Pinch Related Quotes

Fame is the responsibility, the perennial discipline, the concubine who solicits and imbibes, bit by bit, the love, the relations, the serenity, and the soul, leaving behind the subaqueous plaudits that pinch to the core..

Sooo, I'm tired of people thinking I'm a freak. I know you can't relate to that but -" "Get over it already, will ya?" Candace stood. "You're not Smellody anymore. You're pretty. You can get hot guys now. Tanned ones with good vision. Not geeky hose jousters." She shut the window. "Don't you ever want to use your lips as something other than veneer protectors?" Melody felt a familiar pinch behind her eyes. Her throat dried. Her eyes burned. And then they came. Like salty little paratroopers, tears descended en masse. She hated Candace thought she had never made out with a boy. But how could she convince a seventeen-year-old with more dates than a fruitcake that Randy the Starbucks cashier (aka Scarbucks, because of his acne scars) was a great kisser? She couldn't.

I realized that “being prepared” can sometimes be a euphemism for being scared to let go. How much we carry—whether it is on our bicycle, in our bag, or in our home—is often directly related to how little we trust in life to guide us well, and in others to help us out in a pinch. To this day, I have found that traveling light yields a far richer experience.

What's pretty important, and least was for me, (related an exceptionally good pinch-hitter on the pressures involved with failing with so much at stake) you can't be afraid to enjoy the moment.

The parlor was where you were tongue-tied, the parlor was where you itched and couldn’t scratch, the parlor was dictatorial commands, boring conversation, relatives pinching cheeks, aches, sneezes that couldn’t be sneezed, coughs that couldn’t be coughed, and above all, yawns that must not be yawned.

But no sooner had he walked to the city wall than the monkeys pulled him back, telling him that he did not know how happy he was, and pinching him to make him grateful.

Sometimes I helps a few of the other girls out,” she told him, raising her chin. “Long Bet needed new boots last week, and Mary Jane lacked a few shillings to renting her own room. She’s got a snug little place of her own, just around the corner,” she added. The dreams in this part of the city were as small and pinched as the faces. Four walls to call one’s own. A hot meal, a pair of shoes with sound soles.

Anwen uncrossed her arms, adjusted her skirt. She glanced from me to Watson. "If it's not an imposition," she said. "You can come too, Jamie. If you want." At that, I pinched his leg. "No!" he yelped. "No, go on. I, ah. Have a lecture." "Are you sure?" I ask him, sniffling. "I'm sure," he said, and reached out, very gently, to brush away a tear from my face. His dark eyes softened. He really was a better actor than I gave him credit for. "I'll see you later, pumpkin." As I led Anwen out to the street, I texted from my bag: Watson? Yes, pumpkin? New condition: you cease and desist all gourd-related nicknames. Done. But pinch me again, and I'll start calling you pickle. Do that, and I will find and them publish your diaries in a website with a vociferous comments section. Thought I was not a gourd, I was most definitely not a vinegar-soaked phallic object.

