Pretzels Quotes

Gallowglass returned to Sporrengasse with two vampires and a pretzel.

What about desserts?" I asked. "If the world comes to an end, I'm going to want cookies." "We're all going to want cookies if the world comes to an end," Mrs. Nesbitt agreed. "And chips and pretzels. If the world is coming to an end, why should I care about my blood pressure?" "Okay, we'll die fat," Mom said.

I like that: a little pressure on the understood boundaries of yourself. Sounded like something out of a self-awareness class, probably with yoga. See what kind of a pretzel you can tie yourself into and press on the understood... I was raving, if only to myself.

I am plenty romantic. Just this morning while he slept, I had left Carter a box of his favorite candy next to his pillow - Globs: piles of white chocolate covered, crushed potato chips and pretzels drizzled with caramel. I figured it would soften him up to the note I placed next to the box telling him if he left the toilet seat up one more time and my ass got an involuntary bath at six in the morning, I would put super glue on the head of his penis while he slept. I had even signed the note with a couple of Xs and Os. Who says romance is dead?

Marrying for sex is like flying to London for the free peanuts and pretzels. It's not the point of the thing, is it?

There will be all these fifty-year-old women wearing hot pants and squeezing themselves into pretzel shapes and then there will be me. Just reaching for my toes like they're China. 'Hello there! You're so far away, I can't get to you! Can you even hear me?

So what's your team called?" asked Kate, twisting her legs into a pretzel-like configuration, "We're called the Winmates because we're inmates who win." Kate looked back and forth at Reynie and Constance, searching their expression for signs of delight. "You gave yourselves a name?" asked Constance. Now it was Kate's turn to be baffled. "You didn't? How can you have a team without a name?

It was a universal truth among males that anytime you saw a guy get it in the nuts, you experienced a shot of phantom pain in your own croquet set. As Lassiter crouched beside the Brother’s pretzel of a body, he was feeling a little nauseous himself, and he took a moment to cup what hung between his legs—just to reassure the boys downstairs that however much of an iconoclast he was, some things were sacred.

What wasdat, sir? What wazzat sir? What wassat, sir?” “Wayne, what are you babbling about?” Waxillium asked. “Practicing my pretzel guy,” Wayne said. “He had a great accent...” Waxillium glanced at him. "That hat looks ridiculous.” “Fortunately, I can change hats,” Wayne said in the pretzel-guy accent, “while you, sir, are stuck with that face.

He was twisted as a pretzel, he was a tinfoil-halo shitnosed frogstomping king rat asshole, but he wasn't stupid.

Yoga’s nothing but young girls twistin’ themselves into pretzels and prayin’ to the devil.

Cthulhu seems like kind of a wuss if he can be trapped by a sinking island or killed by a boat." "That’s just because the stars aren’t right. When the stars are right, it don’t matter how many boats hit him. He’ll sink whole continents and lick off the people like salt off a pretzel." "Says you." "You keep talking smack like that, he’s gonna eat you first.

You could tell them why they should hire you so very much better than I could. But they won't listen to you and they'll listen to me. Because I'm the middleman. The shortest distance between two points is not a straight line--it's a middleman. And the more middlemen, the shorter. Such is the psychology of a pretzel.

Eddie scowled into his bowl of pretzels. The other two guys passed gas in harmony.

Algernon is a pleasant companion. At mealtimes, he takes his place at the small gateleg table. He likes pretzels, and today he took a sip of beer while we watched the ballgame on TV. I think he rooted for the Yankees.

I asked Elsie how much food they needed from outside the community. 'Flour and sugar,' she said, and then thought a bit. 'Sometimes we'll buy pretzels as a splurge.' It crossed my mind that the world's most efficient psychological evaluation would have just one question: Define splurge.

Don’t worry,” he said letting me go and adding a brownie and chocolate milk to my tray. “All they see is me fucking with you. They’d never suspect—” “That you were serious?” He grinned to himself and dumped a bag of pretzels and some French fries on my tray. “No, that you like me.

A laugh burst from Nina's lips. "Not as awkward as it must be for you. Honey, please. If you bent around any harder trying to let me know you fucked Lex to try and make me feel bad, you'd be a pretzel. Although you're about as smart as one.

Well say something, dammit, I'm choking on pretzels!

It is against the law to put pretzels in bags in Philadelphia.

Of Woman and Chocolate   "Chocolate shares both the bitter and the sweet. Chocolate melts away all cares, coating the heart while smothering every last ache.   Chocolate brings a smile to the lips on contact, leaving a dark kiss behind.   Chocolate is amiable, complimenting any pairing; berries, peanut butter, pretzels, mint, pastries, drinks...everything goes with chocolate.   The very thought of chocolate awakens taste buds, sparking memories of candy-coated happiness.   Chocolate will go nuts with you, no questions asked.   Chocolate craves your lips, melts at your touch, and savors the moment.   Chocolate is that dark and beautiful knight who charges in on his gallant steed ready to slay dragons when needed.   Chocolate never disappoints; it leaves its lover wanting more.   Chocolate is the ultimate satisfaction, synonymous with perfection.   Chocolate is rich, smooth pleasure.   Chocolate has finesse - the charm to seduce and indulge at any time, day or night.   Chocolate is a true friend, a trusted confidant, and faithful lover. Chocolate warms and comforts and sympathizes.   Chocolate holds power over depression, victory over disappointment.   Chocolate savvies the needs of a woman and owns her.   Simply put, chocolate is paradise.

Latia returned, coming around the curve and stepping through the glass. "Yes, it's our path," she reported. "And it seems to be near the ogre fen." "Oh? How do you know?" Esk asked. "Oh, nothing specific. Trees twisted into pretzels, boulders cracked with hairy fist marks on them, dragons slinking about as if terrified of anything on two legs. Perhaps I am mistaken.

In Einstein's equation, time is a river. It speeds up, meanders, and slows down. The new wrinkle is it can have whirlpools and fork into two rivers. So, if the river of time can be bent into a pretzel, create whirlpools and fork into two rivers, then time travel cannot be ruled out.

I have been completely unable to maintain any semblance of relationship on any level I have been a bastard to the people who have actively attempted to deliver me from peril I have been acutely undeserving of the ear that listen up and lip that kissed me on the temple I have been accustomed to a stubborn disposition that admits it wish it's history disassembled I have been a hypocrite in sermonizing tolerance while skimming for a ministry to pretzel I have been unfairly resentful of those I wish that acted different when the bidding was essential I have been a terrible communicator prone to isolation over sympathy for devils I have been my own worse enemy since the very genesis of rebels

They wandered to the door like that, a pretzel of a dead boy and a not-psychic girl.

