Pinch Yourself Quotes

Jaeden laughed under her breath. "Caia, it's called a crush. Believe me, Ryder makes me feel the same horrible mixture of happiness and despair. Add a pinch of lykan volatility and you've got yourself the teenage hormonal party from Hades.

Be so good as to cease to cast yourself in fictions. Pinch yourself, or slap yourself across the face if that's what it takes, but understand, please, that you are nonfictional, and this is real life.

Girls don’t fight fair. They pull your hair and gauge you and pinch you; then they run off gasping to mommy when you try and defend yourself with a fist. Then you get locked into time out, and for what? No, my friend, the secret is, don’t snap at the bait. Let it dangle. Swim around it. Laugh it off. After a while they’ve given up and try to lure someone else.

You’re supposed to pinch yourself – not the one you’re dreaming about.

And you snap out of it. Or are snapped out of it. Never again will you lay a hand against yourself, not as long as there are plums to eat and somebody--anybody--who gives enough of a damn to haul them to you. So long as you bear the least nibblet of love for any other creature in this dark world, though in love portions are never stingy. There are no smidgens on pinches, only rolling abundance. That's how you acquire the resolution for survival that the upcoming years are about to demand. You don't give it. You earn it.

Can you dream about anything? can you really be sure you are not dreaming? can you dream - are you dreaming - have you pinched yourself - to see that weren’t dreaming?

Just shut up.” But he doesn’t. “I’m not saying you should do anything. And that’s why I stepped in and didn’t let you bring her home.” His tone turns serious. “All kidding aside, Pike,” he goes on, “she is exactly your type. You shouldn’t be alone with her.” Yeah. I know. I just hope he’s the only person who’s noticed. “Thanks for the intervention,” I tell him, “but even if I were attracted to her, I’m capable of controlling myself.” “You’re not seeing yourself from my perspective.” He looks out the front windshield, solemn. “You look at each other like…” “Like?” He swallows, an unusually troubled pinch to his brow. “Like the two of you have your own language.

If you’ve never changed your mind about something, pinch yourself; you may be dead.

Always keep believing, hoping, seeking, working, helping, forgiving, understanding and loving and your life will be meaningful. But don’t forget to be always vigilant about eagles, crows and vultures around you. In a flash, they may pounce and pinch your peace, prosperity, joy and happiness, blur your vision with their filthy wings, vilify your fame with dirt and halt your progress.

The expression of having to pinch yourself never made sense to me—until now. Because that is precisely how I feel; everything feels so right. Perfect. And that is a feeling I haven’t experienced in a long time.

there's a corner of your mouth, and a place that it goes. pinched and worried like you're afraid you're forgetting something. i used to hate it. used to think it was your little tic of disapproval. but i've kissed your mouth, that corner, that place it goes, so many times now. i've memorized it. topography on the map of you, a world i'm still charting. i know it. i added it to the key. here: inches to miles. i can multiply it out, read your latitude and longitude. recite your coordinates like la rosaria. this thing, your mouth, its place. it's what you do when you're trying not to give yourself away. not in the way that you do all the time, those empty, greedy grabs for you. i mean the truth of you. the weird, perfect shape of your heart. the one on the outside of your chest.

They can respond to any situation with a two-dollar retort from a self-help book at a pinch. Is your father dead? He’s gone to a better place. Have you lost your job? Stay strong – if you believe in yourself, you’ll find a way. Husband left you, taking the kids? You can fight this one, and with the strength you have inside and the love of your children, you can win. The world is boiled down to aphorisms and fairytales. I

My grandpa used to tell my dad, “Son, it’s not the money you make, it’s the money you hold on to.” Make yourself a budget. Live within your means. Pack your lunch. Pinch pennies. Save as much as you can. Get the education you need for as cheap as you can get it. The art of holding on to money is all about saying no to consumer culture. Saying no to takeout, $ 4 lattes, and that shiny new computer when the old one still works fine.

I was sitting on her porch and said: You must be thirsty, would you like to come in? Portraits, miniatures, daguerreotypes, old Aunt This, old Uncle Thus and So. That spiral staircase coming down. And there I was—in my lifeboat. I’d found it. You had to pinch yourself in that house sometimes to remind yourself it wasn’t 1909.

My mother said no woman should get married until they’ve had at least three…” She waves her hand as if I know how to finish that sentence. “Three…?” my father prompts her. “Lovers,” she blurts out. “Boyfriends, whatever.” I pinch my eyebrows together. “What the hell are you talking about?” She lets out a sigh, straightening her spine and looking visibly uncomfortable. Finally, she takes the ketchup, Heinz sauce, and A.1. bottle, moving them one next to the other. “Lust, learn, and love,” she says, placing the condiments and touching her finger to the ketchup. “My mother said the first boy—or man—is a crush. You think you love them, but what you really love is how they make you feel. It’s not love. It’s lust. Lust for attention. Lust for danger. Lust to feel special.” She looks between us. “You’re needy with number one. Needy for someone to love you.” My father forgets the food he’s chewing as he gapes at her. “The second is to learn about yourself.” She touches the Heinz. “Your first crush has been crushed. You’re sad, but most of all, you’re angry. Angry

Pinched silence. Then, “You were the one making eyes at him, always putting yourself in his path.

If you want to dream, go back to sleep,” he told her.“When you wake up, we’ll still be escaped slaves in the middle of a siege. Crunch is dead. The pig as well, most like. Now find some armor and put it on, and never mind where it pinches. The mummer show is over. Fight or hide or shit yourself, as you like, but whatever you decide to do, you’ll do it clad in steel.

A Prince is likewise esteemed who is a stanch friend and a thorough foe, that is to say, who without reserve openly declares for one against another, this being always a more advantageous course than to stand neutral. For supposing two of your powerful neighbours come to blows, it must either be that you have, or have not, reason to fear the one who comes off victorious. In either case it will always be well for you to declare yourself, and join in frankly with one side or other. For should you fail to do so you are certain, in the former of the cases put, to become the prey of the victor to the satisfaction and delight of the vanquished, and no reason or circumstance that you may plead will avail to shield or shelter you; for the victor dislikes doubtful friends, and such as will not help him at a pinch; and the vanquished will have nothing to say to you, since you would not share his fortunes sword in hand.

Though we typically turn to sugar to balance out bitter flavors in a sauce or soup, it turns out that salt masks bitterness much more effectively than sugar. See for yourself with a little tonic water, Campari, or grapefruit juice, all of which are both bitter and sweet. Taste a spoonful, then add a pinch of salt and taste again. You’ll be surprised by how much bitterness subsides.

Quick, somebody call the caretaker!’ Gemma’s stage voice rang out loud and clear. ‘There’s some trash here that needs to be taken out.’ She earned a chorus of laughs as she walked towards us, then came to a standstill right beside me. ‘Christ, it reeks, too,’ she said, pinching her nose. ‘What did you do, Malice? Douse yourself in the whole bottle? Oh, never mind. I don’t expect you to have heard of the adage “less is more”.

