Security Blanket Quotes

I think in the end, you would have stayed with me, out of obligation...or maybe comfort. Maybe I was safe to you, and you needed to feel that. I know how scared you get of the unknown. To you...I must be kind of a security blanket. Do you see now, how that doesn't work for me? I don't want to be there, simply because the idea of me being gone is too...scary. I want to be someone's everything. I want fire and passion, and love that's returned, equally. I want to be someone's heart... Even if it means breaking my own.

This was something she would keep hidden within herself, maybe in place of the knot of pain and anger she had been carrying under her breastbone...a security blanket, an ace up her sleeve. She might never use it, but she would always feel its presence like a swelling secret stone, and that way when she let go of the rage, she would not feel nearly as empty.

Isaac Asimov's remark about the infantilism of pseudoscience is just as applicable to religion: 'Inspect every piece of pseudoscience and you will find a security blanket, a thumb to suck, a skirt to hold.' It is astonishing, moreover, how many people are unable to understand that 'X is comforting' does not imply 'X is true'.

We all have our security blankets in this world. Some are just sharper than others.

Freedom is not defined by safety. Freedom is defined by the ability of citizens to live without government interference. Government cannot create a world without risks, nor would we really wish to live in such a fictional place. Only a totalitarian society would even claim absolute safety as a worthy ideal, because it would require total state control over its citizens’ lives. Liberty has meaning only if we still believe in it when terrible things happen and a false government security blanket beckons.

I think in the end, you would have stayed with me, out of obligation...or maybe comfort. Maybe I was safe to you, and you needed to feel that. I know how scared you get of the unknown. To you...I must be kind of a security blanket.

The thought makes me reach back for my knife, my sharp, throat-cutting security blanket, as I look around.

When a man has a gift in speaking the truth, brute aggression is no longer his security blanket for approval. He, on the contrary, spends most of his energy trying to tone it down because his very nature is already offensive enough.

Anything in your life that’s acting as a security blanket is only smothering the person you were born to be.

Reality Check His lying is not contigent on who you are or what you do. His lying is not your fault. Lying is his choice and his problem, and if he makes that choice with you, he will make it with any other woman he’s with. That doesn’t mean you’re an angel and he’s the devil. It does mean that if he doesn’t like certain things about you, he has many ways to address them besides lying. If there are sexual problems between you, there are many resources available to help you. Nothing can change until you hold him responsible and accountable for lying and stop blaming yourself. The lies we tell ourselves to keep from seeing the truth about our lovers don’t feel like lies. They feel comfortable, familiar, and true. We repeat them like a mantra and cling to them like security blankets, hoping to calm ourselves and regain our sense that the world works the way we believe it ought to. Self-lies are false friends we look to for comfort and protection—and for a short time they may make us feel better. But we can only keep the truth at bay for so long. Our self-lies can’t erase his lies, and as we’ll see, the longer we try to pretend they can, the more we deepen the hurt.

Some days, it was enough just to know that I had a packet of blades in the house. They were a cold, very sharp, security blanket.

It would seem that for my master a book is not a thing to be read, but a device to bring on slumber: a typographical sleeping-pill, a paginated security blanket.

And it was kind of romantic thinking of him as my protector. I liked that. He was like a security blanket... only less fluffy.

Abusive relationships exist because they provide enough rations of warmth, laughter, and affection to clutch onto like a security blanket in the heap of degradation. The good times are the initial euphoria that keeps addicts draining their wallets for toxic substances to inject into their veins. Scraps of love are food for an abusive relationship.

I’m alone. When I’m comatose from writing and mothering, when I’m hurting too badly to cook, talk, or smile, I curl up with ‘alone’ like a security blanket. Alone doesn’t care that I don’t shave my legs in the winter. Alone never gets disappointed by me.” Eva sighed. “It’s the best relationship I’ve ever been in.

Lucy was using my blanket to dry the dishes... We now have very secure dishes!

He flat out needed Chuck, like a kid with a security blanket.

Security is a strange thing, a myth that the brain allows in exchange for a brief moment of peace.

I know how scared you get of the unknown. To you…I must be kind of a security blanket.

Be someone’s security blanket when theirs is in the wash.

A lot of fans are basically fans of fandom itself. It's all about them. They have mastered the Star Wars or Star Trek universes or whatever, but their objects of veneration are useful mainly as a backdrop to their own devotion. Anyone who would camp out in a tent on the sidewalk for weeks in order to be first in line for a movie is more into camping on the sidewalk than movies. Extreme fandom may serve as a security blanket for the socially inept, who use its extreme structure as a substitute for social skills. If you are Luke Skywalker and she is Princess Leia, you already know what to say to each other, which is so much safer than having to ad lib it. Your fannish obsession is your beard. If you know absolutely all the trivia about your cubbyhole of pop culture, it saves you from having to know anything about anything else. That's why it's excruciatingly boring to talk to such people: They're always asking you questions they know the answer to.

Everybody has their security blankets in this world.Some are just sharper than others.

With Angelo, I felt warm and fuzzy. Under a rich blanket of security. With Wolfe, I felt as if I was on fire. As though he could end me at any given moment, and all I could do was hope for his mercy. I felt safe, but not secure. Desired, but unwanted. Admired, but unloved.

As a kid, I couldn't sleep without this ratty stuffed elephant," she explains, not sure what made her think of it now. Maybe it's that she'll be soon seeing her dad again, or maybe it's just the plane keying up beneath her, prompting a childish wish for her old security blanket. [Oliver]"I'm not sure that counts" "Clearly you've never met Elephant" He laughs, "Did you come up with that name all by yourself?" "Damn right," she says

I am here to posit that it's exactly in these moments of struggle and stress that we need books the most. There's something in the pause to read that's soothing in and of itself. A moment with a book is basic self-care, the kind of skill you pass along to your children as you would a security blanket or a churchgoing habit.

