Pumping Milk Quotes

It seemed marvelous to see life pump through that strange little body of feathers, wordless noises, milk eyes—much as life pumped through me.

I'll remind you of that someday , Maura says. "when you're married to a man who once looked into your eyes and promised to forsake all others. I'll remind of that after you've just had his baby and you have postpartum depression and feel as fat as cow and you are pumping milk into a plastic containers in the middle of the night while he's running around with some twenty-two-years old named Lissette. I'll remind you of that. Maura to Jess.

World-class cereal-eating is a dance of fine compromises. The giant heaping bowl of sodden cereal, awash in milk, is the mark of the novice. Ideally one wants the bone-dry cereal nuggets and the cryogenic milk to enter the mouth with minimal contact and for the entire reaction between them to take place in the mouth. Randy has worked out a set of mental blueprints for a special cereal-eating spoon that will have a tube running down the handle and a little pump for the milk, so that you can spoon dry cereal up out of a bowl, hit a button with your thumb, and squirt milk into the bowl of the spoon even as you are introducing it into your mouth. The next best thing is to work in small increments, putting only a small amount of Cap’n Crunch in your bowl at a time and eating it all up before it becomes a pit of loathsome slime, which, in the case of Cap’n Crunch, takes about thirty seconds.

Don't you feel as though you could love everything starting tomorrow, and everything could love you, if only you took an action to set into motion the coming of our new tomorrow and its tomorrow and that one's tomorrow? Shotgun loaded hand on the pump and no matter who you damage you're still a false prophet, but we drink chocolate milk and then we get muscles and smash down the droves with fists like hammers and then we pump the fists in the air for victory. I be the prophet of the doom that is you. You are the mess in messiah.

There are two basic coping mechanisms. One consists of dreading the chaos, fighting it and abusing oneself after losing, building a structured life of work/marriage/gym/reunions/children/depression/affair/divorce/alcoholism/recovery/heart attack, in which every decision is a reaction against the fear of the worst (make children to avoid being forgotten, fuck someone at the reunion in case the opportunity never comes again, and the Holy Grail of paradoxes: marry to combat loneliness, then plunge into that constant marital desire to be alone). This is the life that cannot be won, but it does offer the comforts of battle—the human heart is content when distracted by war. “The second mechanism is an across-the-board acceptance of the absurd all around us. Everything that exists, from consciousness to the digestive workings of the human body to sound waves and bladeless fans, is magnificently unlikely. It seems so much likelier that things would not exist at all and yet the world shows up to class every morning as the cosmos takes attendance. Why combat the unlikeliness? This is the way to survive in this world, to wake up in the morning and receive a cancer diagnosis, discover that a man has murdered forty children, discover that the milk has gone sour, and exclaim, 'How unlikely! Yet here we are,' and have a laugh, and swim in the chaos, swim without fear, swim without expectation but always with an appreciation of every whim, the beauty of screwball twists and jerks that pump blood through our emaciated veins.

Mothers in America seemed capable of miracles—returning to work just a few weeks after giving birth, pumping milk between meetings, and working at home on the weekends by managing children with one hand and their BlackBerrys with the other. I was certain I could never function at that level.

On the frozen tundra, I milked a cow and pumped out ice cream. Strangely, it had chunks of strawberries in it.

I force myself to fall into a routine. Froth the milk. Pump the cane sugar. Pretend there isn’t a dead bird in a box in my apartment. The first two are easier than the third.

If breastfeeding is causing you terrible anxiety, ruining your performance at work, hurting your relationship with your kids or your spouse—all of these are valid factors. You are more than the milk you make, and you are in charge of your body.

Feeding (more on this in chapter 8) Breast pump Breast pads Breast cream (Lansinoh) Breast milk containers Twin nursing pillow Boppy Formula Baby bottles (8-oz. wide neck; 16–20 bottles if you’re doing formula exclusively) Dishwasher baskets Bottle brush High chairs Booster seat Food processor or immersion blender Bottle warmer Bottle drying rack Bowls and spoons Baby food storage containers Keepsakes Baby books Thank-you notes/stationery Newspaper from birthday CD player/dock for music Twin photo albums/frames

The failed deal crushed McClure, precipitating a nervous breakdown in April 1900 that propelled him to Europe to undergo the celebrated “rest-cure” devised by an American physician, S. Weir Mitchell. Prescribed for a range of nervous disorders, the rest cure required that patients remain isolated for weeks or even months at a time, forbidden to read or write, rigidly adhering to a milk-only diet. Underlying this regimen was the assumption that “raw milk is a food the body easily turns into good blood,” which would restore positive energy when pumped through the body.

