Replay Book Quotes

Books had instant replay long before televised sports.

It is not a good idea to call yourself a sardine in a family like Leo's, who will not let you forget it.

Books had instant replay long before televised sports.

And I don't know what I enjoy more. Replaying the image of my sword against your throat...or thinking about how your heart would look on my plate." Grim's dark eyes flashed with amusement. "Careful, Hearteater," he whispered, towering over her, standing far too close. "I might just give it to you.

Anne did think on the question with perfect decision, and said as much in replay as her own feelings could accomplish, or as his seemed able to bear, for he was too much affected to renew the subject - and when he spoke again, it was something totally different.

Experience life, pick up a good book and appreciate the moment, for the moment, not the replay.

The classics constitute an almost infallible process for awakening the soul to its full stature. In coming to know a classic, one has made a friend for life. It can be recalled to the mind and 'read' all over again in the imagination. And actually perusing the text anew provides a joy that increases with time. These marvelous works stand many rereadings without losing their force. In fact, they almost demand rereading, as a Beethoven symphony demands replaying. We never say of a music masterpiece, 'Oh I've heard that!' Instead, we hunger to hear it again to take in once more, with new feeling and insight, its long-familiar strains.

same battles were repeatedly replayed, marking out the library as a political space. Should readers in the new nineteenth-century public libraries have the books that they desired, or books that would make them better, more cultured people? This raging debate was still echoing deep into the twentieth century:

Another form of bargaining, which many people do, and she did too, is to replay the final painful moments over and over in her head as if by doing so she could eventually create a different outcome. It is natural to replay in your mind the details. Deep in your heart you know what is true. Your mouth speaks the words, “My cat has died,” but you still don’t really want to believe it. You go over and over and over it in your mind. Your heart replays the scene for you for the express purpose of teaching you to accept what has happened. While your heart tries to “rewire” your mind to accept it, your mind keeps looking for a different answer. It doesn’t like the truth. Like anything else, when you hear it enough, you finally accept that it is true.

Later, I'll replay this conversation and be somewhat unsure of what exactly transpired. Is it my forgiveness or his own we've just been negotiating? But at this moment, I felt vaguely satisfied that a rapprochement of sorts has been reached, and a long-raging battle has been ended. I don't like him any more than I did before, but maybe I hate him a little less, and I guess that's something.

It’s a lesson I’m trying to learn from him, this living squarely in the present. I am a planner and a worrier. I torment myself by mentally replaying my past mistakes, wishing I’d been smarter, wishing I’d been stronger, wishing I’d made different choices. I live too often in the realm of what if. I also expend time and mental energy continually trying to anticipate what sort of crouching tiger might be hiding around the next corner.

The smell of books is one of my favorite smells ever. I would like to bottle it up and spray it on myself daily.

Book club. The Grand Mountain Book Club. Only four members.

This kind, gorgeous man, unable to hold back now we’re naked. My man. Nice men who turn feral are my weakness. My words replay in my head as he makes me see sparks.

Maybe there was still hope for my brain to regain some sense of normalcy instead of replaying the skipping mixtape in my head. Maybe if I could get all of my memories back, then maybe, just maybe, I could feel like myself again.

