Pocketing Relationship Quotes

All I'm telling you to do is to be smart about it. Know that if this man isn't looking for a serious relationship, you're not going to change his mind just because you two are going on dates and being intimate. You could be the most perfect woman on the Lord's green earth-you're capable of interesting conversation, you cook a mean breakfast, you hand out backrubs like sandwiches, you're independent (which means, to him, that you're not going to be in his pockets)-but if he's not ready for a serious relationship, he going to treat you like sports fish.

He carries stars in his pockets because he knows she fears the dark. Whenever sadness pays her a visit he paints galaxies on the back of her hands.

-BDB on the board- Knitter's Anonimous May 8, 2006 Rhage (in his bedroom posting in V's room on the board) Hi, my name is V. ("Hi, V") I've been knitting for 125 years now. (*gasping noises*) It's begun to impact my personal relationships: my brothers think I'm a nancy. It's begun to affect my health: I'm getting a callus on my forefinger and I find bits of yarn in all my pockets and I'm starting to smell like wool. I can't concentrate at work: I keep picturing all these lessers in Irish sweaters and thick socks. (*sounds of sympathy*) I've come seeking a community of people who, like me, are trying not to knit. Can you help me? (*We're with you*) Thank you (*takes out hand-knitted hankie in pink*) (*sniffles*) ("We embrace you, V") Vishous (in the pit): Oh hell no...you did not just put that up. And nice spelling in the title. Man...you just have to roll up on me, don't you. I got four words for you, my brother. Rhage: Four words? Okay...lemme see... Rhage, you're so sexy. hmmm.... Rhage, you're SO smart. No wait! Rhage, you're SO right! That's it, isn't it...g'head. You can tell me. Vishous: First one starts with a "P" Use your head for the other three. Bastard. Rhage: P? Hmm... Please pass the yarn Vishous: Payback is a bitch! Rhage: Ohhhhhhhhhhhh I'm so scuuuuuurred. Can you whip me up a blanket to hide under?

In every long-term relationship are a few pockets of deep and dangerous water into which one can step unaware if not careful. Eventually, somebody drowns or the interested parties post warning signs around these pockets.

Yet each disappointment Ted felt in his wife, each incremental deflation, was accompanied by a seizure of guilt; many years ago, he had taken the passion he felt for Susan and folded it in half, so he no longer had a drowning, helpless feeling when he glimpsed her beside him in bed: her ropy arms and soft, generous ass. Then he’d folded it in half again, so when he felt desire for Susan, it no longer brought with it an edgy terror of never being satisfied. Then in half again, so that feeling desire entailed no immediate need to act. Then in half again, so he hardly felt it. His desire was so small in the end that Ted could slip it inside his desk or a pocket and forget about it, and this gave him a feeling of safety and accomplishment, of having dismantled a perilous apparatus that might have crushed them both. Susan was baffled at first, then distraught; she’d hit him twice across the face; she’d run from the house in a thunderstorm and slept at a motel; she’d wrestled Ted to the bedroom floor in a pair of black crotchless underpants. But eventually a sort of amnesia had overtaken Susan; her rebellion and hurt had melted away, deliquesced into a sweet, eternal sunniness that was terrible in the way that life would be terrible, Ted supposed, without death to give it gravitas and shape. He’d presumed at first that her relentless cheer was mocking, another phase in her rebellion, until it came to him that Susan had forgotten how things were between them before Ted began to fold up his desire; she’d forgotten and was happy — had never not been happy — and while all of this bolstered his awe at the gymnastic adaptability of the human mind, it also made him feel that his wife had been brainwashed. By him.

You could be the most perfect woman on the Lord’s green earth—you’re capable of interesting conversation, you cook a mean breakfast, you hand out backrubs like sandwiches, you’re independent (which means, to him, that you’re not going to be in his pockets)—but if he’s not ready for a serious relationship, he’s going to treat you like a sports fish.

People are laughing at me today for having holes in my pockets, and ink blood on my fingers- a thirty-something old writer, who strangles words from dictionaries, and feeds on the decay of poetry.

Argumentation is a human enterprise that is embedded in a larger social and psychological context. This context includes (1) the total psyches of the two persons engaged in dialogue, (2) the relationship between the two persons, (3) the immediate situation in which they find themselves and (4) the larger social, cultural and historical situation surrounding them.

You could be a really great and fabulous person, but if your method of communication with a woman doesn’t trigger her physical attraction by “pushing the right buttons,” you will only ever be “just a friend” in her eyes.

His mind’s always on something else. He’d live in a ratty cardigan, and he’s always worrying holes in the pockets of his pants. He can never seem to find his wallet or anything in the refrigerator. And just when you think he’s not paying any attention to what you’re saying or doing, he comes up with exactly the right answer or solution.”", [J.D. Robb, Celebrity In Death"“People""who expect perfection in a mate miss a lot of fun—and sweetness.", [J.D. Robb, Celebrity In Death]

In the problem of women was the germ of a solution, not only for their oppression, but for everybody's. The control of women in society was ingeniously effective. It was not done directly by the state. Instead the family was used- men to control women, women to control children, all to be preoccupied with one another , to turn to one another for help, to blame one another for trouble, to do violence to one another when things weren't going right. Why could this not be turned around? Could women liberating themselves, children freeing themselves, men and women beginning to understand one another, find the source of their common oppression outside rather than in one another? Perhaps then they could create nuggets of strength in their own relationships, millions of pockets of insurrection. They could revolutionize thought and behavior in exactly that seclusion of family privacy which the system had counted on to do its work of control and indoctrination. And together, instead of at odds- male, female, parents, children- they could undertake the changing of society itself.

Meditation takes us just as we are, with our confusion and our sanity. This complete acceptance of ourselves as we are is called maitri, or unconditional friendliness, a simple, direct relationship with the way we are.

Integration is not the same as blending. Integration requires that we maintain elements of our differentiated selves while also promoting our linkage. Becoming a part of a "we: does not mean losing a "me." Integration as a focus of intervention among a range of domains of integration becomes the fundamental basis for how we apply interpersonal neurobiology principles to the nurturing of healthy relationships.

Involved is neither good nor bad. It is just a consequence of living, a consequence of occupation and immigration, of empires and expansion, of living in each other's pockets... one becomes involved and it is a long trek back to becoming uninvolved.

Love may start out as a good feeling, but to love someone long-term is an act of the will.

I’m in a pocket of glowing light, protected from complicated relationships and huge mistakes, past and future.

I'm very glad you asked me that, Mrs Rawlinson. The term `holistic' refers to my conviction that what we are concerned with here is the fundamental interconnectedness of all things. I do not concern myself with such petty things as fingerprint powder, telltale pieces of pocket fluff and inane footprints. I see the solution to each problem as being detectable in the pattern and web of the whole. The connections between causes and effects are often much more subtle and complex than we with our rough and ready understanding of the physical world might naturally suppose, Mrs Rawlinson. "Let me give you an example. If you go to an acupuncturist with toothache he sticks a needle instead into your thigh. Do you know why he does that, Mrs Rawlinson? No, neither do I, Mrs Rawlinson, but we intend to find out. A pleasure talking to you, Mrs Rawlinson. Goodbye.

From the pocket of her robe she pulled out the ring he’d given her, she put it over her finger, sliding it back and forth over her knuckle. “Can I tell you something?” Dad asked. “Yes. Please.” “Any promise you make, whether it’s to your school, or your family, or to Billy, half of the promise is commitment and the other half, is faith. Faith that your commitment is enough. There’s no answer, honey. None.” She stared down at her ring, his words like bells ringing in her head.

Something I eventually learned: Prince's top girlfriend was always in Minneapolis. When you came to Minneapolis, you were the girl on her way in. When you left Minneapolis, you were the girl on her way out. This would have been a valuable piece of information for me to keep in my own hip pocket.

Life is just like the game of poker, you never know what cards you will get. Sitting against the people, you can either win with the king or live on a joker. Many times in life you are forced to play the blind bet, and achieve overwhelming success, with loads of cash in your pocket or you may reach disastrous conclusions, losing everything you have got. That’s the reason I love playing poker.

This is the list you carry in your pocket, of the things you plan to say to Kay, when you find him, if you find him: 1. I’m sorry that I forgot to water your ferns while you were away that time. 2. When you said that I reminded you of your mother, was that a good thing? 3. I never really liked your friends all that much. 4. None of my friends ever really liked you. 5. Do you remember when the cat ran away, and I cried and cried and made you put up posters, and she never came back? I wasn’t crying because she didn’t come back. I was crying because I’d taken her to the woods, and I was scared she’d come back and tell you what I’d done, but I guess a wolf got her, or something. She never liked me anyway. 6. I never liked your mother. 7. After you left, I didn’t water your plants on purpose. They’re all dead. 8. Goodbye. 9. Were you ever really in love with me? 10. Was I good in bed, or just average? 11. What exactly did you mean, when you said that it was fine that I had put on a little weight, that you thought I was even more beautiful, that I should go ahead and eat as much as I wanted, but when I weighed myself on the bathroom scale, I was exactly the same weight as before, I hadn’t gained a single pound? 12. So all those times, I’m being honest here, every single time, and anyway I don’t care if you don’t believe me, I faked every orgasm you ever thought I had. Women can do that, you know. You never made me come, not even once. 13. So maybe I’m an idiot, but I used to be in love with you. 14. I slept with some guy, I didn’t mean to, it just kind of happened. Is that how it was with you? Not that I’m making any apologies, or that I’d accept yours, I just want to know. 15. My feet hurt, and it’s all your fault. 16. I mean it this time, goodbye.

The problem with the politicians of both parties in the US is that neither of them have a real agenda except to feather their own nests. They both have their hands deep in corporate pockets. All the rest is sleight of hand and distraction to keep the public occupied with trivia, divided against each other, and thinking their vote matters.

See if you can spot the difference between these two statements: (a) «Those trousers make your backside look fat.» (b) «You're a repellently obese old hag upon whom I am compelled to heap insults and derision — depressingly far removed from the, 'stupid, squeaky, pocket-sized English women,' who make up my vast catalogue of former lovers and to whom I might as well return right now as I hate everything about you.» Maybe the acoustics were really bad in the dining room, or something.

Extravagant love, as in every generation before us, has been ridiculed and scorned. it is seen as wasteful and reckless overspending. But extravagant love, the offering of everything, the emptying of the pockets of our life, is the essence of true Christianity.

