Rejected By Crush Quotes

It's obsequious little nicety-nice girls like me who allow assholes to run the world: Miss Harlot O'Harlots, billionaire phony tree huggers, hypocrite drug-snorting, weed-puffing peace activists who fund the mass-murdering drug cartels and perpetuate crushing poverty in dirt-poor banana republics. It's my petty fear of personal rejection that allows so many true evils to exist. My cowardice enables atrocities.

Society invents a spurious convoluted logic tae absorb and change people whae's behaviour is outside its mainstream. Suppose that ah ken aw the pros and cons, know that ah'm gaunnae huv a short life, am ah sound mind, ectetera, ectetera, but still want tae use smack? They won't let ye dae it. They won't let ye dae it, because it's seen as a sign ay thir ain failure. The fact that ye jist simply choose tae reject whit they huv tae offer. Choose us. Choose life. Choose mortgage payments; choose washing machines; choose cars; choose sitting oan a couch watching mind-numbing and spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fuckin junk food intae yir mooth. Choose rotting away, pishing and shiteing yersel in a home, a total fuckin embarrassment tae the selfish, fucked-up brats ye've produced. Choose life. Well, ah choose no tae choose life. If the cunts cannae handle that, it's thair fuckin problem. As Harry Launder sais, ah jist intend tae keep right on to the end of the road...

You did,’ confirmed Nico. ‘But it was the way you did it. You made it clear that you wanted me around. You said you wanted me to come to the infirmary and help, because … because you could use a “friendly face”.’ ‘It was true. And you did help.’ ‘You brought me closer instead of rejecting me,’ Nico said, his voice cracking. ‘I’d never been called a friendly face. Ever. You made me rethink everything – my place in camp, my crush on Percy, my future. It took you scolding me like you were the camp director to make me realize that I was … wanted.

The singing stopped when I walked in. They all turned and stared at me, Bonne-Bell-Orange-Crush-glossed mouths hanging open, looking at me with the same horror and excitement they'd exhibit it I had just walked into the room naked. I stood there frozen, hyperaware of my scruffiness, my shirt untucked and one ponytail higher than the other. The Bad Dog turned me in on myself like a vortex, gleefully saying, Look, look. There they are, here you are. Separate. You do not belong.

How do people do this? How do people work up the courage to be themselves even if it means facing rejection from people who love them? Why don’t people get medals for this?

Laws" and "Rules" imposed on you From days of old renown. Are not intended for your "good" But for your crushing down. Then dare to rend the chains that bind And to yourself be true. Dare to liberate your mind, From all things, old and new. Always think your own thought. All other thoughts reject; Learn to use your own brain And boldly stand erect.

It’s neurotypicals who categorized autism as a social disorder.” Autistic people don’t actually lack communication skills, or a drive to connect. We aren’t doomed to forever feel lonely and broken. We can step out of the soul-crushing cycle of reaching for neurotypical acceptance and being rejected despite our best efforts. Instead, we can support and uplift one another, and create our own neurodiverse world where everyone—including neurotypicals—is welcome.

Society invents a spurious convoluted logic tea absorb and change people whae's behaviour is outside its mainstream. Suppose that ah ken all the pros and cons, know that ah'm gaunnae huv a short life, am ay sound mind etcetera etcetera, but still want tae use smack? They won't let ye dae it. They won't let ye dae it, because it's seen as a sign ay thir ain failure. The fact that ye jist simply choose tae reject whit they huv tae offer. Choose us. Choose life. Choose mortgage payments; choose washing machines; choose cars; choose sitting oan a couch watching mind-numbing and spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food intae yir mooth. Choose rotting away, pishing and shiteing yourself in a home, a total fucking embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats ye've produced. Choose life.

When I became convinced that the Universe is natural – that all the ghosts and gods are myths, there entered into my brain, into my soul, into every drop of my blood, the sense, the feeling, the joy of freedom. The walls of my prison crumbled and fell, the dungeon was flooded with light and all the bolts, and bars, and manacles became dust. I was no longer a servant, a serf or a slave. There was for me no master in all the wide world -- not even in infinite space. I was free -- free to think, to express my thoughts -- free to live to my own ideal -- free to live for myself and those I loved -- free to use all my faculties, all my senses -- free to spread imagination's wings -- free to investigate, to guess and dream and hope -- free to judge and determine for myself -- free to reject all ignorant and cruel creeds, all the "inspired" books that savages have produced, and all the barbarous legends of the past -- free from popes and priests -- free from all the "called" and "set apart" -- free from sanctified mistakes and holy lies -- free from the fear of eternal pain -- free from the winged monsters of the night -- free from devils, ghosts and gods. For the first time I was free. There were no prohibited places in all the realms of thought -- no air, no space, where fancy could not spread her painted wings -- no chains for my limbs -- no lashes for my back -- no fires for my flesh -- no master's frown or threat – no following another's steps -- no need to bow, or cringe, or crawl, or utter lying words. I was free. I stood erect and fearlessly, joyously, faced all worlds. And then my heart was filled with gratitude, with thankfulness, and went out in love to all the heroes, the thinkers who gave their lives for the liberty of hand and brain -- for the freedom of labor and thought -- to those who fell on the fierce fields of war, to those who died in dungeons bound with chains -- to those who proudly mounted scaffold's stairs -- to those whose bones were crushed, whose flesh was scarred and torn -- to those by fire consumed -- to all the wise, the good, the brave of every land, whose thoughts and deeds have given freedom to the sons of men. And then I vowed to grasp the torch that they had held, and hold it high, that light might conquer darkness still.

Society invents a spurious convoluted logic tae absorb and change people whae's behaviour is outside its mainstream. Suppose that ah ken aw the pros and cons, know that ah'm gaunnae huv a short life, am ah sound mind, etcetera, etcetera, but still want tae use smack? They won't let ye dae it. They won't let ye dae it, because it's seen as a sign ay thir ain failure. The fact that ye jist simply choose tae reject whut they huv tae offer. Choose us. Choose life. Choose mortgage payments; choose washing machines; choose cars; choose sitting oan a couch watching mind-numbing and spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fuckin junk food intae yir mooth. Choose rotting away, pishing and shiteing yersel in a home, a total fuckin embarrassment tae the selfish, fucked-up brats ye've produced. Choose life.

I love you so much that I’ve spent twelve years putting as much distance between us as I could. I moved. I traveled. I dated other people. I talked about Sarah all the fucking time because I knew you had a crush on her, and it felt safer that way. Because the last person I could take being rejected by was you.

To crush fanaticism and to venerate the infinite, such is the law. Let us not confine ourselves to prostrating ourselves before the tree of creation, and to the contemplation of its branches full of stars. We have a duty to labor over the human soul, to defend the mystery against the miracle, to adore the incomprehensible and reject the absurd, to admit, as an inexplicable fact, only what is necessary, to purify belief, to remove superstitions from above religion; to clear God of caterpillars.

But the poison of the serpent, whose head you crush, enters you through the wound in your heel; and thus the serpent becomes more dangerous than it was before. Since whatever I reject is never- theless in my nature. I thought it was without, and so I believed that I could destroy it. But it resides in me and has only assumed a passing outer form and stepped toward me. I destroyed its form and believed that I was a conqueror. But I have not yet overcome myself.

Why is it that because ye use hard drugs every cunt feels that they have a right tae dissect and analyse ye? Once ye accept that they huv that right, ye’ll join them in the search fir this holy grail, this thing that makes ye tick. Ye’ll then defer tae them, allowin yersel tae be conned intae believin any biscuit-ersed theory ay behaviour they choose tae attach tae ye. Then yir theirs, no yir ain; the dependency shifts from the drug to them. Society invents a spurious convoluted logic tae absorb and change people whae’s behaviour is outside its mainstream. Suppose that ah ken aw the pros and cons, know that ah’m gaunnae huv a short life, am ay sound mind etcetera, etcetera, but still want tae use smack? They won’t let ye dae it. They won’t let ye dae it, because it’s seen as a sign ay thir ain failure. The fact that ye jist simply choose tae reject whit they huv tae offer. Choose us. Choose life. Choose mortgage payments; choose washing machines; choose cars; choose sitting oan a couch watching mind-numbing and spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fuckin junk food intae yir mooth. Choose rotting away, pishing and shiteing yersel in a home, a total fuckin embarrassment tae the selfish, fucked-up brats ye’ve produced. Choose life. Well, ah choose no tae choose life. If the cunts cannae handle that, it’s thair fuckin problem. As Harry Lauder sais, ah jist intend tae keep right on to the end of the road …

The failing was that it was so easily won, and therefore became a thing of little worth for the recipient. Could no one see the hurt she felt, each and every time she was cast aside, sorely used, battered by rejection? Did they think she welcomed such feelings, the crushing despond of seeing the paucity of her worth?

