Seatbelt Quotes

Why?' is always the most difficult question to answer. You know where you are when someone asks you 'What's the time?' or 'When was the battle of 1066?' or 'How do these seatbelts work that go tight when you slam the brakes on, Daddy?' The answers are easy and are, respectively, 'Seven-thirty in the evening,' 'Ten-fifteen in the morning,' and 'Don't ask stupid questions.

Mooner was walking around laying his hands on the cars, divining karma. "this is it", he said, standing by a small khaki-colored jeep."this car has protective qualities" You mean like a guardian angel?" I mean, like, it has seatbelts

Fine. Everybody wears seatbelts. No radio. No distractions.” Ben shot Hi a stern look. “No running commentary.” “Your loss,” Hi said. “To the pimp ride!

Escape through travel works. Almost from the moment I boarded my flight, life in England became meaningless. Seat-belt signs lit up, problems switched off. Broken armrests took precedence over broken hearts. By the time the plane was airborne I'd forgotten England even existed.

Sage could barely move, fastened in the wrecked car by her seatbelt. She was coughing and barely able to breathe. The acrid taste of smoke and the gas fumes overwhelmed her and the pain was excruciating.

Always wear your seatbelt.

Ladies and gentleman," he said over the speakers, "welcome aboard this recently liberated Gulfstream V. If I could have your attention for just a few moments, I'd like to go over the safety features of this aircraft. It has an engine, to make us go, and wings, to keep us in the air. There are seatbelts, which won't do you an awful lot of good if we fly into the side of a mountain.

Well, the flannel-coated pussy stealer won’t be taking care of her for much longer,” I said, unbuckling my seatbelt. She looked at me blankly. Perhaps she didn’t appreciate her sister being referred to as “pussy”. I cleared my throat. “I meant flannel-coated…ginger douche.” She dipped her chin and said dryly, “Dude, the term is douchecanoe.

The Hummer hovered there a second, and then flipped over the second vehicle. Through the air it tipped over and over--something was flung from one of the windows, perhaps a person. Seatbelts save lives.

Your boyfriend and Micah will both be speechless." I unfastened my seatbelt. "That's the third time I've heard 'your boyfriend.' What's going on about that? Why won't anyone say Brayden's name?" Neither of them answered right away. Finally, Jill said sheepishly, "Because none of us can remember it." "Oh, come on! I'd expect that from Adrian but not you guys. It's not that weird of a name." "No," admitted Eddie. "But there's just something so...I don't know. Unmemorable about him. I'm glad he makes you happy, but I just start to tune out whenever he talks.

Fate" Eve said with a sigh "I'm not sure fate had to burn up your car to get the point across," Shane said, buckling his own seatbelt. "No, not that. The hearse. I'm going to name it Fate." Shane stared at Eve for a long, long few seconds, then slowly shook his head. "Have you considered medication, or-" She flipped him off. "Ah. Back to normal. Excellent.

Writing controlled fiction is called “plotting.” Buckling your seatbelt and letting the story take over, however…that is called “storytelling.” Storytelling is as natural as breathing; plotting is the literary version of artificial respiration.

So I got off the plane and I forget to take off my seat-belt and I’m dragging the plane through the terminal... The wings are knocking people over...

Fasten your seatbelts and prepare for turbulence: you’re flying into . . . the Roland Zone!

He huffed. I twisted to the left, leaned over him, and reached around his body. “What are you doing?” he asked, alarmed. “I’m hugging you goodbye,” I said. “What do you think I’m doing? I’m putting your seatbelt on.” I pulled the belt across his chest and wrestled it into the buckle. Then I sat back and fastened mine. “Seat belts save lives,” I said, annoyed.

Your feelings of joy are not fake if you are having them! You are allowed to feel joy about sitting on the lap of a dog in a dream, and taking a ride in a van with open windows and sharing a seatbelt. God dammit, this is a gift from your fucking soul! Self-generate, don’t you see? Break the trap break the trap break the trap leave the trench!

Of course, the writer can impose control; It's just a really shitty idea. Writing controlled fiction is called "plotting." Buckling your seatbelt and letting the story take over, however... that is called "storytelling." Storytelling is as natural as breathing; plotting is the literary version of artificial respiration.

At the Hospital, everyone thinks about dying.And I'd never been much for romanticizing death-especially not suicide. I'd always been a fan of staying alive. After all, you basically do all you can not to die. All the time. The search for immortality isn't just from storybooks. every day you do it. You buckle your seat-belt, you take vitamin supplements, look both was before you cross the street. And you really think your doing all you can. Bullshit. We can lift weights for fucking hours and we're still going to die.

I could feel myself peeking over at him. He was like a seatbelt for my soul.

You like pussy, Rika?” Anger heated my skin. I pulled my seatbelt back on, not looking at him as I answered. “I’d take one to bed before your dick.

The house was quiet. Silently, I walked down the stairs and passed the peacock room where I found Mr. Kadam sitting and waiting for me. He took my bag and walked with me out to the car, then he opened my door, and I slid in to the seat and buckled my seatbelt. Starting the car, he circled the stone driveway slowly. I turned to take one last look at the beautiful place that felt like home. As we started down the tree-lined road, I watched the house until the trees blocked my view. Just then, a deafening, heartrending roar shook the trees. I turned in my seat and faced the desolate road ahead.

You're not coming back, are you?" Joey just stared at me, eyes filled with tears. "I can't," he whispered as a tear rolled down his cheek. "If I go back inside that house, I'll kill them both." I watched his face, registered the truth he was telling me, and then I unfastened my seatbelt and opened the door. "Goodbye, Joey," I whispered numbly, and then I climbed out and walked inside.

These vans were dented, had cracked windscreens, bald tires, holey exhaust pipes and blew more smoke than the volcano Mount Yasur on the island of Tanna. There were no seatbelts, there was no air-conditioning, and there was certainly no realistic expectation that the driver had any sort of license.

