Preppy Quotes

You're a disgusting, shallow, womanizing jackass, and I hope that soda stains your preppy little shirt." Just before I marched away, i looked over my shoulder and added, "And my name isn't Duffy. it's Bianca. we've been in the same homeroom since middle school, you selfabsorbed son of a bitch.

With a chuckle, Jack mumbled under his breath to Nick. 'It's like watching the preppy, well-bred versions of you and me trash-talking.

You don't know about falling off cliffs, Prep­pie,' she said. 'You never fell off one in your god­damn life.' 'Yeah,' I said, re­cov­er­ing the power of speech. 'When I met you.

I'll always be here. You can't make me leave if you got the priest from the exorcist to come remove me. Cause I'm on step above demon... I'm Preppy.

When you start walking on egg shells around people, that’s when you know that those are people you don’t need to be around. Life’s too short to pretend to be anyone else.

You're crazy if you think that you can run off and change your identity. This unfeeling, preppy girl thing you got going on," he motions his hand at my tank top, white frilly skirt, and curly hair, "is nothing but bull shit. You can't just change who you are on the outside and expect it to change who you are on the inside.

Picture this, Olive. Early two thousands. Preppy, ridiculously expensive all-male DC school. Two gay students in grade twelve. Well, two of us that were out, anyway. Richie Muller and I date for the entirety of senior year - and then he dumps me three days before prom for some guy he’d been having a thing with for months.” “He was a prick,” Adam muttered. “I have three choices. Not go to the dance and mope at home. Go alone and mope at school. Or, have my best friend - who was planning on staying home and moping over gamma-aminobutyric acids - come as my date. Guess which?” Olive gasped. “How did you convince him?” “That’s the thing, I didn’t. When I told him about what Richie did, he offered!

I never knew true fear until I met pure evil. He wore a smile and a bow tie.

I pulled the MG in beside him at the curb and he got in. "This thing ain't big enough for either one of us," he said. "When you getting something that fits?" "It goes with my preppy look," I said. "You get one of these, they let you drive around the north shore, watch polo, anything you want." I let the clutch in and turned right on Dartmouth. "How you get laid in one of these?" Hawk said. "You just don't understand preppy," I said. "I know it's not your fault. You're only a couple generations out of the jungle. I realize that. But if you're preppy you don't get laid in a car." "Where do you get laid if you preppy?" I sniffed. "One doesn't," I said. "Preppies gonna be outnumbered in a while," Hawk said.

Like something happened to Preppy. That wasn’t your fault, dick slick. It was mine. I literally couldn’t dodge that bullet. See what I did there? Oh my shit I’m hilarious.

There is a preppy wabi-sabi to soft, faded khakis and cotton shirts, but it's not nice to be surrounded by things that are worn out or stained or used up.

What are you? Insane? I’m not interested in Ms. Preppy Uptight Sloan Ranger. Jeez. I’d get khaki between my teeth. Can you imagine? I’ve never been in khaki and I never want to see a woman out it. It scares me. (Dev)

Awesome!” Preppy hopped from one foot to the other. “I’m going to go iron my good bow tie.” “Prep?

I may be a lot of things, Doc. A criminal. Sure. A very good dresser. Absolutely. A man with a huge cock. Fuck, yes.” His face grew serious. “But I’m no fucking liar.

There are times when a lie can’t be helped. Honesty is a fickle bitch like that. I don’t believe in filtering, though. When you start walking on egg shells around people, that’s when you know that those are people you don’t need to be around. Life’s too short to pretend to be anyone else. I’m just me. I say what I want to fucking say. I do what I want to do and I don’t fucking apologize for it.

If everyone could feel as I felt at that moment, dressed in my preppy sweater and McGregor coat and about to set out on a little journey with my Bambi-eyed girlfriend on Christmas Eve, all conflicts in the world would vanish. Mellow smiles would rule the earth.

You cunts done yet?" Preppy called out with a sigh, letting his shoulders fall. "Ya'll fight like bitches. When one of you taps out I bet it's because you gotta go change your fucking tampon." He shook his head and rolled his eyes.