I’ve come to terms with the fact that in a room full of J.Crews, I’ll always be a Target. I love Target. Let’s see J.Crew try to sell delicious soft pretzels in their store.

I don’t know what all crap Ben pulled to pollute your self-esteem, but from now on, when you want a pretzel, get a damn pretzel.

Look at cauliflower!” “Cauliflower?” “Yes, for centuries it was just a vegetable. Now it’s rice, pretzels, even pizza. If cauliflower can be pizza, you could be just about anything!

When she says margarita she means daiquiri. When she says quixotic she means mercurial. And when she says, "I'll never speak to you again," she means, "Put your arms around me from behind as I stand disconsolate at the window." He's supposed to know that. When a man loves a woman he is in New York and she is in Virginia or he is in Boston, writing, and she is in New York, reading, or she is wearing a sweater and sunglasses in Balboa Park and he is raking leaves in Ithaca or he is driving to East Hampton and she is standing disconsolate at the window overlooking the bay where a regatta of many-colored sails is going on while he is stuck in traffic on the Long Island Expressway. When a woman loves a man it is one ten in the morning she is asleep he is watching the ball scores and eating pretzels drinking lemonade and two hours later he wakes up and staggers into bed where she remains asleep and very warm. When she says tomorrow she means in three or four weeks. When she says, "We're talking about me now," he stops talking. Her best friend comes over and says, "Did somebody die?" When a woman loves a man, they have gone to swim naked in the stream on a glorious July day with the sound of the waterfall like a chuckle of water rushing over smooth rocks, and there is nothing alien in the universe. Ripe apples fall about them. What else can they do but eat? When he says, "Ours is a transitional era," "that's very original of you," she replies, dry as the martini he is sipping. They fight all the time It's fun What do I owe you? Let's start with an apology Ok, I'm sorry, you dickhead. A sign is held up saying "Laughter." It's a silent picture. "I've been fucked without a kiss," she says, "and you can quote me on that," which sounds great in an English accent. One year they broke up seven times and threatened to do it another nine times. When a woman loves a man, she wants him to meet her at the airport in a foreign country with a jeep. When a man loves a woman he's there. He doesn't complain that she's two hours late and there's nothing in the refrigerator. When a woman loves a man, she wants to stay awake. She's like a child crying at nightfall because she didn't want the day to end. When a man loves a woman, he watches her sleep, thinking: as midnight to the moon is sleep to the beloved. A thousand fireflies wink at him. The frogs sound like the string section of the orchestra warming up. The stars dangle down like earrings the shape of grapes.

An airplane crossed the sky, and she imagined its interior-people packed in rows like eggs in a carton, the chemical smell of the toilets, pretzels in foil pouches, cans hiss-popping open, black oval of night sky embedded in the rattling walls. How strange that something so drab, so confined, so stifling with sour exhalations and the fumes of indifferent machinery might be mistaken for a star.

Newel and Doren had inexhaustibly consumed milkshakes, burgers, sandwiches, tacos, nachos, pretzels, nuts, beef jerky, trail mix, soda, doughnuts, candy bars, cookies, crackers, and aerosol cheese. Of the fifty most impressive belches Seth had witnessed in his life, all had occurred on this road trip.

After the accident that night Sloane became an even more skeletal version of herself, sucking the salt off pretzel rods and drinking copious amounts of diet soda. And nobody said a word. Should she tell her brother’s daughters all that? How the doctors said she was punishing herself, which was, itself, a male notion? That in general it seemed people were grateful when a woman admitted she was bad and punished herself. It was the only way people would then agree to help. She wanted to tell them that.

Newel and Doren had inexhaustibly consumed milkshakes, burgers, sandwiches, tacos, nachos, pretzels, nuts, beef jerky, trail mix, soda, doughnuts, candy bars, cookies, crackers, and aerosol cheese. Of the fifty most impressive belches Seth had witnessed in his life, all had occurred on this road trip. “I hate to interrupt the feasting,” Vanessa said, “but we did come here for a purpose. Let’s try to focus on something besides sweet fat and salty fat for the next little while.” “Some of us have fast metabolisms,” Doren mumbled. “We just want fuel in the tank before we risk our necks,” Newel complained.

I am but a yogurt-covered pretzel in the void. Sweet on the outside, salty on the inside, and always deceiving people into thinking I’m not that bad when I’m actually packed with calories and trans fats.

Foods Uniquely Designed to Screw Up Your Brain Bagels Biscuits Cake Cereal Milk chocolate/white chocolate Cookies Energy bars Crackers Doughnuts Muffins Pastas Pastries Pies Granola bars Pizza Pretzels Waffles Pancakes White bread Milkshakes Frozen yogurt Ice cream Batter Gravy Jams Jellies Fries Chips Granola

I sat back in the corner with a heavy mug of dark beer and an opened glazed-paper package of pretzels and ate the pretzels for the salty flavor and the good way they made the beer taste and read about disaster.

I said I was sorry, Dani..." Kevin said, as they entered the apartment. "I'm so not talking to you." "I couldn't help it! She was so funny, and you were blushing, and... gawd, Dani, I couldn't help it!" "You just had to get us all soft pretzels, didn't you... just had to make sure we'd walk right by that lingerie store..." "Dani... it, uh, it hadn't even occurred to me-" "I hate you! When I go to therapy about this, I'm going to send you the bill!" "You're beautiful when your angry." "Then I must be fucking gorgeous right now!" "You are." "... Well, I'm still not talking to you.

The chips were the enablers, limited pellets of silicon that served an apparently unlimited range of functions, as like a single snackfood delivering the tastes of chocolate, vanilla, pork rind, popcorn, pretzel, and chip in every bitesized bite.

Those donuts aren’t food. THEY ARE POISON. Same with the chocolate chip cookies, the double Dutch chocolate cake, the can of soda, the bag of potato chips, and the pretzel-wrapped hot dogs. All that junk isn’t food. It doesn’t fuel you. It kills you. It literally kills you. It isn’t going to make you stronger, faster, healthier, smarter, or better. It’s going to do the opposite.

