Screw Everyone Else Quotes

It's just... wow, I'm happy for you. I think this is great. Its love- the real kind you make sacrifices for. The kind where you scream 'screw it' to everyone else. That's envy-worthy.

Rule number one of the wizarding business. Never let them see you sweat. People expect us to know things. It can be a big advantage. Don’t screw it up by looking like you’re as confused as everyone else. Bad for the image.

Before I got here, I thought for a long time that the way out of the labyrinth was to pretend that it did not exist, to build a small, self-sufficient world in a back corner of, the endless maze and to pretend that I was not lost, but home. But that only led to a lonely life accompanied only by the last words of the looking for a Great Perhaps, for real friends, and a more-than minor life. And then i screwed up and the Colonel screwed up and Takumi screwed up and she slipped through our fingers. And there's no sugar-coating it: She deserved better friends. When she fucked up, all those years ago, just a little girl terrified. into paralysis, she collapsed into the enigma of herself. And I could have done that, but I saw where it led for her. So I still believe in the Great Perhaps, and I can believe in it spite of having lost her. Beacause I will forget her, yes. That which came together will fall apart imperceptibly slowly, and I will forget, but she will forgive my forgetting, just as I forgive her for forgetting me and the Colonel and everyone but herself and her mom in those last moments she spent as a person. I know that she forgives me for being dumb and sacred and doing the dumb and scared thing. I know she forgives me, just as her mother forgives her. And here's how I know: I thought at first she was just dead. Just darkness. Just a body being eaten by bugs. I thought about her a lot like that, as something's meal. What was her-green eyes, half a smirk, the soft curves of her legs-would soon be nothing, just the bones I never saw. I thought about the slow process of becoming bone and then fossil and then coal that will, in millions of years, be mined by humans of the future, and how they would their homes with her, and then she would be smoke billowing out of a smokestack, coating the atmosphere. I still think that, sometimes. I still think that, sometimes, think that maybe "the afterlife" is just something we made up to ease the pain of loss, to make our time in the labyrinth bearable. Maybe she was just a matter, and matter gets recycled. But ultimately I do not believe that she was only matter. The rest of her must be recycled, too. I believe now that we are greater than the sum of our parts. If you take Alaska's genetic code and you add her life experiences and the relationships she had with people, and then you take the size and shape of her body, you do not get her. There is something else entirety. There is a part of her knowable parts. And that parts has to go somewhere, because it cannot be destroyed. Although no one will ever accuse me of being much of a science student, One thing I learned from science classes is that energy is never created and never destroyed. And if Alaska took her own life, that is the hope I wish I could have given her. Forgetting her mother, failing her mother and her friends and herself -those are awful things, but she did not need to fold into herself and self-destruct. Those awful things are survivable because we are as indestructible as we believe ourselves to be. When adults say "Teenagers think they are invincible" with that sly, stupid smile on their faces, they don't know how right they are. We need never be hopeless, because we can never be irreparably broken. We think that we are invincible because we are. We cannot be born, and we cannot die. Like all energy, we can only change shapes and sizes manifestations. They forget that when they get old. They get scared of losing and failing. But that part of us greater than the sum of our parts cannot begin and cannot end, and so it cannot fail. So I know she forgives me, just as I forgive her. Thomas Eidson's last words were: "It's very beautiful over there." I don't know where there is, but I believe it's somewhere, and I hope it's beautiful.

What?” I cut him off. “That’s not true—I do take this seriously—” “Bullshit.” He laughs a short, sharp, angry laugh. “All you do is sit around and think about your feelings. You’ve got problems. Boo-freaking-hoo,” he says. “Your parents hate you and it’s so hard but you have to wear gloves for the rest of your life because you kill people when you touch them. Who gives a shit?” He’s breathing hard enough for me to hear him. “As far as I can tell, you’ve got food in your mouth and clothes on your back and a place to pee in peace whenever you feel like it. Those aren’t problems. That’s called living like a king. And I’d really appreciate it if you’d grow the hell up and stop walking around like the world crapped on your only roll of toilet paper. Because it’s stupid,” he says, barely reining in his temper. “It’s stupid, and it’s ungrateful. You don’t have a clue what everyone else in the world is going through right now. You don’t have a clue, Juliette. And you don’t seem to give a damn, either.” I swallow, so hard. “Now I am trying,” he says, “to give you a chance to fix things. I keep giving you opportunities to do things differently. To see past the sad little girl you used to be—the sad little girl you keep clinging to—and stand up for yourself. Stop crying. Stop sitting in the dark counting out all your individual feelings about how sad and lonely you are. Wake up,” he says. “You’re not the only person in this world who doesn’t want to get out of bed in the morning. You’re not the only one with daddy issues and severely screwed-up DNA. You can be whoever the hell you want to be now. You’re not with your shitty parents anymore. You’re not in that shitty asylum, and you’re no longer stuck being Warner’s shitty little experiment. So make a choice,” he says. “Make a choice and stop wasting everyone’s time. Stop wasting your own time. Okay?

Henry was right—I let everyone else's feelings affect my decisions. Screw that. I'm taking the ball and running with it. Maybe they're not my top choices, but they're choices that are good for me, choices I can live with. Some things I can't control; but some things I can. And I'm going to.

Hi, I’m Jude Ryder Jamieson,” he began, extending his hand. I took it, shaking it. He held onto it when I tried to pull it back. “My mom left when I was thirteen. My dad’s serving a life sentence for killing a young kid. I spent the last five years in a boys’ home being bullied, beat, and abused by the kids, the staff, and even the goddamn dog. I sold drugs. I did drugs. I got arrested. A lot. I screwed a lot of faceless women.” He paused, sucking in a breath. “And then I met one whose face I couldn’t forget. I fell in love with her. I hurt her because I fell in love with her and was afraid she was going to leave me the way everyone else had.” He lifted his other hand, cradling mine between his. “I still love her.

You think because I’m no longer a virgin, I’ll screw anyone that’ll have me? Thanks!” I said, shoving him. “I didn’t say that, damn it! Is it too much to ask for a little peace of mind?” “Why would it give you peace of mind to know if I’m sleeping with Parker?” “How can you not know? It’s obvious to everyone else but you!” he said, exasperated.

Harry screwed up his face and buried it in his hands.. Did this make him as arrogant as Draco Malfoy? Did he think himself superior to everyone else? Did he really believe he was better than Ron?

BUMMER is a machine with six moving parts. Here’s a mnemonic for the six components of the BUMMER machine, in case you ever have to remember them for a test: A is for Attention Acquisition leading to Asshole supremacy B is for Butting into everyone’s lives C is for Cramming content down people’s throats D is for Directing people’s behaviors in the sneakiest way possible E is for Earning money from letting the worst assholes secretly screw with everyone else F is for Fake mobs and Faker society

If you find someone you care about, screw everyone else. Life’s too short.