Above all else, I felt his love. He’d said he couldn’t keep me. That didn’t mean I wouldn’t always be his.

Just because you have blue hair and fucked-up clothes doesn’t mean you’re better than everyone else. Because you know what? You’re just conforming to someone else’s code. Even though you don’t wear khakis or sweaters or whatever, but to me all you guys look the same. You think you’re so individualistic, but you’re not. You guys—you and Kim and all the rest—you’re like anti-snob snobs. But you’re just as mean as the preppy kids. You’re all just as fucking lame.

She was the girl I was in love with. The girl I would always be in love with. Until my very last breath.

The Royal boys are not what I expected. They don’t look like rich pricks in preppy clothes. They look like terrifying thugs who can snap me like a twig.

Life’s too short to pretend to be anyone else. I’m just me. I say what I want to fucking say. I do what I want to do and I don’t fucking apologize for it.

The funny thing about life is that even though something entirely earth-shattering rocks you to your core, something that shakes you off your axis, the world around you somehow doesn’t feel the impact.

Listen, life isn’t about what happened to you in your past, it’s about where you are now and where you’re going. Onward and upward and all that jazz.” “That’s

Hey Doc?” he asked, searching my eyes. His laugh quieted and his smile fell. My stomach flipped. “Yeah?” “This time…I’m gonna keep you.

Because pancakes.” ****

I wanted to see her sad. Taste her tears. I wanted to know what she sounded like when she cried. In pain, in pleasure, in both.

He'd said he couldn't keep me. That didn't mean I wouldn't always be his .

The saying that blood was thicker than water didn’t mean jack shit to me because I knew who my family was and blood was something we spilled for one another, not shared.

Preppy isn’t just off his rocker, he’s not even on the fucking porch.

Us southern boys can pretty much make a grill out of anything,” Preppy said, plating the last burger. “I’m like a redneck MacGyver.

I’ve noticed she doesn’t wear designer clothing or preppy getups like most of the females at this school, or the trashy party clothes you see on Greek Row and at the campus bars on weekends.

I have nightmares all the time. You know what’s the only thing that makes them go away?” He placed his hand over mine. “You. You silence the world when it’s too fucking loud. You make me feel less broken.

You want to be high? You can be high on me. You want to take the edge off? I’m gonna do just that, baby.

What if the stains are too great?” “No, you’ll see. It’s the stains that make us human,

Because my name is Samuel Clearwater, and I take orders from no one. Not even death.

You killed him." I held up my index finger and my thumb, slowly closing the gap between them, peering over at Dre through the tiny slit that remained. "Little bit." "I don't think you can kill someone a little bit." "Oh, well then, a lot bit. I killed him a lot bit.

His massive frame occupies most of the doorway. He looks like a linebacker, or is it a quarterback I'm thinking of? The point is, he's a total Sasquatch. His t-shirt and preppy knit cardigan clash with his gargantuan body. Still, he's a decent eye candy. "What can I help you with?" she asks. Her eyes dart back and forth between me and the yeti.

Preppy leans back on the siding and hooks his thumbs under his suspenders, stretching and releasing them several times before he speaks. “Sooo…I hate to be the bearer of interesting news, but you’re looking at her like you want to eat her. Stalk much?” “No, I’m fucking not,” I snap defensively. Too defensively. Preppy releases his suspenders and holds up his hands like he’s on the receiving end of a hold-up. “Whoa, whoa. Don’t go getting your panties in a twist, little brother. I didn’t say stalking was a bad thing. In fact, if you need some pointers, I’d be happy to enrol you in Preppy’s How To Stalk Like a Mofo 101.

The first stirring of any kind of desire in over a year comes courtesy of the devil in a bow tie. Man, I was really fucked up.

Challenge accepted. We were over well before we had a chance to get started, but we were about to go out with a bang.

We gotta seize the day. Carpe the diem while we still have diem’s to carpe and all that shit.

It’s kind of amazing that at this early point in the morning he so resembles a freshly minted preppy action figure, still in the packaging.