What's so funny?" "Your panties have a bow," he said. I looked down. I was wearing a short tank top -not mine- and my blue panties with a narrow white strip of lace at the top and a tiny white bow. Would it have killed me to check what I was wearing before I pulled the blanket down? "What's wrong with bows?" "Nothing." He was grinning now. "I expected barbed wire. Or one of those steel chains." Wiseass. "I'm secure enough in myself to wear panties with bows on them. Besides, they are comfy and soft." "I bet.

The best security blanket a child can have is parents who respect each other.

Boundary construction is most evident in three-year-olds. Boundary construction is most evident in three-year-olds. By this time, they should have mastered the following tasks: 1. The ability to be emotionally attached to others, yet without giving up a sense of self and one‘s freedom to be apart, 2. The ability to say appropriate no's to others without fear of loss of love, 3. The ability to take appropriate no's from others without withdrawing emotionally. Noting these tasks, a friend said half-joking, "They need to learn this by age three? How about by fourty-three?" Yes, these are tall orders but boundary development is essential in the early years of life.

The world turns gray, the air grows cool, the fog blows in. Only at evening can you really value home.

[Stephanie] "This won't be so bad," I said to her, making an effort at convincing myself. "How about your blanket? We could wrap him up in the blanket. Then we could pick him up without actually touching him." "I suppose that'd be all right," Lula said. "We could give it a try" I spread the blanket on the ground beside Elliot Harp, took a deep breath, hooked my fingers around his belt and rolled him onto the blanket. I jumped back, squeezed my eyes closed tight and exhaled. No matter how much violent death I saw, I would never get used to it. "I'm gonna definitely have the runs," Lula said. "I can feel it coming on." "Forget about the runs and help me with this body!" Lula grabbed hold of the head end of the blanket, and I grabbed hold of the foot end. Harp had full rigor and wouldn't bend, so we put him in the trunk headfirst with his legs sticking out. We carefully closed the lid on Harp's knees and secured the lid with a piece of rope Lula had in her trunk. "Hold on," Lula said, pulling a red flowered scarf from her coat pocket, tying the scarf on Harp's foot like a flag. "Don't want to get a ticket. I hear the police are real picky about having things sticking out of your trunk." Especially dead guys.

There is more than just grandeur in this view of life, bleak and cold though it can seem from under the security blanket of ignorance. There is deep refreshment to be had from standing up and facing straight into the strong keen wind of understanding: Yeats’s ‘Winds that blow through the starry ways’.

Everyone says I'm too old for a security blanket. But a baby blanket tucked in my dresser drawer back home is a lot less expensive then psychotherapy.

was starting to see why you carried those stupid facts like other kids dragged around security blankets—if I repeated them over and over, it almost made me feel better.

Isaac Asimov’s remark about the infantilism of pseudoscience is just as applicable to religion: ‘Inspect every piece of pseudoscience and you will find a security blanket, a thumb to suck, a skirt to hold.

Dream about things that envelop your being like a comfortable blanket.

There’s no universal tally of good and evil, balancing right and wrong. The Christians with their God-has-a-plan fantasy, the Hindus with their karmic balance . . . it’s all wishful thinking. Primitive religious impulse. Linus’s damned security blanket.

It’s incredible,” he says, “this moaning pessimism, this knee-jerk, things-are-going-downhill reaction from people living amid luxury and security that their ancestors would have died for. The tendency to see the emptiness of every glass is pervasive. It’s almost as if people cling to bad news like a comfort blanket.

Identity was just a box people liked to put themselves in, a mast to tether to in a storm, a security blanket.

aren’t lazy or unwilling to work: they just don’t know how to free themselves from the welfare security blanket.

Inspect every piece of pseudoscience and you will find a security blanket, a thumb to suck, a skirt to hold. What have we to offer in exchange? Uncertainty! Insecurity! – Isaac Asimov

A warm feeling fell over the boy. A mix of security and comfort, as if a blanket were wrapping its soft layers around his heart and nuzzling him snuggly. Gavin loved his mother, and he would be forever grateful to his father for protecting her. The whole mystery behind it made him itch with curiosity, however.

As he took possession of it, he was overcome by a sense of something like sacred awe. He carefully spread his horse blanket on the ground as if dressing an altar and lay down on it. He felt blessedly wonderful. He was lying a hundred and fifty feet below the earth, inside the loneliest mountain in France - as if in his own grave. Never in his life had he felt so secure, certainly not in his mother's belly. The world could go up on flames out there, but he would not even notice it here. He even began to cry softly. He did not know who to thank for such good fortune.

When I'm comatose from writing and mothering, when I'm hurting too badly to cook, talk or smile, I curl up with 'alone' like a security blanket. Alone doesn't care that I don't shave my legs in the winter. Alone never get disappointed in me.

I need the money, the security, because I might not have the blanket of support and love I have now forever. It could all end, and then I'll find myself at rock bottom, a strung-out stripper like my mother. I can't let that happen. I won't let that happen.

Triumph of hope over experience,” Parks observes. “Nostalgia,” Dr Caldwell says categorically. “The psychological comfort outweighs the logical objections. Everybody needs a security blanket.” Only idiots, Parks thinks. Personally, he tends to see security in much less abstract terms. Gallagher

The fire department is like a security blanket that helps citizens sleep at night; they know if the unthinkable ever happens there is someone to call for help. If and when that call is made, we respond to it like no other government agency. No red tape, nothing to be taken under advisement, just a simple call brings immediate action.

And I remember that I’m not lonely. I’m alone. When I’m comatose from writing and mothering, when I’m hurting too badly to cook, talk, or smile, I curl up with ‘alone’ like a security blanket. Alone doesn’t care that I don’t shave my legs in the winter. Alone never gets disappointed by me.” Eva sighed. “It’s the best relationship I’ve ever been in.

plans.” To be sure, illusions have their function. Small children often need security blankets to soothe their fears. Yet for the mature adult, a high need for certainty can be a dangerous thing. It prevents us from learning to face the uncertainty pervading our lives. As hard as we try, we cannot make our lives risk-free the way we make our milk fat-free.