Oh, you're right. I'm just a human with thick skin, purple eyes, and hard bones. Which means you can go home. Tell Galen I said hi." Toraf opens and shuts his mouth twice. Both times it seems like he wants to say something, but his expression tells me his brain isn't cooperating. When his mouth snaps shut a third time, I splash water in his face. "Are you going to say something, or are you trying to catch wind and sail? A grin the size of the horizon spreads across his face. "He likes that, you know. Your temper." Yeahfreakingright. Galen's a classic type A personality-and type A's hate smartass-ism. Just ask my mom. "No offense, but you're not exactly an expert at judging people's emotions." "I'm not sure what you mean by that." "Sure you do." "If you're talking about Rayna, then you're wrong. She loves me. She just won't admit it." I roll my eyes. "Right. She's playing hard to get, is that it? Bashing your head with a rock, splitting your lip, calling you squid breath all the time." "What does that mean? Hard to get?" "It means she's trying to make you think she doesn't like you, so that you end up liking her more. So you work harder to get her attention." He nods. "Exactly. That's exactly what she's doing." Pinching the bridge of my nose, I say, "I don't think so. As we speak, she's getting your mating seal dissolved. That's not playing hard to get. That's playing impossible to get." "Even if she does get it dissolved, it's not because she doesn't care about me. She just likes to play games." The pain in Toraf's voice guts me like the catch of the day. She might like playing games, but his feelings are real. And can't I relate to that? "There's only one way to find out," I say softly. "Find out?" "If all she wants is games." "How?" "You play hard to get. You know how they say. 'If you love someone, set them free. If they return to you, it was meant to be?'" "I've never heard that." "Right. No, you wouldn't have." I sigh. "Basically, what I'm trying to say is, you need to stop giving Rayna attention. Push her away. Treat her like she treats you." He shakes his head. "I don't think I can do that." "You'll get your answer that way," I say, shrugging. "But it sounds like you don't really want to know." "I do want to know. But what if the answer isn't good?" His face scrunches as if the words taste like lemon juice. "You've got to be ready to deal with it, no matter what." Toraf nods, his jaw tight. The choices he has to consider will make this night long enough for him. I decide not to intrude on his time anymore. "I'm pretty tired, so I'm heading back. I'll meet you at Galen's in the morning. Maybe I can break thirty minutes tomorrow, huh?" I nudge his shoulder with my fist, but a weak smile is all I get in return. I'm surprised when he grabs my hand and starts pulling me through the water. At least it's better than dragging me by the ankle. I can't but think how Galen could have done the same thing. Why does he wrap his arms around me instead?

My older relatives grabbed me and latched onto me, and I felt like they wanted something from me. Their love felt like a demand. Then I let go and they pinched my cheeks and kissed them, and it only made me feel drained, like I had all the love and they only wanted to refill their tanks by taking some of mine.

IN THE 1960S, WHEN I became a beat cop in San Diego, manufacturing, selling, possessing, or using “dangerous drugs” or “controlled substances” were all violations of the law. But there was no “war,” per se, on drug-law violators. We made the occasional pot bust, less frequently a heroin or cocaine pinch. Drug enforcement was viewed by many of us almost as an ancillary duty. You’d stumble across an offender on a traffic stop or at a loud-party call. Mostly, you were on the prowl for non-drug-related crime: a gas station or liquor store stickup series, a burglary-fencing ring, an auto theft “chop shop” operation. Undercover narcs, of course, worked dope full time, chasing users and dealers. They played their snitches, sat on open-air markets, interrupted hand-to-hand dealing, and squeezed small-time street dealers in the climb up the chain to “Mister Big.” But because most local police forces devoted only a small percentage of personnel to French Connection–worthy cases, and because there were no “mandatory minimum” sentences (passed by Congress in 1986 to strip “soft on crime” judges of sentencing discretion on a host of drug offenses), and because street gangs fought over, well, streets—as in neighborhood turf (and cars and girlfriends)—not drug markets, most of our jails and prisons still had plenty of room for violent, predatory criminals. The point is, although they certainly did not turn their backs on drug offenses, the country’s police were not at “war” with users and dealers. And though their government-issued photos may have adorned the wall behind the police chief’s desk, a long succession of US presidents stayed out of the local picture.

Joscha: For me a very interesting discovery in the last year was the word spirit—because I realized that what “spirit” actually means: It’s an operating system for an autonomous robot. And when the word was invented, people needed this word, but they didn’t have robots that built themselves yet; the only autonomous robots that were known were people, animals, plants, ecosystems, cities and so on. And they all had spirits. And it makes sense to say that a plant is an operating system, right? If you pinch the plant in one area, then it’s going to have repercussions throughout the plant. Everything in the plant is in some sense connected into some global aesthetics, like in other organisms. An organism is not a collection of cells; it’s a function that tells cells how to behave. And this function is not implemented as some kind of supernatural thing, like some morphogenetic field, it is an emergent result of the interactions of each cell with each other cell. Lex: Oh my god, so what you’re saying is the organism is a function that tells the cells what to do? And the function emerges from the interaction of the cells. Joscha: Yes. So it’s basically a description of what the plant is doing in terms of macro-states. And the macro-states, the physical implementation are too many of them to describe them, so the software that we use to describe what a plant is doing—this spirit of the plant—is the software, the operating system of the plant, right? This is a way in which we, the observers, make sense of the plant. The same is true for people, so people have spirits, which is their operating system in a way, right, and there’s aspects of that operating system that relate to how your body functions, and others how you socially interact, how you interact with yourself and so on. And we make models of that spirit and we think it’s a loaded term because it’s from a pre-scientific age, but it took the scientific age a long time to rediscover a term that is pretty much the same thing and I suspect that the differences that we still see between the old word and the new word are translation errors that over the centuries.

