Profile Picture Quotes

And there it was. Just like that I had my next case and my curiosity was piqued. Connecting to the ship’s Wi-Fi, I did a Google search of Judge Russell Hastings of Tallahassee, Florida. Wow. Wow. Wow. Perusing just a few of the hundreds of listings it became quickly apparent that the judge was both well-known and well-respected. The murder of a high-profile appellate judge in his own chambers was a mystery that had baffled the Tallahassee police for over a year. There were pictures of the judge and his family; including a beautiful wife and three grown daughters.

A professional headshot in front of a bookshelf says you're an intellectual. A professional headshot peeking though a bookshelf says you're probably under a restraining order.

I thought about the word 'profile' and what a weird double meaning it had. We say we're looking at a person's profile online, or say a newspaper is writing a profile on someone, and we assume it's the whole them we're seeing. But when a photographer takes a picture of a profile, you're only seeing half the face... It's never the way you would remember seeing them. You never remember someone 'in profile.' You remember them looking you in the eye, or talking to you. You remember an image that the subject could never see in a mirror, because you are the mirror. A profile, photographically, is perpendicular to the person you know.

My companions could make observations. Sloane could generate relevant statistics. If there'd been witness testimony, Michael could have told us who was exhibiting signs of guilt. But here, now, looking at the pictures, this was my domain. I would have to backtrack to explain how I knew, to figure out how I knew -- but I was certain.

Admirable, however, as the Paris of the present day appears to you, build up and put together again in imagination the Paris of the fifteenth century; look at the light through that surprising host of steeples, towers, and belfries; pour forth amid the immense city, break against the points of its islands, compress within the arches of the bridges, the current of the Seine, with its large patches of green and yellow, more changeable than a serpent's skin; define clearly the Gothic profile of this old Paris upon an horizon of azure, make its contour float in a wintry fog which clings to its innumerable chimneys; drown it in deep night, and observe the extraordinary play of darkness and light in this sombre labyrinth of buildings; throw into it a ray of moonlight, which shall show its faint outline and cause the huge heads of the towers to stand forth from amid the mist; or revert to that dark picture, touch up with shade the thousand acute angles of the spires and gables, and make them stand out, more jagged than a shark's jaw, upon the copper-coloured sky of evening. Now compare the two.

As we see more and more people online, it can get difficult to remember that behind every text message, OkCupid profile, and Tinder picture there's an actual living, breathing, complex person, just like you.

Why are we always expected to share the picture of us with our boobs out on the beach, but dudes can share the candid one with their slobbery dog?

There's something so freeing about cutting myself loose from technology in some small way. No more stressing over profile pictures or whether my social media feeds reflect the kind of golden, idealized life I want everyone to think I have. No more virus scans or junk mail or counting likes. If I want to look something up, I go to the library. If I want to talk to someone, I talk to them.

Complacency has taken the place of outrage and demands for justice have been substituted for trending hashtags and unified profile pictures.

In a few decades, perhaps people will get attached to social media profiles just like you are attached to your body mind now. Then Gurus will have to remind them, “Profile is nothing but some pictures and data stored in servers owned by social media companies. You don’t own it. You just access it. Don’t bother about likes and followers. You are not a profile. you are a body-mind!

... I thought about the word profile and what a weird double meaning it had. we say we're looking at a person's profile online... and we assume it's the whole them we're seeing. But when a photographer takes a picture of a profile, you're only seeing half the face... It's never the way you would remember seeing them.

A 5’5”, 182-pound, 43-year-old man wearing khaki shorts and a UCLA sweatshirt runs to Nicolas Cage in a manner he will spend the rest of the night describing to his slightly bored but equally boring date as “ambushing.” No one else is on the street and Nicolas Cage is unable to avoid the man, who wants a picture with his “brand new Droid.” As the man, who actually seems to be vibrating and hovering in an almost hummingbird-like way, adjusts his stance for the third attempt at a picture his crotch lightly brushes Nicolas Cage’s upper thigh, causing his face to shift from “bemused resignation” to, strangely, “serene bliss,” for what will become the man’s inaugural Facebook profile picture.

marriage equality” was a great slogan for the Left. It fits on a bumper sticker. You can make a red equals sign your Facebook profile picture. It’s a wonderful piece of advertising. And yet it’s completely vacuous. It doesn’t say a thing about what marriage is.

Instead, I thought about the word profile and what a weird double meaning it had. We say we’re looking at a person’s profile online, or say a newspaper is writing a profile on someone, and we assume it’s the whole them we’re seeing. But when a photographer takes a picture of a profile, you’re only seeing half the face. Like with Sparrow, whoever he was. It’s never the way you would remember seeing them. You never remember someone in profile. You remember them looking you in the eye, or talking to you. You remember an image that the subject could never see in a mirror, because you are the mirror. A profile, photographically, is perpendicular to the person you know.

So that's how we end up helping Aviva pick out a male escort. Even Darcy is impressed with Eugene's organization; each profile in the boy binder has two pictures, a head shot and a full-body shot, and lists essential information: age, school, height, weight, extracurriculars, hobbies, and dance ability (which ranges from "occasional Dance Dance Revolution participation" to "so good he could back up the Biebs").

Lauren's eyes widened.An entire page had been devoted to the Children's Hospital Benefit Ball.In the center was a color picture of her-with Nick. They were dancing, and he was grinning down at her. Lauren's face was in profile, tilted up to his. The caption read, "Detroit industrialist J. Nicholas Sinclair and companion." "It does look like me, doesn't it?" she hedged, glancing at the excited, avidly curious faces surrounding her desk. "Isn't that an amazing coincidence?" She didn't want her relationship with Nick to be public knowledge until the time was right, and she certainly didn't want her co-workers to treat her any differently. "You mean it isn't you?" one of the women said disappointedly. None of them noticed the sudden lull, the silence sweeping over the office as people stopped talking and typewriters went perfectly still... "Good morning, ladies," Nick's deep voice said behind Lauren. Six stunned women snapped to attention, staring in fascinated awe as Nick leaned over Lauren from behind and braced his hands on her desk. "Hi," he said, his lips so near her ear that Lauren was afraid to turn her head for fear he would kiss her in front of everyone. He glanced at the newspaper spread out on her desk. "You look beautiful, but who's that ugly guy you're dancing with?" Without waiting for an answer, he straightened, affectionately rumpled the hair on the top of her head and strolled into Jim's office, closing the door behind him. Lauren felt like sinking throught the floor in embarrassment. Susan Brook raised her brows. "What an amazing coincidence," she teased.

The thing about lying is it’s like creating your own world, controlling your own little world. A tiny innocent, or as some people call them white lie, can lead eventually to the break-up of a relationship. If the other person in the relationship knows the person has lied, no matter if it was with good intentions, then it’s the beginning of the breakdown of trust. A profile or a picture is being continually formed of the two people in a relationship, and the lies, big and small, add to that profile.

Guys Are Eyes.

A profile used to mean a picture of somebody's nose seen from the side, she wrote. Now it means the picture of somebody's nose seen from the bottom.

They come and go, without the drowsy observer’s participation, but are essentially different from dream pictures for he is still master of his senses. They are often grotesque. I am pestered by roguish profiles, by some coarse-featured and florid dwarf with a swelling nostril or ear. At times, however, my photisms take on a rather soothing flou quality, and then I see—projected, as it were, upon the inside of the eyelid—gray figures walking between beehives, or small black parrots gradually vanishing among mountain snows, or a mauve remoteness melting beyond moving masts.

Reader, I did the stupid thing. I looked her up on Facebook. It didn't take more than forty minutes to filter this Katie Ingram from the other hundred or so. Her profile was unlocked, and contained the logo for the NHS. Her job description said: "Paramedic: Love My Job!!!" She had hair that could have been red or strawberry blond, it was hard to tell from the photographs, and she was possibly in her late twenties, pretty, with a snub nose. In the first thirty photographs she had posted she was laughing with friends, frozen in the middle of Good Times. She looked annoyingly good in a bikini (Skiathos 2014!! What a laugh!!!!!), she had a small, hairy dog, a penchant for vertiginously high heels, and a best friend with long, dark hair who was fond of kissing her cheek in pictures (I briefly entertained the hope that she was gay but she belonged to a Facebook group called: Hands up if you're secretly delighted that Brad Pitt is single again!!).