The Delores tank rolled on inexorably, “You get a mortgage to buy a house, a larger mortgage than the previous owner because the price of the house has been artificially increased by the market, which is controlled by the banks. Then you live in the house for a few years paying a lot more in mortgage payments than you would if you were renting a similar property. But hey, you ‘own’ it and can ‘do things to it’… things that cost even more money, by the way… so you maintain its upkeep, improve it with say a new kitchen or bathroom; the more salubrious the neighbourhood the more expensive the kitchen would need to be – a Küche & Cucina, say; impressing your cleaner is very important after all and at the end you sell it to someone else for more than you paid for it so they’ll need an even bigger mortgage. And all the while everyone is paying all this money to the banks and the banks give the money to their shareholders, the biggest of whom are the incredibly rich. This, when you boil it all down, means that you’re taking a large sum out of your wages and passing it across to some rich person to live large, whilst you and others like you struggle to make their monthly payments. Basically you’ve been screwed, Doc, but somehow they’ve convinced you that you own a bit of England, when the truth is you don’t really own anything, you’re just renting it at a higher cost and they can take it back from you any time they want. It’s all just a card trick, Doc. All just ‘smoke and mirrors’ and that’s what’s getting to me.

I know I get crazy when it comes to you, but God knows I’m tryin’, Pidge. I don’t wanna screw this up.” “Then don’t.” “This is hard for me, ya know. I feel like any second you’re going to figure out what a piece of shit I am and leave me. When you were dancing last night, I saw a dozen different guys watching you. You go to the bar, and I see you thank that guy for your drink. Then that douchebag on the dance floor grabs you.” “You don’t see me throwing punches every time a girl talks to you. I can’t stay locked up in the apartment all the time. You’re going to have to get a handle on your temper.” “I will. I’ve never wanted a girlfriend before, Pigeon. I’m not used to feeling this way about someone…about anyone. If you’ll be patient with me, I swear I’ll get it figured out.” “Let’s get something straight; you’re not a piece of shit, you’re amazing. It doesn’t matter who buys me drinks, or who asks me to dance, or who flirts with me. I’m going home with you. You’ve asked me to trust you, and you don’t seem to trust me.” He frowned. “That’s not true.” “If you think I’m going to leave you for the next guy that comes along, then you don’t have much faith in me.” He tightened his grip. “I’m not good enough for you, Pidge. That doesn’t mean I don’t trust you, I’m just bracing for the inevitable.” “Don’t say that. When we’re alone, you’re perfect. We’re perfect. But then you let everyone else ruin it. I don’t expect a one-eighty, but you have to pick your battles. You can’t come out swinging every time someone looks at me.” He nodded. “I’ll do anything you want. Just…tell me you love me.” “You know I do.” “I need to hear you say it,” he said, his brows pulling together. “I love you,” I said, touching my lips to his. “Now quit being such a baby.” He laughed, crawling into the bed with me. We spent the next hour in the same spot under the covers, giggling and kissing, barely noticing when Kara returned from the shower.

I nod against him. “You can play everyone else, but not me. Screw it. I’ll even support your made-up persona as long as you’re not that guy with me.

It just happens. Even when almost everyone who showed you how to do things showed you wrong, and screwed you up, and left; even when you have promised yourself fifteen different sets of sheets and in freight trains and on sidewalks, staring up at the stars, that you will do it different from all the people who have done it wrong and hurt you, still you do it the same. Still you do the same shit to everybody else that they have done to you. I know it must be possible to keep promises. There must be people who say things and mean then and who can make the words turn real. But I've never met one. I keep trying to be something I'm not even sure exists. I've promised myself so many times that I won't be like so many people, and I still do it anyway. I still make people cry, and laugh at them, and I know as soon as everyone really sees me they'll all leave again and I'll be left with the noise not being able to sleep.

The trick is to not only deny the criticism any power over you, but, even more challenging, to not get caught up in the praise. There’s nothing wrong with blushingly accepting a compliment, but if you find yourself always seeking outside approval that you’re good enough or cool enough or talented enough or worthy enough, you’re screwed. Because if you base your self-worth on what everyone else thinks of you, you hand all your power over to other people and become dependent on a source outside of yourself for validation. Then you wind up chasing after something you have no control over, and should that something suddenly place its focus somewhere else, or change its mind and decide you’re no longer very interesting, you end up with a full-blown identity crisis.

I’ll be sure to come by if I have any questions,” I say, forcing my face to stay blank. Translation: I’ll only talk to you if everyone else in the office has suffered a gruesome death. Maybe I’m the only intern because the other ones gnawed off their legs to get away.

The kind of trust that is necessary to build a great team is what I call vulnerability-based trust. This is what happens when members get to a point where they are completely comfortable being transparent, honest, and naked with one another, where they say and genuinely mean things like “I screwed up,” “I need help,” “Your idea is better than mine,” “I wish I could learn to do that as well as you do,” and even, “I’m sorry.” When everyone on a team knows that everyone else is vulnerable enough to say and mean those things, and that no one is going to hide his or her weaknesses or mistakes, they develop a deep and uncommon sense of trust. They speak more freely and fearlessly with one another and don’t waste time and energy putting on airs or pretending to be someone they’re not. Over time, this creates a bond that exceeds what many people ever experience in their lives and,

We chose the Impala because if we have to sleep in a car on Saturday night, this car has the biggest seats. We’re eating Chinese because we can’t go home. It was either sleep here, or stay up all night at an after-hours dance club. We don’t go to dance clubs. Tyler says the music is so loud, especially the bass tracks, that it screws with his biorhythm. The last time we went out, Tyler said the loud music made him constipated. This, and the club is too loud to talk, so after a couple of drinks, everyone feels like the center of attention but completely cut off from participating with anyone else. You’re the corpse in an English murder mystery.

It’s one thing for Russians to act the way they do. Their society is so harsh and unforgiving that in order to get through life, most people are either getting screwed or screwing someone else—and often both. There are few rewards for doing what is right. It takes exceptional individuals like Sergei Magnitsky, Boris Nemtsov, and Vladimir Kara-Murza not to descend reflexively into nihilism, dishonesty, and corruption. In the West, and especially in America, it’s different. There’s no question we have our own issues, but Americans like John Moscow, Mark Cymrot, Chris Cooper, and Glenn Simpson have led charmed lives. They went to the best universities, associated with the highest-caliber people, lived in comfortable homes, and operated in a society that at least aspires to honor good conduct and ethical behavior. Everyone is entitled to a legal defense, but this wasn’t about the law—it was an active Russian disinformation campaign. For these people to use their considerable knowledge, contacts, and skills to assist Putin’s cronies in exchange for nothing more than money was even more contemptible than the actions of the Russians themselves. Many Russians can’t help what they do. But Americans like these can, and they act with full cognizance.