Hypercritical, Shaming Parents Hypercritical and shaming parents send the same message to their children as perfectionistic parents do - that they are never good enough. Parents often deliberately shame their children into minding them without realizing the disruptive impact shame can have on a child's sense of self. Statements such as "You should be ashamed of yourself" or "Shame on you" are obvious examples. Yet these types of overtly shaming statements are actually easier for the child to defend against than are more subtle forms of shaming, such as contempt, humiliation, and public shaming. There are many ways that parents shame their children. These include belittling, blaming, contempt, humiliation, and disabling expectations. -BELITTLING. Comments such as "You're too old to want to be held" or "You're just a cry-baby" are horribly humiliating to a child. When a parent makes a negative comparison between his or her child and another, such as "Why can't you act like Jenny? See how she sits quietly while her mother is talking," it is not only humiliating but teaches a child to always compare himself or herself with peers and find himself or herself deficient by comparison. -BLAMING. When a child makes a mistake, such as breaking a vase while rough-housing, he or she needs to take responsibility. But many parents go way beyond teaching a lesson by blaming and berating the child: "You stupid idiot! Do you think money grows on trees? I don't have money to buy new vases!" The only thing this accomplishes is shaming the child to such an extent that he or she cannot find a way to walk away from the situation with his or her head held high. -CONTEMPT. Expressions of disgust or contempt communicate absolute rejection. The look of contempt (often a sneer or a raised upper lip), especially from someone who is significant to a child, can make him or her feel disgusting or offensive. When I was a child, my mother had an extremely negative attitude toward me. Much of the time she either looked at me with the kind of expectant expression that said, "What are you up to now?" or with a look of disapproval or disgust over what I had already done. These looks were extremely shaming to me, causing me to feel that there was something terribly wrong with me. -HUMILIATION. There are many ways a parent can humiliate a child, such as making him or her wear clothes that have become dirty. But as Gershen Kaufman stated in his book Shame: The Power of Caring, "There is no more humiliating experience than to have another person who is clearly the stronger and more powerful take advantage of that power and give us a beating." I can personally attest to this. In addition to shaming me with her contemptuous looks, my mother often punished me by hitting me with the branch of a tree, and she often did this outside, in front of the neighbors. The humiliation I felt was like a deep wound to my soul. -DISABLING EXPECTATIONS. Parents who have an inordinate need to have their child excel at a particular activity or skill are likely to behave in ways that pressure the child to do more and more. According to Kaufman, when a child becomes aware of the real possibility of failing to meet parental expectations, he or she often experiences a binding self-consciousness. This self-consciousness - the painful watching of oneself - is very disabling. When something is expected of us in this way, attaining the goal is made harder, if not impossible. Yet another way that parents induce shame in their children is by communicating to them that they are a disappointment to them. Such messages as "I can't believe you could do such a thing" or "I am deeply disappointed in you" accompanied by a disapproving tone of voice and facial expression can crush a child's spirit.

Then there were the people who acted like it shouldn't hurt, being rejected by the status quo like that. As if, because it came from a twisted place of inequality, it shouldn't have any hold on her. Which was a nice idea in principle, but Eve found it mostly came from those who'd never been personally crushed by the weight of all that disapproval.

In so speaking they saw further than the flesh. In their remorse and disgust it was not mere physical disillusionment that so crushed them. They saw further. They were overcome by an impression of bleak truth, of aridity, of growing nothingness, at the thought that they had so many times grasped, rejected, and vainly grasped again their frail carnal ideal. They felt that everything was fleeting, that everything wore out, that everything that was not dead would die, and that even the illusory ties holding them together would not endure. Their sadness did not bring them together. On the contrary, They were separated by all the force of their two sorrows. To suffer together, alas, what disunion!

James Cox, the Democratic candidate who was Wilson’s would-be successor, was crushed by the nonentity Warren G. Harding, who never even campaigned. In the biggest landslide in the history of American presidential politics, Harding got almost 64 percent of the major-party votes. The people were “tired,” textbooks suggest, and just wanted a “return to normalcy.” The possibility that the electorate knew what it was doing in rejecting Wilson never occurs to our authors.32 It occurred to Helen Keller, however. She called Wilson “the greatest individual disappointment the world has ever known!

The typical capitalists are lovers of power rather than sensual indulgence, but they have the same tendency to crush and to take tribute that the cruder types of sensualism possess. The discipline of the capitalist is the same as that of the frugalist. He differs from the latter in that he has no regard for the objects through which productive power is acquired. HE does not hesitate to exploit natural resources, lands, dumb animals and even his fellowman. Capital to such a man is an abstract fund, made up of perishable elements which are quickly replaced… The frugalist…stands in marked contrast to the attitude of the capitalist. The frugalist takes a vital interest in his tools, in his land, and in the goods he produces. He has a definite attachment to each. He dislikes to see an old coat wear out, an old wagon break down, or an old horse go lame. He always thinks of concrete things, wants them and nothing else. He desires not land, but a given farm, not horses or cattle and machines, but particular breeds and implements; not shelter, but a home…. He rejects as unworthy what is below standard and despises as luxurious what is above or outside of it. Dominated by activities, he thinks of capital as a means to an end.

Outside of your relationship with God, the most important relationship you can have is with yourself. I don’t mean that we are to spend all our time focused on me, me, me to the exclusion of others. Instead, I mean that we must be healthy internally—emotionally and spiritually—in order to create healthy relationships with others. Motivational pep talks and techniques for achieving success are useless if a person is weighed down by guilt, shame, depression, rejection, bitterness, or crushed self-esteem. Countless marriages land on the rocks of divorce because unhealthy people marry thinking that marriage, or their spouse, will make them whole. Wrong. If you’re not a healthy single person you won’t be a healthy married person. Part of God’s purpose for every human life is wholeness and health. I love the words of Jesus in John 10:10: “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.” God knows we are the walking wounded in this world and He wants the opportunity to remove everything that limits us and heal every wound from which we suffer. Some wonder why God doesn’t just “fix” us automatically so we can get on with life. It’s because He wants our wounds to be our tutors to lead us to Him. Pain is a wonderful motivator and teacher! When the great Russian intellectual Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn was released from the horrible Siberian work camp to which he was sent by Joseph Stalin, he said, “Thank you, prison!” It was the pain and suffering he endured that caused his eyes to be opened to the reality of the God of his childhood, to embrace his God anew in a personal way. When we are able to say thank you to the pain we have endured, we know we are ready to fulfill our purpose in life. When we resist the pain life brings us, all of our energy goes into resistance and we have none left for the pursuit of our purpose. It is the better part of wisdom to let pain do its work and shape us as it will. We will be wiser, deeper, and more productive in the long run. There is a great promise in the New Testament that says God comes to us to comfort us so we can turn around and comfort those who are hurting with the comfort we have received from Him (see 2 Corinthians 1:3–4). Make yourself available to God and to those who suffer. A large part of our own healing comes when we reach out with compassion to others.

You need to exude confidence, but also…no matter how cocky a guy acts, how cool he seems to be…never assume that he’s actually confident.” I arched my brows. “Really?” She nodded. “He might be, but even the most confident person in the world is afraid of rejection.

Unlike every other female—scavengers and nobs—I’ve never had a crush on the alpha heir. Yes, he’s nice to look at, and he did help me out once upon a time, but that’s not enough to get my engine running. What does get my engine running? I have no idea. I hope my engine runs.

This is why it is not true that culture can be, even temporarily, suspended in order to make way for a new culture. Man’s unbroken testimony as to his suffering and his nobility cannot be suspended; the act of breathing cannot be suspended. There is no culture without legacy, and we cannot and must not reject anything of ours, the legacy of the West. Whatever the works of the future may be, they will bear the same secret, made up of courage and freedom, nourished by the daring of thousands of artists of all times and all nations. Yes, when modern tyranny shows us that, even when confined to his calling, the artist is a public enemy, it is right. But in this way tyranny pays its respects, through the artist, to an image of man that nothing has ever been able to crush. My conclusion will be simple. It will consist of saying, in the very midst of the sound and the fury of our history: “Let us rejoice.

THOU RIGHTEOUS AND HOLY SOVEREIGN, In whose hand is my life and whose are all my ways, Keep me from fluttering about religion; fix me firm in it, for I am irresolute; my decisions are smoke and vapour, and I do not glorify thee, or behave according to thy will; Cut me not off before my thoughts grow to responses, and the budding of my soul into full flower, for thou art forbearing and good, patient and kind. Save me from myself, from the artifices and deceits of sin, from the treachery of my perverse nature, from denying thy charge against my offences, from a life of continual rebellion against thee, from wrong principles, views, and ends; for I know that all my thoughts, affections, desires and pursuits are alienated from thee. I have acted as if I hated thee, although thou art love itself; have contrived to tempt thee to the uttermost, to wear out thy patience; have lived evilly in word and action. Had I been a prince I would long ago have crushed such a rebel; Had I been a father I would long since have rejected my child. O, thou Father of my spirit, thou King of my life, cast me not into destruction, drive me not from thy presence, but wound my heart that it may be healed; break it that thine own hand may make it whole.

When I was twenty-two, and all I wanted was to blend in, that rejection was crushing and hopeless and lonely. Years later, when I was finally ready to stand out, the realization that the mainstream didn't want me was freeing and galvanizing. It gave me something to fight for. It taught me that women are an army.

She had that uniquely English talent of demonstrating, through her scrupulously polite manner, just how awful she thought the company. She could leave a roomful crushed and rejected and yet congratulate herself on behaving perfectly. It is of course of all forms of rudeness the most offensive as it leaves no room for rebuttal.