These are lines from my asteroid-impact novel, Regolith: Just because there are no laws against stupidity doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be punished. I haven’t faced rejection this brutal since I was single. He smelled trouble like a fart in the shower. If this was a kiss of gratitude, then she must have been very grateful. Not since Bush and Cheney have so few spent so much so fast for so long for so little. As a nympho for mind-fucks, Lisa took to politics like a pig to mud. She began paying men compliments as if she expected a receipt. Like the Aerosmith song, his get-up-and-go just got-up-and-went. “You couldn’t beat the crap out of a dirty diaper!” He embraced his only daughter as if she was deploying to Iraq. She was hotter than a Class 4 solar flare! If sex was a weapon, then Monique possessed WMD I haven’t felt this alive since I lost my virginity. He once read that 95% of women fake organism, and the rest are gay. Beauty may be in the eyes of the beholder, but ugly is universal. Why do wives fart, but not girlfriends? Adultery is sex that is wrong, but not necessarily bad. The dinosaurs stayed drugged out, drooling like Jonas Brothers fans. Silence filled the room like tear gas. The told him a fraction of the truth and hoped it would take just a fraction of the time. Happiness is the best cosmetic, He was a whale of a catch, and there were a lot of fish in the sea eager to nibble on his bait. Cheap hookers are less buck for the bang, Men cannot fall in love with women they don’t find attractive, and women cannot fall in love with men they do not respect. During sex, men want feedback while women expect mind-reading. Cooper looked like a cow about to be tipped over. His father warned him to never do anything he couldn’t justify on Oprah. The poor are not free -- they’re just not enslaved. Only those with money are free. Sperm wasn’t something he would choose on a menu, but it still tasted better than asparagus. The crater looked alive, like Godzilla was about to leap out and mess up Tokyo. Bush follows the Bible until it gets to Jesus. When Bush talks to God, it’s prayer; when God talks to Bush, it’s policy. Cheney called the new Miss America a traitor – apparently she wished for world peace. Cheney was so unpopular that Bush almost replaced him when running for re-election, changing his campaign slogan to, ‘Ain’t Got Dick.’ Bush fought a war on poverty – and the poor lost. Bush thinks we should strengthen the dollar by making it two-ply. Hurricane Katrina got rid of so many Democratic voters that Republicans have started calling her Kathleen Harris. America and Iraq fought a war and Iran won. Bush hasn’t choked this much since his last pretzel. Some wars are unpopular; the rest are victorious. So many conservatives hate the GOP that they are thinking of changing their name to the Dixie Chicks. If Saddam had any WMD, he would have used them when we invaded. If Bush had any brains, he would have used them when we invaded. It’s hard for Bush to win hearts and minds since he has neither. In Iraq, you are a coward if you leave and a fool if you stay. Bush believes it’s not a sin to kill Muslims since they are going to Hell anyway. And, with Bush’s help, soon. In Iraq, those who make their constitution subservient to their religion are called Muslims. In America they’re called Republicans. With great power comes great responsibility – unless you’re Republican.

New York in November really does have a special charm to it. The air is clear and crisp, and the leaves on the trees in Central Park are just beginning to turn golden. The sky is so clear you can see forever, and the skyscrapers lavishly reflect the sun’s rays. You feel you can keep on walking one block after another without end. Expensive cashmere coats fill the windows at Bergdorf Goodman, and the streets are filled with the delicious smell of roasted pretzels.

Human lives are hard, even those of health and privilege, and don’t make much sense. This is the message of the Book of Job: Any snappy explanation of suffering you come up with will be horseshit. God tells Job, who wants an explanation for all his troubles, “You wouldn’t understand.” And we don’t understand a lot of things. But we learn that people are very disappointing, and that they break our hearts, and that very sweet people will be bullied, and that we will be called to survive unsurvivable losses, and that we will realize with enormous pain how much of our lives we’ve already wasted with obsessive work or pleasing people or dieting. We will see and read about deprivation and barbarity beyond our ability to understand, much less process. Side by side with all that, we will witness transformation, people finding out who they were born to be, before their parents pretzelized them into high achievers and addicts and charming, wired robots.

Humans aren’t meant to be indefinitely bent into pretzels. We bend until we snap, and then we put ourselves back together and hold steady until someone or something bends us again. Every part of that process requires strength, and hope, I think.” Even the breaking. Even if you need help putting yourself back together.

There was an old Taoist who lived in a village in ancient China, named Master Hu. Hu loved God and God loved Hu, and whatever God did was fine with Hu, and whatever Hu did was fine with God. They were friends. They were such good friends that they kidded around. Hu would do stuff to God like call him "The Great Clod." That's how he kidded. That was fine with God. God would turn around and do stuff to Hu like give him warts on his face, wens on his head, arthritis in his hands, a hunch in his back, canker sores in his mouth and gout in his feet. That's how He kidded. That God. What a kidder! But it was fine with Hu. Master Hu grew lumpy as a toad; he grew crooked as cherry wood; he became a human pretzel. "You Clod!" he'd shout at God, laughing. That was fine with God. He'd send Hu a right leg ten inches shorter than the left to show He was listening. And Hu would laugh some more and walk around in little circles, showing off his short leg, saying to the villagers, "Haha! See how the Great Clod listens! How lumpy and crookedy and ugly He is making me! He makes me laugh and laugh! That's what a Friend is for!" And the people of the village would look at him and wag their heads: sure enough, old Hu looked like an owl's nest; he looked like a swamp; he looked like something the dog rolled in. And he winked at his people and looked up at God and shouted, "Hey Clod! What next?" And splot! Out popped a fresh wart. The people wagged their heads till their tongues wagged too. They said, "Poor Master Hu has gone crazy." And maybe he had. Maybe God sent down craziness along with the warts and wens and hunch and gout. What did Hu care? It was fine with him. He loved God and God loved Hu, and Hu was the crookedest, ugliest, happiest old man in all the empire till the day he whispered, Hey Clod! What now? and God took his line in hand and drew him right into Himself. That was fine with Hu. That's what a Friend is for.

The encounter put me in the mood to shop...Babette and the kids followed me into the elevator, into the shops set along the tiers, through the emporiums and the department stores, puzzled but excited by my desire to buy. When I could not decide between two shirts, they encouraged me to buy both. When I said I was hungry they fed me pretzels, beer, souvlaki. The two girls scouted ahead, spotting things they thought I might want or need, running back to get me, to clutch my arms, to plead with me to follow. The...y were my guides to endless well-being...My family gloried in the event. I was one of them, shopping, at last. They gave me advice, badgered clerks on my behalf...We moved from store to store, rejecting not only items in certain departments, not only entire departments but whole stores, mammoth corporations that did not strike our fancy for one reason or another. There was always another store, three floors, eight floors...I shopped with reckless abandon. I shopped for immediate needs and distant contingencies. I shopped for its own sake, looking and touching, inspecting merchandise I had no intention of buying, then buying it...I began to grow in value and self-regard. I filled myself out, found new aspects of myself, located a person I'd forgotten existed. Brightness settled around me. I traded money for goods. The more money I spent, the less important it seemed. I was bigger than these sums. These sums poured off my skin like so much rain

We sleep bent into pretzel shapes, our limbs arranged around our pets because we’d rather make an appointment with the chiropractor than disturb their purring slumber.

Being friends with him is like being friends with a very loud pretzel.

