Piercing Addiction Quotes

Along with the joy of parenthood, with every child comes a piercing vulnerability. It is at once sublime and terrifying

You know when you get the whisper of a melody in your head, or the murmur of a song? And you have the gut feeling that if you could just hear the rest of it, just capture the music”—the need an ache as frustrating as it was piercing—“you’d have something fucking amazing?” Noah nodded. “Yeah well, that’s what it feels like with Molly.” The most compelling whisper of his life. “I’m not about to walk away from that.

A deep sense of awe and gratitude for life was beginning to pierce through the shadows and into my heart. It had not dawned on me until this moment (as I watched distinct rays of sunshine breaking into the darkness) that without a shadow, the details of each sunray would be virtually imperceptible.

Suddenly I was in the middle of things. There were late nights staggering home from the pub, days of bumping into my friends in the street and going off for long afternoons of coffee and pool. Parties where I knew everyone. I was kissed up against walls, missed classes because I was in bed with a lanky, dreadlocked boy. We all had our noses pierced.

The beauty of San Francisco is in these windows of redemptive splendor, we learned, the days when the fog “burns off,” as they say, and gives way to a piercing, almost perversely joyous sunshine. New Yorkers joke about being in an abusive relationship with the city. In San Francisco, I understood this. We were constantly being pummeled by clouds and rain, then promptly apologized to by sparkling sunshine. This is the thing the city does best: convinces you, through a blustery string of freezing, gunmetal-grey days, that life is shit, and then, when you least expect it and most need it, it seems to practically shatter open, revealing a crystalline brightness that pings light around, reflects it off of everything, and air-dries the pale, soaked buildings. It was a magic trick that got me every time.

He stood for everything a girl like me didn't deserve, and worse, he pierced himself and urged me in until he bore the track lines of an addict. Though never perfect- far from it, the boy was flawed- that lent him a teasing vulnerability. I had a spare piece of the jigsaw and he had an empty space.

Wreak Havoc- Skylar Grey A Little Party Never Killed Nobody- Fergie Gangsta- Kehlani You Don’t Own Me- Grace Bonnie and Clyde- Kellie Pickler Kill of the Night- Gin Wigmore I Feel a Sin Comin’ On- Pistol Annies Raise Hell- Dorothy Renegade Runaway- Carrie Underwood Black Widow- Iggy Azalea Hard Out Here- Lily Allen Fix- Chris Lane Make Me Wanna Die- Pretty Reckless Natalie- Bruno Mars Grenade- Bruno Mars Criminal- Fiona Apple Hunter- Ella Fence Gunpowder & Lead- Miranda Lambert Addicted to Love- Florence & The Machine Titanium- David Guetta & Sia Talking Body- Tove Lo Tornado- Little Big Town Fastest Girl in Town- Miranda Lambert Just Tonight- The Pretty Reckless Ready Set Roll- Chase Rice Till I Collapse- Eminem Remember the Name- Fort Minor Kill!Kill!Kill!- The Pierces Hard- Rihanna Cherry Bomb- The Runaways Bad Romance- Lady Gaga Gasoline & Matches- Julie Roberts Loca- Shakira My Medicine- The Pretty Reckless Fake It- Seether Psycho- Puddle of Mud All or Nothing- Theory of a Deadman Next to You- Buckcherry Better Dig Two- The Band Perry

So many women have cancer now. Do you think a new esthetic can develop? Cancer beauty? I mean, if there could be heroin chic, the esthetic of the death-wishing drug addict? Will non-cancerous women be begging their cosmetic surgeons to give them fake node implants under their chins and around their necks? Under their arms? In their groins? So sexy, that fullness. And it works so well as an anti-aging technique, to fill out that sagging turkey neck. Who wouldn't want it? And the jewelry, the titanium pellets piercing those tits. So S&M/bondage." Dunja kept talking in Nathan's head as he segued into a parallel inner dialogue with her about health and evolution, about the theory that concepts of beauty were not just concepts, but perceptions of indicators of reproductive potential and therefore of youth, about selfish genes using our bodies as vehicles only to perpetuate themselves, about how perhaps cancer genes could begin to make their own case for reproductive immortality as well, and so they too would put immense pressure on cultural acceptance of formerly taboo concepts of beauty, concepts which used to indicate disease and nearness to death but now mesmerized and seduced and mimicked youth and ripeness and health, and so her little fantasy of a culture forming around her own dire straits could theoretically... Nathan could only just manage to keep looking into her searching eyes, feeling at that moment very sentimental and ordinary, and therefore mute. Could he really say anything about classical concepts of art, and therefore beauty, based on harmony, as opposed to modern theories, post-industrial-revolution, post-psychoanalysis, based on sickness and dysfunction? Could he make a case for her new, diseased self as the most avant-garde form of womanly beauty? He didn't dare, but she did.

The goal of tattooing was never beauty. The goal was change. From the scarified Nubian priests of 2000 B.C., to the tattooed acolytes of the Cybele cult of ancient Rome, to the moko scars of the modern Maori, humans have tattooed themselves as a way of offering up their bodies in partial sacrifice, enduring the physical pain of embellishment and emerging changed beings. Despite the ominous admonitions of Leviticus 19:28, which forbade the marking of one’s flesh, tattoos had become a rite of passage shared by millions of people in the modern age—everyone from clean-cut teenagers to hard-core drug users to suburban housewives. The act of tattooing one’s skin was a transformative declaration of power, an announcement to the world: I am in control of my own flesh. The intoxicating feeling of control derived from physical transformation had addicted millions to flesh-altering practices . . . cosmetic surgery, body piercing, bodybuilding, and steroids . . . even bulimia and transgendering. The human spirit craves mastery over its carnal shell.