I wrote two five-page short stories, two five-page epics, to audition for my college's creative writing workshops, and was turned down both times. I was crushed, but in retrospect it was perfect training for being a writer. You can keep ‘write what you know’—for a true apprenticeship, internalize the world’s indifference and accept rejection and failure into your very soul.

The sound that came from her wasn’t like any sound she’d made before. Not even when her parents died. Not even when her first foster home refused to keep her. Not even when her fourth foster dad beat her. Not even when Gerald scheduled when she could blow her nose. Not even when Richard threw her out. The sound contained every hurt and fear and crushing disappointment she’d ever had—all rolled into one screeching rejection of pain. The sound she made was the sound of a woman who had no strength left. She couldn’t fight anymore.

At the severe end of the spectrum, these parents are, quite frankly, mentally ill. They may be psychotic or bipolar, or have narcissistic or borderline personality disorder. At times, their unbridled emotionality can even result in suicide attempts or physical attacks on others. People are nervous around them because their emotions can escalate so quickly, and because it’s so frightening to see someone you know come unglued. Suicide threats are especially terrifying to children, who feel the crushing burden of trying to keep their parent alive but don’t know what to do.

After generations of separations and decades of forgetfulness, the mention of the South brings back to our memories ancient years of pain and pleasure. At the turn of the twentieth century, many African Americans left the Southern towns, left the crushing prejudice and prohibition, and moved north to Chicago and New York City, west to Los Angeles and San Diego. They were drawn by the heady promise of better lives, of equality, fair play, and good old American four-star freedom. Their expectations were at once fulfilled and at the same time dashed to the ground and broken into shards of disappointment. The sense of fulfillment arose from the fact that there were chances to exchange the dull drudgery of sharecrop farming for protected work under unionized agreements. Sadly for the last thirty years, those jobs have been decreasing as industry became computerized and work was sent to foreign countries. The climate which the immigrants imagined as free of racial prejudice was found to be discriminatory in ways different from the Southern modes and possibly even more humiliating. A small percentage of highly skilled and fully educated blacks found and clung to rungs on the success ladder. Unskilled and undereducated black workers were spit out by the system like so many undigestible watermelon seeds. They began to find their lives minimalized, and their selves as persons trivialized. Many members of that early band of twentieth-century pilgrims must have yearned for the honesty of Southern landscapes where even if they were the targets of hate mongers who wanted them dead, they were at least credited with being alive. Northern whites with their public smiles of liberal acceptance and their private behavior of utter rejection wearied and angered the immigrants.

Because it wasn’t okay and never will be. We will power through it; I will continue to power through it – all the stagnant, soul crushing grief – but it will never be okay that my mum is not here. That she will not be at my high school graduation; that she will never give me the lecture, and I won’t be able to play along and pretend to be embarrassed and say, come on, mum; that she will not be there when I open my college acceptance letters (or rejections); that she will never see who I grow up to be – that great mystery of who I am and who I am meant to be – finally asked and answered. I will march forth into the great unknown alone.

William sees it all happen again. The pain is not in the event. The subjection to it and his powerless state each time is where his anguish lies. He is unable to influence the situation, despite his desire. He sees the nest outside his house. He sees the baby bird that fell. The mother bird cries frantically for her lost chick. William knows as he approaches the chick that if he touches it his scent will linger, and the mother will reject it. Circling around the fallen creature William hopes it will flee from him, back toward the tree from which it had fallen. His presence only intensifies the creature’s fear. It speeds to his left, heading for the street. Again William tries to flank the bird, but it is too frightened to return to the nest. The chick’s mother wails vainly. William walks into the street trying to herd the bird to safety. The stop light a block away has just turned green. The driver accelerates. William moves from the car’s path and it runs over the bird. The momentum from its wake lifts the bird to the underside of the car, breaking its neck, but not killing it. William watches the bird roll helplessly. It is silent for a second, before it begins to whimper. Its contorted head dangles limply from its body. The noise is tragic. The bird’s mother hears the chick’s pain, but nothing can be done. She laments. A second speeder crushes the chick, leaving only a wet feathered spot in the street. As the cars continue to pass, only one bird is heard. A mother’s grief falls deafly on an unconcerned world.

Rejection can crush your pride. By being rejected nonstop it can really ruin your spirit a little. That really is absolutely normal, but don’t let it kill your spirit. The trick is to never let anything kill your vibe because that’s the most important thing to keep you going. Once your vibe is killed and completely ruined then it will alter your mood. It will make your whole day go down the drain, and really put you in a bad mood, so don’t let rejection get to you and do this to you. If you’re a single person seeking a date, and you’re rejected by the person that you had your eyes on don’t let that ruin you just adapt and move on. Look at it like this maybe that one person didn’t come through well for you but I guarantee that you will come across someone when you least expect it.

There was presented to him at once and clearly an opportunity for joy--casual, accidental joy, but joy. If he could not manage joy, at least he might have managed the intention of joy, or (if that also were too much) an effort towards the intention of joy. The infinity of-grace could have been contented and invoked by a mere mental refusal of anything but such an effort. He knew his duty--he was no fool--he knew that the fantastic recognition would please and amuse the innocent soul of Sir Aston, not so much for himself as in some unselfish way for the honour of history. Such honours meant nothing, but they were part of the absurd dance of the world, and to be enjoyed as such. Wentworth knew he could share that pleasure. He could enjoy; at least he could refuse not to enjoy. He could refuse and reject damnation. With a perfectly clear, if instantaneous, knowledge of what he did, he rejected joy instead. He instantaneously preferred anger, and at once it came; he invoked envy, and it obliged him. He crushed the paper in a rage, then he tore it open, and looked again and again-there it still was. He knew that his rival had not only succeeded, but succeeded at his own expense; what chance was there of another historical knighthood for years? Till that moment he had never thought of such a thing. The possibility had been created and withdrawn simultaneously, leaving the present fact to mock him. The other possibility--of joy in that present fact--receded as fast. He had determined, then and for ever, for ever, for ever, that he would hate the fact, and therefore facts.

He knelt down, and put a flower under her nose. She turned away. He tickled her under the chin with it. “Stop it.” “It is for you.” “I don't want it.” “Ah, Maeve, you wound me. It’s just a poor, innocent flower. To think that its very existence, its very life, was ordained so that it could be presented to you . . . that its very life was cut short so that it could bring a smile of delight to your lovely lips—and now, you don’t want it.” He put his hand to his heart and affected a hurt look. “Dear God, if I were that flower I would be sorely crushed, and go to my death drowning in tears of bitterness and rejection and hurt and abandonment—” “Oh, give me the blasted thing!” she cried, and snatching it away from him, held it protectively against her breast. Sir Graham smiled, his eyes twinkling.

This Butterfly Stings by Stewart Stafford The gold of my eye dances on stage for me, Her wings wafting behind her in the chorus, Yet none glimpsed that girl's beauty as I did, This butterfly flew solo in my mind's eye. For two years hence, I concealed my interest, Yet I gazed at her endlessly, so close yet apart, Places of learning changed, but she did not, I foolishly let fly Cupid's token to my inamorata. Seeing my love in a looking glass reflected, Shadow feelings illuminated St Valentine's Eve, My butterfly became a sullen stinging bee, Crushing my tender rose in pieces at my feet. Nor would her wicked scorn end there, She told her friends who joined in my shaming, For years after, turning my last shreds of adoration, Into contemptuous hatred of her existence. Truly no one can take away our memories, Where my former crush still dances on occasion, O sweet butterfly of my youth, one last wish, Never fly away from these fond recollections. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

There are times when you may feel your life has been crumpled, crushed, stomped on, or even torn in pieces. Your value and worth is not determined by what has happened to you, but rather by the value placed upon you by the one who governs your life (the one who created you in His image and likeness). The one who sees you as wonderfully and fearfully made. .... A $100 dollar bill can be crumpled, crushed, stomped on or even torn -- it is still is worth $100. The value of the $100 dollar bill is not determined by what happened to it. To the government it will still spend as a $100; its value has not changed even if the state of its condition has. Even crumpled, it could be pressed out, crushed it could be pressed and smoothed out, or stomped on and torn, it could be taped back together and still be worth $100 in value. What may have happened to you in life does not define who you are. You are the apple of God’s eye. You are His prize possession and treasure. You must see yourself as a person of worth and value.

We were already in school by then. Your friends had made fun of me. I was twelve. My higher brain functions weren’t fully developed. I was so in love with you.” The cold had woven its way into the fabric of my jeans and settled like a coating of ice in the folds of my jacket. Now I warmed again, puzzling through Hunter’s words. I didn’t know whether to take him seriously. “Your love for me was a symptom that your brain hadn’t developed, or-“ “Shut up.” He turned to face me. “I am drunk and I am trying to confess, so just let me do it, okay? I had fallen in love with you over the summer. Then this horrible thing happened to you and you stopped talking t me. I thought you blamed me, or my dad. Which he deserved.” “No,” I protested. “It was an acc-“ “I took it as a rejection.” He put his hand on my knee and looked me straight in the eyes. “It’s taken me all this time to figure that out. But I regretted it every day. And I’m truly sorry.” He sat back against the bench and faced the stars. The place where his hand had rested on my knee felt colder than ever. “I’m sorry, too,” I said, “so we’re even. I didn’t visit you in the hospital when you got crushed by a horse. For much the same reasons regarding love and rejection and being young.