I don’t crave martinis the way I do, say, an economy-size bag of chocolate-covered pretzels, but when I need a warm blur to descend on me, and fast, it’s my elixir of choice.

Probably went to get a pretzel

became aware of how far gone I was when I found myself trying to Scotch-tape a broken pretzel together to stop my four-year-old from crying.

His popcorn exploded with truffle oil and shaved Parmesan, or chopped pretzels and chewy flecks of caramel. Today’s batch smelled like curry and toasted almonds.

Not for us the difficult poses, not for us the no-pain-no-gain, OK? Because to be truly happy you do not need to be a pretzel, you just need to walk without creaking.

Ooo, twisty and salty. Like a sexy, mean pretzel,” he teases. “My favorite kind.

So, suck on that, pretzel face.

You had to give the guy some credit. He was twisted as a pretzel, he was a tinfoil-halo shit-nosed frogstomping king rat asshole, but he wasn’t stupid.

Axel opens the book, not where it’s dog-eared halfway through, but at the beginning, before he pauses and feeds me another pretzel. “Now, prepare yourself. I have a stunning English accent.

More than once, his gaze drank in her red flannel pajamas, and she wished there was such a thing as sexy warm sleepwear. The giant pretzel had been invented so really, the science should be there.

…Sugar has become an ingredient avoidable in prepared and packaged foods only by concerted and determined effort, effectively ubiquitous. Not just in the obvious sweet foods (candy bars, cookies, ice creams, chocolates, sodas, juices, sports and energy drinks, sweetened iced tea, jams, jellies, and breakfast cereals both cold and hot), but also in peanut butter, salad dressings, ketchup, BBQ sauces, canned soups, cold cuts, luncheon meats, bacon, hot dogs, pretzels, chips, roasted peanuts, spaghetti sauces, canned tomatoes, and breads. From the 1980's onward manufacturers of products advertised as uniquely healthy because they were low in fat…not to mention gluten free, no MSG, and zero grams trans fat per serving, took to replacing those fat calories with sugar to make them equally…palatable and often disguising the sugar under one or more of the fifty plus names, by which the fructose-glucose combination of sugar and high-fructose corn syrup might be found. Fat was removed from candy bars sugar added, or at least kept, so that they became health food bars. Fat was removed from yogurts and sugars added and these became heart healthy snacks, breakfasts, and lunches.

At the fairgrounds we saw them in the parking lot inhaling the effluvium of carnival, the smells of fried dough, caramel and cinnamon, the flap-flapping of tents, a carousel plinking out music-box songs, voluptuous sounds bouncing down tent ropes and along the trampled dust of the midway. Wind-curled handbills staple-gunned to telephone poles, the hum of gas-powered generators and the gyro truck, the lemonade truck, pretzels and popcorn, baked potatoes, the American flag, the rumblings of rides and the disconnected screams of riders -- all of it shimmered before them like a mirage, something not quite real.

If we let this fellow stay in that position much longer, rigor mortis will harden him like a pretzel and they’ll have to press him between the pages of a dictionary to straighten him out for the stretcher.

Ingredients 1 package (8 oz.) cream cheese, softened 1 can (12 oz.) chunk white chicken, drained (you can also use chopped-up leftover roast chicken—about 1–2 cups) 1/2 cup Buffalo wing sauce (my friends prefer it spicy!) 1/2 cup ranch dressing 2 cups shredded cheese (you can go for something like a spicy Havarti, Colby, even cheddar—whatever you like most) Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Spread cream cheese on the bottom of an ungreased baking dish. We used one of my mom’s that’s rectangular and shallow and holds about a quart. On top of the cream cheese, layer your chicken. Then place wing sauce on top, and salad dressing on top of that. Finally, sprinkle cheese on top and bake until you see all the cheese melted and bubbly. It should take about 20 minutes; any longer and it might burn, so keep an eye on it. Go ahead and dip your chips in it; it’s pretty delicious on anything—even bread or a pretzel.

New Rule: It's okay for the president to play ball in the house. It's easy to judge and say this scene detracts from the dignity of the White House--until you consider the end zone is between Clinton's semen stain and where Bush OD'd on a pretzel.

He smiled sheepishly. “Heh. I actually finished the game.” My dad was addicted to video games. Before I was born, he once spent thirty-six hours straight playing Everguild, a very addictive Internet game, surviving only on caffeine and buttery pretzels.

Trust me. You wouldn't have been offered a job if he could see what was going on in there. I sort of imagine it like Cirque du Soleil, only the performers are a little drunk and also doing mind-bending, complex math problems while folding themselves into pretzels.

I closed my eyes, flared my nostrils, and let the scents flood in. The strongest of them, caramel and brown sugar, smell as yellow-orange as the sun, came first. That one was easy. The one that anyone would notice coming into the shop. And then chocolate of course, the bitter dark and the sugary milk chocolate. I don’t think a normal girl would’ve smelled anything else, and part of me wanted to stop there. But I could feel Sam’s heart pounding behind me, and for once, I gave in. Peppermint swirled into my nostrils, sharp as glass, then raspberry, almost too sweet, like too-ripe fruit. Apple, crisp and pure. Nuts, buttery, warm, earthy, like Sam. The subtle, mild scent of white chocolate. Oh, God, some sort of mocha, rich and dark and sinful. I sighed with pleasure, but there was more. The butter cookies on the shelves added a floury, comforting scent, and the lollipops, a riot of fruit scents too concentrated to be real. The salty bite of pretzels, the bright smell of lemon, the brittle edge of anise. Smells I didn’t even know names for. I groaned.

Hearts don’t snap like hard pretzels or burst like an overfilled balloon. No. A heart breaks in the heaving waves of a new reality. A tragic reality that has arrived uninvited. A heart breaks when you’re forced to face the possibility of a life you can’t bear to fathom.

Today, she’s greeted by the sight of Benjy, one foot planted on the scuffed tile floor and one pointed over his head, gripping his leg with his left hand, which would be startling if it weren’t such a classic Benjy ambush. Being friends with him is like being friends with a very loud pretzel.

I was wondering where the real party was." I jumped, sending my pencil in a sharp line across the page. Alex was standing two feet away, one booted foot on my step, hands thrust into the pockets of what looked too much like Emo pants: black and tight. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to surprise you." "You didn't surprise me," I gasped, left hand plastered to my chest. "You scared the crap out of me. Who raised you? Wolves?" He actually grinned. "You've met my parents. What do you think?" I wasn't going to touch that one. I just shrugged. "Why aren't you inside?" he asked after a few seconds. "It was too hot," I lied, closing my sketchbook as casually as I could. "Oppressive.Why aren't you?" "It was too...God, I don't know. Oppressive's a good word. Some fresh air seemed like a good idea." I looked past him, relieved not to see anyone else there. "All by yourself? That's...bold." His brows wen up. For a second, I thought he was going to turn around and leave. Instead,he took his hands out of his pockets and pointed at my step. "Big words for a small person. Can I sit down?" I swallowed. "Sure." He did, ending up with his elbows resting on his thighs and his right knee not quite touching mine. The silence went on just long enough to make in uncomfortable. But I wasn't going to help him with his small talk. I'm not very good at it in the best of circumstances. Sitting almost thigh to thigh with a guy who turned me into a mental pretzel was nowhere near a good circumstance.