I’m heading out.” Her gaze searched his and, a little breathless, she asked, “Leaving?” “Yeah.” He stepped closer. Any second how Trace would intrude. “Thing is, Alani, I can’t be around you without wanting you. Bad. Really bad.” “Oh.” “If that’s crude, well, then screw it, I’m crude. I know we’d have a great time in bed, but since you aren’t ready for that yet, well . . . I promised Trace I wouldn’t pressure you.” Her neck went stiff. “Dear God. You discussed this with my brother?” “No!” He cut a hand through the air and his voice lowered. “When . . . if . . . I get you out of your panties, believe me, it’ll be a private thing between us. No way in hell would I discuss that with anyone else.” Her face went as red as Priss’s had. “Trace and I talked about you maybe decorating my house, that’s all.” “Oh.” Face still hot, she said, “I—” “Yeah, forget it. That’s off. Like I said, I’d just hanker for you, and you aren’t exactly reciprocating. So that’s that.” She blinked fast. “But if you ever change your mind, all you have to do is let me know.” He reached out and touched her cheek. Her skin was soft and warm and he wanted to feel her all over. All over him. Naked. Hungry. Wet . . . Damn, he had it bad. “I can promise you, if you do come to me, you won’t regret it.” She swallowed, licked her lips and damned if her eyes didn’t heat. She wanted him, too. He had to believe that. But Trace was starting up the hill, and the others were looking on, and the last thing he wanted was to make Alani uncomfortable. “Tell everyone I said goodbye. You make up any excuse you want.” And with that, he left Alani standing there, watching after him as he walked away. God willing, she’d contact him soon. He wasn’t sure he could stand it if she didn’t.

I leave behind unfinished puzzles, pieces never put back together. It feels wasteful. Not of the objects, but myself. So much time spent stripping wire or counting screws. For what? For knowledge I will never use? Knowledge that is cursed, inferior, stupid, to everyone else? What have I done with myself for fifteen years? A great construct of nothing. I suppose I miss the old house because it was with me in my emptiness, in my silence. I thought I hated the estate, but I think I hate the capital more.

I don’t get it, man. That dude has zero game, then suddenly he up and jets with a hottie? Meanwhile I can’t buy a date.” “Makes no sense.” Hi, face serious. I pressed a fist to my lips, considering. “What’d the girl look like?” “Hot.” Ben shifted his weight. I heard Hi chuckle behind me. I choked back my mounting frustration. “Could you be more specific?” “Oh, right.” Cole rubbed his oily chin and squinted at the ceiling. “She had, like, nice hair. It was sorta . . . black? Or maybe brown. Not blonde, for sure. And she was kinda tall. But not really. Oh, and I think she wore a T-shirt. Could be wrong, though.” I stared at the useless witness before me. What a moron. “Can you remember anything else, Cole?” Catching his eye, I tried to urge the memory from his brain by force of will. “Anything at all?” For a moment, Cole’s face screwed up in thought, then it bloomed with contentment. “He said I could have his mattress. Solid dude, that Jordan.” Hi snapped on his seat belt. “Not everyone is college material.” Shelton shook his head. “I’m surprised that guy remembers to breathe.

Actually, Richard, what’s interesting is that you have a totally loveless marriage, and so you assume that everyone else must, too. But guess what? I love Sebastian.” “And Paul.” I turn to my ex’s dad. “What’s also interesting is that your son had a totally loving relationship that he abandoned to chase someone who could further his career. And so you must assume that the next man I fall for would be a self-serving narcissist, too. But Sebastian’s nothing like Adam.” I smile. “Thank the Lord. So, Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year and Screw You Very Much.

Okay,” I finally said. “Can we all agree that this is maybe the most screwed-up situation we’ve ever found ourselves in?” “Agreed,” they said in unison. “Awesome.” I gave a little nod. “And do either of you have any idea what we should do about it?” “Well, we can’t use magic,” Archer said. “And if we try to leave, we get eaten by Monster Fog,” Jenna added. “Right. So no plans at all, then?” Jenna frowned. “Other than rocking in the fetal position for a while?” “Yeah, I was thinking about taking one of those showers where you huddle in the corner fully clothed and cry,” Archer offered. I couldn’t help but snort with laughter. “Great. So we’ll all go have our mental breakdowns, and then we’ll somehow get ourselves out of this mess.” “I think our best bet is to lie low for a while,” Archer said. “Let Mrs. Casnoff think we’re all too shocked and awed to do anything. Maybe this assembly tonight will give us some answers.” “Answers,” I practically sighed. “About freaking time.” Jenna gave me a funny look. “Soph, are you…grinning?” I could feel my cheeks aching, so I knew that I was. “Look, you two have to admit: if we want to figure out just what the Casnoffs are plotting, this is pretty much the perfect place.” “My girl has a point,” Archer said, smiling at me. Now my cheeks didn’t just ache, they burned. Clearing her throat, Jenna said, “Okay, so we all go up to our rooms, then after the assembly tonight we can regroup and decide what to do next.” “Deal,” I said as Archer nodded. “Are we all going to high-five now?” Jenna asked after a pause. “No, but I can make up some kind of secret handshake if you want,” Archer said, and for a second, they smiled at each other. But just as quickly, the smile disappeared from Jenna’s face, and she said to me, “Let’s go. I want to see if our room is as freakified as the rest of this place.” “Good idea,” I said. Archer reached out and brushed his fingers over mine. “See you later, then?” he asked. His voice was casual, but my skin was hot where he touched me. “Definitely,” I answered, figuring that even a girl who has to stop evil witches from taking over the world could make time for kissage in there somewhere. He turned and walked away. As I watched him go, I could feel Jenna starting at me. “Fine,” she acknowledged with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “He’s a little dreamy.” I elbowed her gently in the side. “Thanks.” Jenna started to walk to the stairs. “You coming?” “Yeah,” I said. “I’ll be right up. I just want to take a quick look around down here.” “Why, so you can be even more depressed?” Actually, I wanted to stay downstairs just a little longer to see if anyone else showed up. So far, I’d seen nearly everyone I remembered from last year at Hex Hall. Had Cal been dragged here, too? Technically he hadn’t been a student, but Mrs. Casnoff had used his powers a lot last year. Would she still want him here? To Jenna, I just said, “Yeah, you know me. I like poking bruises.” “Okay. Get your Nancy Drew on.

THE FIRST THING you need to do to get a man to elope with you is to challenge him to go to Las Vegas. You do this by being out at an L.A. club and having a few drinks together. You ignore the impulse to roll your eyes at how eager he is to have his picture taken with you. You recognize that everyone is playing everyone else. It’s only fair that he’s playing you at the same time as you’re playing him. You reconcile these facts by realizing that what you both want from each other is complementary. You want a scandal. He wants the world to know he screwed you. The two things are one and the same. You consider laying it out for him, explaining what you want, explaining what you’re willing to give him. But you’ve been famous long enough to know that you never tell anyone anything more than you have to. So instead of saying I’d like us to make tomorrow’s papers, you say, “Mick, have you ever been to Vegas?