You’re not seeing yourself from my perspective.” He looks out the front windshield, solemn. “You look at each other like…” “Like?” He swallows, an unusually troubled pinch to his brow. “Like the two of you have your own language

You’re not seeing yourself from my perspective.” He looks out the front windshield, solemn. “You look at each other like…” “Like?” He swallows, an unusually troubled pinch to his brow. “Like the two of you have your own language.

He snapped the notebook shut. "I know all of this must be very frightening for you, but try not to agitate yourself. Excitement will only worsen the inflammation." She stared. "The--what?" "The inflammation of your brain, Miss Scrivener," he explained patiently. "It is quite common among women who read novels." Before Elisabeth could think of a reply to think baffling remark, he called Hannah back into the room, who looked pinched with worry. "Please tell the Chancellor that I prescribe a strict period of bed rest for the patient," he said to her. "It is clear that this is a classic case of hysteria. Miss Scrivener should exert herself as little as possible. Once the swelling in her brain subsides, her mind may return to normal.

The pressing of my thumbnail against my fingertip had started off as a way of convincing myself that I was real. As a kid, my mom had told me that if you pinch yourself and don't wake up, you can be sure that you're not dreaming; and so every time I thought maybe I wasn't real, I would dig my nail into my fingertip, and I would feel the pain, and for a second I'd think, Of course, I'm real. But the fish can feel pain, is the ting. You can't know whether you're doing the bidding of some parasite, not really.

When things around you Are not in your hands, If you feel like You can't find yourself, You should go out Into nature. Take the silence with you. Sit on a grass mattress There will be thoughts Waiting for you Don't dismiss them Gently pat the leaves See the flowers Smiling and nodding beside you. Walk up to them I believe nature can Inspire our creativity You can pinch flowers To make a beautiful bouquet. Lift up your soul By burying all That makes you not you. ... A BOUQUET FOR THE SOUL...

And you snap out of it. Or are snapped out of it. Never again will you lay a hand against yourself, not so long as there are plums to eat and somebody—anybody—who gives enough of a damn to haul them to you. So long as you bear the least nibblet of love for any other creature in this dark world, though in love portions are never stingy. There are no smidgens or pinches, only rolling abundance. That’s how you acquire the resolution for survival that the coming years are about to demand. You don’t earn it. It’s given.

You are the creator of your experience, and you must create your experience deliberately if you are to have the joyful experience that you meant to have. Unless you, in any moment, are seeing the world through the eyes of Source, then you are but a shadow of the Being that you’ve come forth to be. Which means, if you are doing less than loving whatever it is you’re giving your attention to, you are not who you were really born to be. Negative emotion means you’ve pinched yourself off, to some degree, from who-you-really-are.

Racial self-hatred is seeing yourself the way the whites see you, which turns you into your own worst enemy. Your only defense is to be hard on yourself, which becomes compulsive, and therefore a comfort, to peck yourself to death. You don’t like how you look, how you sound. You think your Asian features are undefined, like God started pinching out your features and then abandoned you. You hate that there are so many Asians in the room. Who let in all the Asians? you rant in your head. Instead of solidarity, you feel that you are less than around other Asians, the boundaries of yourself no longer distinct but congealed into a horde.

Healthy Choices Hold still Keep quiet. Get a degree to learn how to talk saying nothing. Catch a good man by being demure. the one your mother chooses. Let him climb you whenever his urge, amidst headaches and menstrual aches and screaming infants. And when he bids quick, turn over. Hold still. Make your tongue a slab of cement a white stone etched with your name. Kill your stories with knives and knitting needles and Clorox bleach. Hide in your mysteriousness by saying nothing. Starch your thoughts with ironed shirts. Tie your anger with a knot in your throat and when he comes without concern swallow it. Hold still. Keep desire hopeless as ice and sleepless nights and painful as pinched eyelid. Keep your fingers from the razor, keep your longing to sever his condescension safely in your douchbag. Turn the blade against yourself. Don't twitch as your slashed wrists stain your bathroom tiles. Disinfect with Pine Sol. Hold still. Keep quiet. Keep tight your lips, keep dead your dreams, keep cold your heart. Keep quiet. And he will shout praises to your perfection.

Whether to speak or not: the question that comes up again when you think you’ve said too much, again. Another clutch of nouns, a fistful: look how they pick them over, the shoppers for words, pinching here and there to see if they’re bruised yet. Verbs are no better, they wind them up, let them go, scrabbling over the table, wind them up again too tight and the spring breaks. You can’t take another poem of spring, not with the wound-up vowels, not with the bruised word green in it, not yours, not with ants crawling all over it, not this infestation. It’s a market, flyspecked; how do you wash a language? There’s the beginning of a bad smell, you can hear the growls, something’s being eaten, once too often. Your mouth feels rotted. Why involve yourself? You’d do better to sit off to the side, on the sidewalk under the awning, hands over your mouth, your ears, your eyes, with a cup in front of you into which people will or will not drop pennies. They think you can’t talk, they’re sorry for you, but. But you’re waiting for the word, the one that will finally be right. A compound, the generation of life, mud and light.

Well, well, nobody’s perfect, but” — here Mr. Garth shook his head to help out the inadequacy of words—”what I am thinking of is — what it must be for a wife when she’s never sure of her husband, when he hasn’t got a principle in him to make him more afraid of doing the wrong thing by others than of getting his own toes pinched. That’s the long and the short of it, Mary. Young folks may get fond of each other before they know what life is, and they may think it all holiday if they can only get together; but it soon turns into working day, my dear. However, you have more sense than most, and you haven’t been kept in cotton-wool: there may be no occasion for me to say this, but a father trembles for his daughter, and you are all by yourself here.

seemed like she could hold on to the good mood if everyone just stayed in their place. She needed the good mood, the way you need sleep after an all-nighter, the way you daydream of throwing yourself into bed. Every day she woke up and swore she wouldn’t let the farm weigh her down, wouldn’t let the ruination of it (three years she was behind in the loan, three years and no way out) turn her into the kind of woman she hated: mirthless, pinched, unable to enjoy anything. Every morning she’d crick herself down onto the flimsy rug by her bed and pray, but it was actually a promise: Today I won’t yell, I won’t cry, I won’t clench up into a ball like I am waiting for a blow to level me. I will enjoy today. She might make it to lunch before she went sour.

I'd be damn p-p-p-proud," he said, "of a f-father like Martin Hopper." The girl tossed her head with disdain. "That's just your trouble, Douglas Hyde." "What do you mean?" he bristled angrily. "You know he's a phony," she answered coldly. "You've told me so yourself. And yet, in a pinch, you defend him." The two stared at each other—blonde against dark—in absolute opposition.