I wonder what Lena is doing now. I always wonder what Lena is doing. Rachel, too: both my girls, my beautiful, big-eyed girls. But I worry about Rachel less. Rachel was always harder than Lena, somehow. More defiant, more stubborn, less feeling . Even as a girl, she frightened me—fierce and fiery-eyed, with a temper like my father’s once was. But Lena . . . little darling Lena, with her tangle of dark hair and her flushed, chubby cheeks. She used to rescue spiders from the pavement to keep them from getting squashed; quiet, thoughtful Lena, with the sweetest lisp to break your heart. To break my heart: my wild, uncured, erratic, incomprehensible heart. I wonder whether her front teeth still overlap; whether she still confuses the words pretzel and pencil occasionally; whether the wispy brown hair grew straight and long, or began to curl. I wonder whether she believes the lies they told her.

Here I am, here to please, to knock on your heart, tug on your sleeve, and sir, do you have a moment to discuss your life goals? The state of the economy? The state that wants secession? The recession of hair, of tides? The ceasefire and the forest fire and the brand-new flavor of fire-roasted pretzels? The exegesis of today’s front-page headlines? The story of how the world will end, slash, how the world began, slash, what kind of world is this, anyway, slash, how ‘bout that certain team that plays that certain sport? How about the environment? The economy? The bathroom? As in, can I use yours? Do you like comedy? Would you perhaps consider a list of vintage novelties you played with as a child? A listicle of popsicles you ate as a child? The story of your inner child? The story of the baby and the bathwater? The story of the baby otter and the baby giraffe and their unlikely friendship? “Can you just skip the stories and give me the pamphlet?

Before I opened my computer in the parking lot today, I relived one of my favorite memories. It's the one with Woody and me sitting on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum after it's closed. We're watching people parade out of the museum in summer shorts and sandals. The trees to the south are planted in parallel lines. The water in the fountain shoots up with a mist that almost reaches the steps we sit on. We look at silver-haired ladies in red-and-white-print dresses. We separate the mice from the men, the tourists from the New Yorkers, the Upper East Siders from the West Siders. The hot-pretzel vendor sells us a wad of dough in knots with clumps of salt stuck on top. We make our usual remarks about the crazies and wonder what it would be like to live in a penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue overlooking the Met. We laugh and say the same things we always say. We hold hands and keep sitting, just sitting, as the sun beings to set. It's a perfect afternoon.

What was it?” Serafina wandered off to look at yogurt-covered pretzels, probably annoyed at him for talking on the phone. Her long fingers lifted the packets of white twists, as though plucking flowers. Her nose twitched and she smiled, as if the pretzels had told her a joke. I will not let you get away, he said to Serafina in his mind.

My girlfriend showed up on Wednesday and we spent the afternoon making love. The constant creaking of my old bed really cracked her up. “It’s going to fall to pieces before long,” she predicted during a pause in our exertions. “There’ll be nothing left but splinters—we won’t be able to tell if they’re wood or pretzel sticks.” “Maybe we should try to make love more quietly.” “Maybe Captain Ahab should have hunted sardines,” she said. I thought about that for a moment. “Are you saying some things in this world can’t be changed?” “Kind of.” A short time later, we were back on the rolling seas, in pursuit of the great white whale. Some things really can’t be changed so easily.

Look. I spend my life in space for my five-and-dime gadgets and my beer-and-pretzel kickback from the Combines. There's fat fellows back there,' his thumb jerked over his shoulder and back, 'that sit at home and collect my year's income every minute-out of skimmings from me and more like me. Suppose you run the Foundation. You'll still need us.

She knew heartbreak. She also understood the pretzels one folds oneself into for love. She had followed one soulful man down perilous class-IV rapids. Still, he cheated on her. She moved into another boyfriend’s cabin without running water, where her hay fever was so bad she sneezed her way through sex. But by the end of it all, she knew what she wanted and who she was.

was sprawled on the family-room couch, half asleep in front of a Clint Eastwood movie. A can of ginger ale and an empty bag of pretzels sat on the table in front of him. He opened one eye and saw Maura, then looked at Greg and winked. “Hey, little buddy . . . I see your ladyfriend is here.” Greg felt the urge to lash out, like he’d done with Eileen and Brittany at school on Friday morning. But this time he didn’t take the bait. He said, “We’re just copying some artwork. For a project we’re doing. And it’s gonna make noise. We have to.” Ross heaved himself up off the couch, shut off the TV, burped, mumbled, “’Scuse me” in Maura’s general direction, and went looking for a quieter place to waste another hour or two. Greg said, “I got this paper that’s good and bright, but it’s not as thick as regular copy paper. Makes it easier to fold.” After placing the first master sheet face down on the glass, he pushed Print, and then held up the copy for Maura to see. Pointing at a gray area, he said, “See that? I can change the settings and make that part darker. It ought to be solid black. Except for that, it’s a good copy.” The machine beeped as Greg made the change, and then he pushed the Print button.

I never did understand the prospect of spending coin for pleasure, but my sister loved to shop. She ran her fingers lovingly over the fabrics on sale: silks and velvets and satins imported from England, Italy, and even the Far East. She buried her nose in bouquets of dried lavender and rosemary, and closed her eyes as she savored the tart taste of mustard on the doughy pretzel she had bought. Such sensuous enjoyment.

His stomach lurches. He has a sense, for the first time in his soldiering career, of what a war crime might look like from the inside. And it's not him who's the criminal, or even Caldwell. It's Justineau. And Mailer. And that drunken bastard Whitaker, and all the rest of them. Caldwell, she's just a butcher. She's Sweeney Todd, with a barber's chair and a straight razor. She didn't spend years twisting kids' brains into pretzels.

Healing is like a twisty pretzel, it's never linear. The process of healing is not something we need to be seeing as a staircase (one step higher after the other); but we need to see it as a part of life, an element of life, which is exactly what it is. Today you'll be better, tomorrow you'll be out of control, the next day you might be worse than that, and after that you'll be on top all over again. Like a pretzel. And there's salt all over it, too! But that's just like all other processes we go through, because life is a dance all over the dance floor; it's not an elevator ride. It's not one floor after the other. I mean, if it were that way then it wouldn't be worth living, would it? So, the next time you feel like you're losing your battle, remember that it's all about the salty pretzel: and at the end of the day, the pretzel is gonna be good. And you're gonna have a coke to wash it down. And you're gonna be okay.