SOCIAL/GENERAL ICEBREAKERS 1. What do you think of the movie/restaurant/party? 2. Tell me about the best vacation you’ve ever taken. 3. What’s your favorite thing to do on a rainy day? 4. If you could replay any moment in your life, what would it be? 5. What one thing would you really like to own? Why? 6. Tell me about one of your favorite relatives. 7. What was it like in the town where you grew up? 8. What would you like to come back as in your next life? 9. Tell me about your kids. 10. What do you think is the perfect age? Why? 11. What is a typical day like for you? 12. Of all the places you’ve lived, tell me about the one you like the best. 13. What’s your favorite holiday? What do you enjoy about it? 14. What are some of your family traditions that you particularly enjoy? 15. Tell me about the first car you ever bought. 16. How has the Internet affected your life? 17. Who were your idols as a kid? Have they changed? 18. Describe a memorable teacher you had. 19. Tell me about a movie/book you’ve seen or read more than once. 20. What’s your favorite restaurant? Why? 21. Tell me why you were named ______. What is the origin of your last name? 22. Tell me about a place you’ve visited that you hope never to return to. get over your mom’s good intentions. 23. What’s the best surprise you’ve ever received? 24. What’s the neatest surprise you’ve ever planned and pulled off for someone else? 25. Skiing here is always challenging. What are some of your favorite places to ski? 26. Who would star as you in a movie about your life? Why that person? 27. Who is the most famous person you’ve met? 28. Tell me about some of your New Year’s resolutions. 29. What’s the most antiestablishment thing you’ve ever done? 30. Describe a costume that you wore to a party. 31. Tell me about a political position you’d like to hold. 32. What song reminds you of an incident in your life? 33. What’s the most memorable meal you’ve eaten? 34. What’s the most unforgettable coincidence you’ve experienced or heard about? 35. How are you able to tell if that melon is ripe? 36. What motion picture star would you like to interview? Why? 37. Tell me about your family. 38. What aroma brings forth a special memory? 39. Describe the scariest person you ever met. 40. What’s your favorite thing to do alone? 41. Tell me about a childhood friend who used to get you in trouble. 42. Tell me about a time when you had too much to eat or drink. 43. Describe your first away-from-home living quarters or experience. 44. Tell me about a time that you lost a job. 45. Share a memory of one of your grandparents. 46. Describe an embarrassing moment you’ve had. 47. Tell me something most people would never guess about you. 48. What would you do if you won a million dollars? 49. Describe your ideal weather and why. 50. How did you learn to ski/hang drywall/play piano?

Rachel moans, “Great. Well, he’s not the only one sexually frustrated.” I laugh. “Well, then get over these issues so you both can be relieved.” “How’s Alex?” She raises an eyebrow at me. “I’m sure fine,” I say defensively. “I haven’t seen him in a few weeks.” “Really? I thought he made a nightly appearance.” “Rachel, those dreams aren’t him. It’s my f’ed up brain replaying my memories as a form of torture...

I didn’t wake up every morning missing his warmth or reach for my phone to text him only to remember we weren’t talking. I didn’t see him everywhere I turned—in the pages of my books, the soft strains of a distant piano, or the reflection of a passing shop window. And I definitely didn’t lie awake, sleepless and restless, replaying every memory we shared like that was my life instead of the tattered reality around me.

He knew he was in love with her the moment he realized what love was. It was just like what you read in books, what you see in Shakespeare, what you hear in Beatles songs. Honestly, it was even better than all that. It was perfection; she was. There wasn't a moment he didn't think of her. Every time she spoke to him, he tried to replay her voice in his head over and over again. He wouldn't stop smiling. It was all he needed to be happy. She, was all he needed. He fell asleep at night thinking of her. He saw her in his dreams, her jet black hair and her brown eyes. Her long eyelashes. And that smile, oh that smile. She was all the motivation he needed. He didn’t understand how it was possible for someone to be so obsessed with another person. How could anyone possibly care for someone else the way he did for her? But it was all happening, it was real. He would do anything for her, absolutely anything. He knew he wouldn't ever force her to be with him. He would never put her on the spot; he would never risk losing her. In fact, he will give himself time, to become a better person, to grow into a more mature human being, the kind of man she deserves. He hoped, with all his heart, that someday, someday she'll love him the way he loves her. Let it be ten or twenty years from now, he didn’t care, he will wait for her. Until then he will love her, more and more, every day.