Ms. Lane.”Barrons’ voice is deep, touched with that strange Old World accent and mildly pissed off. Jericho Barrons is often mildly pissed off. I think he crawled from the swamp that way, chafed either by some condition in it, out of it, or maybe just the general mass incompetence he encountered in both places. He’s the most controlled, capable man I’ve ever known. After all we’ve been through together, he still calls me Ms. Lane, with one exception: When I’m in his bed. Or on the floor, or some other place where I’ve temporarily lost my mind and become convinced I can’t breathe without him inside me this very instant. Then the things he calls me are varied and nobody’s business but mine. I reply: “Barrons,” without inflection. I’ve learned a few things in our time together. Distance is frequently the only intimacy he’ll tolerate. Suits me. I’ve got my own demons. Besides I don’t believe good relationships come from living inside each other’s pockets. I believe divorce comes from that. I admire the animal grace with which he enters the room and moves toward me. He prefers dark colors, the better to slide in and out of the night, or a room, unnoticed except for whatever he’s left behind that you may or may not discover for some time, like, say a tattoo on the back of one’s skull. “What are you doing?” “Reading,” I say nonchalantly, rubbing the tattoo on the back of my skull. I angle the volume so he can’t see the cover. If he sees what I’m reading, he’ll know I’m looking for something. If he realizes how bad it’s gotten, and what I’m thinking about doing, he’ll try to stop me. He circles behind me, looks over my shoulder at the thick vellum of the ancient manuscript. “In the first tongue?” “Is that what it is?” I feign innocence. He knows precisely which cells in my body are innocent and which are thoroughly corrupted. He’s responsible for most of the corrupted ones. One corner of his mouth ticks up and I see the glint of beast behind his eyes, a feral crimson backlight, bloodstaining the whites. It turns me on. Barrons makes me feel violently, electrically sexual and alive. I’d march into hell beside him. But I will not let him march into hell beside me. And there’s no doubt that’s where I’m going. I thought I was strong, a heroine. I thought I was the victor. The enemy got inside my head and tried to seduce me with lies. It’s easy to walk away from lies. Power is another thing. Temptation isn’t a sin that you triumph over once, completely and then you’re free. Temptation slips into bed with you each night and helps you say your prayers. It wakes you in the morning with a friendly cup of coffee, and knows exactly how you take it. He skirts the Chesterfield sofa and stands over me. “Looking for something, Ms. Lane?” I’m eye level with his belt but that’s not where my gaze gets stuck and suddenly my mouth is so dry I can hardly swallow and I know I’m going to want to. I’m Pri-ya for this man. I hate it. I love it. I can’t escape it. I reach for his belt buckle. The manuscript slides from my lap, forgotten. Along with everything else but this moment, this man. “I just found it,” I tell him.

I left a message with Julie telling her that I would be out of pocket for a bit, couldn’t say where I was going, how long I’d be gone, but not to worry, I’d explain later, and that I’d find a ride home. It says a lot about our relationship that that wasn’t a particularly strange call by our standards.

She was sewing together the little proofs of his devotion out of which to make a garment for her tattered love and faith. He cut into the faith with negligent scissors, and she mended and sewed and rewove and patched. He wasted, and threw away, and could not evaluate or preserve, or contain, or keep his treasures. Like his ever torn pockets, everything slipped through and was lost, as he lost gifts, mementos--all the objects from the past. She sewed his pockets that he might keep some of their days together, hold together the key to the house, to their room, to their bed. She sewed the sleeve so he could reach out his arm and hold her, when loneliness dissolved her. She sewed the lining so that the warmth would not seep out of their days together, the soft inner skin of their relationship.

In this moment, however you are searching, stop. Whether you are searching for peace and happiness in a relationship, in a better job, or even in world peace, just for one moment stop absolutely. There is nothing wrong with these pursuits, but if you are engaging in them to get peace or to get happiness, you are overlooking the ground of peace that is already here. Once you discover this ground of peace, then whatever pursuits you engage in will be informed by your discovery. Then you will naturally bring what you have discovered to the world, to politics, to all your relationships. This discovery has infinite, complex ramifications, but the essence of it is very simple. If you will stop all activity, just for one instant, even for one-tenth of a second, and simply be utterly still, you will recognize the inherent spaciousness of your being that is already happy and at peace with itself. Because of our conditioning, we normally dismiss this ground of peace with an immediate, “Yes, but what about my life? I have responsibilities. I need to keep busy. The absolute doesn’t relate to my world, my existence.” These conditioned thoughts just reinforce further conditioning. But if you will take a moment to recognize the peace that is already alive within you, you then actually have the choice to trust it in all your endeavors, in all your relationships, in every circumstance of your life. It doesn’t mean that your life will be swept clean of conflicts, challenges, pain, or suffering. It means that you will have recognized a sanctuary where the truth of yourself is present, where the truth of God is present, regardless of the physical, mental, or emotional circumstances of your life.

L-EVELS O-F V-ARYING E-MOTIONS BEING IN LOVE IS ALWAYS A COMPLICATED RELATIONSHIP!

they think we are children with too much pocket money

Whenever I feel as if my faith is being tested, give me the grace to see you moving in my life to strengthen my relationship with you.

You are the unwritten poem that I always carry folded in the pocket of my heart.

The theory forces us to question whether our society provides sufficient and appropriate opportunities to experience safe environments and trusting relationships.

Please tell me that’s a baseball bat in your pocket and not your cock. Because if that is mini-Fear, I think it’s safe to predict which one of us will be the one getting fucked in this relationship.

Long handwritten note deep in our pockets Words, how little they mean when we're a little too late I stood right by the tracks, your face in my head Good girls, hopeful they'll be and long they will wait In dreams I meet you in warm conversation We both wake in lonely beds, different cities And time is taking its sweet time erasing you And you've got your demons, and, darling, they all look like me Distance, timing, breakdown, fighting Silence, the train runs off its tracks Kiss me, try to fix it, could you just try to listen? Hang up, give up and for the life of us we can't get back A beautiful magic love there What a sad beautiful tragic, beautiful tragic, beautiful love affair

At this age, a parent does not require money. They do not have friends, no desire to live, nor the passion to form new relationships. We only wish for a visit from a son, and a call from their children. Those little pockets of time, helps us live through the day.

You’d rather walk into the sea with stones in your pockets than date—though that’s because of your basic misconception that human romantic relationships can only succeed if you hide and shape yourself into what you think others want you to be—” “Not a misconception.

There is a glimmer of metal that wavers between his thighs. He turns to face me. The balls of his large gauge nipple rings catch my eye as they glint in the light of the room. But, it is the tintinabular rings below that cause my eyes to descend to his shining metallic beacon of love. I feel my jaw slightly drop open and a small puff of air escapes over my lips. I am wildly transfixed. What is that? What will he do with it? I nervously wonder without a solution. He moves toward me with the sound of pockets full of change, and I know my life will never be the same.

Benjamin chuckled. “Don’t worry none, Arlan don’t like them fancy city women. He likes you.” She blushed, and reached for her fork. “We’d better eat our supper before it gets cold.” “Ben’s right,” Calvin put in. “Arlan ain’t never liked a girl the way he likes you.” “Well of course he likes me,” Samijo said. “He married me didn’t he?” “Ma says you have to like the person you marry, love them, and be in love with them,” Daniel said matter of fact. “That’s a lot,” Samijo giggled. “Why?” The three looked at her as if she’d just laid an egg, then glanced at one another. Daniel set down his fork and explained. “Ma says it’s on account if’n ones missing, you still got two in your pocket.  And if two out of three are missing sometimes, you at least still have one.” Samijo laughed at the logic, then thought about it a moment. What he said made sense, and if so, then where was she in her relationship with Arlan?  She at least had one out of three, as she knew she liked her new husband and was sure he felt the same about her.  But did they love each other yet? That she didn’t know. She’d never been in love, and hadn’t loved anyone in years.

Alex also took advantage of his natural strengths. “I learned that boys basically do only one thing: they chase girls. They get them, they lose them, they talk about them. I was like, ‘That’s completely circuitous. I really like girls.’ That’s where intimacy comes from. So rather than sitting around and talking about girls, I got to know them. I used having relationships with girls, plus being good at sports, to have the guys in my pocket. Oh, and every once in a while, you have to punch people. I did that, too.” Today Alex has a folksy, affable, whistle-while-you-work

Across from me at the kitchen table, my mother smiles over red wine that she drinks out of a measuring glass. She says she doesn’t deprive herself, but I’ve learned to find nuance in every movement of her fork. In every crinkle in her brow as she offers me the uneaten pieces on her plate. I’ve realized she only eats dinner when I suggest it. I wonder what she does when I’m not there to do so. Maybe this is why my house feels bigger each time I return; it’s proportional. As she shrinks the space around her seems increasingly vast. She wanes while my father waxes. His stomach has grown round with wine, late nights, oysters, poetry. A new girlfriend who was overweight as a teenager, but my dad reports that now she’s “crazy about fruit." It was the same with his parents; as my grandmother became frail and angular her husband swelled to red round cheeks, rotund stomach and I wonder if my lineage is one of women shrinking making space for the entrance of men into their lives not knowing how to fill it back up once they leave. I have been taught accommodation. My brother never thinks before he speaks. I have been taught to filter. “How can anyone have a relationship to food?" He asks, laughing, as I eat the black bean soup I chose for its lack of carbs. I want to tell say: we come from difference, Jonas, you have been taught to grow out I have been taught to grow in you learned from our father how to emit, how to produce, to roll each thought off your tongue with confidence, you used to lose your voice every other week from shouting so much I learned to absorb I took lessons from our mother in creating space around myself I learned to read the knots in her forehead while the guys went out for oysters and I never meant to replicate her, but spend enough time sitting across from someone and you pick up their habits that’s why women in my family have been shrinking for decades. We all learned it from each other, the way each generation taught the next how to knit weaving silence in between the threads which I can still feel as I walk through this ever-growing house, skin itching, picking up all the habits my mother has unwittingly dropped like bits of crumpled paper from her pocket on her countless trips from bedroom to kitchen to bedroom again, Nights I hear her creep down to eat plain yogurt in the dark, a fugitive stealing calories to which she does not feel entitled. Deciding how many bites is too many How much space she deserves to occupy. Watching the struggle I either mimic or hate her, And I don’t want to do either anymore but the burden of this house has followed me across the country I asked five questions in genetics class today and all of them started with the word “sorry". I don’t know the requirements for the sociology major because I spent the entire meeting deciding whether or not I could have another piece of pizza a circular obsession I never wanted but inheritance is accidental still staring at me with wine-stained lips from across the kitchen table.

Kenji goes suddenly still. At the creak of the door Kenji’s eyebrows shoot up; a soft click and his eyes widen; a muted rustle of movement and suddenly the barrel of a gun is pressed against the back of his head. Kenji stares at me, his lips making no sound as he mouths the word psychopath over and over again. The psychopath in question winks at me from where he’s standing, smiling like he couldn’t possibly be holding a gun to the head of our mutual friend. I manage to suppress a laugh. “Go on,” Warner says, still smiling. “Please tell me exactly how she’s failed you as a leader.” “Hey—“ Kenji’s arms fly up in mock surrender. “I never said she failed at anything, okay? And you are clearly over-react—“ Warner knocks Kenji on the side of the head with the weapon. “Idiot.” Kenji spins around. Yanks the gun out of Warner’s hand. “What the hell is wrong with you, man? I thought we were cool.” “We were,” Warner says icily. “Until you touched my hair.” “You asked me to give you a haircut—“ “I said nothing of the sort! I asked you to trim the edges!” “And that’s what I did.” “This,” Warner says, spinning around so I might inspect the damage, “is not trimming the edges, you incompetent moron—“ I gasp. The back of Warner’s head is a jagged mess of uneven hair; entire chunks have been buzzed off. Kenji cringes as he looks over his handiwork. Clears his throat. “Well,” he says, shoving his hand in his pockets. “I mean—whatever, man, beauty is subjective—“ Warner aims another gun at him. “Hey!” Kenji shouts. “I am not here for this abusive relationship, okay?” He points to Warner. “I did not sign up for this shit!” Warner glares at him and Kenji retreats, backing out of the room before Warner has another chance to react; and then, just as I let out a sign of relief, Kenji pops his head back into the doorway and says “I think the cut looks cute, actually” and Warner slams the door in his face.