Always strap in. As supernatural beings we're pretty much going to survive any crash, especially you, but the police are more likely to pull you over if you're not strapped in." "I'm certain they could pull you over for many other infractions," he murmured, doing as she instructed with the seatbelt.

You fasten your seatbelt. The plane is landing. To fly is the opposite of traveling: you cross a gap in space, you vanish into the void, you accept not being in any place for a duration that is itself a kind of void in time; then you reappear, in a place and in a moment with no relation to the where and the when in which you vanished. Meanwhile, what do you do? How do you occupy this absence of yourself from the world and of the world from you?" You read; you do not raise your eyes from the book between one airport and the other, because beyond the page there is the void, the anonymity of stopovers, of the metallic uterus that contains you and nourishes you, of the passing crowd always different and always the same. You might as well stick with this other abstraction of travel, accomplished by the anonymous uniformity of typographical characters: here, too, it is the evocative power of the names that persuades you that you are flying over something and not nothingness. You realize that it takes considerable heedlessness to entrust yourself to unsure instruments, handled with approximation; or perhaps this demonstrates and invincible tendency to passivity, to regression, to infantile dependence. (But are you reflecting on the air journey or on reading?)

Writing controlled fiction is called "plotting." Buckling your seatbelt and letting the story take over, however...that is called "storytelling." Storytelling is as natural as breathing; plotting is the literary version of artificial respiration.

Either peace or happiness, let it enfold you. When I was a young man I felt these things were dumb, unsophisticated. I had bad blood, a twisted mind, a precarious upbringing. I was hard as granite, I leered at the sun. I trusted no man and especially no woman... I challenged everything, was continually being evicted, jailed, in and out of fights, in and out of my mind... Peace and happiness to me were signs of inferiority, tenants of the weak, an addled mind. But as I went on...it gradually began to occur to me that I wasn't different from the others, I was the same... Everybody was nudging, inching, cheating for some insignificant advantage, the lie was the weapon and the plot was empty... Cautiously, I allowed myself to feel good at times. I found moments of peace in cheap rooms just staring at the knobs of some dresser or listening to the rain in the dark. The less I needed the better I felt... I re-formulated. I don't know when, date, time, all that but the change occured. Something in me relaxed, smoothed out. I no longer had to prove that I was a man, I didn’t have to prove anything. I began to see things: coffee cups lined up behind a counter in a cafe. Or a dog walking along a sidewalk. Or the way the mouse on my dresser top stopped there with its body, its ears, its nose, it was fixed, a bit of life caught within itself and its eyes looked at me and they were beautiful. Then...it was gone. I began to feel good, I began to feel good in the worst situations and there were plenty of those... I welcomed shots of peace, tattered shards of happiness... And finally I discovered real feelings of others, unheralded, like lately, like this morning, as I was leaving for the track, I saw my wife in bed, just the shape of her head there...so still, I ached for her life, just being there under the covers. I kissed her in the forehead, got down the stairway, got outside, got into my marvelous car, fixed the seatbelt, backed out the drive. Feeling warm to the fingertips, down to my foot on the gas pedal, I entered the world once more, drove down the hill past the houses full and empty of people, I saw the mailman, honked, he waved back at me.

I hesitate, hand on my seatbelt buckle. I know I need to get going somewhere, but—well, what’s the harm in scoping the area out? Making sure it’s as safe as Remy seems to think it is? “All right, Remy,” I say, opening the door. “Remy,” he shoots back. “Jesus, you can’t even remember my name? The sewers weren’t kind to you, were they?” “Wait—what?” I ask, shutting the door, locking it. No one’s taking my Lucy. He just looks exasperated, which just makes me confused. “You called me Ruby,” Remy said, indignantly. I stare at him. There’s a flutter of something wild, panicked in my chest I don’t understand and I don’t particularly want to examine. I’m tired and when I’m tired my tongue gets lazy. “Sorry. Tired. Idiot.

As I worked to disentangle us, she gazed at me, bemused. “This makes me wary of ever dabbling in bondage with you.” Silence greeted us, and I unlooped the seatbelt from her neck before looking up and around us at the other passengers. “We're not alone, are we?” she playfully stage-hissed. “There are others,” I confirmed. “They're regarding you with curiosity.” “And mild horror,” Niall added.

I biked over to my dad's flat and emotionally blackmailed him into lending me enough cash to leave the country. On that trip I learnt something very inmortant. Escape through travel works. Almost from the moment i boarded my flight, life in England became meaningless. Seat-belt signs lit up, problems switched off. Broken armrests took precedence over broken hearts. By the time the plane was airborne I'd forgotten England even existed.

In LA, you can’t do anything unless you drive. Now I can’t do anything unless I drink. And the drink-drive combination, it really isn’t possible out there. If you so much as loosen your seatbelt or drop your ash or pick your nose, then it’s an Alcatraz autopsy with the questions asked later. Any indiscipline, you feel, any variation, and there’s a bullhorn, a set of scope sights, and a coptered pig drawing a bead on your rug. So what can a poor boy do? You come out of the hotel, the Vraimont. Over boiling Watts the downtown skyline carries a smear of God’s green snot. You walk left, you walk right, you are a bank rat on a busy river. This restaurant serves no drink, this one serves no meat, this one serves no heterosexuals. You can get your chimp shampooed, you can get your dick tattooed, twenty-four hour, but can you get lunch? And should you see a sign on the far side of the street flashing BEEF-BOOZE – NO STRINGS, then you can forget it. The only way to get across the road is to be born there. All the ped-xing signs say DON’T WALK, all of them, all the time. That is the message, the content of Los Angeles: don’t walk. Stay inside. Don’t walk. Drive. Don’t walk. Run!

Flying carpets were severely lacking in safety features like seatbelts.