A strong man next to you in bed is a comfort, but real security is a German Shepherd bitch on guard at the door.

Patty Harrington’s baby blanket, for example. Even as an adult she slept with the little white blanket every night, rubbing its silk edges for security.

But the mattress was soft and the blankets warm. Thus every small animal is lulled into security.

In the early days of adopting a conversation-centric mindset, you might miss the security blanket of what Stephen Colbert astutely labeled "little sips of online connection," & the sudden loss of weak ties to the fringes of your social network might induce moments of loneliness. But as you trade more of this time for conversation, the richness of these analog interactions will far outweigh what you're leaving behind.

Later that night, feeling restless, I get out of bed, creep into Linus’s room, and watch him sleeping in his crib. He’s lying on his back, wearing blue feety pajamas, one arm up over his head. I listen to his deep-sleep exhales. Even years past those fragile newborn months, it still gives my maternal ears relief and peace to hear the sounds of my children breathing when they’re asleep. His orange nukie is in his mouth, the silky edge of his favorite blanket is touching his cheek, and Bunny is lying limp across his chest. He’s surrounded by every kind of baby security paraphernalia imaginable, and yet none of it protected him from what could have happened today.

When I feel lonely, I scroll through Tinder and remind myself what I’m missing. Which is dudes with coconut-oiled beards all posing next to the same graffitied wall in Dumbo with profiles written entirely in emojis. And I remember that I’m not lonely. I’m alone. When I’m comatose from writing and mothering, when I’m hurting too badly to cook, talk, or smile, I curl up with ‘alone’ like a security blanket. Alone doesn’t care that I don’t shave my legs in the winter. Alone never gets disappointed by me.” Eva sighed. “It’s the best relationship I’ve ever been in.” “Are you speaking metaphorically,” asked Cece, “or are you dating a man named Alone?” “You can’t be serious.” “My doorman is a SoundCloud rapper named Sincere. One never knows.” “I like being single,” Eva continued quietly. “I don’t want anyone to have to really see me.” They sat in silence, Eva idly snapping the rubber band on her wrist.

Relations among women on the Upper East Side are charged as they are perhaps nowhere else in the country or the world, and handbags, like cars, just might serve a lot of different functions all at once. A communication about where one stands in the inevitable hierarchy of Manhattan, a barometer of your wealth and connectedness and clout in a city where money and connections and clout are everything. A fashion statement. A security blanket, a way of self-soothing in a uniquely stressful town.

He was there,keeping watch over her, which meant he expected something to happen.What? That she would be so foolish as to try to escape? Not for a moment did she believe he would seek to trap her like that. No,he was waiting for someone else,the real villain who had sought to harm them both. Waiting and hoping to lure him out by the simple expediency of using her as...bait. That husband of hers-that dear, darling husband of hers-was going to have some serious apologizing to do when this was over. Fearing that the sheer expanse of her smile would give the plan away, Rycca pulled a corner of a blanket up over her face. A short time later, she drifted off to sleep again,secure in the knowledge that she lay under the watchful eye of the Dragon.

In short, sin frames God falsely. Thinking of him as he isn’t, sin justifies itself in rejecting him as he is—and therefore draws the false view around itself like a security blanket to provide itself with an alibi for not believing or obeying God. Again, as we saw earlier, our overall attitude must then be that the defense never rests. Whenever and however God is not seen for who he is, but stands in the dock falsely framed and wrongly accused, we must reframe the issue and so defend God’s name and restore the truth to the distorted view of reality.

A brick could be used to keep thieves away from your house. Just set a brick outside your front door, and you won’t need any additional security. Years will go by and nobody will steal the brick. And because the brick won’t get stolen, it’s proof that it deterred thieves from approaching your property.


blood from the gash had seeped through her shirt and the blanket, pooling on the floor. Looking at it intensified the dizziness that its loss had caused. With the most pressing of her concerns attended to, Myranda set her mind to the task of escaping. She assessed the situation. Of course, her pack was gone. A pull on the door revealed it to be solidly secured from the outside. The windows were all small and near to the high ceiling. There would be no escape through any of those. The sole window large enough to allow her to escape was the shattered stained glass window behind the pulpit, but it was even further out of her reach. She had to try the door

could've understood wanting Cam as a security blanket after everything they'd been through, but that wasn’t it. Austin fucked the man under him harder and faster, not because it provided comfort, but because he fucking loved him. He didn’t know if he'd fallen completely; he didn’t feel like reading into it anyway, but he finally knew where he was headed—where this was headed. "Let me make you come." He kissed Cam 'til they were both breathless. Austin was on the brink of orgasm, too. "Christ." He sucked on Cam's bottom lip as his balls drew up and tightened, as the familiar tingling sensation traveled down his spine, and as he buried his cock deep in Cam's ass over and over and over. "Close," Cam gritted

Curran smiled. “What’s so funny?” “Your panties have a bow,” he said. I looked down. I was wearing a short tank top—not mine—and my blue panties with a narrow white strip of lace at the top and a tiny white bow. Would it have killed me to check what I was wearing before I pulled the blanket down? “What’s wrong with bows?” “Nothing.” He was grinning now. “I expected barbed wire. Or one of those steel chains.” Wiseass. “I’m secure enough in myself to wear panties with bows on them. Besides, they are comfy and soft.” “I bet.” He almost purred. I gulped. Okay, I needed to either crawl back into bed and cover myself with the blanket or get the hell to the bathroom and back. Since I didn’t fancy peeing on myself, the bathroom was my only option. “I don’t suppose you’d mind giving me a bit of privacy for my trip?” “Not a chance,” he said. I tried to get off the bed. Everything was under control until my weight actually hit my legs and then the room decided to crawl sideways. Curran caught me. His arm hugged my back, his touch sending an electric shiver along my skin. Oh no. “Need some help, ass kicker?” “I’m fine, thanks.” I pushed away from him. He held on to me for a second, letting me know that he could restrain me against my will with laughable ease, and let go. I clenched my teeth. Enjoy it while it lasts. I’ll be back on my feet soon. I walked away from him, successfully maintaining vertical position, and zeroed in on the nearest door. “That’s the closet.