In the beginning, when Adam was first created, he spent whole days rubbing his face in the grass. He picked his ear until it bled, tried to fit his fist in his mouth and yanked out tufts of his own hair. At one point he tried to pinch out his own eyes in order to examine them and God had to step in. Looking down at Adam, God must have felt a bit weird about the whole thing. It must have been something like eating at a cafeteria table all by yourself when a stranger suddenly sits down opposite you, but it is a stranger you have created, and he is eating a macaroni salad that you have also created, and you have been sitting at the table all by yourself for over a hundred billion years; and yet still, you have nothing to talk about. It was pitiful the way Adam looked up into the sky and squinted. Before He created Adam, God must have been lonely; now he was still lonely, and so was Adam.

You outdid yourself,” I said, popping a seasoned slice of radish into my mouth. A pinch of salt hit my tongue. Curried vegetables in muted hues of green and orange were piled high in a bowl. Spicy dhal with a swirl of paprika-induced red glistening on the surface simmered in a pot next to a platter of saffron-infused yellow rice. On the granite countertop, crispy papad with hot spots of fennel were stacked on a metal dish beside an open container of creamy raita with bright pieces of mint leaves.

Madame Firmiani is a Frenchwoman, and spends her money like a Parisian. She has excellent tea. It is one of the few houses where you can amuse yourself; the refreshments are exquisite. It is very difficult to get admitted; therefore, of course, one meets only the best society in her salons.” Here the Lounger takes a pinch of snuff; he inhales it slowly and seems to say: “I go there, but don’t expect me to present you.” Evidently the Lounger considers that Madame Firmiani keeps a sort of inn, without a sign.

If you are a clumsy person, you will bang some part of your body, or get it caught and pinched in something, or have something twisted around the wrong way because you have done the wrong thing because you are clumsy. It will hurt, so you will be sore, and it likely someone will be looking at you, wondering how on earth you managed to bang or catch or pinch or twist yourself doing something that everyone else does all the time without incident, so you will be embarrassed. A peculiar thing about being embarrassed is that once you have decided to be embarrassed, you become less embarrassed.

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.

No one said a word, and I waited a beat, then pushed forward. Screw Kevin. Screw Maggie. Screw whatever happened to them now. I went after Caden. He didn’t have to push his way through the crowd. It automatically opened for him. Not so much for me. I was at a disadvantage, and when I ran to the parking lot, he was already in the car and peeling past me. “HEY!” I yelled, raising my hands in the air. He braked, a little too close for comfort, right next to me. The passenger window rolled down. “What?” I reached for the door. “Let me in.” His eyebrows pinched together. “Why?” “Let me in.” He unlocked the door. I opened it and climbed in. “Okay. I’m with you.” I had no idea what I was doing. “Excuse me?” “I’m with you.” I clapped the dashboard, pointing ahead. “Whatever you’re going to do, I’m in. You seem to need a friend. You’re in luck. I could use one myself. So I’m in.” “I’m going to get drunk and have sex.” “Oh.” He cocked an eyebrow. “You still in?” He was laughing now. He was still mad, but he was laughing. For whatever reason—maybe I did want to go with him, or maybe I heard my own voice calling me boring and pathetic again—I sat back and folded my hands in my lap. “I’m in.” He shook his head. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into..” He shifted his Land Rover into drive and started forward. “But that’s your problem, not mine.” He careened out of the parking lot, and I fell against the door. I grabbed the oh shit handle above my head, and I had a feeling that was going to be the theme for the rest of the night: Oh, shit.

Maybe the true surprise, I thought, was that it had not happened sooner. My uncles’ eyes used to crawl over me as I poured their wine. Their hands found their way to my flesh. A pinch, a stroke, a hand slipping under the sleeve of my dress. They all had wives, it was not marriage they thought of. One of them would have come for me in the end and paid my father well. Honor on all sides. The light had reached the loom, and its cedar scent was rising in the air. The memory of [Redacted]’s white-scarred hands, and the pleasure I had taken in them, was like a hot wire pushed through my brain. I dug my nails into my wrist. There are oracles scattered across our lands. Shrines where priestesses breathe sacred fumes and speak the truths they find in them. Know yourself is carved above their doors. But I had been a stranger to myself, turned to stone for no reason I could name.

She keeps her fingers on Faye’s face. Faye closes her eyes against tears. When she opens them Julie is still looking at her. She’s smiling a wonderful smile. Way past twenty. She takes Faye’s hands.“‘Then tell them to look closely at men’s faces. Tell them to stand perfectly still, for time, and to look into the face of a man. A man’s face has nothing on it. Look closely. Tell them to look. And not at what the faces do–men’s faces never stop moving–they’re like antennae. But all the faces do is move through different configurations of blankness.’ Faye looks for Julie’s eyes in the mirror. Julie says, ‘Tell them there are no holes for your fingers in the masks of men. Tell them how could you ever even hope to have what you can’t grab onto.’ Julie turns her makeup chair and looks up at Faye. ‘That’s when I love you, if I love you,’ she whispers, running a finger down her white powdered cheek, reaching to trace an angled line of white onto Faye’s own face. 'Is when your face moves into expression. Try to look out from yourself, different, all the time. Tell people that you know your face is at least pretty at rest.’ 'You asked me once how poems informed me,’ she says. Almost a whisper–her microphone voice. 'And you asked whether we, us, depended on the game, to even be. Baby?’–lifting Faye’s face with one finger under the chin–'Remember? Remember the ocean? Our dawn ocean, that we loved? We loved it because it was like us, Faye. That whole ocean was obvious. We were looking at something obvious, the whole time.’ She pinches a nipple, too softly for Faye even to feel. 'Oceans are only oceans when they move,’ Julie whispers. 'Waves are what keep oceans from just being very big puddles. Oceans are just their waves. And every wave in the ocean is finally going to meet what it moves toward, and break. The whole thing we looked at, the whole time you asked, was obvious. It was obvious and a poem because it was us. See things like that, Faye. Your own face, moving into expression. A wave, breaking on a rock, giving up its shape in a gesture that expresses that shape. See?’ It wasn’t at the beach that Faye had asked about the future. It was in Los Angeles. And what about the anomalous wave that came out of nowhere and broke on itself? Julie is looking at Faye. 'See?’ Faye’s eyes are open. They get wide. 'You don’t like my face at rest?