opportunity. The bizarre codes on the pages she’d sorted for Randy suddenly made sense. They must have been the files that kept track of where the bank had stashed millions of dollars. Jim wanted the money out, and so did the Covellis. The Mob was somehow involved with the bank’s dealings, and Carmichael worked for them. Being a bartender was just a facade. Beatrice hadn’t known him at all. But Tony and Max had known him, she realized. Tony was a police detective; he was the one who told her about the Covellis in the first place. He must have known. Every word Carmichael might have overheard at the bar replayed in her mind—her conversations with Tony about snooping around the bank, the missing safe deposits, the missing master key. Maybe Tony had wanted Carmichael to hear. The old man pointed the gun at Teddy in her head. Maybe the Covellis would bring down the bank if law enforcement failed. No one, not even Tony, suspected that she and Max had the power to do anything but run. Max was right. They all underestimated women like them. Beatrice stepped out from behind the curtain with the keys in her hand and crept toward the vault. CHAPTER 72 Friday, August 28, 1998 A black-and-white photograph of two women looked up from Box 547 in the yellow glow of the detective’s flashlight. They were smiling. The glass in the silver picture frame was cracked. Iris picked it up and handed it to Detective McDonnell. Underneath it she found a brown leather book and a candle. That was it. “What the hell is this?” Iris

Of Human Bondage?" Will said quickly, moving just out of sight for a moment and forcing Charlie to move to the edge of the dining area to see him. He tossed one arch look over his shoulder as he reached up to grab that book, and even knowing it was an act, Charlie felt himself tensing. His eyes fell on the leather cuff at Will's wrist, as they were probably meant to. "Kinky." Charlie's throat locked. "I'm not..." "Into Bette Davis? I know, a lot of people find her scary at first, but after awhile you really start to get into her." The completely reasonable tone was at odds with the wicked light in the kid's eyes, the way his lips were curved up, how he held his breath when Charlie blinked and frowned, replaying the insane words until they made sense. Until he remembered that Bette Davis was in the film version of that novel, until he could finally take his gaze off that wide leather band. His face was burning. "Smartass," he muttered, completely mystified when being called a smartass made Will hop in place, since Will had already made it clear that he had a brain under all that hair and glitter.

You are loved. You might have heard that a million times, but it's no less true. You do have a Creator. He is with you. He is bigger than your situation and closer than your deepest hurt. He's not mad. He is cheering for you and rooting for you this very second. He's okay about all the things before. He sent His Son for that very reason. You can put down the blade. You can throw away the pills. You can quit replaying those regrets in your head. You can quit the inner-loop of self-condemnation. You can forget your ex. You can walk away from the porn. You can resolve your conflicts right now. You can sign up to volunteer at that shelter. You can thank your parents for everything. You can hug the person next to you. You can tell the waiter, "Jesus loves you." You can go back to church. You don't have to sit in the back. You don't have to prove your worth to the people you've let down. You don't have to live up to everyone else's vision for your life. You're finally, finally free. You are loved. I am loved. As much as I love you, dear friend, He loves you infinitely more. Believe it. Walk in it. Walk with Him. God is in the business of breathing life into hurting places. This is what He does, even for the least likely like you and me.

And its with my head between my knees that I've loved all the men in my life, that's how I love my psychoanalyst, who doesn't see my body fidgeting on the couch when I'm queasy from repeating my mother who worms and my father who comes, when I want to sit up and show him that I'm not just a voice and that a single thrust of my claws can say as much as ten years of chattering about what's hidden behind the words. that the marks they leave are no better than the rage of a child crying for its mother's breast, and besides, who knows whether he's sleeping with his head between his hands and dreaming of me naked in a bathroom, who knows whether he's not masturbating silently to add a bit of life to my narratives, it's something I'll never know, something I don't have the right to hear, and if I did know what would happen, what would occur if I surprised him with his hand wedged down his pants and took his cock in my mouth, how much time to live would there be left for us if I moved my mouth from bottom to top and right to left, how much time before he came, before the end of the world and lightning striking, well, I don't know that, either, and maybe it would be better if it did happen, after all, maybe I'm dying from nothing happening between us and the fact that we'll have to replay the scene of my parents in the bathroom, finally put actions where there were only my tears, maybe it would be better to face each other and talk about love, confront each other in bathwater and stroke what falls under our hands, it would be better if we could be client and whore for the space of a moment, for the length of a session be the one who pays and the woman who gives herself, the roles would have to change within the time it takes for him to close his books and become a man in my arms, but it will never happen, one last time, it can't happen since those things never occur when you're me, when you're calling out life from death's side

