthday pics of your girl. You might like them.” Bex yelped my name, rushing to see my screen too. I moved, blocking her view, but Elijah got an eyeful. He was riveted to the image of his girlfriend sleeping naked in my bed. I’d never intended on showing this to anyone, not really. But my dad always told me to never ignore an opportunity when it came knocking.

Tip: Put the word “Breathe” as a screensaver or desktop pic, or put it up as a note on your wall or fridge or on your desk. Then do it every time you see the word. ***~~~***

How do these online distraction systems work? They start with an external trigger or notification. You may visit a Website or sign up for a service. They will then send you an email, follow you on the Internet with ads, or send you a push notification with very specific language that has been tested to get you to click on it. You click on the link and your attachment or connection to that distraction system gets a little bit stronger. You, unintentionally, provide that system with more information when you read an article, add a friend, or comment on a photo. Without realizing it, and behind the scenes, the machinery of distraction is starting to turn. On a scale of 1-10, with 10 being completely attached, you are a 2 at this point. These companies know that you don’t really care about the company itself, but you do care about your friends, family, and co-workers. They leverage these relationships by showing your profile to these contacts. These people are then asked to add you as a contact, friend, or to comment on your photo. Guess what this does? It brings you back to the site and increases the attachment. Think about this just for a second. If a company wants me to come back to their site, then they have a much higher chance of getting me back if they tell me my nephew added me as a friend, or posted a new pic. I care about my nephew. I don’t care about the company. This happens a few times and the attachment goes from a 2 to a 5. Soon, you have more and more connections on the site. Many of these sites have a magic number. Once you cross that threshold they know they really have you. Let’s say it is 10 connections. Once you have 10 connections they know with a level of statistical certainty that they can get you coming back to the site several times a week. Your attachment then goes from a 5 to a 7. All this time they are still pinging you via email, ads or push notifications to get you back to the site. The prompts or triggers to get you back are all external. You may be experiencing uncomfortable emotions like anxiety, sadness, or boredom, but you are not yet feeling these as triggers to go to the site and escape these feelings. Instead, what happens gradually, is that the trigger moves from being external like an email prompt and moves internal. Soon, they do not have to remind you or leverage your relationships to go back to the site. You are now doing it on your own. You are checking it regularly on your own. Your attachment has moved from a 7 to an 8. They’ve got you now, but they don’t completely have you. The tendrils are not yet deep into your brain and that is really where they want to go. They want to get as wrapped around your brain as possible, because the deeper they are - the more unconscious this behavior of checking the site - the more time you spend on the site and the more money they make. When you start living your life, not for what you are actually experiencing at the moment, but instead for how you imagine it will look to other people on these sites, then they really have you. When the experience itself is less meaningful than the image of you on the site and the number of likes it gets, then they are getting really deep. They have moved the center of your self from your actual life and transferred it to the perception of your life on their site. You now mostly live for reactions from other people on these company’s sites. By this time, you are likely refreshing the page, habitually looking at your phone, and wondering why your pic or video has not received more comments or likes. By this time you are fully hooked, as my good friend Nir Eyal would say, and your attachment has gone from an 8 to a full 10. They’ve got you hook, line, and sinker. Scary

I GET DICKS PICS EVERY SINGLE DAY OF MY LIFE. I WONDER WHY? I SIMPLY POSTED MY NEWLY PURCHASED LACED UNDIES ON MY BLOG.

Eu insa am inteles ca o viata trece intr-o clipita, privindu-i pe adultii din jurul meu, atat de grabiti, atat de stresati de scadenta, atat de avizi de acum pentru a nu se gandi la maine... Dar daca te temi de viitor este pentru ca nu stii sa construiesti prezentul si, cand nu stii sa construiesti prezentul, te amagesti ca vei putea s-o faci maine si te-ai dus pe copca, fiindca maine sfarseste intotdeauna prin a deveni astazi, nu-i asa? Deci mai ales nu trebuie sa uitam asta. Trebuie sa traim cu aceasta certitudine ca vom imbatrani si ca nu va fi nici frumos, nici bine, nici vesel. Si sa ne spunem ca prezentul e ceea ce conteaza: sa construim acum ceva, cu orice pret, din rasputeri. Sa avem tot timpul in minte caminul de batrani, pentru a ne depasi in fiecare zi, facand ziua nepieritoare. Sa urcam pas cu pas Everestul nostru personal si s-o facem in asa fel incat fiecare pas sa fie un pic de eternitate. Viitorul la asta serveste: la a construi prezentul cu adevarate proiecte concepute de fiinte in viata.