Even if these two didn't share the same short dark hair, the same violet eyes, and the same flawless olive skin, I'd know they were related because of their most dominant feature-their habit of staring. "I'm Chloe. This is my friend Emma, who apparently just head-butted your boyfriend Galen. We were in the middle of apologizing." I pinch the bridge of my nose and count to ten-Mississippi, but fifty-Mississippi seems more appropriate. Fifty allows more time to fantasize about ripping one of Chloe's new waves out. "Emma, what's wrong? Your nose isn't bleeding, is it?" She chirps, enjoying herself. Tingles gather at my chin as Galen lifts it with the crook of his finger. "Is your nose bleeding? Let me see," he says. He tilts my head side to side, leans closer to get a good look. And I meet my threshold for embarrassment. Tripping is bad enough. Tripping into someone is much worse. But if that someone has a body that could make sculpted statues jealous-and thinks you've broken your nose on one of his pecs-well, that's when tripping runs a distant second to humane euthanasia. He is clearly surprised when I swat his hand and step away. His girlfriend/relative seems taken aback that I mimic his stance-crossed arms and deep frown. I doubt she has ever met her threshold for embarrassment. "I said I was fine. No blood, no foul." "This is my sister Rayna," he says, as if the conversation steered naturally in that direction. She smiles at me as if forced at knifepoint, the kind of smile that comes purely from manners, like the smile you give your grandmother when she gives you the rotten-cabbage-colored sweater she's been knitting. I think of that sweater now as I return her smile.

Hey, that's weird," Chloe says. "You both have the same color eyes as Emma. I've never seen that before. I always thought it was because she's freakishly pasty. Ow! That's gonna leave a mark, Emma," she says, rubbing her freshly pinched biceps. "Good, I hope it does," I snap. I want to ask them about their eyes-the color seems prettier set against the olive tone of Galen's skin-but Chloe has bludgeoned my chances of recovering from embarrassment. I'll have to be satisfied that my dad-and Google-were wrong all this time; my eye color just can't be that rare. Sure, my dad practiced medicine until the day he died two years ago. And sure, Google never let me down before. But who am I to argue with living, breathing proof that this eye color actually does exist? Nobody, that's who. Which is convenient, since I don't want to talk anymore. Don't want to force Galen into any more awkward conversations. Don't want to give Chloe any more opportunities to deepen the heat of my burning cheeks. I just want this moment of my life to be over. I push past Chloe and snatch up the surfboard. To her good credit, she presses herself against the rail as I pass her again. I stop in front of Galen and his sister. "It was nice to meet you both. Sorry I ran into you. Let's go, Chloe." Galen looks like he wants to say something, but I turn away. He's been a good sport, but I'm not interested in discussing swimmer safety-or being introduced to any more of his hostile relatives. Nothing he can say will change the fact that DNA from my cheek is smeared on his chest. Trying not to actually march, I thrust past them and make my way down the stairs leading to the pristine white sand. I hear Chloe closing the distance behind me, giggling. And I decide on sunflowers for her funeral.