Ronan was waiting for her beyond the estate’s guarded gate. From the looks of things, he had been waiting for some time. His horse was nosing brown grass as Ronan sat on a nearby boulder, throwing pebbles at the general’s stone wall. When he saw Kestrel ride through the gate on Javelin, he flung his handful of rocks to the path. He remained sitting, elbows propped on his bended knees as he stared at her, his face pinched and white. He said, “I have half a mind to tear you down from your horse.” “You got my message, then.” “And rode instantly here, where guards told me that the lady of the house gave strict orders not to let anyone--even me--inside.” His eyes raked over her, taking in the black fighting clothes. “I didn’t believe it. I still don’t believe it. After you vanished last night, everyone at the party was talking about the challenge, yet I was sure it was just a rumor started by Irex because of whatever has caused that ill will between you. Kestrel, how could you expose yourself like this?” Her hands tightened around the reins. She thought about how, when she let go, her palms would smell like leather and sweat. She concentrated on imagining that scent. This was easier than paying heed to the sick feeling swimming inside her. She knew what Ronan was going to say. She tried to deflect it. She tried to talk about the duel itself, which seemed straightforward next to her reasons for it. Lightly, she said, “No one seems to believe that I might win.” Ronan vaulted off the rock and strode toward her horse. He seized the saddle’s pommel. “You’ll get what you want. But what do you want? Whom do you want?” “Ronan.” Kestrel swallowed. “Think about what you are saying.” “Only what everyone has been saying. That Lady Kestrel has a lover.” “That’s not true.” “He is her shadow, skulking behind her, listening, watching.” “He isn’t,” Kestrel tried to say, and was horrified to hear her voice falter. She felt a stinging in her eyes. “He has a girl.” “Why do you even know that? So what if he does? It doesn’t matter. Not in the eyes of society.” Kestrel’s feelings were like banners in a storm, snapping at their ties. They tangled and wound around her. She focused, and when she spoke, she made her words disdainful. “He is a slave.” “He is a man, as I am.” Kestrel slipped from her saddle, stood face-to-face with Ronan, and lied. “He is nothing to me.

She stepped behind me and whispered crossly, ‘Take yourself and your dusters off; when company are in the house, servants don't commence scouring and cleaning in the room where they are!' ‘It's a good opportunity, now that master is away,' I answered aloud: ‘he hates me to be fidgeting over these things in his presence - I'm sure Mr. Edgar will excuse me.' ‘I hate you to be fidgeting in my presence,' exclaimed the young lady imperiously, not allowing her guest time to speak: she had failed to recover her equanimity since the little dispute with Heathcliff. ‘I'm sorry for it, Miss Catherin!'' was my response; and I proceeded assiduously with my occupation. She, supposing Edgar could not see her, snatched the cloth from my hand, and pinched me, with a prolonged wrench, very spitefully on the arm. I've said I did not love her, and rather relished mortifying her vanity now and then: besides, she hurt me extremely; so I started up from my knees, and screamed out. ‘Oh, Miss, that's a nasty trick! You have no right to nip me, and I'm not going to bear it.' 'I didn't touch you, you lying creature!' cried she, her fingers tingling to repeat the act, and her ears red with rage. She never had power to conceal her passion, it always set her whole complexion in a blaze.

She stepped behind me and whispered crossly, ‘Take yourself and your dusters off; when company are in the house, servants don't commence scouring and cleaning in the room where they are!' ‘It's a good opportunity, now that master is away,' I answered aloud: ‘he hates me to be fidgeting over these things in his presence - I'm sure Mr. Edgar will excuse me.' ‘I hate you to be fidgeting in my presence,' exclaimed the young lady imperiously, not allowing her guest time to speak: she had failed to recover her equanimity since the little dispute with Heathcliff. ‘I'm sorry for it, Miss Catherine!'' was my response; and I proceeded assiduously with my occupation. She, supposing Edgar could not see her, snatched the cloth from my hand, and pinched me, with a prolonged wrench, very spitefully on the arm. I've said I did not love her, and rather relished mortifying her vanity now and then: besides, she hurt me extremely; so I started up from my knees, and screamed out. ‘Oh, Miss, that's a nasty trick! You have no right to nip me, and I'm not going to bear it.' 'I didn't touch you, you lying creature!' cried she, her fingers tingling to repeat the act, and her ears red with rage. She never had power to conceal her passion, it always set her whole complexion in a blaze.

Fifty miles out of Prague, the halved carcass of a freshly killed hog hangs, still steaming in the cold, from what looks like a child’s swing set. It’s a wet, drizzling morning and your feet are sopping and you’ve been warming yourself against the chill by huddling around the small fire over which a pot of pig parts boils. The butcher’s family and friends are drinking slivovitz and beer, and though noon is still a few hours off, you’ve had quite a few of both. Someone calls you inside to the tiled workspace, where the butcher has mixed the pig’s blood with cooked onions and spices and crumbs of country bread, and he’s ready to fill the casings. Usually, they slip the casing over a metal tube, turn on the grinding machine, cram in the forcemeat or filling, and the sausages fill like magic. This guy does it differently. He chops everything by hand. A wet mesa of black filling covers his cutting board, barely retaining its shape—yet he grabs the casing in one hand, puts two fingers in one open end, makes the “V” sign, stretching it disturbingly, and reaches with the other—then buries both his hands in the mix. A whirlwind of movement as he squeezes with his right hand, using his palm like a funnel, somehow squirting the bloody, barely containable stuff straight into the opening. He does this again and again with breathtaking speed, mowing his way across the wooden table, like a thresher cutting a row through a cornfield, a long, plump, rapidly growing, glistening, fully filled length of sausage engorging to his left as he moves. It’s a dark, purplish color through the translucent membrane. An assistant pinches off links, pins them with broken bits of wooden skewer. In moments, they are done.

Neamh. Evie. Neamh. Evie. Lend, Lend, Lend. Neamh. Evie. “What are you doing, my love?” I scowled at Reth for breaking my concentration. “Thinking. Shut up.” The Light Queen was speechifying up on a podium made of liquid light, her radiance bathing all the faeries in a glow that was nearly overpowering. Within a few seconds of being around this much faerie glamour I was having a hard time seeing straight and found myself slack-jawed and dazed. Thus, the name equivalent of pinching myself. I realized at some point she had stopped talking, and now every single set of faerie eyes—a few hundred of them—were trained intently on me. “Oh, uh, hey.” I waved. “What did I miss?” I whispered to Reth. “You’re supposed to tell us how to convince the Dark Court to join us.” “I—What? Seriously? I’m only here to make sure everything happens. I thought the queen would have a plan! I’m a glorified doorman. I open the gate, I close the gate. Nowhere in my job description of Empty One does it say I also manage to convince a mob of anti-Evie faeries to saunter through the gate.” Reth smiled. “And just when she’d finished praising human ingenuity and assuring us that everything will work out according to plan.” “Yes! Plan! Her plan! Gosh, you guys are sucking it up all over the place. Aren’t you supposed to have these things in place for centuries, or were you too busy writing pretty little poems to describe the plans that you never bothered actually making them?” His golden eyes, now with fine lines around them, twinkled with amusement. “We had a plan, my love. I was to fill you up and you were to open a fate for us immediately. But I seem to recall you doing everything in your power to resist and change that plan. So now we’ve had to account for all the other creatures from our world and conform to your requirements. I think you’ll find that we fey, while obviously superior in nearly every way, are not quite as adaptable as temporary creatures. If you want improvisations, you’ll have to provide it yourself.