In comparison to those other forms of 'screwing the nine to five' - worker organizing, legislation, and mutual aid - the allure of the productivity gospel is supposed to be that you don't need anyone but yourself to achieve freedom. The problem is that, according to this plan, more freedom requires ever more (self-)mastery, ever-bettering playing of your cards. Increasingly unable to control any of her surrounding circumstances, the consumer of this kind of self-help risks turning on herself with displaced intensity, surveilling herself with spreadsheets and averages, docking points , and meting out punishment in a secularized space of 'confession and rebuke'. This approach perfectly fits the neoliberal worldview of total competition. Not only will you not find help among others, but everyone else becomes your opponent while you jealously guard and 'supercharge' the time you possess. Whether you wring enough value out of it is on you.

My parents have always worried that I’d take Amy too personally — they always tell not to read too much into her, And yet I can’t fail to notice that whenever I screw something up, Amy does it right: When I finally quit violin at age twelve, Amy was revealed as a prodigy in the next book. (“Sheesh, violin can be hard work, but handwork is the only way to get better!”) When I blew off the junior championship at age sixteen to do a beach weekend with friends, Amy recommitted to the game. (“Sheesh, I know it’s fun to spend time with friends, but I’d be letting myself and everyone else down if I didn’t show up for the tournament.”) This used to drive me mad, but after I wend off to Harvard (and Amy correct those my parents’ alma mater), I decided it was all too ridiculous to think about. That my parents, two child psychologists, chose this particular public form of passive-aggressiveness toward their child was not just fucked up but also stupid and weird and kind of hilarious.

how difficult it is to say, “Boy, did I mess up,” without the protective postscript of self-justification—to say “I dropped a routine fly ball with the bases loaded” rather than “I dropped the ball because the sun was in my eyes” or “because a bird flew by” or “because it was windy” or “because a fan called me a jerk.” A friend returning from a day in traffic school told us that as participants went around the room, reporting the violations that had brought them there, a miraculous coincidence had occurred: Not one of them had broken the law! They all had justifications for speeding, ignoring a stop sign, running a red light, or making an illegal U-turn. He became so dismayed (and amused) by the litany of flimsy excuses that, when his turn came, he was embarrassed to give in to the same impulse. He said, “I didn’t stop at a stop sign. I was entirely wrong and I got caught.” There was a moment’s silence, and then the room erupted in cheers for his candor. There are plenty of good reasons for admitting mistakes, starting with the simple fact that you will probably be found out anyway—by your family, your company, your colleagues, your enemies, your biographer. But there are more positive reasons for owning up. Other people will like you more. Someone else may be able to pick up your fumble and run with it; your error might inspire someone else’s solution. Children will realize that everyone screws up on occasion and that even adults have to say “I’m sorry.” And if you can admit a mistake when it is the size of an acorn, it will be easier to repair than if you wait until it becomes the size of a tree, with deep, wide-ranging roots.

It's funny, you know. We're free. We make choices. We weigh things in our minds, consider everything carefully, use all the tools of logic and education. And in the end, what we mostly do is what we have no choice but to do. Makes you think, why bother? But you bother because you do, that's why. Because you're a DNA-brand computer running Childhood 1.0 software. They update the software but the changes are always just around the edges. You have the brain you have, the intelligence, the talents, the strengths and weaknesses you have, from the moment they take you out of the box and throw away the Styrofoam padding. But you have the fears you picked up along the way. The terrors of age four or six or eight are never suspended, just layered over. The dread I'd felt so recently, a dread that should be so much greater because the facts had been so much more horrible, still could not diminish the impact of memories that had been laid down long years before. It's that way all through life, I guess. I have a relative who says she still gets depressed every September because in the back of her mind it's time for school to start again. She's my great-aunt. The woman is sixty-seven and still bumming over the first day of school five-plus decades ago. It's sad in a way because the pleasures of life get old and dated fast. The teenage me doesn't get the jolt the six-year-old me got from a package of Pop Rocks. The me I've become doesn't rush at the memories of the day I skated down a parking ramp however many years ago. Pleasure fades, gets old, gets thrown out with last year's fad. Fear, guilt, all that stuff stays fresh. Maybe that's why people get so enraged when someone does something to a kid. Hurt a kid and he hurts forever. Maybe an adult can shake it off. Maybe. But with a kid, you hurt them and it turns them, shapes them, becomes part of the deep, underlying software of their lives. No delete. I don't know. I don't know much. I feel like I know less all the time. Rate I'm going, by the time I'm twenty-one I won't know a damned thing. But still I was me. Had no choice, I guess. I don't know, maybe that's bull and I was just feeling sorry for myself. But, bottom line, I dried my eyes, and I pushed my dirty, greasy hair back off my face, and I started off down the road again because whatever I was, whoever I was, however messed up I might be, I wasn't leaving April behind. Maybe it was all an act programmed into me from the get-go, or maybe it grew up out of some deep-buried fear, I mean maybe at some level I was really just as pathetic as Senna thought I was. Maybe I was a fake. Whatever. Didn't matter. I was going back to the damned dragon, and then I was getting April out, and everything and everyone else could go screw themselves. One good thing: For now at least, I was done being scared.

And then it sends a signal to turn off the system.” “So the universe with the wallet in the chamber waiting to be sent still exists,” added Allen. “But the universe from which it is actually sent never does.”  “That is just so messed up,” said Blake in exasperation, and Jenna, Walsh, and Soyer nodded their agreement. “Here is my advice to all of you,” said Cargill. “The best thing to do is ignore time travel, and don’t think about the paradoxes too hard. If you do, your head really will explode,” he added with a wry smile. “Just think of it as duplication and teleportation. But always keep in mind that the universe seems to go out of its way to ensure that infinite alternate timelines aren’t allowed. So no matter what, we only ever get this one universe.” He sighed. “So we’d better make sure we don’t screw it up.”     48   Brian Hamilton hated Cheyenne Mountain. Sure, it was one of the most interesting places in the world to visit, but living there only worked if you were a bat. The Palomar facility had also been underground, but nothing like this. It had a much larger security perimeter, so trips to the surface were easier to make happen. Not that it really mattered. Soon enough he would be traveling on another assignment anyway, living in a hotel room somewhere. But what he really wanted was to work side by side with Edgar Knight, toward their common goal. He was tired of being Knight’s designated spy, having to watch Lee Cargill squander Q5’s vast resources and capabilities. Watching him crawl like a wounded baby when he could be soaring. Cargill was an idiot. He could transform the world, but he was too weak to do it. He could wipe out the asshole terrorists who wanted nothing more than to butcher the helpless. If you have the ultimate cure for cancer, you use it to wipe out the disease once and for all. You don’t wield your cure only as a last resort, when the cancer has all but choked the life out of you. Edgar Knight, on the other hand, was a man with vision. He was able to make the tough decisions. If you were captain of a life raft with a maximum capacity of ten people, choosing to take five passengers of a sinking ship on board was an easy decision, not a heroic one. But what about when there were fifty passengers? Was it heroic to take them all, dooming everyone to death? Or was the heroic move using force, if necessary, to limit this number, to ensure some would survive? Sure, from the outside this looked coldhearted, while the converse seemed compassionate. But watching the world circle the drain because you were too much of a pussy to make the hard decisions was the real crime. Survival of the fittest was harsh reality. In the animal kingdom it was eat or be eaten. If you saw a group of fuck-nuts just itching to nuke the world back into the Dark Ages—who believed the Messiah equivalent, the twelfth Imam, would only come out to play when Israel was destroyed, and worldwide Armageddon unleashed—you wiped them out. To a man. Or else they’d do the same to you. It had been three days since Cargill had reported that he was on the verge of acquiring Jenna Morrison and Aaron Blake.