King, Preppy, and Bear. The three fuck-you-up-a-teers that don’t take shit from anyone.

he still looked like a preppy douchebag who wore sweaters tied around his neck like some Ivy League pedophile to me.

The boys I met there could easily have been classified as preppy snobs, boys who had been born on third base and thought they hit a triple (as my mother often quoted),

Why do you have a gun?” I asked, without thinking of how stupid my question really was. Maybe, if he ever put his god dammed shirt back on, my case of stupid would turn back off. “Why do I have a gun?” he repeated, like it was the ridiculous question that it was. “’Cause throwing bullets by hand isn’t exactly effective.

Prep clothes are sensible: rain clothes keep you dry; winter clothes keep you warm; collars are buttoned down so they don't flap in your face when you're playing polo. Layering is a natural response to varying weather conditions.

Style isn't just about what you wear, it's about how you live.

My strength had always been in my amazing ability to be completely and brutally honest. Of course, the gift of honesty was in addition to my sense of humor, wit, charm, character, striking good looks, phenomenal – yet classic – sense of style, and last but not least, the tribungus slab of man meat dangling between my legs. But I motherfucking digress.

This wasn’t going to be some sort of warm and fuzzy reunion. No, it was a fucking relapse.

But I was saved by someone. I wouldn’t call him a guardian angel exactly. More like a devil with good timing.

I came to Logan’s Beach for closure. Instead, I was leaving the same way I left the first time. With a broken heart.

Because, baby girl. If hurt is what you want, hurt is what I can do.” “What…what

Because you are the light in all of my dark,” I said, reciting a line from the letter he’d written me. Preppy

You should know by now, Doc, that even death can't keep a motherfucker down," Preppy said with a devilish smile.

Taming Preppy would be like trying to put a leash on the wind. However,

her hair pulled back in one of those tremendous preppy bows from the Talbots catalogue.

I looked so preppy you'd guess my tramp stamp was a monogram

his photographs, Parker tries to look street, but he is preppie

My wardrobe consisted entirely of girly clothing for a reason. Some of it was goth-girly, and some of it was preppy-girly, but the grand unifying theme was, say it with me, GIRLY.

Your powers of observation are formidable," Michael says and Darien giggles behind one perfectly manicured hand, like some sort of preppie geisha.

You should know by now, Doc, that even death can’t keep a motherfucker down,” preppy said with a devilish smile.

Bloodies are the centerpiece of the Sunday Brunch--they are also, perhaps, the #1 Prep mixed drink..... 1. Place ice cubes in a large glass 2. Pour in two fingers of vodka 3. Fill glass almost to top with V-8 4. Season with: 2 drops Tabasco, 4 drops Worcestershire, 1/2 tsp. horseradish, 1 tsp. lime juice 5. Add wedge of lime, stir and drink 6. Repeat as needed

You’re never leaving me. Say it. You’re never fucking leaving me,” Preppy ground out. I wanted to say the words back, but I was literally being fucked senseless. I began to see stars. Brief flashes of white light as he fucked the words into my heart the same way he was fucking my pussy. Passionate. Relentless. Rough. Frenzied. We were all of that and more. So much more.

I don’t give two fucks what happens to me. I don’t even know who I am to care about so how the fuck am I supposed to take care of you?” “Samuel Clearwater, I might have needed you to take care of me once and you did. You saved my life. But I’m not that girl anymore. I can take care of myself. I can save myself if I need saving and if you need me to then I can save you too.

So, what are we watching?” Preppy asked, leaning back on his elbows and crossing his feet at the ankles. “Ooh, Demolition Man. This is my jayum.” “Get the fuck out,” I said, shoving him off the bed. “You guys are no fucking fun,” Preppy pouted, picking himself up off the carpet. “You are all in lovers’ land and forgot all about ole Preppy over here.” He stuck out his lower lip and drooped his shoulders.