I want to be the world’s safest fashion designer. And I always wear my seatbelt, especially when I’m in the car.

of seatbelts as an opportunity to take up drunk-driving.

A thud, and the second wheel hits the tarmac. The staccato of a hundred seat-belt buckles snapping open, and the single-use friend you almost died sitting next to says: I hope you make your connection. Yeah, me too. And this is how long your moment lasted. And life goes on.

We can talk to one another on telephones in banks, in cars, in line. No more sitting on the floor attached to a cord while everybody listens. No more standing outside the booth in the cold, fingering an adulterous dime. We send each other mail without stamps. Watch television without antennas. Wear seatbelts, smoke less, and never on a bus, never in the lobby while we’re waiting for the lawyer to call on us. Nowhere now, a typewriter ribbon. Quaintly the record album’s scratch and spin. Our groceries, scanned. Pump our own gas. Take off our shoes before boarding our plane. Those towers: Gone. And Pluto’s no longer a planet: Forget it. I could go on and on, but you’re still dead and nothing’s any different.

It’s like when you’re flying in an airplane. Whenever severe turbulence comes along, the seatbelt keeps you from getting thrown around the cabin. Mindful breathing is your seatbelt in everyday life—it keeps you safe here in the present moment. If you know how to breathe, how to sit calmly and quietly, how to do walking meditation, then you have your seatbelt and you’re always safe.

A few decades from now, the current laissez-faire attitudes to sugar - now present in 80 per cent of supermarket foods - may seems as reckless and strange as permitting cars without seatbelts or smoking on aeroplanes.

On that trip I learnt something very important. Escape through travel works. Almost from the moment I boarded my flight, life in England became meaningless. Seat-belt signs lit up, problems switched off. Broken armrests took precedence over broken hearts. By the time the plane was airborne I'd forgotten England even existed." (The Beach)

He opened the door for me with an impassive expression. Oh, but he couldn’t fool me. I knew very well that he gloated inside. He had the right to. I’d be gloating aloud if I were him. I slid into the plush black leather seat and ran my hands over every surface I could touch after buckling my seatbelt. Awe, like a slow burning fuse, spread all over my body. My fingertips sizzled. It was one thing to hear Gramps talk and completely another to actually sit inside the fantasy. “Should I give you two some time alone?”
 “What?” 
His smile gave me unexpected quivers. “Stop molesting my car.

It is usually impossible to know when you have prevented an accident.

What’s up with your hair?’ I ask. ‘Aren’t you worried you’ll be spotted by angels flying above with all that blue?’ ‘War paint,’ says Dee, fastening his seatbelt. ‘Except it’s in our hair instead of on our faces,’ says Dum, starting the engine. ‘Because we’re original like that.’ ‘Besides, are poisonous frogs worried about being spotted by birds?’ asks Dee. ‘Are poisonous snakes? They all have bright markings.’ ‘You’re a poisonous frog now?’ I ask. ‘Ribbit.’ He turns and flicks out his tongue at me. It’s blue. My eyes widen. ‘You dyed your tongue too?’ Dee smiles. ‘Nah. It’s just Gatorade.’ He lifts up a bottle half-full of blue liquid. ‘Gotcha.’ He winks. ‘“Hydrate or Die,” man,’ says Dum as we turn onto El Camino Real. ‘That’s not Gatorade’s marketing,’ says Dee. ‘It’s for some other brand.’ ‘Never thought I’d say this,’ says Dum, ‘but I actually miss ads. You know, like “Just Do It.” I never realized how much of life’s good advice came from ads. What we really need now is for some industrious soul to put out a product and give us a really excellent saying to go with it. Like “Kill ’Em All and Let God Sort ’Em Out.”’ ‘That’s not an advertising jingle,’ I say. ‘Only because it wasn’t good advice back in the day,’ says Dum. ‘Might be good advice now. Attach a product to it, and we could get rich.

Buckle in,” said Paul. Pyrrha tested and tightened the seatbelt over Nona’s arms, and asked, “How long were you planning this one?” “They had a lot of rainy-day backup plans.” “Yeah but— Paul?” “Just Paul,” said Paul. Crown suggested, “Paul… Hect?” “Just Paul,” said Paul. “U Lap,” said the corpse prince, from the back of the cabin. “Thank you for your contribution,” said Paul. “Aulp,” said the corpse prince. “No,” said Paul.

Men are more likely than women to be involved in a car crash, which means they dominate the numbers of those seriously injured in car accidents. But when a woman is involved in a car crash, she is 47% more likely to be seriously injured than a man, and 71% more likely to be moderately injured,46 even when researchers control for factors such as height, weight, seat-belt usage, and crash intensity.47 She is also 17% more likely to die.48 And it’s all to do with how the car is designed – and for whom.

When someone yells "STOP," I never know if it's in the name of love, if it's Hammertime or if I should collaborate and listen... (borrowed from Pinterest.)

We don’t mess around with organized conspiracies in this country; we tie our seat-belts and sit back to enjoy the drive.

I can fly a plane, but I can’t fly a planet. Not without a seatbelt the size of the equator. The way I eat @McDonalds, I may need a seatbelt that fat.

Medication cannot cure you of depression. Like a seatbelt, it can save your life—but a seatbelt never brought joy to anyone’s heart. A seatbelt never put a skip in a step.

Lazlo doesn't believe in seatbelts. He says they show a serious lack of faith in a driver.

Guarding your heart is no different from buckling a beautiful child into an infant seat, or placing a seatbelt across your own chest before pulling out of your driveway.

Buckle your seatbelt. I haven’t driven something this big before.” The truck filled with his laughter. “I get that all the time.

Billy’s whistle isn’t part of the act, which he doesn’t think of as an act but as his dumb self, the one he shows to guys like Nick and Frank and Paulie. It’s like a seatbelt.