And why can't I have an ignore button like my phone? As I hit it, his calls disappear from the screen and the ringing stops. But the tingles are still at my fingertips, as if he sent them through the phone to grab me. Shoving it in my purse-the pockets on skinny jeans must just be for show 'cause nothing else is fitting in there-I smile at Mark. Ah, Mark. The blue-eyed, blond-haired, all-American quarterback. Who knew he had a crush on me all these years? Not Emma McIntosh, that's for dang sure. And not Chloe. Which is weird, because Chloe was a collector of this kind of information. Maybe it's not true. Maybe Mark's only interested in me because Galen was-who wouldn't want to date the girl who dated the hottest guy in school? But that's just fine with me. Mark is...well, Mark isn't as fantabulous as I always imagined he would be. Still, he's good-looking, a star quarterback, and he's not trying to hook me up with his brother. So why am I not excited? The question must be all over my face because Mark's got his eyebrow raised. Not in a judgmental arch, more like an arch of expectation. If he's waiting for an explanation, his puny human lungs can't hold their breath long enough for an answer. Aside from not being his business, I can't exactly explain the details of my relationship with Galen-fake or otherwise. The truth is, I don't know where we can go from here. He ripped holes in my pride like buckshot. And did I mention he broke my heart? He's not just a crush. Not just a physical attraction, someone who can make me forget my own name by pretending to kiss me. Not just a teacher or a snobby fish with Royal blood. Sure, he's all of those things. But he's more than that. He's who I want. Possibly forever.

So many things in this life that you would consider trash are my personal diplomas, my favored scars, my most priceless junkyard. So many things that meant nothing to you are the encyclopedias to my whole, are the ticket fares to my soul, are the things that you repoed when I caught you dressed in black... wearing the things you've stolen, filling pockets of me, swollen.

The Pleiades and northern lights are still above the mountain. The mountain is in the east, and on its slopes there are reindeer. Reindeer always remind me of trees that have taken to moving. They remind me even more of trees than people do. In the distant past, reindeer were trees as people were, but they haven't come such a long way from their origins, and the branches can be seen although they no longer bear leaves. I have my bedtime book in my hand and my pocket light and walk toward the mountain over the edges of the moorland in rubber boots. The book is a relative of mine, I feel; it is made out of trees and human thought, and thus the relationship becomes twofold. These are ancient poems that I am taking to the mountains and the reindeer.

The table there was boisterous, people were winning and laughing, but they weren't truly interacting, not like they did online. In that world you see the same people over and over again, every day, but these people gathered around the table, I knew, would never see each other again. It was too transitory and was ultimately meaningless, the difference between an empty one-night stand and an actual relationship, and I didn't want any part of it.

I was on the first one when I felt his fingers encircle my wrist. “Sophie, come on. I don’t want to fight with you.” Turning, I opened my mouth to say I didn’t want to fight with him either. But before I could, I saw the telltale flash out of the corner of my eye, and the next thing I knew, my arm was jerking out of his grasp. “If you don’t want to fight with her, maybe you shouldn’t suggest she team up with people who want to kill her,” my voice snarled. Archer backed up so fast he nearly stumbled, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen him look so freaked out. But he recovered quickly. “Elodie, if I wanted to talk to you, I’d do a séance or something. Maybe go on an episode of Ghost Hunters. But right now, I want to talk to Sophie. So clear out.” Elodie had no intention of doing that. “You always were a crappy boyfriend,” she said. “Once you left, I chalked that up to you, you know, not actually liking me. But unless I’m blind as well as dead, you really like Sophie. In fact, hard as it is for me to fathom, I think you love her.” Shut up, shut up, shut up! Screw that, she retorted. You two spend all your time making stupid jokes and being all witty. Someone has to get real. “What’s your point?” Archer asked, narrowing his eyes at me. Her. Whatever. God, this was getting confusing. “Cal loves her, too, you know. And the last time I checked, he wasn’t part of a cult of monster killers. I’m just saying that if you’re going have loyalties that divided, maybe it’s time to bow out gracefully.” You couldn’t say Elodie didn’t know how to make a dramatic exit. The next thing I knew, I was pitching forward into Archer’s arms, my head swimming. Archer clutched my waist and then abruptly shoved me at arm’s length. “Sophie?” he asked, looking intently into my eyes. “Yeah,” I said, my voice shaking. “I’m back.” His fingers loosened, becoming more of a caress than a grip. “So you can’t control when she swoops in like that? She can just take you over…whenever?” I tried to laugh, but it came out more of a cough. “You know Elodie. I don’t think anyone has ever controlled her.” Frowning, Archer pulled his hands back and shoved them in his pockets. “Well, that’s awesome.” I grabbed the railing to steady myself. “Archer…that stuff she said. You know it’s not true.” He shrugged and moved past me onto the steps. “Saying the most hateful things possible is like Elodie’s superpower. Don’t worry about it.” He paused and looked over his shoulder. “We should probably go tell Jenna what we found down here.” Oh, right. We’d just unearthed a whole bunch of demons. That probably trumped over relationship issues. Another few seconds passed. “Come on, Mercer,” Archer said, holding his hand out to me. This time, I took it.

From Chloe's Secret--coming soon “What are you saying?” “I’m saying I want to have a relationship with you. I want to love you.” “Is there a ‘but’ coming next?” “But the funny thing is, when I didn’t want to love you—it happened anyway.” He slipped his arms into my back pockets and hugged the breath out of me. I choked, my eyes stung. “I don’t know what to say.” He smiled. “Say whatever you want to. Just because I said it, you don’t have to.” He was right; I didn’t have to. He wasn’t asking anything of me.

We stood like two trees beside, intertwined into one. And when the winds blew against us, we would laugh at it, as leaves clapping hands to our strength. Always day. We had all the stars, but no sky to hang them onto. We were brave, but not strong. Bare, but not skeleton. We had song, but no dance. Time slipped as a blessed curse. We knew the pennies were slipping from our pockets, and we left them there on the ground as worthless cents. In wordless sense, we finally found our darkness, but the stars had all faded by then.

Looking back, it seems that was how Jude always was with me: keeping his distance, never asking for anything I might not want to give. That steadiness that I took to be a strength--his consistency--I realize now was a kind of boundary, a way of drawing a line in the sand. Like a sprinkling of salt at the threshold, it was a kind of spell to keep himself safe, unchanged. What he needed more than anything was to believe he needed nothing, that if I should ever leave, he'd remain the same man. But I had his key in my coat pocket and I was happy then, because it seemed like he was letting me in.

Imagine you were asked in a maths paper at junior school, 'Which would you prefer, a shilling or two sixpences?' and you answered, 'Two sixpences,' because thinking of the two tiny silver coins jingling together in your pocket made you feel good and you loved those cute little sixpences. But when the test paper was returned you saw a big red cross through your answer, and that night your mother explained to you that it was a trick question, two sixpences and a shilling were worth the same amount – which you knew, but you'd still prefer two sixpences. It wasn't that you were stupid, you just saw things from a different angle. Sixpences had character, shillings didn't. And you felt richer with two sixpences because there were two coins, not just one. But despite all these explanations, you were still wrong and you kept getting tripped up by these trick questions over and over again, in exams, in relationships, friendships, jobs and interviews. In fact, these misreadings of situations happened so often that you started to view the world as a tricksy and untruthful place. Then you noticed that the people who saw the tricks behind the questions were popular and always at the top of the class. Baffled by life and its unseen rules, you began to doubt everything around you. You felt you had to approach all of life as a trick, just to get it right a few times.

It mattered very much to this young person. I was inclined to tell him that if he was worried, it probably was a sin, or at the very least, would weigh on him as one. For God also tells us that when you perform an action you believe to be a sin, it still counts as a sin even if it is proven to be permissible. Conscience. Conscience is the ultimate measure of man." "All right, it's a sin," moaned Alif. "I don't care. I don't play Battlecraft. It's for teenagers." "I'm not looking for any particular answer. Don't feel you must agree. I want to know what you think." "I'm not looking for any particular answer. Don't feel you must agree. I want to know what you think." "I think people need a break. It's not like they're out there selling bacon and booze. They want to pretend for a few hours a day that we don't live in this awful hole getting squeezed by State on one side and pious airheads on the other, all while smiling our shit-eating grins so that the oil companies keep shoveling money into our pockets. Surely God wouldn't mind people pretending life is better, even if it involves fictional pork." "But isn't that a dangerous precedent? Fictional pork is one thing-one cannot smell it or taste it, and thus the temptation to go out and consume real pork is low. However, if we were to talk about fictional adultery-I know there are many people who do and say all kinds of dirty things online-then it would be another matter. Those are real desires manifesting themselves on the computer screen. Who knows how many adulterous relationships begin on the Internet and end in the bedroom?" Alif blanched. "And even if they don't," the sheikh continued, "who's to say the spiritual damage isn't real nonetheless? When two people form a relationship online, it isn't a fiction based on real life, it's real life based on a fiction. You believe the person you cannot see or touch is perfect, because she chooses to reveal only the things that she knows will please you. Surely that is dangerous indeed." "You could say the same thing about an arranged marriage," said Alif.

Dad takes a step back, one hand still on my shoulder, and reaches into his pocket. He draws out a little blue capsule, and I feel every molecule in my body screaming to run. Dad must catch the panic in my eyes - he squeezes my shoulder and holds out the capsule. "Cas, it's fine. It's going to be fine. This is just in case." Just in case. Just in case the worst happens. The ship falls. Durga fails, I fail, and the knowledge I carry as a Reckoner trainer must be disposed of. That information can't fall into the wrong hands, into the hands of people who will do anything to take down our beasts. So this little capsule holds the pill that will kill me if it comes to that. "It's waterproof," Dad continues, pressing it into my hand. "The pocket on the collar of your wetsuit, keep it there. It has to stay with you at all times." It won't happen on this voyage. It's such a basic mission, gift-wrapped to be easy enough for me to handle on my own. But even holding the pill fills me with revulsion. On all my training voyages, I've never had to carry one of these capsules. That burden only goes to full-time trainers. "Cas." Dad tilts my chin up, ripping my gaze from the pull. "You were born to do this. I promise you, you'll forget you even have it." I suppose he ought to know - he's been carrying one for two decades. It's just a right of passage, I tell myself, and throw my arms around his neck once more.