Otto felt a profound emptiness as he considered the constant disappearances in his life, as if people simply vanished without reason or explanation. The words echoed in his head, "Where are you going? Please stop dying. Please stop passing away. Please stop disappearing with no explanation." He desperately wanted to feel some sense of security and permanence from those he loved. His father, acknowledging the strain between them, attempted to offer reassurance. "Otto, I know I've been hard but just know I'm not mad at you." Dad said gently. However, even with these words, Otto didn't feel any relief, and his yearning for genuine warmth continued. Utterly disheartened, Otto curled up on the carpet – the blue blanket symbolizing a distant past when days were simpler and happier – only to cry himself to sleep. Chilled to the core by an unshakable feeling of abandonment, he added blanket after blanket in a futile attempt to find comfort. He came to realize that no number of blankets could replace the warmth provided by genuine human connection. What he desperately craved was not mere physical warmth but the emotional warmth that comes from being held, hugged, and truly loved. A simple "I love you," whether heartfelt or forced, would have at least offered him a momentary sense of solace. In the end, all he desired was the gentle embrace of those who cared for him – even if it lasted merely a few seconds.

I feel heavy as lead as I walk aimlessly around the neglected ruins, I linger at the Fuhrer’s podium in silent respect for the loss of the world’s greatest leader, the God-Man and ultimate leader, Adolf Hitler, Mein Fuhrer. betrayed, betrayed again he was, how many times can he be betrayed, how many times did they try to kill him, to stop him anyway they could? And yet, still, out of God’s love he extended his hands to his folk, a treasonous people, an unworthy people, not just the Germans but all Europeans and all of this world, and has not the world got what it deserved for this treason? For the disloyalty? When they betrayed the rightful leader of freedom and instead chose the enemy to serve as slaves? And of all people, the Europeans have betrayed their own most of all and for that they have lost all sovereignty and dignity, and the only one who could have secured it for them, who sacrificed his own earthly life for the future of his folk – Adolf Hitler, is denigrated more than the Devil himself! Europe has scorned her greatest Son! Europe, without hesitation, sold all her children down the river, and for what? Less than trinkets and blankets… They sold their generations and civilization, all for worthless ECB Frankfurt Confetti!

They’ll think the worst,” she said. “I don’t want them to think ill of me, Vim. Mr. Charpentier, oh—bother. What do I call you?” He stopped short in the process of turning Kit loose among his blankets. “If I’m to call you Lady Sophia, you might consider calling me Lord Sindal.” Her brows flew up, then down. “You’re titled?” “A courtesy title, much like your own, but humbler. I’m heir to the Rothgreb viscountcy. Baron Sindal.” “Oh. My goodness.” She did meet his gaze then, and he saw understanding and relief in her eyes. “You did not tell me because you thought I was just a what… a lady’s companion? A housekeeper?” “Something like that. Mostly I thought you were lovely.” He still did. “What do we tell your brothers, Sophie? They’ve left us these few moments out of respect for you, but they’ll be in here any minute, crockery be damned.” “I suppose we tell them as little as possible.” It wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear, though the constraints of honor allowed him one further attempt to secure his heart’s desire. “I will offer for you, if that’s what you want.” Offer for her again. He kept the hope from his voice only with effort. Though from the severe frown Sophie displayed, a renewed offer wasn’t what she sought from him. “I won’t ask it of you.” He

Otto felt a profound emptiness as he considered the constant disappearances in his life, as if people simply vanished without reason or explanation. The words echoed in his head, "Where are you going? Please stop dying. Please stop passing away. Please stop disappearing with no explanation." He desperately wanted to feel some sense of security and permanence from those he loved. His father, acknowledging the strain between them, attempted to offer reassurance. "Otto, I know I've been hard but just know I'm not mad at you." Dad said gently. However, even with these words, Otto didn't feel any relief, and his yearning for genuine warmth continued. Utterly disheartened, Otto curled up on the carpet – the blue blanket symbolizing a distant past when days were simpler and happier – only to cry himself to sleep. Chilled to the core by an unshakable feeling of abandonment, he added blanket after blanket in a futile attempt to find comfort. He came to realize that no number of blankets could replace the warmth provided by genuine human connection. What he desperately craved was not mere physical warmth but the emotional warmth that comes from being held, hugged, and truly loved. A simple "I love you," whether heartfelt or forced, would have at least offered him a momentary sense of solace. In the end, all he desired was the gentle embrace of those who cared for him – even if it lasted merely a few seconds.

What are you doing abovedecks, anyhow?” “The cry went up for all hands.” “You’re not a hand. You’re a passenger.” “I may not be a hand, but I’ve got two perfectly good hands, and if I sit on them a second longer, I’ll go mad.” Joss stared at Gray’s open collar, where his cravat should have been knotted. “She’s really getting to you, isn’t she?” “You have no idea,” Gray muttered. “Oh, I think I do.” Gray ignored his brother’s smug tone. “Damn it, Joss, just put me to work. Send me up to furl a sail, put me down in the hold to pump the bilge…I don’t care, just give me something to do.” Joss raised his eyebrows. “If you insist.” He lifted the spyglass to his eye and began scanning the horizon again. “Batten the hatches, then.” Gray tossed a word of thanks over his shoulder as he descended to the quarterdeck and went to work, dragging the tarpaulins over the skylights and securing them with battens. As he labored, the ship’s motions grew more violent, hampering his efforts. He saved the vent above the ladies’ cabin for last, resisting the urge to peer down through the grate. Instead, he first secured one end, then blanketed the entire skylight with one strong snap on the canvas. “Ahoy! Ahoy!” Wiggins leaned forward over the prow, hailing the approaching ship, its puffed scudding sails a stark contrast against the darkening sky. Gray moved to cover the companion stairs, reaching inside the gaping black hole and groping for the handle to draw the hatch closed. Something-or someone-groped him back.