Sometimes, I shock myself with the smart things I say and do. Other times, I try to get out of the car with my seatbelt on. —Bumper Sticker

What did parents in the seventies do when kids were bored in the back? Nothing! They let them suck in gas fumes. Torture their siblings. And since it wasn’t actually used for wearing, play with the seatbelt. If at any point you complained about being bored at home, you were really asking for it. “Go outside,” your parents would roar, or worse, “Clean your room.

...five minutes later she and Keane walked out to his truck. He set the cat carrier carefully in the backseat like maybe it was a ticking bomb but made her smile when he hesitated and then locked a seatbelt around it. When he caught her watching, he shrugged. "She's just ornery enough to knock herself off the seat and die and then come back to haunt me, so I'm taking all necessary precautions.

I started to spend my extra time caring for myself in little ways that reminded me of the generosity of my dream-dog who shared his seatbelt. The big pet. My dream-dog. I think he was training me in my dreams so that I could eventually play well in my days.

I melt and swell at the moment of landing when one wheel thuds on the runway but the plane leans to one side and hangs in the decision to right itself or roll. For this moment, nothing matters. Look up into the stars and you’re gone. Not your luggage. Nothing matters. Not your bad breath. The windows are dark outside and the turbine engines roar backward. The cabin hangs at the wrong angle under the roar of the turbines, and you will never have to file another expense account claim. Receipt required for items over twenty-five dollars. You will never have to get another haircut. A thud, and the second wheel hits the tarmac. The staccato of a hundred seat-belt buckles snapping open, and the single-use friend you almost died sitting next to says: I hope you make your connection. Yeah, me too. And this is how long your moment lasted. And life goes on.

Billy’s whistle isn’t part of the act, which he doesn’t think of as an act but as his dumb self, the one he shows to guys like Nick and Frank and Paulie. It’s like a seatbelt. You don’t use it because you expect to be in a crash, but you never know who you might meet coming over a hill on your side of the road.

Of course, the writer can impose control; it’s just a really shitty idea. Writing controlled fiction is called “plotting.” Buckling your seatbelt and letting the story take over, however…that is called “storytelling.” Storytelling is as natural as breathing; plotting is the literary version of artificial respiration.

„I don't mean to be rude, but how does a blind person prune a tree?” Isaac clicked in his seatbelt. „I have no clue. To be honest, I don't even know if we have trees, but I sure as hell hope we do.” I smiled, almost afraid to ask. „Why?” „Because last year, Mr Grainger, the art teacher, took pruning shears to something.

She unbuckled her seatbelt and scooted closer to him, laying her head on his shoulder. “Don’t crash.” “Don’t do anything crazy and I’ll do my best.” “Was that a veiled reference to road head?” He shook his head and tried unsuccessfully to smother a smile. “Woman, you have a dirty mind.” “I read a lot of romance novels. They’re good for the imagination.” “I’ll remember that.

Can I pick you up for school Monday morning?” he asked, turning onto my street. I unfastened my seatbelt. “No.” “I just asked to be nice,” he said in a stern tone. “I’m picking you up. I don’t like you walking.” “Please…” I shook my head, ready to plead. “Please don’t.” We approached my house, and I grabbed my bag and flute off the floor. “Stop here,” I told him. “I’m not afraid of your brother, Em.

One man assigned outside the door where Gravey sleeps or does not sleep nights gets off duty at the crack of dawn having stood parallel to the wall between them for most of seven hours, walks to his car, unlocks the door, enters through the driver’s side seat, slides across the leather into the passenger side, straps on his seatbelt, takes out his service revolver, puts it in his mouth, and shoots his body dead.

It’s all about having the right image of yourself, the correct one. The one that you truly are, the one that wants to be successful. If you see that true image of yourself, you will grow into it. If you see a negative image, that’s what you’ll grow into. It’s time you accept that you’re made for greatness, and you need to put on your seatbelt because your life is going to be one wild ride. One amazing storybook ride.

Do you really not think sad things can be beautiful?” I say as Jamie drives me home. He isn’t shallow; surely he has felt what I’m talking about. His favorite song was on the radio when we got in and I wasn’t allowed to speak until now. I’ve been thinking of examples to make him understand. Jamie doesn’t take his eyes off the road, doesn’t look at me. “Nope,” he says. “You’re just weird.” “Why does that make me weird?” I say. I momentarily forget my arguments and examples. “Just because I think something different from you doesn’t make me weird.” “I bet if we took a survey, everybody would agree with me.” “That doesn’t make you right,” I say. “And you’re supposed to be against being just like everybody else.” “It’s not about being like everybody else. When someone dies, it’s bad,” Jamie says. “That’s just something everybody knows.” “You don’t understand,” I say. “I do understand,” he says. He pulls the car into my driveway. “You just see things differently and that’s okay, because I like you weird. You’re my weird, morbid pretty girl.” I let him kiss me good night. I sigh. “Hey,” he says. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing,” I say. “What?” he asks. “What about Romeo and Juliet?” I say. “That’s beautiful and sad.” “But that’s not real life.” “So?” “There’s real life and then there are books, Autumn,” Jamie says. “In real life, it would just be sad and stu pid.” “How could two people dying for love be stupid?” I say. We are sitting in the dark facing each other in the seats, our seatbelts off. “It’s stupid to kill yourself,” Jamie says. “That’s what cowards do.” “I think it’s brave,” I say. “And I think it’s beautiful that they loved each other so much that they couldn’t live without the other one.

Buckle in,” said Paul. Pyrrha tested and tightened the seatbelt over Nina’s arms, and asked, “How long were you planning this one?” “They had a lot of rainy-day backup plans.” “Yeah but— Paul?” “Just Paul,” said Paul. Crown suggested, “Paul… Hect?” “Just Paul,” said Paul. “U Lap,” said the corpse prince, from the back of the cabin. “Thank you for your contribution,” said Paul. “Aulp,” said the corpse prince. “No,” said Paul.

