Shiny Car Quotes

Whither goest thou, America, in thy shiny car in the night?

To us, your power comes from one simple thing: you’re a woman, and we men will do anything humanly possible to impress you so that, ultimately, we can be with you. You’re the driving force behind why we wake up every day. Men go out and get jobs and hustle to make money because of women. We drive fancy cars because of women. We dress nice, put on cologne, get haircuts and try to look all shiny and new for you. We do all of this because the more our game is stepped up, the more of you we get. You’re the ultimate prize to us.

Plus the fact that the window I was now facing opened up to the part of the lot where people picked up their brand-new cars. Every few minutes, one of the salesmen would walk someone right to the center of the window, hand them their shiny new keys, and then smile benevolently as they drove off into the sunset, just like in the commercials. What a bunch of shit.

From day one it was like society was this violent, complicated dance and everybody had taken lessons but me. Knocked to the floor again, climbing to my feet each time, bloody and humiliated. Always met with disapproving faces, waiting for me to leave so I'd stop fucking up the party. The wanted to push me outside, where the freaks huddled in the cold. Out there with the misfits, the broken, the glazed-eye types who can only watch as the normals enjoy their shiny new cars and careers and marriages and vacations with the kids. The freaks spend their lives shambling around, wondering how they got left out, mumbling about conspiracy theories and bigfoot sightings. Their encounters with the world are marked by awkward conversations and stifled laughter, hidden smirks and rolled eyes. And worst of all, pity.

Meg turned and gazed out the rear windshield, probably checking for any shiny blobs pursuing us. “At least we’re not being—” “Don’t say it,” Percy warned. Meg huffed. “You don’t know what I was going to—” “You were going to say, ‘At least we’re not being followed,’” Percy said. “That’ll jinx us. Immediately we’ll notice that we are being followed. Then we’ll end up in a big battle that totals my family car and probably destroys the whole freeway. Then we’ll have to run all the way to camp.” Meg’s eyes widened. “You can tell the future?” "Don’t need to.” Percy changed lanes to one that was crawling slightly less slowly. “I’ve just done this a lot.

I look at her lips shiny and thick with so much gloss. There’s a wavering quality to her voice, like a car swerving down a dangerous road.

Except for when I was very little and thought that being an "engineer" meant he drove a train. Then I imagined him in the seat of an engine car the color of coal, a string of shiny passenger cars trailing behind. One day my father laughed and corrected me. Everything snapped into focus. It's one of those unforgettable moments that happen as a child, when you discover that all along the world has been betraying you.

We talk about the shiny little nothings we see – people and cars and cathedrals, even la Tour Eiffel – but it’s not that we don’t have anything meaningful to say. The feeling is that we have everything to say. And where do you begin with everything?

My storms didn’t always stay outdoors. Sometimes they stole inside my very body, fisted my car key and dragged it down some asshole’s shiny red hood.

The only way to get through life is to laugh your way through it. You either have to laugh or cry. I prefer to laugh. Crying gives me a headache.” “I don't want to drive up to the pearly gates in a shiny sports car, wearing beautifully, tailored clothes, my hair expertly coiffed, and with long, perfectly manicured fingernails. I want to drive up in a station wagon that has mud on the wheels from taking kids to scout camp. I want to be there with a smudge of peanut butter on my shirt from making sandwiches for a sick neighbors children. I want to be there with a little dirt under my fingernails from helping to weed someone's garden. I want to be there with children's sticky kisses on my cheeks and the tears of a friend on my shoulder. I want the Lord to know I was really here and that I really lived.

Where's your car? Miles asks, glancing at him as he slams his door shut and slings his backpack over his shoulder. "And whats up with your hand?" "I got rid of it," Damen says, gaze fixed on mine. Then glancing at Miles and seeing his expression he adds, "The car, not the hand." "Did you trade it in?" I ask, but only because Miles is listening. [...] He shakes his head and walks me to the gate, smiling as he says, "No, I just dropped off on the side of the road, key in the ignition, engine running." "Excuse me?!" Miles yelps. "You mean to tell me that you left your shiny, black, BMW M6 Coupe—by the side of the road?" Damen nods. But thats a hundred-thousand-dollar car!" Miles gasps as his face turns bright red. "A hundreds and ten." Damen laughs. "Don't forget, it was fully customized and loaded with options." Miles stares at him, eyes practically bugging out of his head, unable to comprehend how anyone could do such a thing—why anyone would do such a thing. "Um, okay, so let me get this straight—you just woke up and decided—Hey, what the hell? I think I'll just dump my ridiculously expensive luxury car by the side of the road—WHERE JUST ANYONE CAN TAKE IT?" Damen shrugs. "Pretty much." "Because in case you haven't noticed," Miles says, practically hyperventilating now. "Some of us are a little car deprived. Some of us were born with parents so cruel and unusual they're forced to rely on the kindness of friends for the rest of their lives!" "Sorry." Damen shrugs. "Guess I hadn't thought about that. Though if it makes you feel any better, it was all for a very good cause.

A beautiful woman is a car crash. Shiny asphalt and smoking rubber. Melted plastic and metal edges. Glimmering glass shrapnel iridescence scattered across the road. Haphazard beauty. Dignified and slightly terrifying.

Just bought a vintage Pontiac GTO,” he said. “Fine car. I put polished headers on it, big bore pipes. Goes like shit off a shiny shovel.” I said nothing. “You like muscle cars?” “No,” I said. “I like to take the bus.” “That’s not much fun.” “OK, let me put it another way. I’m happy with the size of my penis. I don’t need compensation.” He

My life is hard. No one would rob me of that. The clothes I am wearing came out of a knotted up black plastic trash bag from a resale shop downtown. And not the downtown where shiny cars wink at you in the sunlight. If a car winks at you in this area it’s being driven by a person you would be best to avoid. My side of downtown is crumbling and skirted by chain link fences. --Rocky Evans

For folks who have that casual-dude energy coursing through their bloodstream, that's great. But gays should not grow up alienated just for us to alienate each other. It's too predictable, like any other cycle of abuse. Plus, the conformist, competitive notion that by "toning down" we are "growing up" ultimately blunts the radical edge of what it is to be queer; it truncates our colorful journey of identity. Said another way, it's like living in West Hollywood and working a gay job by day and working it in the gay nightlife, wearing delicate shiny shirts picked from up the gay dry cleaners, yet coquettishly left unbuttoned to reveal the pec implants purchased from a gay surgeon and shown off by prancing around the gay-owned-and-operated theater hopped up on gay health clinic steroids and wheat grass purchased from the friendly gay boy who's new to the city, and impressed by the monstrous SUV purchased from a gay car dealership with its rainbow-striped bumper sticker that says "Celebrate Diversity." Then logging on to the local Gay.com listings and describing yourself as "straight-acting." Let me make myself clear. This is not a campaign for everyone to be like me. That'd be a total yawn. Instead, this narrative is about praise for the prancy boys. Granted, there's undecided gender-fucks, dagger dykes, faux-mos, po-mos, FTMs, fisting-top daddies, and lezzie looners who also need props for broadening the sexual spectrum, but they're telling their own stories. The Cliff's Notes of me and mine are this: the only moments I feel alive are when I'm just being myself - not some stiff-necked temp masquerading as normal in the workplace, not some insecure gay boy aspiring to be an overpumped circuit queen, not some comic book version of swank WeHo living. If that's considered a political act in the homogenized world of twenty-first century homosexuals, then so be it. — excerpt of "Praise For The Prancy Boys," by Clint Catalyst appears in first edition (ISBN # 1-932360-56-5)

Three hundred types of mussel, a third of the world’s total, live in the Smokies. Smokies mussels have terrific names, like purple wartyback, shiny pigtoe, and monkeyface pearlymussel. Unfortunately, that is where all interest in them ends. Because they are so little regarded, even by naturalists, mussels have vanished at an exceptional rate. Nearly half of all Smokies mussels species are endangered; twelve are thought to be extinct. This ought to be a little surprising in a national park. I mean it’s not as if mussels are flinging themselves under the wheels of passing cars. Still, the Smokies seem to be in the process of losing most of their mussels. The National Park Service actually has something of a tradition of making things extinct. Bryce Canyon National Park is perhaps the most interesting-certainly the most striking-example. It was founded in 1923 and in less than half a century under the Park Service’s stewardship lost seven species of mammal-the white-tailed jackrabbit, prairie dog, pronghorn antelope, flying squirrel, beaver, red fox, and spotted skunk. Quite an achievement when you consider that these animals had survived in Bryce Canyon for tens of millions of years before the Park Service took an interest in them. Altogether, forty-two species of mammal have disappeared from America's national parks this century.

It was getting harder, however. American magazines still looked shiny and lively, but by the early 1960s, writers like Flora were sensing trouble. With television's exploding popularity, more and more people were staring at screens instead of turning pages. Big corporations like car manufacturers were pulling their advertising dollars out of print and spending them on the airwaves. Magazines were bleeding ad pages and readers, and editors scrambled to balance budgets by retooling audiences.

A horn honks.I look up, expecting to see the white Audi. But there’s a sleek black four-door with shiny silver rims instead. e driver side opens and a tall, dark figure in a trendy fall leather jacket and aviator sunglasses steps out and stalks around the car to open the passenger door. “Irish! Get in.” And I decide that Dr. Stayner is an evil wizard with a crystal ball and puppet strings attached to his fingers. He has somehow masterminded this entire situation. He’s definitely cackling in his office right now.