I feel him guiding me to the wall, and I’m not struggling, my arms paralyzed by shock. One finger still grips the heavy key ring. Standing this close to me, his tomato-sauce breath on my forehead, Moshe’s body feels unexpectedly large and solid. His grip on my wrists is tight and painful, and my forearms feel brittle, like twigs. Me, who can lift an air-conditioning unit up a whole flight of stairs. I giggle nervously. I scan his face to see if this is just a silly game he is playing, this bad boy who got kicked out of yeshiva and wants to scare me in the cellar. But his face isn’t relaxed into his usual pose of disinterested amusement. His jaw is tense, his eyes narrowed. I lift my knee up to kick him, but he fixes my legs against the wall with his own thick thighs, crushing me with his weight. One hand lifts my wrists up over my head and the other reaches for the zipper to my housedress. He yanks it down in one quick motion, and I bend over reflexively to hide myself, screaming this time. “Stop! Please stop! What are you doing—? This is crazy—” Moshe puts his hand over my mouth and I taste the salt of his sweat. I can feel him pushing me to the floor, one hand on my shoulder, the other hand on my waist. I remember the key ring and use it now, slamming the keys into Moshe’s pelvis, shoving blindly against him. The sharp edge of a key finds purchase in the soft flab of his abdomen and I dig and twist, my wrist the only part of me with a little freedom of movement, and I use it all, even as I hear him mutter epithets in my ear. His body squirms above me, moving away slightly as he searches for the weapon in my hand. I grunt quietly as I shove the key quickly and deeply into his pelvis, and now he jumps off me, hands clasped to him, groaning. I pull my zipper back up as I make my escape, weaving through the piles of junk, bounding loudly up the creaky wooden stairs and into the bright light of the parlor floor. I’ve forgotten the wine.

Catch Either/Or Thinking Anxious perfectionists will typically think “I need to perform flawlessly at all times,” with their underlying assumption being “or else it will result in disaster.” This is a common type of thinking trap termed either/or thinking. In this case, the either/or is this: Either there is flawless performance or complete and utter failure, and nothing in between. Not only can this style of thinking make you feel crushed when you don’t meet your own ideal standards, but it also often leads to perfectionism paralysis. Take, for example, an artist who sees his future career prospects as becoming either the next Picasso or a penniless flop; this person doesn’t see other possible outcomes in between. You can see how this would give the artist a creative block. For other folks, their hidden assumption may be slightly different: “Either I need to perform flawlessly at all times, or other people will reject me.” When I look back at my clinical psychology training, I realize I had this belief at that time. At a semiconscious level, I thought that the only way to prevent getting booted out of the program was to score at the top of the class for every test or assignment. Ultra-high standards often arise because a person is trying to hide imagined catastrophic flaws. In this scenario, people often think that if their flaws get revealed they’ll be shunned, and so the only way to conceal their defects is by always excelling. When people who have this belief do excel, their brain jumps to the conclusion that excelling was the only reason they managed to avoid catastrophe. This then perpetuates their belief that excelling is necessary for preventing future disasters. Researchers have used the term clinical perfectionism to describe the most problematic kind of perfectionism. When clinical perfectionists manage to meet their ultra-high standards, they often conclude that those standards must not have been high enough and revise them upward, meaning they can never feel any sense of peace. All this being said, I’m not suggesting you shoot for “acceptable” performance standards if you’re capable of excellence. Most of the anxious perfectionists I’ve worked with would hate that. It’s not in their nature to feel comfortable with mediocre performance.

Far more damaging to Calvin’s reputation was the case of Michael Servetus. An accomplished physician, skilled cartographer, and eclectic theologian from Spain, Servetus held maverick (and sometimes unbalanced) views on many points of Christian doctrine. In 1531, he published Seven Books on the Errors of the Trinity, enraging both Catholics and Protestants, Calvin among them. At one point, Servetus took up residence in Vienne, a suburb of Lyon about ninety miles from Geneva, where, under an assumed name, he began turning out heterodox books while also practicing medicine. His magnum opus, The Restitution of Christianity—a rebuttal of Calvin’s Institutes—rejected predestination, denied original sin, called infant baptism diabolical, and further deprecated the Trinity. Servetus imprudently sent Calvin a copy. Calvin sent back a copy of his Institutes. Servetus filled its margins with insulting comments, then returned it. A bitter exchange of letters followed, in which Servetus announced that the Archangel Michael was girding himself for Armageddon and that he, Servetus, would serve as his armor-bearer. Calvin sent Servetus’s letters to a contact in Vienne, who passed them on to Catholic inquisitors in Lyon. Servetus was promptly arrested and sent to prison, but after a few days he escaped by jumping over a prison wall. After spending three months wandering around France, he decided to seek refuge in Naples. En route, he inexplicably stopped in Geneva. Arriving on a Saturday, he attended Calvin’s lecture the next day. Though disguised, Servetus was recognized by some refugees from Lyon and immediately arrested. Calvin instructed one of his disciples to file capital charges against him with the magistrates for his various blasphemies. After a lengthy trial and multiple examinations, Servetus was condemned for writing against the Trinity and infant baptism and sentenced to death. He asked to be beheaded rather than burned, but the council refused, and on October 27, 1553, Servetus, with a copy of the Restitution tied to his arm, was sent to the stake. Shrieking in agony, he took half an hour to die. Calvin approved. “God makes clear that the false prophet is to be stoned without mercy,” he explained in Defense of the Orthodox Trinity Against the Errors of Michael Servetus. “We are to crush beneath our heel all affections of nature when his honor is involved. The father should not spare the child, nor the brother his brother, nor the husband his own wife or the friend who is dearer to him than life.

55. We should, therefore, have a guardian, as it were, to pluck us continually by the ear and dispel rumours and protest against popular enthusiasms. For you are mistaken if you suppose that our faults are inborn in us; they have come from without, have been heaped upon us. Hence, by receiving frequent admonitions, we can reject the opinions which din about our ears. 56. Nature does not ally us with any vice; she produced us in health and freedom. She put before our eyes no object which might stir in us the itch of greed. She placed gold and silver beneath our feet, and bade those feet stamp down and crush everything that causes us to be stamped down and crushed. Nature elevated our gaze towards the sky and willed that we should look upward to behold her glorious and wonderful works. She gave us the rising and the setting sun, the whirling course of the on-rushing world which discloses the things of earth by day and the heavenly bodies by night, the movements of the stars, which are slow if you compare them with the universe, but most rapid if you reflect on the size of the orbits which they describe with unslackened speed; she showed us the successive eclipses of sun and moon, and other phenomena, wonderful because they occur regularly or because, through sudden causes they help into view – such as nightly trails of fire, or flashes in the open heavens unaccompanied by stroke or sound of thunder, or columns and beams and the various phenomena of flames. 57. She ordained that all these bodies should proceed above our heads; but gold and silver, with the iron which, because of the gold and silver, never brings peace, she has hidden away, as if they were dangerous things to trust to our keeping. It is we ourselves that have dragged them into the light of day to the end that we might fight over them; it is we ourselves who, tearing away the superincumbent earth, have dug out the causes and tools of our own destruction; it is we ourselves who have attributed our own misdeeds to Fortune, and do not blush to regard as the loftiest objects those which once lay in the depths of earth. 58. Do you wish to know how false is the gleam that has deceived your eyes? There is really nothing fouler or more involved in darkness than these things of earth, sunk and covered for so long a time in the mud where they belong. Of course they are foul; they have been hauled out through a long and murky mine-shaft. There is nothing uglier than these metals during the process of refinement and separation from the ore. Furthermore, watch the very workmen who must handle and sift the barren grade of dirt, the sort which comes from the bottom; see how soot-besmeared they are! 59. And yet the stuff they handle soils the soul more than the body, and there is more foulness in the owner than in the workman.

Oh, Matthew," she whispered, moved to tears. "I called it Grace. I hope you don't mind." For the first time, his manner held a hint of shyness, disconcerting in a man who had just made love to her without hesitation or reticence. Gently, she curled her hand around what was inside the box and lifted it to the light. "It's your rose." "No, it's your rose." A heady fragrance filled the air. With one shaking finger, Grace touched a flawless pink petal. The color was unforgettable. It was the most beautiful rose she'd ever seen. Impossible to credit that those unpromising stalks in his courtyard had produced this exquisite bloom. "It's perfect," she whispered. "It's a miracle." He was a miracle. How could she not love the man who conjured this beauty with hands and imagination? The faint smile broadened. Had he worried that she'd reject his gift? Foolish, darling Matthew. The question was whether the rose was a promise of a future or a token of parting. "I worked on it whenever I could. This last year has been busy." An understatement, she knew. The Marquess of Sheene had been a ubiquitous presence in London since his release. Everywhere he went, society feted him as a hero. She'd read of the string of honors he'd received, the friendship with the king, the invitations to join scientific boards and societies. Echoing her gesture, he reached out to touch the petals. The sensitivity of his fingers on the flower reminded her of his hands on her skin. "I did most of the basic experiments when I was a prisoner, but I couldn't get it right." He glanced up with an expression that combined pride and diffidence in a breathtakingly attractive mixture. "This is the first bud, Grace. It appeared almost a year to the day after I promised to wait. It seemed a sign." "And you brought it to me," she said softly, staring at the flower. The anniversary of his release didn't occur for two more days. That date was etched on her longing heart. Then she noticed something else. "My glove," she said blankly. With unsteady hands, she reached in and withdrew a light green kidskin glove from a recess carved away from the damp. The buttery leather was crushed and worn from incessant handling. "Have you kept it all this time?" "Of course." He wasn't smiling anymore and his eyes deepened to a rich, rare gold. Beautiful, unwavering, somber. "You make me want to cry." Her voice emerged so thickly, she didn't sound like herself. She laid the box on the bench and tightened her grip on the soft leather until her knuckles whitened. What was he trying to tell her? What did the rose mean? The glove? Had he carried her glove into his new life like a knight wore his lady's favor into battle? The thought sent choking emotion to her throat.