Or I can stay with Colby when he comes back,” she added deliberately. She even smiled. “He’ll take care of me.” His black eyes narrowed. “He can barely take care of himself,” he said flatly. “He’s a lost soul. He can’t escape the past or face the future without Maureen. He isn’t ready for a relationship with anyone else, even if he thinks he is” She didn’t rise to the bait. “I can count on Colby. He’ll help me if I need it.” He looked frustrated. “But you won’t let me help you.” “Colby isn’t involved with anyone who’d be jealous of the time he spent looking out for me. That’s the difference.” He let out an angry breath and his eyes began to glitter. “You have to beat the subject to death, I guess.” She managed to look indifferent. “You have your own life to live, Tate. I’m not part of it anymore. You’ve made that quite clear.” His teeth clenched. “Is it really that easy for you to throw the past away?” he asked. “That’s what you want,” she reminded him. There was a perverse pleasure in watching his eyes narrow. “You said you’d never forget or forgive me,” she added evenly. “I took you at your word. I’ll always have fond memories of you and Leta. But I’m a grown woman. I have a career, a future. I’ve dragged you down financially for years, without knowing it. Now that I do…” “For God’s sake!” he burst out, rising to pace with his hands clenched in his pockets. “I could have sent you to Harvard if you’d wanted to go there, and never felt the cost! “You’re missing the point,” she said, feeling nausea rise in her throat and praying it wouldn’t overflow. “I could have worked my way through school, paid for my own apartment and expenses. I wouldn’t have minded. But you made me beholden to you in a way I can never repay.” He stopped pacing and glared at her. “Have I asked for repayment?” She smiled in spite of herself. “You look just like Matt when you glower that way.” The glare got worse. She held up a hand. “I know. You don’t want to talk about that. Sorry.” “Everyone else wants to talk about it,” he said irritably. “I’ve done nothing but dodge reporters ever since the story broke. What a hell of a way to do it, on national television!

I remind him of his old wino father but the fantastic thing is that HE reminds ME of MY father so that we have this strange eternal father-image relationship that goes on and on sometimes with tears, it’s easy for me to think of Cody and almost cry, sometimes I can see the same tearful expression in his eyes when he sometimes looks at me—He reminds me of my father because he too blusters and hurries and fills all his pockets with Racing Forms and papers and pencils and we’re all ready to go on some mission in the night he takes with ultimate seriousness as tho we were going on the last trip of them all but it always ends up being a hilarious meaningless Marx Brothers adventure which gives me even more reason to love him (and my father too)

Caleb told me that our mother said there was evil in everyone, and the first step to loving someone else is to recognize that evil in ourselves, so we can forgive them. So how can I hold Tobias’s desperation against him, like I’m better than him, like I’ve never let my own brokenness blind me? “Hey,” I say, crushing Caleb’s directions into my back pocket. He turns, and his expression is stern, familiar. It looks the way it did the first few weeks I knew him, like a sentry guarding his innermost thoughts. “Listen,” I say. “I thought I was supposed to figure out if I could forgive you or not, but now I’m thinking you didn’t do anything to me that I need to forgive, except maybe accusing me of being jealous of Nita…” He opens his mouth to interject, but I hold up a hand to stop him. “If we stay together, I’ll have to forgive you over and over again, and if you’re still in this, you’ll have to forgive me over and over again too,” I say. “So forgiveness isn’t the point. What I really should have been trying to figure out is whether we were still good for each other or not.” All the way home I thought about what Amar said, about every relationship having its problems. I thought about my parents, who argued more often than any other Abnegation parents I knew, who nonetheless went through each day together until they died. Then I thought of how strong I have become, how secure I feel with the person I now am, and how all along the way he has told me that I am brave, I am respected, I am loved and worth loving. “And?” he says, his voice and his eyes and his hands a little unsteady. “And,” I say, “I think you’re still the only person sharp enough to sharpen someone like me.” “I am,” he says roughly. And I kiss him. His arms slip around me and hold me tight, lifting me onto the tips of my toes. I bury my face in his shoulder and close my eyes, just breathing in the clean smell of him, the smell of wind. I used to think that when people fell in love, they just landed where they landed, and they had no choice in the matter afterward. And maybe that’s true of beginnings, but it’s not true of this, now. I fell in love with him. But I don’t just stay with him by default as if there’s no one else available to me. I stay with him because I choose to, every day that I wake up, every day that we fight or lie to each other or disappoint each other. I choose him over and over again, and he chooses me.

Daniel Giordano reached into his pocket and held out the beautiful, emerald necklace for his date. He'd met this woman in a night club two weeks before. He certainly didn't give her the expensive jewelry because of any emotional attachment on his part. The rich bachelor was careful about keeping a collection of extraordinary gifts inside of his penthouse to give to the women who pleased him the most. This was the second date with her in a week, and she was very good at satisfying his needs without hounding him about a relationship. Any such talk on that subject warranted indefinite distance. Daniel was a player and was perfectly happy with that decision. Life was just too short. "Oh my God! I love it!" "I bought it just for you, Monique," whispered Daniel as he fastened the clasp around her delicate neck. She

I’d go with him. We’d be old enough. We’d make a whole new life together, a normal one. Ever since that bus ride, I’d been carrying my love for him around in my pocket. I should have handed it to him then and there in exchange for the gloves, but the briars and brickles of shame had been too sharp. By the time they receded, it felt stupid to bring it up. Then that faded, and all I could do was wait for an opening, some situation where he and I were hanging out and shooting love darts at each other. When it arrived, I’d say, all joshing, Hey, you remember when you thought I needed gloves? Yeah, he’d laugh. I’ve wanted to give you my paper airplane necklace ever since. And our relationship would bloom from there. Every day, I looked for this opening. It could be tomorrow. “Time to go,” Dad said, finally. His face was glistening. Me and Sephie’s pops and quarters were long gone and our stomachs were growling. We’d been sitting near the door, wishing Dad would take the hint and leave, but he’d kept up at that hot conversation with Bauer. We followed him outside. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” Dad said when we finally slid inside the van, his voice full of bravado. Except I could tell he was scared. Mom wasn’t going to be happy that we were out so late on a school night and that Dad was driving drunk, but that wasn’t it. No, he looked jumping-ghost scared, and that made me uneasy. It did even worse to Sephie. It must have. That’s the only explanation for why she broke the rule about inviting conversation with Dad when he’d been drinking. “Are you okay, Daddy?” She hardly ever called him that anymore. I didn’t think he was going to respond, but he finally did, his voice all bluster. “As okay as a man can be in a country where nothing’s sacred.” I wondered what he meant. He and Bauer had talked about so many things. Well, I wasn’t going to

Are people really gonna buy it if we never touch each other in public?” Peter asks, looking skeptical. “I don’t think relationships are just about physicality. There are ways to show you care about someone, not just using your lips.” Peter’s smiling, and he looks like he’s about to crack a joke, so I swiftly add, “Or any other body part.” He groans. “You’ve gotta give me something here, Lara Jean. I have a reputation to uphold. None of my friends will believe I suddenly turned into a monk to date you. How about at least a hand in your back jean pocket? Trust me, it’ll be strictly professional.” I don’t say what I’m thinking, which is that he cares way too much what people think about him. I just nod and write down, Peter is allowed to put a hand in Lara Jean’s back jean pocket. “But no more kissing,” I say, keeping my head down so he can’t see me blush. “You’re the one who started it,” he reminds me. “And also, I don’t have any STDs, so you can get that out of your head.” “I don’t think you have any STDs.” I look back up at him. “The thing is…I’ve never had a boyfriend before. I’ve never been on a real date before, or held hands walking down the hallway. This is all new for me, so I’m sorry about the forehead thing this morning. I just…wish all of these firsts were happening for real and not with you.” Peter seems to be thinking this over. He says, “Huh. Okay. Let’s just save some stuff, then.” “Yeah?” “Sure. We’ll have some stuff for you to do when it’s the real thing and not for show.” I’m touched. Who knew Peter could be so thoughtful and generous? “Like, I won’t pay for stuff. I’ll save that for a guy who really likes you.” My smile fades. “I wasn’t expecting you to pay for anything!” Peter’s on a roll. “And I won’t walk you to class or buy you flowers.” “I get the picture.” It seems to me like Peter’s less concerned about me and more concerned about his wallet. He sure is cheap.

The best way to let go of stored pockets of pain is to practice. Just as you practice scales to learn the piano or practice a sport to get good at it, so you practice letting go to learn how to do it. You start with simple things. We call these the low-hanging fruit. There are many situations each day when you create inner disturbance for absolutely no good reason. Bothering yourself about the car in front of you does no good at all. It only makes you tense and uptight. The cost-benefit analysis is one-hundred-percent cost and zero benefit. Letting go of that tendency should be easy, but it’s not. You will find that you’re in the habit of insisting and demanding that things should be the way you want, even if it’s irrational. Things are the way they are because of all the influences that made them that way. You are not going to change the weather by complaining about it. If you are wise, you will start to change your reactions to reality instead of fighting with reality. By doing so, you will change your relationship with yourself and with everything else.

Mow a neighbor's lawn. • Give your spouse a back rub. • Write a check for a local charity. • Compliment a coworker. • Bake a pie for someone. • Slip a $20 bill into the pocket of a needy friend. • Laugh out loud often and share your smile generously. • Buy gift certificates and give them away anonymously. hildren and gardens go naturally together. Children are observers, and they learn so much more when they can see what they're learning. And when Mom or Grandma and kids work together, gardening is a great way to build relationships. There's something about digging and weeding that makes sharing confidences so much easier. And it's a great lesson for kids that work can be meaningful. That it brings tangible rewards-fresh vegetables and beautiful flowers. Best of all, the children help you learn too. They freshen your wonder. And when they pass on the learning and wonder to their own children, you've helped start a lasting and living legacy. Sur simple ingredients can make a meal memorable. First, the care you take in setting the table establishes the tone or atmosphere. Second is the food. That always

When we have to pay a lot for something nice, we appreciate it to the full. Yet as its price in the market falls, passion has a habit of fading away. Why, then, do we associate a cheap price with lack of value? Our response is a hangover from our long preindustrial past. For most of human history, there truly was a strong correlation between cost and value: The higher the price, the better things tended to be, because there was simply no way both for prices to be low and for quality to be high. It is not that we refuse to buy inexpensive or cheap things. It's just that getting excited over cheap things has come to seem a little bizarre. How do we reverse this? The answer lies in a slightly unexpected area: the mind of a four-year-old. Children have two advantages: They don't know what they're supposed to like and they don't understand money, so price is never a guide to value for them. We buy them a costly wooden toy made by Swedish artisans who hope to teach lessons in symmetry and find that they prefer the cardboard box that it came in. If asked to put a price on things, children tend to answer by the utility and charm of an object, not its manufacturing costs. We have been looking at prices the wrong way. We have fetishised them as tokens of intrinsic value; we have allowed them to set how much excitement we are allowed to have in given areas, how much joy is to be mined in particular places. But prices were never meant to be like this: We are breathing too much life into them and thereby dulling too many of our responses to the inexpensive world. At a certain age, something very debilitating happens to children. They start to learn about "expensive" and "cheap" and absorb the view that the more expensive something is, the better it may be. They are encouraged to think well of saving up pocket money and to see the "big" toy they are given as much better than the "cheaper" one. We can't directly go backwards; we can't forget what we know of prices. However, we can pay less attention to what things cost and more to our own responses. We need to rethink our relationship to prices. The price of something is principally determined by what it cost to make, not how much human value is potentially to be derived from it.