Right off, Hopkins addressed a matter that had pinched relations between America and Britain. “I told him there was a feeling in some quarters that he, Churchill, did not like America, Americans or Roosevelt,” Hopkins recalled. Churchill denied it, emphatically, and blamed Joseph Kennedy for promulgating so incorrect an impression. He directed a secretary to retrieve the telegram he had sent to Roosevelt the previous fall, in which he congratulated the president on his reelection—the one Roosevelt had never answered or acknowledged. This initial awkwardness was quickly eclipsed, as Hopkins explained that his mission was to learn all he could about Britain’s situation and needs. The conversation ranged wide, from poison gas, to Greece, to North Africa. John Colville noted in his diary that Churchill and Hopkins “were so impressed with each other that their tête-à-tête did not break up till nearly 4:00.” It

Perhaps the elements of memory in plants are superficially treated," he writes, "but at least there they are in black and white! Yet no one calls his friends or neighbors, no one shouts in a drunken voice over the telephone: Have you heard the news? Plants can feel! They can feel pain! They cry out! Plants remember everything!" When Soloukhin began to telephone his own friends in excitement he learned from one of them that a prominent member of the Soviet Academy of Sciences, working in Akademgorodok, the new town inhab­ ited almost exclusively by research scientists on the outskirts of Siberia's largest industrial center, Novosibirsk, had stated: Don't be amazed! We too are carrying out many experiments of this kind and they all point to one thing: plants have memory. They are able to gather impressions and retain them over long periods. We had a man molest, even torture, a geranium for several days in a row. He pinched it, tore it, pricked its leaves with a needle, dripped acid on its living tissues, burned it with a lighted match, and cut its roots. Another man took tender care of the same geranium, watered it, worked its soil, sprayed it with fresh water, supported its heavy branches, and treated its burns and wounds. When we electroded our instruments to the plant, what do you think? No sooner did the torturer come near the plant than the recorder of the instrument began to go wild. The plant didn't just get "nervous"; it was afraid, it was horrified. If it could have, it would have either thrown itself out the window or attacked its torturer. Hardly had this inquisitor left and the good man taken his place near the plant than the geranium was appeased, its impulses died down, the recorder traced out smooth­ one might almost say tender-lines on the graph.

We'd speak occasionally, sometimes in Italian, mine still rudimentary, and sometimes in Arabic. He asked why I chose to live in Italy, and not Palestine or Jordan. "I don't know," I said, feeling a pinch of guilt for being in Italy and not the West Bank, volunteering with refugees or resisting the occupation, or at least something related to my heritage. Every country outside of my own felt like a luxury, and at twenty-three, I wanted to indulge. In a way I felt I deserved to.

They said I could leave if you came and picked me up." He dropped his voice to a whisper and pulled the camera closer. His pupils were blown wide, almost touching the rims of his irises. "The angry penguins scare me." Jane pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to ward off a headache. "They've given you pain medicine, haven't they?" "My state of medication does not make them any less scary. Tiny, angry, little birds." He was talking about the ancient Catholic nuns of Mercy Hospital. They were one of the few things on the planet that actually frightened Hal. She suspected he would be even more cavalier about getting hurt if there was a hospital other than Mercy to go to in Pittsburgh. "Please, please, please, please, please, please." Hal whimpered. "You've got the Fortress of Solitude. All those empty beds! Please!" "Fine. You can stay at my place. I'll come get you." She slapped down her hand, cutting the feed. The two men were staring at the display with surprise and amusement. "Who was that unfortunate fellow?" Nigel asked. "That's – that's the host of Pittsburgh Backyard and Garden, Hal Rogers. We had a rough shoot this morning." Taggart was clearly confused by the answer. Obviously he thought PB&G was a simple landscape show.

Get dressed!" She gave him a shove and turned around so she wouldn't be flashed as well as mooned. Although after five years working together – and all various plant assisted disrobing and the subsequent ambulance rides -- she'd seen the entire package more times than she could count. "Does Dmitri know he's here?" Hal asked and then answered himself. "Of course Dmitri knows. Dmitri knows everything. He's freaking omniscient. That's just an act when he calls right in the middle of something amazing and goes 'what are you doing?' like he doesn't damn well know you plan a glorious explosion. Just freaking glorious." Hal was rambling on about his recent misadventure with high explosives. If Taggart weren't standing there, she would take advantage of Hal's drugged state and quiz him on that, because she still was trying to figure out where he got the C4. More importantly, if the source was going to supply him with more in the future. The network cameraman was eyeing Hal over her shoulder with open surprise and dismay. "What exactly happened this morning? He looks like he's been flogged." "We were victorious!" Hal shouted. "We looked that thing in all seventy-four eyes and burned out its heart!" Jane sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. So many things wrong in that sentence, she wasn't even going to try. God, she prayed that Nigel wasn't anything like Hal. "Right, let's get going. I want to get home before dark.