If only Facebook had always been around, our broken world would have been fixed long ago. All you have to do to make the world a better place is to change your profile picture or status update. Just think, Dr. King wouldn’t have needed to march. Gandhi wouldn’t have gone on a hunger strike. And Mother Teresa would have never needed to actually touch a sick or poor person. They could have just let everyone know their opinion on FB and everything would have changed for the better.

Comedy is tragedy plus x, with x being an amount of time defined by the person experiencing the tragedy. Some people need less time than others. I joked about Dad’s death as it was happening. But that gave some friends the impression they could join in . No . My dad, my jokes. A Facebook friend posted one day after Dad died: “Welcome to the Dead Dad Club.” I hated him instantly. He was an Early Orphan. I scrolled through his profile pictures, I saw smiles . Life had gone on for him. I didn’t want to be in his stupid club, I didn’t want to read his wry asides.

When we imagine Jesus’ teaching in his own time and place, W ca we cannot use profiles of teachers from our own world to understand the nature of his work. Our culture is heir to the Greek tradition, where abstract reasoning and verbal prowess are the measure of the teacher. Jesus’ world was different. He communicated through word pictures, dramatic actions, metaphors, and stories. Rather than lecture about religious corruption, Jesus refers to the Pharisees as “whitewashed tombs.” Rather than outline the failings of the temple, he curses a fig tree. This means that we should think of Jesus as a “metaphorical theologian” for whom drama, humor, and storytelling were all a part of his method.

So this is the Sierras, eh?” he said, looking out over the dark lake. “All that time growing up I never made it up here before.” “It’s the Range of Light,” I said, passing the joint back to him. “That’s what John Muir called it. I can see why. I’ve never seen light like I have out here. All the sunsets and sunrises against the mountains.” “You’re on a spirit walk, aren’t you?” Paco said, staring into the fire. “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe you could call it that.” “That’s what it is,” he said, looking at me intensely. He stood. “I’ve got something I want to give you.” He went to the back of the truck and returned with a T-shirt. He handed it to me and I held it up. On the front was a giant picture of Bob Marley, his dreadlocks surrounded by images of electric guitars and pre-Columbian effigies in profile. On the back was a picture of Haile Selassie, the man Rastafarians thought was God incarnate, rimmed by a red and green and gold swirl. “That is a sacred shirt,” Paco said as I studied it by the firelight. “I want you to have it because I can see that you walk with the spirits of the animals, with the spirits of the earth and the sky.” I nodded, silenced by emotion and the half-drunk

THE RIGHT AND WRONG PICTURE OF A DREAM I’ve studied successful people for almost forty years. I’ve known hundreds of high-profile people who achieved big dreams. And I’ve achieved a few dreams of my own. What I’ve discovered is that a lot of people have misconceptions about dreams. Take a look at many of the things that people pursue and call dreams in their lives: Daydreams—Distractions from Current Work Pie-in-the-Sky Dreams—Wild Ideas with No Strategy or Basis in Reality Bad Dreams—Worries that Breed Fear and Paralysis Idealistic Dreams—The Way the World Would Be If You Were in Charge Vicarious Dreams—Dreams Lived Through Others Romantic Dreams—Belief that Some Person Will Make You Happy Career Dreams—Belief that Career Success Will Make You Happy Destination Dreams—Belief that a Position, Title, or Award Will Make You Happy Material Dreams—Belief that Wealth or Possessions Will Make You Happy If these aren’t good dreams—valid ones worthy of a person’s life—then what are? Here is my definition of a dream that can be put to the test and pass: a dream is an inspiring picture of the future that energizes your mind, will, and emotions, empowering you to do everything you can to achieve it.

Cat fish? " " A cat fish is a person who pretends to be someone thay're not online, especially in romantic relationships." Her voice was flat, matter-of-fact. She needed that now. She needed to spout facts and figures and definitions and not feel a damn thing. "Someone took your pictures and created an online profile for you and put it on a singles site. Two women who fell for the catfish-you are missing.

Our relationship quickly grew. I was living in Long Beach at the time; Chris was in San Diego. Conservatively speaking, that’s a two-hour drive. But Chris drove it often. He’d get off work, hop in his pickup, and be at my condo before dark. And not just on the weekends: he often rose before the sun to get to work in Coronado Beach. We’d go out to eat, maybe take in a movie, play miniature golf, bowl, see friends--the usual date stuff. But our most fun was just hanging out together. I pinned a picture of Chris up near my desk. (It’s the profile picture on his Facebook page, if you’re interested.) Under it, I taped a quote that went along the lines of: Life is not about the number of breaths you take; it’s the moments that take your breath away. Chris was all about those breathtaking moments--riding broncs in the rodeo, jumping out of planes. He worked hard and played hard--but was just as likely to relax completely, sitting comfortably on the couch with a beer or whatever as he took it easy. It was a paradox; I loved both sides.

This is the first time a guy on Date-Match has told the truth. I think it’s a sign.” “It’s not.” I shook my head. “And the model? How did you get someone to take all those pictures?” “It wasn’t a model. It was my roommate.” Her eyes widened as I stood up. “Wait a second! All the things I said to you on the phone were absolutely true. I am interested in politics, and I do love studying the law and keeping up with high profile cases.” “What law school did you go to?” “Law school?” She raised her eyebrow. “No, not law school type of law. Law like, I’ve watched every episode of SVU and I’ve read all of John Grisham’s books.

In the sketch, I was sitting on the garden wall, my face in profile as I stared into the distance. My eyes were unfocused. A cigarette burned, forgotten, between my fingers. Raf drew me as I was, with round curves, folds in my stomach, and chubby thighs—but through his eyes I was beautiful. Because those features were just small parts of the picture. My face, which undoubtedly was blotchy from crying that night, was clear and angled. Even my messy bun was more of a purposeful updo, with soft tendrils that framed my face. The shirt that I'd been wearing that I'd worried was too tight instead hugged my curves purposefully and exposed a little cleavage. Or at least, that's how Raf had drawn it.

Fuckboys (and Fuckboy Prospects), read this closely: When a woman breaks up with you (usually because she is fed up with your shit) it’s never easy. I understand your ego is bruised, you can’t imagine another dude doing things you used to do with/to her and that shit will eat you up! I understand. That doesn’t mean you should disrespect her – or kill her goddamit! That doesn’t mean you should post revenge porn pictures and videos of her to your 5000 online friends. It does not justify you calling her a hoe to ease your lil battered ego. Doing any of those makes you a certified upper echelon fuckboy bro. Walk away – just go on airplane mode, remove yourself from the situation and allow yourself to heal. If you are one of those social-media love butterflies who advertises every moment with your boo, then log out of all your profiles and go into cocoon mode.

Terrell, Paul, 66–67, 68 Tesler, Larry, 96–97, 99, 114, 120, 136, 301 Tevanian, Avadis “Avie,” xvi, 259, 268, 272–74, 300–301, 303, 308–9, 362, 366, 458–59, 461 textbook industry, 509–10, 554 “There Goes My Love” (song), 498 “Things Have Changed” (song), 412 “Think Different” advertising campaign, vii, xviii, 328–32, 358 original Jobs version, 577 Thomas, Brent, 162 Thomas, Dylan, 19 Through the Looking Glass (Carroll), 235 Thurman, Mrs., 12 Thus Spoke Zarathustra (Nietzsche), 119 Tiffany, Louis, 123 Time, xvii, xviii, 90, 166, 218, 290, 323, 381, 383, 429, 473, 495, 504, 506 SJ profiled by, 106–7, 139–41 Time Inc., 330, 473, 478, 504, 506–7 Time-Life Pictures, 330 “Times They Are A-Changing, The” (Dylan), 168, 207 Time Warner, 506 Tin Toy (film), 248 Toshiba, 385, 386 touchscreens, 93 Toy Story (film), 285–91, 305, 311, 372, 373–74, 427, 428, 430, 434, 437, 472, 565 basic idea for, 285–86 blockbuster success of, 290–91 budgeting of, 288