Some of my teammates and their girlfriends were hoping to take a group photo. Would you mind shooting that?” “Not at all.” I slide my arms through his jacket as Jake steps away to talk to one of the guys. A minute later, several huge football players hoist their girlfriends onto their shoulders. “Aww, this is so cute.” I direct them to move closer, and then I have to step back and squat to get everyone in one shot. After I take a few, Jake tells the guys to hold up and then turns to me. “Can you ask Roxy to take a pic? Basically the same shot you just took, just with one more couple?” I tilt my head, confused, but he’s already called her over. He makes me hand over the camera to Roxy before he drags me over to the group. “Hang tight.” That’s the only warning he gives me before he lifts me onto his shoulder. Like, I’m literally sitting on his left shoulder. “Jake!” I laugh as I wobble, but then he reaches up a hand, and I cling to him for dear life. He yells, “’Kay, Roxy. Go for it.” He looks up at me and grins. “Smile for the camera, cupcake.” She takes several shots. I’m smiling so hard, my cheeks hurt, and I forget to worry about whether or not I’m blinking. When we’re done and he slides me down to the ground, I’m out of breath. I almost feel like Jake is claiming me somehow, but that’s crazy, right? He wanted to be in the photo, and I’m his good friend, so he had me join him. Roxy returns the camera and leans into me to whisper, “What was that about? Are you two doing the deed?” “No. We’re just friends.” God, I feel like a broken record. Her eyebrow lifts. “Because the looks he’s giving you tonight…” Jake’s giving me looks? I turn to find him talking to Cam, but his eyes are glued on me. Every molecule in my body heats. “Holy hot sexual tension, Batman.” Roxy bumps me with her hip. “I want all the deets tomorrow!” “There won’t be any deets.” Will there be deets?

I'm not sure what the hell happened, but I lock our kiss away in the 'never think about again if I value my life' file, located in the darkest corner of my brain. Right next to the 'stupid shit I did while drunk' and 'dick pics' categories.

Anyway, my life has been boring because I’ve been here for the past two weeks. I haven’t even had a chance to see Mathias.” Mathias was her boyfriend, a pre-law student presumably doing a similar amount of cramming. “He texted me a dick pic a few days ago, but I’ve been so busy, I haven’t had a chance to look at it.” She tossed me her phone. “Can you open it and respond back?” The phone landed in my hands like a live grenade. “Write back something complimentary about his dick. Like ‘OMG so big.’ And add some emoji. Eggplant, winky face. Make it flirty, but not so flirty that he thinks we’re going to be having sex this week.” “Um, I’m going to let you handle that one.” I slid back the phone, preferring not to Cyrano with her boyfriend’s junk.

Anyway, my life has been boring because I’ve been here for the past two weeks. I haven’t even had a chance to see Mathias.” Mathias was her boyfriend, a pre-law student presumably doing a similar amount of cramming. “He texted me a dick pic a few days ago, but I’ve been so busy, I haven’t had a chance to look at it.” She tossed me her phone. “Can you open it and respond back?” The phone landed in my hands like a live grenade. “Write back something complimentary about his dick. Like ‘OMG so big.’ And add some emoji. Eggplant, winky face. Make it flirty, but not so flirty that he thinks we’re going to be having sex this week.” “Um, I’m going to let you handle that one.” I slid back the phone, preferring not to Cyrano with her boyfriend’s junk.

A deep deliberation never creates and operates a supposition format of miniature surmise in an irreconcilable way because its entirety is impertinence and inherent contention. When you retract from your debarred thoughts, when your reasoning sophism ends, but not less in mental and physical topics in this materiality. The rationality of dissonance introduces a plea on your grotesque recantation or an absonant assumption that causes subcontrary disputation in this argumentation. This is computing their tips to combat in these earthy contents; this should not be an anomalous discrepancy of your cordant actions in which dissonant position is arrived at; that will be preposterous as well as inept. If your boundaries are derivative in contradictory wishes, then they will be disproportionately incoherent to your performance, which is fit for conflicting ideation, Life should never be a strand of ragtime and rudeness full of desultory busyness and sucky arrangements; this is across from those sugar-coated acts. These are all pics in your dismental intermittently, and you create these all real.

I went to Pakistan Army, in the war of 1965, to sacrifice my life for my beloved Pakistan, without thinking that I was still a teenager of fourteen years old; however, I managed to enter the Pakistan Army, as the MT driver; I got a short training within six months, but when that war went stop; I felt nothing to stay there. On my awkward conduct, Pakistan Army let me go; however, after a short break, all were allowed to leave the Army. I left the Army and started my study again; after my graduation, I went to Karachi for higher education and a bright career. I had forgotten the Army service. When I was an assistant editor in Daily Aaghaz Karachi, I received a letter from my elder brother, in 1974, who resided in Larkana. He wrote that the Pakistan Army had awarded me a Tamgha-e-Jang (A War Medal). I became surprised that the Army gave me the medal after nine years. However, it was an exceptional pleasure and honor that such an incredible institution rewarded me with a war medal. The pics, display that war medal, which executes a proud feeling of pride and dignity. Some news cuttings, from my document file; several newspapers published that, including Daily Jang, Karachi.