ACTION FREES YOU FROM IDEOLOGY “The world is always close to catastrophe. But it seems to be closer now. Seeing this approaching catastrophe, most of us take shelter in idea. We think that this catastrophe, this crisis, can be solved by an ideology. Ideology is always an impediment to direct relationship, which prevents action.” Jiddu Krishnamurti Action immediately frees you from your ideologies. The switch is one of impossible (and invisible) reconciliation of warring ideas to total harmony. Focusing on the work or situation before you as it is makes it clear. The most obvious choice becomes clear as you pay attention. When you let go of an idea of how things should be then you open yourself up to the best current choice. This is easy to perform in work or sports, provided we have some experience with them. It’s more difficult in relationships with other people. Our expectations for how our parents, significant others, or bosses should behave makes us blind to how we could act given the current circumstances. We shouldn’t apply romantic ideals to others if we wish to connect with them. (Even the expectation that they lift their expectations should be lifted.)

Once inside his office, Cade took a seat at his desk and resolved, as he had many times over the last two weeks, to focus on work. He managed to do a decent job of that, putting himself on autopilot until the end of the day, when a knock on his office door interrupted him. Vaughn stood in the doorway. “Thought I’d see if you want to grab a drink at O’Malley’s.” Cade rubbed his face, realizing that he’d been reading audio transcripts for hours. “Sure.” He blinked, and then cocked his head. “I didn’t realize you had any meetings here today.” “I didn’t.” Huh. “Then why are you here?” Vaughn shrugged. “I just figured you might, you know, need a drink.” Cade frowned. “Why would you th—” Then it dawned on him. “Oh, no. You and I are not doing this. We are not having this conversation.” The idea of him and Vaughn having some sort of best friend heart-to-heart about his relationship troubles was laughable at best. “You’ve been brooding for two weeks, Morgan. So yes, we are having this conversation.” “I appreciate it, Vaughn. Really. But no offense—you suck at this stuff as much as I do.” Vaughn tucked his hands into his pants pockets, not looking offended in the slightest. “Yep. And that’s why God made whiskey.

A native is a man or creature or plant indigenous to a limited geographical area - a space boundaried and defined by mountains, rivers, or coastline (not by latitudes, longitudes, or state and county lines), with its own peculiar mixture of weeds, trees, bugs, birds, flowers, streams, hills, rocks, and critters (including people), its own nuances of rain, wind, and seasonal change. Native intelligence develops through an unspoken or soft spoken relationship with these interwoven things: it evolves as the native involves himself in his region. A non-native awakes in the morning in a body in a bed in a room in a building on a street in a county in a state in a nation. A native awakes in the in the center of a little cosmos - or a big one, if his intelligence is vast - and he wears this cosmos like a robe, senses the barely perceptible shiftings, migrations, moods, and machinations of its creatures, its growing green things, its earth and sky. Native intelligence is what Huck Finn had rafting the Mississippi, what Thoreau had by his pond, what Kerouac had in Desolation Lookout and lost entirely the instant he caught a whiff of any city. But some have it in cities - like the Artful Dodger, picking his way through a crowd of London pockets; like Mother Teresa in the Calcutta slums. Sissy Hankshaw had it on freeways, Woody Guthrie in crowds of fruit pickers, Ghandi in jails. Almost everybody has a dab of it wherever he or she feels most at home..

The unhappiness of the bachelor, whether seeming or actual, is so easily guessed at by the world around him that he will curse his decision, at least if he has remained a bachelor because of the delight he takes in secrecy. He walks around with his coat buttoned, his hands in the upper pockets of his jacket, his arms akimbo, his hat pulled down over his eyes, a false smile that has become natural to him is supposed to shield his mouth as his glasses do his eyes, his trousers are tighter than seem proper for his thin legs. But everyone knows his condition, can detail his sufferings. A cold breeze breathes upon him from within and he gazes inward with the even sadder half of his double face. He moves incessantly, but with predictable regularity, from one apartment to another. The farther he moves away from the living, for whom he must still – and this is the worst mockery – work like a conscious slave who dare not express his consciousness, so much the smaller a space is considered sufficient for him. While it is death that must still strike down the others, though they may have spent all their lives in a sickbed – for even though they would have gone down by themselves long ago from their own weakness, they nevertheless hold fast to their loving, very healthy relatives by blood and marriage – he, this bachelor, still in the midst of life, apparently of his own free will resigns himself to an ever smaller space, and when he dies the coffin is exactly right for him.

Since we’re on the topic, I’d also like to set some ground rules.” “What kind of ground rules?” he asks, leaning back. I press my lips together and take a breath. “Well…I don’t want you trying to kiss me again.” Peter curls his lip at me. “Trust me, I don’t want to do it either. My forehead still hurts from this morning. I think I have a bruise.” He pushes his hair off his forehead. “Do you see a bruise?” “No, but I see a receding hairline.” “What?” Ha. I knew that would get him. Peter’s so vain. “Calm down, I’m only kidding. Do you have a piece of paper and a pen?” “You’re gonna write this down?” Primly I say, “It’ll help us remember.” Rolling his eyes, Peter reaches into his backpack, pulls out a notebook, and hands it to me. I turn to a clean page and write at the top, Contract. Then I write No kissing. “Are people really gonna buy it if we never touch each other in public?” Peter asks, looking skeptical. “I don’t think relationships are just about physicality. There are ways to show you care about someone, not just using your lips.” Peter’s smiling, and he looks like he’s about to crack a joke, so I swiftly add, “Or any other body part.” He groans. “You’ve gotta give me something here, Lara Jean. I have a reputation to uphold. None of my friends will believe I suddenly turned into a monk to date you. How about at least a hand in your back jean pocket? Trust me, it’ll be strictly professional.” I don’t say what I’m thinking, which is that he cares way too much what people think about him. I just nod and write down, Peter is allowed to put a hand in Lara Jean’s back jean pocket. “But no more kissing,” I say, keeping my head down so he can’t see me blush. “You’re the one who started it,” he reminds me.

Sometimes our need clouds our ability to develop perspective. Being needy is kind of like losing your keys. You become desperate and search everywhere. You search in places you know damn well what you are looking for could never be. The more frantic you become in trying to find them the less rational you are in your search. The less rational you become the more likely you'll be searching in a way that actually makes finding what you want more difficult. You go back again and again to where you want them to be, knowing that there is no way in hell that they are there. There is a lot of wasted effort. You lose perspective of your real goal, let's say it's go to the grocery store, and instead of getting what you need -nourishment, you frantically chase your tail growing more and more confused and angry and desperate. You are mad at your keys, you are mad at your coat pockets for not doing their job. You are irrational. You could just grab the spare set, run to the grocery store and get what you need, have a sandwich, calm down and search at your leisure. But you don't. Where ARE your keys?! Your desperation is skewing your judgement. But you need to face it, YOUR keys are not in HIS pocket. You know your keys are not there. You have checked several times. They are not there. He is not responsible for your keys. You are. He doesn't want to be responsible for your keys. Here's the secret: YOU don't want to be responsible for your keys. If you did you would be searching for them in places they actually have a chance of being. Straight boys don't have your keys. You have tried this before. They may have acted like they did because they wanted you to get them somewhere or you may have hoped they did because you didn't want to go alone but straight boys don't have your keys. Straight boys will never have your keys. Where do you really want to go? It sounds like not far. If going somewhere was of importance you would have hung your keys on the nail by the door. Sometimes it's pretty comfortable at home. Lonely but familiar. Messy enough to lose your keys in but not messy enough to actually bother to clean house and let things go. Not so messy that you can't forget about really going somewhere and sit down awhile and think about taking a trip with that cute guy from work. Just a little while longer, you tell yourself. His girlfriend can sit in the backseat as long as she stays quiet. It will be fun. Just what you need. And really isn't it much safer to sit there and think about taking a trip than accepting all the responsibility of planning one and servicing the car so that it's ready and capable? Having a relationship consists of exposing yourself to someone else over and over, doing the work and sometimes failing. It entails being wrong in front of someone else and being right for someone too. Even if you do find a relationship that other guy doesn't want to be your chauffeur. He wants to take turns riding together. He may occasionally drive but you'll have to do some too. You will have to do some solo driving to keep up your end of the relationship. Boyfriends aren't meant to take you where you want to go. Sometimes they want to take a left when you want to go right. Being in a relationship is embarking on an uncertain adventure. It's not a commitment to a destination it is just a commitment to going together. Maybe it's time to stop telling yourself that you are a starcrossed traveler and admit you're an armchair adventurer. You don't really want to go anywhere or you would venture out. If you really wanted to know where your keys were you'd search in the most likely spot, down underneath the cushion of that chair you've gotten so comfortable in.

The front door is locked—what’s up with that?” “Logan fixed the lock,” I tell her. Her bright red, heart-shaped mouth smiles. “Good job, Kevin Costner. You should staple the key to Ellie’s forehead, though, or she’ll lose it.” She has names for the other guys too and when her favorite guard, Tommy Sullivan, walks in a few minutes later, Marlow uses his. “Hello, Delicious.” She twirls her honey-colored, bouncy hair around her finger, cocking her hip and tilting her head like a vintage pinup girl. Tommy, the fun-loving super-flirt, winks. “Hello, pretty, underage lass.” Then he nods to Logan and smiles at me. “Lo . . . Good morning, Miss Ellie.” “Hey, Tommy.” Marlow struts forward. “Three months, Tommy. Three months until I’m a legal adult—then I’m going to use you, abuse you and throw you away.” The dark-haired devil grins. “That’s my idea of a good date.” Then he gestures toward the back door. “Now, are we ready for a fun day of learning?” One of the security guys has been walking me to school ever since the public and press lost their minds over Nicholas and Olivia’s still-technically-unconfirmed relationship. They make sure no one messes with me and they drive me in the tinted, bulletproof SUV when it rains—it’s a pretty sweet deal. I grab my ten-thousand-pound messenger bag from the corner. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before. Elle—you should have a huge banger here tonight!” says Marlow. Tommy and Logan couldn’t have synced up better if they’d practiced: “No fucking way.” Marlow holds up her hands, palms out. “Did I say banger?” “Huge banger,” Tommy corrects. “No—no fucking way. I meant, we should have a few friends over to . . . hang out. Very few. Very mature. Like . . . almost a study group.” I toy with my necklace and say, “That actually sounds like a good idea.” Throwing a party when your parents are away is a rite-of-high-school passage. And after this summer, Liv will most likely never be away again. It’s now or never. “It’s a terrible idea.” Logan scowls. He looks kinda scary when he scowls. But still hot. Possibly, hotter. Marlow steps forward, her brass balls hanging out and proud. “You can’t stop her—that’s not your job. It’s like when the Bush twins got busted in that bar with fake IDs or Malia was snapped smoking pot at Coachella. Secret Service couldn’t stop them; they just had to make sure they didn’t get killed.” Tommy slips his hands in his pockets, laid back even when he’s being a hardass. “We could call her sister. Even from an ocean away, I’d bet she’d stop her.” “No!” I jump a little. “No, don’t bother Liv. I don’t want her worrying.” “We could board up the fucking doors and windows,” Logan suggests. ’Cause that’s not overkill or anything. I move in front of the two security guards and plead my case. “I get why you’re concerned, okay? But I have this thing—it’s like my motto. I want to suck the lemon.” Tommy’s eyes bulge. “Suck what?” I laugh, shaking my head. Boys are stupid. “You know that saying, ‘When life gives you lemons, make lemonade’?—well, I want to suck the lemon dry.” Neither of them seems particularly impressed. “I want to live every bit of life, experience everything it has to offer, good and bad.” I lift my jeans to show my ankle—and the little lemon I’ve drawn there. “See? When I’m eighteen, I’m going to get this tattooed on for real. As a reminder to live as much and as hard and as awesome as I can—to not take anything for granted. And having my friends over tonight is part of that.” I look back and forth between them. Tommy’s weakening—I can feel it. Logan’s still a brick wall. “It’ll be small. And quiet—I swear. Totally controlled. And besides, you guys will be here with me. What could go wrong?” Everything. Everything goes fucking wrong.