The sea was white like a sheet of foam, like a a caldron of boiling milk; there was not a break in the clouds, no—not the size of a man’s hand—no, not for so much as ten seconds. There was for us no sky, there were for us no stars, no sun, no universe—nothing but angry clouds and an infuriated sea. We pumped watch for watch, for dear life; and it seemed to last for months, for years, for all eternity, as though we had been dead and gone, to a hell for sailors. We forgot the day of the week, the name of the month, what year it was, and whether we had ever been ashore.

This individualistic ethos, which has sometimes been called 'selfism,' was pumped into the boomers with their breast milk, and will be drained from every cavity by their morticians. It is an empancipation narrative. The idea was to be liberated from dogma, political oppression, social prejudice, and group conformity. The movement had a right-wing variant - the individual should be economically unregulated - and it had a left-wing variant - each person's individually chosen lifestyle should be socially unregulated. But it was all about individual emancipation all the way down.

Donut had come out of nowhere, knocking the flour, milk, and egg off the counter, splattering everything onto the floor. She then turned to run, touched the very edge of the hot burner on the oven, yowled, rocketed into the air, and then landed on the floor, covering herself with a little bit of everything while she did that Scooby-Doo scramble in the slippery mess, everything flying everywhere while her legs pumped several times before she actually moved.

Yeah, yeah, cum inside me, fucking fill my hole!” Ty started really flexing his ass muscles, milking my dick. He reached behind me and gripped my ass, pulling me closer to him. I pumped a few more times, then my body went rigid as my cock shot one long rope of cum inside his ass. I quaked over and over as more cum erupted from my balls, splashing his guts. “Ahhh, arrggg… fuuuck!” I shivered as I finished my orgasm. It was intense and my cock was still hard inside him afterwards.

i am something very gentle, very jealous of the selfless way my heart pumps blood for my ungrateful body, of how the bones in my spine uplift my head, despite how i insist we're crumbling, we're crumbling, always crying over spilled milk, when i could be strong like stainless steel or spider silk, when i could be kevlar instead of the honeycombed human digging out bullets, when i could be the tornado instead of Dorothy missing Kansas, when i could be a bone-dry Martini instead of the one retching, when i could be something like you, the shoulder to lean on and not the one reeling, the one picking up eggshells and never the one breaking.

Moon. Big white moon. White as milk moon. You’re all I can see from my window, here in the dark. Your light falls silver and white across the walls of my cell. The night-tide surges strong in me. So strong I can feel the grip of their drugs loosen. They fancy themselves high priests. Their gods have names like Thorazine and Lithium and Shock Therapy. But their gods are new and weak and cannot hope to contain me much longer. For I am the handiwork of far more powerful, far more ancient deities. Very soon my blood will learn the secret of the inhibiting factors the white-coated shamans pump into my veins. And then things will be very different, my beautiful moon. My white big moon. White as milk moon. Red as blood