Fatmah Hassan Tabashe Sufian, sixty-one years old, married and a mother of four, was woken up on 6 April 1993 at three o’clock in the morning. Soldiers broke into her house, pushed her up against the wall and asked her where her children were; they are asleep, she replied. They woke up her son Saad, thirty years old, kicking him and beating him with their hands and rifle stocks, until he was spitting blood all over the place. Her other son, Ibrahim, was badly beaten, and the B’Tselem researcher who took Fatmah’s evidence testified that long after the incident he could still see signs of ecchymosis – subcutaneous bleeding – on his back. Both sons were taken out to the yard and put against a wall. The soldiers found two toy guns and began slashing the two men with them until the toys broke. Then they gathered everyone in the complex, twenty-seven people, into one room and threw in a shock grenade. Saad and Ibrahim were ordered to empty the cupboard while they were continuously beaten by the soldiers shouting at them, ‘You are Hamas and we are Golani [the name of the military brigade to which they belonged].’ Nor did they spare Fatmah’s old, blind brother who was a hundred years old. He too was abused by the soldiers, who threw mattresses and blankets at him.25 Thus, every April from 1987 until 1993 this was the routine of the collective punishment. But it was not only these three days that mattered. Collective punishment in March–May 1993 robbed 116,000 Palestinian workers of their source of living, bisected the Occupied Territories into four disconnected areas and barred any access to Jerusalem.26 Seen from that perspective, when the Oslo Accord was implemented as a territorial and security arrangement, it was just official confirmation of a policy already in place since 1987.

Derian pulled the blanket snug around himself. “This is my added assurance.” Eena wrinkled her nose as if she thought his answer was odder than his actions. “It’s your what?” “If you recall the last time we were here standing in this very spot, you pelted me with neumberries.” He held up a single berry before popping it into his mouth. “I doubt you would risk soiling your blanket, so I figure wrapping it around me this way I’m pretty much assured safety from any potential attack.” He winked playfully, and she laughed out loud. “I’m afraid you don’t know me half as well as you think,” she announced. Aiming low, she flung a sizable berry at his calf. It hit its mark. “Whoa, whoa!” He lowered the blanket to cover his legs. “You can’t hide yourself entirely, Derian,” she said, aiming for his face. He ducked, raising the blanket like a shield in the process. Another round of ammunition pelted his ankles before he decided it was time to fight back. Eena found herself bound up in her own blanket, arms wrapped securely at her sides. She laughed nonstop, unable to move within his strong hold. Derian leaned forward until their noses touched, and then he kissed her giggles silent. He kept her in the blanket, snug and close to him, but Eena managed to wriggle an arm free and drape it around his neck, holding his lips in reach. She uttered a quick count in between kisses. “Seven,” she breathed. Derian paused, his mouth a whisper away from hers. It tickled when he spoke. “No, no, Eena.” “No what?” “No counting. Not today. No ground rules.” She barely uttered a partial “’kay” before his mouth covered hers again. His hot breath tasted like breakfast. He fixed his hands on each side of her face, and the blanket fell to the ground. As the intensity of their kisses grew hungry, he gripped her cheeks more securely. Eena could feel the air electrifying around them. Her heartbeat drummed—excited and anxious. “Derian…” she breathed. But he didn’t stop. She felt his hand move to support her neck while the other slid down her back, urging her closer. She brought her arms together and pressed against his chest, somewhat objecting to the intimacy. “Derian…” she tried again. But he covered her mouth with his own. She pushed more firmly against him without success. Her protest weakened as his kisses softened. The fervor subsided, and she could feel her wild pulse even out. Amidst a string of supple kisses, Derian’s breathing slowed. He planted his lips on her forehead for a moment before squeezing her tenderly. She snuggled up against his warm chest. “One ground rule,” he whispered in her ear. “We stop when you say ‘when.’” “When,” she uttered. “Okay,” he agreed. Then, as if the thought had just occurred to her, she stepped back to look up questioningly at the captain. “Wasn’t there a leftover sandwich in that basket from last night?” His lips formed a guilty smile as he confessed, “Yes—and it was delicious.

The fact is that the estimate of fatalities, in terms of what was calculable at that time—even before the discovery of nuclear winter—was a fantastic underestimate. More than forty years later, Dr. Lynn Eden, a scholar at Stanford’s Center for International Security and Cooperation, revealed in Whole World on Fire71 the bizarre fact that the war planners of SAC and the Joint Chiefs—throughout the nuclear era to the present day—have deliberately omitted entirely from their estimates of the destructive effects of U.S. or Russian nuclear attacks the effects of fire. They have done so on the questionable grounds that these effects are harder to predict than the effects of blast or fallout, on which their estimates of fatalities are exclusively based, even though, as Eden found, experts including Hal Brode have disputed such conclusions for decades. (A better hypothesis for the tenacious lack of interest is that accounting for fire would reduce the number of USAF warheads and vehicles required to achieve the designated damage levels: which were themselves set high enough to preclude coverage by available Navy submarine-launched missiles.) Yet even in the sixties the firestorms caused by thermonuclear weapons were known to be predictably the largest producers of fatalities in a nuclear war. Given that for almost all strategic nuclear weapons, the damage radius of firestorms would be two to five times the radius destroyed by the blast, a more realistic estimate of the fatalities caused directly by the planned U.S. attacks on the Sino-Soviet bloc, even in 1961, would surely have been double the summary in the graph I held in my hand, for a total death toll of a billion or more: a third of the earth’s population, then three billion. Moreover, what no one would recognize for another twenty-two years were the indirect effects of our planned first strike that gravely threatened the other two thirds of humanity. These effects arose from another neglected consequence of our attacks on cities: smoke. In effect, in ignoring fire the Chiefs and their planners ignored that where there’s fire there’s smoke. But what is dangerous to our survival is not the smoke from ordinary fires, even very large ones—smoke that remained in the lower atmosphere and would soon be rained out—but smoke propelled into the upper atmosphere from the firestorms that our nuclear weapons were sure to create in the cities we targeted. (See chapter 16.) Ferocious updrafts from these multiple firestorms would loft millions of tons of smoke and soot into the stratosphere, where it would not be rained out and would quickly encircle the globe, forming a blanket blocking most sunlight around the earth for a decade or more. This would reduce sunlight and lower temperatures72 worldwide to a point that would eliminate all harvests and starve to death—not all but nearly all—humans (and other animals that depend on vegetation for food). The population of the southern hemisphere—spared nearly all direct effects from nuclear explosions, even from fallout—would be nearly annihilated, as would that of Eurasia (which the Joint Chiefs already foresaw, from direct effects), Africa, and North America. In a sense the Chiefs