Whither goes thou, America, in thy shiny car in the night?

You'll teach me to drive your car if I let you get in the water?" "Uh, no. I'll teach you how to drive Galen's car if you let me get in the water. You're not touching my car without a license. A real one, not some shiny plastic thing Rachel made between afternoon talk shows." Even if Galen doesn't have insurance, he's got enough in his wallet to buy a new one. I, on the other hand, have just enough in saving to cover my deductible. Her eyes go round. "You'll let me drive his little red one? The combustible?" Why not? I nod. "Yep. The convertible. Deal?" She grabs my hand from the couch to pull us both up. Then she shakes it. "Deal! I'll go get the keys from Rachel.

Some car had hit it after all, because it hadn’t had the courage to honor its own correct instinct. And I began to cry because I had this thought about people, that they do this all the time, deny the wise voice inside them telling them the right thing to do because it is different. I remembered once seeing a tea party some little girls had set up outside, mismatched china, decorations of a plucked pansy blossom and a seashell and a shiny penny and a small circle of red berries and a fern, pressed wetly into the wooden table, the damp outline around it a beautiful bonus. They didn’t consult the Martha Stewart guide for entertainment and gulp a martini before their guests arrived. They pulled ideas from their hearts and minds about the things that gave them pleasure, and they laid out an offering with loving intent. It was a small Garden of Eden, the occupants making something out of what they saw was theirs. Out of what they truly saw.

despair sometimes hope leads us on teases us with its shiny baubles its stunning horizons it can carry us over the roiling turmoil the raging storm then as easily with its cornucopia of lies drop us into the waves to flounder against its loss

To begin with, there is the frightful debauchery of taste that has already been effected by a century of mechanisation. This is almost too obvious and too generally admitted to need pointing out. But as a single instance, take taste in its narrowest sense - the taste for decent food. In the highly mechanical countries, thanks to tinned food, cold storage, synthetic flavouring matters, etc., the palate it almost a dead organ. As you can see by looking at any greengrocer’s shop, what the majority of English people mean by an apple is a lump of highly-coloured cotton wool from America or Australia; they will devour these things, apparently with pleasure, and let the English apples rot under the trees. It is the shiny, standardized, machine-made look of the American apple that appeals to them; the superior taste of the English apple is something they simply do not notice. Or look at the factory-made, foil wrapped cheeses and ‘blended’ butter in an grocer’s; look at the hideous rows of tins which usurp more and more of the space in any food-shop, even a dairy; look at a sixpenny Swiss roll or a twopenny ice-cream; look at the filthy chemical by-product that people will pour down their throats under the name of beer. Wherever you look you will see some slick machine-made article triumphing over the old-fashioned article that still tastes of something other than sawdust. And what applies to food applies also to furniture, houses, clothes, books, amusements and everything else that makes up our environment. These are now millions of people, and they are increasing every year, to whom the blaring of a radio is not only a more acceptable but a more normal background to their thoughts than the lowing of cattle or the song of birds. The mechanisation of the world could never proceed very far while taste, even the taste-buds of the tongue, remained uncorrupted, because in that case most of the products of the machine would be simply unwanted. In a healthy world there would be no demand for tinned food, aspirins, gramophones, gas-pipe chairs, machine guns, daily newspapers, telephones, motor-cars, etc. etc.; and on the other hand there would be a constant demand for the things the machine cannot produce. But meanwhile the machine is here, and its corrupting effects are almost irresistible. One inveighs against it, but one goes on using it. Even a bare-arse savage, given the change, will learn the vices of civilisation within a few months. Mechanisation leads to the decay of taste, the decay of taste leads to demand for machine-made articles and hence to more mechanisation, and so a vicious circle is established.

the reason the middle class had it so good was because they expected things to be better. They wouldn’t settle for less than they were worth. They’d just get into their shiny cars and go where they were appreciated. Poor people, on the other hand, were used to just taking what was given to them and being grateful for it.

Though material pleasures provide a sense of achievement, the feeling is only temporary. Two weeks after buying a car, it is just a car. That bright, shiny new cell phone is exciting for a few days until the next model is released. It’s a never-ending loop of buy and replace, a fake pleasure. If you’re after true fulfilment, I say take a walk in the wilderness.

Then he placed his hands in his pockets and stood in the middle of the street alone, giving the silent roaring rage inside him time to ease down and out, and after several long minutes he once again became who he was, a solitary middle-aged man in the August of life looking for a few more Aprils, an aging bachelor in a floppy suit standing on a tired, worn Brooklyn street in the shadow of a giant housing project built by a Jewish reformer named Robert Moses who forgot he was a reformer, building projects like this all over, which destroyed neighborhoods, chasing out the working Italians, Irish, and Jews, gutting all the pretty things from them, displacing them with Negroes and Spanish and other desperate souls clambering to climb into the attic of New York life, hoping that the bedroom and kitchen below would open up so they could drop in, and at minimum join the club that to them included this man, an overweight bachelor in an ill-fitting suit, watching a shiny car roaring away, the car driven by a handsome young man who was pretty and drove away as if he were barreling into a bright future, while the dowdy heavyset man watched him jealously, believing the man so pretty and handsome had places to go and women to meet and things to do, and the older heavyset man standing behind eating his fumes on a sorry, dreary, crowded old Brooklyn street of storefronts and tired brownstones had nothing left but the fumes of the pretty sports car in his face.

Not much of a gentleman, but what did I care? I just wished he’d walk a little slower. I needed a little more time before the dreaded car ride. I followed him to a shiny burgundy Mercedes. The Steels had money. A lot of it. While I went home from college during the summers and did secretarial work for my father’s construction company, Marj took whirlwind tours to Europe and cruises to the Greek Isles.

Mussolini was not a keen judge of individuals, but he was sure he knew what the mass of people wanted: a show. He compared the mob to women who are helpless (he fantasized) in the presence of strong men. He posed for pictures in the government-controlled media while driving a sports car, standing sans shirt in a wheat field, riding his white stallion, FruFru, and posing in his military uniform, complete with shiny boots and a chest bedecked with medals.

Better a little with God than a whole lot without Him. Better to have fewer houses, cars, appliances, clothes, toys, and bills than to have the whole world and lose your soul. Better something paid for that's used and enjoyed and shared and worn out than something nice and shiny and new that won't be paid for until 2019 and that you're too stressed to enjoy. Better a little with the fear of the Lord than more of what everyone else has. Better than normal, instead of normal is best.

I’d looked at postcollege Amber like a new, shiny, limited-edition car. She’d raised my stock and seemed like a good addition to my life at the time. I looked at Madison like she was a piñata full of surprises and 0rgasms I wanted to burst. With my dick-shaped bat.

Edward was walking past the front of my truck, looking straight forward, his lips pressed together. I yanked the door open and jumped inside, slamming it loudly behind me. I revved the engine deafeningly and reversed out into the aisle. Edward was in his car already, two spaces down, sliding out smoothly in front of me, cutting me off. He stopped there—to wait for his family; I could see the four of them walking this way, but still by the cafeteria. I considered taking out the rear of his shiny Volvo, but there were too many witnesses.

Nothing in my life could have prepared me for the horror of watching Marlboro Man, my new love, and his brother, Tim, whom I’d just met, chivalrously dart around Tim’s driveway, trying valiantly to save my wayward dollars, all because I couldn’t keep my balance on the steps of their shiny new semi. I left my car at Tim’s for the evening, and when we pulled away in Marlboro Man’s pickup, I stared out the window, shaking my head and apologizing for being such a colossal dork. When we got to the highway, Marlboro Man glanced at me as he made a right-hand turn. “Yeah,” he said, consoling me. “But you’re my dork.

But there’s never been anyone? Really?” Sarah shrugs. “Penny and I were tutored at home when we were young . . . but in year ten, there was this one boy.” I rub my hands together. “Here we go—tell me everything. I want all the sick, lurid details. Was he a footballer? Big and strong, captain of the team, the most popular boy in school?” I could see it. Sarah’s delicate, long and lithe, but dainty, beautiful—any young man would’ve been desperate to have her on his arm. In his lap. In his bed, on the hood of his car, riding his face . . . all of the above. “He was captain of the chess team.” I cover my eyes with my hand. “His name was Davey. He wore these adorable tweed jackets and bow ties, he had blond hair, and was a bit pale because of the asthma. He had the same glasses as I and he had a different pair of argyle socks for every day of the year.” “You’re messing with me, right?” She shakes her head. “Argyle socks, Sarah? I am so disappointed in you right now.” “He was nice,” she chides. “You leave my Davey alone.” Then she laughs again—delighted and free. My cock reacts hard and fast, emphasis on hard. It’s like sodding granite. “So what happened to old Davey boy?” “I was alone in the library one day and he came up and started to ask me to the spring social. And I was so excited and nervous I could barely breathe.” I picture how she must’ve looked then. But in my mind’s eyes she’s really not any different than she is right now. Innocent, sweet, and so real she couldn’t deceive someone if her life depended on it. “And then before he could finish the question, I . . .” I don’t realize I’m leaning toward her until she stops talking and I almost fall over. “You . . . what?” Sarah hides behind her hands. “I threw up on him.” And I try not to laugh. I swear I try . . . but I’m only human. So I end up laughing so hard the car shakes and I can’t speak for several minutes. “Christ almighty.” “And I’d had fish and chips for lunch.” Sarah’s laughing too. “It was awful.” “Oh you poor thing.” I shake my head, still chuckling. “And poor Davey.” “Yes.” She wipes under her eyes with her finger. “Poor Davey. He never came near me again after that.” “Coward—he didn’t deserve you. I would’ve swam through a whole lake of puke to take a girl like you to the social.” She smiles so brightly at me, her cheeks maroon and round like two shiny apples. “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” I wiggle my eyebrows. “I’m all about the compliments.