They taught him how to milk cows and now they expected him to tame lions. Perhaps they expected him to behave like all good lion tamers. Use a whip and a chair. But what happens to the best lion tamer when he puts down his whip and his chair. Goddamnit! It was wrong. He felt cheated, he felt almost violated. He felt cheated for himself, and he felt cheated for guys like Joshua Edwards who wanted to teach and who didn’t know how to teach because he’d been pumped full of manure and theoretical hogwash. Why hadn’t anyone told them, in plain, frank English, just what to do? Couldn’t someone, somewhere along the line, have told them? Not one single college instructor? Not someone from the board of Ed, someone to orientate them after they’d passed the emergency exam? Not anyone? Now one sonofabitch somewhere who gave a good goddamn? Not even Stanley? Not even Small? Did they have to figure it out for themselves, sink and swim, kill or be killed? Rick had never been told how to stop in his class. He’d never been told what to do with a second term student who doesn’t even know how to write down his own goddamn name on a sheet of paper. He didn’t know, he’d never been advised on the proper tactics for dealing with a boy whose I.Q. was 66, a big, fat, round, moronic 66. He hadn’t been taught about kids’ yelling out in class, not one kid, not the occasional “difficult child” the ed courses had loftily philosophized about, not him. But a whole goddamn, shouting, screaming class load of them all yelling their sonofbitching heads off. What do you do with a kid who can’t read even though he’s fifteen years old? Recommend him for special reading classes, sure. And what do you do when those special reading classes are loaded to the asshole, packed because there are kids who can’t read in abundance, and you have to take only those who can’t read the worst, dumping them onto a teacher who’s already overloaded and those who doesn’t want to teach a remedial class to begin with? And what do you with that poor ignorant jerk? Do you call him on class, knowing damn well he hasn’t read the assignment because he doesn’t know how to read? Or do you ignore him? Or do you ask him to stop by after school, knowing he would prefer playing stickball to learning how to read. And knowing he considers himself liberated the moment the bell sounds at the end of the eighth period. What do you do when you’ve explained something patiently and fully, explained it just the way you were taught to explain in your education courses, explained in minute detail, and you look out at your class and see that stretching, vacant wall of blank, blank faces and you know nothing has penetrated, not a goddamn thing has sunk in? What do you do then? Give them all board erasers to clean. What do you do when you call on a kid and ask “What did that last passage mean?”and the kid stands there without any idea of what the passage meant , and you know that he’s not alone, you know every other kid in the class hasn’t the faintest idea either? What the hell do you do then? Do you go home and browse through the philosophy of education books the G.I bill generously provided. Do you scratch your ugly head and seek enlightenment from the educational psychology texts? Do you consult Dewey? And who the hell do you condemn, just who? Do you condemn elementary schools for sending a kid on to high school without knowing how to read, without knowing how to write his own name on a piece of paper? Do you condemn the masterminds who plot the education systems of a nation, or a state or a city?

Consumerism, the new black. I want my burger my way. Shaken not stirred. Sauce on the side and rare but not rare rare. Venti, two-pump, sugar-free vanilla, non-fat, two Splenda, extra-hot, extra-whip, extra-mocha Mocha and can you put the Splenda in before you pour the milk? (See, this is where it gets positively delicious!) Under the auspices of that wonderful word Consumerism, not only is this not seen as overly demanding, it’s positively encouraged by everyone.

A warm burning sensation fl ashed in her breasts, and she pressed them with backs of her wrists to stop the milk before it fl owed. “Ugh, I’m letting down. We’ll have to make this fast so I can go pump in the bathroom. I’m used to nursing every couple of hours.” The horror in Felix’s eyes was so intense it seemed painful. “Pretend you didn’t just say that.” “Say what? I didn’t say anything.” He shook his head in disgust.

The second mechanism is an across-the-board acceptance of the absurd all around us. Everything that exists, from consciousness to the digestive workings of the human body to sound waves and bladeless fans, is magnificently unlikely. It seems so much likelier that things would not exist at all and yet the world shows up to class every morning as the cosmos takes attendance. Why combat the unlikeliness? This is the way to survive in this world, to wake up in the morning and receive a cancer diagnosis, discover that a man has murdered forty children, discover that the milk has gone sour, and exclaim, “How unlikely! Yet here we are,” and have a laugh, and swim in the chaos, swim without fear, swim without expectation but always with an appreciation of every whim, the beauty of screwball twists and jerks that pump blood through our emaciated veins.