Don’t let a handgun that sits in a drawer be a false security blanket. It is your demonstrable skill that gives the gun its real value. This skill has to be earned the hard way, with consistent practice — and being a perishable skill, it must be maintained the same way.

I have two sons. Jude is five, with dark, curly hair. He looks just like his mom. Moses is two, with bright eyes and a wide smile. I love watching my boys play together. They are never anxious. Never depressed. But every once in a while, they wake up in the middle of the night scared. Sometimes it’s a bad dream. Other times it’s a monster in the closet (that turns out to be a blanket). You know the drill. When they wake up crying, all they need to calm down is a minute or two in my arms. Once they feel that security—that safety, the fact that dad is present—they are fine. The implications are obvious. Jesus calls us to have faith like a child. I wonder if that means we need to trust God like my sons trust me. To climb up into his arms, take a deep breath, and know we are safe, as long as we are with him. I sleep much better these days. It still takes me a while to fall asleep at times. Like my boys, I still wake up with fears, concerns, thoughts that are out of control. My heart still picks up pace. My mind begins to race. But I’m learning to call out to God, to remember my place, and to take my thoughts captive. I’m learning to take a deep breath, to dwell on his scriptures, and to learn from my boys. After all, when was the last time you met a stressed-out five year old? I don’t think they exist. When was the last time you met a stressed-out child of God? They are all over the place.

Though he could not honestly believe in some invisible, mythical god, he could understand religion now. He could understand that it was a security blanket men wrapped around themselves. Maybe it was dark and close under that blanket and you couldn’t see more than a few inches in any direction, but it was safe. God created Heaven and Earth. There was a serenity to that, now wasn’t there? It was simple and reassuring. And if religion was indeed a sheltering blanket, then science was the cold hand which yanked it away, showing man his ultimate insignificance in the greater scheme of things, the truth about his origins and destiny.

Inspect every piece of pseudoscience and you will find a security blanket, a thumb to suck, a skirt to hold.

electrical cords, dangerous cleaning supplies, household chemicals, sugar free gum with xylitol (which can be fatal to dogs) and potentially toxic plants, like lilies and philodendrons. Put irreplaceable items, such as photo albums or a toy that a child uses as a security blanket out of reach.

when someone of great significance in our lives makes us feel like our belonging is more of a question mark than a security blanket, we become very sensitive to even the slightest hints of rejection.

Soft Structured Carries (SSC) OK when baby can sit unassisted. A soft structured carrier has buckles, straps, and snaps. The waist belt and shoulder straps are padded and connect with buckles. It can be put on quickly once the belts and buckles are figured out. Some manufacturers advertise wearing tiny infants in their SSC but, unless there is a separate crotch or bottom piece or the crotch or bottom piece is adjustable, it is not recommended to carry a newborn in a soft structured carrier. Most SSCs on the market are NOT adequate for a newborn and therefore we recommend against using a SSC with newborns. Anything you add to the carrier to make it work (rolled up receiving blankets, towels, cloth diapers, etc) for a newborn is also adding a potential hazard. A baby should not lay sideways in the cradle carry or cradle hold in a soft structured carrier. Most SSC are best used from about 6 months of age on.

John Bowlby (1973) reported on a landmark study of the adoption of securely attached toddlers that demonstrated that transitional objects had a major impact on reducing placement trauma. In this study, many of the toddlers’ belongings, including beds, blankets, and toys, accompanied them to their new homes.

Personal Truths Personal truths weave chaos into a security blanket.

More than anything else, Zen represents a soulful approach to life in which one remains completely vulnerable and open to life, without God as a security blanket. There is no attempt to eliminate the basic insecurity or unpredictability of life or to solve the mysteries of existence.

Because it is only when you submit to the world you hope to see that you can truly be present for the experiences you’ve so long dreamed about. Plans shouldn’t be a security blanket—they should be a means to an end. And for me, that end has always been adventure.

All along the river, the people I spoke to were hard-working and deeply attached to the mental security blanket of having a decent house, clean car and steady job. They were relatively wealthy, but at the same time quite ambivalent about wealth, and disdainful of anything which smacked of excessive consumption. Family was important, but having expensive jewellery or a fancy haircut usually were not. People considered it essential to be productive and efficient, but would also think it an outrage to be expected to reply to a work email on the weekend. From Rotterdam to Ludwigshafen, they counted pennies and returned empty bottles, avoided running up debts, and were careful to save for rainy days. Food was enjoyed but unimportant, and a 'salad' was anything covered with mayonnaise, preferably fried first.

You became my security blanket until I lost you and learned not to need you.

he was my first love, and the trepidation that constantly threatened to derail us only served to heighten our passion. It was a time of intense emotion, so fierce that I have never experienced anything like it since, and have never wanted to, happy to settle for security and predictability. I feel my eyes flood with tears as I acknowledge that I have chosen to replace the fiery heat I’ve fought shy of in my marriage with the thrill of the poker table. Dominic is a good man, but if ever there was a time to recognise the truth, it’s now, and I have to admit that sometimes I feel stifled. The warm blanket that he wraps around us all sometimes threatens to suffocate me. I began to play poker because I needed to save myself, my marriage, my home and my mother’s home, but now I don’t want to stop. It’s the only time I soar to the heights of excitement that I crave.