There’s a book I had to read in college that I’ve just picked up again called Psycho-Cybernetics. It’s all about having the right image of yourself, the correct one. The one that you truly are, the one that wants to be successful. If you see that true image of yourself, you will grow into it. If you see a negative image, that’s what you’ll grow into. It’s time you accept that you’re made for greatness, and you need to put on your seatbelt because your life is going to be one wild ride. One amazing storybook ride.

car seat-belts. The vast majority of the time they served no real purpose. Even bad drivers could go years between accidents. But when an accident finally did occur—in that precise instant—a seat-belt became the only thing standing between a chance for life and a grisly death.

The rear axle broke and the car spun around, hit an embankment, and flew in the air like a flying saucer. Parts of the body shredded. Thiel, a practicing libertarian, was not wearing a seatbelt, but he emerged unscathed. He was able to hitch a ride up to the Sequoia offices. Musk, also unhurt, stayed behind for a half-hour to have his car towed away, then joined the meeting without telling Harris what had happened. Later, Musk was able to laugh and say, “At least it showed Peter I was unafraid of risks.” Says Thiel, “Yeah, I realized he was a bit crazy.

Competition is the spice of sports; but if you make spice the whole meal you'll be sick. The simplest single-celled organism oscillates to a number of different frequencies, at the atomic, molecular, sub-cellular, and cellular levels. Microscopic movies of these organisms are striking for the ceaseless, rhythmic pulsation that is revealed. In an organism as complex as a human being, the frequencies of oscillation and the interactions between those frequencies are multitudinous. -George Leonard Learning any new skill involves relatively brief spurts of progress, each of which is followed by a slight decline to a plateau somewhat higher in most cases than that which preceded it…the upward spurts vary; the plateaus have their own dips and rises along the way…To take the master’s journey, you have to practice diligently, striving to hone your skills, to attain new levels of competence. But while doing so–and this is the inexorable–fact of the journey–you also have to be willing to spend most of your time on a plateau, to keep practicing even when you seem to be getting nowhere. (Mastery, p. 14-15). Backsliding is a universal experience. Every one of us resists significant change, no matter whether it’s for the worse or for the better. Our body, brain and behavior have a built-in tendency to stay the same within rather narrow limits, and to snap back when changed…Be aware of the way homeostasis works…Expect resistance and backlash. Realize that when the alarm bells start ringing, it doesn’t necessarily mean you’re sick or crazy or lazy or that you’ve made a bad decision in embarking on the journey of mastery. In fact, you might take these signals as an indication that your life is definitely changing–just what you’ve wanted….Be willing to negotiate with your resistance to change. Our preoccupation with goals, results, and the quick fix has separated us from our own experiences…there are all of those chores that most of us can’t avoid: cleaning, straightening, raking leaves, shopping for groceries, driving the children to various activities, preparing food, washing dishes, washing the car, commuting, performing the routine, repetitive aspects of our jobs….Take driving, for instance. Say you need to drive ten miles to visit a friend. You might consider the trip itself as in-between-time, something to get over with. Or you could take it as an opportunity for the practice of mastery. In that case, you would approach your car in a state of full awareness…Take a moment to walk around the car and check its external condition, especially that of the tires…Open the door and get in the driver’s seat, performing the next series of actions as a ritual: fastening the seatbelt, adjusting the seat and the rearview mirror…As you begin moving, make a silent affirmation that you’ll take responsibility for the space all around your vehicle at all times…We tend to downgrade driving as a skill simply because it’s so common. Actually maneuvering a car through varying conditions of weather, traffic, and road surface calls for an extremely high level of perception, concentration, coordination, and judgement…Driving can be high art…Ultimately, nothing in this life is “commonplace,” nothing is “in between.” The threads that join your every act, your every thought, are infinite. All paths of mastery eventually merge. [Each person has a] vantage point that offers a truth of its own. We are the architects of creation and all things are connected through us. The Universe is continually at its work of restructuring itself at a higher, more complex, more elegant level . . . The intention of the universe is evolution. We exist as a locus of waves that spreads its influence to the ends of space and time. The whole of a thing is contained in each of its parts. We are completely, firmly, absolutely connected with all of existence. We are indeed in relationship to all that is.

For the first time he had something to lose, and it was funny how that changed things, how it made Hawley imagine himself living past the next day, into the next week, the next year. He’d started wearing his seatbelt. He brushed his teeth. Sometimes he fell so deeply inside his new life that the edges of himself felt like they were coming loose. Then Lily would catch him in one of his old habits—checking and rechecking the locks, or doubling back on streets when he thought they were being followed—and the years he’d spent alone would rise up solidly around him, resonating in the dark like blood pushed out of a pinprick.

I am very much in favor of parental rights for certain types of things. I am in favor of you and I having the freedom to drive a car. But do we have a right to drive without wearing our seatbelts? Do we have a right to text while we are driving? Studies have demonstrated that those are dangerous things to do, so it becomes a public safety issue. You have to be able to distinguish our rights versus the rights of the society in which we live, because we are all in this thing together. We have to be cognizant of the other people around us, and we must always bear in mind the safety of the population. That is key, and that is one of the responsibilities of government.

You fasten your seatbelt. The plane is landing. To fly is the opposite of traveling: you cross a gap in space, you vanish into the void, you accept not being in any place for a duration that is itself a kind of void in time; then you reappear, in a place and in a moment with no relation to the where and the when in which you vanished. Meanwhile, what do you do? How do you occupy this absence of yourself from the world and of the world from you? You read; you do not raise your eyes from the book between one airport and the other, because beyond the page there is the void, the anonymity of stopovers, of the metallic uterus that contains you and nourishes you, of the passing crowd always different and always the same.