We'll begin with your name, shall we? Just what might that be, cully?" "Jake Chambers." With his nose pinched shut, his voice sounded nasal and foggy. "And are you a Not-see, Jake Chambers?" For a moment, Jake wondered if this was a peculiar way of asking him if he was blind...but of course they could all see he wasn't. "I don't understand what--" Tick-Tock shook him back and forth by the nose. "Not-See! Not-See! You just want to stop playing with me, boy!" "I don't understand--" Jake began, and then he looked at the old machine-gun hanging from the chair and thought once more of the crashed Focke-Wulf. The pieces fell together in his mind. "No--I'm not a Nazi. I'm an American. All that ended long before I was born!" The Tick-Tock Man released his hold on Jake's nose, which immediately began to gush blood. "You could have told me that in the first place and saved yourself all sorts of pain, Jake Chambers...but at least now you understand how we do things around here, don't you?" Jake nodded. "Ar. Well enough! We'll start with the simple questions." Jake's eyes drifted back to the ventilator grille. What he had seen before was still there; it hadn't been just his imagination. Two gold-ringed eyes floated in the dark behind the chrome louvers. Oy. Tick-Tock slapped his face, knocking him back into Gasher, who immediately pushed him forward again. "It's school-time, dear heart," Gasher whispered. "Mind yer lessons, now! Mind em wery sharp!" "Look at me when I'm talking to you," Tick-Tock said. "I'll have some respect, Jake Chambers, or I'll have your balls." "All right." Tick-Tock's green eyes gleamed dangerously. "All right what?" Jake groped for the right answer, pushing away the tangle of questions and the sudden hope which had dawned in his mind. And what came was what would have served at his own Cradle of the Pubes...otherwise known as The Piper School. "All right, sir?" Tick-Tock smiled. "That's a start, boy," he said, and leaned forward, forearms on his thighs. "Now...what's an American?

Any disruption in the flow of Consciousness creates a split, a separation: a wound. So every time you go against your divine nature, which is that of love, freedom, and expansion, you pinch yourself out of this flow.

That,” he said in a booming voice, “was a damn fine pie.” A thin woman with a pinched face stood next to him. “Don’t you cuss, Elias,” she said sharply. “There’s no call for that.” “Oh honey,” the big man said. “Don’t get yourself in a twit. Damfine is a kind of apple, innit?” He grinned around at the folks sitting at the bar. “Sort of foreign apple from off in Atur? They named it after Baron Damfine if I remember correct.” Graham grinned back at him. “I think I heard that.” The woman glared at all of them.

There’s no such thing as Divergent magic, Mar,” says Lynn. “And if there is, we shouldn’t be consulting it,” says Shauna. It’s the first thing she’s said since we sat down. She doesn’t even look at me when she says it; she just scowls at her younger sister. “Shauna--” Zeke starts. “Don’t ‘Shauna’ me!” she says, focusing her scowl on him instead. “Don’t you think someone with the aptitude for multiple factions might have a loyalty problem? If she’s got aptitude for Erudite, how can we be sure she’s not working for Erudite?” “Don’t be ridiculous,” says Tobias, his voice low. “I am not being ridiculous.” She smacks the table. “I know I belong in Dauntless because everything I did in that aptitude test told me so. I’m loyal to my faction for that reason--because there’s nowhere else I could possibly be. But her? And you?” She shakes her head. “I have no idea who you’re loyal to. And I’m not going to pretend like everything’s okay.” She gets up, and when Zeke reaches for her, she throws his hand aside, marching toward one of the doors. I watch her until the door closes behind her and the black fabric that hands in front of it settles. I feel wound up, like I might scream, only Shauna isn’t here for me to scream at. “It’s not magic,” I say hotly. “You just have to ask yourself what the most logical response to a particular situation is.” I am greeted with blank stares. “Seriously,” I say. “If I were in this situation, staring at a group of Dauntless guards and Jack Kang, I probably wouldn’t resort to violence, right?” “Well, you might, if you had your own Dauntless guards. And then all it takes is one shot--bam, he’s dead, and Erudite’s better off,” says Zeke. “Whoever they send to talk to Jack Kang isn’t going to be some random Erudite kid; it’s going to be someone important,” I say. “It would be a stupid move to fire on Jack Kang and risk losing whoever they send as Jeanine’s representative.” “See? This is why we need you to analyze the situation,” Zeke says. “If it was me, I would kill him; it would be worth the risk.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. I already have a headache. “Fine.” I try to put myself in Jeanine Matthews’s place. I already know she won’t negotiate with Jack Kang. Why would she need to? He has nothing to offer her. She will use the situation to her advantage. “I think,” I say, “that Jeanine Matthews will manipulate him. And that he will do anything to protect his faction, even if it means sacrificing the Divergent.” I pause for a moment, remembering how he held his faction’s influence over our heads at the meeting. “Or sacrificing the Dauntless. So we need to hear what they say in that meeting.” Uriah and Zeke exchange a look. Lynn smiles, but it isn’t her usual smile. It doesn’t spread to her eyes, which look more like gold than ever, with that coldness in them. “So let’s listen in,” she says.

by searching for an outstanding feature, you’re accomplishing the second important step—you’re forcing yourself to look at, be interested in, concentrate on, that face! What you select could be anything: hair or hairline; forehead (narrow, wide, or high); eyebrows (straight, arched, bushy); eyes (narrow, wide-spaced, close-set); nose (large, small, pug, ski); nostrils (flaring, pinched); high cheekbones; cheeks (full or sunken); lips (straight, arched, full, thin); chin (cleft, receding, jutting); lines, pimples, warts, dimples—anything.

by searching for an outstanding feature, you’re accomplishing the second important step—you’re forcing yourself to look at, be interested in, concentrate on, that face! What you select could be anything: hair or hairline; forehead (narrow, wide, or high); eyebrows (straight, arched, bushy); eyes (narrow, wide-spaced, close-set); nose (large, small, pug, ski); nostrils (flaring, pinched); high cheekbones; cheeks (full or sunken); lips (straight, arched, full, thin); chin (cleft, receding, jutting); lines, pimples, warts, dimples—anything. First impressions are usually lasting impressions, and what is outstanding on someone’s face now will, most likely, seem outstanding when you see that face again. That’s important; but more important is the fact that you’ve really looked at that face. You’re etching that face into your memory by just trying to apply the system.

GV-26 Chinese Point name: Shui Gou;29 English translation: “Water Trough;” Special Attributes: It is the intersection point of the Large Intestine Meridian and the Governing Vessel. It is also listed as one of the 36 Vital Points in the Bubishi; Location: Below in the nose and a little above the midpoint of the philtrum; Western Anatomy: The superior labial artery and vein, the buccal branch of the facial nerve, and a branch of the infraorbital nerve are present; Comments: This point can be struck or pinched. In a situation in which it is necessary to control an individual GV-26 can be pinched between the thumb and the forefinger with great effect. A strike should be aimed upward at a 45-degree angle. This strike, if thrown with force, will also hit GV-25.

When soaking beans, keep in mind that 1 cup of dried beans will triple in size when cooked, yielding about 6 servings. Add a palmful of salt, and a generous pinch of baking soda, which will tip the pH of the pot toward alkalinity and help coax even more tenderness from the beans. Soak beans in the same vessel in which you plan to cook them, to save yourself a dish, and either refrigerate or keep in a cool spot on the counter overnight (or over 2 nights, for chickpeas or big, creamy beans such as gigantes).