During the replay of the Trinastich CCTV video, while Officer Coonrod was standing opposite him [effectively quizzing him on the possibility of an alibi for a triple murder he’d committed mere hours earlier], Watts was texting Kessinger.[97] He seemed at turns nervous, restless, distracted and even daydreaming at times.

It leaves you cold, like a void has opened up deep inside you and drawn in all the color and beauty of the world into it. And it chafes, like an itch in a place you can't reach. You replay the moment again and again in your mind, wondering if you could have changed the outcome somehow. Eventually, like any wound, it hardens and becomes an ugly scar. An enduring part of you that still aches, especially on cold days.

Sally often replayed her mother’s words. She could be whoever and whatever she wanted to be, but Sally didn’t know who she wanted to be. That was the problem.

It wasn’t like every breath resembled shards of glass piercing my lungs. I didn’t wake up every morning missing his warmth or reach for my phone to text him only to remember we weren’t talking. I didn’t see him everywhere I turned—in the pages of my books, the soft strains of a distant piano, or the reflection of a passing shop window. And I definitely didn’t lie awake, sleepless and restless, replaying every memory we shared like that was my life instead of the tattered reality around me.

Clark often used chess as a means of fellowship with other students and professors, even if the matches were generally one-sided. One account of Clark’s chess prowess, given by family friend Tom Jones, is worth quoting at length: I bumped into Dr. Clark back in the late sixties when he was visiting his daughter Betsy on Lookout Mountain, Tennessee, where Betsy taught at Covenant College. I knew he was a chess champion and suggested that it would be fun to play with him sometime. He was eager to do so, and later that week he dropped by our home for an evening of chess. My wife had gone shopping and left me at home with our two small children. We played two games. In the first game I thought I did reasonably well for about a half an hour but then, rather abruptly, the entire left side of my board seemed to collapse and Dr. Clark swept me away. So, we played a second game in which he defeated me unceremoniously in about ten minutes. Feeling properly humiliated I asked a question, “Dr. Clark, I want to learn from you. So, tell me if you will, in that first game I thought I did fairly well for a while but then you just clobbered me at the end. Can you remember anything about where I made my mistakes?” With that Dr. Clark proceeded to set up that first game and replay the entire thing. He reached a point where he said, “Now, at this point, I expected that you would move your queen thus so, at which point I was prepared to counter with my knight, like so, and then . . . ” (with this he made about six hypothetical moves which he had anticipated), “but you didn’t do that” (he said as he put all the pieces back in place). “Instead, you moved your rook over here” (and with that he finished the game, explaining each move in the swift demise of my game). It was by now at least forty-five minutes after the first game had been played and he had remembered every single move in that game! I was amazed and thoroughly in submission to the master by now. But the thing that humiliated me the most was that the entire time that we had been playing he was holding my four-year-old son, Bradley, on his lap and was reading a story book to him. He would glance up after my moves, take a brief look at the board, make his move nonchalantly, and go back to reading the story. HE HAD NOT EVEN BEEN PAYING ATTENTION! Or so it seemed. What a mind!

We do not use writing exclusively to attain perspective upon our self-referential human existence. We dedicate our essayistic existence to witnessing the variegated acts of life. Our craniums serve as a personal planetarium, a full-dome personal theater where we can replay video and audio educational films documenting our scented and tactile observations. We feature recollections of evocative experiences, vivid daydreams, and frightful nightmares. A vast array of scientific visualizations and artistic depictions supplement our personal slideshow, knowledge we employ to frame our evolving self under the celestial sky and navigate our earthy existence.