You went to Bennford to sort this shit out, like a grown-ass woman, and what have you done? Sat around posting throwback pics on social! This isn’t high school. This is real life.

Leave We Three Be poem: The three of us are fine so leave us be alone don't knock upon our door don't ring us on the phone Don't send us any letters or tag us in a pic we just want to be left in peace not part of any clique Go away, we beg of you no need to ask us why we are our own best company just Me, Myself and I

antithesis synthesis. The whole works. How are you? I miss you. Oh, and guess what? I’m thinking of coming back to the UK in June. For good. Miss you, my friend. Also, have a TON of humpback pics coming your way. xxx Nora made a slight noise of involuntary joy at the back of her throat. She texted back. It was interesting, she mused to herself, how life sometimes simply gave you a whole new perspective by waiting around long enough for you to see it. She went on the Facebook page of the International Polar Research Institute. There was a photograph of the woman she had shared a cabin with – Ingrid – standing with the field leader Peter, using a thin measuring drill to gauge the

Family is not always blood. It is also whom we have bonded with most. With whom we have grown up together. And this pic reminds me of my brothers Arunav Bose, Kaushik Mitra, Subhrajit Mishra, Himadri Panda, Amit Agarwal, Swaraj Pattnaik and me. We all grew up together.

I’m not sure what the hell happened, but I lock our kiss away in the never think about again if I value my life file, located in the darkest corner of my brain. Right next to the stupid shit I did while drunk and dick pics categories.

I've had a heap o' comfort all my life makin' quilts, and now in my old age I wouldn't take a fortune for 'em. Set down here, child, where you can see out o' the winder and smell the lilacs, and we'll look at 'em all. You see, some folks has albums to put folks' pic tures in to remember :em by, and some folks has a book and writes down the things that happen every day so they won't forgit 'em; but, honey, these quilts is my albums and my di'ries, and whenever the weather's bad and I can't git out to see folks, I jest spread out my quilts and look at 'em and study over 'em, and it's jest like goin' back fifty or sixty years and livin' my life over agin. "There ain't nothin' like a piece o' caliker for bringin' back old times, child, unless it's a flower or a bunch o'thyme or a piece o' pennyroy'l — anything that smells sweet. Why, I can go out yonder in the yard and gether a bunch o' that purple lilac and jest shut my eyes and see faces I ain't seen for fifty years, and somethin' goes through me like a flash o' lightnin', and it seems like I'm young agin jest for that minute.

This all happens unconsciously. All you know is that you instantly have an overwhelming ‘need’ to view porn. It can feel like a matter of life and death, such that all your resolutions take flight. In drug addicts the cue-induced dopamine spike can be as high as the spike from actually taking the drug,[133] and this is likely true for some porn users as well. I caught a glimpse of a porn pic the other day and there was a distinct buzz in my brain, almost like a hot flash. Fortunately it freaked me out enough to get away fast.

On the Birthday of Murtaza Bhutto My nephew drives on a route that crosses alongside 70 Clifton every day since I am in Karachi. It reminds me that I was then a working journalist. I visited the last 70 Clifton in 1977, the resident of Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto, later, Benazir Bhutto, and then Murtaza Bhutto and Fatima Bhutto during the driving towards Karachi Press Club; I asked my nephew to stop near 70 Clifton so that we can click a few pics of it. Today is Murtaza Bhutto's Birthday, and he became the victim of armed evil and murder. I stood outside 70 Clifton, remembering inside the conversations, discussions, and delightful atmosphere in the Bhutto era. I felt sadness and pain, imagining that time when pleasure, joy, and mob walked around it, but today it was dead-quiet and displayed sadness on its walls; the Birthday existed; however, the figure held that day was not there, and his daughter far away from Pakistan in exile-life, though the justice has failed, not the God.

On the Birthday of Murtaza Bhutto My nephew drives on a route that crosses alongside 70 Clifton every day since I am in Karachi. It reminds me that when I was a working journalist. I visited the last 70 Clifton in 1977, the resident of Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto. Later, Benazir Bhutto and then Murtaza Bhutto and Fatima Bhutto, during the driving towards Karachi Press Club, I asked my nephew to stop near 70 Clifton, so that we can click a few pics of it. Today is Murtaza Bhutto's Birthday, who became the victim of armed-evil and murdered. I stood outside 70 Clifton, remembering inside the conversations, discussions, and delightful atmosphere, in the Bhutto era. I felt sadness and pain, imagining that time when pleasure, joy, and mob walked around it, but today it was dead-quiet and displayed sadness on its walls, the Birthday existed; however, the figure held that day was not there, and his daughter far away from Pakistan, in exile-life, though, the justice has failed but not the God.