On one particular night, I was determined to get a half-decent night of sleep because I had a big meeting at work the next morning, where I was talking to the school board about the special education program at our school. It was a really, really important meeting, and I didn’t think I could get through it on an hour of sleep. I pumped Emma full of two bottles of milk, hoping she’d conk out, but knowing it was a crapshoot. I told Noah about the meeting and emphasized how important it was. I had to get a decent night of sleep. He swore he understood. So when Emma woke up screaming at two in the morning, I expected him to get up with her. “I’ve got a headache, Claire,” he mumbled into his pillow. “Can’t you get her?” I had a headache too. I had a headache almost all the time these days, as well as big purple circles under my eyes. Skipping out on my parental duties was never an option. “You know I have a big meeting tomorrow.” Noah squeezed his eyes shut. After a long minute of Emma’s cries increasing in volume, he got out of bed. And slammed the door shut behind him when he left the bedroom. Just as the cries subsided and I started to drift off again, the screams abruptly started again. A few seconds later, Noah came back into the bedroom. He flopped down on the bed and covered his head with the pillow. “I can’t deal with her,” he said. “You have to do it.” “But I told you, I have a meeting tomorrow!” “Well, I have a headache. I’m not getting up.” And that was it, as far as he was concerned. He acted like Emma was my baby, he was doing me a favor by trying to help, but if he didn’t want to do it, he didn’t have to. I remember staring at him in the dark bedroom, waiting to see if he would change his mind. He didn’t budge. I had to get up and spend the rest of the night comforting Emma. He never apologized for that one. Even though I was a wreck at my meeting the next day, and he ended up sleeping in after I dropped Emma and Aidan off at daycare. It was so incredibly unfair. After that, it seemed like we were at war more and more frequently. He never carried his weight when it came to the children and the housework, and what’s worse, he didn’t care. He told me all I did was nag him. We stopped doing things together as a family—I preferred to go out with the kids myself so I didn’t have to watch him play with his phone instead of talking to me. And we never did anything together as a couple. I can’t remember our last date night. For a while, we were making an effort to get a babysitter and go out, but I can’t remember the last time either of us even suggested it. I kept telling myself things would get better as the kids got older. But now they’re older. And it turned out, our marriage got too broken to fix.

In addition to this crude notion of karma, and my sympathy for imagined babies and their imagined families, there also lurks something else: an illusion of control. There is so much in my life that I cannot hope to control. I can't control all my nights of broken sleep. I can't control the terrors that my mind chooses to review just as I close my eyes - the repetitive carousel of meningitis, comas, cars swept into oceans, house fires, or paedophiles. I can't control out landlord's whims, whether - or when - his voracity might lead to us moving house again. I can't control my children's chances of securing a place in the local primary school, whose enrollment policy (like most Irish schools) is predicated upon membership of the Catholic Church. I can, however, control the ritual of milk production: the sterilisation of the bottles, the components of the pump slotted in their correct order, the painstaking necessity of record-keeping, every procedure that I choose to perform carefully and correctly.

Snappy, voyeuristic, and upsettingly relevant, The Goddess Effect takes us on a heart-pumping romp through the ‘cult’ of contemporary wellness. Either ironically or sincerely, if you’ve ever opted to add CBD to your oat milk latte, moon bathed a crystal, dropped $110 on a pair of yoga pants, cried under the mood lighting of a fauxspirational fitness class, or made any other questionable life decision in pursuit of self-actualization

Blood glucose instability is a huge problem that affects the moods of millions of people. The brain accounts for only about 2 percent of body weight, but requires 25 percent of all blood pumped by the heart (up to 50 percent in kids). Therefore, low blood sugar hits the brain hard, causing depression, anxiety, and lassitude. If you often become uncomfortably hungry, you’ve got a serious problem and should solve it. Eat high-protein, nutrient-dense meals, and snack enough to keep your blood sugar up, but not with insulin-stimulating sweets or starches. Remember that hunger kills brain cells, just like getting drunk. Be careful of caffeine, which causes blood sugar swings, and never crash diet. Food sensitivities are common reactions that are not classic food allergies, so most conventional allergists underestimate the damage they do. They play a major role in mood disruption, much more frequently than most people realize. They cause chemical reactions in the body that destabilize blood sugar and wreak havoc upon hormonal and neurotransmitter balance. This can trigger depression, anxiety, impaired concentration, insomnia, and hyperactivity. The most common sensitivities, unfortunately, are to the foods people most often overconsume: wheat, milk, eggs, corn, soy, and peanuts. The average American gets about 75 percent of her calories from just 10 favorite foodstuffs, and this narrow range of eating disrupts the digestive process and causes abnormal reactions. If a particular food doesn’t agree with you and commonly causes heartburn, gas, bloating, water weight gain, a craving for more, or a burst of nervous energy, you’re probably reactive to it. There are several good books on the subject, and there are many labs that test for sensitivities. Ask a chiropractor, naturopath, or doctor of integrative medicine about them. Don’t expect much help from a conventional allergist. Exercise and Mood Dozens of studies indicate that exercise is often as effective for depression as medication, partly because it increases production of stimulating hormones, such as norepinephrine, and also because it increases oxygen flow to the brain. Exercise can, in addition, help relieve and prevent anxiety, creating a so-called tranquilizer effect that persists for about 4 hours after exercising. Exercise also decreases the biological stress response, which dampens the automatic fear reaction. It is also uniquely effective at causing secretion of Nerve Growth Factor, one of the limited number of substances that cause brain cells to grow. Another benefit of exercise is that it increases endorphin output by about 500 percent and decreases the incidence of major and minor illnesses. For mood, the ideal amount is 30 to 45 minutes of cardiovascular exercise daily. Studies show that exercising less than 30 minutes or more than 1 hour decreases mood benefits.