There’s no time to enjoy the moment because we’re too busy preparing for the unforeseen future or replaying the pains of the past.

The eye can see what we have in common or focus on what keeps us apart. And the heart can feel what joins us with everything or replay its many cuts. And the tongue can praise the wind or warn against the storm, can praise the sea or dread the flood.

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

Over the next several weeks, every time I replayed a snarky comment or envisioned people laughing at me, I immediately asked myself, Am I giving my best? Am I becoming the best that I can be? Am I chasing my dream? If I am, then who cares what anyone else thinks?

Andrei avoided the internet as well and this evasion only added to his gloom. He loved music, especially old songs, and he loved movies, of all sorts. If he had the patience, sometimes he would read. While most of the pages he turned bored him to sleep, certain books with certain lines disarranged him. Some literature brought him to his feet, laughing and howling in his room. When the book was right, it was bliss and he wept. His room hushed with serenity and indebtedness. When he turned to his computer, however, or took out his phone, he would inevitably come across a viral trend or video that took the art he loved and turned it into a joke. The internet, in Andrei’s desperate eyes, managed to make fun of everything serious. And if one did not laugh, they were not intelligent. The internet could not be slowed and no protest to criticize its exploitation of art could be made because recreations of art hid perfectly under the veneer of mockery and was thus, impenetrable. It was easy to use Chopin’s ‘Sonata No. 2’ for a quick laugh, to reduce the ‘Funeral March’ to background music. It was a sneaky way for a digital creator to be considered an artist—and parodying the classics made them appear cleverer than the original artist. Meanwhile, Andrei’s body had healed playing Chopin alone in his apartment. He would frailly replay movie moments, too, that he later found the world edited and ripped apart with its cheap teeth. And everyone ate the internet’s crumbs. This cruel derision was impossible to escape. But enough jokes, memes, and glam over someone’s precious source of life would eventually make a sensitive body numb. And Andrei was afraid of that. He needed his fountain of hope unblemished. For this reason, he escaped the internet’s claws and only surrendered to it for e-mails, navigation, and the weather.

As I laid there in my bed, the scene of Lucky’s sacrifice replayed over and over in my head. I went over the battle a thousand times, there was nothing I could have done to save my pet. Regret filled my victorious spirit, and sorrow filled my eyes. I laid in bed and cried myself to sleep.

Disconnecting the call before Mimi could lambaste her further, she tossed the phone on the bed and darted for the bathroom. Her toe caught on the bedpost, sending a shot of pain through her foot and up her leg. Howling with righteous indignation, she called the bed a few choice names as she hobbled her way to the tub. Performing the world’s fastest strip down, she jumped into the shower and nearly slipped. “Holy fright,” she barked, catching herself on the handrail. Her brain was still groggy with sleep, her toe ached like a mofo, and she’d almost head-butted herself with the shower. This was clearly not her day. Like, at all. She needed a strong cup of coffee, STAT. And better karma. And apparently, a new alarm clock. Lathering the shampoo into her long, unruly curls, Evangeline replayed her evening. She had read for an hour before turning off the bedside lamp, and she distinctly remembered flipping the alarm to the on position. Having purchased the alarm clock radio at a secondhand store in what she thought was a great deal, she now figured it was past its prime, and she’d need to buy a new one when she got paid on Friday. Because who wouldn’t love to spend what little she earned on a new small appliance? After playing the lather-and-rinse game with the conditioner, she washed her body before carefully stepping from the shower to grab a towel. The last thing she needed was to do the splits across the linoleum floor. Her dang toe still throbbed to the tempo of an agitated mariachi band. After a quick towel drying that left her hair dripping rivulets down her back, she chose a blousy blue top, black gaucho pants, and a pair of ballet flats, which she managed to slip into without ripping, breaking, or slipping on anything.