I restrained the urge to slam my door. On the right stood a teenage guy with thick chestnut hair, chocolatey brown eyes, and the kind of perfectly square jaw I thought only existed on models. He wore khaki pants and a white shirt - classic preppy gear, though on him it looked incredibly hot. The man on the left had black hair with wings of pure white at the temples, and unbelievable blue eyes the color of the Caribbean. Not that I've ever seen the Caribbean, but I swear you could have cut and pasted his eyes right into an ad for the Bahamas. Meanwhile, I looked like I didn't know how to operate a washing machine. My shorts had a glob of strawberry jelly on them from breakfast, my wrinkled gray T-shirt looked like it had been slept in (which it had), and my Seattle Mariners baseball hat had a dark ring around the brim. Grandma practically winced as her gaze traveled up and down my outfit. Her taste runs toward matching velour tracksuits, so I don't usually worry about her opinion much. Still, this time I think she was right.

from The Prep Pantheon: An All-Time Great Alumni Association Caroline Kennedy. Concord Academy ’75. Harvard ’80. On technical points Preppier than Mummy. During four years at Harvard Square, an unnatural fiber never went near her body (except for the shell of her L. L. Bean down vest). Her lacrosse game was ruthless, her brunch technique dazzling (smoked heavily, sat with the descendents of three other presidents).

There ain’t many people out there who have my respect. Respect needs to be earned. Preppy’s got mine. The man might have a case of verbal diarrhea there ain’t no cure for, but he’s been through hell and back. He’s been tortured and brutalized the likes of which most folks can’t begin to imagine. Most men, the strongest of men, in both body and spirit would’ve caved after that. Not Preppy. Not Samuel Motherfucking Clearwater.

For an immature little preppy guy, you're pretty smart." "An immature little preppy guy?" he repeated in an outraged tone of voice. "You look like someone who would need a note from his mother to get out of gym class," I said. "Life is full of surprises," he admitted. "When you see the heat I'm packing, all this talk about imatture and little will go straight out of the window." "Is that a promise?" "You'll be crying for your mama.

Preppy is capable of both cruelty and mercy, of both murder and salvation. He’s been the victim, the villain, and the hero. What I don’t think he’ll ever realize is that this gives him a power most men would dare not aspire to.

How else could we identify another weirdo or outlier? These symbols intimated a belief system, a way of thinking not just about music but about school and friends and politics and society. It was also a way to separate yourself, to feel bold or try on boldness without yet possessing it. A little inkling of the nonconformist person you could be—you wanted to be—but weren’t quite ready to commit to. I papered my walls with band posters and what little I could find in mainstream magazines about alternative and punk, maybe a picture of Babes in Toyland from Spin or Fugazi from Option. The iconoclast images and iconography covered my room, a jarring contrast to the preppy blue-and-white-striped wallpaper I’d insisted on in elementary school. I resented the parts of myself that were late to adopt coolness, late to learn—I wanted to have always possessed a savviness and sophistication, even though I clearly had neither.

A preppy girl at the end of the table rolls a quarter off her nose and bounces it toward a glass in front of her. The coin hits the glass and falls back on the table. “Off the rim has to drink,” the guy next to her says too loudly, even with the music. The girl flashes him a defiant stare as she picks up a large cup to her left and chugs the liquid inside. She never breaks eye contact even as she slams the empty cup back down. Modern mating rituals at their finest.

That’s one of the reasons I’m here. In town. For closure. I’ve made so many mistakes. So freaking many.” “Did you find it?” Preppy asked. “Your closure?” I looked over to the dark corner and felt his eyes on me when I whispered, “Not even close.