Oleh akibat ketidak-berpihakan, ketidak-beruntungan, ketidak-terpilihan, ketidak-sesuaian, ketidak-terjawaban doa-doa, kegagalan, keterlepasan, isolasi dan kehilangan. Perlahan kamu mulai menyadari sebuah fakta, bahwa kamu ternyata tidak spesial. Simply tidak ada yang spesial dari diri kamu. Biasa saja. Cuma satu dari milyaran organisme yang terserak di perairan purba yang tak berbatas. Biasa. Biasa. Biasa. Biasa. Biasa. Biasa. Dan biasa. Seperti produk massal. Tissue toilet yang diganti setiap hari oleh petugas janitor. Lahir, mengkonsumsi, kerja, mengkonsumsi, berkembang biak, mengkonsumsi, kerja, mengkonsumsi lalu mati. Mati pun tidak pasti apakah tetap mati, ataukah kembali lagi ke bentuk awal, lahir. Begitu seterusnya. Berulang terus dan terus sampai entah kapan. Cuma serangkaian episode dari keberulangan setiap hari. Seperti sebuah roll film yang sama yang digunakan untuk merekam bermacam adegan yang berbeda setiap harinya. Adegan pertama dihapus, lalu ditindih kembali untuk bertukar dengan adegan kedua. Adegan kedua berganti yang ketiga, dan begitu seterusnya. Sebuah keberulangan yang berbeda terus menerus, tetapi tetap pada hakikatnya adalah sebuah roll film yang sama. Dalam satu gulungan besar yang sama. Dalam satu format yang serupa. Sebuah kebeluman yang terus menerus.. Banal dan tanpa makna.. Lalu, apakah sesuatu yang selamanya “belum selesai” masih dapat dikatakan sebagai sesuatu yang spesial? Spesial itu cuma akal-akalan pemasar. Kamu spesial kalau beli produk ini, kalau beli produk itu, kalau pakai parfum ini, kalau pakai kosmetik itu, kamu spesial itu kalau dalam sehari minimal ada satu kali transaksi digerai starbucks, kamu spesial itu kalau kamu pakai iphone 6 bahkan sebelum produknya keluar di pasar lokal, kamu spesial itu kalau kamu member fitness center, tentu kamu lebih spesial lagi kalau pakai personal trainer, kamu spesial kalau kamu fashionable, kalau kamu tech savvy, kalau kamu club hopper, kamu spesial itu kalau kamu kelihatan aktif berkeringat dalam trend lari kekinian yang hampir separuhnya berisi aktivitas narsis dan konsumsi bermacam produk running shoes, kamu spesial itu cuma kalau kamu pakai brand ini, pakai brand itu, kalau ini, kalau itu, kalau, kalau, kalau, kalau dan kalau.. Spesial itu cuma ada dalam quotes-quotes yang dikasih latar gambar pemandangan, kamu bisa comot-comot dari pinterest atau instagram lalu pasang sebagai profile picture di sosial media milikmu. Pun spesial bersemayam dalam kolase omong kosong yang dirangkum buku-buku swa-bantu atau dalam kutipan ayat dari kitab suci dalam status blackberry teman-teman kamu yang berusaha kelihatan religius, tapi jauh sekali dari makna religius dalam perilaku sehari-hari. Jadi, dari pada ngga ada habisnya memikirkan jawaban dari pertanyaan mengapa kamu tidak spesial? Mungkin kamu harusnya berfikir, buat apa jadi spesial? Harus banget ya jadi spesial? Harus banget ya beda dengan yang lain? Apa perlu banget jadi beda? Emang kalau ngga ada satu pun dari kita yang spesial, kenapa? Kalau kita semua ternyata sama, memangnya kenapa? Kalau kita semua berebut jadi spesial, lalu siapa yang mau berada di posisi tidak spesial? kalau semua spesial, apakah masih spesial namanya? Sudah, sekarang terima saja, bahwa ngga ada yang spesial dari diri kamu, dan seluruh kehidupan kamu yang begitu membosankan.. hidup ngga akan pernah repot-repot berusaha untuk menjaga perasaan kamu. Apalagi susah payah menempatkan kamu di posisi yang 'spesial'. Things happen because they need to happen. Spesial itu cuma soal kamu memberi bentuk pada makna. Tentang bagaimana kamu ingin dimaknai, tentang bagaimana kamu ingin diperlakukan, tentang bagaimana (anehnya) kamu ingin menerima kembali perlakuan yang kamu inginkan justru dengan cara memberikan perlakuan itu kepada yang lain diluar diri kamu. Tentang omong kosong soal konsep memberi untuk merima lebih banyak..

Evan slung his arm over my shoulder. “That’s my mom and dad,” he pointed to a couple approaching us as families trickled onto the field. “Mom! Get a picture of me and she-wolf?” “Sure, sure,” the strawberry blonde lady said, digging in her purse. “Aha! Here it is. I’m Elaine, Evan’s mom,” she announced to us. “Now smile!” I smiled but just before the flash went off Evan kissed my cheek. I gasped in surprise, probably making the funniest face known to man. Evan snatched the camera from his mom and laughed. “That is totally going to be my facebook profile pic. Take a look she-wolf.” He turned the camera so I could see the image on the screen. Oh, God. I narrowed my eyes and pointed a finger at Evan. “You better promise me that, that picture never sees the light of day.” “Well, technically it’s already seen the light of day, seeing as it’s the morning and all.” “Evan, you know what I mean.” “Fine,” he lowered his head, “I won’t post it on facebook.” “Or twitter, instagram, or any other picture sharing site. Got it? Maybe you should just delete it now?” “Nah,” Evan grinned. “I’m keeping this forever and ever as proof that I kissed the she-wolf.

The kid in the newspaper was named Stevie, and he was eight. I was thirty-nine and lived by myself in a house that I owned. For a short time our local newspaper featured an orphan every week. Later they would transition to adoptable pets, but for a while it was orphans, children your could foster and possibly adopt of everything worked out, the profiles were short, maybe two or three hundred words. This was what I knew: Stevie liked going to school. He made friends easily. He promised he would make his bed every morning. He hoped that if he were very good we could have his own dog, and if he were very, very good, his younger brother could be adopted with him. Stevie was Black. I knew nothing else. The picture of him was a little bigger than a postage stamp. He smiled. I studied his face at my breakfast table until something in me snapped. I paced around my house, carrying the folded newspaper. I had two bedrooms. I had a dog. I had so much more than plenty. In return he would make his bed, try his best in school. That was all he had to bargain with: himself. By the time Karl came for dinner after work I was nearly out of my mind. “I want to adopt him,” I said. Karl read the profile. He looked at the picture. “You want to be his mother?” “It’s not about being his mother. I mean, sure, if I’m his mother that’s fine, but it’s like seeing a kid waving from the window of a burning house, saying he’ll make his bed if someone will come and get him out. I can’t leave him there.” “We can do this,” Karl said. We can do this. I started to calm myself because Karl was calm. He was good at making things happen. I didn’t have to want children in order to want Stevie. In the morning I called the number in the newspaper. They took down my name and address. They told me they would send the preliminary paperwork. After the paperwork was reviewed, there would be a series of interviews and home visits. “When do I meet Stevie?” I asked. “Stevie?” “The boy in the newspaper.” I had already told her the reason I was calling. “Oh, it’s not like that,” the woman said. “It’s a very long process. We put you together with the child who will be your best match.” “So where’s Stevie?” She said she wasn’t sure. She thought that maybe someone had adopted him. It was a bait and switch, a well-written story: the bed, the dog, the brother. They knew how to bang on the floor to bring people like me out of the woodwork, people who said they would never come. I wrapped up the conversation. I didn’t want a child, I wanted Stevie. It all came down to a single flooding moment of clarity: he wouldn’t live with me, but I could now imagine that he was in a solid house with people who loved him. I put him in the safest chamber of my heart, he and his twin brother in twin beds, the dog asleep in Stevie’s arms. And there they stayed, going with me everywhere until I finally wrote a novel about them called Run. Not because I thought it would find them, but because they had become too much for me to carry. I had to write about them so that I could put them down.