Shiny, perfect things Expensive cars, fancy diamond rings Hardly impress me Rather mundane, shallow, uninspiring Give me rough around the edges any day Dreadlocks and tousled hair are fine by me Body piercings Quirky things Vintage art, old records and books appeal to me Because they have charm, more personality

The things Cody wanted, needed, are frowned upon by the intolerant society in which we live, and we could never explain it, not any part of it, not at all. And so we would sit with the teacher and dither and dance and exchange fake smiles and grandiose clichés and pretend to feel hope for a bright and shiny future for a boy who would unstoppably grow into a Dark Legacy already written in blood instead of chalk. And thinking about how I must unavoidably avoid this truth with the teacher and instead spend forty-five minutes mouthing cheerful brainless New Age buzzwords with someone who Really Cared made me want to ram my car into the Buick filled with blue-haired ladies from Minnesota that chugged along on the road beside me.

The sun rises in a clear sky that moves from black to gray to white to deep, pure crystal blue. One in Georgia packs his things he’s going to take a bus. Four in Mexico walk across scorched earth water in packs on their back. Two in Indiana best friends coming together they pack their best clothes while their parents wait to take them to the airport. One in Canada drives south. Sixty from China in a cargo container sail east. Four in New York pool their cash and buy a car and drop out of school and drive west. Sixteen cars of a passenger train crossing the Mojave only one stop left. One in Miami doesn’t know how she’s going to get there. Three in Montana have a truck none of them have any idea what they’re going to do once they arrive. A plane from Brazil sold out landing at LAX. Six in Chicago dreaming on shared stages they rented a van they’ll see if any of them can make it. Two from Arizona hitchhiking. Four more just crossed in Texas walking. Another one in Ohio with a motorcycle and a dream. All of them with their dreams. It calls to them and they believe it and they cannot say no to it, they cannot say no. It calls to them. It calls. Calls.

What can I tell them? Sealed in their metallic shells like molluscs on wheels, how can I pry the people free? The auto as tin can, the park ranger as opener. Look here, I want to say, for godsake folks get out of them there machines, take off those fucking sunglasses and unpeel both eyeballs, look around; throw away those goddamned idiotic cameras! For chrissake folks what is this life if full of care we have no time to stand and stare? eh? Take off your shoes for a while, unzip your fly, piss hearty, dig your toes in the hot sand, feel that raw and rugged earth, split a couple of big toenails, draw blood! Why not? Jesus Christ, lady, roll that window down! You can't see the desert if you can't smell it. Dusty? Of course it's dusty—this is Utah! But it's good dust, good red Utahn dust, rich in iron, rich in irony. Turn that motor off. Get out of that peice of iron and stretch your varicose veins, take off your brassiere and get some hot sun on your old wrinkled dugs! You sir, squinting at the map with your radiator boiling over and your fuel pump vapor-locked, crawl out of that shiny hunk of GM junk and take a walk—yes, leave the old lady and those squawling brats behind for a while, turn your back on them and take a long quiet walk straight into the canyons, get lost for a while, come back when you damn well feel like it, it'll do you and her and them a world of good. Give the kids a break too, let them out of the car, let them go scrambling over rocks hunting for rattlesnakes and scorpions and anthills—yes sir, let them out, turn them loose; how dare you imprison little children in your goddamned upholstered horseless hearse? Yes sir, yes madam, I entreat you, get out of those motorized wheelchairs, get off your foam rubber backsides, stand up straight like men! like women! like human beings! and walk—walk—WALK upon your sweet and blessed land!

And remember when I said that Liam doesn’t spend money to the excess? I take that back. I might not be a car expert, but I know a Bugatti Veyron when I see one. And that’s what I’m looking at right now. A sexy-as-hell Bugatti. “This car is a total babe magnet.” I run my fingertips over the smooth, shiny black paintwork. “Like its owner,” he says, shutting the trunk with a soft clunk. “Ha!” I laugh. “Seriously though, you could look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame and still score a supermodel if you had this car.” Liam gives a mock-offended look. “I hope to fuck you’re not implying that chicks only dig me because of my car.” I laugh again. “As if. This is the first time I’ve seen your car, and I totally dug you long before this.” He comes around the car, toward me. Standing before me, he takes my face in his hands, tipping it back so that I’m looking up into his eyes. Leaning in, he softly kisses me on the lips. “I kinda dig you, too, Boston.

She looked out the window, and her heart jumped: the expanse of the pie pantry and orchard shimmered in the early-morning light in front of her, the bay and LaKe Michigan glimmering in the distance. To Sam, it looked as if one of her grandmother's paintings had come to life: red apples bobbed as tree limbs swayed in the breeze; bushes thick with the bluest of blueberries shimmied; peaches, fuzzy and bright, nestled snugly against branches; shiny cars and people dressed in bright T-shirts and caps danced into the pie pantry and into the orchards; near the distance, the cornfields seemed to move as if they were doing the wave at a football game, while cherry trees dotted with the deep red fruit resembled holly bushes out of season. And yet there was an incredible uniformity to the scene despite the visual overload: everything was lined up in neat rows, as if each tree, bush, and person understood its purpose at this very moment. I've forgotten this view, Sam thought, recalling the one from her own bedroom window earlier in the morning. There is an order to life's chaos, be it the city or country, if we just stop for a moment and see it.

Kristen- Matt kidnapped me! He was planning to kill me! He said that he was going to put my dead body in the woods, that he had the perfect spot. That he could cover me over with the brush, that was there… out in the middle of nowhere. So, no one would find me until my body would rot and smell to the high heavens. Will I live or will I die? He said that he wanted to do it slowly and diligently over some time to make sure I would feel as much pain that could be felt. In the car, his first stop along this journey through hell was a small one-room cabin out in the woods, with no power, no main roads, nothing, nothing for me to think about other than death. That is where we went first, and he tied me down in that shack, to the one old lone bed, as well as flopped on top nonstop on me for many days. Of course, for many days I laid on top of that bed so vulnerable, for him at any time to do as he wanted. Never able to move, as he had that zeal glimmer in his eyes, all I could do is shake and squirm slightly in my pee and other substances like that. Yes, he loved to shine the light off of that large shiny knife blade in my face, to show me what he was capable of doing also if I did not give it all up to him when he wanted it. Oh, how he would, inject sedation drugs into me every chance he got, I could not fight him off, I could not beat him off enough, so he would put me to sleep, so he could be as rough as he wanted to be. He had me worn out!

Today Ramon defended the garbage bin by Plumpy’s back door, and I defended a shiny silver Mercedes because, according to Ramon, it represented the privileged white aristocracy of America trying to keep the Latino man down. “Our duel,” Ramon said, spinning his broom like a bo staff, “will represent the struggle our nation’s currently engaged in.” “Please, we both know you’re just going for home team advantage.” “You wound me, Sam. I can’t help it if your crackerlike oppression gives me the better playing field.” He did a quick hamstring stretch. “Suck it up.” “Fine,” I said, “then I get the handicap.” “Sam, you’re Texas. Texas always gets the handicap.” “I’m Team Texas again?” He grinned, rolled his shoulders, and wiggled his arms, loosening them. I gave up and nodded at the Mercedes. It looked old and expensive, especially in our parking lot. “Shiny.” Ramon snorted. “Classic. Check out the gullwing doors.” “Fine. Classic Shiny.” Ramon tossed an empty Plumpy’s cup into the Dumpster. “Sometimes, Sammy, I question your manhood.” “A car is to get you from place to place. That’s it.” Ramon shook his head at my ignorance. “Whatever. Just try not to dent the car, Team Mexico.” “It’s Team South America,” he said. “You do know that Mexico is in North America, right?” “Yeah, but I have the whole continent behind me.” He held up his fist dramatically. “They support their cousin to the north.” I laughed and he dropped his hand back down. “And it’s that guy’s own fault for parking in our lot so he could sneak over to Eddie Bauer or Starbucks or whatever.