Remember, by nature, emotions will fade as time passes. That is, unless you reinforce them by replaying the same situation over and over in your mind. Below are some real-world examples to help you better understand how it works:

there.” Disconnecting the call before Mimi could lambaste her further, she tossed the phone on the bed and darted for the bathroom. Her toe caught on the bedpost, sending a shot of pain through her foot and up her leg. Howling with righteous indignation, she called the bed a few choice names as she hobbled her way to the tub. Performing the world’s fastest strip down, she jumped into the shower and nearly slipped. “Holy fright,” she barked, catching herself on the handrail. Her brain was still groggy with sleep, her toe ached like a mofo, and she’d almost head-butted herself with the shower. This was clearly not her day. Like, at all. She needed a strong cup of coffee, STAT. And better karma. And apparently, a new alarm clock. Lathering the shampoo into her long, unruly curls, Evangeline replayed her evening. She had read for an hour before turning off the bedside lamp, and she distinctly remembered flipping the alarm to the on position. Having purchased the alarm clock radio at a secondhand store in what she thought was a great deal, she now figured it was past its prime, and she’d need to buy a new one when she got paid on Friday. Because who wouldn’t love to spend what little she earned on a new small appliance? After playing the lather-and-rinse game with the conditioner, she washed her body before carefully stepping from the shower to grab a towel. The last thing she needed was to do the splits across the linoleum floor. Her dang toe still throbbed to the tempo of an agitated mariachi band. After a quick towel drying that left her hair dripping rivulets down her back, she chose a blousy blue top, black gaucho pants, and a pair of ballet flats, which she managed to slip into without ripping, breaking, or slipping on anything.

If blame is part of our narratives, we are tragically predisposed to change the cast and replay the same scripts again and again.

It's a lesson I'm trying to learn from him, this living squarely in the present. I am a planner and a worrier. I torment myself by mentally replaying my past mistakes, wishing I'd been smarter, wishing I'd been stronger, wishing I'd made different choices. I live too often in the realm of WHAT IF. I also expend time and mental energy continually trying to anticipate what sort of crouching tiger might be hiding around the next corner. Nathan's default seems to be to take life as it comes and contend with tigers if and when they appear.

In essence, every single particle interaction replays the entirety of all possible cosmic events since the beginning of eternity, at low resolution, skipping some amount of the total infinite possible information in favor of showing a finite amount instead.

Today, in 2020, I cannot see the future, but my instincts tell me that we are going to experience a replay of the first Great American Depression of the 1930’s, and that it will happen before the 100 year anniversary of that last one. (Keep in mind the uselessness of such personal premonitions) (Update September 2020 in light of record setting stock market valuations (for some companies) while economies were still under water) The above made so little sense, it became possible to imagine that certain companies had a pipeline to free Federal reserve cash.

You can’t let a mistake beat you twice. When you dwell on a defeat in your head, you experience it over and over again. Each time you mentally replay it, you experience those negative feelings again. It brings you down. It stifles your confidence. The past defeat beats you all over again.

The conversation from last night replays through my mind like a piece of dialogue highlighted on my Kindle and posted to Goodreads.

Healing does not require a fixation upon or reinstantiation of narratives--the ones we make about ourselves or those others make for us. The insistence on such runs the risk of falling into Euro-North American colonial lies about how our psycho-emotional selves should function. Narrative can sometimes be a useful tool, (particularly in the crafting of new narratives), but is one of a myriad of possibilities. A move away from this form of functioning is to refuse the exploitive nature of what has come to be referred to as "trauma porn." In some healing modalities, it is by choosing to not engage in endless narrativizations that replay sites of harm that frees us from the trappings of getting stuck there (what can be an evasion of the healing process). Creating narratives, again echoing Gina Breedlove, can keep us trapped in questioning the validity of someone's lived experience, rather than the facts of the harm. It is how "but he is such a nice guy" takes precedent over having survived, and then having to hear incessant tales of said "nice guy" while feeling the harm in your bones. I refuse to give the harm any power over my life by narrating the details so as to make them seem up for debate, a conversation, or gratuitous consumption. In this intentional choice, I understand that my medicine and the medicine we hold as Black trans people is not born out of the ashes of trauma but rather, further refined by that which crumbles in the magnificence of its presence. It is from her I wish to depart. May my ancestors and Oludumare forever humble me before the life s/he has given and continues to give me. --Daniel B. Coleman

I Love You.” When the Soul experiences memories replaying as problems, say to them mentally or silently: “I love you dear memories. I am grateful for the opportunity to free all of you and me.