Alright. Bye, Mom.” “Bye, Baby.” I hit end and waved to her in the window, smiling as she waved back. I couldn’t be sure from this distance, but it looked like her eyes might’ve been a bit misty. When I finally turned to Colton, he was staring at me with an odd expression. “What?” I asked. “Did you just…call your mom to tell her you snuck out of the house?” he said slowly. I nodded as I pulled on my seatbelt and clicked it into place. “Of course. I didn’t want her to worry.” “You know that’s not how it’s usually done, right? The whole point of sneaking out is so your parents won’t know and get on your case about it.” “Yeah, but my mom’s cool. We have an understanding.” Colton shook his head in amazement. “You’re something else, Sadie Day.

She watched as the dirt kicked up in a cloud. When it cleared, she couldn’t see him anymore. She stayed until she couldn’t hear him anymore. Staying. Not chasing. Not stopping him. She knew she could bring him back. She was more than capable, and yet her feet refused to move. It felt like the little arms that had encircled her neck still clung there. Was it my Anna? Was her name just a coincidence? Eve hated that she had these questions, and that the only man she wanted to talk to about them was David. Have I just forsaken Beckett? Roots continued to form. Her murderous hands remembered how satisfying clicking the seatbelt around Emily’s small body had been. It sounded just like releasing the safety on a gun. Could motherhood be even a tiny possibility? Her inaction chose her future.

I have no problems questioning the basis of any decision, where the knowledge came from, and the inference fundamentals. It’s become second nature to me - almost like wearing a seatbelt. It’s not a vulgar interrogatory. I’ve mastered how to question others in a positive, informative, and polite way that doesn’t make them feel as if I’m questioning their integrity or intelligence – I’m not. I’ve found that people who present well-thought out decisions are often eager to explain the knowledge and reasoning behind those decisions – and I value this as a learning opportunity for myself and others. On the other hand, those who are evasive, secretive, or vague about the basis of their decisions and solutions should always be considered unsafe. Experience has shown me they often times are. In the end, the degree of confidence I place with any decision or solution determines the confidence and weight I give to outcomes and those who provide them.

The emphasis here will be on strength, not pathology; on challenge, not comfort; on self-differentiation, not herding for togetherness. This is a difficult perspective to maintain in a “seatbelt society” more oriented toward safety than adventure. This book is not, therefore, for those who prefer peace to progress. It is not for those who mistake another’s well-defined stand for coercion. It is not for those who fail to see how in any family or institution a perpetual concern for consensus leverages power to the extremists. And it is not for those who lack the nerve to venture out of the calm eye of good feelings and togetherness and weather the storm of protest that inevitably surrounds a leader’s self-definition. For, whether we are considering a family, a work system, or an entire nation, the resistance that sabotages a leader’s initiative usually has less to do with the “issue” that ensues than with the fact that the leader took initiative.

The courtship continued through January 2000, causing Musk to postpone his honeymoon with Justine. Michael Moritz, X.com’s primary investor, arranged a meeting of the two camps in his Sand Hill Road office. Thiel got a ride with Musk in his McLaren. “So, what can this car do?” Thiel asked. “Watch this,” Musk replied, pulling into the fast lane and flooring the accelerator. The rear axle broke and the car spun around, hit an embankment, and flew in the air like a flying saucer. Parts of the body shredded. Thiel, a practicing libertarian, was not wearing a seatbelt, but he emerged unscathed. He was able to hitch a ride up to the Sequoia offices. Musk, also unhurt, stayed behind for a half-hour to have his car towed away, then joined the meeting without telling Harris what had happened. Later, Musk was able to laugh and say, “At least it showed Peter I was unafraid of risks.” Says Thiel, “Yeah, I realized he was a bit crazy.” Musk remained resistant to a merger. Even though both companies had about 200,000 customers signed up to make electronic payments on eBay, he believed that X.com was a more valuable company because it offered a broader array of banking services.

Everything started to move in slow motion. A vehicle was coming up the hill in the opposite direction, facing us but in its own lane. With vehicles parked on both sides of the road, this meant that there was just a narrow passage area for both vehicles to pass through. However, he had yet to reduce his speed, and now I knew which car he was going to hit. I was frozen stiff with fear in the front passenger seat, as I helplessly watched him slam into the back of a parked car. I was not wearing a seat belt, so upon impact my head crashed into the windshield. I was then slammed back into my seat, but with such force that everything went black.

space from her. We gathered our things and waited while the airplane taxied into the gate. As I glanced out the window, my heart picked up speed. It had been two weeks since I’d seen Ethan and it was long overdue. I tried to have a good experience in Paris. After all, it was a once in a lifetime experience that I had literally put everything on the line to go, so I needed to make sure I made the best of it. But I missed Ethan so much. And being with Jordan didn’t help. She was constantly reminding me of how much better America was. The fasten seatbelt light turned off and ten minutes later, I was out of the plane and half-walking/half-running through the gate to get to the luggage carousal. As soon as I burst through the doors, my gaze met Ethan’s. His face lit up as he held a sign that said Welcome Back Livi. I tightened my grip on my carryon and raced over to him where he wrapped his arms around me and spun me around. I giggled as he nuzzled my neck. When he stopped turning, he set me down and pressed his lips against mine. “Welcome back,” he said when he pulled away. I reached up and wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer to me. “I missed you,” I said. He found my lips again, this time, kissing me as if it were the last time we would ever kiss. “All righty, you two,” Dad said.

Until as late as the early 1950s a round-trip aeroplane ticket from Australia to England cost as much as a three-bedroom suburban home in Melbourne or Sydney. With the introduction by Qantas of larger Lockheed Super Constellation airliners in 1954, prices began to fall, but even by the end of the decade travelling to Europe by air still cost as much as a new car. Nor was it a terribly speedy or comfortable service. The Super Constellations took three days to reach London and lacked the power or range to dodge most storms. When monsoons or cyclones were encountered, the pilots had no choice but to put on the seat-belt signs and bounce through them. Even in normal conditions they flew at a height guaranteed to produce more or less constant turbulence. (Qantas called it, without evident irony, the Kangaroo Route.) It was, by any modern measure, an ordeal.