Jay's downstairs waiting." With her father on one side, and the handrail on the other, Violet descended the stairs as if she were floating. Jay stood at the bottom, watching her, frozen in place like a statue. His black suit looked as if it had been tailored just for him. His jacket fell across his strong shoulders in a perfect line, tapering at his narrow waist. The crisp white linen shirt beneath stood out in contrast against the dark, finely woven wool. He smiled appreciatively as he watched her approach, and Violet felt her breath catch in her throat at the striking image of flawlessness that he presented. "You...are so beautiful," he whispered fervently as he strode toward her, taking her dad's place at her arm. She smiled sheepishly up at him. "So are you." Her mom insisted on taking no fewer than a hundred pictures of the two of them, both alone and together, until Violet felt like her eyes had been permanently damaged by the blinding flash. Finally her father called off her mom, dragging her away into the kitchen so that Violet and Jay could have a moment alone together. "I meant it," he said. "You look amazing." She shook her head, not sure what to say, a little embarrassed by the compliment. "I got you something," he said to her as he reached inside his jacket. "I hope you don't mind, it's not a corsage." Violet couldn't have cared less about having flowers to pin on her dress, but she was curious about what he had brought for her. She watched as he dragged out the moment longer than he needed to, taking his time to reveal his surprise. "I got you this instead." He pulled out a black velvet box, the kind that holds fine jewelry. It was long and narrow. She gasped as she watched him lift the lid. Inside was a delicate silver chain, and on it was the polished outline of a floating silver heart that drifted over the chain that held it. Violet reached out to touch it with her fingertip. "It's beautiful," she sighed. He lifted the necklace from the box and held it out to her. "May I?" he asked. She nodded, her eyes bright with excitement as he clasped the silver chain around her bare throat. "Thank you," she breathed, interlacing her hand into his and squeezing it meaningfully. She reluctantly used the crutches to get out to the car, since there were no handrails for her to hold on to. She left like they ruined the overall effect she was going for. Jay's car was as nice on the inside as it was outside. The interior was rich, smoky gray leather that felt like soft butter as he helped her inside. Aside from a few minor flaws, it could have passed for brand-new. The engine purred to life when he turned the key in the ignition, something that her car had never done. Roar, maybe-purr, never. She was relieved that her uncle hadn't ordered a police escort for the two of them to the dance. She had half expected to see a procession of marked police cars, lights swirling and sirens blaring, in the wake of Jay's sleek black Acura. Despite sitting behind the wheel of his shiny new car, Jay could scarcely take his eyes off her. His admiring gaze found her over and over again, while he barely concentrated on the road ahead of him. Fortunately they didn't have far to go.

Marlboro Man opened the passenger door of the semi and allowed me to climb out in front of him, while Tim exited the driver-side door to see us off. That wasn’t so bad, I thought as I made my way down the steps. Aside from the manicure remark and my sweating problem, meeting Marlboro Man’s brother had gone remarkably well. I looked okay that evening, had managed a couple of witty remarks, and had worn just the right clothing to conceal my nervousness. Life was good. Then, because the Gods of Embarrassment seemed hell-bent on making me look bad, I lost my balance on the last step, hooking the heel of my stupid black boots on the grate of the step and awkwardly grabbing the handlebar to save myself from falling to my death onto the gravel driveway below. But though I stopped myself from wiping out, my purse flew off my arm and landed, facedown, on Tim’s driveway, violently spilling its contents all over the gravel. Only a woman can know the dreaded feeling of spilling her purse in the company of men. Suddenly my soul was everywhere, laid bare for Marlboro Man and his brother to see: year-old lip gloss, a leaky pen, wadded gum wrappers, and a hairbrush loaded up with hundreds, if not thousands, of my stringy auburn hairs. And men don’t understand wads of long hair--for all they knew, I had some kind of follicular disorder and was going bald. There were no feminine products, but there was a package of dental floss, with a messy, eight-inch piece dangling from the opening and blowing in the wind. And there were Tic Tacs. Lots and lots of Tic Tacs. Orange ones. Then there was the money. Loose ones and fives and tens and twenties that had been neatly folded together and tucked into a pocket inside my purse were now blowing wildly around Tim’s driveway, swept away by the strengthening wind from an approaching storm. Nothing in my life could have prepared me for the horror of watching Marlboro Man, my new love, and his brother, Tim, whom I’d just met, chivalrously dart around Tim’s driveway, trying valiantly to save my wayward dollars, all because I couldn’t keep my balance on the steps of their shiny new semi. I left my car at Tim’s for the evening, and when we pulled away in Marlboro Man’s pickup, I stared out the window, shaking my head and apologizing for being such a colossal dork. When we got to the highway, Marlboro Man glanced at me as he made a right-hand turn. “Yeah,” he said, consoling me. “But you’re my dork.

When the attendant at Britz Rentals of Australia whipped around in our prepaid-in-full honeymoon car, my eyes grew wide and I knew we were in trouble. It was an SUV, yes, and a Toyota Land Cruiser at that--just as Marlboro Man had ordered. It was white and clean and very shiny. And painted in huge bright orange and royal blue lettering across the hood, the roof, all four doors, and the tailgate of the vehicle, were scrawled the enormous words: BRITZ RENTALS OF AUSTRALIA. I could see Marlboro Man’s jaw muscles flex as he beheld his worst nightmare playing out in front of his eyes. He could hardly even bear to gaze upon such an attention-grabbing abomination, let alone conceive of driving it all over an entire continent. Unfortunately, our last-minute attempts to trade to another vehicle proved to be futile; even if Britz hadn’t been completely booked that week, it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Every single car in their fleet was smeared with the exact same orange and blue promotional graffiti. Having no other transportational alternative, we set off on our drive, a black cloud of conspicuousness and, in Marlboro Man’s case, dread following us everywhere we went. Being an attention-seeking middle child, I didn’t really mind it much. But for Marlboro Man, this was more than his makeup was programmed to handle. As far as he was concerned, we were the Griswolds, and the Land Cruiser was our Family Truckster. It was a pox on what might have been the perfect honeymoon. Except for my inner ear disturbance. And the vomiting. And the slightly marsupial undertone to the hamburgers.

made, or how big of a house you lived in. The newness or shininess of your car wouldn’t matter. “That’s very true,” she said, her spirits rising. For reasons she couldn’t explain, a gust of energy suddenly poured through her body. She felt invigorated—renewed. Jumping to her feet, Kristen brushed the grass off the backside of her jeans. Everything now made total sense. She now knew what needed to be done. “It was nice talking with you, Helen. But I’m afraid I need to go. My girls will be home from school soon, and I always like to be there when they get off the bus.

Experiencing the outdoors or – even better, the untamed wilderness – imparts a certain wisdom about what is truly needed to be happy. Though material pleasures do provide a sense of achievement, a feel-good factor if you like, I worked out many moons ago that the feeling is only ever temporary. Two weeks after buying a car it’s just a car. Your bright, shiny new mobile phone is exciting for a couple of days and then you look for the improved version. It’s only a fake pleasure. If you’re after true fulfilment, I say take a walk in the wilderness.

If it's impossible to understand how I could kick a weeping, torn-in-half cog that was gushing something that looked like tapioca pudding and whale semen on my nice shiny space suit, then you probably never kicked a car for getting a flat tire, or slapped a television remote when the batteries were getting weak, in which case you'll never understand what it means or meant to be a human.

Quentin’s scales, he couldn’t help but notice in passing, were the shiny metallic blue of a bitchin’ muscle car.

What in the—? My begonias!” he heard someone say behind him. Nick looked over his shoulder. A small but muscular woman in sweaty workout clothes was stepping out of a big shiny car in the neighbor’s driveway. She was gaping in horror at the chewed-up flowerbed and the smoking lawn mower. Scowling, she turned toward Uncle Newt’s house. And the scowl didn’t go away when she noticed Nick looking back at her. In fact, it got scowlier. Nick smiled weakly, waved, and hurried into the house. He closed the door behind him. “Whoa,” he said when his eyes adjusted to the gloom inside. Cluttering the long hall in front of him were dozens of old computers, a telescope, a metal detector connected to a pair of bulky earphones, an old-fashioned diving suit complete with brass helmet, a stuffed polar bear (the real, dead kind), a chainsaw, something that looked like a flamethrower (but couldn’t be … right?), a box marked KEEP REFRIGERATED, another marked THIS END UP (upside down), and a fully lit Christmas tree decorated with ornaments made from broken beakers and test tubes (it was June). Exposed wires and power cables poked out of the plaster and veered off around every corner, and there were so many diplomas and science prizes and patents hanging (all of them earned by Newton Galileo Holt, a.k.a. Uncle Newt) that barely an inch of wall was left uncovered. Off to the left was a living room lined with enough books to put some libraries to shame, a semitransparent couch made of inflated plastic bags, and a wide-screen TV connected by frayed cords to a small trampoline.

It’s like at night, when it’s raining and there’s cars and headlights moving through the darkness, through the window. Everything’s shiny and wet and looks so new. Undamaged, you know? Alive. Everything looks alive. And just for a moment, the whole world makes sense, it all fits together. You know it. You see it so clearly. And then it’s gone.

Now it's a loud, slick sports bar like a thousand others across the nation. For some reason, they kept the name and also attempted to keep some of the original spirit by covering the walls with a pasteurized mishmash of blue-collar manliness: sports memorabilia, brand-new parts of old-model cars, a length of shiny railroad track, a mounted deer head. Now just as many women come here as men. The place reverberates with the sound of raised voices trying to compete with the noise coming from the twenty TVs. On weekends they compound the problem by having live music.