Rays of sunshine beamed through the narrow slit at the top of the canyon walls and straight down into the deep shadows of the caverns. It pierced the darkness and, in some strange, fantastical way, the two seemed to make one another more beautiful. The dark and light complemented each other, not in the way that the right shoes complement an appropriately suited outfit, but in the way that life complements death. Without one, you simply can’t have the other. Maybe God was doing something like that in my life, too?

He once told me that love which obstructs duty is not love. It is an addiction that must be denied.” She smiles, sad. “Maybe he was right.

C. S. Lewis called it the “inconsolable longing” for we know not what, or Sehnsucht, a German term based on the words das Sehnen (“the yearning”) and sucht (“an obsession or addiction”). Sehnsucht was the animating force of Lewis’s life and career. It was “that unnameable something, desire for which pierces us like a rapier at the smell of bonfire, the sound of wild ducks flying overhead, the title of The Well at the World’s End, the opening lines of ‘Kubla Khan,’ the morning cobwebs in late summer, or the noise of falling waves.” He’d felt it first as a young boy, when his brother brought him a toy garden in the form of an old biscuit tin filled with moss and flowers, and he was overcome by a joyous ache he couldn’t understand, though he would try for the rest of his life to put it into words, to find its source, to seek the company of kindred spirits who’d known the same wondrous “stabs of joy.

reading is like drugs, once u addicted of it u cant stay away ofurself from it n Writing is like sex, the very First you do it for love n then you do it for pleasure.You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you. .You write and you are pierced.

The first time I see him is during lunch. As I’m waiting in the cafeteria food line, Alex is two people in front of me. This girl, Nola Linn, is in between us. And she’s not moving down the line fast enough. Alex’s jeans are faded and torn at the knee. His hair is falling into his eyes and I’m itching to push it back. If Nola wouldn’t be so wishy-washy about her choice of fruit… Alex caught me checking him out. I quickly focus my attention on the soup of the day. Minestrone. “Want a cup or bowl, hon?” Mary, the lunch lady, asks me. “Bowl,” I say, pretending to be totally interested in the way she ladles the soup into the bowl. After she hands it to me, I hurry past Nola and stand by the cashier. Right behind Alex. As if he knows I’m stalking him, he turns around. His eyes pierce mine and for a moment I feel as if the rest of the world is closed out and it’s just the two of us. The urge to jump into his arms and feel the warmth of them surrounding me is so powerful, I wonder if it’s medically possible to be addicted to another human being. I clear my throat. “Your turn,” I say, motioning to the cashier. He moves forward with his tray, a slice of pizza on it. “I’ll pay for hers, too,” he says, pointing at me. The cashier waves her finger at me, “What’d you get? Bowl of minestrone?” “Yeah, but…Alex, don’t pay for me.” “Don’t worry. I can afford a bowl of soup,” he says defensively, handing over three dollars. Colin barges into the line and stands next to me. “Move along. Get your own girlfriend to stare at,” he snaps at Alex, then shoos him off. I pray Alex doesn’t retaliate by telling Colin we kissed. Everyone in line is watching us. I can feel their stares on the back of my neck. Alex takes his change from the cashier and without a backward glance heads for the outside courtyard off the cafeteria where he usually sits. I feel so selfish, because I want the best of both worlds. I want to keep the image I’ve worked so hard to create. That image includes Colin. I also want Alex. I can’t stop thinking about having him hold me again and kiss me until I’m breathless. Colin says to the cashier, “I’ll pay for hers and mine.” The cashier looks at me in confusion. “Didn’t that other boy pay for you already?” Colin waits for me to correct her. When I don’t, he gives me a disgusted look and stomps out of the cafeteria.

A large portion of my day is devoted to obsessively surfing the Internet. I'm addicted to knowledge, to be filled in on things I should’ve been taught growing up but never was. Give me a couple of days on most subjects, I will become an obsessed expert — guaranteed. My other talents, for lack of a better word, that can be easily attributed to Asperger’s include but aren’t limited to: photographic memory, polyglotism, an aversion to the color white (only contextually though) and some shades of purple, as well as a penchant for counting bathroom and kitchen tiles. Then there’s bipolar disorder.

Outrage is also an exceptional weapon that can pierce the armor of nearly any foe. It’s like a bow with three magically tipped arrows: shame, guilt, and fear.

Lil, we’re going to watch Blow Hard, and I’m going to fuck you better than…” He trails off to read the label on the back of the DVD while my eyes bug, not willing a peek at Ryke by my side. “…a group of pierced thugs. Huh…

A lost soul is like a traveler trapped in a maze of his own making, blind to the truth and clinging to the false comfort of his own lies. He is shackled by the chains of his addictions, stumbling through the darkness of his failures, and unable to find the exit from the labyrinth of his own mind. Yet, there is hope for redemption, for the light of truth can pierce the darkness, and the power of love can break the chains of bondage. May he find the courage to face his fears, the strength to let go of his lies, and the grace to embrace the beauty of his true self. .