Mammachi had a separate entrance built for Chacko’s room, which was at the eastern end of the house, so that the objects of his “Needs” wouldn’t have to go traipsing through the house. She secretly slipped them money to keep them happy. They took it because they needed it. They had young children and old parents. Or husbands who spent all their earnings in toddy bars. The arrangement suited Mammachi, because in her mind, a fee clarified things. Disjuncted sex from love. Needs from Feelings. Margaret Kochamma, however, was a different kettle of fish altogether. Since she had no means of finding out (though she did once try to get Kochu Maria to examine the bedsheets for stains), Mammachi could only hope that Margaret Kochamma was not intending to resume her sexual relationship with Chacko. While Margaret Kochamma was in Ayemenem, Mammachi managed her unmanageable feelings by slipping money into the pockets of the dresses that Margaret Kochamma left in the laundry bin. Margaret Kochamma never returned the money simply because she never found it. Her pockets were emptied as a matter of routine by Aniyan the dhobi. Mammachi knew this, but preferred to construe Margaret Kochamma’s silence as a tacit acceptance of payment for the favors Mammachi imagined she bestowed on her son. So Mammachi had the satisfaction of regarding Margaret Kochamma as just another whore, Aniyan the dhobi was happy with his daily gratuity, and of course Margaret Kochamma remained blissfully unaware of the whole arrangement. (161)

Bears. We come in all shapes and varieties. Besides your “typical” bear (a hairy, stocky to heavyset man), there are chubs (heavyset men who aren’t necessarily hairy), cubs (young bears or bears who are very young at heart), daddy bears (older guys, sometimes looking for a “daddy/son” relationship with a younger guy or cub—definitely not talking pederasty here), leather bears (bears who like to wear leather), muscle bears (can be very muscular, but they tend not to worry about abs in favor of some nice padding), polar bears (bears whose hair has gone gray/white), panda bears (bears of Asian descent), black bears (bears of African descent), pocket bears (short bears), Ewoks (very short bears), ginger bears (redheaded bears), and grizzly bears (usually much shaggier and taller and sometimes dominant). And then there are otters (hairy guys who are slim)!

You got three kids, three deadbeat baby daddies. How in the hell are you going to be able to attend college while managing a broken home? her mother asked. A couple of her aunts and cousins asked that same question. Even a few fake ass friends dared to ask. But her grandmother did not. Nisey, her grandmother would call her, you got to make the most outta the sunshine even when it’s raining. Grandma, Denise remembered saying with a chuckle, there isn’t any sunshine when it rains. When the devil is beating his wife, there is, she would clap back. Grandma was the truth, a continuous lesson to be learned. And not once would she ever allow her Nisey to think her goals weren’t achievable. Grandma just wished her encouragement would lead her grandbaby into the arms of a good man. Ha! A good man? What did that even entail? God knew Denise had her fair share of so-called “good men.” Today’s good men were just as needy as most women, if not more so. And the ones who weren’t needy wanted to save you. She didn’t like that shit. She didn’t want that shit. What she wanted was a man who knew his role, not some grown-ass child who had less intelligence than her ten-year old son. She didn’t need another mouth to feed. She didn’t need another cheating-ass nigga with empty pockets and a small package. Love no longer existed. Not the way it had for her grandparents. Not even the way it had when she was in high school. Situationships, not relationships. Love was no longer good poetry. Today, love was nothing more than bad literature in a poorly written romance novel, sold at truck stops on Route 66, between don’t-want-a-nigga and don’t-need-a-nigga road.

What happened to your face, sir?” Rose answered before he did, with the pride of a child who was delivering news of great significance. “Mr. Bronson ran into a left hook again, Mama. He was fighting. And he brought this to me.” She pulled the end of her button string from her large apron pocket and climbed into Holly's lap to display her newest acquisition. Cuddling her daughter, Holly examined the button carefully. It was fashioned of a huge sparkling diamond encased in rich yellow gold. Bewildered, she glanced at Elizabeth's rueful face, and Paula's tight-lipped one, before finally staring into Bronson's enigmatic black eyes. “You shouldn't have given Rose such a costly object, Mr. Bronson. Whose button is it? And why were you fighting?” “I had a disagreement with someone in my club.” “Over money?… Over a woman?…” Bronson's expression revealed nothing, and he gave an indifferent shrug, as if the matter were of no importance. Considering various possibilities, Holly continued to stare at him in the tense silence that had overtaken the room. Suddenly the answer occurred to her. “Over me?” she whispered. Idly Bronson picked a skein of thread from his sleeve. “Not really.” Holly suddenly discovered that she knew him well enough to discern when he was lying. “Yes, it was,” she said with growing conviction. “Someone must have said something unpleasant, and instead of ignoring the remark, you took up the challenge. Oh, Mr. Bronson, how could you?” Seeing her unhappiness, instead of the grateful admiration he had probably expected, Bronson scowled. “Would you rather I allowed some high-kick b—” He paused to correct himself as he noticed the rapt attention Rose was paying to the conversation. “Some high-kick fellow,” he said, his tone softening a degree, “to spread lies about you? His mouth needed to be shut, and I was able and willing to do it.” “The only way to respond to a distasteful remark is to ignore it,” Holly said crisply. “You did the exact opposite, thereby creating the impression in some people's minds that there may be a grain of truth in it. You should not have fought for my honor. You should have smiled disdainfully at any slight upon it, resting secure in the knowledge that there is nothing dishonorable about our relationship.” “But my lady, I would fight the world for you.” Bronson said it in the way he always made such startling comments, in a tone of such jeering lightness that the listener had no doubt he was being facetious. Elizabeth broke in then, her lips curved in a droll smile. “He'll use any excuse to fight, Lady Holly. My brother enjoys using his fists, primitive male that he is.” “That is an aspect of his character we will have to correct.

Have you ever reached to a point where you asked God if the assignment is really from Him. In your account you have just 100 dollars and He is asking you to execute a 400 million dollar project. Have you reached to the point that you consider going further will make no sense? Have you reached the point where you asked God are you sure you are still with me? I just found myself in that Junction now. Turning back ....to realise I have gone too far for Him to forsake me. Moving forward I heard the voice saying ...be still and know that I am your God. Giving up.....Couldn't find it in my dictionary. Moral of the lesson. God cannot give you an assignment that is equal to your pocket. If it suits your pocket it is definitely not from God. Remember God will not take glory where nothing happen.

Madison!” Bob’s head jerks up and he steps back three paces from me, and all the warmth that was him is suddenly gone. “Dad!” I cry. My father steps between me and Bob. “What are you doing here?” “Skip called me.” Skip and I grew up together. The traitor. “Skip said some ex-convict was carrying you out of the bar over his shoulder.” He looks from Bob to me and back again. “Is that true?” “I can explain, sir,” Bob begins, but my dad shoots him a look. “Why do you look so familiar to me?” Dad asks him. “We met in the courtroom, sir.” “What’s your name?” “Bob Caster, sir.” Dad’s eyes narrow. “One of Phil’s boys?” “Yes, sir.” Bob scratches his nose like he’s suddenly uncomfortable. “Why are you with my daughter?” “We’re on a date, sir.” “One that ends with you throwing her over you shoulder?” “That’s actually how it starts, sir.” A chuckle bursts from my lips and I cover my mouth to keep it in. “Sorry,” I mutter. “Madison, get in the car.” Dad points to his fancy car, which is parked right behind the one I’m sitting on. “With all due respect, sir, I’d like to take her home.” “If you had any respect for my daughter, you wouldn’t have been all over her on the hood of a car in the middle of the street.” “It was just a kiss, Dad—” “It looked like more than that.” “It was,” Bob interjects. His eyes meet mine. “It was more than that.” “What was it?” I whisper, past the lump that’s suddenly clogging my throat. “More,” Bob says. “I don’t know how to explain it. But it was more.” “More than you deserve,” Dad snaps. “My daughter will not have a relationship with an ex-convict.” Bob takes a step back and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I understand, sir,” he says. “Good night, Madison.” “Don’t go!” I cry. He rounds the front of his car and gets inside. He cranks it and waits for me to get my butt off it. “You deserve better than him, Madison,” Dad says. I get off the hood of the car and glare at him. “Dad!” “Get in the car, Madison!” he shouts. He points his finger in the direction he wants me to go. I stomp over to the car and get in, and my heart breaks when I see that Bob is already driving away. His eyes meet mine briefly in his mirror and I see a world of hurt inside him. “I’m not going to my apartment, Dad,” I tell him. “Yes, you are.” “No, I’m not.” Dad heaves a sigh. “What do you want, Madison?” “I want to get to know him, Dad. That’s all. I like him a lot.” “I could tell,” he grunts. “He’s not the one for you.

Too often when people hand us their cards, we quickly slip them into our pockets or purses without giving notice to what it says. Subliminally, it tells the other person that we don’t care or are not interested. Take a moment to demonstrate your interest; this will help your newfound relationship be off to a good start. Small actions can make a significant impact!

And it’s not like I have to have a relationship with the man. A one-night fling would do. I could be a one-night fling kind of girl. Adam’s sexy smile and flirty touches scream one-night stand. Adam leads me to his car and opens the back door. “Yep, there he is.” “Who?” He turns and smiles down at me. “Hailey’s bear.” “Oh. Right.” I’m staring at his mouth, and finally, without overthinking it, I rise up on my tiptoes and press my mouth to his firmly, then pull away and gasp. “I’m so sorry.” “Sorry?” Adam stops my hand from tugging my shirt up over my shoulder and drags his fingertip down my skin, right next to my bra strap, and every nerve ending in my body stands up on high alert. “Sweetheart, if you’re going to kiss a man, you don’t apologize after the fact.” Before I can reply, he turns me so my back is against the car, his hands on my hips, and presses in, his face so close I can feel the heat coming off of him and smell the mint from his toothpaste. His nose nudges mine, and then his lips are working their magic. I grip his arms and revel at the hard muscles there, and everywhere, as he presses his firm body against me and devours me whole. He bites my lower lip, then moves in for more. His hands skim up my sides and cup my jaw as his tongue tangles with mine. He’s all lips and hands and hard body, and oh my God, I want him. Right here. Right now. But he suddenly stops, panting hard, his forehead leaning on mine. “Let me take you out,” he whispers. “Let me see you again.” I can’t speak, so I nod weakly, making him smile. Without looking down, I pull my card out of my back pocket and slip it into his, silently high-fiving myself for touching his very fine ass. “My number’s on that.” “Okay,” he says, still whispering. Even his whisper is sexy. I nod again, swallow hard, and when he pulls away, I clear my throat and begin walking away, toward my own car, acutely aware of his eyes on my ass as I leave. “Sarah?” “Yeah?” “You forgot something.” He’s holding the bear and sporting a very satisfied grin. “Right.