Daniel could feel ir,like a layer of skin was lifting off his bones. His past self's body was slowly cleaving from his own.The venom of separation coursed through him,threading deep into the fibers of his wings.The pain was so raw it was nauseating, roiling deep inside him with great tidal swells. His vision clouded; ringing filled his ears.The starshot in his hand tumbled to the ground.Then,all at once, he felt a great shove and a sharp,cold breath of air.There was a long grunt and two thuds,and then- His vision cleared.The ringing ceased. He felt lightness, simplicity. Free. Miles lay on the ground below him, chest heaving. The starshot in Daniel's hand disappeared. Daniel spun around to find a specter of his past self standing behind him,his skin gray and his body wraithlike,his eyes and teeth coal-black,the starshot grasped in his hand. His profile wobbled in the hot wind,like the picture on a shorted-out television. "I'm sorry," Daniel said,reaching forward and clutching his past self at the base of his wings.When Daniel lifted the shadow of himself off the ground, his body felt scant and insufficient.His fingers found the graying portal of the Announcer through which both Daniels had traveled just before it fell apart. "Your day will come," he said. Then he pitched his past self back into the Announcer. He watched the void fading in the hot sun. The body made a drawn-out whistling sound as it tumbled into time, as if it were falling off a cliff. The Announcer split into infinitesimal traces,and was gone.

Me: You fucking whore. Hannah: What? Me: You know what. This pizza! Hannah: I don’t know what you’re talking about. Me: Your name is on the receipt. Hannah: CRAP! I thought it’d take you at least ten minutes to figure out it was me. Me: Yeah, crap! I am fucking mortified, you idiot. I’m trying to keep a low profile, but that delivery guy probably had to go talk to the guys at the counter to figure out where I was. I am humiliated, and you are the worst! Don’t you have your own book to write? How do you have time for this? Hannah: I’m shaking so hard with laughter, it’s difficult to type. Me: I had my earbuds in, so I didn’t hear him calling my name. He listed off the food you bought for a football team and then handed it all to me—the chubby ginger creeping in the corner. Goddamn you! Hannah: Is it good, though? I got you extra dipping sauces for those parm breadsticks. That cost extra, you know. I ain’t cheap. Me: I can’t eat it because my mortification has killed my appetite! But…this does give me an excuse to try out the fountain pop machine, so…silver lining. Hannah: My eyes are wet from laughing so hard. Me: Yuck it up, yucky yuckerson. God, I was in the middle of writing an anal scene, so I was super in the zone too…it’s no wonder I didn’t hear him. Hannah: STOP. MY STOMACH IS KILLING ME…ON ACCOUNT OF ALL THE LAUGHING. Me: Well played, whore. Well played. And it’s the burn that keeps on burning b/c my inner cheap girl will NOT let me throw these leftovers away. So I’m going to have to carry them out of here. Hannah: Oh, I was counting on that. Want to hear something horrible? Me: What? Hannah: I was going to do a sub delivery, but then I decided the pizza boxes were more embarrassing. Me: You’re dead to me.   Fifteen minutes later.   Hannah: So I’ve been picturing you sulking and refusing to eat for the past fifteen minutes and then finally giving up and eating it anyway. Am I close? Me: OMG, it’s like you’re here with me. That’s exactly what I did. This food is delicious btw. But I’m still not thankful. Hannah: But you’re always welcome. ;) Best $53 I ever spent.

Resolved: If you make a duck face in your profile picture, you are declaring yourself a shallow loser and I will ignore you. Moreover, if you have multiple pictures of your cleavage and then declare that you want to "take things slow" you are not fooling anybody.

The truth is that I'd gain nothing by being a saint after being dead, an artist is what I am, and the only thing I want is to be alive so I can keep going along at donkey level in this six-cylinder touring car I bought from the marines' consul, with this Trinidadian chauffeur who was a baritone in the New Orleans pirates' opera, with my genuine silk shirts, my Oriental lotions, my topaz teeth, my flat straw hat, and my bicolored buttons, sleeping without an alarm clock, dancing with beauty queens, and leaving them hallucinated with my dictionary rhetoric, and with no flutter in my spleen if some Ash Wednesday my faculties wither away, because in order to go on with this life of a minister, all I need is my idiot face, and I have more than enough with the string of shops I own from here to beyond the sunset, where the same tourists who used to go around collecting from us through the admiral, now go stumbling after my autographed pictures, almanacs with my love poetry, medals with my profile, bits of my clothing, and all of that without the glorious plague of spending all day and all night sculpted in equestrian marble and shat on by swallows like the fathers of our country.

Everything depends on the point of view and is rich in varying aspects. A picture is sublime from one corner of the room, a daub from another; a woman's full face may be perfect, her profile a disappointment; above all, what you admire in yourself becomes highly distasteful in your neighbor. The moral is, I suppose, Tolerance; or if not that, something else which has escaped me.

Some viewed Chinese investors as the latest “dumb money” to hit Hollywood. It is no doubt true that financing movies is not the smartest way for any investor, from anywhere in the world, to earn the best returns. Others had a different theory—that some wealthy Chinese individuals and businesses were seeking to get their money out of China, where an autocratic government could still steal anyone’s wealth at any time, for any reason. Certainly Hollywood had long been a destination for legal money laundering. But those who worked most closely with the Chinese knew that the biggest reason for these investments was a form of reverse-colonialism. After more than a decade as a place for Hollywood to make money, China wanted to turn the tables. The United States had already proved the power of pop culture to help establish a nation’s global dominance. Now China wanted to do the same. The Beijing government considered art and culture to be a form of “soft power,” whereby it could extend influence around the world without the use of weapons. Over the past few years, locally produced Chinese films had become more successful at the box office there. But most were culturally specific comedies and love stories that didn’t translate anywhere else. China had yet to produce a global blockbuster. And with box-office growth in that country slowing in 2016 and early 2017, hits that resonated internationally would be critical if the Communist nation was to grow its movie business and use it to become the kind of global power it wanted to be. So Chinese companies, with the backing of the government, started investing in Hollywood, with a mission to learn how experienced hands there made blockbusters that thrived worldwide. Within a few years, they figured, China would learn how to do that without anyone’s help. “Working with a company like Universal will help us elevate our skill set in moviemaking,” the head of the Chinese entertainment company Perfect World Pictures said, while investing $250 million in a slate of upcoming films from the American studio. Getting there wouldn’t be easy. One of the highest-profile efforts to produce a worldwide hit out of China was The Great Wall, starring Matt Damon and made by Wanda’s Legendary Pictures. The $150 million film, about a war against monsters set on the Chinese historic landmark, grossed an underwhelming $171 million and a disastrous $45 million in the United States. Then, to create another obstacle, Chinese government currency controls established in early 2017 slowed, at least temporarily, the flow of money from China into Hollywood. But by then it was too late to turn back. As seemed to always be true when it came to Hollywood’s relationship with China, the Americans had no choice but to keep playing along. Nobody else was willing to pour billions of dollars into the struggling movie business in the mid-2010s, particularly for original or lower-budget productions.

Part One—The Lipid Panel. Used to evaluate heart health, this panel comprises of four biological markers representing the four types of fat found in the blood—triglycerides, total cholesterol, high-density lipoprotein (HDL), and low-density lipoprotein (LDL). Two additional measures of cardiovascular health, homocysteine and c-reactive protein (CRP), may also be measured as part of a more comprehensive profile. These two labs are discussed in Part Six, “Optional Tests” (see page 8). •  Part Two—The Basic Metabolic Panel. The labs used to evaluate metabolism measure blood sugar regulation, electrolyte and fluid balance, and kidney function. Biomarkers included in this panel are glucose, calcium, sodium, potassium, blood urea nitrogen (BUN), and creatinine. •  Part Three—The Hepatic Function Panel. This panel determines how well your liver is functioning by measuring levels of different proteins produced and processed by the liver, like albumin and globulin, as well as liver enzymes. •  Part Four—The Complete Blood Count (CBC) Panel. The lab values measured in the complete blood count (CBC) panel include red blood cells, white blood cells, platelets, and hemoglobin. Maintaining healthy levels of these biomarkers affect your vitality and energy, immune system, and cardiovascular health. •  Part Five—Hormones. Although they are not always included in a routine blood test, hormones should be periodically tested, especially in aging adults. Hormones such as estrogen, testosterone, progesterone, DHEA, and prostate specific antigen (PSA) play an integral role in reproductive wellness and affect other aspects of health. Maintaining balanced levels can slow down the aging process, for instance. Hormones involved in metabolism, like the thyroid hormones and the stress hormone cortisol, are also discussed in this section. •  Part Six—Optional Tests. This final part of the book highlights four tests—homocysteine, c-reactive protein (CRP), vitamin D, and magnesium—that are not typically measured unless requested, or if a standard blood test shows an abnormality that requires a more in-depth analysis. These tests can provide a more complete picture of heart health, immunity, calcium absorption, blood sugar regulation, and a number of other vital processes.