What have you been eating?" "Jalebis." Anika held up a bright orange, pretzel-shaped sweet similar to a funnel cake. "Yesterday, we helped Dadi make chocolate peda," Zaina informed her, using the Urdu term for "paternal grandmother." "And the day before that we made burfi, and before that we made-" "Peanut brittle." Anika grinned. Layla bit back a laugh. Her mother had a sweet tooth, so it wasn't surprising that she'd made treats with her granddaughters in the kitchen.

Mollie?” He placed his hand on her shoulder, willing her to look at him. “Mollie, let’s go someplace where we can talk,” he said gently. Her entire body stiffened. “I’ve got work to do,” she mumbled. Was it his imagination or did she inch a little closer to the blond man beside her? Zack grasped her elbow and leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Mollie, get your backside off that stool and come outside with me. I’ll buy you a pretzel, and you can tan my hide for being late.

When I feel comfortable enough that he is not going to trip me, I manage to look down, and see that his feet are gliding gracefully on the floor in his bloack loafers. He's even doing this very hot rhythmitic figure eight with his hips. Maybe it's the music that's growing on me, or it's that I'm giddy from not having had anything to eat except half a miniquiche, but after a moment or so, I start to move my hips, too. And suddenly, I'm breathless again, but in a good way. Once Pip gets into the groove, he stops looking at the instructor and his eyes fasten on me. So close like this, they're shocking in their brilliance, so light blue as to be almost white. Like silver medallions moving back and forth on a chain, they're hypnotizing. Where did they come from? I swear they weren't so beautiful a day ago, when we were sitting in the food court, talking about ewl and popping stag mints. " Where did you learn to do this?" I whisper in his ear, still unable to break from his gaze. " Faries love to dance. This is similar to one of theirs," he explains as he slows to near a stop. His eyes focous on Fit Lady again, and before I can ask what he's doing, he expertly glides his leg out from underneath his body, dragging his foot on the ground. " Yours should follow him," Fit Lady says, watching my legs. ...then I feel her hand on my leg, pulling it up into the air. I toddle about on one leg like a top that's about to fall, so Pip steadies me, and I hold on so tight to his arms with my sweaty hands as to cut off his circualtion. But he doesn't seem to mind. I watch as she grips my leg at the knee and pulls it, higher, higher … almost to Pip's hip level, then force me to extend and curve it around him. Ow, I am not a pretzel. " What are you doing?" " Gancho," she says. " Just take your leg up and wrap it around his body." " Wait. Wh- wh-at?" He's still staring at me with those amazing eyes as I push him away, falling back onto my elbows with a deafening crack.

To Harlan, New York City was as chaotic and thrilling as the three-ringed circus that came through Macon each spring. No matter which direction his head spun, there was something new and exciting to behold: white men with long beards and black hats as tall as chimney stacks; poor people begging for money; rich people walking white poodles tethered to long leather leads; blind people tapping walking sticks; fat people munching soft, salted pretzels; and middle-of-the-road people like themselves.

...avocatul Raimund Pretzel s-a întrebat ce se întâmplase cu cei 50% dintre germani, care votaseră împotriva naziștilor la alegerile din... 1933. Cum fusese posibil, se mira el, ca această majoritate să fie cedat atât de rapid? De ce aproape toate instituțiile sociale, politice și economice ale Germaniei căzuseră în mâinile naziștilor cu atâta ușurință? ”Cel mai simplu, dacă priviți mai îndeaproape, aproape întotdeauna motivul principal”, a concluzionat el, ”a fost frica. Alătură-te bătăușilor ca să scapi de bătaie”.

Sometimes when I’m all pretzeled up inside and my own crazy lady is nattering on, I’ll stop and wonder where she got her information. I’ll ask her to reveal her source. I’ll demand some proof. Did her notions come from actual facts based in reason or did she/I dredge them up from the hell pit that burns like a perpetual fire at the bottom of my needy, selfish, famished little soul? Is there credible evidence that my friends secretly don’t like me very much or were they all simply deep in conversation when I walked into the room and it took them a beat to say hello?

Well," he asked, "whaddya expect?" It was so obviously a rhetorical question that of course I answered it. My truth impulse seemed stronger around this boy,my impulse control way under par. "I would expect you to be dancing." His expression was unreadable in the limited light. "Is that an invitation?" "No. An observation." He shrugged. "Okay. I needed a break. It was either keep an eye on Chase while he pukes up a fifth of cheap rum in the guys' bathroom or follow the girls into the ladies' room." I almost smiled and told him about Willing's bathrooms and me. Instead, some truly horrific and irresistible impulse had me announcing, "Amanda looks really pretty tonight." "So do you." Bizarrely, I felt my breath catch in my chest, and for a long, awful second, I thought I might cry. I gripped the top of my pad tightly, concentrated on the spiral metal binding where it dug into my skin. "It's a cool costume," he said. "Water nymph?" "Sea goddess," I answered quietly. "Roman." "Hmm." Alex was staring out toward the garden now,looking so at ease that I went from pretzel to knot. Could it really be that easy for him? To say things like he did without thinking? Without meaning them at all? "Too many mermaids tonight. Not that I have anything against mermaids.Mermaids are hot. I mean,you saw my drawing." I nodded. "You know," he went on, "that day in the hall,you compared my stuff to two Japanese artists-" I nodded again,even though he was looking out into the darkened gardens now and not at me. "Suzuki Harunobu and Utagawa Kuniyoshi. They were eighteenth and nineteeth-century woodblock print masters-" "Ella," he interrupted. "I know who they are." "Oh." "In fact, I have a couple original Kuniyoshi prints." "Oh.Wow.Wow.

Loaves of fig and pepper bread, of course. But there was also lasagna cooked in miniature pumpkins, and pumpkin-seed brittle. Roasted red pepper soup, and spiced caramel potato cakes. Corn muffins and brown sugar popcorn balls and a dozen cupcakes, each with a different frosting, because what was first frost without frosting? Pear beer and clove ginger ale in dark bottles sat in the icy beverage tub. They ate well into the afternoon, and the more they ate, the more food there seemed to be. Pretzel buns and cranberry cheese and walnuts appearing, just when they thought they'd tasted everything.

Despite the many cheerful photographs suggesting otherwise, I did not love lunch on the beach when the kids were little. They were so committed, it seemed, to getting sand in the cooler, sand in the chip bag, sand in the cherry bag, the cookies, the pretzels. They dropped their sandwiches into the sand, spilled my iced tea into the sand, poured sand over their own sweaty heads for no reason and cried. They stuffed their sandy baby fingers into my nostrils. They groped me with their sandy palms. They tracked sand over the towels and through my psyche. All I wanted was two unsandy seconds to swallow down their peanut butter and jelly crusts and call it a meal.