California, land of my dreams and my longing. You've seen me in New York and you know what I'm like there but in L.A., man, I tell you, I'm even more of a high-achiever - all fizz and push, a fixer, a bustler, a real new-dealer. Last December for a whole week my thirty-minute short Dean Street was being shown daily at the Pantheon of Celestial Arts. In squeaky-clean restaurants, round smoggy poolsides, in jungly jacuzzis I made my deals. Business went well and it all looked possible. It was in the pleasure area, as usual, that I found I had a problem. In L.A., you can't do anything unless you drive. Now I can't do anything unless I drink. And the drink-drive combination, it really isn't possible out there. If you so much as loosen your seatbelt or drop your ash or pick your nose, then it's an Alcatraz autopsy with the questions asked later. Any indiscipline, you feel, any variation, and there's a bullhorn, a set of scope sights, and a coptered pig drawing a bead on your rug. So what can a poor boy do? You come out of the hotel, the Vraimont. Over boiling Watts the downtown skyline carries a smear of God's green snot. You walk left, you walk right, you are a bank rat on a busy river. This restaurant serves no drink, this one serves no meat, this one serves no heterosexuals. You can get your chimp shampooed, you can get your dick tattooed, twenty-four hour, but can you get lunch? And should you see a sign on the far side of the street flashing BEEF-BOOZE-NO STRINGS, then you can forget it. The only way to get across the road is to be born there. All the ped-xing signs say DON'T WALK, all of them, all the time. That is the message, the content of Los Angeles: don't walk. Stay inside. Don't walk. Drive. Don't walk. Run! I tried the cabs. No use. The cabbies are all Saturnians who aren't even sure whether this is a right planet or a left planet. The first thing you have to do, every trip, is teach them how to drive.

I need a seatbelt on an airplane like a hole in the head,” thought Jane, as she smiled back.

Yes, nothing says “sexy” like the names of German cities, and a few years back I was zipping by them while driving 135 mph on the Autobahn. (Keep in mind, I was wearing my seatbelt while driving at 135 mph, so in case I got into an accident, I would be trisected into three neat sections. That would make for easier cleanup; truly, the German way.)

The mobile phone makes the automobile even more deadly.

Sadie hopped in the car, twisting the key in the ignition and checking her makeup in the visor's mirror at the same time. Not enough eye shadow, she mused. Or maybe just a brighter shade... She'd pick up a festive color when she had a chance. “What do you think, Coco?” Sadie reached into the tote bag and pulled out the squirming ball of fluff, holding Coco up against her face so they could look in the mirror together. “C’mon, now, one yip for an exotic color around the eyes, two yips for brighter lipstick.” Instead of yipping an answer, the Yorkie gave Sadie’s cheek a canine kiss. Sadie reciprocated with a pat on the head. “I know, Coco, you love me just as I am. I feel the same way. Besides, I don’t think you’d care for lipstick unless it tasted like peanut butter.” Sadie adjusted the velvet pillow in the tote bag, placed the dog back inside and adjusted the seatbelt harness that held the bag in place. “Let’s go check out this inn of Tina’s. What do you say to that?” She smiled at the immediate yip of approval. It was rare she didn’t gain Coco’s enthusiasm when the word “go” turned up anywhere in a sentence.

He caught a whiff of the cinnamon-y goodness under the foil. “I think we should get married,” he decided. Gloria’s jaw dropped, and then she laughed again. “I’m serious,” he insisted. “Just, maybe spend the next six months thinking about it, okay?” “Yeah, I’ll do that,” she said, still laughing when she released her seatbelt. “Hang on,” he said, sliding out from behind the wheel. He hurried around to her door and opened it. “You’re engaged to a gentleman.

That was all Demi remembered until she woke up the next day and was told that her friend Laila had been killed because she was the only one not wearing a seatbelt. Demi

The fire continued to blaze between our bodies, so I eased her off my lap. After I redid our seatbelts, I spoke, “You have my word. I’ll help you.” Before I could finish, she professed, “But that can’t happen again. We can only be friends.” “Right.” I smiled self-deprecatingly. “No matter how much I want to fuck you.” She

Nate jumped into the backseat while Scarlet slid into the passenger’s seat and tried to buckle her seatbelt. It wouldn’t latch. The passenger’s seatbelt had taken a beating when Tristan had remodeled the shack and now the latch only worked if you jiggled it the right way. Scarlet wasn’t jiggling it the right way. Tristan reached over to help her and she swatted at his hand. “I can put on my own seatbelt.” He pulled his hand back and rested an arm on the steering wheel as he watched her struggle with the clasp. “Mother of Pearl,” she muttered, fighting with the belt. She jiggled. She jaggled. Then she groaned in frustration and dropped her head against the seat. Tristan waited a beat. “Are you done now?” She sighed. “Yes.” He held out in his hand in the dark car. “Give me the seatbelt.” She yanked the belt across her body and handed it to Tristan with a huff, careful not to touch him. He had to bite the inside of his cheek so he wouldn’t smile. She was just as stubborn as the seatbelt. He eased the seatbelt into the broken latch and it clicked effortlessly. She rolled her eyes as he started the car.

That night I dreamt about the roses laid at the wrong feet—the feet of the nurse. Each bit of the dream was like a hyperlink. I pressed on one, wanting answers, and it took me to another. I could never get to the meaning at the bottom of any of the bits. When I reached for the petals of the roses, I was touching a metal seatbelt buckle in a coach, driving by night through a remote place, with a band of mist running parallel to the glass I leant against.

I like dull.” I fastened my seatbelt. “Life just didn’t get the memo.