At the age of nineteen, when his mother brought home the pin-up pictures, she inadvertently activated his seething fantasies. Mhlengwa felt the urge to have sex but lacked the social skills to form a relationship. He was also a very angry young man.

One sister. Younger, of course. I terrorized her for most of our childhood. On the other hand, every time I fell asleep in the family room, she put makeup on my face and took pictures. So I guess it evens itself out. Plus, I'm the only man you'll ever meet who understands just how hard it is to remove waterproof mascara. And I guess I'll never run for political office. The photos alone would ruin me.

(I will never understand the thrill of fishing. At its very best, it’s an activity that ends with a vicious struggle to reel in something you can easily buy at a supermarket. And then what? You take a picture with it? So you can make that picture the cover of your dating profile? Nobody is impressed with your ability to catch a fish. Turtles can catch fish. Nobody is trying to fuck a turtle.)

Jared Ellington, thirty-one years old, a Georgetown graduate with a background that included a stint in profiling in counterterrorism cases. His black hair was slicked back as it had been in his picture and the telltale suit he wore painted him as someone on official duty. Mackenzie

Narcissists: Hurt their ego by telling them they should develop empathy for another human being and they change their profile picture to get more facebook likes. Tell them that the heart is more important than the face, and they will block you and never talk to you ever again.

He was a dark, handsome man. The kind who just needed a shave and he'd be perfect. His chiseled jawline was covered in stubble that was almost a full beard, his eyes were gold with a dark-brown perimeter, and he had curly raven-black hair combed back from his forehead. Overall, he had a definite Mediterranean look to him. It was Deacon Tremblay. She didn't need the internet to verify his identity. His picture, his profile, his every feature were embedded in the minds of all American women. Probably in the minds of international women too.

Here are some examples of excessive use of social networking sites. There was this guy who fell for online dating so much, that it became his zone of comfort. He boosted his confidence, became a better communicator, knew what works and what doesn’t. Even kept interacting with girls for weeks and grabbed their attention with every word, while still playing it casual. But he never went on a real date. That’s because when you meet someone in person, you don’t have a screen between you two and that makes you vulnerable. It’s because you don’t always look your best and can’t choose a ‘profile picture’ that suits your mood. Because you’ll be asked questions you won’t expect, and wouldn’t have the time to pretend like you’re not on the phone and think of the best possible answer before replying. So, your image can be ruined, although it was never the real you in the first place.

Indeed, things started out slowly. ‘When users first came, nobody was in the chat room. I had to keep them company and talk with them,’ Pony recalled years later. ‘Sometimes I had to change my profile picture and pretend to be a girl.

Factually, your profile picture should be only yours, not someone else's image; otherwise, it is deliberate pretentiousness, even counterfeiting. However, you can replace your cover picture or header with any image.

It was Fergal Devitt, and his profile picture had not done him justice. He was stunning, engaging, confident, and one of those types you couldn’t help but be drawn to; there was a knowing that he would go on and do big things one day—which he has, as Finn Balor in WWE

Now look. You stand well. Good profile. Listen, lad, how would you like to be in moving pictures?' 'Er,' said Victor. 'No. I don't think so.' The man gaped at him. 'You did hear what I said, didn't you?' he said. 'Moving pictures?' 'Yes.' 'Everyone wants to be in moving pictures!' 'No, thanks,' said Victor, politely. 'I'm sure it's a worthwhile job, but moving pictures doesn't sound very interesting to me.

I showed a photo of a bowl of ramen I had taken earlier in the day and asked what she thought of that as a profile picture. She just shook her head. OH, I GUESS I CAN’T HOLD A CANDLE TO THAT STREET SIGN DUDE, HUH?

I envied many for being happy, successful and content. I wondered how a sick friend managed to look resplendent in her profile picture? How someone with a dark past post hilarious Facebook status? Until one day... I realised that while they all were making a conscious effort to grow in life, I simply sat and worshipped the grave of my sufferings. I sat at one place and did nothing but moan. So, I stopped. I don't dig graves anymore as I am too busy building my empire.

As an example, here are a few of the more popular social media IFTTT tasks that may help you organize your social media: • Send all your Tweets to a Google spreadsheet. • Update your Twitter profile picture when you update your Facebook profile picture. • Automatically Tweet your Facebook status updates. • Post all pictures posted to Instagram on Twitter. • Archive photos you are tagged in on Facebook to Dropbox. • Archive all links you share on Facebook to a single file in Evernote. • Archive all photos you “like” on Instagram to Dropbox. • Have your iPhone pictures emailed to you as you take them.

I’m going to find out who Amber is. We’ve got to get to her before he does.” My head swirled with maybes. Maybe Tony would lose his nerve. Maybe he’d drag his heels just a little longer. Maybe he’d show his hand too soon, and Amber would fight him off or get away from him in time. There was still a chance. I love social media and the people who are careless with it. Tony had an open Facebook profile. I rummaged through his pictures and posts, looking for a clue. Then I found one, and wished I hadn’t. “Bentley.” “Did you find her?” he asked, peering over his bifocals. “Amber’s his daughter, Bentley. She’s eight years old.

They are the city scavengers, these pigs. Ugly brutes they are; having, for the most part, scanty brown backs, like the lids of old horsehair trunks: spotted with unwholesome black blotches. They have long, gaunt legs, too, and such peaked snouts, that if one of them could be persuaded to sit for his profile, nobody would recognise it for a pig’s likeness. They are never attended upon, or fed, or driven, or caught, but are thrown upon their own resources in early life, and become preternaturally knowing in consequence. Every pig knows where he lives, much better than anybody could tell him. At this hour, just as evening is closing in, you will see them roaming towards bed by scores, eating their way to the last. Occasionally, some youth among them who has over-eaten himself, or has been worried by dogs, trots shrinkingly homeward, like a prodigal son: but this is a rare case: perfect self-possession and self-reliance, and immovable composure, being their foremost attributes.

As we see more and more people online, it can get difficult to remember that behind every text message, OkCupid profile, and Tinder picture there’s an actual living, breathing, complex person, just like you.

So where are you two headed?” Linc put the kitten down. Tiny tail waving, it sauntered between Truck’s furry legs. The dog didn’t seem to mind. “Oh--out and about,” Kenzie said. She and Linc exchanged a look. “You tell him,” he said. “We stopped by to see Christine first. You were next on the list.” “Beg pardon? What list?” “Friends and family.” Kenzie stretched out her left hand and wiggled her fingers. An oval diamond set in platinum caught the sun. Jim’s eyes widened. “Way to go.” He beamed at both of them. “That’s one hell of a rock. You didn’t waste any time.” He gave Linc a nod of masculine approval. “So when’s the big day?” “We haven’t decided,” Kenzie answered. She didn’t want to say that they were keeping a low profile for as long as possible. The media furor over SKC had died down, but they were helping with the ongoing investigation. Life went on. Love had amazing power to heal. Truck picked up on the excitement and edged between the three of them, blocking the hug about to happen. “Routine stuff, Linc. He has final say,” Jim teased. The black-and-white dog took his time about it. Then he sat down in front of Linc, brushing his tail across the floor in wide waves. “He approves,” Kenzie said. “Never argue with a good dog.” Jim laughed. “All right, you two. Get out of here. I have work to do.” Kenzie got a hug in before he went back to his desk. “Congratulations.” He nodded toward the picture of his wife. “From me and Josie. She’ll be over the moon when she hears.