Part: 1 July This one more of how where I remember these days. Photos online, and cam videos all that are my memories- of me to others. Part: 2 August Compare… them then and now- naked slut girl or 1940s modesty. I remember having the old photo album spread out on the bedroom floor. Oh! Wow! Look at this one… do you like how she was remembered better than me? (Photo) Part: 3 It's- September More of the same- I have become a cam-whore!!! Nothing more… Part: 4 OCTOBER …And yah- a, ah- pics that would make you blush, and hard, you boys would love to see me, now, wouldn’t you? Part: 5 NOVEMBER Making cummie videos is my life. Part: 6 DECEMBER Coming 7 hours out of the day is taking time away from other things. Part: 7 WAKING UP …After fraping till- I passed out all hot gross and sweaty, I did not remember falling asleep- with mom and dad- sis and the world seeing me as my door to my trashed bedroom- all jammed open- and’s- and’s- AND’S- did not care at this point. (SAY IT WITH exhausted SLURRING.) JANUARY yet how- ga-gives- a ________. Ef… E- un- mm- ah- in-n… Whatever… I am making 50 G’s in a night… so that makes it okay. (A photo of me lying in bed with all this money!) Part: 8 TIME PASSES Craziness… look at my life here… all board… ‘I am home,’ I mumbled, confused- not even more. ‘What did I do?’ I felt my face wrinkle. It was so unfair. My behavior… here is wow… After that first week… of doing this… How do I look… which neither of us ever mentioned what we do? I hadn't missed a day of school or work. My grades were perfect. Yet this show is all going to shit- no? This is what I did here… showing everything that makes me a girl! Now I am passing down- to her- yah me- is it wrong? I must live with it. #- A cam video and all these photos of her online now are worth 1,000 words! #-0-okay then what does this one says then? My little sis- and she is frapping harder than I do- in this- damn, she is my Minnie me! She started younger than me even- yet that is all girls, her age. Here is one with her dressed wow seem weird to see her with something on anymore- (Swipe- and the phone in your hand would make a click sound…) Oh, this one- She loves these beautiful white lace kid’s girls’ shorts- so girlie- girly- from Wal-Mart, yet she was banned from wearing them in school without anything under them, yet I look around and all other girls do it. Yet, on Facebook- and Instagram 1, you get one persona and on Google images a whole other- just like Snapchat you have her as your girlfriend for the night yet have- yet she is your striptease only- and the other Instagram- that grammar should never- ever see- yet this is how to get popular- and stay popular. Besides then there is the community of internet nudists- on MFC. And the profile- she now has too, a legacy to be remembered by, no? Yet, when you have no education to speak of and working for some d*ck head is just out of the question, over they think you’re not worthy of their time- were you're not making anything, and at this point in Pa she too young to work, yet is old enough to have unprotected sex… Um- and then I wonder- yet she needs the money- for school coming up because your mommy and daddy don’t have it, and all for fun, boys, and a girl's night of fun- and partying- and being crazy. Money is everything… and why girls do what they must do…

Blogging got me out of my rut and made me feel like I had a purpose but was also a great way to put a positive spin on my life. When my car got broken into one morning and my stereo stolen, my first thought wasn’t about how much it would cost to fix it, it was, I can’t wait to blog about this! I joined the first and only dating site I used knowing that even if I didn’t meet the love of my life (spoiler: I didn’t), at least it’d be great blog fodder. And instead of sleeping during my lunch breaks, I’d go outside and take cool pics of my cheap, homemade lunch and the book I was currently reading

The problem on social media is when someone comes up with a solution. They don’t check if what the person is saying right or wrong, but they check their profile pic and how many followers they have. They do investigation to see if the person never made any mistakes or wrongs in the past, so they can discredit what the person is saying. Most people are not there in seeking solutions, but they are there to glorify their problems, suffering and the problems of others. They are there to seek attention and to seek joy from the pain and misery of others. That is why they condemn, mock and ridicule those who try to come up with a solution.

That’s when my search for happiness began, during stage-four cancer. I spent all my time looking for light in the darkness, hunting for a silver lining. I captured painful moments, trying to discover anything good going on. Where was the grace in dying? I wanted some sort of proof that peace lives in pain. I think I was looking for God. Sometimes I found him. Now it’s become an obsession. I look for God all the time, in every dark and dingy corner of my world, in every sad moment of my life. When I find him or her I take a pic and write a poem.

Because if you have a backup photo album, I’m gonna need to see it to look for dick pics.

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