Hey, you,” a voice calls out. I turn to look, and find Bob Caster perched on a gleaming motorcycle with wide, shiny handlebars. I point to myself and ask, “Who? Me?” “Yes, you,” he says. He squints at me like he’s trying to look inside me. I cross my arms under my breasts to block his piercing gaze, and his eyes drop down to my boobs. He licks his lips ever so slowly, and then his eyes travel back up. Heat creeps up my cheeks, but I refuse to fidget on my feet. I stare straight at him. “You want to take a ride with me?” he asks. He revs the bike. I point a finger. “On that?” He grins that sideways grin again. “Well, I wasn’t offering my personal services.” He glances down at his button fly, and then he laughs. He runs a hand lovingly down the shiny chrome handlebar, his touch reverent and respectful. “Of course on this.” I point to the center of my chest and then at the bike. “You want to take me for a ride on that?” He stares at me. I finally let that feet fidget thing happen and want to kick myself. “Is it safe?” He shakes a cigarette out of a pack and takes his time lighting it. He inhales deeply and holds it for a moment. Then he blows it out and says, “I won’t let you get hurt.” I look at my car and then at him. He revs the engine again. “Where are we going?” “For a ride,” he says with a shrug. “When will we be back?” I step closer to him and his eyes light up a little. And I like it. “When we get done.” Be still my heart. He flicks his cigarette into the grass. “Are you coming or what?” “Okay,” I say. He looks surprised. “Yeah?” “Yes.” He takes the helmet off his head and holds it out to me. I pull my ponytail free and tug the helmet on. He reaches out to buckle the strap for me, his fingers gentle. “How old are you?” he asks, his voice strong but quiet. “Nineteen.” “Good.” He grins. He motions for me to climb on behind him and I do, my thighs spread around his hips. He lifts my feet and shows me where to put them. “Why is that good?” I ask close to his ear. He looks back over his shoulder. “Because I don’t want to go back to jail.” He doesn’t wait. He hits the gas and I shriek as we take off through the parking lot and onto the open road. He reaches back with one hand and puts my hand on his waist, and I automatically follow with the other. I hold on tightly to the man who just told me he doesn’t want to go back to jail, and I wonder what the heck I just got myself into.

An hour later we were pulling into the hospital parking lot. Sparkly and shiny from my hair and makeup job, I had to stop and bend over six times between the car and the front door of the hospital. I literally couldn’t take a step until each contraction ended. Within an hour after checking in, I was writhing on a hospital bed in all-encompassing pain and wishing once again that I’d gone ahead and moved to Chicago. It had become my default response when things got rough in my life: morning sickness? I should have moved to Chicago. Cow manure in my yard? Chicago would have been a better choice. Contractions less than a minute apart? Windy City, come and get me.

Why is coffee so valuable? isn't there other stuff in the, uh, multiverse, to find?"                 "Like what? Gold? There was enough gold and silver in the asteroid belt of your former solar system to make every house, car, building and road on Earth out of the stuff. Diamonds? shiny pebbles. Fiat currency? don't make me laugh. Utility is what creates value for the meta-traveler. Food, meta-vehicles, water, or at least whatever fluid solvent is necessary for continuing your biochemical reactions. Of these, the scarcest is good coffee. It rarely evolves, and only naturally evolved coffee has the right flavor. Only coffee grown in its native environment will please the palate. Few universes have the right cosmological constants and physical laws to even create good coffee. Good coffee only grows in narrow bands of subtropical climates and only at high elevations that aren't cold. Coffee is portable, dividable, consistent in mass, and quality can be tested with common olfactory senses. Every brew is a little different; the permutations of the coffee experience are endless. For most meta-traveling humanoid species, coffee is consistently satisfying. It is the only true currency."   *

An hour later we were pulling into the hospital parking lot. Sparkly and shiny from my hair and makeup job, I had to stop and bend over six times between the car and the front door of the hospital. I literally couldn’t take a step until each contraction ended. Within an hour after checking in, I was writhing on a hospital bed in all-encompassing pain and wishing once again that I’d gone ahead and moved to Chicago. It had become my default response when things got rough in my life: morning sickness? I should have moved to Chicago. Cow manure in my yard? Chicago would have been a better choice. Contractions less than a minute apart? Windy City, come and get me. Finally, I reached my breaking point. It’s an indescribable feeling, the throes of hard labor--that mind-numbing total body cramp whose origin you can’t even begin to wrap your head around. After trying to be strong and tough in front of Marlboro Man, I finally gave up and gripped the bedsheet and clenched my teeth. I groaned and moaned and pushed the nurse button and whimpered to Marlboro Man, “I can’t do this anymore.” When the nurse came into the room moments later, I begged her to put me out of my misery. My salvation arrived five minutes later in the form of an eight-inch needle, and when the medicine hit I nearly began to cry. The relief was indescribably sweet. I was so blissfully pain-free, I fell asleep. And when I woke up confused and disoriented an hour later, a nurse named Heidi was telling me it was time to push. Almost immediately, Dr. Oliver entered the room, fully scrubbed and wearing a mask. “Are you ready, Mama?” Marlboro Man asked, standing near my shoulders as the nurse draped my legs and adjusted the fetal monitor, which was strapped around my middle. I felt like I’d woken up in the middle of a party. But the weirdest party ever--one where the hostess was putting my feet in stirrups. I ordered Marlboro Man to remain north of my belly button as nurses scurried into place. I’d made it clear beforehand: I didn’t want him down there. I wanted him to continue to get to know me the old-fashioned way--and besides, that’s what we were paying the doctor for. “Go ahead and push once for me,” Dr. Oliver said. I did, but only hard enough to ensure that nothing accidental or embarrassing would slip out. I could think of no greater humiliation. “Okay, that’s not going to work at all,” Dr. Oliver scolded. I pushed again. “Ree,” Dr. Oliver said, looking up at me through the space between my legs. “You can do way better than that.” He’d watched me grow up in the ballet company in our town. He’d watched me contort and leap and spin in everything from The Nutcracker to Swan Lake to A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He knew I had the fortitude to will a baby from my loins. That’s when Marlboro Man grabbed my hand, as if to impart to me, his sweaty and slightly weary wife, a measure of his strength and endurance. “Come on, honey,” he said. “You can do it.” A few tense moments later, our baby was born. Except it wasn’t a baby boy. It was a seven-pound, twenty-one-inch baby girl. It was the most important moment of my life. And more ways than one, it was a pivotal moment for Marlboro Man.

I feel sick!” Paige whines beside me, snapping me out of my reverie. “I’m getting totally carsick! These roads are way too bendy!” “Open the window and put your head out,” Catia snaps, driving, if anything, even faster. “Ugh! My hair’ll get all messed up!” Grumpily, Paige buzzes down the window and pokes her nose out, holding her hair flat with both hands clamped to the sides of her head. She gulps in deep breaths of air as the vehicle lurches along. “She looks like a dog,” Kelly mutters to me. “You know, when they stick their heads out of car windows?” “A golden Labrador,” I mumble back. “Big and shiny, but no brains at all.” Paige is definitely built on a large scale; she’s not at all fat, just big-boned, sturdy, like a lacrosse player, which she probably is; she glows with health, and her golden tan is enviable. The more I think about the Labrador comparison, the better it is.

Daniel and the Pelican As I drove home from work one afternoon, the cars ahead of me were swerving to miss something not often seen in the middle of a six-lane highway: a great big pelican. After an eighteen-wheeler nearly ran him over, it was clear the pelican wasn’t planning to move any time soon. And if he didn’t, the remainder of his life could be clocked with an egg timer. I parked my car and slowly approached him. The bird wasn’t the least bit afraid of me, and the drivers who honked their horns and yelled at us as they sped by didn’t impress him either. Stomping my feet, I waved my arms and shouted to get him into the lake next to the road, all the while trying to direct traffic. “C’mon beat it, Big Guy, before you get hurt!” After a brief pause, he cooperatively waddled to the curb and slid down to the water’s edge. Problem solved. Or so I thought. The minute I walked away he was back on the road, resulting in another round of honking, squealing tires and smoking brakes. So I tried again. “Shoo, for crying out loud!” The bird blinked, first one eye then the other, and with a little sigh placated me by returning to the lake. Of course when I started for my car it was instant replay. After two more unsuccessful attempts, I was at my wits’ end. Cell phones were practically non-existent back then, and the nearest pay phone was about a mile away. I wasn’t about to abandon the hapless creature and run for help. He probably wouldn’t be alive when I returned. So there we stood, on the curb, like a couple of folks waiting at a bus stop. While he nonchalantly preened his feathers, I prayed for a miracle. Suddenly a shiny red pickup truck pulled up, and a man hopped out. “Would you like a hand?” I’m seldom at a loss for words, but one look at the very tall newcomer rendered me tongue-tied and unable to do anything but nod. He was the most striking man I’d ever seen--smoky black hair, muscular with tanned skin, and a tender smile flanked by dimples deep enough to drill for oil. His eyes were hypnotic, crystal clear and Caribbean blue. He was almost too beautiful to be real. The embroidered name on his denim work shirt said “Daniel.” “I’m on my way out to the Seabird Sanctuary, and I’d be glad to take him with me. I have a big cage in the back of my truck,” the man offered. Oh my goodness. “Do you volunteer at the Sanctuary?” I croaked, struggling to regain my powers of speech. “Yes, every now and then.” In my wildest dreams, I couldn’t have imagined a more perfect solution to my dilemma. The bird was going to be saved by a knowledgeable expert with movie star looks, who happened to have a pelican-sized cage with him and was on his way to the Seabird Sanctuary.