After seeing him take more than 100 selfies in just a few days, I realised Turnbull’s selfie technique was slick. There was a routine developing. He cradled the phone in his right hand. Held it out at full arm’s length. Made sure everyone was in the shot, then slightly tilted his arm so the camera was above eye level. It was optimum selfie technique, taking advantage of the high angle which slimmed the faces of those involved. He’d take 2–4 very distinct shots, so people could choose from a menu of options which one would be uploaded to Facebook as a new profile picture. Often he’d spin around before even opening the camera, aware of where the light was and how it would impact on the selfie. He was more comfortable with iPhones over Androids, sometimes stumbling over finding the camera on the phone’s screen. It might seem facile (and it was) but the selfie was often the only genuine interaction the Prime Minister had with voters.

Sam Temple kept a lower profile. He stuck to jeans and understated T-shirts, nothing that drew attention to himself. He had spent most of his life in Perdido Beach, attending this school, and everybody knew who he was, but few people were quite sure what he was. He was a surfer who didn’t hang out with surfers. He was bright, but not a brain. He was good-looking, but not so that girls thought of him as a hottie. The one thing most kids knew about Sam Temple was that he was School Bus Sam. He’d earned the nickname when he was in seventh grade. The class had been on the way to a field trip when the bus driver had suffered a heart attack. They’d been driving down Highway 1. Sam had pulled the man out of his seat, steered the bus onto the shoulder of the road, brought it safely to a stop, and calmly dialed 911 on the driver’s cell phone. If he had hesitated for even a second, the bus would have plunged off a cliff and into the ocean. His picture had been in the paper.

It’s amazing how many young girls post provocative pictures of themselves on social networks. They don’t realize that half of them end up on porn sites, or being used as fake profile pictures

Don’t second guess your professional first impression.

3. Develop a personal learning style Having known your personal profile, you can pick the learning style that can give you the most benefits. There are three common types of learning styles; Visual, Auditory and Kinesthetic. By identifying the learning style that best suit your profile, you will be able to maximize your strengths and compensate for your weaknesses. Visual Learning – If your dyslexia isn’t anything related to your visual processing or any visual dyslexia, this learning type may just suit you. Visual learners like to see things with the eyes. They likely think in pictures and uses different illustrations, diagrams, charts, graphs, videos and mind maps when they study. If you are a visual learner it will be useful to rewrite notes, put information on post-it notes and stick it everywhere, and to re-create images in the mind. Auditory Learning – Auditory learners, on the other hand, think in verbal words rather than in pictures. The best they can do to learn is to tape the information and replay it. It also helps if they discuss the materials that must be learned with others by participating in class discussions, asking questions to their teachers and even trying teaching others. It is also helpful to use audio books and read aloud when trying to memorize information. Kinesthetic Learning – Kinesthetic learners are those who are better to learn with direct exposure to the activity. They are the ‘hands-on’ people and learn best when they actually do something. For them, wiring a circuit board would be much more informative than listening to a lecture about circuits or reading a text book or about it. However, it may also help to underline important terms and meanings and highlight them with bright colors, write notes in the margin when learning from text and repeat information while walking. 4. Don’t force your mind Don’t force your mind to do something beyond your ability. Don’t force yourself to enter a library and finish reading a shelf of books in one day. Be patient on yourself. Take everything slowly and learn step by step. Do not also push yourself if you are not in the mood to read, it will just cause you unnecessary stress. 5.

I saw her profile out of the corner of my eye, there wasn't a picture but somehow I knew, I could see her kind, caring soul. Who are you? Do I take the chance, she knows JJ Grey, will she even give me a glance, maybe we both need a second chance at romance? She answered my request, I never would've guessed. Who knew? Not me, not you. Will she be unimpressed? Can I bring her to rest, or pass her test? Am I the best, what haven't I addressed? We will not be depressed or oppressed or suppressed, No, we will have success, we will be the best, this I can attest.

Well, I know you don’t want to talk about it anymore, but I signed you up for that computer match thingy.” Why is it that so many people over the age of sixty refer to everything on the Internet as some sort of “computer thing”? Helen was trying to contain her laughter. “Laura, do you mean Match.com?” My father was groaning audibly now. “Yes, that’s it. Charles helped me put up her profile.” “Oh my god, Mother. Are you kidding me?” Helen jumped out of her seat and started running toward the computer in my dad’s home office, which was right off the dining room. “Get out of there, Helen,” my dad yelled, but she ignored him. I chased after her, but she stuck her arm out, blocking me from the monitor. “No, I have to see it!” she shouted. “Stop it, girls,” my mother chided. “Move, bitch.” We were very mature for our age. “This is the best day of my life. Your mommy made a Match profile for you!” “Actually, Chuck made it,” my mother yelled from across the hall. Oh shit. Helen typed my name in quickly. My prom picture from nine years ago popped up on the screen. My brother had cropped Steve Dilbeck out of the photo the best he could, but you could still see Steve’s arms wrapped around my purple chiffon–clad waist. “You’re joking. You’re fucking joking.” “Language, Charlotte!” my dad yelled. “Mom,” I cried, “he used my prom photo! What is wrong with him?” I still had braces at eighteen. I had to wear them for seven years because my orthodontist said I had the worst teeth he had ever seen. You know how sharks have rows of teeth? Yeah, that was me. I blame my mother and the extended breastfeeding for that one, too. My brother, Chuck the Fuck, used to tease me, saying it was leftovers of the dead Siamese twin I had absorbed in utero. My brother’s an ass, so it’s pretty awesome that he set up this handy dating profile for me. In case you hadn’t noticed, our names are Charlotte and Charles. Just more parental torture. Would it be dramatic to call that child abuse? Underneath my prom photo, I read the profile details while Helen laughed so hard she couldn’t breath. My name is Charlotte and I am an average twenty-seven year-old. If you looked up the word mediocre in the dictionary you would see a picture of me—more recent than this nine-year-old photo, of course, because at least back then I hadn’t inked my face like an imbecile. Did I forget to mention that I have a tiny star tattooed under my left eye? Yes, I’d been drunk at the time. It was a momentary lapse of judgment. It would actually be cute if it was a little bigger, but it’s so small that most people think it’s a piece of food or a freckle. I cover it up with makeup. I like junk food and watching reality TV. My best friend and I like to drink Champagne because it makes us feel sophisticated, then we like to have a farting contest afterward. I’ve had twelve boyfriends in the last five years so I’m looking for a lifer. It’s not a coincidence that I used the same term as the one for prisoners ineligible for parole. “Chuck the Fuck,” Helen squeaked through giggles. I turned and glared at her. “He still doesn’t know that you watched him jerk off like a pedophile when he was fourteen.” “He’s only three years younger than us.” “Four. And I will tell him. I’ll unleash Chuck the Fuck on you if you don’t quit.” My breasts are small and my butt is big and I have a moderately hairy upper lip. I also don’t floss, clean my retainer, or use mouthwash with any regularity. “God, my brother is so obsessed with oral hygiene!” “That’s what stood out to you? He said you have a mustache.” Helen grinned. “Girls, get out of there and come clear the table,” my dad yelled. “What do you think the password is?” “Try ‘Fatbutt,’ ” I said. “Yep, that worked. Okay, I’ll change your profile while you clear the table.

suddenly these doors burst open and the two boys came out and they were so excited. They were hopping up and down waiting for their mum and dad to come, and Diana whisked past the hand-shaking people and her whole face lit up, and she took her hat off and she scuttled down the whole length of the yacht as fast as she could and was hugging them and kissing them. Fincher’s photograph is one of the most famous ever taken of Diana, her arms outstretched, William launching himself into her embrace. She asked Fincher for a copy which she displayed in her dressing room at Kensington Palace. But it wasn’t the only picture on that roll of film. And then a few seconds behind her Prince Charles did the same thing. He came down, he was hugging and kissing the boys too. But the sad thing was that all the pictures that were used were her with her arms out, and nobody ever used a picture of him. I think he got a bad press with the children at that time. Everybody kept saying, ‘Oh, this awful father’ and everything, which wasn’t true. He’s always been a lovely father. But I think he wasn’t seen with the children and she was – and in a lot of high-profile places like Thorpe Park. And so people tended to see that and think, Where’s he? all the time.