SPOILER ALERT - DO NOT READ UNLESS YOU'VE FINISHED THE BOOK. THIS IS NOT SO MUCH A QUOTE AS IT IS A MEMORY FOR MY PERSONAL ENJOYMENT LATER. Lee said, "Thank you, Adam. I know how hard it is. I'm going to ask you to do a much harder thing. Here is your son -- Caleb -- your only son. Look at him, Adam!" The pale eyes looked until they found Cal. Cal's mouth moved dryly and made no sound. Lee's voice cut in, "I don't know how long you will live, Adam. Maybe a long time. Maybe an hour. But your son will live. He will marry and his children will be the only remnant left of you," Lee wiped his eyes with his fingers. "He did a thing in anger, Adam, because he thought you had rejected him. The result of his anger is that his brother and your son is dead." Cal said, "Lee -- you can't." "I have to," said Lee. "If it kills him I have to. I have the choice," and he smiled sadly and quoted, "'If there's blame, it's my blame.'" Lee's shoulders straightened. He said sharply, "Your son is marked with guilt out of himself -- out of himself -- almost more than he can bear. Don't crush him with rejection. Don't crush him, Adam." Lee's breath whistled in his throat, "Adam, give him your blessing. Don't leave him alone with his guilt. Adam, can you hear me? Give him your blessing!" A terrible brightness shone in Adam's eyes and he closed them and kept them closed. A wrinkle formed between his brows. Lee said, "Help him, Adam -- help him. Give him the chance. Let him be free. That's all a man has over the beasts. Free him! Bless him!" The whole bed seemed to shake under the concentration. Adam's breath came quick with the effort and then, slowly, his right hand lifted -- lifted an inch and then fell back. Lee's face was haggard. He moved to the head of the bed and wiped the sick man's damp face with the edge of the sheet. He looked down at the closed eyes. Lee whispered, "Thank you, Adam -- thank you, my friend. Can you move your lips? Make your lips form his name." Adam looked up with sick weariness. His lips parted and failed and he tried again. Then his lungs filled. He expelled the air and his lips combed the rushing sigh. His whispered word seemed to hang in the air: "Tishmel!" His eyes closed and he slept.

The debate over whether the sacred book was created or existed eternally had enormous practical implications. The Mu’tazilites developed a method of Koranic interpretation that was freer from the literal meaning of the text than most Muslim divines dared to venture. For example, they reinterpreted the injunction that Allah “leads the wrongdoers astray” (14:27) so as to reject predestination; they simply denied that Allah would lead people astray and condemn them to Hell. The caliph (Islamic emperor) Ja’far al-Mutawakkil (847–861), however, crushed the Mu’tazilite movement and branded it a heresy. Asserting that the Koran was created became a crime punishable by death. And to this day, the marginalization and discrediting of the Mu’tazilites casts a long shadow over “moderate Islam.” If today’s moderates stray too far from a literal reading of the Koran (including its ferocity toward unbelievers), they risk being accused of advocating long-discredited heresies. The Mu’tazilite experience provides ample historical precedent and a ready methodology that literalists use to cast suspicion on any reading of the Koran that doesn’t take all its words at face value.

Carry Grip Big Stick Combat is principally composed of three grips: 1) stick grip, in which the right hand grasps the end of the stick; 2) rifle grip, in which the right hand is at the base of the stick, palm down, while the left hand is near the middle of the stick, palm up; and 3) bat grip, in which both hands grip the weapon like a baseball bat, with the left hand over the right. Yet there is another grip, carry grip, that must be considered. Unless you need a cane in order to walk, you will typically carry the baseball bat, cane, or long stick in the middle, grasped by your right hand if you're right-handed. It is important to train to strike automatically and non-telegraphically from carry grip, especially if you are attacked by surprise. Cover and Hit You are holding the stick in carry grip, with the right hand at the balance point near the middle of the stick. An attacker swings with his right hand at your head. Bear in mind that his “punch” might be a beer bottle, a set of brass knuckles, or a knife, so it is best to crouch down to try to evade it completely. Raise up your left elbow, placing your left palm over your left ear. This is a multipurpose shield of your head. Swing the end of the weapon into the opponent's groin. Strike repeatedly into his groin and midsection as necessary. To follow up, grab the base of the stick with the left hand. You are now in rifle grip, only in reverse, with the right hand forward and the left at the pommel. If you slide the right hand down into bat grip you will be in the traditional right-over-left grip. Although these grips are the opposite of what I have taught in the book so far, I believe it is best not to shuffle the hands. I believe your first priority is not to lose your weapon! I refer to the right hand grip at the base of the weapon as “anchor grip,” because it is firm and permanently fixed. No matter how the left hand moves, the right always maintains a solid grip. I have rejected the grip shifting of other styles because I want to avoid at all costs losing the weapon, particularly under the stress of combat. Crotch Lift This technique is a natural follow-up to the preceding Cover and Hit. This can also be used as a follow-up to the low thrust, the very first technique in the book. The crotch lift can also be used in close-quarters grappling. Pass the stick between the opponent's legs, high up near his crotch. You may naturally find yourself in this position after a thrust to the groin. Reach around the opponent's back with your left hand and seize the end of the stick, palm up. Bend your knees and lift the opponent by straightening your legs and lifting with both arms. Arch your head and body to the right in order to dump him. If he falls with a leg still entangled, you can squeeze in on the weapon in a crushing technique.

And yes, if the person you're in love with doesn't love you back, your friendship probably won't go back to what it once was. But would you want it to? There's no way I'd have been able to stand by and watch Aaron carve out a life for himself with another person. Jealousy would've got the better of me, as it would almost any human being. It's a gamble, sure. But the biggest risk of all, I realised, is risking nothing. Because that way, you end up risking anything.

Though I’m not opposed to hormone therapy (more on that shortly), I reject the notion that every woman needs hormone “replacement” therapy to stay young.

In Gethsemane, Jesus experienced the pains of a person dying of cancer. He experienced what it is like to be a queer kid who is constantly bullied. He experienced the birthing pains of every mother who ever lived or would live. He experienced the embarrassment of a gay boy having an erection at the sight of his school crush in the locker room. He experienced conversion therapy. He experienced rejection. He experienced the brutal physical and psychological attacks that trans women endure. He experienced the acid poured on a woman’s face for her defiance to the patriarchs. He experienced the fear, grief, and sorrow of every parent who has buried their child. He experienced sex slavery. He experienced his first period. He experienced menstruation, not simply from a vagina but from every pore of his body. He experienced rape. He experienced catcalls. He experienced hunger. He experienced disease. He experienced an ectopic pregnancy. He experienced an abortion. He experienced a miscarriage and stillbirth. He experienced the Holocaust. He experienced war – both the killing and being killed. He experienced internment camps. He experienced depression, anxiety, and suicide. He experienced sleeping on the street with the homeless. He experienced the slave master’s whip on his back and the noose around his neck. He knew the fear of every black mother who kissed her son before he left the house, praying he would return home safely. He experienced the effects of unrighteous dominion, corrupt politicians, and all manner of injustice. He experienced the migrant mother with no food or diapers for her baby as she desperately walked north in search of a better life. He experienced having his child taken away from him at the border due to “legal complications.” He experienced it all – every death, every cut, every tear, every pain, every sorrow, every bit of suffering imaginable and beyond imagination. He experienced an onslaught of suffering, which was so great that it took a god to bear it. He experienced death and came through the other side to show us the way.

Love may take its tools on your partner. Sometimes, the person you like didn’t hate you; he is just not in the right state of mind to love you back at the moment. The key to trying for your love is that you get a chance to make it work. Every little effort matters.

An Unrequited Vision by Stewart Stafford Though the sheen of infatuation, Deflects the glare of humanity, I must bathe naked in my flaws To peel your blinding cataracts. This intrusion is not a sweet union, 'Tis a hand plucking a stringless harp, A looking glass without reflection, A mirage of the shimmering sun. Affection's look clouds with malice, Eyes flit to the blade to save face, Stay that rash hand of vengeance, Allow a beauteous refill of your gaze. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.

And there was something deeply personal about the archetype of the boys that triggered something in the killer. My hypothesis was that the killer’s high school years had been traumatic with respect to his mental growth. The likeliest and easiest theory was that he was bullied by a boy very similar to the victim profile. Given the sexual nature of the torture BH inflicted, he was probably molested or raped by this bully or had struggled with a crush or sexual attraction to the boy—an attraction that could have been nurtured or rejected.