The tunnel was massive. Its grey concrete walls were illuminated by orange bursts of light that flashed overhead. The roar of the GTR and the high-pitched whine of the turbo-charged Acura merged in an unholy mechanical scream. As they shot past the traffic at the entrance, the cars behind them slowed to a crawl. For a brief second, they were alone in the tunnel, like two shiny bullets racing down the barrel of a gun. Here on the smooth straightaway of the tunnel, Caine’s powerful GTR had the advantage. He closed the gap, pulling up next to the Acura. He saw the driver glance over at him, his brow furrowed in determination. Caine turned his eyes back to the road. A sea of blinking red tail lights filled his view: they had caught up with the tunnel traffic.

McGee made a gagging sound deep in his throat and scrubbed the bloody hand against his wet raincoat. His eyes were muddy, his bony angular face tight and shiny from the rain and the tension of taut nerves and muscles. Rain drummed steadily on the car’s metal roof and the windshield wipers squeaked monotonously, louder and more nerve-wracking than the endless sucking whine of the tires on the wet pavement. But louder than all these sounds was the mournful, sobbing wail of squad cars ripping through the night, converging on the neighborhood McGee was desperately fleeing.

Donovan Beaudry rolled his window down; ear-splittingly loud rap music exploded from the truck's custom-installed sound gear. The SUV rolled on twenty-four-inch dubs and sported a shiny set of Sprewells that Justin knew cost around $2,000 a set. The hubcaps continued to spin even after the car came to a stop. He didn't even want to think about how Donovan could have paid for all that.

Logic evolved as a means of defending our passions in an argument. Most people reason to defend their position, not to change their minds or advance their understanding. “When it comes to sensational ideas, we’re like cats chasing a laser pointer. We’ll pounce on anything that’s shiny and new. Only unlike a cat, we can actually catch hold of these ideas. Then we turn and become like a dog with a bone, defending our newfound prize as though it were sacred. “Look at the madness during the pandemic. No one wants to be sick. No one wants to suffer. No one wants to die in agony. No one starts out as an anti-vaxxer, but there goes the red dot of that goddamn laser pointer. It’s racing along the carpet. Gotta chase it! “Somewhere along the line, there will be some vague point that appeals to our vanity, to the passions we already hold—and that’s all that’s needed to believe a lie. We become convinced against all logic to the contrary. We throw out any logic we don’t like. We have to. We have to justify the madness—not the logic, the passion! And the irony is, the smarter we think we are, the easier it is to be fooled. “We overestimate our own intelligence when it’s largely irrelevant. You don’t need a blistering IQ to drive a car, do the laundry, play golf or walk the dog. Regardless of how smart we think we are, we rarely use our intelligence to its full potential. And it makes no difference anyway. Our collective intelligence is far more important than any one individual’s intelligence. It doesn’t matter how smart someone is, anyone can own an iPhone, but no one person can build one from scratch.

Elodie was one of the most brutalized children I met in the DRC. She had been thrown to a pack of wolves by a system of such merciless calculation that it somehow managed to transform her degradation into shiny gadgets and cars sold around the world.

Only a few people were privy to the fact that humanity could truly be facing an outrageous extinction event of our own making because we’re not taking the threat seriously. Beyond the windows of my car, everywhere I looked, thousands of people sat trapped inside shiny metal boxes of their own reality. Three lanes of cars to my right and the two lanes to my left . . . filled with people thinking about PTA meetings, Little League, and ballet. Some listened to talk radio while others ruminated over how to hide their ongoing workplace affair from their spouse.

Our society has many laws and customs to protect women from the brute force of men, but when two women make up their minds about something and gang up on a man there is absolutely nothing he can do but go along. Perhaps someday we will elect a compassionate woman as president, and she will pass new laws on the subject; until then, I was a helpless victim. I got up and showered, and by the time I was dressed Rita had a fried-egg sandwich ready for me to eat in the car, and a cup of coffee in a shiny metal travel mug.

Digital technology offers new, imaginative ways to connect personally and powerfully with potential customers in traditional ways like direct marketing. A great example of this comes from a Toronto Porsche dealer who went around some of the Canadian city’s most affluent neighborhoods with a shiny white 911 sports car, a digital camera, and a mobile printer. Taking photographs of the brand new vehicle parked in the driveways of these upscale homes, the dealer printed out custom ads and dropped them into the mail slots. The campaign featured the provocative headline: “It’s closer than you think.” The result was an astonishing 32 percent response rate, which means about a third of these prospects called to schedule a test drive, a staggering improvement over the very low single digit response rates typically deemed successful in traditional direct mail efforts.

  The boys hopped into Lee’s brand new, shiny, red truck and started the drive to Freddy’s Pizza. The place was not too far away, especially with Lee’s wild driving.   About 15 minutes later, the boys arrived at the pizza place. They grabbed their supplies and locked the car. They walked up to the front door and looked inside. All the lights were off and the door was locked.   Stampy reached into his pocket and pulled out a key.     He put it into the lock and opened the door up. The restaurant was pitch black. The boys could not see anything.         Stampy felt around the wall and found the light switch. As soon as he turned around, his jaw dropped.   Roaming around in the shadows of restaurant were animatronics characters.   They had creepy smiles and eyes that were scarier than the Ender Dragon!   The boys began shaking. On the floor was a notepad. They quickly grabbed and read it. The note was written by the previous security guard it seemed. Apparently this place wasn’t as fun at night as it was during the day….   The boys could hear the metallic noises of the animatronics. Their hearts began racing.   Stampy felt something behind him. He looked up in horror…   It was Freddy the bear behind Stampy! He had glowing red eyes and looked like he was about to eat Stampy for dinner!   The boys ran out of the door faster than ever.

I lost it in the bathroom. Sitting on the toilet, I started to panic when I noticed the graveyard of empty toilet paper rolls. The brown cylinders had ostensibly been placed vertically to form a half oval on top of the flat shiny surface of the stainless steel toilet paper holder. It was like some sort of miniature-recycled Stonehenge in the women’s bathroom, a monument to the bowel movements of days past. Actually, it was sometime around 2:30 p.m. when my day exited the realm of country song bad and entered the neighboring territory of Aunt Ethel’s annual Christmas letter bad. Last year Aunt Ethel wrote with steady, stalwart sincerity of Uncle Joe’s gout and her one—no, make that two—car accidents, the new sinkhole in their backyard, their impending eviction from the trailer park, and Cousin Serena’s divorce. To be fair, Cousin Serena got divorced every year, so that didn’t really count toward the calamitous computation of yearly catastrophes.

When I sit down with a pen and paper, it's to draw something I see, but not something you see. Whatever I think that my subject should look like, kind of superimposes over the thing that really is. If I see a building with broken windows, I draw them shiny and new. If a car has flat tires, I make them fully inflated whitewalls. It's like that. Only with Benny, it's the other way around. His windows weren’t broken until the end, but we didn’t realize it until things had gone too far.

A shiny red BMW convertible pulled up to the front of the Academy and one of the cool girls with perfect hair was behind the wheel. It was her sixteenth birthday and the car was a gift from her parents. I stood there staring at her in shock. A brand-new car?

BLAKE: You look beautiful tonight. Instead of bolting for my car like any sane person would have, I looked around until I found him. Well, running to my car wouldn’t have helped much; he was parked right next to it and leaning against the driver’s door of his shiny little Lexus. How did he know I was here? If he didn’t know I was here, what is he doing here at two in the morning? Oh my word, he’s been following me! No, that’s ridiculous; come on, Rachel, get a grip. He is not following you. Frick, I really need to stop thinking the world and everyone in it revolves around me. He just happened to be here and saw your car. That’s all. Right? Right. I took a few steps closer to the cars and took a deep breath as I dropped my phone back into my purse, trying to calm myself down. “Hi, Blake.” “I was starting to think you would never leave. I’ve been out here for hours.” Oh God, he has been waiting for me! Those words were creepy enough, but paired with the sexy, innocent smile they seemed even worse. I meant for my voice to sound strong and annoyed but it was barely a whisper. “Why are you following me?” “Following you? I’m not following you. Candice told me you were waiting for me to pick you up from the study group. Jesus, Rachel, you look like you’ve just seen a ghost; are you all right?” “Candice said what? No, I was definitely not waiting for you; I drove myself here. That should be obvious, since you’re parked next to my Jeep.” I didn’t know what was going on, but I wanted to get out of there and away from him. Now. “Yeah, but your car isn’t starting. Which is why I’m here.” He said every word slowly, like I was a child or something. “Don’t you remember, Rachel? You called her almost three hours ago, but she was busy, so you told her to call me. Are you feeling okay? Come on, get in the car. I’ll get you back to your room.” “I am not getting in your car, I’ll drive myself back!” With that I took the last few steps to my car, got in, locked the door, and put the key in the ignition. I turned it but nothing happened. There wasn’t even a click. What had happened to my car? I knew I hadn’t called Candice. And even then, if I’d wanted Blake to pick me up I would have called him myself. Someone tapped on the window and even though I knew who it was, I still jumped. “Come on, Rach, this is dumb. Just get in the car and I’ll take you back. I’ll get your car towed in a couple hours.” There was no point in trying to call someone else. It was two in the morning, everyone was asleep, and I definitely couldn’t walk back at this hour. I grimaced and opened the door. “That’s my girl. Come on, let’s go.” He helped me into his car, then got in beside me. This time he didn’t put his hand on my thigh. The

In some ways, the neighborhood was the poster child for bad zoning. There were shiny glass-and-steel condominiums across from corrugated and I-beam parking garages. Single-family homes perched alongside recycling plants and foundries. A new multistory school turned its proud granite façade away from its neighbor, a dilapidated relic of a car repair shop, like an ungrateful child ashamed of an ailing parent.