Mags said magic invited a certain amount of mess. That's why the honeysuckle grew three times as large around her house, and birds nested in her eaves no matter the season. In New Salem—the City Without Sin, where the trolleys run on time and every street wears a Saint’s name—the only birds are pigeons and the only green is the faint shine of slime in the gutters. A trolley jangles past several inches from Juniper’s toes and its driver swears at her. Juniper swears back. She keeps going because there’s no place to stop. There are no mossy stumps or blue pine groves; every corner and stoop is filled up with people. Workers and maids, priests and officers, men with pocket-watches and ladies with big hats and children selling buns and newspapers and shriveled up flowers. Juniper tries asking directions twice but the answers are baffling, riddle-like (follow St. Vincent’s to Fourth-and-Withdrop, cross the Thorn, and head straight). Within an hour she’s been invited to a boxing match, accosted by a gentleman who wants to discuss the relationship between the equinox and the end-times, and given a map that has nothing marked on it but thirty-nine churches. Juniper stares down at the map, knotted and foreign and unhelpful, and wants to go the hell home.

We do a great disservice to boys in how we raise them. We stifle the humanity of boys. We define masculinity in a very narrow way. Masculinity is a hard, small cage, and we put boys inside this cage. We teach boys to be afraid of fear, of weakness, of vulnerability. We teach them to mask their true selves, because they have to be, in Nigerian-speak, a hard man. In secondary school, a boy and a girl go out, both of them teenagers with meagre pocket money. Yet the boy is expected to pay the bills, always, to prove his masculinity. (And we wonder why boys are more likely to steal money from their parents.) What if both boys and girls were raised not to link masculinity and money? What if their attitude was not ‘the boy has to pay’, but rather, ‘whoever has more should pay’? Of course, because of their historical advantage, it is mostly men who will have more today. But if we start raising children differently, then in fifty years, in a hundred years, boys will no longer have the pressure of proving their masculinity by material means. But by far the worst thing we do to males – by making them feel they have to be hard – is that we leave them with very fragile egos. The harder a man feels compelled to be, the weaker his ego is. And then we do a much greater disservice to girls, because we raise them to cater to the fragile egos of males. We teach girls to shrink themselves, to make themselves smaller. We say to girls, ‘You can have ambition, but not too much. You should aim to be successful but not too successful, otherwise you will threaten the man. If you are the breadwinner in your relationship with a man, pretend that you are not, especially in public, otherwise you will emasculate him.

There are signs, however, that a good time was had all last night. Jo might have found herself caught in the middle of a love triangle, but she clearly didn't mind staying around when she thought that one of the angles had been dispensed with. The remains of dinner still grace the table---dirty dishes, rumpled napkins, a champagne flute bearing a lipstick mark. There's even one of the Chocolate Heaven goodies left in the box---which is absolute sacrilege in my book, so I pop it in my mouth and enjoy the brief lift it gives me. I huff unhappily to myself. If they left chocolate uneaten, that must be because they couldn't wait to get down to it. Two of the red cushions from the sofa are on the floor, which shows a certain carelessness that Marcus doesn't normally exhibit. They're scattered on the white, fluffy sheepskin rug, which should immediately make me suspicious---and it does. I walk through to the bedroom and, of course, it isn't looking quite as pristine as it did yesterday. Both sides of the bed are disheveled and I think that tells me just one thing. But, if I needed confirmation, there's a bottle of champagne and two more flutes by the side of the bed. It seems that Marcus didn't sleep alone. Heavy of heart and footstep, I trail back through to the kitchen. More devastation faces me. Marcus had made no attempt to clear up. The dishes haven't been put into the dishwasher and the congealed remnants of last night's Moroccan chicken with olives and saffron-scented mash still stand in their respective saucepans on the cooker. Tipping the contents of one pan into the other, I then pick up a serving spoon and carry them both through the bedroom. I slide open the wardrobe doors and the sight of Marcus's neatly organized rows of shirts and shoes greet me. Balancing the pan rather precariously on my hip, I dip the serving spoon into the chicken and mashed potatoes and scoop up as much as I can. Opening the pocket of Marcus's favorite Hugo Boss suit, I deposit the cold mash into it. To give the man credit where credit is due, his mash is very light and fluffy. I move along the row, garnishing each of his suits with some of his gourmet dish, and when I've done all of them, find that I still have some food remaining. Seems as if the lovers didn't have much of an appetite, after all. I move onto Marcus's shoes---rows and rows of lovely designer footwear---casual at one end, smart at the other. He has a shoe collection that far surpasses mine. Ted Baker, Paul Smith, Prada, Miu Miu, Tod's... I slot a full spoon delicately into each one, pressing it down into the toe area for maximum impact. I take the saucepan back into the kitchen and return it to the hob. With the way I'm feeling, Marcus is very lucky that I don't just burn his flat down. Instead, I open the freezer. My boyfriend---ex-boyfriend---has a love of seafood. (And other women, of course.) I take out a bag of frozen tiger prawns and rip it open. In the living room, I remove the cushions from the sofa and gently but firmly push a couple of handfuls of the prawns down the back. Through to the bedroom and I lift the mattress on Marcus's lovely leather bed and slip the remaining prawns beneath it, pressing them as flat as I can. In a couple of days, they should smell quite interesting. As my pièce de résistance, I go back to the kitchen and take the half-finished bottle of red wine---the one that I didn't even get a sniff at---and pour it all over Marcus's white, fluffy rug. I place my key in the middle of the spreading stain. Then I take out my lipstick, a nice red one called Bitter Scarlet---which is quite appropriate, if you ask me---and I write on his white leather sofa, in my best possible script: MARCUS CANNING, YOU ARE A CHEATING BASTARD.

When you're translating a document or a speech, if you don't have all the words, you don't have all the meaning. I'd only had my words thus far, my thoughts, not hers. That had given me an incomplete picture, one with pockets of omissions… (154)

CAMPBELL CHANGED MY PERSPECTIVE ON LIFE FROM that of a holding room where you wait to meet Christ later to a living room in which to commune with Christ’s consciousness here and now. It’s not just the personal-relationship “Buddy Jesus” I was taught in Sunday school, the Divine Pal we keep in our pockets, sticking His head out of our handbags like a purse dog, ready to offer help finding parking or protection from the flu that’s been going around. It’s an invitation you extend for His essence to pass through you. Active and empowering, not just “please protect me,” but transform me. Merge with me. Help me kill this overactive, critical, limiting brain of mine. Help me escape the dungeons of cultural expectation, familial expectation, all the I shoulds and I shouldn’ts, I cans and I can’ts. Help me take the small person inside me and kick his ass, leave him for dead, and resurrect to my full, connected, light-filled potential. The story is you being reborn, you getting saved from your basic, boring, limited, mundane, same-story-at-every-party, same-vacation-every-year, same-restaurant-every-birthday, same-river-of-negative-thoughts self-loathing and cruel humanity and awakening to who you really are. Go and do likewise.

She has my heart in her pocket but I mess around with other bitches from time to time. It’s not that I don’t love her. I’m just not ready to settle down and put my all into a relationship.

This gospel gives us the gift of eternal life. But the gospel is more than a ticket to heaven. It isn’t just for unbelievers. It’s for every believer every day of life. But many Christians have a “two doors gospel.” We think of the gospel as a door we enter at conversion. We stand outside of God’s family, then someone shares the Good News with us, and the Holy Spirit opens our hearts to understand. We see our need. We trust in Christ. We come through the door into the kingdom of God. We believe, and the penalty of sin—eternal punishment—is taken away. The gospel is more than a ticket to heaven. But then—too often—we treat the gospel like an airplane ticket we save up to use on a distant day in the future. Having entered through one door, we put the gospel in our pocket until we come to another door. We don’t pull out the gospel until we’re in the hospital, facing only a few days to live. Then we peacefully tell our children, “Don’t worry. I know I’m going to heaven because I trusted in Jesus. I believe the gospel and I have hope for eternal life.” Yes, the gospel provides great comfort when we face death. But there’s a whole life we live between the first door and the second door. If we forget the gospel is for now—for sins we struggle with today, for areas where we still want to grow, for relationships that are broken—then we miss the rich treasure that belongs to us in Christ. There’s a treasure stored up in heaven for us, but God doesn’t want it reserved just for eternity. It spills into our daily lives today if we just reach up our hands and receive it.

tiny seed of doubt sprouting inside her gut. Could this life-altering affair be nothing more than a one-sided mirage? She couldn’t keep her journalistic instincts from attempting to connect dots. She recalled every possible aversion of her lover’s eyes, each word of affirmation that may not have been as sincere and heartfelt as the previous. And now this. Karina released an audible breath and brought her hand to her head. She felt the sharp edge of her one-quarter-karat, pear-shaped diamond engagement ring, and thought about Reinaldo, her Brazilian husband of the last ten years. There had been some good times … moments she’d always remember. But as she recalled the hikes up Pikes Peak, the mountainous bike rides, and games of pool while drinking a few beers, she admitted that Reinaldo had been nothing more than a friend—a convenient friend at that. But one who had helped her produce two kids, two adorable little rug rats. Would they ever look at Mommy the same way, if they found out who the real Karina was? When they found out. Karina couldn’t let her insecurities question her new path in life—a path she’d ignored far too long. Determined to make this relationship work, her mind sharpened, and she leaned over the side of the bed and snatched her smartphone from the back pocket of her khakis. No sweet text messages. She licked her lips, then scrolled to her contacts and tapped the cell number. “Hi, Karina. Miss me already?” the voice on the other end asked. Karina couldn’t help but smile. “I just wanted to hear your voice again before I packed up my things and strolled back into my old life.” “I know what you mean,” Karina’s lover said. “You don’t have a spouse and two kids,” Karina said with a tone more harsh than she’d intended. “Oh, sorry.” “Not a problem. I get it. I really do.” A wave of emotion overcame Karina. A single tear bubbled out of the corner of her eye and she sniffled. “Are you okay, dear?” “I …” “You can tell me, Karina. We share everything.” “I just wanted our evening together to be special. You mean so much to me … how I see myself. How I see our future.” “I’m so sorry my work got in our way. Just know that you hold a special place in my heart.” Karina could hear sincerity, which warmed her heart. “I love you.” “I love you too, Karina.” Muffled sounds broke Karina’s concentration. Was that another person’s voice? “What was that noise? Where are you?” Tension rippled up her spine. “Oh, I just walked in my door. I’m exhausted, dear. Let’s make plans for early next week. We can both relax and have some fun at my new place. We can talk about our future.” The pressure in Karina’s head eased. They kissed into

At Some point Your relationship With God Will Become like this: Next time you meet Him in the forest Or on a crowded city street There won't be anymore "Leaving." That is, God will climb into Your pocket. You will simply just take Yourself Along!