Lawrence Cherston’s home was washed stone and white shutters. There was a circular rose garden surrounding a flagpole. A black pennant with a large orange P hung from it. Oh, boy. Cherston greeted her at the door with a two-hand shake. He had one of those fleshy, ruddy faces that make you think of fat cats and smoke-filled back rooms. He wore a blue blazer with a Princeton logo on the lapel and the same Princeton tie he’d had in his profile pictures. His khakis were freshly pressed, his tasseled loafers shined, and of course he wore no socks. He looked as though he’d started for school chapel this morning and aged twenty years on the walk. Stepping inside, Wendy pictured a closet with a dozen more matching blazers and khaki pants and absolutely nothing else. “Welcome

Note: I am sure that now they will approach Medium to stop me from writing. Let’s see what happens. “A genuine person or celebrity doesn’t need a certificate or blue tick. Such ways are blackmailing your passion, emotion, or willingness. Criminals and money-mongers misuse and try to earn in an ugly and easy way. This trend also discriminates against others who cannot afford such an awkward notion.” Istay determined every day. I cannot tolerate liars and those who misuse their authority and attempt to victimize the righteous for their will and purpose in an illegitimate way to please their godfathers of the mafia and international criminal intelligence agencies. I am pretty sure, after reviewing again the replies from the Twitter team that mirror and endorse the Twitter team, that someone works for intelligence agencies or criminal and mafia groups. Since the beginning months of this year, I have been continuously victimized without specifying why I was posting the wrong things. I am going to publish a few emails that will exhibit the picture of how I was being victimized, harassed, and even threatened about things that I was neither aware of nor that the team explained. I was already under the attacks of criminals and even the gang of filthy-minded gays who were suffering from mental issues and sexual frustration; knowing it, I am not gay. In the Twitter team, the presence of such ones is not excluded since I felt a similar style of victimization. How do they dare to adopt such mean tactics to gain their will and desire? This reply email shows that a screenshot article has been displayed since 2020. After four years, it became an issue for someone in the Twitter team who continued to lock my account and tag the restriction flag. Text of my emails; “I am still uncertain about what to post and what not to post. You didn’t specify why my account was locked, whether it was because of the content I removed or something else. Is it permissible for me to share media and social media links in which my quotes are mentioned? My writings do not contain any personal attacks; nonetheless, thank you.” “You locked my Twitter, @EhsanSehgal, again; you know why you are doing it. Now, I can say only goodbye to my locked account and enjoy your terror. It is not a protection of my account; it is victimization. No more requests to unlock my account. Someone of angelic character will do it without my request. Shame on you all, involved ones.” Team replied; Hello, “We had a look at your account, and it appears that everything is now resolved! If that’s not the case, please reply to this message, and we’ll continue to help. Thanks,” X Support This was a screenshot article from Wikipedia about me on my profile that was illegitimately removed by such people as the Twitter team forced me to remove. Despite that, they continued locking my account to identify and provide an ID or passport. I did that twice and identified several times, but the team seemed not satisfied since their goal was something else; they would not approach nor be able to do it. To stop such criminal torture, I deactivated my account and decided never to come back there again.

his profile picture resembled Harry Styles, yet the man who sat before her bore a striking resemblance to a weasel.

Sister, methinks a picture would go nicely on your profile.

Methinks a picture would really do nicely on your profile .., sister.

We profiled this town as religious, but with a cult mentality. Look around. They’re all terrified over something this small. In DC, this would have people snapping pictures and rolling their eyes—and that’s if they even noticed it to begin with. But here? It’s already terrifying them.

Methinks a picture would really do nicely on your profile ., sister.

Sister, methinks a picture would look nice on your profile.

Sister, methinks a picture would really do nicely on your profile.

Methinks a picture would really do nicely on your profile .. sister.

Was my face fresh in your memory, Shep? Been staring at my LinkedIn profile picture every night?” “Please don’t project your fantasies onto me.

Sister, a picture would be nice on your profile.

No fishing for compliments, Red.” “I’m not fishing. I hate fishing.” What are you even saying? “Speaking of, why do guys always put fishing pictures in their dating profile? It’s a turnoff, honestly.” “I don’t, and you don’t have to worry about that.” “Why not?” “Because neither of us are dating anyone else, Red.

Sister, a picture would really be nice on your profile.

Methinks a picture would really do nicely on your profile .. sister

Today, as light pollution envelops our planet, the stars are almost gone. Instead of thousands being visible on a dark night, in today’s cities we see only a few dozen (and astronomers fear these will soon be vastly outnumbered by artificial satellites). Most people in the United States and Europe can no longer see the Milky Way at all. It is a catastrophic erosion of natural heritage: the obliteration of our connection with our galaxy and the wider universe. There has been no major outcry. Most people shrug their shoulders, glued to their phones, unconcerned by the loss of a view treated as fundamental by every other human culture in history. Yet we’re still trying to work out our place in the cosmos. Science has been wildly successful: today’s five-year-olds know more about the history, composition and nature of the physical universe than early cultures managed to glean in thousands of years. But it has also dissolved much of the meaning that those cultures found in life. Personal experience has been swept from our understanding of reality, replaced by the abstract, mathematical grid of space-time. Earth has been knocked from the center of existence to the suburbs; life reframed as a random accident; and God dismissed altogether, now that everything can be explained by physical laws. Far from having a meaningful role in the cosmic order, we’re “chemical scum,” as physicist Stephen Hawking put it, on the surface of a medium-sized planet orbiting an unremarkable star. Critics have fought this mechanistic view of humanity for centuries, often rejecting science wholesale in the process. But now even some high-profile scientists are voicing concerns that until very recently were taboo. They are suggesting that perhaps physical matter isn’t all that the universe is, all that we are. Perhaps science is only seeing half of the picture. We can explain stars and galaxies, but what about minds? What about consciousness itself? It’s shaping up to be an epic fight that just might transform the entire Western worldview.

The quote under her profile picture was Be the change you want to see in the world.

Yes, we are, and this is an unchanging piece of knowledge. Bee and Kai, Kai and Bee, forever entwined by chaos and cute profile pictures.

She merely copied the URL of the person's profile picture, then pasted it into a browser and removed a section of it, then hit enter, and she had all of their photos available instantly. Sam's eyebrows went up. “I didn't think there was a way around Facebook's privacy settings.” She smiled at him. “Puh-lease,” she said. “Did you forget who you’re talking to, here? Actually, that's a pretty simple hack that's all over the internet. Anyone

Identify some of the actual individuals who are your best customers. Evaluate those with the highest customer lifetime value (CLV) and develop hypotheses about their shared traits. Although demographics and psychographics might be the most obvious, you’ll find additional insights if you examine their behavior. What channels did they come through? What messages resonated? How did they onboard? How recently, frequently, and deeply have they engaged? Compare best customers and worst customers—those you acquired who weren’t ultimately profitable or who weren’t satisfied with your offering. Notice people who exhaust your free trial but don’t convert to paid, or who join but cancel within the first few months. The best customers have the greatest customer lifetime value (CLV); they will spend more with you over time than anyone else. Produce either a qualitative write-up of your best customer or use regression analysis to prioritize characteristics. Share these conclusions with your frontline team—retail workers, customer support, sales—to accrue early insights. With a concrete conception of your best customer, you can discern if the customer segment is sufficiently large to justify addressing. Test and adjust as needed. Then make these best customers and their forever promise as “real” as possible to the team. If you have actual customers who fit the profile, talk about them, invite them in, or have their pictures on your wall. You’re going to feel their pain, share their objectives, and design experiences for them. It’s important to know them well.