Her mind replayed the horrible night of Elizabeth's motorcycle accident, a night that had been the most frightening of Jessica's life.

What… what just happened…? D-did she just kiss me? Does this mean… she likes me back??? What just happened?!?! I turned around and walked away in a complete daze. She kissed me… she said she’d love to go out again. That means she likes me. Alex likes me?! Whaaaaaa? Did that just really happen? Did anyone witness that? I need to double check if that really happened. I walked all the way home, thinking about what took place. The entire time, it felt like I was weightless, like I was walking on air. When I finally got home, I changed into my normal clothes and climbed into bed. It was already late at night, but I didn’t feel sleepy at all. Instead, I felt so lively and happy. So, I just lay in bed and stared out the window all night, replaying the event over and over in my head. My first kiss… I’m never washing my face again, I thought as I watched the sky change colors. Sometime after that, I knocked out.

Teddy’s teasing brings waves of nerves and excitement and butterflies that crash and roil and mix in my stomach to nauseating levels, that at the end of each encounter, I’m an overthinking, blundering mess, replaying every sentence spoken from his lips.

Sam was hovering right beside me, watching my face intently. "You ok, sweetie?" I looked at him with a smile. "I did it! I just asked, and she started pushing. I had no idea it would be so easy. I mean, I figured there was some mental magic you had to pull to get people to die for you, but it's so easy! And she gave me all her life, just boom." He stared at me in shock for a moment, his eyes flicking between mine as I rambled on. Gently, he pulled me away from the neon reflection of the daughter and the grey silhouette of the corpse, easing me out of the room without saying a thing. That in itself was enough to make me worried, replaying what had happened over and over in my mind as I tried to figure out where I'd made some kind of horrendous mistake. "Sia?" he finally asked when we reached the hall. "You know it's ok to be sad about this, right?" "Why would I feel bad? I didn't know her." "Because her daughter was there?" I waved that away. "Her daughter was telling her to let go. The old woman was suffering, and I found a way to make it better." "You know you killed her, right?" Those words made me finally understand the problem. "Sam, that woman was going to die. She could've rolled around in pain, groaning in misery until her heart clenched or her lungs gave out. As her body failed her, she would've panicked. It's kinda what we do. Instead, I made her smile. In her last moments on Earth, I made her feel comforted and protected, like this was just moving to the next step. She wasn't afraid." He nodded, taking that in. "Ok?" "You don't get it because you can't die. Death? It's the monster in the dark. It's the one thing we all fear the most, and in her last seconds, she wasn't afraid. She was thrilled. She knew she'd had a good life, and seeing me proved it to her. That's all we want. People pray to die in their sleep so they don't have to face that one terrifying second. We think about it our whole lives, refusing to talk about it because no one knows the answer, but now I do. I finally understand, and I made her death into something beautiful. Something her daughter will look back on and think is proof that she's in a better place.

The brain is just a lump of flesh and blood, and yet our memories feel like replayed movies, very graphic and dynamic.

I torment myself by mentally replaying my past mistakes, wishing I'd been smarter, wishing I'd been stronger, wishing I'd made different choices. I live too often in the realm of what if.

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One quirk of folks who find themselves on the spectrum is that they will often look back upon social interactions they’ve had of late and replay them in their minds.

They hang over me like a sword of Damocles, replaying again and again.

I am a planner and a worrier. I torment myself by mentally replaying my past mistakes, wishing I’d been smarter, wishing I’d been stronger, wishing I’d made different choices. I live too often in the realm of what if. I

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