If this is the book I think it is... I'm relatively certain it's human.' A hot, sour feeling rose in the back of Esther's throat. 'What do you mean, human?' 'I mean the thread looks like it could be a combination of hair and sinew. The glue is likely rendered collagen.' He pinched the cover between thumb and forefinger. 'The leather's probably human skin.' 'Okay,' Collins said, 'great, well, if you need me, I'll be outside screaming.

Right after church, my great Aunt Theresa comes to visit. She drives one of those long white Cadillacs which is so old that I can hear the muffler long before I spot the car. Whenever it sounds like a log truck is tearing down our drive, nine times out of ten it’s my great Aunt Theresa. Out of all of Grandpa’s sisters, she is the only one I can remember. Not because she always stores a pinch of snuff between her cheek and gum and not because a puff of brown dust escapes her mouth every time she speaks. It’s because my great Aunt Theresa is a twiddler. She’s constantly twiddling with something—a strand of hair, her nails, an earlobe, a sock, the bottom of her shoe. But in the past five years, she’s developed a new twiddling habit—trailing her fingers up and down pillowcase fabric. In fact, she stores pillowcases everywhere, like in the trunk of her car or in the oversized purse always swinging from her hip. Where most people can’t go five minutes without their phone, Aunt Theresa can’t go five minutes without her pillowcase.

I need you, Maddie. I can handle the business end of things, but I'm still learning hockey and player relations. The team thinks I'm a puff bunny. Madden's brows furrowed and then a deep laugh shook his shoulders. "Puck bunny. And jeez, what'd you do?" "Nothing! I didn't do anything. My first day, Coach Finley quit and I needed someone to run practices, so I went down to the rink and asked Carter where the assistant coach was." "Carter... Phlynn? And I bet you called him Carter in front of the whole team. Now I get it." Jacey swatted her brother's shoulder. He smirked, so she pinched him. "I don't see what the big deal is. What's wrong with first names?" "Nothing. If you're on the team or sleeping with them. Pro sports are about last names and nicknames, Jace.

When we trust that we live in an abundant universe and allow ourselves to give freely, we raise our frequency, strengthen our faith, and feel awesome, thereby putting ourselves in flow and the position to receive abundant amounts in return. When we’re in fear, we hold on to what we’ve got because we don’t trust that there’s more. We pinch off the energy, we’re scared to share, and we focus on, and create more of, the very thing we’re hoping to avoid, which is lack. We live in a universe of give and receive, breathe and exhale, live and die, suck and awesome. Each side depends on the other, and each is relative to the other—every action has an equal and opposite reaction—so the more you give, the more you receive. And vice versa. You

In this regard, the delicate cell bodies, dendrites, and axons are like the many other fluid-filled tubes within the body. The quality of their function is susceptible to changes in pressure, distortion, viscosity. Their need for constant irrigation is acute: If fresh oxygen is held back from a neuron for merely three to five seconds, it is rendered completely unexcitable.4 And necessary substances must circulate inside the cell as well as around it. If a long dendrite or axon is pinched, closing its length off from the rest of the cell’s fluid, the excitability of the isolated branch quickly decays and eventually the pinched axon or dendrite will atrophy. You can park a truck on top of an electrical wire and it will continue to work nicely. It will work, in fact, until it is completely severed. In contrast there are many intermediate stages of malfunction in a nerve short of this final breakage—or lesion—most of them having to do with the relative effectiveness of the delivery and circulation of nutritional fluids and the adequate flushing of toxins and wastes. These intermediate malfunctions do not normally stop the system; they just make it less efficient. They confuse sensations, cloud thoughts, disturb the precision of our muscular efforts, make us numb in some spots, unaccountably sensitive in others, eliminate responses, force compensations. Insofar as effective bodywork can be of direct benefit to the circulation of bodily fluids, it can help to support the actual metabolic bases of nerve function, and this benefit is above and beyond the question of the value of any actual sensations it may produce.