Swallow, princess,” he commands, pumping his hips. “Milk daddy’s cock with your throat, little boy.

They’re hippies, but not the peace-and-love kind. Climate change and political upheaval will mean everyone will need to raise chickens, milk goats, and pump their own water from streams. According to Jennifer and Alex, this could be any day. Life can change overnight. Jennifer says that a lot. Too often, if you ask me. But everyone has something that makes them happy. For my mom and dad, it’s prepping for end-times.

What is the best supplement? Not formula. The first choice is always the mother’s own milk. Hand expression during the first few days, when there is not a lot of colostrum, is often more effective than the best pumps.

As Tetley hand-pump bitter was served perfectly all over Pontefract, and therefore tasted like heaven’s milk,

One day in 1987, the Chairman of a milk cooperative in the Rann of Kutch visited me at Anand and narrated the heart-rending plight of the salt farmers of his region. About 60 per cent of India’s salt is produced in the state of Gujarat and yet most of us here do not know of the harsh lives of the salt workers. Their situation, particularly in the Little Rann of Kutch, is very depressing. The salt workers have settled down in this arid, merciless desert where there is not a tree in sight. The villagers dig a hole in the ground, pump the water up and make a saltpan on some two hectares of land and farm salt. They work there for ten months a year producing salt. But they have to buy water from the merchant, to whom they ultimately sell the salt they produce. To get diesel for their pump they have to again depend on the same merchant. The salt worker finally gets two paise per kilo of salt from the merchant. There are no trees, no shelter for them, no schooling for their children. Long hours of working barefoot in the pans saturates their legs so much with salt that these farmers cannot even have a satisfactory cremation after death because their lower limbs do not burn. It is a miserable existence.

Then I asked him the question that would change my life. “Mr. Trump,” I said, “one of the things people love about you is you speak your mind and you don’t use a politician’s filter. However, that is not without its downsides. In particular, when it comes to women. You’ve called women you don’t like ‘fat pigs,’ ‘dogs,’ ‘slobs,’ and ‘disgusting animals.’” “Only Rosie O’Donnell,” he quipped. The crowd chuckled at his Rosie O’Donnell comment. I passed no judgment on the audience, but I was not going to join them in laughing. “For the record,” I said, “it was well beyond Rosie O’Donnell.” Trump knew it too. “I’m sure it was,” he said. We had fact-checked every word of that question. Rosie had, no question, been vicious toward Trump too, and if it had only been her, I would not have asked that question. But what I’d seen in my research binder was that he’d made a habit of attacking women regularly with these sorts of terms—mocking their looks and sexualizing them. The women he’d belittled in the terms I used in my question included, but were not limited to, Arianna Huffington, Bette Midler, New York Times columnist Gail Collins, and a lawyer requesting a prearranged break to pump breast milk for her baby (“disgusting”). There were many, many others. “Your Twitter account,” I continued, “has several disparaging comments about women’s looks. You once told a contestant on Celebrity Apprentice it would be a pretty picture to see her on her knees. Does that sound to you like the temperament of a man we should elect as president, and how will you answer the charge from Hillary Clinton, who is likely to be the Democratic nominee, that you are part of the ‘war on women’?” First Trump said that we’d gotten too politically correct in this country. And then this: “What I say is what I say. And honestly, Megyn, if you don’t like it, I’m sorry. I’ve been very nice to you, although I could probably maybe not be, based on the way you have treated me. But I wouldn’t do that.” He looked angry, I thought. After all my planning for that moment, I was relieved that he hadn’t attacked me personally in his response. Still, I felt his anger, and understood him perfectly. He was making a veiled but very clear threat. I’d known Trump for several years by this point. We’d had a mostly good—but also complicated—relationship. Seared into my mind was a threat he’d made to me by phone just four days earlier to “unleash” what he called his “beautiful Twitter account” on me. I expected I would find out what he meant by that soon, and indeed I would.