Noah held his hand out. She accepted it - it was bone-cold, as always - and together they turned to face the huge room. Noah took a deep breath as if they were preparing to explore the jungle instead of stepping deeper into Monmouth Manufacturing. It seemed bigger with just the two of them there. The cobwebbed ceiling soared, dust motes making mobiles overhead. They turned their heads sideways and read the titles of the books aloud. Blue peered at Henrietta through the telescope. Noah daringly reattached one of the broken miniature roofs on Gansey's scale town. They went through the fridge tucked in the bathroom. Blue selected a soda. Noah took a plastic spoon. He chewed on it as Blue fed Chainsaw a leftover hamburger. They closed Ronan's door - if Gansey still managed to inhabit the rest of the apartment, Ronan's presence was still decidedly pervasive in his room. Noah showed Blue his room. They jumped on his perfectly made bed and then they played a bad game of pool. Noah lounged on the new sofa while Blue persuaded the old record player to play an LP too clever to interest either of them. They opened all the drawers on the desk in the main room. One of Gansey's EpiPens bounced against the interior of the topmost drawer as Blue withdrew a fancy pen. She copied Gansey's blocky handwriting onto a Nino's receipt as Noah put on a preppy sweater he'd found balled under the desk. She ate a mint leaf and breathed on Noah's face. Crouching, they crab-walked along the aerial printout Gansey had spread the length of the room. He'd jotted enigmatic notes to himself all along the margin of it. Some of them were coordinates. Some of them were explanations of topography. Some of them were Beatles lyrics.

CLOTHES SWITCH How would the story change if the characters were dressed differently—preppy, gangsta rapper-style? ETHNIC/RACE SWITCH What if the characters were given different ethnicities or races? How would that change the story? EMOTION SWITCH

There we stood, in the middle of the living room, hugging it out, each trying to hold back our tears until our need to cry outweighed our need to be the manly fucking men we were and we were no longer able to hold in the tears. “I’m not fucking crying,” Bear sobbed. “Me either, you fucking pussy,” I sobbed back as my old friend held me tighter and we hugged and punched each other hard on the backs until I was sure we were going to give each other bruises, and if it went on much longer, probably some broken ribs. When he finally let go of me we quickly wiped our eyes and noses on our t-shirts, because real men don’t fucking cry.

So, Bran, tell us,” said a lanky guy in a striped rugby shirt and salmon-colored chinos. He was standing next to a guy in Bermuda shorts and buckskin shoes. Every year more and more preppies were showing up at her parties and if she was honest with herself, she knew it was Brandon’s influence.

His secret, like those of nine of his fellow seniors, is safe with me. At Milton High, I’m my own statistic. People fail to see the great equalizer, the one thing the band geeks, the drama nerds, the jocks, and the preppies all have in common. Me-Mercedes Ayres. The girl who took their virginity.

Preppy tries to hide his crooked smile and narrows his eyes at his son. “Bo, what did we say about using those kinds of words?” Bo recites his answer without apology, like he’s remembering them from a textbook. “Not to say them in front of my mother, my sisters, or my teachers because they don't understand that swearing is a sign of emotional intelligence according to recent medical psychological studies in major publications. And socially not acceptable for an eight-year-old to use in public because it makes mom look like she’s not doing her job when we all know that my terrible language is all your fault.” Preppy nods. “That’s right.

Stan, I’m going to suggest you leave before I tell you that you have a tiny penis and I wasn’t exactly sure we were having sex at all. You wear too much aftershave and if you’re going to manscape, you might want to have a go at your back. So, unless you want to hear all that, you’d better sprint your preppy, pencil-pushing ass off my porch.

One, she didn’t need to be saved. Two, I was in no fucking shape to be anyone’s knight.

The second I spotted him in the crows I knew this wasn't going to be some sort of warm and fuzzy reunion. No, it was a fucking relapse.

I grew up in the South Bronx in the ’80s, and in the mid-’90s was plucked from there and escorted to boarding school in pastoral Connecticut (Choate Rosemary Hall, Pomfret). In my years at school, and subsequently at college (Trinity, in Hartford), I never once heard the term “hipster.” Looking back, I think hipsters, yuppies, and preppies were the same thing