These days, we hear so many people saying ‘accept yourself’ (mostly on social media) but, the same person constantly attempting to sell himself with five profile pictures is strange. From (The Awakening)

I took the phone and held my breath as I looked down at the screen. The man in the picture had his back to the camera, his face in part profile, but there was no doubt in my mind. That was Dave. Declan. Whoever the fuck he was. He'd targeted Bree, made her fall for him, gotten her pregnant, and all for what? To leverage her for information? For access?

view instagram story highlights anonymously Instagram Story Highlights are a feature that enables users to compile and display their past stories in a lasting and well-organized manner. Unlike regular Instagram stories that vanish after 24 hours, story highlights remain on a user's profile indefinitely, making them accessible to their followers and profile visitors. The inclination to view Instagram story highlights discreetly arises from various motivations, such as curiosity or the desire to consume someone's content without revealing your identity or notifying them. However, it's crucial to grasp that Instagram, like most social media platforms, places a significant emphasis on safeguarding user privacy and has implemented policies to uphold it. Here is an extensive approach on how to view Instagram story highlights while adhering to privacy norms and Instagram's policies: 1. Access Instagram: Begin by launching the Instagram application on your mobile device. 1. Search for the User: Utilize the search functionality to locate the Instagram profile of the individual whose story highlights you wish to peruse. You can perform a search using their username or full name. To view Instagram highlights, you can view from the page of the dj downloader website. 2. Visit the Profile: After locating the user's profile, tap on their profile picture or username to access their profile page. 3. Access Highlights: Provided that the user has assembled story highlights, you will observe circular icons featuring their profile picture and titles or categories, positioned above their regular posts. Typically, these icons are located beneath their bio section. 4. Select a Highlight: Tap on the specific highlight that intrigues you. Each highlight encompasses a collection of related stories. 5. Review the Stories: The chosen story highlight will commence playing, enabling you to navigate through the individual stories within that highlight. While the above guidelines empower you to explore story highlights in a manner that respects both privacy and Instagram's policies, it is imperative to address additional facets: 1. Respect for Privacy: Always demonstrate respect for the user's privacy and content. Refrain from attempting to employ third-party tools or methods to view stories anonymously. Instagram expressly prohibits such activities, which could lead to the suspension or restriction of your Instagram account. 2. Ethical Conduct: Employ Instagram in an ethical manner. Uphold principles of honesty and transparency in your interactions with other users on the platform, contributing to a positive online community. 3. Evolving Policies: Be aware that Instagram's guidelines and features may evolve over time. Staying abreast of these modifications and adapting your usage accordingly is vital. 4. User Consent: Keep in mind that the content shared on Instagram is subject to the user's consent. If someone has chosen to make their story highlights public, they have voluntarily shared that content with a broader audience. In summary, while there may be a desire to discreetly view Instagram story highlights, it is pivotal to do so in a manner that upholds the platform's policies and respects the privacy of fellow users. By adhering to the steps delineated above, you can explore highlights in a compliant and considerate manner, contributing to a positive and ethical online environment for all users.

His Just Reward Isn’t it an amazing coincidence that FDR was the chairman of the March of Dimes and also happens to be pictured on the dime? No coincidence at all, as it turns out. In fact, after FDR died in 1945, Congress voted to commemorate the work he did on behalf of the March of Dimes by putting his profile on the coin.

My name is Layla Bailey, and this is my biome.” I cut to the footage of my house, turning up the audio so that I can be heard explaining my habitat. I added today’s men in plastic suits to the very end, and I narrate over it. “These people and CPS are the apex predators of my ecosystem, and I am an endangered species. The last of my kind. But the Sierra Club doesn’t make posters out of kids like me.” I add three screenshots near the end. The first is the only picture of my mom I could find, in profile and wreathed in smoke. “This is my mother, Darlene Thompson. She was born in captivity and released into the wild without any skills to care for herself. She is missing. If you see her, do not attempt to approach her, but please contact animal control.” The second is of Andy. “This is Andrew Fisher Bailey, my little brother. He was taken into captivity two days ago by people he had never seen before. I don’t know his whereabouts, but I hope he’s safe. If you see him, remember he is friendly but skittish. He is better off in captivity than in the wild.” The last one is my most recent report card, accessed on the school website by inputting the username and password I created for my mom last year. “This is me, Layla Louise Bailey. I was born in the wild and cannot be domesticated. However, I’m not yet fully capable of caring for myself, either. I have no money and not enough skills. What I have is a 4.0 and really low standards. I’ll do chores. I’ll be quiet. If you’ve got a garage or a laundry room I could sleep in, I am mostly housebroken. I just want to finish school, adopt my little brother, and go to college.

Facebook is an Ancient and Modern book that reconnects you with ancient friends and connects you with modern ones. People add and minus you as a friend at whim. Some people change their profile pictures everyday as if they’re WANTED by the police. On it, you chat with ur fingers, not with ur mouth. It’s a status-conscious society. It’s a place where, even if you can’t afford a house, you at least have a wall where passersby do graffiti.

The truth is that I'd gain nothing by being a saint after being dead, an artist is what I am, and the only thing I want is to be alive so I can keep going along at donkey level in this six-cylinder touring car I bought from the marine's consul, with this Trinidadian chauffeur who was a baritone in the New Orleans pirates' opera, with my genuine silk shirts, my Oriental lotions, my topaz teeth, my flat straw hat, and my bicolored buttons, sleeping without an alarm clock, dancing with beauty queens, and leaving them hallucinated with my dictionary rhetoric, and with no flutter in my spleen if some Ash Wednesday my faculties wither away, because in order to go on with this life of a minister, all I need is my idiot face, and I have more than enough with the string of shops I own from here to beyond the sunset, where the same tourists who used to go around collecting from us through the admiral, now go stumbling after my autographed pictures, almanacs with my love poetry, medals with my profile, bits of my clothing, and all of that without the glorious plague of spending all day and all night sculpted in equestrian marble and shat on by swallows like the fathers of our country.

Oh, are you calling the cops, bitch? Maggie says, Yeah, I actually am! There is a counterprotest that same day. “West Fargo for Knodel.” Maggie watches it on television. It’s led by eight of Aaron Knodel’s current students. Most are female. They play sports and their Facebook profile pictures are assertive and tongue ridden. They wear short shorts and their legs are tan. They hold signs that say, Best teacher we’ve ever had #WF4Knodel Not Guilty #WF4Knodel Passing drivers slow and honk or speed up and scream. Cheers and sunshine. Now the Knodel family station wagon drives past. A photo is snapped. Marie is in the passenger seat, her hair up like a mom’s, her skin considerably brighter than it was in the courthouse, her mouth open like it’s whooping, Yeah! A boy is in the seat behind her, thumbs-upping out the open window, with a smaller boy beside him, looking confused. And Aaron is in the driver’s seat with a little white dog pressed between his rib cage and the steering wheel. On his face is a look of slightly embarrassed yet utterly exultant pride, like a sun over the funeral of an enemy.

Every step of ours holds the power to influence the world we live in. And by influencing the world I don't mean creating some online profile and posting some trending pictures and photographs in an effort to build a monetizable “influencer” image. A person can have a million followers on instagram by posting fake beauty or fashion content, but this only coaxes a bunch of possession-obsessed humans to buy more things than they need, it doesn't have any impact whatsoever on human progress in the long run – in short, the thing you call today influencing in the world of social media, is actually no influencing.

Pictures of her, and of the raven and the quote from Lear, snapped and circulated from Twitter. Her, coming out of Park Street station with a cop on each side. Her first instinct was not to read the comments—the first rule of retaining whatever faith you had left in humanity was Never, ever read the comments—but she couldn’t help it. She read the comments. Tim Burton’s Lady Indiana Jones and the T Station of Doom #hero #fuckshitup Who is this woman??? And then—these were her people, all right: resourceful, internet-literate geeks—a link to her professional profile on LinkedIn. She inhaled. And, not for the first time, was intensely grateful no one who didn’t already work for the hospital knew the location of her little satellite office.

It was the same photograph that had been in all the papers eight years ago and that he now used again in his ads: the one he had taken on the café terrace in Paris on the morning before she disappeared, the last picture of her. In seven-eighths profile, she looked at Rex with a knowing smile, as if she had something up her sleeve. The caption read: ...two cans... Under the title "French Appeal for Missing Girl-friend," the story of her disappearance was told once more, abbreviated, and with a few small errors. They'd gone ahead and quoted the sum he'd supposedly paid for the ads: The price: a cool eighty thousand guilders. He must have gone deep into dept for this. Hoping for what? "Nothing," says Hofman. "It's a tribute.

keep the pot boiling, the Mirror got a popular psychologist, Dr. William Marston, to make “a close study of the photographs of the petite film star.” As the inventor of the lie detector test and eventual creator of Wonder Woman, Marston obviously had the probity for the job. He determined that Mary was “a pleasure seeker, secretive . . . a square shooter . . . an introspective, pugnacious individual,” who was “inclined to be oblivious to the ordinary conventions and social rules when she is set on a course of her own.” A photo of her face in profile showed that her forehead, nose, and chin barely protruded to the vertical line they had superimposed on the picture. This meant they were “hidden” features, evidence that Mary was a secretive type.