The mother’s milk can be suction-pumped out of her heavy aching breasts, stored in sanitized little baby-

For someone who, like James Redd, prefers the simplicity and straightforwardness of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, a trip to Starbucks is like a journey into another dimension. In much the same way, one-size-fits-all coffee does not cut it for the Bleus. Phoebe’s favorite order is the “grande two-pump skinny vanilla latte.” Finn almost always gets a “grande skim latte with mocha and peppermint, 4.5 pumps, nonfat, no water, no foam, with extra hot chai.” Although people with fluid worldviews talk about these drinks among their friends fully believing that everyone knows what they mean, the Redds would probably need a translator to learn that Phoebe has ordered a large skim-milk latte with a half shot of sugar-free vanilla syrup, while Finn has asked for a medium nonfat latte with four and a half pumps of chai syrup, no water added, the foam taken off the top, and the cup filled with extra-hot steamed milk.

Before leaving Austin I heard a radio report on an Englishman who’s giving out awards for stupid security measures. First prize goes to an airport scanner who forced a female passenger to drink from three bottles of her own breast milk. She’d pumped it before boarding, and they wanted to make sure it wasn’t poison. This explains why sperm donors are traveling Greyhound.

Nothing on this earth had ever felt as good as being inside Chloe. He gritted his teeth, hanging on to the last remnants of sanity he possessed, as he tried to calm enough not to take her like some primal beast. The grip of her. The silky heat. He braced his elbow next to her head and their eyes locked. He was fucking Chloe. This was going to change them forever. He experienced a rush of panic that quickly dimmed as her thighs clasped his hips and she arched to meet him, gasping. Her hands fell to his waist, nails digging into his skin. He moved, gripped her wrists, and brought them up over her head. They were touching everywhere, the length of him sliding into her. Her breasts against his chest. Her inner muscles clamped around him and he cursed, thrusting inside her. He'd think later. Much, much later. He covered her mouth with his, his tongue sliding against hers. The air grew thick and humid. Tinged with a desperate, urgent lust. He ripped away and groaned. Pumped harder inside her. Her head pressed into the pillow and her neck arched. He held her wrists tighter, he bit her exposed throat, before soothing the skin with his tongue. She cried out. Her nails dug harder. Her thighs clenched. Their movements deepened. Quickened. He let her go, levered up, and rammed hard inside her, circling his hips. Grinding against her. Thrusting harder. Faster. Deeper. The bed frame banged its frantic beat against the wall. Over and over and over again. Her body rippled down the length of his cock. He jerked, losing what little control he had as he came in a loud shout, just as her orgasm rushed through her, milking him for everything he was worth, his vision dimming as intense pleasure tore through him in endless waves. He had no idea how long they went on like that. Pushing and pulsing together mindlessly, lost in the aftershocks of bone-deep satisfaction. He collapsed on top of her, burying his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling that special scent, unique to Chloe. He licked her skin. Tasting salt and sex.

the baby could cry for hours, refusing the bottles of pumped milk with the incredulous air of a gold club member told he had to fly coach.

The government cheese… The cheese of the government may be tempered with real cheese powders however it’s constantly not the best thing you should eat in the world. You can make a traditional grilled cheese sandwich. With American cheese which is just vegetable oil with food coloring as well as the skim of milk. However, that’s just government milk with government oil to make governments grilled cheese sandwich so be the nation can afford to eat. Nothing wrong with that at all. It’s humbling to know the value of a dollar. Compare it to the sales at every single store. You find government cheese made by companies that have been around since the 1900s. There are many cheeses of the world. Every single country makes cheese. Some really good ones and some that smell like someone cut the cheese. The government cheese can be put on a hamburger, which isn’t made of ham at all. The cheese can be melted to broccoli or put in macaroni and cheese as a quick meal with vegetables if any kind basically that is just homemade some sort of helper, then. As to the box of the content we all know as to all have eaten in our lifetime says so in really big letters. In directions anyone can understand. The government cheese can be put in that as well. For it will taste really good, nonetheless. All hail the government cheese. It’s affordable as well as delicious if you don’t like other cheeses. It can be melted to be slopped on chili cheese dogs. At every bbq in every household across the world. So don’t make fun of government cheese for there is also government bread as well as government water as well as many other governments benefits you can enjoy. Again, we can all hail at the government cheese. Now the people that can part between the sarcasm as to the appreciation of the government cheese. Successfully I have portrayed the explanation of government assistance to feed the population food that they can afford. Until they figure out that growing food your self is even more affordable as to it still giving respect to the government cheese. It’s also more rewarding when you have abundance of what you need right there fresh grown as you then know where it came from and that it wasn’t pumped full of high fructose corn syrup. That most of us are not even aware of this fun fact that they do to add weight to the money that they make per pound that you spend your money on. Wasteful don’t you think when you can eat one watermelon of 30lbs, and you know it’s right and the vitamins are real.