Only I don’t know,” the Enchantress pinched her lips together, “who gave you permission to describe my internal organs. How did it go? ‘Her heart, as though a jewel, adorned her neck. Hard as if of diamond made, and as a diamond so unfeeling, sharper than obsidian, cutting—’ Did you make that up yourself? Or perhaps…?

This attitude — that the inner guru is enough — is often adopted by those whose intellectual orientation is slightly nihilistic or who are from very controlling, high- achieving families and resent the idea of yet another powerful person breathing down their necks. Then there are others who like to be led. Even when it comes to mundane issues, they don’t trust their own judgment or inner voice. They can barely go to the grocery store without being full of doubt. They also tend to be a little bit lazy, asking the guru for advice on every little thing that pops into their heads. These types of people have to learn to trust themselves and rely less on the outer guru. They might find that the more they trust the inner and secret gurus, the more they rely on and love the outer guru. Ultimately, the question of whether the inner guru is enough for you is irrelevant if your spiritual aim is to attain enlightenment. But there is an easy way to find the answer. If you can overcome any and all external circumstances, then maybe you don’t need the outer guru, because by then all appearance and experience arise as the guru anyway. On the other hand, if a practitioner is not able to control circumstances and situations, then all kinds of mind training are necessary. Therefore, one needs to be led, to be poked, to be spoon-fed. To find out whether or not you are controlled by circumstances and situations, there are myriad things you can do, such as skip lunch. If you are a man, wear a bra and walk around in public. If you are a woman, go to a fancy party in your bedroom slippers. If you are married, see if you can tolerate someone pinching your spouse’s bottom. See if you are swayed by praise, criticism, being ignored, or being showered with attention. If you get agitated, embarrassed, or infuriated, then more than likely you are still under the spell of the conditions of habit and culture. You are still a victim of causes and conditions. When a loved one dies or the life you are trying to build collapses, it’s likely that your understanding of the inner and secret gurus will not ease the pain. Nor will your understanding of “form is emptiness and emptiness is form” provide solace. In this case, you need to insert a new cause to counter these conditions. Because your understanding of the inner and secret gurus is only intellectual, you cannot call upon them. This is where the outer, physical, reachable guru is necessary. As long as you dwell in a realm where externally existing friends and lovers are necessary, as long as you are bothered by externally existing obstacles like passions and moral judgments, you need a guru. Basically, as long as you have a dualistic mind, don’t kid yourself by thinking that an inner guru is enough. When you reach a point where you can actually communicate with your inner guru, you will have little or no more dualism. You will no longer be repelled by or attracted to an outer guru. Therefore, the outer guru is necessary until you at least have the gist of the inner and secret gurus. When you realize the inner and secret gurus, you won’t even be able to find the outer guru anymore.

Garden of the Dragons (The ’Halla, Vol. # 3) Chapter Ten Excerpt (original editing) ... Hachiman, surveys he the woe, Wipes his brow, hate does flow. A ruined life, heh, a loss of face, He must have her now, to his disgrace (Wed to Kari now, locked in time and place). Battle over, moon still shines, Lilies float soft in quiet time. Scented visions and memories sear remains, Of this terrible night of what was feigned. Visuals lithe, of sword and blade, Disguise the carnage and the pain. Petals soft, they hide our gaze, And cover the ground and its grave. Flowers and moon in water light, T'winkills the calm of a zen-burst night. Now to life, the poem to seek repose, And bury beneath those riddles she holds. Nectars sweet, precious flowers, A fragranted grave that allures and empowers. Heart~beat, heart~beat, tells the way, Of things long remembered and a far lost day. How many memories, Kari knew, That stain with age, being so few. Samurai remembers - feels it as a man, Clutches he his fist; wind in hand. . . . ". . .I have searched for you a very long time." "Do not waste breath, kill. It is our way here." "Not before I have my say, Corpse-eater." "No wonder you took so long to find me." "I have had a lot of time for thought," quietly he, "- T'is a shame we could not agree." "No more room for that," forcefully he snapped, "You dishonored me twice and now, I will take one back." "- Not enough? Hachi," said cordially she, "If you are going to - cut the artery, please." Tilt she her neck, exposed but her vein, Samurai frowned, decidedly vain. Looked he at his hands - "They're already too bloody for today." "Hummph. Such trite man'ers are atrocious. For yourself you are much too engaged." ("Yet, a moment and it is done," thought he, "But to gain it thus, a hollow travesty. I must face her in all her strength, The bladed Valkyrie, the one called great"). "I could kill you now, but I'd rather not, This room is too unbecoming for the proper job." "Charmed that you still think so highly of me." "- Only then of your haunted beauty, I shall be free." Feeling that weight, slowly dropped he his blade, Time enough - rituals to cleanse and to pray. Tossed his sword, pined her down - Smooshed her face to the floor, Pinching it to a frown. "Oh no, my little angel, you have it all wrong! I mean only to kill you when you are strong. Do not fear, I won't let anyone harm you in strife, In the meantime, try not to flirt with your life. Stay healthy - then we shall settle our love, unrequite." A biting grin creased Samurai's scarved face, "Let us fix it properly, according to my r'ace." "Bushido," mouthed Kari, her voice empty as the word. "And there will be no running away this time - Rest assured." Slowly withdrew he and left the room, "Bastard," spit Kari, caustic of his doom. The girl breathing vexiously, then calmly in the dark, The door closed, silent, the light dribbling out. Sounds below, drip mute in time, Reality presses, she makes her fate thind. And Skuld drinking, contemplates she her sibylline, It was her hour now, the night of the wolverine.

So. Henry—” “Jesus, stop, please, don’t.” His face pinches like I’ve just called him something far worse than his own name. “Monty’s fine.” “Oh.” I try to meet his eyes, but look away almost as soon as I do, staring instead at the fraying shoulder of his coat. “I could call you Mr. Montague, if Henry’s too familiar. Perhaps—” “For God’s sake, it’s Monty,” he says firmly. “That’s all I’ve been called for years.” I nod, still not looking at him. “All right then. Monty.” “You’re welcome to take Henry for yourself.” He scrapes at a trail of crumbs fossilized to the tabletop with his fingernail.

Though the effect varies by tissue, the most common is a reduction in elasticity, which you can easily see for yourself: a pinched patch of skin springs back into position ever more slowly with the advancing years.