Running always gave me time to think. It wasn't like practicing with a team, when I always worries if I was fitting in with everyone else. When I ran, I never thought about screwing someone else up or ruining the teams chance tow in. It was a solitary activity, and sometimes that felt nice.

Running always gave me time to think. It wasn't like practicing with a team, when I always worried if I was fitting in with everyone else. When I ran, I never thought about screwing someone else up or ruining the team's chance to win. It was a solitary activity, and sometimes that felt nice.

Mercy did nothing but be born, and for that, she’s gotta deal with everyone else’s screwed-up ideas about what she should or shouldn’t look like.

each other. No words were needed, they both felt the same. What a load of bollocks. They’d known each other two minutes. How could they be in love? Joan was just going over the top. The four glasses clinked together. “Tuck in guys. This is one of my better dishes. My mam helped with it too so I know it’s going to be top notch.” Trevor rubbed his hands together and grabbed his fork. There were no flies on him he was tucking in. Food was his comfort and now Joan was off the market he needed it more than ever. Mabel picked at the food on her plate, nibbling, watching everyone else around her. Patrick sat next to Joan and every chance he got he kissed her, held her hand. He knew he was on show here tonight and he was making sure he ticked all the boxes. * Cath and Katrina were chatting in the yard. The winds were blowing with force. They both looked freezing as they marched around the concrete yard. There were high steel fences with barbed wire on the top of it. There was no way out. Katrina needed a friendly ear, some advice, someone to ease her heavy heart. Once she’d filled Cath in on everything that had happened they both sat on a bench not far from the fence.  The screws watched them with caution and never took their eyes from them. They were high-risk prisoners. Cath let out a laboured breath and bit down hard on her bottom lip. “For crying out loud didn’t I tell you to keep away from that prick. Look what’s happened now. You’ve fucking blown it. You were getting out of this shit-hole in a few more months and you’ve gone and fucked it all. Where is your head at woman, you should of steered well clear of any trouble?” Katrina snivelled, her eyes flooding with tears. “I know, I just wanted to hurt him like he’s hurt me. I loved that man with all my heart and he just fucked off and left me. I’ve lost it all Cath. My kids, my home, everything I ever loved. How can I tell my kids I’m not coming home? It will break their hearts. I’ve made promises to them. A better life, no more trouble. Their mother home for good.” “They’ve not charged you yet. Wait until it’s set in stone and then you know what you’re dealing with.” Cath held her in her arms and squeezed her tight. She knew as much as the other person that she wasn’t getting out of jail anytime soon. The crime she’d committed would be all over the news soon and the public would know who she was. She’d seen it so many times before. Once an offender was named, the nation would be all over it. No doubt Norman would be made out to be the hero too. There would be no story about the way he treated this woman, no mention of all the women he’d abused in the past. Maybe someone should have grassed him up. Katrina had warned him if he she got her collar felt there would be repercussions. Why hadn’t she put his name in the picture yet? Now was the time to put her cards on the table and look after number one. Maybe if she turned Queen’s evidence she could get a deal with the prosecution. A lesser sentence, a few years knocked off. Cath was aware of this but to be a Judas was another matter. Katrina would have to

Dr. Meyers is in surgery at the moment.” She reached for a piece of paper and wrote the hospital phone number on it and handed it to me through the little hole. “You can call back during regular business hours and leave a message with his secretary if you’d like.” She spoke to me as if I were either a child or a crazy person. “Okay.” I took the piece of paper and walked out of the sliding glass doors, staring at the paper in my hands in disbelief. Had she called him? I wondered. Did he tell her to say that to me? There was no way, I thought. I shuffled back to Nate’s truck, still freezing. I turned it on and cranked up the heater and then I cried, that pathetic type of crying like when you pee your pants in kindergarten and you’re filled with a mixture of shame and regret for holding it so long. Then, when everyone starts laughing at your wet jeans, you get angry and want to scream Screw all of you! After the kids stop laughing, you never want to see them again because you’re the only kindergartener who ever peed her pants on the story rug while Ms. Alexander read The Giving Tree for the twelfth time. Everyone else was sitting crisscross applesauce while you were fidgeting about, trying to hold it until the end of the story when the teacher asked what the moral was so you could say, “It’s about being generous to your friends,” even though, later in life, you learn the story is really about a selfish little bastard who sucked the life out of the only thing that gave a shit about him. But you never got the chance for your shining moment because you peed on the story rug, got laughed at, then cried pathetic tears. Not that that happened to me . . .

page. I knew Alice was a sly one right from the start, Marigold had written rather unkindly. It looks as though she will be the first of us to get married – bags I be her bridesmaid – though I don’t know whether Tom’s actually popped the question yet. Did you think I was head over heels in love with him, like you? Because if so . . . Damn her eyes, Maddy thought furiously. How dare she insinuate I was ever in love with Tom Browning, or anyone else for that matter! Oh, how typical of Marigold to assume that everyone else feels just as she does. I could wring her neck! She screwed the letter up into a ball and guessed she was probably red in the face from sheer indignation, for half the occupants of the cookhouse were staring at her and the other half regarding her screwed-up letter with more than usual interest. She told herself not to be an idiot and carefully unravelled the crumpled pages, quickly scanning the rest of the unread sheet. Nothing of interest here, except that Marigold asked if Maddy knew that

when y’all are done with Pretty Boy so we can finish up this real music and move on. I’m sure you’ll have some good material after homeboy screws you over like he does everyone else.

You said you were a quitter last semester — letting your grades drop, partying. I think you were trying to prove that if you screwed up, everyone else would be okay. In the end, the only person who suffered was you, and you called it having fun.