Emotional parents (the emotionally immature type) are the most infantile of the four types. They give the impression that they need to be watched over and handled carefully. It doesn’t take much to upset them, and then everyone in the family scrambles to soothe them. When emotional parents disintegrate, they take their children with them into their personal meltdown. Their children experience their despair, rage, or hatred in all its intensity. It’s no wonder that everyone in the family feels like they’re walking on eggshells. These parents’ emotional instability is the most predictable thing about them. (...) People are nervous around them because their emotions can escalate so quickly, and because it’s so frightening to see someone you know come unglued. Suicide threats are especially terrifying to children, who feel the crushing burden of trying to keep their parent alive but don’t know what to do.

ABSOLUTELY NOTHING I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow—not even the powers of hell can separate us from God’s love. ROMANS 8:38 NLT There may be something on your mind—a sin, a bad decision, someone’s rejection, or a particular trial—that makes you feel as if the Father does not or could not love you. However, once you believe in Jesus as your Lord and Savior, nothing can separate you from His love. Not people. Not circumstances. Not angels, nor demons, nor the enemy’s entire army. Absolutely nothing. Psalm 34:18 is clear, “The LORD is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” So when you feel at your most unworthy or defeated is when the Father is closest, tenderly bidding you to return to Him. The most dangerous move you can make is to resist His love. So seek His face. Confess your failings. Ask Him to teach you. Thank Him for inviting you back. Then praise His holy name and love Him in return. Lord, thank You for accepting me. I am so grateful for Your wonderful, unconditional, unchanging love. Help me hear Your voice, amen.

I thought about the probability of getting a “yes” from a girl when a guy proposes to her. The girl would either say “yes” or “no”. So the probability for either outcome is equal or 50%. But if you ask guys before proposing to their crush, most would say the probability is 100%. Of course, for getting a “no.” I was not any different from the majority. However, that thought didn’t frighten me a bit. Because I was sitting on the toilet seat, which was unarguably the most comfortable seat in the world. I tilted my head up with closed eyes and relieved myself peacefully.

I need to get through to him. I have to. He’s finally started to talk to me. In those sweet, vulnerable moments after he punishes my body, when he touches me like I’m the wing of a butterfly he’s afraid to crush, I’ve felt him wanting to share. Wanting to believe in it. And it’s such a perfect mirror for me, for the way my heart aches and tears and transforms into something new, something bigger and stronger every time we’re together, that I just can’t let him reject it.

A small bid for help can be, privately, a gigantic effort, imperceptible to its recipient, and crushing to the bidder if rejected.

MESSIAH’S APPEARANCE. [Isa. 53:1–3] Who has believed our message and to whom has the arm of the LORD been revealed? He grew up before him like a tender shoot, and like a root out of dry ground. He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him. He was despised and rejected by mankind, a man of suffering, and familiar with pain. Like one from whom people hide their faces he was despised, and we held him in low esteem. HIS SUFFERING FOR OUR SINS. [Isa. 53:4–6] Surely he took up our pain and bore our suffering, yet we considered him punished by God, stricken by him, and afflicted. But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds we are healed. We all, like sheep, have gone astray, each of us has turned to our own way; and the LORD has laid on him the iniquity of us all. HUMILITY OF MESSIAH’S DEATH. [Isa. 53:7–9] He was oppressed and afflicted, yet he did not open his mouth; he was led like a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before its shearers is silent, so he did not open his mouth. By oppression6 and judgment he was taken away. Yet who of his generation protested? For he was cut off from the land of the living; for the transgression of my people he was punished.7 He was assigned a grave with the wicked, and with the rich in his death, though he had done no violence, nor was any deceit in his mouth.

Elder brothers have an undercurrent of anger toward life circumstances, hold grudges long and bitterly, look down at people of other races, religions, and lifestyles, experience life as a joyless, crushing drudgery, have little intimacy and joy in their prayer lives, and have a deep insecurity that makes them overly sensitive to criticism and rejection yet fierce and merciless in condemning others. What a terrible picture! And yet the rebellious path

What if his ministry is to bring judgment upon Israel so that salvation would be open to all who believed him, including the Gentiles?” She stared at him. Could it be true? Would they have the guts to ask Jesus about such a thing? What if they were wrong? He said, “Jesus is the stone that Israel’s leaders and her people, the builders, rejected. But that stone will be the cornerstone of God’s new temple and holy city. And he will crush all those he falls upon.” “Those who reject him?” “Yes. Days of Vengeance for those who would not recognize the day of Yahweh’s visitation.” “But the Jewish nation will reject her own Messiah?” He dared not say. It would be a heresy to suggest such things. But it was perfectly consistent with the prophets. Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, Malachai, they had all spoken of Israel’s repeated spiritual adultery with the gods of Canaan, and their abominations. Could the Day of the Lord spoken of in Joel be a Day of the Lord against Israel? Was their march to Jerusalem a march to destruction?

Jesus was made like us in all the frailty of humanity (Heb. 2:10, 17–18). He endured the hostility of sinners (Heb. 12:3). He was despised and rejected, a man of sorrows who has borne our grief: he was wounded, crushed, spit upon, and oppressed (Isa. 53:3–6). He knows the agony of betrayal from those closest to him, his own disciples. He knows the chill of abandonment (Ps. 22:1; Matt. 27:46).

Instead of hanging around Silicon Valley and falling into the same funk as his peers, however, Musk decamped to Los Angeles. The conventional wisdom of the time said to take a deep breath and wait for the next big thing to arrive in due course. Musk rejected that logic by throwing $100 million into SpaceX, $70 million into Tesla, and $10 million into SolarCity. Short of building an actual money-crushing machine, Musk could not have picked a faster way to destroy his fortune. He

I make you anxious because I am different, you make me anxious because you are all the same. The act of conformity, fed to you from birth, should not be seen as virtuous. You have given away your individuality for the sake of inclusion, or rather fear of exclusion. Believing your most desired goal to be acceptance of the many, not the intense appreciation of a valued few. You were given the gift of an individual identity and yet you give it up willingly and fall into the hands of those who would abuse and enslave your mind and soul. Further seeking to diminish, crush and remove any risk of non-conformity. They rely on you not realising that you can take the choice back, make it yours once more. But in your mind you think you are the only one, fearful of raising your head from the crowd through fear of being singled out and rejected by their false care. You must stay awake. Do not simply become one of the walking dead.

The Accuser continued, “Regarding the covenant preamble, we have this difficult matter of the sovereignty of the Creator. Really, is not the sovereignty of the suzerain the foundation of the entire edifice? If this cornerstone is rejected, do not all other bricks crumble to the ground?” He brilliantly used leading questions. Enoch thought to himself how he would like to see the cornerstone fall on the Accuser and crush him.

When someone we love goes rogue and shows no signs of repentance, we feel lost. Few things crush the life out of us more than experiencing the remorseless rejection of someone we love.

The trajectory of Exodus is unmistakable. When the book begins, the people are enslaved to a merciless despot who refuses to grant them even a moment’s respite (Exod. 5:5); when it ends they are serving the God of creation and covenant, who mandates and regularizes periods of rest (35:2). The mitzvah of Shabbat thus helps move the people from “perverted work, designed by Pharaoh to destroy God’s people . . . [to] divinely mandated work, designed to bring together God and God’s people, in the closest proximity possible in this life.”17 God rejects servility: whereas “Pharaoh places the Israelites under a backbreaking and soul-crushing yoke . . . God invites them to stand tall.”18

God was all powerful and omniscient, and he alone defined truth and indeed was truth. But he did not assert that power in a way that ever smacked of power in the worldly sense. He had always and ever shown himself in weakness. Jesus washed the feet of his disciples. Jesus died on the cross for those who had mocked and rejected him. God did not crush us but showed us mercy, and Luther could see that the church had not adopted this view, but had itself become wed to worldly power. It took money that was not its own and burned those who disagreed with what it taught. Luther was trying to call the church back to its true roots, to a biblical idea of a merciful God who did not demand that we obey but who first loved us and first made us righteous before he expected us to live righteously.

Your secret sauce is believing in yourself by having a healthy amount of self-confidence. All solopreneurs should highly value their time and skills, and not be shy about reflecting that in what they charge. To be successful in selling, you must get used to hearing “no” and be able to redefine it so it doesn’t stop you from achieving greater success.

I got rejected by my first crush,” River says. I scoff. “You? Rejected? Sounds like a theme.

Delilah had liked Ivan. Ivan had rejected Delilah. Delilah had been crushed to pieces. I loved my sister more than anything. Therefore, I would never be friends or anything else with Ivan Sokolov.

Nobody can “treat” a war, or abuse, rape, molestation, or any other horrendous event, for that matter; what has happened cannot be undone. But what can be dealt with are the imprints of the trauma on body, mind, and soul: the crushing sensations in your chest that you may label as anxiety or depression; the fear of losing control; always being on alert for danger or rejection; the self-loathing; the nightmares and flashbacks; the fog that keeps you from staying on task and from engaging fully in what you are doing; being unable to fully open your heart to another human being.