At that age, a blanket or toy would work well. Something special from you.” “She needs a woobie,” I chuckled. “Say what?” Sela asked with a raised eyebrow. “I had a security blanket when I was a kid,” I laughed, “and I called it my woobie. That’s what Marella needs, something like a woobie.” I expected the eyerolls and the scoffing, but what I didn’t expect was this stoic, often distant, warrior woman to fall into fits of laughter at my admission of having a security blanket as a child. “Hey,” I choked out, and I motioned to my amazing dragon-kin body and the huge sword on my hip, “I didn’t come out of the womb all studly like this!” This, for some reason, just made her laugh even harder. Pregnancy hormones were fucking weird.

Relative to other Harry Potter people, I’m in it medium. As it is for, I assume, plenty of other adults with emotional problems, Harry Potter is a reliable security blanket for me—during challenging periods in my life, listening to the (Jim Dale) audiobooks has been the only thing that gets me to sleep. It’s low-stakes and goofy, but also high-stakes and I care about the characters, plus there’s magic. Those are all of my needs. However, the best thing about Harry Potter, the thing that keeps me hooked year after year, is that the internal logic barely hangs together. None of it makes any sense! The best thing about Harry Potter is that I hate it!!!

Journals are, to a writer, deeply personal things. The moment we put our first thoughts on their pages they become a piece of our souls. My own favorite brown leather journal is where I always turn to give my fledgling ideas flesh; I have shaped entire lives and worlds between its covers before pushing them out into the world. That book (whose cover is still hanging on by sheer miracle) became my confidant, my talisman, my security blanket, and eventually my inspiration for Alice and her own journal. When I first started brainstorming her story in its pages, I thought I was going to be telling a story about a little girl whose journal was enchanted with the ability to transform the world around her into her most secret desires. I thought it would be a story about the dangers inherent in actually getting what we want and in learning to temper our desires with the needs of others. In a way, it still is. But eventually, it was writing in my journal that changed me instead of the other way around. Now Alice Will is also about laughing at ourselves and the empty traditions we value without knowing why. It’s about taking stock in our instincts before we let our fickle brains over-rationalize us out of the right choice. It’s about learning the hard way that maturity, at any age, is no match for experience. And finally, it’s about remembering that the right thing to do is still the right thing to do when no one is looking.

The cornerstone of control is the state’s system of surveillance, exposed by Snowden. I saw the effect of blanket surveillance as a reporter in the Stasi sate of Communist East Germany. I was followed by men, invariably with crew cuts and leather jackets, whom I presumed to be agents of the Stasi— the Ministry for State Security, which the ruling Communist Party described as the “shield and sword” of the nation. Stasi agents visited those I interviewed soon after I left their homes. My phone was bugged. Some of those I worked with were pressured to become informants. Fear hung like icicles over every conversation. People would whisper to me to convey the most banal pieces of information. The Stasi did not set up massive death camps and gulags. It did not have to. Its network of as many as 2 million informants in a country of 17 million was everywhere. There were 102,000 secret police officers employed full-time to monitor the population— one for every 166 East Germans. The Nazis broke bones. The Stasi broke souls. The East German security apparatus pioneered the psychological disintegration skills that torturers and interrogators in America’s black sites, and within our prison system, have honed to a chilling perfection. The goal of wholesale surveillance, as Hannah Arendt wrote in The Origins of Totalitarianism, is not, in the end, to discover crimes, “but to be on hand when the government decides to arrest a certain category of the population”. This is what happened to [Lynne] Stewart. And because Americans’ emails, phone conversations, Web searches, and geographical movements are recorded and stored in perpetuity in government databases, there will be more than enough “evidence” to seize us should the state deem it necessary. This information waits like a dormant virus inside government vaults to be released against us. It does not matter how trivial or innocent that information is. In totalitarian states, justice, like truth, is irrelevant.

Scuse me, my lady," the boy said, "but we thought ye'd want ter know that tha' new stray, the black wot's been hangin' 'bout, looks like she's ready ter have her kittens." "Abigail?" "Aye, if tha's wot yer callin' her. She's settled in ter a corner of tha' feed room in the haymow." "Of course I want to know. I'll go check on her now. While I do, see if you can find a good sturdy box, medium sided and broad; an herb box would do nicely. And some soft blankets and laundered rags. She and her kittens might feel more secure in there for the first few weeks, until at least the babies open their eyes." "Aye, Lady Esme." "Oh, bring me a pan of clean warm water too. You never know when there might be trouble during a delivery. I want to be ready to help if need be.

Our questioning—again echoing Ghazali—of the likely impact of development efforts (“prosperity,” in his formula) also flew in the face of received wisdom. For years, the notion had prevailed that the best way to sway Afghan “hearts and minds” was by giving away stuff: blankets, bags of wheat, wells for drinking water, schoolrooms. Among the conditions fueling extremism, commentators and policy makers often repeat, is economic malaise, aggravated by demographic shifts or such externals as drought. Foreign assistance is seen as a palliative to those ills. Evolving U.S. military doctrine even referred to “money as a weapon system.” But examination of extremist leaders’ sociological backgrounds casts doubt on these presumptions. Studies by such analysts as Andrew Wilder have found that in Afghanistan, infusions of development resources often exacerbated local conflict rather than reducing it, by providing new prizes for opposing groups to fight over.6

Wearing a flannel shirt is like wearing a socially accepted security blanket. Sue me. I like to be comfortable, and comforted.

Sinclair spots my gesture. "What's up with your tattoo, anyway, Fergus? Why are you always rubbing it like it's a freaking security blanket?" He grabs my arm and inspects the ink. "What's DFF stand for?" I rip my arm back from him and stick my face about an inch from his. "Right now it stands for 'Don't Fuck with Fergus," I growl. "Holy crap, can we bring the man rage down a level?" Cata says, pushing us apart and stepping between us.