In the popular imagination, Asian Americans inhabit a vague purgatorial status: not white enough nor black enough; distrusted by African Americans, ignored by whites, unless we’re being used by whites to keep the black man down. We are the carpenter ants of the service industry, the apparatchiks of the corporate world, we are math-crunching middle managers who keep the corporate wheels greased but who never get promoted since we don’t have the right ‘face’ for leadership. We have a content problem. They think we have no inner resources. But while I may look impassive, I'm frantically paddling my feet underwater, always overcompensating to hide my devouring feelings of inadequacy. There's a ton of literature on the self-hating Jew and the self-hating African American, but not enough has been said about the self-hating Asian. Racial self hatred is seeing yourself whites see you, which turns you into your own worst enemy. Your only defense is to be hard on yourself, which becomes compulsive, and therefore a comfort: to peck yourself to death. You don't like how you look, how you sound. You think your Asian features are undefined, like God started pinching out your features and then abandoned you. You hate that there are so many Asians in the room. Who let in all the Asians? you rant in your head. Instead of solidarity, you feel that you are less than> around other Asians, the boundaries of yourself no longer distinct but congealed into a horde.

You’re so fucking beautiful.” He twists my nipple again, harder, with sure intent that makes me want to cry. “Tempting.” Another pinch, and more torture. “Irresistible.” He pulls this time, adding a maddening friction that starts in my nipples and ends right between my legs. “And the worst part is, you have no fucking clue you are. That’s why you keep flaunting yourself around so innocently, for anyone to see, but we can’t have that, now, can we? I’m the only one who knows how beautiful you are, aren’t I?

I cast, I torched, I burned, slammed, pinched... Those metals I'm working with might've be as broken as you are. But maybe both of you feel the pain because you're in progress of producing something amazing. If you decide to refrain from making it, you're just hurting in vain.

Take out a sheet of paper and list your last ten major decisions, the ones that really shook things up. Look at your list and ask yourself: Were these all necessary, or were they hand grenades? Look for patterns in the decisions that weren’t necessary. Were you rushing? Micromanaging? Penny-pinching? Then, if you see a pattern emerge, write down your current assassin. Bonus: If you really want to have fun with this, you could always print off a picture of a target and write in “The Supervisor” or “The Speed Demon” or whatever assassin you’re currently facing. Then fold up that target and put it in your wallet or purse and carry it around with you.

I drew in a sharp breath when he pinched my chin between his thumb and finger. “Do not sell yourself short and think you are not the most formidable of foes. I’ve no doubt you have the power to destroy me.

Take one cup of courage. You’ll need it for the next few years to get through the moments when you doubt yourself. Add a pinch of creativity, a spoonful of stick-to-itiveness, and a heap of passion and purpose to guide you when there are no other directions to follow. Stir it up with a group of friends who love you for you-just being you, even if your different or weird or stand out. Pour in people who believe in your ability to change the world, one cupcake at a time. Then sprinkle it with fun-because that’s what makes everything sweeter. Even the mess and the mistakes and the burned batches. Oh, and the ones that taste lumpy or bitter! There are tons of those. You can get through all that if you remember the secret ingredient is fun. Fun fixes everything! Let your recipe cool, the share it. Spread the word like you spread frosting on a cupcake. And watch your cupcake rise and your business grow and your dreams take shape.

You don’t need the Bible to tell you the flesh is weak. Just pinch it and find out for yourself.

ANGER Some Dreams Lead In Anger Even The Coolest People Have Their Limits. While In Anger,Your Mouth Works Faster Than Mind Every Level Of Anger Comes With Another Level Of Pain SELF MOTIVATION Unwarp Yourself Open The Knot in Which You Were Tied Yourself The Faces That You Wear Aren't You. You Are What You Wish pinched the peak of madness

You are so irresistible when you get all riled up.” “I hope you’re happy. This is exactly the disaster I imagined.” She wanted to kill him. Everything had been perfect, exactly what she’d been wanting, and now it was her worst nightmare. Without letting her go, he moved up her body and loomed over her. “You have only yourself to blame.” With her free hand, she pinched him. Laughing, he shook his head, then captured her free hand and manacled her wrists together. “I knew I was going to have to restrain you.” “Jerk!” The insult did not leave her mouth with the vehemence she’d intended. He

Jon sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his face. “I honestly don’t know how much I want to hear,” he said quietly. He looked up at the captain standing in the centre of the room, his arms crossed. “Nothing I hear from you today will endear you to me, will it?” Baltsaros shook his head slowly but then lifted a shoulder in a slow shrug. “It’s the last of it, Jon. The very last of it, I promise,” said the older man. “No more secrets between us.” Jon laughed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do you even hear yourself? How many times have you said what you were telling me was the last secret?” he asked. “Does it occur to you that maybe you’ve burned me out? That I no longer care whether what you spout is truth or lie?” Baltsaros’s lips pressed together. “If that were true, you wouldn’t have begged off the end of your meal and forced us to take to our room early, Jon.” After taking a deep breath, Jon wiped his palms on the knees of his pants and sat up. “I’m sorry. You just confessed to trying to kill me. How else was I supposed to react?” he asked, annoyed. Baltsaros stared hard at him, and Jon’s eyes widened as the silence dragged on. Though the captain’s face was set in stony lines, it was glaringly obvious to Jon that Baltsaros was conflicted about what he wanted to tell him. That alone made his heart beat a little faster.

So when are we going to fuck," he said in a guttural voice. "I'm ready to stop ignoring this." Novo narrowed that stare even harder. "Never. How's never sound to you?" "You want it." "Not from you." "Liar." He leaned in a little closer. "Coward. What are you afraid of--" Her free hand whipped out and locked on his throat, her thumbnail pressing into his jugular and pinching off the blood supply. "Watch yourself, pretty boy. Or I might do some aesthetic damage they can't fix." Peyton closed his eyes and swayed. "I want you to.

Baby, If you think, he is sweet and caring to you.. and flirts only with you, you have started liking him.. Pinch wake yourself up.. His inbox tells his story..

The realization of all this made Alma want to weep, or fight. She could feel her face settling into a dark sulk. Her mother must have seen it, for she said, “Prudence, please excuse us while I speak to your sister for a moment.” Beatrix took Alma by the upper arm, pinching her so firmly that it burned, and escorted her into the hall. Alma felt tears coming, but forced her tears to halt, and then to halt again, and then to halt once more. Beatrix looked down at her one natural-born child, and spoke in a voice of cool granite: “I do not intend ever again to see such a face upon my daughter as the face I have just seen. Do you understand me?” Alma managed to say only one wavering word (“But—”) before she was cut off. “No outbreak of jealousy or malice has ever been welcomed in God’s eyes,” Beatrix continued, “nor shall such an outbreak ever be welcomed in the eyes of your family. If you have sentiments within you that are unpleasant or uncharitable, let them fall stillborn to the ground. Become the master of yourself, Alma Whittaker. Am I understood?

You have to take better care of yourself, Miss Darling.” The doctor calls for a nurse to change my bandages, and his eyes pinch as he works himself into a lecture. “With your history of injuries, you need to make health and nutrition a priority if you’re ever going to resolve your late awakening and hit fertility.” Right. Because my main concern after a gunshot wound should be opening the gates to my baby factory.