I’ve never ditched school before. Of course a boy I kissed has never been arrested before, either. This is about me being real. To myself. And now I’m going to be real to Alex, like he’s always wanted. It’s scary, and I’m not convinced I’m doing the right thing. But I can’t ignore this magnetic pull that Alex has over me. I plug in the address on my GPS. It leads me to the south side, to a place called Enrique’s Auto Body. A guy is standing in front. His mouth drops open the minute he sees me. “I’m looking for Alex Fuentes.” The guy doesn’t answer. “Is he here?” I ask, feeling awkward. Maybe he doesn’t speak English. “What do you want with Alejandro?” the guy finally asks. My heart is pumping so hard I can see my shirt move with each beat. “I need to talk to him.” “He’ll be better off if you leave him alone,” the guy says. “Está bien, Enrique,” a familiar voice booms. I turn to Alex, leaning against the auto body’s front door with a shop towel hanging out of his pocket and a wrench in his hand. The hair peeking out of his bandana is mussed and he looks more masculine than any guy I’ve ever seen. I want to hold him. I need him to tell me it’s okay, that he’s not going to jail ever again. Alex keeps his eyes fixed on mine. “I guess I’ll leave you two alone,” I think I hear Enrique say, but I’m too focused on Alex to hear clearly. My feet are glued to the same spot so it’s a good thing he saunters toward me. “Um,” I start. Please let me get through this. “I, uh, heard you got arrested. I had to see if you’re okay.” “You ditched school to see if I was okay?” I nod because my tongue won’t work. Alex steps back. “Well, then. Now that you’ve seen I’m okay, go back to school. I gotta, you know, get back to work. My bike was impounded last night and I need to make money to get it back.” “Wait!” I yell. I take a deep breath. This is it. I’m going to spill my guts. “I don’t know why or when I started falling for you, Alex. But I did. Ever since I almost ran over your motorcycle that first day of school I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what it would be like if you and I got together. And that kiss…God, I swear I never experienced anything like that in my life. It did mean something. If the solar system didn’t tilt then, it never will. I know it’s crazy because we’re so different. And if anything happens between us I don’t want people at school to know. Not that you’ll agree to have a secret relationship with me, but I at least have to find out if it’s possible. I broke up with Colin, who I had a very public relationship with and I’m ready for something private. Private and real. I know I’m babbling like an idiot, but if you don’t say something soon or give me a hint of what you’re thinking then I’ll--” “Say it again,” he says. “That whole drawn-out speech?” I remember something about a solar system, but I’m too light-headed to recite the entire thing all over again. He steps closer. “No. The part about you fallin’ for me.” My eyes cling to his. “I think about you all the time, Alex. And I really, really want to kiss you again.” The sides of his mouth turn up.

I want you, chula,” I say, my voice hoarse. She presses against my erection, the pleasure/pain almost unbearable. But when I start to pull her panties down, she stills my hand and pushes it away. “I…I’m not ready for that. Alex, stop.” I move off her and sit back in the seat, waiting for my body to cool down. I can’t look at her as she adjusts her straps, covering her body again. Shit, I went too fast. I told myself not to get too excited, to keep my wits when I’m with this girl. Raking my hand through my hair, I let out a slow breath. “I’m sorry.” “No, I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. I urged you on and you have every right to be pissed off. Listen, I just got out of a relationship with Colin and I’ve got a lot of stuff going on at home.” She puts her face in her hands. “I’m so confused.” She grabs her purse and opens the door. I follow her, my black shirt open and flying in the wind behind me like a vampire’s cape. Either that or the grim reaper’s. “Brittany, wait.” “Please…open the door to the garage. I need my car.” “Don’t go.” I press the keypad code. “I’m sorry,” she says once more. “Stop sayin’ that. Listen, no matter what happened, I’m not with you just to get into your pants. I got carried away with the way we clicked tonight, your vanilla scent that I wanted to keep inhalin’ forever and…shit, I really messed this up, didn’t I?” Brittany climbs inside her car. “Can we take it slow, Alex? This is going way too fast for me.” “Yeah,” I say, nodding. I keep my hands in my pockets, resisting the urge to pull her out of the car. And dammit if Brittany doesn’t drive away.

Now she sat on a bench alongside Valerie West, the two of them pretending to be on their lunch. Val was a whiz with data analysis, but nervous in the field. Cooper was watching her shred her napkin, and weighing whether it was worth it to say something, when Luisa touched the other woman’s knee, said something off-mic. Valerie nodded, shrugged her shoulders back, and tucked the napkin in her pocket. Good. Normally Cooper would have discouraged a romantic relationship between teammates, but the two often seemed better agents because of it.

You raped and brutalized the woman I love.” Sylvan’s hands curled into fists. “Then you threatened to come to her house and do it again if she dared to report your actions.” He took a step closer to Burke who had begun to sidle away. “I didn’t mean any of it.” Burke’s voice had gone high and thin. “I mean, I had a scholarship all lined up that I had to protect. I couldn’t let some mousy little bitch ruin my entire future—she wasn’t even that good a fuck, you know?” “No, I don’t know,” Sylvan said, his voice low and threatening. “Because unlike you, I am not a rapist—I don’t take women against their will. And from now on, you won’t either.” He pulled something out of the pocket of his black flight pants—a strange looking metal device that fit neatly into the palm of his large hand. “What the fuck is that?” Burke looked at the small device uneasily. “Some kind of gun or bomb or something?” “No,” Sylvan said simply. He bent his attention to the device which he appeared to be calibrating in some way. “Okay, I get what you’re doing here—you want to warn me off your girl. No problem, man.” Burke held up his hands again and began to back away. “Listen, I haven’t even seen her since high school. In fact, I haven’t even thought of her in years.” “She has thought often of you, though,” Sylvan said quietly. “Often enough to keep her from having another relationship since the night you raped her. Often enough to keep her from trusting another male—even one who would rather die than hurt her.” “What

I-thou relationship. Martin Buber’s term for a special relationship that is possible between persons when those persons relate to each other in a fully personal way and do not think of the other as an object to be manipulated or as a means to an end. Buber believed that such relationships make possible a different kind of knowledge of the other and that it is possible to have such a relation with God, who is the absolute Thou.

Father, you created all things simply with your words. One word from you and your power is evident. I am amazed by you. I need your power in my life, God. I face impossible circumstances and am desperate for a miracle. Would you show me your power in my life today? God, for those who have a small view of you, show them how mighty and enormous you actually are. Help them to find comfort in that knowledge. Thank you for sending your Son, who has made our relationship with you possible. It’s in the all-powerful name of Jesus that I pray, amen.

There's the emotional work that comes with living with someone who's not you and who therefore has different preferences ans styles of communicating. She might prefer to talk for three days straight if that's what it takes to resolve an argument, while you would rather fill your pockets with granite and walk into the ocean.

And if you let me drive home, I’ll give you a massage later.” Back to sex, which was a pretty solid way of reminding him exactly where their non-relationship stood. He could live with sex. Shaking off the mushy-feelings stuff, he smiled and hooked his fingers in her front pockets. “How about I drive and I give you a massage later?” “You’re not going to let me drive, are you?” “I have the magic penis, so I get the keys, remember?” She laughed and tried to shove him away. “You’re a penis, all right. A big walking, talking penis.” He kissed her again, this time until she surrendered and wrapped her arms around his neck. There were only a few more days of kissing her in his future, so he intended to make it a priority. “Okay,” she whispered when he was done. “You can drive. But I get to pick exactly what part of me you’re massaging.” “I can live with that.” He slapped her on the butt when she climbed into the truck, and then laughed as he walked around to the driver’s side and caught her flipping him off through the window. He’d make her pay for that later.

This is an opportunity to access your deepest wisdom and assimilate it so that it becomes a part of your daily living. Beware of any potential traps or ruses that you’re tempted to get involved in. Rather than staying stuck in this apparent impasse, open your mind to the infinite number of possibilities that are before you, and make a choice. Don’t limit yourself to the mundane world, but instead be willing to explore other dimensions and realities. It’s time to write creatively without limits of tradition or habit, allowing yourself to be inspired by Nature. BLACK WIDOW SPIDER It’s time for a fresh perspective on what you’re doing, perhaps even a perspective that’s contrary to your usual way of thinking and seeing things. Your intuitive powers are very strong now, so pay closer attention to the subtle sensations in your body rather than relying solely on what meets the eye. You’ve done the hard work; now be patient and wait expectantly for the rewards that will come. There’s soon to be a substantial shift in the direction of your life, with a beneficial and renewed sense of purpose. This is a good time to do a dietary cleanse and detoxification to clear out any toxicity or pollutants in your body. Be direct and straightforward in all of your dealings, rather than dancing around the issues. What you once thought of as threatening is really quite harmless, so there’s no need to fear. There’s a situation you’re involved in where it will work better for you to remain in the background. BROWN RECLUSE SPIDER This is an opportunity to eliminate as much toxicity in your life as possible, in your body and in your relationships. Honor your need for solitude. This is a time of great transformation for you. TARANTULA Trust your intuitive senses—what you feel in your body—more than what you see. This is a time to shed anything that has served its purpose for the growth of your consciousness but is now no longer needed. Your sensitivity is increasing, particularly to the vibrations you feel from your environment. Be especially gentle to yourself in the next few days, doing whatever you can to provide comfort and self-nurturing. In spite of your sturdiness and strength, this is a very sensitive and delicate time for you, so treat yourself accordingly. Although you tend to stay in the background and by yourself, be willing to come forward as necessary for your own social and emotional nourishment.

I don't want her. I want you." "I didn't see you making any effort to push her away." My voice cracked, broke. I couldn't stop the painful mental replay of the Bloomingdale scene. It was on a permanent loop in my mind. "She had a gun in her pocket," Jack said. "Are you sure that wasn't you?

I didn't text you because I thought you'd probably run in the other direction," I snapped. "Or maybe back to Bloomingdale's for another smooch session with Clare." "Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise." Emma held out her hand, and Gage and Anil each handed her a twenty-dollar bill. "You took bets on us?" I stared at them, aghast. "You gotta admit that you two were always an unlikely couple," Emma said, pocketing the cash. "Bad-boy rogue thief with dubious underworld affiliations and no fixed address. Hardworking cookie-cutter good girl who worked in a candy store, spent her Friday nights watching crime shows with her octogenarian landlady, showed up every Sunday for dinner with the fam, and never refused a meet and greet with a prospective husband because she didn't want to let her parents down." "I organized a heist," I protested. "I was arrested for trying to break into a museum. I robbed a mob boss. I got so drunk I passed out on the floor. I did bad things." "In a good-girl way. No selfishness involved.

Gen Z became the first generation in history to go through puberty with a portal in their pockets that called them away from the people nearby and into an alternative universe that was exciting, addictive, unstable, and- as I will show-unsuitable for children and adolescents. Succeeding socially in that universe required them to devote a large part of their consciousness-perpetually-to managing what became their online brand. This was now necessary to gain acceptance from peers, which is the oxygen of adolescence, and to avoid online shaming, which is the nightmare of adolescence. Gen Z teens got sucked into spending many hours of each day scrolling through the shiny happy posts of friends, acquaintances, and distant influencers.

When you are dating someone, especially when the relationship is new, relying on him financially means relinquishing your independence. Single or married, no woman should be obligated to stay in a man pocket.

We will think deeply about our values, our relationships, our motivation and our mind-habits. We will take responsibility for living our lives with awareness and love.