You always find a way to bring your sister up.”  Ani tucks a brown curl behind her ear. “Because you like each other.”  “And you know that how?” My voice keeps a neutral tone despite my growing interest.  “She looks at you like she wants to have your babies.”  I choke on my sudden intake of air. My fist pounds against my chest as I take a deep inhale. “I definitely don’t think that’s true.”  “You’re right. I wanted to see your reaction.” She shrugs.  Unbelievable. “You’re a cruel woman.” I steal a piece of her pretzel in retribution.  “But my sister does smile at you.” She says it in the sweetest, most innocent way.  “She smiles at everyone,” I grumble under my breath.  “How would you know?

Remember, every relationship is an opportunity to either discover more of your individuality and expand as a human being or do the pretzel dance and twist yourself into a smaller version of you based on who you think your partner wants you to be. Despite what your mind tells you, your partner is attracted to the real you—the authentic you that he first met—not the twisted version you think he wants. When you commit to being yourself from the start and to communicating your truth no matter what, you’ll avoid virtually all the drama, angst, and anxiety of not knowing where things stand that many other women experience on a daily basis. Most women are afraid to be real because they mistakenly believe that they’re not enough as they are. This “I’m not enough” mind-set not only is inaccurate but also destroys your well-being and ability to have a loving and satisfying relationship. Being yourself and speaking your truth from the moment you meet is the secret to having relationships unfold naturally and authentically. It is also the key to maintaining your irresistibility. Be yourself. Communicate what works you and what doesn’t. Do it from day one and never stop. This is the most powerful step you can take at the beginning of any relationship to set it up for long-term success. Speaking of relationship success, don’t confuse relationship longevity with relationship success. Just because a relationship lasts for many years does not mean it’s a success. Many couples cling to a lifeless and miserable existence they call a relationship because they are too afraid to be alone or to face the uncertainty of the unknown. Living a life of quiet desperation devoid of true love, passion, and spiritual partnership is not my idea of success. Relationships, again, are life’s grandest opportunity for spiritual growth and evolution. They exist so that we may discover ourselves, awaken our hearts, and heal our barriers to love. Every relationship you’ve ever had, or you ever will have, is designed to bring you closer to your divinity and ability to experience and express the very best of who you are.

To the Dead My concerns belong to the living. I see hear touch weigh myself on a street scale I dodge a blue tram In July I wipe the sweat off a shiny forehead I drink raspberry soda I am tired I am bored I write poems I think about death I buy pretzels and fuzzy peaches that look like baby mice I read Marx I don’t understand Bergson I go out dancing with a redhead and we laugh about the A-bomb the red circle of lips a long golden straw my girl in a green blouse drinks the moon from the sky a waiter carries foamy beer around lights glisten on the eyelashes of evening the memory of you covered my anxiety with a hand. These are my concerns. I live and nothing is as alien to me as you my dead Friend.

You taste salty-" Matilda licked her lips "-like pretzels." It was an intimate gesture. I brushed her lips with mine, and it brought me back to that magical night at the estate bowling alley when I treaded carefully with my lips. "You taste sweet," I said. "Like sugar." "Like guava." Matilda grinned playfully. "I missed you." It came out before I could think about it. "I missed you squared, times seven, plus four," Matilda replied. It reminded me of something Matilda would have said at the estate- childish in a way. She was a completely different woman than the girl I had met on the tennis court, yet in some ways still the same. I needed to love the woman she was becoming, not just the girl she had been.

I climb out of the Jacuzzi, go to the edge of the pool, curl my toes around the border tiles, and do a standing flip, which I pretzel into a can opener, leaning back just far enough to truly propel a geyser but not so far as to hit my head. Going under, I hear maximal vacuum suckage. Everything shudders. An aquatic bomb explodes. I surface to see that I have drenched half the banshees. They stare at me in saucer-eyed wonderment, because I have just done in one dive what they have failed to do in a hundred- shellacked the ceiling, which is now dripping wet, especially around the central light fixture. I'm kind of disguted with myself for showing off, but it's important to let them know that there are standards in the world.

Now, I’ve been eating the pretzels with my wife since we met in 1962 and I don’t think they are especially good. I certainly don’t think they are “thicker,” but she had been eating them far longer than I, and she insisted the formula had changed, or perhaps the machinery, and that as a result they were very slightly “thicker,” and she would no longer eat them and complained about them for months. She tried to call the manufacturer but got only recorded voice greetings. She wrote emails and even letters but nobody answered. My wife is not one to give up on a thing and I’d be hearing about it until I died. So one day I was looking at the package, while she complained behind me, and I said, “By God, we should drive to the factory and tell them in person.” We are retired now and have an RV.

WHEN YOU CROW UP IN KANSAS WEARING VERY LARGE SHORTS, thinking not very much of yourself, thinking mainly of your knees, looking mainly at your knees, your face a frisbee that cant fly, your teeth buck, your eyebrows rectangles, your forehead more than half of your face, your shirts shapeless, your shape shapeless, your Kansas shapeless, your lust absent, your legs bowed, your arches flat, your chest flat, your ears your only curves, your ears never pierced, your denim never dazzled, your sneakers white, your socks white, your teeth turquoise with rubber bands, your cheese orange, your milk whole, your bread wonder, your luxury a tuna casserole, your pale a neon pale, your fantasy to race a Mario Kart over the desert and into the final oasis, your earthly oasis a salted pretzel, your solitude total, your urges not even visible to you on the clearest days at the farthest horizons, your blank magnificent, your inertia wild and authentic, your nothing your preference, and then into it somebody walks, a Joan, this sudden hero can really take control. You’re susceptible first to idolatry, then to study, to apprenticeship, and finally to a kind of patient love that makes fun of itself and believes in itself without limit. Imagine being a pudding cup of a person and encountering a confident, elegant, powerful scholar who knows what to do with her shoulders. Imagine encountering you.

People talk about Divine Order. The people who are really pumped up about Divine Order are the people who have had a sweet Divine Order in their lives. I know that my life is what I have made it. But my mom? Divine Order is the concept that every single thing in your day and your life is exactly how it is supposed to be. Divine Order for some people is, “Went to college, got married, had three children who are now senators and oncologists, had seven grandchildren, then I died peacefully sitting on a blanket in the middle of my flower garden.” That is a really nice Divine Order. Then there are people with a different Divine Order. “Went to college, married an alcoholic, had six kids, twenty-four grandchildren, lived in my car, and died choking on a pretzel in the parking lot of a dollar store.” The Divine Order people are the same as the “money doesn’t matter” people. The people who say “money doesn’t matter” are the people with shitloads of money. If you ask an old lady who lives in the middle of a drug-infested, violent, poor community that she can’t leave because she can’t even afford bread, she might say that money matters. She might say that she had five children, but two of them were killed on the streets, and if she had money, she could have relocated herself and her children when they were small and maybe her life would look different today. So does money matter? Yes. It matters a lot.