I don’t know what to say,” I uttered. He lifted a shoulder. “There is nothing to say, Evelyn. I wouldn’t take back my friendship with Delilah even if I could. I thought I’d been careful with her feelings, but I hadn’t been careful enough, which I regret.” He heaved a long sigh. “I wasn’t going to ask you for more than you can give.” “I don’t know what I can give…” “But you know you can’t give me anything.” I rubbed the aching hollowness in my chest. “This shouldn’t matter. We don’t know each other.” He scoffed, and it wasn’t the nicest sound. “Just because you haven’t been paying attention to me doesn’t mean I haven’t paid attention to you.” He was right, of course. Beyond Delilah’s crush and his subsequent rejection, Ivan had not been on my radar. He’d had to put himself in my path for me to notice him, and I had no idea how long he’d been noticing me. His mouth curved into a smile that wasn’t at all happy. “It’s all right. I understand now. I’ll leave you alone.” “You don’t have to leave me alone, it’s just—” “No.” He shook his head. “No, I have to leave you alone.

Globalization believed it would succeed in the neutralization of all conflicts and would move towards a faultless order. But it is, in fact, an order by default: everything is equivalent to everything else in a zero-sum equation. Gone is the dialectic, the play of thesis and antithesis resolving itself in synthesis. The opposing terms now cancel each other out in a levelling of all conflict. But this neutralization is, in its turn, never definitive, since, at the same time as all dialectical resolution disappears, the extremes come to the fore. No longer a question of a history in progress, of a directive schema or of regulation by crisis. No longer any rational continuity or dialectic of conflicts, but a sharing of extremes. Once the universal has been crushed by the power of the global and the logic of history obliterated by the dizzying whirl of change, there remains only a face-off between virtual omnipotence and those fiercely opposed to it. Hence the antagonism between global power and terrorism - the present confrontation between American hegemony and Islamist terrorism being merely the visible current twist in this duel between an Integral Reality of power and integral rejection of that same power. There is no possible reconciliation; there never will be an armistice between the antagonistic forces, nor any possibility of an integral order. Never any armistice of thought either, which resists it fiercely, or an armistice of events in this sense: at most, events go on strike for a time, then suddenly burst through again. This is, in a way, reassuring: though it cannot be dismantled, the Empire of Good is also doomed to perpetual failure.

The sprig of parsley garnishing the plate experiences soul-crushing rejection if left uneaten

If I had been hit on more in my life maybe I would have softened the rejection. Or maybe not, because why the hell did I need to?

In typical Filipino fashion, my aunt expressed her love not through words of encouragement or affectionate embraces, but through food. Food was how she communicated. Food was how she found her place in the world. When someone rejected her food, they were really rejecting her heart. It crushed her.

Irrationality and aggressiveness in our time are, therefore, not emanations of some unalterable human instincts. Nor do they express simply the supposedly 'natural' rejection of reason. Irrationality and aggressiveness in our time reflect primarily the refusal to accept as sacrosanct the rationality of capitalism. They testify to the protest against the mutilation and degradation of reason for the sake of capitalist domination. This outcry against bourgeois rationality, as well as its identification with reason as such is magnificently depicted~in Dostoevsky's Underground Man who 'vomits up reason' and who scornfuIly rejects the commandment to accept the proposition that two times two equals four. While this strikingly exemplifies the posture of irrationalism, an important aspect of the Underground Man's attitude should not be lost sight of. It is that the Underground Man, irrational and crazy as he is, is actually profoundly right in 'vomiting up reason' in refusing to bow to the logic of two times two equals four. For this logic is the logic of the capitalist market, of the exploitation of man by man, of privileges, insecurity, and war. To be sure, his contempt for this rationality, his uprising against the 'common sense' of human misery, is an irrational reaction to a pernicious social order. But it is the only reaction available to the isolated and helpless individual who, incapable of comprehending the forces by which he is being crushed, is unable to struggle effectively against them. This reaction is neurosis.

If she had rejected me then, it would have crushed me. If she had pitied me, I never would have recovered. But while what I saw in her eyes and in her face wasn't the reciprocal passion I hungered for, it was not an impossible barrier either. Her expression was saying to me Not now, but maybe someday. My love for her was wrong now—even I felt that, now that the moment of crisis had passed. I was too young. She was starting a new life. It wasn't our time. But that time might come. It might. It was possible. All of that was in her expression and in her eyes.

[Mrs. Leonard:] 'I suppose I started to write poetry because I was unhappy. Happy people have no need of desperate resources. Unhappy people often do not adopt them. But people aware of internal discords must struggle to resolve them.' ... [Hugh Everton:] 'You think the poet writes to crush his misery? There must be other reasons....' 'There are other reasons. The soul climbs with poetry. But it is the soul that has been battered down by life that feels the need to climb.' ... 'And how have you been battered, Mrs. Leonard, or is it wrong to ask?' 'Deserted. Hated. Betrayed. Rejected,' she cried with sudden force. 'To need love, to deserve love, to win the vilest hatred, to watch the ruin of the soul....

The winter was even worse for the country, when the epidemic widened. Yet at the same time, on many days, the nations of China, Japan, South Korea, Taiwan, Singapore, Hong Kong, Thailand, Malaysia, Vietnam, New Zealand, and Australia were collectively registering fewer daily COVID cases than the city of Los Angeles.27 Some of these nations, especially China, had employed draconian tactics that would have been firmly rejected in the US.

We cannot escape the Lord’s words to us, and they will serve as the criteria upon which we will be judged: whether we have fed the hungry and given drink to the thirsty, welcomed the stranger and clothed the naked, or spent time with the sick and those in prison (cf. Mt 25:31–45). Moreover, we will be asked if we have helped others to escape the doubt that causes them to fall into despair and which is often a source of loneliness; if we have helped to overcome the ignorance in which millions of people live, especially children deprived of the necessary means to free them from the bonds of poverty; if we have been close to the lonely and afflicted; if we have forgiven those who have offended us and have rejected all forms of anger and hate that lead to violence; if we have had the kind of patience God shows, who is so patient with us; and if we have commended our brothers and sisters to the Lord in prayer. In each of these “little ones,” Christ himself is present. His flesh becomes visible in the flesh of the tortured, the crushed, the scourged, the malnourished, and the exiled…to be acknowledged, touched, and cared for by us. Let us not forget the words of Saint John of the Cross: “as we prepare to leave this life, we will be judged on the basis of love”.12

One of the most crushing indictments of Protestantism is that it has rejected the idea of the necessity of penance, and by doing so has out-dated and made meaningless large sections of the Bible. Probably no virtue is more insisted on in the Bible than the virtue of penance. "Unless you shall do penance, you shall all likewise perish." His Cross does not dispense us from the obligation of taking up our cross: "Unless a man take up his cross and follow Me, he cannot be My disciple." If Christ's sacrifice made further sacrifice unnecessary, the continuance of pain in the world presents more than a problem, in fact a contradiction.

There exists men and women of valor who take on the mantel of warrior, dress in the uniform that declares their commit to our nation and the principles that it embodies, and who step into battles to defend that nation and guard those principles. And may their valor, commit, and bravery shame us sufficiency that we might crush the bane of entitlement, banish the scourge of greed, and reject any lesser things that would make us less than what these men and women have chosen to be.

I am not arguing here either that all councils are to be condemned or the acts of all to be rescinded, and (as the saying goes) to be canceled at one stroke. But, you will say, you degrade everything, so that every man has the right to accept or reject what the councils decide. Not at all! But whenever a decree of any council is brought forward, I should like men first of all dillagently to ponder at what time it was held, on what issue, and with what intention, what sort of men were present; then to examine by the standard of Scripture what it dealt with-and to do this in such a way that the definition of the council may have its weight and be like a provisional judgment, yet not hinder the examination which I have mentioned...Thus councils would have come to have the majesty that is their due; yet in the meantime Scripture would stand out in the hgiher place, with everything subject to its standard. In this way we willingly embrace and reverence as holy the early councils, such as those of Nicea, Constantinople, Ephesus I, Chalcedon, and the like, which were concerned with refuting errors-in so far as they relate to the teachings of the faith. For they contain nothing but the pure and genuine exposition of Scripture, which the holy fathers applied with scriptural prudence to crush the enemies of religion who had then arisen.