Father, I was a terrible son—carrying memories from my previous life. I didn’t love you like I should’ve, as my father,” I said as I took to my feet. I took the bottle of alcohol in hand and gulped once. It was a strong liquor, burning like fire on the way down, and once I was done, I splashed some of it over his grave. “But now I do see myself as your son.” Maybe alcohol wasn’t the best for someone like Paul, who’d screwed up by drowning himself in the stuff. But surely, today could be an exception. We were celebrating a new life in the world. “I finally understand now. I’m still just a kid. A brat who pretended to be an adult by using his previous memories.” I took another swig, then poured some for Paul. Another swig, then a pour. Soon the bottle was completely empty. “Now that I have a child in the world and I’m a parent, I know I have to grow up right away. And in order to do that, I’ll have to make a bunch of mistakes, grieve over them, and change—slowly, gradually. I’m sure that’s how you had to do it too, so I’ll do the best I can.” I popped the lid back over the bottle and set it in front of his grave. “I’ll come back again. Next time, I’ll bring everyone else along, too,” I said, turning to leave. Many things had fallen into place, with a great deal of pain and a great deal of joy along the way. I’d repeated horrible mistakes along the way, but it wasn’t over. No matter how much I screwed up or got things wrong, it wasn’t the end. I still had a lot of life to live in this world. And that’s what I was going to do: live to the fullest, so that no matter when I died, I’d have no regrets.

THE PARTS THAT MAKE UP THE BUMMER MACHINE BUMMER is a machine with six moving parts. Here’s a mnemonic for the six components of the BUMMER machine, in case you ever have to remember them for a test: A is for Attention Acquisition leading to Asshole supremacy B is for Butting into everyone’s lives C is for Cramming content down people’s throats D is for Directing people’s behaviors in the sneakiest way possible E is for Earning money from letting the worst assholes secretly screw with everyone else F is for Fake mobs and Faker society

The other commonalities of successful leaders are just as straightforward: They hold people (and themselves) accountable and drive for results. They’re hands-on, but to a point. They know when to back off and delegate. They can keep an eye on the long-term vision while still being eyeball-deep in details. They’re constantly learning, always interested in new opportunities, new technologies, new trends, new people. And they do it because they’re engaged and curious, not because those things may end up making them money. If they screw up, they admit to it and own their mistakes. They’re not afraid to make hard decisions, even when they know people will be upset and angry. They (mostly) know themselves. They have a clear view of both their strengths and challenges. They can tell the difference between an opinion- and data-driven decision and act accordingly. [See also: Chapter 2.2: Data Versus Opinion.] They realize that nothing should be theirs, even if the genesis was with them. It all has to be the team’s. The company’s. They know their job is to jubilantly celebrate everyone else’s successes, to make sure they get credit for them, and hold little for themselves. They listen. To their team, to their customers, to their board, to their mentors. They pay attention to the opinions and thoughts of the people around them and adjust their views when they get new information from sources they trust.

The biggest obstacle to doing you is doing things just because that’s how everyone else does them, or because it’s the way those things have always been done. And when you deny your true nature just because you’re trying to fit in with the crowd—then you’re not doing you, YOU’RE SCREWING YOU.

You are a giver. You do everything for everyone else before you do a single thing for you. I honestly think that’s why the Brenda thing hit you so hard. Instead of being like, ‘Wow! This is a great guy!’ she took it for granted and screwed you over, and when she left, you had nobody to love, and you didn’t know how to love yourself.

Unless your problem is that people aren’t trying hard, the “work harder” mantra only breeds hero programmers whose heroic ways make it difficult for nonheroes to contribute meaningfully. Later, as your new heroes finish martyring themselves on burnout, you’re left with three exceptionally challenging problems: You’ve bred a cadre of dissatisfied and burned-out heroes. You and your heroes have alienated everyone else. Your project is still totally screwed. This is a recurring pattern that many growing companies fall into, and it also happens to projects within larger companies. Anywhere you find managerial desperation and a hardworking team, “Do It Harder” may be visiting.

If Tare had given her any other sign, it would’ve been your body kicked down those stairs.” Max laughed bitterly. “Good point. All those years ago, would you ever have thought Tare would be the one holding so many lives in his hands? Tare?” He shook his head. “Ascended above. What a time to be alive.” “The Valtain with her?” I asked. Max had addressed him by name yesterday, too, I recalled. “You know him?” “The Orders are incestuous,” he replied. “Everyone knows everyone, mostly because everyone has either screwed or screwed over everyone else. Sometimes both. Occasionally even at the same time.” “In

Now, I came to everyone else’s rescue. Screw the knights in shining armor. This beauty of the night came to your rescue with pointed fangs and skintight leather then, as a thank-you, sucked your blood in payment.

The next morning, while everyone else sat in the waiting area, Mia and I met with the doctor. “Well, I have good news and bad news,” Dr. Genecov said. “The bad news is that she needs this surgery, and we need to get it on the books right now. The good news is that I’ve worked with a company to invent a new device. Instead of using the halo, I can now do everything internally.” What? Did I just hear what I think I heard? He continued talking, but I honestly didn’t hear anything for the next few seconds while I tried to process this new information. Seriously? I can’t believe this! I thought. Where did this come from? I knew he was working on a better bone graft procedure before we needed it, but this just came out of nowhere! I tried my best to hold myself together. All I wanted to do was call Jase and tell him this news. Actually, I wanted to climb the nearest mountain (if there were mountains in Dallas) and shout it from the top of my lungs! After thanking him profusely, Mia and I walked down the hall for our appointment with Dr. Sperry. “Do you know what you just avoided?” Dr. Sperry asked, grinning from ear to ear. “A shaved head, the intensive care unit for a week, and a much longer recovery period.” That was it. I couldn’t hold back any longer and let my tears flow. Mia looked at me in surprise. If I was embarrassing her, I didn’t care. It was for a good reason. “Dr. Genecov has been working hard to perfect this procedure, and he has done it one time so far.” She looked right at Mia and said, “And I’m convinced he did that one to get ready for you.” Mia smiled and said, “Cool.” Mia had enjoyed her honeymoon period. She felt no stress or anxiety about the future, which was a great blessing. I was thankful that I had not told her about the distraction surgery and glad that my eleven-year-old daughter didn’t understand all that she had been spared because of this development. When I filled in my mom, Bonny, and Tori on this unexpected and exhilarating news, they all gasped, then shouted and hugged me. All I could think of was how grateful I was to my Father in heaven. He had done this. Why? I don’t know. But I knew He had chosen this moment for Dr. Genecov to perfect a new invention that would spare my daughter, at this exact time in her life, the ordeal of a device that would have been surgically screwed into her skull. After getting to the parking lot, I immediately called Jase with this incredible news. Like me, he was having a hard time wrapping his head around it. “How many of these has he done?” I hesitated, then said, “One.” “One? He’s done one? I don’t know about this, Missy.” I quickly reminded him of Dr. Genecov’s success in the new bone graft surgery and said, “Babe, I think it’s worth the risk. He’s proven to us just how good he is.” Jase is not one to make a quick decision about anything, but before our phone call ended, he agreed that we should move forward with the surgery.

You can’t protect everyone; you can’t stop all the wrong; you can’t control someone else.