For males, power is the ultimate aphrodisiac, and an addictive one at that. The violent reaction of Nikkie and Yeroen to their loss of power fits the frustration-aggression hypothesis to the letter: the deeper the bitterness, the greater the anger. Males jealously guard their power, and lose all inhibition if anyone challenges it. And this hadn’t been the first time for Yeroen. The ferocity of the attack on Luit may have been due to the fact that it was the second time he had come out on top. The first time Luit gained the upper hand - marking the end of Yeroen’s ancient regime - I was perplexed by the way the established leader reacted. Normally a dignified character, Yeroen became unrecognizable. In the midst of a confrontation, he would drop out of a tree like a rotten apple, writhing on the ground, screaming pitifully, and waiting to be comforted by the rest of the group. He acted much like a juvenile ape being pushed away from his mother’s teats. And like a juvenile who during tantrums keeps an eye on mom for signs of softening, Yeroen always noted who approached him. If the group around him was big and powerful enough, and especially if it included the alpha female, he would gain instant courage. With his supporters in tow, he would rekindle the confrontation with his rival. Clearly, Yeroen’s tantrums were yet another example of deft manipulation. What fascinated me most, however, were the parallels with infantile attachment, nicely captured in expressions like “clinging to power” and “being weaned from power.” Knocking a male off his pedestal gets the same reaction as yanking the security blanket away from a baby. When Yeroen finally lost his top spot, he would often sit staring into the distance after a fight, an empty expression on his face. He was oblivious to the social activity around him and refused food for weeks. We thought he was sick, but the veterinarian found nothing wrong. Yeroen seemed a mere ghost of the impressive big shot he had been. I’ve never forgotten this image of a beaten and dejected Yeroen. When power was lost, the lights in him went out.

I don’t know what else you expect to feel, but that’s about it. We are not teenagers, and love doesn’t hit us over the head or kick us in the stomach with gut-wrenching intensity. Love washes over us like a warm wave, covering us in a blanket of security. Sometimes love just feels like home.

A child’s attachment to his mother is a complicated yet crucial psychological business. In normal childhood development, at first the child’s whole world is the mother. Then, sometime between the infant and toddler stages, the child realizes that he’s separate from his mother and experiences separation anxiety, crying when she isn’t in sight. Often, to avoid the anxiety, he adopts an object that represents the security of the mother-child attachment. This becomes the transitional attachment object. It’s usually a blanket or a plush toy, and the toddler takes it everywhere, especially to bed. The transitional object helps the child bridge the gap between dependence and independence.

I would posit, however, that people aren’t searching for happiness -they're searching for freedom. And true happiness that is, enduring well-being- is a by product of that freedom [...] when you think about freedom, you often think of doing whatever you want, whenever you want. [...] Dig deeper, however, and you quickly realize that's not freedom- it's self inflicted tyranny [...] Sure, faux freedom is comfortable, not unlike a child's security blanket, but it is not the blanket that keeps a child secure. Security resides in our ability to move on, to walk away from what's holding us back, and to walk toward that which is worthwhile.

I reached a point in my own life where I had enough. There was so much stuff around me that I just wanted to scream. I started to get really distressed when looking around my home at all the unnecessary things laying around. At first I took to “tidying up”, putting things away in neat little plastic boxes and lining these boxes up in perfect rows in my closets, desk and other storage areas. This didn’t do it for me, because the clutter would always return and I felt like I wasn’t getting to the root of the issue. I realized that my issue wasn’t just wasn’t the disorganization, but it was the matter of why I had all this stuff to begin with. In my mind, throwing stuff away became less wasteful than having acquired it in the first place. It was almost like this stuff I had acquired was a crutch. The expensive stuff I had was a way to tell myself that I am successful. The activity items, like cookbooks and sports equipment, was a way of pretending that I am consistently an active and dynamic person. The redundant items, like extra jackets and clothing, kitchen supplies, and books were a security blanket guarding against an unknown future (i.e. “you never know”). I suspect that the sentimental items from my past were also a way of holding on to what I know and a fear of moving forward.

For starters, a masculine spirituality would emphasize movement over stillness, action over theory, service to the world over religious discussions, speaking the truth over social niceties and doing justice instead of any self-serving “charity.” Without a complementary masculine, spirituality becomes overly feminine (which is really a false feminine!) and is characterized by too much inwardness, preoccupation with relationships, a morass of unclarified feeling and religion itself as a security blanket. This prevents a journey to anyplace new, and fosters a constant protecting of the old. It is no-risk religion, just the opposite of Abraham, Moses, Paul and Jesus. In my humble masculine opinion I believe much of the modern, sophisticated church is swirling in what I will describe as a kind of “neuter” religion. It is one of the main reasons that doers, movers, shakers and change agents have largely given up on church people and church groups. As one very effective woman said to me, “After a while you get tired of the in-house jargon that seems to go nowhere.” A neuter spirituality is the trap of those with lots of leisure, luxury and self-serving ideas. They have the option not to do, not to change, not to long and thirst for justice. It can take either a liberal or a conservative form, but in either case, it becomes an inoculation against any deep spiritual journey. That’s why I call it “neuter.” It generates no real sexual energy or life.

And I remember that I’m not lonely. I’m alone. When I’m comatose from writing and mothering, when I’m hurting too badly to cook, talk, or smile, I curl up with ‘alone’ like a security blanket. Alone doesn’t care that I don’t shave my legs in the winter. Alone never gets disappointed by me.” Eva sighed. “It’s the best relationship I’ve ever been in.” “Are you speaking metaphorically,” asked Cece, “or are you dating a man named Alone?

The beach itself was sheltered by the cliff from the wind and from the sun and from the view of the unending shore line. In that great openness of water, desert, and sky, it was curiously private; but the security it provided was, for Evelyn, a frail illusion. She was, nevertheless, grateful for it. She set the blanket and towels down almost against the cliff itself, twenty feet from the water, and sat down to watch Ann who had kicked off her shoes and was wading out from the shore to plant a bottle of wine.

The Uyghur region was now a gigantic prison, blanketed with security forces and a biometric surveillance system unique in human history.