Leaving your baby with childcare when you’re working. Leaving your baby with childcare when you’re not working. Not having more patience. Not having time to sanitize pump parts. Not doing more tummy time. Letting your baby cry during tummy time. Going out on date night. Drinking wine and having to dump your milk. Drinking wine and not dumping your milk. Giving your baby toys with batteries. Quitting breastfeeding.

To help reduce and then stop her milk supply, she pumped a little less time each morning and then used one of nature’s little miracles: green cabbage leaves. Green cabbage has a chemical in it that helps to dry up your milk. If you place a cold cabbage leaf on each breast under your bra and leave them there for an hour or two each day, it will lessen your supply (if you would like to decrease the amount), but don’t leave them on too long if you want to continue to breast-feed; this is very effective and you don’t want to hinder the supply that you need for your baby. However, if for whatever reason you wish to stop nursing, cabbage leaves will dry up your milk altogether.

IF YOU NEED TO OR DECIDE TO STOP One mom I worked with had nursed her baby for a week, and then she became ill with a fever and infection. To help reduce and then stop her milk supply, she pumped a little less time each morning and then used one of nature’s little miracles: green cabbage leaves. Green cabbage has a chemical in it that helps to dry up your milk. If you place a cold cabbage leaf on each breast under your bra and leave them there for an hour or two each day, it will lessen your supply (if you would like to decrease the amount), but don’t leave them on too long if you want to continue to breast-feed; this is very effective and you don’t want to hinder the supply that you need for your baby. However, if for whatever reason you wish to stop nursing, cabbage leaves will dry up your milk altogether.

Only being there, in close vicinity of Leo’s warm body and bright eyes, pumped him full of delight, as if Eeli was drinking from a glass full of liquid sunbeams, and not some lukewarm milk with his bread and cheese.

Mr Ambrayses nodded. “Two explanations are commonly offered for this,” he said: “In the first we are asked to imagine certain sites in the world–a crack in the concrete in Chicago or New Delhi, a twist in the air in an empty suburb of Prague, a clotted milk bottle on a Bradford tip–from which all flies issue in a constant stream, a smoke exhaled from some fundamental level of things. This is what people are asking–though they do not usually know it–when they say exasperatedly, “Where are all these flies coming from ?” Such locations are like the holes in the side of a new house where insulation has been pumped in: something left over from the constructional phase of the world. “This is an adequate, even an appealing model of the process. But it is not modern; and I prefer the alternative, in which it is assumed that as Viriconium grinds past us, dragging its enormous bulk against the bulk of the world, the energy generated is expressed in the form of these insects, which are like the sparks shooting from between two flywheels that have momentarily brushed each other.

When the time comes, fight with all your heart. We’re warriors, Hadjar. We don’t stay at home and wait for our wife to milk the goats and cook us dinner. No, our dinner is the enemy’s flesh and blood. We don’t die in our beds, surrounded by our children and their children. No, we die in our own shit, on the battlefield, amongst the stench and corpses of our comrades. We don’t sow, we don’t plow, we don’t write poetry, we don’t sing ballads. We fight, Hadjar. We fight so that others can caress their tired spouses, hold their grandchildren, paint great works of art, and write songs. Preferably about us. We’re warriors, Hadjar. Our hands are covered in the blood of our friends and enemies alike. But that doesn’t mean that we have to suffer for it. And that’s why I’m telling you to enjoy your life. What is your life, disciple? What is the life of a warrior?” He gripped the Black Blade. The answer was simple: a warrior’s life was their sword. The only thing that stayed with them until their death. Hadjar opened his eyes. He looked at the world around him as if he were seeing it for the first time. His heart was still beating, pumping blood through his veins. If his heart was still beating, his sword wasn’t broken. His sword was his heart. Every wind current that was one with him was his sword. Every rustle of the autumn leaves that was one with him was his sword. Every ray of sunshine, every unshed tear, every musical note, every speck of dust, every stone… was his sword. The world was one with him, and therefore, with his sword as well. But if the world and Hadjar were one with his sword, then who wielded the blade? The same person who controlled his life — Hadjar. Tarisfal Orune, the greatest swordsman in the history of Darnassus, hadn’t committed suicide, but had instead taught his disciple his last and most important lesson: Hadjar ruled his life and his sword. And his sword ruled the world around him.