We don’t go to dance clubs. Tyler says the music is so loud, especially the base tracks, that it screws with his biorhythm. The last time we went out, Tyler said the loud music made him constipated. This, and the club is too loud to talk, so after a couple of drinks, everyone feels like the center of attention but completely cutoff from participating with anyone else.    You’re the corpse in an English murder mystery. ==========

I’m not sure why I thought it would be a good idea to bring Kanish to Mel Odious Sound yesterday. Bringing a Billionheir to a large recording complex full of Producers is like opening a bag of chips at a seagull convention. It wouldn’t be long before every Producer within earshot swooped in to aggressively pitch his latest and greatest pet project, most of which would likely prove unprofitable. Rev is obviously going to pitch a project, and it very well may be something amazing. But as I’ve pointed out, in order for Kanish to make a profit, he would have to pick up half the Publishing—a non-starter for the Rev. He’s not a Songwriting Producer, so he likely doesn’t have a sufficient portion of the Publishing to share. And even if he did, no seasoned Producer is going to give half of their equity in a song in order to basically secure a small loan from an outside investor. There’s no upside. For starters, Kanish has no channels of Distribution beyond Streaming, which is already available to anyone and everyone who wants it, and which is currently only profitable for the Major Labels and the stockholders of the Streaming services themselves. Everyone else is getting screwed. And please don’t quote me the Douchebag Big Tech Billionaires running big Streaming Corporations. They are literally lining their pockets with the would-be earnings of Artists and Songwriters alike. What they claim as fair is anything but. Frankly, I don’t think we should be comfortable with Spotify taking a 30 percent margin off the top, and then disbursing the Tiger’s Share of the remaining 70 percent to the Major Labels who have already negotiated top dollar for access to their catalog. This has resulted in nothing but some remaining scraps trickling down to the tens of thousands of Independent Artists out there who just want to make a living. You can’t make a living off scraps, or even a trickle, for that matter. Mark my words, we are currently witnessing the greatest heist in the annals of the Music Business, and that’s saying something given its history. Can you say Napster? Stunningly, the only place that Songwriters can make sufficient Performance Royalties is radio—a medium that is coming up on its hundred-year anniversary. To make matters worse, the Major Distributors still have radio all locked up, and without airplay, there’s no hit. So even now, more than twenty years into the Internet revolution, the odds of breaking through the artistic cacophony without Major-Label Distribution are impossibly low. So much for the Internet leveling the playing field. At this point, only Congress can solve the problem. And despite the fact that Streaming has been around since the mid-aughts, Congress has done nothing to deal with the issue. Why? Because it’s far cheaper for Big Tech to line the pockets of lobbyists and fund the campaigns of politicians who gladly ignore the issue than it is to pay Artists and Songwriters a fair rate for their work, my friends. Same is it ever was. Just so I’m clear, there is a debate to be had as to how much Songwriters and Artists should be paid for Streaming. A radio Spin can reach millions. A Stream rarely reaches more than a few listeners. Clearly, a new method of calculation is required. But that doesn’t mean that we should just sit by as the Big Tech Douchebags rob an entire generation of royalties all so they can sell their Streaming Corporation for billions down the line. I mean, that is the end game, after all. At which point, profit for the new majority stockholder will be all but impossible. How will anyone get paid then?

We always think that we’re the ones who are fine. It’s everyone else who is screwed up. But

Removing the socks and wringing them out over the Los Angeles Times, Hagopian said, “People play wacky games in these parts. I’ve been wondering if there isn’t some new kind of wackiness virus, something that the screwed-up air around LA causes to form. The wackiness strain, first it takes over greater Los Angeles and then it slowly creeps across the country. I myself am immune to it, but that’s no help if everyone else comes down with it. The government

We are good. We are good enough. We are appropriate to life. Much of our anxiety and fearfulness stems, I believe, from constantly telling ourselves that we’re just not up to facing the world and all its situations. Nathaniel Branden calls this “a nameless sense of being unfit for reality.”6 I’m here to say we are fit for reality. Relax. Wherever we need to go and whatever we need to do, we are appropriate for that situation. We will do fine. Relax. It’s okay to be who we are. Who or what else can we be? Just do our best at whatever we are called upon to do. What more can we do? Sometimes, we can’t even do our best; that’s okay, too. We may have feelings, thoughts, fears, and vulnerabilities as we go through life, but we all do. We need to stop telling ourselves we’re different for doing and feeling what everyone else does. We need to be good to ourselves. We need to be compassionate and kind to ourselves. How can we expect to take care of ourselves appropriately if we hate or dislike ourselves? We need to refuse to enter into an antagonistic relationship with ourselves. Quit blaming ourselves and being victimized, and take responsible steps to remove the victim. Put the screws to guilt. Shame and guilt serve no long-term purpose.

Cut the bullshit. Your little ingénue act---it's pathetic." Her words sock me like a punch in the gut. As much as I hate lying to her face, as much as I've been dying to tell her the truth, to have it out once and for all in a big, messy fight, I'm not sure I'm ready for this. The steely look in her eyes, the tightness of her jaw---she'll crush me. "Okay. Fine," I say, the courage building inside me. I can do this. I have to. "Let's cut the bullshit, then." My eyes drift toward her cabinets. "Maybe we should talk over a glass of wine. Unless that would be bad for the baby." I wait for her to take the bait, but she just stares at me. "There is a baby, right? You wouldn't make something like that up. Only a crazy person would do that. Only someone who was truly horrible, all the way to her core." She clenches her jaw. "You have no idea what you're talking about." "Yes, I do. And you know it." "Watch yourself." "Why? So you can steamroll me like you steamroll everyone? You don't even love him." "You have no idea how I feel. About anything." "I know your marriage is one of convenience. That you sleep in separate bedrooms. That you're having an affair with a guy named Jacques." "And I suppose that makes you an expert on my love life." "No, but it means I know you don't have Hugh's interests at heart." "What do you know about his interests? You think you can parachute in, five years into our marriage, and decide you understand how or why any of this works? You think a month or two of screwing means you know more about him than I do?" "I know he doesn't love you. I know he never did." "Well, la-di-da. Here's a newsflash: It takes more than love to make a relationship work." "But you can't really make a relationship work without it, can you?" "You can if you want to." "Only if both people do. And Hugh doesn't. Not anymore." "Is that so? Then tell me, why did he just spend more than a week with me, discussing our future?" "Because you created a phantom pregnancy without consulting him? Because he's trying to do damage control?" "Ah, I see. Is that what you keep telling yourself?" My face grows hot. "It kills you that he'd choose me over you." She throws her head back and cackles. "Is that what you think? That he'd choose you? Christ, you're even more naive than I thought." "He loves me," I say. "He said so." "You know what else he loves? His career. And how do you think you fit in with that? Let me answer for you: You don't." My hands are shaking. "What about you? You're having an affair with some French guy named Jacques. How do you think that will play with Hugh's constituency? Let me answer for you: Not well.