Imagine that you spend years and years of your life digging a tunnel. While eating, sleeping, bathing, resting, working, that’s all you think about – your tunnel. That’s all you work on. Your tunnel becomes your life. Your friends, peers and others keep excelling in life, they continue to flourish and progress, while you are chiselling away, one blow at a time, stuck in that tunnel. Your friends move into new houses and buy bigger cars, while you continue to pinch pennies. ‘You remain soiled, hungry, lacking, even poor, but you don’t give up because you believe in your dream. You only have hope that one day you’ll see the other end of this tunnel, but you can’t be sure. You cry, you laugh, you struggle, resist, battle, you feel depressed at times, but you keep pushing, and pushing, and then one day your blow has a different sound. It’s not as full, you feel just a thin layer separating you from the outside. Your heart throbs in anticipation. You hit harder and the hammer-head goes through. ‘And then, light stares at you. Right in your eyes. The light you have been waiting for. A gust of fragrant wind from outside cools your sweaty brows. You take a deep breath and you smell victory. It feels unreal, unbelievable, incredible. You pinch yourself to make sure you aren’t dreaming. And, for once, your reality is better than your wildest dreams. That’s how I feel right now.

Ro sauntered closer and pinched both of his cheeks. “You’re so cute when you think you’re being all tough and rebellious. But let’s get real for a second, shall we? You get away with the things I let you get away with, because I don’t care enough to fight you on them. And ignoring solid intel that someone’s threatened to murder my charge? That’s a big bodyguarding no-no. I may not care that much about what happens to you, but if you get yourself killed on my watch, it makes me look bad—especially if I had advance notice. So, I can’t have that. Plus, I can also demand something fun from your little girlie while I’m at it!

He took a step toward her, but she held her ground. “Believe me, Celaena,” he snarled, his eyes flashing, “I know you can look after yourself. But I worry because I care. Gods help me, I know I shouldn’t, but I do. So I will always tell you to be careful, because I will always care what happens.” She blinked. “Oh,” was all she managed. He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, then took a long, deep breath. Celaena gave him a sheepish smile.

Anxiety and the Social Process Generally, in life, we only make progress when we are willing to take risks. If you don’t take risks in your life, it’s probably because you are held back by anxiety. Because you fear that interaction will result in rejection, embarrassment, and scrutiny, you feel anxiety about it. After all, you tell yourself, why risk experiencing failure? But as we have discussed, rejection is not devastating; it is merely disappointing, and, with your anxiety under control, disappointment is entirely bearable. In time, and with practice and eventual success, your fear of disappointment will diminish. Some people, far from shying away from social contact, actually look forward to meeting new people. Meeting new people does not in itself cause anxiety. The beliefs you hold cause anxiety. If you believe rejection will be devastating to you, and that rejection is highly likely to happen, you will feel quite justified in making sure that you never meet any new people at all. But avoidance does not alleviate anxiety. It simply makes the problem worse next time the situation arises. You need to tap into your positive mental attitude. Tell yourself: “Meeting new people is healthy, and by doing it, I stand a good chance of having a positive experience.” To summarize, here are some tips for interactive success. Try to integrate them into your being—make them part of your overall attitude toward interacting. 1. Anticipate success. 2. Be willing to risk. 3. Think positive thoughts about yourself to boost your self-esteem. 4. Think positive thoughts about others as well. 5. Be yourself. This last point leads into a discussion of mental focus. It is typical of a socially anxious person to focus on himself or herself, to forget to read the nonverbal signals of others. Before you attempt to meet someone, it’s a good idea to focus your attention in the right direction, not on yourself, but on the other person. Use your new skills of self-awareness and relaxation to enhance your focusing abilities. Think of your attention as a finite resource. Is it really best spent on thoughts about yourself? (“Do I look okay?” “Can he tell I’m sweating?” “Can she tell I’m blushing?” “I hope I don’t say anything dumb,” and so on.) With so much attention directed inward, there is very little left to spend on the other person. One of my clients has so much trouble focusing on others in conversation that she developed a habit of pinching herself to stay on track. Do all you can to stop your inward thinking, because paying attention to the other person will provide you with the basis of an interesting and successful conversation. If you have trouble averting the focus from your own anxiety, try using relaxation techniques to bring your symptoms under control. Diaphragmatic breathing, for example, can bring immediate relief.

Temptation Bundling One approach to fighting wayward urges involves “temptation bundling,” in which subjects couple a “want” activity with a “should.” In one experiment, Milkman divided participants into three groups. The full group was allowed to listen to audio novels of their choice only at the gym; after their workouts, the novels were locked away. The intermediate group was allowed to keep the audio novels but was encouraged to listen only at the gym. The third, unrestricted group was not limited in any way and could listen to novels whenever they chose. At the start of a nine-week intervention, the full group visited the gym 51 percent more often than the unrestricted group. The intermediates visited the gym 29 percent more than the unrestricteds. Meaning: pairing a “want” activity (listening to a juicy audiobook) with a “should” one (going to the gym) was a strong incentive to exercise. The method was so valuable that when the experiment was done, 61 percent of the participants opted to pay the gym to restrict access to their audiobooks. The effect fades over several months, though, so people have to switch the “want” activity to stay engaged. Even so, these results open up multitudes of possibilities. If we pair an unappealing chore with something we like to do, we increase the odds that we’ll perform the challenging task. For example, you could buy yourself an item of clothing every week you lose some weight. This will force you to assess your body and give you a reward for being disciplined. This is temptation bundling, but it’s also giving yourself a break from a constant stream of “should” activities. It recharges your brain and makes you stronger for the next time a little self-control is required (see below, “Don’t Overdo It”). Another method of improving self-control is the use of precommitment devices, which allow you to lock in good behavior tomorrow based on your good intentions today. An example of this is a website called stickK.com that helps people create commitment contracts. On the site you create a contract with yourself in which you set a goal—for example, losing ten pounds by a specified date. You deposit money into an account and then you select a trainer or coach to referee and confirm whether or not you achieved your goal. If you don’t hit your target, you lose that money. The process ensures that once tomorrow becomes today, you’ll feel a strong pinch if you break the contract. For example, you can commit to giving $500 to charity if you don’t achieve your goal by the specified date. Or choose an anticharity, meaning if you fail you must give money to an organization you don’t want to help, such as the opposing political party, which is an extra incentive not to fail. Using precommitment devices is a way of forcing your future self to do what your present self thinks it should.

What do you say? Bitten your hand? Nonsense, man! You did just what I did. You pressed the jaws together with your other hand and pinched yourself.

My mother had said sometime that spices are not tastes themselves, but sort of enhancers that bring out certain characteristics of whatever they’re eaten with, like keys to open locks of flavor. So to this theory if you applied yourself, only taking the spice itself into mouth, say a pinch of salt on your tongue – you could actually taste some part of yourself you didn’t know.

Believe me, Celaena,” he snarled, his eyes flashing, “I know you can look after yourself. But I worry because I care. Gods help me, I know I shouldn’t, but I do. So I will always tell you to be careful, because I will always care what happens.” She blinked. “Oh,” was all she managed. He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, then took a long, deep breath. Celaena gave him a sheepish smile.