At first light we were in the ammo dump and right on schedule my platoon showed up.  They were Marines, and as such, eager to get the job done.  That was the good news, the bad news was not a single one of them had ever seen a Harrier engine, I think some of them had never seen the engine in their parents car, but they could recognize shiny metal when they saw it and that would be good enough.  The Platoon Sgt had managed to scrounge up magnets from some place and when I asked him about the magnets he said, “Well Sir, ‘THEY’ said we’d be looking for something metal and I thought the magnets would certainly help out here in the bush, we can drag them around.”      “Outstanding Sgt, just goddamned OUTSTANDING.

It was an ordinary day - peaceful and quiet. For some reason, my wife hand-washed the Nissan bright and shiny, early that morning. I remember thanking her for it. My son had already gone to school, but my wife and daughter were still at home and saw me off in front of the house. Our white dog was wagging his tail as I drove the car past the alley. In my mind, they are forever living that day. (2009: 162)

The Daring Bicyclist Jim was always trying different things.  On this particular day he decided he wanted to see how fast a person could ride a bicycle before it became too hard to ride. So he asked a friend if he could tie his bike to the bumper of his car as he drove faster and faster.  His friend agreed. Before they got going they agreed on a way to communicate.  Jim would ring the bell on his bicycle once if he wanted to go faster, twice if the speed was good and repeatedly if he wanted to go slower. So the two adventurers took off and things were going pretty well.  The driver got up to over 50 miles per hour and Jim was able to handle that speed, following along on his bike. All of a sudden a shiny red sports car came up from behind.  The driver pulled alongside and revved up his engine as if he wanted to race.  Jim’s friend accepted the challenge and started to speed up.  He went faster and faster and soon forgot all about poor Jim tied to his bumper. A little way down the road, as the cars raced side by side, a policeman with a radar gun sat and watched as they sped past.  The policeman clocked them at 99 miles per hour. Before the policeman started to pursue the speeding cars, he reported in to headquarters on his radio.  “You are not going to believe this,” the policeman said.  “I am about to go after two cars racing down the road doing almost 100 miles per hour and there is this guy on a bicycle riding behind them waving his arms and ringing a bell trying to pass them!

A man and his young son crouched in the woods just before sunset, out where Palm Beach County meets the Everglades. Their eyes focused on the train tracks a few yards away, a tight bend just past the clearing where Pratt & Whitney tests its jet engines. A shiny new Lincoln penny sat on one of the rails. “Why are we doing this, Daddy?” “To get a flat penny.” “What for?” “Because it’s fun!” A train whistle blew in the distance. “Here she comes! Get down!” The pair crouched and waited, the train growing closer. It was in sight before they knew it, nothing but a blur as it entered the bend and hit the penny. There was a harsh grinding of metal. The father and son watched in astonishment as The Silver Stingray jumped the tracks and twenty cars jackknifed down the embankment toward the swamp. “Daddy? Did we do that?” “How’d you like some ice cream?

The real problem is that for the last decade—the last three decades—I haven’t questioned my unchecked consumption. But our pacifiers can pacify us for only so long. Desire always begets more desire. And thus the American Dream is a misnomer, a broken shiny thing, like a new car without an engine. There

held her breath, squinting at Rick as he inched the Peugeot into the narrow space between a battered Clio and a shiny new BMW. He was nervous – of course he was, she was too – and it didn’t make the manoeuvre any easier. The Peugeot crept forward until Rick yanked the handbrake up, and Ella’s shoulders sagged in relief. A scrape on anyone’s car would have been the worst possible start to their first adoption party. ‘I’ll need to get out your side,’ said Rick, glaring at the Clio. ‘What a cattle market. I can’t believe we’re doing this – we’d be much better waiting for Liz to find us a kid the traditional way.’ Ella opened the passenger seat door. Rick was a planner; he’d never been the kind of person to simply have a go and see how things turned out. She tried to sound encouraging. ‘Liz said these parties were

I’ve got a broken milking machine I can’t afford to fix, and I’ve already had to fire my farm hand! My wife had to quit the farm and take a job in town! I won’t let you do this to me, Hooper! It would be an insult to all my farming ancestors if I sold my goods to you at these rotten prices! I swear I’ll sell this farm before I do it! Farmer Ben’s outburst had been so loud that some of the cubs were left holding their hands over their ears. But Ed Hooper hadn’t so much as flinched. “Well, what you do with your farm is none of my business,” said Hooper. “It darn sure isn’t!” yelled Ben. “Because your business is robbery! You’re nothin’ but an old-fashioned highway robber! You put a supermarket out on the highway and use it to rob folks!” Hooper’s smug little smile got bigger. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Ben,” he said. “But I can get my farm goods elsewhere. I’ll be on my way now. Have a nice day, Ben.” Hooper turned to leave, but happened to glance back and see Farmer Ben reaching for a pitchfork stuck in the ground. “Have a nice day?” Ben cried. “Don’t you dare tell me to have a nice day!” And with that, Farmer Ben raised his pitchfork and chased Ed Hooper into the cow pasture. Hooper dashed across the pasture toward his shiny new car. He reached the car safely, but not before stepping in three cow pies.

I’m sorry you feel that way, Ben,” he said. “But I can get my farm goods elsewhere. I’ll be on my way now. Have a nice day, Ben.” Hooper turned to leave, but happened to glance back and see Farmer Ben reaching for a pitchfork stuck in the ground. “Have a nice day?” Ben cried. “Don’t you dare tell me to have a nice day!” And with that, Farmer Ben raised his pitchfork and chased Ed Hooper into the cow pasture. Hooper dashed across the pasture toward his shiny new car. He reached the car safely, but not before stepping in three cow pies.

Hudson Creek is a decaying strip of buildings on either side of the highway, clinging to the road like barnacles on a rotting pier. If this were an ecosystem, I’d say it was on the verge of collapse. FOR SALE signs litter stretches of property with dilapidated buildings that look like they haven’t had two-legged occupants in years. Occasionally I spot signs of life. Aluminum-sided trailers covered in faded paint with clothes dangling nearby on lines. Someone lives there, if this is what you can call living. I’ve seen plenty of poverty in my travels. Not all of it radiates despair. I’ve been to slums where the electricity falters at night, but the live music keeps going. I’ve visited shantytowns where a new pair of shoes is as rare as a Tesla, yet people wear homespun clothes as vibrant as any I’ve seen. Hudson Creek has none of that. There’s no new construction. No signs that the town is fighting for life. The only things not falling apart are the shiny new cars I occasionally spot in weed-infested driveways. These people have mixed-up priorities. Or do they? Would you invest in landscaping if you knew your property values were going to keep declining? Maybe it’s better to spend your money on an escape pod with leather seats and a Bluetooth system.

…you’re like a biker princess or rock goddess, wrapped in a fat ass, shiny Do Not Touch tape that only makes everyone wanna touch it more. You’re a little hood but still a Cali girl. They want to be you, imitate you, but they don’t know how. They have fancy clothes and cars and Daddy’s plastic, but no matter what they do or buy or who they pay, they can’t reach your level, and they know it. You’re this lethal ass combination of girl they never knew they wanted to be until now but couldn’t match if they tried.

Religions are like carwashes. The car may look nice and shiny on the outside, but inside it remains messy and unclean. Why else do you think religious people rape, torture, and murder in the name of their religion?

One time Ogden fingered my ass as he fucked my mouth. I was on all fours on the bed, and he was standing. I pulled back too far, and his cock fell out of my mouth. “C’mon,” he said, and put his cock back into my mouth. I liked feeling like a thing. I liked feeling like nothing. There was more nothing in a woman. There was the asshole, pussy, and mouth. But you could also store a baby in the belly and two jugs of milk fit perfectly in each tit. Imagine the voice-over in a car commercial, and the image of a woman’s naked body on a shiny black surface, the camera slowly panning up. The female body, luxurious and roomy, can accommodate three cocks and three babies at full capacity. One baby sucking on each nipple and one sleeping comfortably inside [show ultrasound of zygote in women’s belly] while there is one cock in the pussy, one in the ass, and one sliding in and out of the mouth.

I desire to write, be wildly in love, support my son to be who he is, keep my hair thick and shiny, get more tattoos, recite mantras, speak onstage, sleep in linen sheets, drive alone in the wide open spaces of New Mexico for hours, be flexible and productive, be alone at parties, be alone at home, be alone, be liked-loved-respected, keep a temple-tidy house, drive a reliable car, make millions of dollars and give lots away, meditate, get caught in thunderstorms, dance long and hard, wear cashmere, make things that make people want to make things of their own, sleep in, recycle, be One, seek approval, go to weddings (and funerals), order in, worship Rothko paintings, call my grandmother, free spiders, go back to India, stay up too late, get just the right font spacing, listen to Tibetan singing bowls on repeat for hours, watch three documentaries in a row, give all I have to give at any given moment to pretty much anybody, wear perfume every day of the week, shave my head, burn everything I’ve ever written, give insight, give money, give time, find my True Nature, and touch the face of God … Why do I desire what I desire? The answer is fast, clear, and simple: to feel good, of course.