Go grab one of those little baskets over there,” I said to Connor as I pointed by the door. “You aren’t seriously buying that much, are you?” “Ok Mr. Black, if you must know the truth, it’s my PMS time.” He took a step back and put his hands up, “Whoa, enough said.” I grinned as I picked up a bag of Fritos, Cheetos, a Hersey bar(king size), a Twix bar, a small pack of chocolate donuts, 3 cans of coke, a bag of tiny twist pretzels and a jar of Nutella. Connor looked in the basket and then at me with a horrified look on his face. “Hey, you’re the one who wanted to take me on this road trip. I’m just trying to keep the peace because without these foods for a woman at that time of the month,” I waved my hand. “Well, you don’t really want to know.” I put the basket on the counter. The cashier overheard our conversation, she looked at Connor and said, “Trust her; we girls are two sheets short of psycho when it comes to our special little time.” He just stood there and looked at both of us, speechless, as she rang up the food. She gave me the total, and I looked at Connor. He looked at me in confusion, “Really? You want me to pay for this crap?” The cashier leaned over the counter and looked him straight in the eyes, “Remember, 2 sheets short of psycho.” He pulled out his wallet and paid as he was mumbling under his breath. He took the bag and headed out. I looked at the cashier and high fived her, “Thank you.

Bruno reappeared with two baskets swathed in white linen napkins and a ramekin of something bright yellow. Thatcher unveiled one basket. "Pretzel bread," he said. He held up a thick braid of what looked to be soft pretzel, nicely tanned, sprinkled with coarse salt. "This is served with Fee's homemade mustard. So right away the guest knows this isn't a run-of-the-mill restaurant. They're not getting half a cold baguette here, folks, with butter in the gold foil wrapper. This is warm pretzel bread made on the premises, and the mustard ditto. Nine out of ten tables are licking the ramekin clean." He handed the bread basket to a waiter with a blond ponytail (male- everyone at the table was male except for Adrienne, Caren, and the young bar back who was hanging on to Duncan's arm). The ponytailed waiter- name?- tore off a hunk of bread and dipped it in the mustard. He rolled his eyes like he was having an orgasm. The appropriate response, Adrienne thought. But remembering her breakfast she guessed he wasn't faking it. "The other basket contains our world-famous savory doughnuts," Thatcher said. He whipped the cloth off like a magician, revealing six golden-brown doughnuts. Doughnuts? Adrienne had been too nervous to think about eating all day, but now her appetite was roused. After the menu meeting, they were going to have family meal. The doughnuts were deep-fried rings of a light, yeasty, herb-flecked dough. Chive, basil, rosemary. Crisp on the outside, soft on the inside. Savory doughnuts. Who wouldn't stand in line for these? Who wouldn't beg or steal to access the private phone line so that they could make a date with these doughnuts?

Once the vehicle started moving, she realized she had no idea where she was going. Wasn’t that always the case? Her phone chimed. Nick. Where did you go? Quinn deleted it. Then she started a new text. Playing sentry again tonight? The response text took less than three seconds. Why? Need rescuing, baby girl? Quinn smiled. Now that you mention it, yeah. I do. Her phone vibrated almost immediately. What’s up? I’m on a bus, bound for nowhere. Sweetheart, it’s a TRAIN bound for nowhere. Her heart gave a little squee at the endearment. It meant nothing and everything all at once. She smiled over her phone while she texted back. Well, I’m on a bus with no destination in mind. Want me to come get you? Quinn stopped and stared at the phone. Was this dangerous? It didn’t feel dangerous. Tyler had had ample opportunity to hurt her last night and he hadn’t. When Becca had first told her about finding Chris in the middle of a fight with Tyler and Seth in the parking lot, Quinn’s first question had been, “Why?” She’d never gotten a good answer. She slid her thumbs across the face of her phone. Are more taquitos in my future? Play your cards right and there might be a soda, too. His texts were teasing, so she wasn’t sure if his offer to come get her was genuine. She didn’t want to get off the bus until she knew for sure. Then her phone lit up with a new message. Don’t make me ride the bus all night. Where should I pick you up? “Excuse me,” she called to the driver. “What’s the next stop?” “Annapolis Mall. West side.” Next stop is Annapolis Mall. West side. Well look at that. You just got upgraded to a soft pretzel. See you in 10.

When we feel frustrated, our first inclination is to change whatever isn't working for us. We can try to accomplish this by making demands on others, attempting to alter our own behavior, or by a variety of other means. Having moved us to action, frustration will have done its duty. The problem is that life brings many frustrations that are beyond us: we cannot alter time or change the past or undo what we have done. We cannot avoid death, make good experiences last, cheat on reality, make something work that won't, or induce someone to cooperate with us when they may not feel like it. We are unable to always make things fair or to guarantee our own or another's safety. Of all these unavoidable frustrations the most threatening for children is that they cannot make themselves psychologically and emotionally secure. These extremely important needs — to be wanted, invited, liked, loved, and special — are out of their control. As long as we parents are successful in holding on to our children, they need not be confronted with this deep futility, fundamental to human existence. It is not that we can forever protect them from reality, but children should not have to face challenges they are not ready for. Peer-oriented children are not so lucky. Given the degree of frustration they experience, they become desperate to change things, to somehow secure their attachments. Some become compulsively demanding in their relationships with one another. Some become preoccupied with making themselves more attractive in the eyes of their peers — hence the large increase in the demand for cosmetic surgery among young people and hence, too, their obsession with being fashionably chic at earlier and earlier ages. Some become bossy, others charmers or entertainers. Some bend over backward, turning into psychological pretzels to preserve a sense of closeness with their peers. Perpetually dissatisfied, these children are out of touch with the source of their discontent and rail against a reality they have no control over. Of course, the same dynamics may also occur in children's relationships with adults — and all too often do — but they are absolutely guaranteed to be present in peer-oriented relationships. No matter how much the peer-oriented child attempts to change things by making demands, altering her appearance, making things work for others; no matter how she tones down her true personality or compromises herself, she will find only fleeting relief. She'll find no lasting relief from the unrelenting attachment frustration, and there will be the added frustration of continually hitting against this wall of impossibility. Her frustration, rather than coming to an end, moves one step closer to being transformed into aggression.