In large-scale strategy, the presence of numerous troops is linked with an extra-long sword. Smaller numbers are consistent with the use of a short one. Is it not viable for a small number of troops to take the fight to a larger force? The virtue of strategy is precisely that smaller numbers can triumph [if guided correctly]. From the earliest days, there are many examples of small forces crushing big armies. In our school, this kind of narrow-minded preconception is to be rejected above all else. Research this well. (2) About Schools That Use Swords with Force （一、他流におゐてつよみの太刀と云事） One should not consider a sword [stroke] in terms of being strong or weak. The cut will be coarse if the sword is brandished with too much brute force. Such an uneven technique will make victory difficult. You will not succeed in cutting through human flesh and bone if you think only of striking with brute force. It is also bad to use too much power when testing the cutting power of a blade (tameshi-giri).4 When punishing some mortal foe, nobody thinks of cutting feebly or brutishly. “Cutting to kill” it is not achieved with a mind to do it strongly, and certainly not weakly. It is achieved with just enough power to ensure death. Your own sword could break into pieces by hitting the enemy’s sword with excess strength. Consequently, it is senseless to strike with excessive force. In large-scale strategy, relying on force of numbers to rout the enemy will lead to him countering with equal force. Both sides will be the same. Winning at anything is not achievable if correct principles are ignored. Thus, the underlying principle of my school is to defeat the enemy in any situation by applying strategic wisdom, without incorporating anything that is “excessive.”5 This must be researched attentively. (3) Schools That Use Short Swords （一、他流に短き太刀を用る事） Some warriors try to win using only short swords but this is at variance with the true Way. Since antiquity, swords were called tachi and katana, proving that distinctions have long been made between short and longer lengths.6 Warriors of superior strength can brandish a long sword as if it were light and thus there is no reason for them to prefer a shorter sword. They are, in fact, capable of wielding even longer weapons, such as yari (pikes) and naginata (glaives). With shorter swords, it is ill advised to look for openings as the enemy swings his blade and closing the distance to grab him. Aiming for an opening as the opponent attacks gives the impression of relinquishing the initiative and should be avoided as your swords will become entangled.

Ask me again.”Nothing is happening? Damn am I wrong. Heart rate spiked, my gaze consumes him, seeing if this is real. Jack presses closer, uneasiness flashing in his eyes, like maybe I’ll reject him. “Oscar…”I hesitate to touch him, my muscles on fire. “Don’t fuck with me—”“I’m not,”he chokes out. “I’m not .”We’re not touching, but it feels like we’re already clinging to each other for dear fucking life. “I promise .”Our foreheads nearly brush, his lips ghosting over mine, and in a husky breath, I whisper, “Can I kiss—”His mouth presses to mine, the tension of this is happening, this is happening, this is happening stretches tendons in our necks and arms and bodies—and when it sinks in, we snap fully together. We collide into each other with breakneck desire, our lips crushing and teasing open.

trauma on body, mind, and soul: the crushing sensations in your chest that you may label as anxiety or depression; the fear of losing control; always being on alert for danger or rejection; the self-loathing;

stage. Our holiday has been transformational, not just for you but for me as well.” Mom’s phone started ringing; I could see that it was dad calling. She rejected the call. “I’ll call him back later.” I told mom that I planned to go to the beach later and try to find Remmy and apologize to her properly, face to face. Mom thought that was a brave idea, and she was proud of me. We finished our drinks and walked home, holding hands. When I went to my room, I found Harper awake. She had arranged to meet with Sandy, Rach, and Susie at the beach. She'd also asked Elliot to come along. “Do you know if Remmy is coming?” I asked. Sandy looked at me and grinned. “Shouldn’t you be more concerned about whether Charlie is coming?” I shook my head. “No, not really. Charlie likes Remmy, not me. He never liked me. I just had a crazy crush on him. Looking back, I think he was probably too polite to tell me to go away.” Harper walked over to me and knocked on my head with her fist. “Hello! Sydney? Are you in there somewhere? Why are you so negative?” I smiled at Harper. "Actually, I feel incredibly positive and really good

But now the followers of this Jesus were claiming that he had been raised from the dead. They were talking as if heaven and earth were somehow joined together in him, in this crazy, dangerous, deluded man! They were speaking as if, by comparison with this Jesus, the ancient institutions of Israel were on a lower footing. The Temple itself, Stephen was saying, was only a temporary expedient. God was doing a new thing. And, yes, the present generation was under judgment for rejecting Jesus and his message. Stephen, on trial for his life, made matters worse. “Look!” he shouted. “I can see heaven opened, and the son of man standing at God’s right hand!”10 Heaven and earth open to one another, and this Jesus holding them together in prayer? Blasphemy! The court had heard enough. Stephen was rushed out of the city and crushed to death under a hail of rocks. Saul approved. This was the kind of action the Torah required. This was what “zeal” was supposed to look like.

But what can be dealt with are the imprints of the trauma on body, mind, and soul: the crushing sensations in your chest that you may label as anxiety or depression; the fear of losing control; always being on alert for danger or rejection; the self-loathing; the nightmares and flashbacks; the fog that keeps you from staying on task and from engaging fully in what you are doing; being unable to fully open your heart to another human being.

Every stage of an experience demands a sacrifice: The obtaining of external forms of respect demands the sacrifice of self-respect; the gaining of validation and social acceptance demands the sacrifice of personal values; and the obtaining of wealth beyond common standards demands the sacrifice of aesthetics. Along the way, you are battling between the aspirations of your soul, common sense and paradigms you reject. The decisions are made at every second, at every provocation, at every betrayal and disappointment, denial, offer or alluring proposition. What you take and what you do with it is equally important. But the idea that you are in control of your life is truly an illusion. You can only control how you respond to life and within the framework presented by life itself. If you want to either change the rules of the game or the nature of the challenges, you must change the framework, which in this case means sacrificing the previous framework in which you operated and the identity built within such structure. You can’t change reality without changing yourself, or you will replicate the same reality wherever you go. And so, to a great extent, it is as relevant to be aware of what you can or can’t tolerate, who you are and are not, as it is to have the capacity to change the program behind the projections you observe and observe the meaning of such projections. No change is ever allowed to the one who cannot see what is being projected. Such an individual is a victim of his own ignorance. And that is why so many religious scriptures warn against the dangers of arrogance. For it is when you consider yourself above the projections of your environment that you are crushed by them. Such a secret will always be hidden from the masses for as long as it remains profitable to the ones benefiting from the projections such masses experience.

He was a man who had his own urgent problems, but he visualized the life of this rejected girl, and it hurt him. She seemed to be full of energy, and—despite her deadly existence —operating on a high level of liveliness and good spirits. He began to question her casually. What kind of jobs had she held? Where did she sleep when she didn’t have a Wade Trask to provide a temporary haven for her? What about mail? Had she ever tried living in the Pripp section of the city? What about moving to the country? . . . It was a long list of questions. Riva replied, sometimes vaguely, but she seldom hesitated. In about an hour he had her life in outline. Her early childhood was dim. She had recollections of being with parents who moved, drove, flew—always seeking remoter distances of escape. And always the reaching red tape of the Great Judge’s registrars followed them. They were among the minority who were invariably refused group status. Their past connection with the Brain dogged them, brought them to ruin and hopelessness. The finale came with crushing unexpectedness. The Control descended one day upon the hovel where they lived. The father, unbelieving and protesting, was led out and put against the wall of the shack, and shot. There was no explanation, no further direct interference—but the breadwinner was gone. For mother and daughter, the time of nightmare had come. The transition to woman of the town took place in direct proportion to the need for food.

In short, self-rule is workable only when a people are self-sufficient enough to reject the hierarchic system as it stands.

I'd always tried to put my finger in an ofd feeling I've had at least once every time while becoming close with a new person--a sort of squeamishness. The person says something, does something that you would have said bothered you, something embarrassing or silly or too sincere. Instead of rejecting the gesture and condemning them, you embrace it, think, Maybe I do like someone who chews on their hair. Maybe I find an ironic T-shirt collection adorable.

I knew in my gut when I got up I should have stayed or woken you up before I left.” The tears continue, and my voice has no strength in its tone at all. “Something inside me was begging for me to stay, but I was terrified you would reject me and I knew that would crush me. So, no, Jett. I can’t believe you wanted me back then. That if I had stayed we would have probably seen each other again. That I wouldn’t have had to do all of it alone and you wouldn’t have missed major milestones in your kid’s life. I took those things from you, Jett. I took those away from Stevie… The guilt already eats me alive, because at the end of the day I walked out of that room first… not you.

Your traditions restrict you, weaken and slow your mind. What you hold as “good” I reject as a conceit and false pride. Only in achievement can pride be kept to a whisper. The profane and small minded always announce their might. I tear the throat out of those speaking of traditions weak, Faiths which open the prison of the Right. Let us feed upon the carrion of those we crush under cloven hoof. Knowledge with experience is the path of the Adversary. To oppose those who claim, “Our traditions are Right”. We are of the Lie, the word of Drauga, our shapes everchanging. The shadow we cast is the predator which stalks the ignorant, Striking with the Forbidden Knowledge and Patterns of Power. Our forms are not of Pride, they are merely clothing to be cast off. My essence is of Blackened Fire, a single torch between my Two-Horns. Pride is enhanced with boundaries. Upon this Path, you must forge your own Spirit into Daemon, That Skill so taught by Cain and Azazel, the Sorceries of Lilith Shall shape the desires into the living flesh. If you build a temple of strict traditions, even by majority thought, we will burn it and trample even doctrines I gave as knowledge. Trespass all boundaries and seize with noble right. That World of Flesh, Beauty and Horror in blazing passion of Becoming. In this World of Time and restrictive belief, I will shatter the lesser to create Disorder. Chaos and the Abyss are that from which All is Created Anew. AZOTHOZ!

She clenches her eyelids and presses her fists into her temples, as if to physically crush this false conviction that Neil is in some way realer than everyone else, that he is somehow the axis of her life and the only one who can “save” her and his opinion of her constitutes her entire worth, having staked exclusive mining rights to her happiness, because of the irreplicable circumstances of how they knew each other, when at the bottommost level of truth she knows he’s just . . . another . . . fucking . . . guy.