Sergeant Pepper was dead. G.I. Joe lived on. George Bush was president, movies stars were dying from AIDS, kids were smoking crack in the ghettos and the suburbs, Muslims were blowing airliners from the skies, rap music ruled, and nobody cared much about the Movement anymore. It was a dry and dusty thing, like the air in the graves of Hendrix, Joplin, and God. She was letting her thoughts take her into treacherous territory, and the thoughts threatened her smiley face. She stopped thinking about the dead heroes, the burning breed who made the bombs full of roofing nails and planted them in corporate boardrooms and National Guard Armories. She stopped thinking before the awful sadness crushed her. The sixties were dead. The survivors limped on, growing suits and neckties and potbellies, going bald and telling their children not to listen to that satanic heavy metal. The clock of the Age of Aquarius had turned, hippies and yippies had become preppies and yuppies. The Chicago Seven were old men. The Black Panthers had turned gray. The Grateful Dead were on MTV, and the Airplane had become a Top-40 Starship. Mary Terror closed her eyes, and thought she heard the noise of wind whistling through the ruins.

The funny thing about life is that even though something entirely earth-shattering rocks you to your core, something that shakes you off your axis, the world around you somehow doesn’t feel the impact. Or

The Head of the Charles in Cambridge, Mass., is the great American crew event, athletically and socially. It occurs the second weekend in October; secondary schools and colleges send shells in all categories in the three-mile race up the Charles River. Drunken Preps line the banks and bridges at Harvard, ready to howl with glee as a coxswain rams his shell into a stanchion of the Eliot Street Bridge (where the river narrows and curves with treacherous suddenness).

These, of course, are not the preppy boys we go to school with; these are the dirt-in-the-cracks-of-the-hands kind of boys, farmhands and fishermen who, once school starts, we'll let drift away...But they're nice to us because they're country, and they're just glad to have any kind of girl along. They keep coolers for us full of beers and sodas and green boiled peanuts in Ziplock bags and tell us we're pretty as models. They're either blind or lying, but you know what? It's summer, and we don't care.

Calvin nodded and withdrew. Myron dialed the private line of Windsor Horne Lockwood III, president of the prestigious investment firm of Lock-Horne Securities in midtown Manhattan. Win answered on the third ring. “Articulate,” Win said. Myron shook his head. “Articulate?” “I said articulate, not repeat.” “We have a case,” Myron said. “Oh yippee,” he drawled in that preppy, Philly Main-Line accent of his. “I’m enthralled. I’m elated. But before I completely wet myself, I must ask but one question.” “Shoot.

in such a rush that I tripped over Mirna’s pet pig in the hallway. Oscar grunted and oinked, and even in the darkness I saw the disapproving glare in his piggy eyes. “Fuck you, Oscar, don’t be all judgey,” I whispered. More grunting. “One more look like that and I’ll tell Mirna how you like to dry hump her teddy bear collection during her afternoon nap.” The oinking stopped and he backed away into the bathroom, where I’d set up the giant dog bed he slept on. I flashed him a smug winning look and flipped him off. I

if you motherfuckers must know, I was looking up porn,” Preppy said with a shrug of his shoulders. There was a rustling in the brush up ahead. A huge brown hog with wiry hair and a broken tusk darted out from its hiding place and into the clearing, making a run for his life through the trees. Preppy lifted his gun and pulled the trigger. He missed the fast moving pig and the bullet blew a huge hole into a tree stump. “But you’d be surprised how one little misspelling of the word BEASTIALITY can change the entire fucking nature of a search.

In crew, contempt is important. In Boston, Boston University and Northeastern crew are treated with contempt by the college up the river. Intramural crew is treated with contempt. Nonathletic coxswains (Chinese engineering majors, poets) are treated with contempt. A true coxswain is a diminutive jock, raging against the pint size that made him the butt of so many jokes at Prep school. He runs twenty stadiums a day, his girlfriend is six feet one, and he can scream orders even when he has the flu (which he catches at least three times a winter).

I know it's a guy who will talk to me, he wears his cockiness like an ironic T-shirt, but it fits him better. He is the kind of guy who carries himself like he gets laid a lot, a guy who likes women, a guy who would actually fuck me properly. I would like to be fucked properly! My dating life seems to rotate around three types of me: preppy Ivy Leaguers who believe they're characters in a Fitzgerald novel; slick Wall Streeters with money signs in their yes, their ears, their mouths; and sensitive smart-boys who are so self-aware that everything feels like a joke.