You could tell me you didn’t take the deed and run.” “I don’t think I need to. I’m pretty sure you can march your ass back up to your apartment and figure that out for yourself. Because if there was a deed to be had, it’s still there.” I got into my car and slammed the door, not waiting for his response. Before I could buckle my seatbelt, Con ripped the door open again and invaded the cabin. “Oh, no you don’t, princess. Changed my mind. You don’t get to leave.” He snatched the keys from the ignition and shoved them in his pocket before lifting me out of my seat and tossing me over his shoulder. “Put me down. I’m leaving!” “You’re not going anywhere until I’m good and ready to let you go. I already made that mistake before. Took me two fucking years to recover from it. Not doing it again.” “You’re insane!” “And you’re the one making me fucking crazy, so get over it.

Since the days after car seats and booster seats I have harped and drilled and grilled my son about always wearing his seatbelt because that was the law. One day he caught ME forgetting to fasten my safety belt. My eight year old looked over at me and said “Why for the love of God, aren’t you wearing your seat belt?” I was a bit embarrassed at my oversight, and flippantly answered “you have yours on, so why are you so worried about me?” His response, “Because, Mom, if the police stop you and take you to jail I don’t want to have to drive home without a license!” Such a wise boy, I promised right there I will always wear a seatbelt.

I could feel Rick’s eyes on me the whole time as I drove. I already knew what he was thinking about, but I hoped that he didn’t try to start any mess in this car, especially while my kids were with me. The weather was terrible outside, making it extremely hard for me to see. “Where you get that cash from that I saw in your purse?” Rick asked me. I cursed myself for leaving the money that Antonia had given me the other day in my purse. When we had gotten to the register so that I could pay for the groceries, I reached into my purse to retrieve my EBT card, and Rick caught a glimpse of the fifty-dollar bill that I had lying in there. “Antonia gave it to me, okay?” I told him, hoping that would be the end of this conversation. “So, you hiding money from me now, Gina? Is that what we’re doing?” he asked me. “Rick, I’m not hiding anything from you because this isn’t yours to begin with! The girls are going on a field trip next week, and it’s to pay for it!” I yelled at him. Right now, the rain had begun to pick up even harder and loud sounds of lightning and thunder were rumbling outside. “I don’t give a fuck about no damn field trip! Give me that money!” Rick yelled, trying to reach over my lap. I slapped his hands away, which caused me to swerve in the next lane and a car to blow the horn at me. “Rick, can you stop, please! You’re scaring my babies!” I yelled at him. It happened so quick. I was so distracted that I ended up running the red light and it was too late to brake because at this point, the eighteen wheeler came crashing into the right side of my little beat up Honda Civic which didn’t stand a chance. All I remember was looking in the rearview mirror and I noticed that neither Allison nor Ciara was in a seatbelt. It took seconds and their little bodies went flying out the front window and the truck had pretty much crushed into Rick and I, leaving everything to turn to black.

I pushed him off of me and he began to laugh even harder. Jah had been on planes numerous times is what he told me, so he sat there cool as a fan, eating a bag of Lay’s chips, while I was secretly praying that I didn’t piss my damn pants. “Jah, now you know that wasn’t right! Why would you tell her that?” Imani asked Jah. She and Rashard were sitting in the seats to the right of us, while Breesha and Dontae sat in front of us. I had told the girls before we got on the plane what Jah had told me, and they were trying their best to assure me that plane rides weren’t as bad as Jah made it seem, but that still wasn’t enough to convince me. “I was just playing with her scary ass. Y’all wasn’t there, man. This girl been talking about this damn trip every day, all day. Shit, I had to say something!” Jah said. Dontae and Rashard laughed at what he had said. This was my first time meeting the two men, and they were cool. I also adored their relationships with their women. It sucked that Shaniqua didn’t come, but she said that she didn’t want to be the only single one on the trip, while everyone else was “boo’d up”.  Shaniqua hadn’t dated ever since she was with that dude whose ass I caught Jah beating the first time we came into contact with each other. Shaniqua was so beautiful, and I was surprised that she wasn’t dating somebody after that. The pilot gave us the signal for everybody to put on their seatbelts, and within another ten minutes or so, I was squeezing the hell out of Jah’s hand when the plane began to move. “This how it’s going to be when you pushing out my baby, huh? You got a mean grip on my hand,” Jah said, laughing.

But when my father went away on his trips, my mother would get depressed. She didn’t give a shit if I was strapped in snug and safe. When we went out, she said to get in the back and gave me ten seconds to get my seatbelt on. If the seatbelt wasn’t on by then, too damn bad. You think I have time to wait the rest of the day for you to strap yourself in?

Churches that lack accountability structures for leaders (or where leaders have dismantled them) are powerless when things go wrong. Not only are they driving without a seatbelt, they have cut the brakes and may be hurtling towards a cliff.

Love offers zero guarantees. Isn’t that fucked up?” She emits a hollow laugh. “It’s a war between your survival instinct and your heart. Your survival instinct is yelling at you to ‘sit your ass down, buckle your seatbelt and put on your oxygen mask, dammit’. Meanwhile your heart is telling you to ‘jump out of the plane’, knowing fully well that there’s no parachute, knowing fully well that you have no idea where you’ll land.” She nudges her glasses to wipe a tear from her eye. “Why the hell would anyone do it?” I place my hand over hers and squeeze, getting lost in her soulful brown eyes. “Because the fall is so fucking beautiful.” Because you are so fucking beautiful. She takes a deep, shuddering breath, her eyes locked on mine. “So let’s do it,” she begs softly. “Let’s jump. Let’s fall. Together. No parachutes.” I kiss her lips and make a pledge. Two simple words. “No parachutes.

Start wearing seatbelts folks, not just when you are on driving seat but also when you are on passenger seat. Just make it an habit before an accident makes you or your near ones realise that how important and safe wearing seat belts was. #wear seat belts