Sometimes a potential investor sees something interesting in your company—maybe you haven’t received money from the right VCs, or you’re tight on cash, or you have an incredible breakout success. So they’ll propose a really sweet deal, but their terms will screw the other investors who have gotten you this far. We see lots of big and small VCs trying to gain an edge by not playing fair—they may overdilute previous investors or put terms in your deal that scare off new ones. And if things aren’t going well a couple of years down the road, they’ll have no qualms about screwing you, too. So be careful when the terms aren’t standard or seem too good to be true—sometimes it may appear that you’re only giving away a small thing, but if it doesn’t feel right in your gut, it may be that they’re trying to get a foot in the door to start turning the tables against everyone else. They want to control your company sooner or later.

E is for Earning money from letting the worst assholes secretly screw with everyone else.

It's better to screw up on your own terms than to screw up on somebody else's. It's better to have something you know is yours rather than what everyone tells you that you should want.

It's better to screw up on your own terms than to screw up on somebody else's. It's better to have something you now is yours rather than what everyone tells you that you should want.

Anything else? You didn’t get attacked by headhunters or fight a sea monster or anything, did you?” Her little glowing orb swam lazy circles around her head.   “Nope.”   “Good,” she said, “because you’re screwed enough as it is.”   “Thanks,” I said, “and I wish everyone would stop reminding me.” 

When I talked about World War II, I only really knew about the Holocaust, Japanese internment, and the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and was certain that they were all equally bad. I could interrogate someone else’s privilege like a Spanish Inquisitor, but wash my hands of my own like Pontius Pilate. I knew exactly which side of the classroom I belonged in when the teacher of my social justice class (yes, this is a thing) divided us into “privileged” vs. “underprivileged” categories in twelfth grade. And perhaps most revealingly, I’d never had to read George Orwell’s 1984. He’d been shelved to make room for a local writer’s story of a poor Indian boy by the time I showed up. I realize now how poisonously deliberate this last omission was. Because in retrospect, what I was really being taught, more than this junk diet of useless knowledge, was a classic instance of what Orwell himself famously described as doublethink. That is, the act of believing two mutually exclusive things at once. In my case, I was being taught to believe that, first, I was special, unique, important, and great beyond words; second, that I was completely equal to everyone, which is to say average and mediocre. I was taught that diversity is unity. That to regress is to progress. That bullying was Hitler. That George W. Bush was doubleHitler. That British colonizers of Canada were doubleplusHitler. That we have always been at war with Hitler, however defined.

It’s love—the real kind you make sacrifices for. The kind where you scream ‘screw it’ to everyone else. That’s envy—worthy.

My job didn't involve working directly with patients, but I thought about them a lot. I saw them as victims of our fucked-up, materialistic, impersonal, hectic, over-mechanized, dehumanizing society. There wasn't much mystery about why these people were so screwed up. The mystery was why everyone else wasn't nuts too. But somehow I never figured it could ever happen to me, that I could some day be shuffling around in slippers and pajamas, bumming cigarettes and mumbling to myself. There were too many people who loved me, who would never commit me to an institution, whose love would keep me from getting that spaced out.

The trick is to not only deny the criticism any power over you, but, even more challenging, to not get caught up in the praise. There’s nothing wrong with blushingly accepting a compliment, but if you find yourself always seeking outside approval that you’re good enough or cool enough or talented enough or worthy enough, you’re screwed. Because if you base your self-worth on what everyone else thinks of you, you hand all your power over to other people and become dependent on a source outside of yourself for validation.

Annie, for the fleeting second before she remembered Sally’s warning, almost told him to go fuck himself, showing up late, watching her in an unguarded moment. Then she composed herself, let her breathing regulate, and became not herself. “Impressive, right?” she asked, smiling, wagging the mallet like some obscene instrument. “Very much so. I’ve already got the opening paragraph of the article,” he replied. “Want to hear it?” Annie could not think of a thing she would want less. “I’ll wait for the issue like everyone else,” she said. “Fair enough,” he said, “but it’s really good.” “Let’s get some more quarters,” Annie said, and began to walk away. Eric knelt down and tore the strip of tickets that had emanated from the game, an afterthought. “Don’t forget these,” he said. “Maybe I’ll win you a teddy bear,” Annie said, sliding the tickets into her purse. “That would be the best article ever.” On one of her first interviews for The Powers That Be, the blockbuster comic book adaptation where she played Lady Lightning, a reporter asked her if she had been a fan of comic books growing up. “I’ve never read a comic book in my life,” she responded. The reporter screwed up his face and then shook his head. “I’m going to write down that you loved comics as a girl. You were kind of a geek growing up. Is that okay?

I’ve come to accept that I’m a morally gray person. Learned to embrace it even. Knowing you’re not confined to the same social boundaries as others is freeing. You’re unburdened, knowing you don’t have to make the socially acceptable choice in any given situation. You’ll just do whatever the fuck you want and screw everyone else.

My mate was going to be the death of me. I’d survived losing everyone and everything—yet the woman I’d just tied my life to could tear my mind apart with a single sentence. “If you don’t want me screwing someone else, there will be sex.” I didn’t have any idea who she could be picturing herself in bed with, but I was already vividly imagining myself tearing him apart limb by limb.

Determined and defiant, looking wild and provoked, Kris kept her gaze locked on April. “Dad knew about this town, its people; the ghosts. Leaving the ghosts would be like leaving your kids behind. Mom and Dad wouldn’t leave kids behind.” “Yeah, they would. They did. They’re dead,” April clucked like one of the tin clickers in the “Jeopardy!” board game she despised, the tsk of her tongue punctuating the obvious. “And we’re trying to figure out the best way forward. And you’re talking about ghosts and who knows what the fuck else. There’s no talking to you because you never make sense.” “That’s because you don’t know how to listen.” Gooch pulled another guest register out from an old melon crate, dismissing his sister’s tirade. “She’s saying our family has deep roots in this town. Deep roots. An attachment. Things we love are here. There is a reason for living. Living here.” “Mona and Baby Lilly. Mom and Dad. Oh-Me-san and Papa-san. We can’t just leave them. The ghosts need us.” Ghosts were never far from Kris’s mind and it was a topic that often drew her out of her shell. For as long as Gooch could remember, Kris talked of ghosts with Gramps whenever she could. “All them ghosts gonna get apocalyptical on us,” Gramps said that day long ago, as Kris wiped silicon on a part where a new gasket would set. “My two. Emma Crawford roamin all over. Them ghosts see things ain’t goin the way they spose to, then go to town on people.” Kris fitted felt over the piece she’d just greased, lining up bolt holes with her popped eye and screwed up face. “Ghosts don’t care what’s going on in the town. They just want to be talked to and treated like everyone else. Not special or anything, just given the time of day.” Gooch was seven when he heard his sister and Gramps talk so openly about ghosts, as though such things were nothing more than chickens in the yard. Kris smeared and fitted, twirling nuts, ratcheting, fingers and wrists working her magic for bringing machines back to life. Her innate ease with the physical and metaphysical was the primary reason he believed her mind existed on some undefined plane beyond normal comprehension. Gooch was certain Kris’s genius placed her within an esteemed place.