The social codes are different, distinctly preppy, fraternity-sorority, hip, flip, fast-and-cute, nauseating, and artificial. I have no doubt that the majority of these people are interesting, likeable, intelligent people. Unfortunately, they've been taught not to show it. The problem lies in socializing. When these people socialize, they don a common "mask." They talk a certain way (hip, flip) act a certain way, do certain things, all of which have been defined as socially acceptable. By acting in such a way, one makes "friends." With time, friends use their masks less and less, and a true, deep friendship results.

The larger of the two - and he was quite large, well over six feet - was dark-haired, with a square jaw and coarse, pale skin. He might have been handsome had his features been less set, or his eyes, behind the glasses, less expressionless and blank. He wore dark English suits and carried an umbrella (a bizarre sight in Hampden) and he walked stiffly through the throngs of hippies an beatniks and preppies and punks with the self-conscious formality of an old ballerina, surprising in one so large as he. "Henry Winter," said my friends when I pointed him out, at a distance, making a wide circle to avoid a group of bongo players on the lawn.

Preppy had been responsible for all the dicks that had been spray painted on stop signs and light poles throughout the town. “I use special paint, too. Shit’s never gonna come off. When I’m long gone my beautiful big black cocks will still be everywhere in this shit town.” “Oh you like big black cocks?” I asked, nudging him in his bony ribs with my elbow. “Only my own,” Preppy said, grabbing his dick through his khakis. King rolled his eyes. “You’re not fucking black, asshole.” “I am from the waist down, motherfucker, have you seen the size of my fucking cock?” Preppy reached for his belt. “Preppy, if you pull your fucking cock out again I’m

There is a place where light and dark meet in the sky when the sun's setting where it's not quite day and not quite night. A grayish mist among the black and yellow. I like to think of it as a place where right and wrong, black and white, life and death aren't finite. I call that place 'the in-between' and to me that's where you and I will always exist. Together.

I’d never set foot on the AT, but I’d heard much about it from the guys at Kennedy Meadows. It was the PCT’s closest kin and yet also its opposite in many ways. About two thousand people set out to thru-hike the AT each summer, and though only a couple hundred of them made it all the way, that was far more than the hundred or so who set out on the PCT each year. Hikers on the AT spent most nights camping in or near group shelters that existed along the trail. On the AT, resupply stops were closer together, and more of them were in real towns, unlike those along the PCT, which often consisted of nothing but a post office and a bar or tiny store. I imagined the Australian honeymooners on the AT now, eating cheeseburgers and guzzling beer in a pub a couple of miles from the trail, sleeping by night under a wooden roof. They’d probably been given trail names by their fellow hikers, another practice that was far more common on the AT than on the PCT, though we had a way of naming people too. Half the time that Greg, Matt, and Albert had talked about Brent they’d referred to him as the Kid, though he was only a few years younger than me. Greg had been occasionally called the Statistician because he knew so many facts and figures about the trail and he worked as an accountant. Matt and Albert were the Eagle Scouts, and Doug and Tom the Preppies. I didn’t think I’d been dubbed anything, but I got the sinking feeling that if I had, I didn’t want to know what it was.

I also need to make sure you two both know how this ends. When you come in, if the choice is between me or her, you chose her. You always choose her.” I will always choose her. I cracked my knuckles. “I can’t do this unless I know in the end, no matter how this fucking shit plays out, that she’ll at least make it out whole,” I said. Looking back toward the houseboat, Jake nodded. “Agreed.” “No problem,” Bear said. “In the event you don’t make it out though, I’ll take real good care of your girl for you.” “Jake,” I said. “If I don’t come out of this, shoot that motherfucker in the head.” I stood and started walking toward the houseboat. “10-4,” Jake answered. “What the fuck?” Bear shoved my shoulder. “You can’t say that kind of shit to him, man. He’ll take you fucking seriously.” “That was fucked up, Boss Man. Jake wouldn’t know sarcasm if it bit him on his Dexter ass,” Preppy chimed in. “Good. Cause I wasn’t fucking joking,” I said. “It’s