The fire was stopped at State Street by a brigade of firefighters with pumps, saving the Old State House for posterity. Also saved by extraordinary effort was the Old South Meetinghouse at Milk and Washington. Credit is given to a crew from Portsmouth, New Hampshire, who arrived by train with their steam engine, Kearsage No. 3, that had been loaded on a flatbed railroad car and hauled by train to Boston.

Suspenders promptly disappeared, and it was all Oli. “Oh Oliver. Oh fuck.” Oli brushed his lips to mine, then trailed up, raining damp kisses all over my face. “Are you going to come?” “Yeah,” I whispered. “I can feel it.” “Do it.” Oli tilted his head against mine. “Give him all of that milk.” I cried out when I came. I couldn’t help but be loud. It tore out of me, urgent and slightly panicked sounding, as I unloaded into Suspender’s waiting mouth. He swallowed everything and kept pumping my shaft like he wanted even more. His cheeks didn’t stop hollowing from the suction until every drop was drained. Sagging

SOE "boffins" (or scientific blue-sky inventors) based at the Thatched Barn, a former hotel on the Barnet bypass in north London, had secretly designed a range of ingenious explosive devices to cause maximum impact in the most challenging situations. These real-life forerunners of James Bond's Q had come up with milk bottles that exploded if the cap was removed, loaves of bread that would "cause devastation" when cut in half, and fountain pens that squirted poison. Perhaps the most popular was fake horse dung that exploded if driven over- but there were also tiny but lethal charges that could be inserted into cigarettes, matchboxes, bicycle pumps, fountain pens, or hair brushes, and perhaps most usefully railway engines or fuel tanks. p138

Against the burr of multiple grinders and blenders going at once, a blockade of thirsty patrons watch the baristas furiously topping off drinks with pumps of syrup or oat milk, silently praying their hit of caffeine comes next.

It gets better the lower I go and I covetously grip her hips as I find my lips tickled by a tuft of soft curls. I took her for a Brazilian type of woman, but it doesn’t fucking matter, not when it’s ambrosia, not when I crave it like I crave the fucking sky. She cries out when my lips kiss the line where her labia meet. I stroke my tongue down her centre, lapping up the beads of her heady juices as I do. Sliding my tongue between her lips, I groan deep in my throat as that nectar slides into my mouth, simultaneously heating me up and cooling my brain. The cerebral relief I feel is unmatched as I lave into her pussy, exploring the delicate skin like a skilled explorer. A flick of her clit makes her cry out, hands reaching into my hair and tugging in just the way I like. My lips find her clit and I suck on it gently, and happily find a flood of the heady slick in my mouth. I reach down and stroke myself as I savour this delicacy, feeling my hard shaft respond to the pleasure in my mouth. I squeeze the base almost cruelly hard, milking my cock and feeling its veins bulge. Precum coats the broad head and I imagine the flutter of my tongue of her most sensitive spot, grinning as I feel her writhe and almost choke on a moan. I’m relentless, wanting to feel more of the unexpected pleasure, pumping my shaft hard and fast as if I was in her. Release gathers at the base of me, rumbling like a volcano ready to explode. I work my cock as I work her clit and she comes first, screaming and crying, her back almost lifting off the bed completely before she pants, yanking on my hair so hard it hurts in the best way. Pressure hits a breaking point in my own body and I sit up, tilting my head back and moaning into the sky as I let go weeks of release onto her body, milking out every laboured millilitre of my seed. I inhale a sweet breath and exhale a relieved one before flopping down on the bed. Lazily, I rub my cum into her skin, letting my scent claim her, letting my seed soak into her skin. Silence. There is blissful silence in my head. And for the first time in an age, I go soundly to sleep.