You must kill the Indian in order to save the man! " That was part of trying to escape the hard life. The missions, going to church, dressing and behaving like a wasičun—that for her was the key which would magically unlock the door leading to the good life, the white life with a white-painted cottage, and a carpet on the floor, a shiny car in the garage, and an industrious, necktie-wearing husband who was not a wino.

Filthy-minded old bastard,' he muttered viciously under his breath. No wonder the world such a rotten place, rotten and filthy and cheap and smelly. Where is that place they talk of and paint nice pictures of and described in all the homey magazines? Where is that place with the clean, white cottages surrounding the new, red brick church with the clean, white steeple, were the families all have two children, one boy and one girl, and a shiny new car in the garage and a dog and a cat and life is like living in the land of the happily-ever-after? Surely it must be around here someplace, someplace in America. Or is it just that it's not for me? Maybe I dealt myself out, but what about that young kid on Burnside who was in the army and found it wasn't enough so that he has to keep proving to everyone who comes in for a cup of coffee that he was fighting for his country like the button on his shirt says he did because the army didn't do anything about his face to make him look more American? And what about the poor niggers on Jackson Street who can't find anything better to do than spit on the sidewalk and show me the way to Tokyo? They're on the outside looking in, just like that kid and just like me and just like everybody else I’ve ever seen or known. Even Mr. Carrick. Why isn't he in? Why is he on the outside squandering his goodness on outcasts like me? Maybe the answer is that there is no in. Maybe the whole damn country is pushing and shoving and screaming to get into some place that doesn't exist, because they don't know that the outside could be the inside if only they would stop all this pushing and shoving and screaming, and they haven't got enough sense to realise that. That makes sense. I've got the answer all figured out, simple and neat, and sensible.

John had learned a long time ago that the reason the middle class had it so good was because they expected things to be better. They wouldn’t settle for less than they were worth. They’d just get into their shiny cars and go where they were appreciated. Poor people, on the other hand, were used to just taking what was given to them and being grateful for it.

I eye that lady's shiny car through the window -- there's no way she knows what we need better than we do.

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She was reluctant to admit that Buckeye had become what her sons called “a hick town.” The Sears and Roebuck no longer delivered, there were no new shiny, neon shopping malls, and the peach farmers, whose abounding yields had once been the town’s glory, had either moved or were slowly dying off. The few shopkeepers who eked out a living now catered to tourists who came in late Friday afternoons on their way to the emerging gambling oasis in Laughlin, Nevada. Indian mocassins and peach jam in jars with fake old-fashioned labels were loaded into their foreign cars before they sped through the invisible town to the highway lined with crooked Joshua trees.

Eight floors of the kind of consumer garbage that L.A. is famous for. Need a Ferrari jacket? Sure. You’re a race car driver. Vroom vroom. Need silk designer socks that cost more than neurosurgery? We have that too. Come on down to the Beverly Center for something bright and shiny and leave feeling poorer, puzzled, and dead inside.

Life is like that shiny car but if you let it sit on the driveway for a very long time, it will die and it might end up in a junkyard. But if you drive it, you have to maintain it!

Theft seems to be a persistent personality trait. Rossini was inspired to write an opera in the early 1800s called La Gazza Ladra—The Thieving Magpie—and people who have an unusual preoccupation with shiny objects are said to have “magpie syndrome.” This thieving reputation may be part folktale, but the birds do occasionally swipe things, often for no obvious purpose. When a magpie was caught stealing a customer’s car keys at a garage in Littleborough, England, it made the Manchester Evening News, and also in Britain, The Telegraph reported in 2008 that a magpie had snatched a woman’s $5,000 platinum engagement ring from her windowsill while she was in the shower—luckily, her husband-to-be found it tucked safely in the bird’s nest in a nearby oak tree, albeit three years later! One of the most intriguing behaviors of wild magpies involves their apparent habit of holding impromptu funerals. Sometimes, when a magpie finds a dead comrade, it will begin squawking at full volume, calling in all other magpies in the area, which join in an intense racket as they gather around the body. At some point, they all go quiet; there follows a period of contemplation, during which time different individuals will sometimes gently probe or preen the carcass, before each bird silently takes its leave, one by one.

No matter how much money a loving parent might have, it won’t ask the child to be grateful and believe that it has a ‘privileged’ life just because there are foreign holidays, two shiny new cars in the drive and a cleaner. Nor will a more disadvantaged parent fear that a child is damned because the finances are tight and a trip to the cinema would be a significant treat. The loving parent knows that the only real privilege for a child is to know that it is profoundly wanted.

I spun to see my own reflection starting back at me from a shiny chrome fender. My eyes were started, which was understandable considering that the fender was hovering 6 feet off the ground. ... "Get off the road!" "I'm not on the road." I pointed up. "It's that way." ... but even so it was clear that this joker was well below the designated traffic lane. I pointed that out, but all I got for my trouble was another loud blast from the horn. So of course I flipped him off. He said something rude, threw the truck into reverse, then shot past close enough to force me to duck. He swerved around another vehicle, rolled sideways to fit between a couple of buses & vanished into the glare.

I spun around at the door. “Yes?” “Word of advice,” he said. “Gem had nothing to do with this. Not to mention, Alastair contributes generously to the police department every year.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” Wes cracked his knuckles, then winced and shook out his hand. “Alastair Gem is not a man you want to offend.” Chapter 9 “Iexpect you’ll fill me in,” Jimmy said as I climbed back into the car. “Dare I suggest it be over a bucket of chicken?” I swerved into the left lane and put on my blinker for The Chicken Hut, a fried food joint near the station. We crawled through the drive thru line and put in our orders. A king-sized pail for Jimmy, a queen for me. A few minutes later, the tantalizing smell of fried chicken was working its way into the car’s upholstery. Jimmy had shiny fingers by the time we returned to the station parking lot. He mopped his chin with a napkin. “I’m ready to hear the details whenever you’re done with that wing.” I sighed, tossing the wing back into the bucket. I wasn’t all that hungry. It was hard to care much about food when a case consumed me. “My sister brought Wes home last night,” I said. “Like, on a date. Wes Remington—the manager of Rubies—was at my house. Rubies is Alastair Gem’s latest venture.” “No kidding? That’s neat.” “What’s neat?” “Gem is like the Tony Stark of the Twin Cities. His latest restaurant has the best food I’ve ever tasted—it set me back a year into retirement to eat there, though. Now I hear he’s got an Emerald hotel coming soon that’s gonna cost two grand a pop for a night. That man is rich, powerful, and handsome. The rest of us don’t stand a chance.” “I beg to differ,” I said. “Anyone who is that rich, handsome, and powerful has secrets to hide.” Jimmy shrugged. “Probably. Still doesn’t mean I wouldn’t date him, and I’m a happily married straight man.” “As it turns out, Wes doesn’t have an alibi for the night of the murder. He says he was upstairs working, but we don’t have anyone who can confirm it.” “Do you like him for Jane Doe’s murder?” I licked my fingers. “It’s too early to tell. My head says yes. He’s new to town and had easy access to the victim. But I don’t have any clue as to a motive. Why would he grab her specifically?” “We’re looking for a serial killer. Is there any saying why they do what they do?” “Maybe not,” I agreed. “But my gut’s telling me Wes isn’t our guy. He seemed...

The countryside around us changed again. Now we were driving through forest. Sørland forests with mountain crags here and there among the trees, hills covered with spruce and oaks, aspen and birch, sporadic dark moorland, sudden meadows, flatland with densely growing pine trees. When I was a boy I used to imagine the sea rising and filling the forest so that the hilltops became islets you could sail between and on which you could bathe. Of all my childhood fantasies this was the one that captivated me most; the thought that you could swim over bus shelters and roofs, perhaps dive down and glide through a door, up a staircase, into a living room. Or just through a forest, with its slopes, cliffs, cairns, and ancient trees. At a certain point in childhood my most exciting game was building dams in streams, watching the water swell and cover the marsh, the roots, the grass, the rocks, the beaten earth path beside the stream. It was hypnotic. Not the mention the cellar we found in an unfinished house filled with shiny, black water we sailed on in two styrofoam boxes, when we were around five years old. Hypnotic. The same applied to winter when we skated along frozen streams in which grass, sticks, twigs, and small plants stood upright in the translucent ice beneath us. What had been the great attraction? And what had happened to it? Another fantasy I had at that time was that there were two enormous saw blades sticking out from the side of the car, chopping off everything as we drove past. Trees and streetlamps, houses and outhouses, but also people and animals. If someone was waiting for a bus they would be sliced through the middle, their top half falling like a felled tree, leaving feet and waist standing and the wound bleeding.

Dear Teachers, I hope your school year is going pretty well. I hope your classes are not causing you too much trouble and your families are doing well. You might be wondering why you are tagged to this post and what this is all about. It’s Teachers’ Day, the day for being thankful to our teachers. Some of you I had over a decade ago, some of you might not even remember who the heck I am. But if you’re reading this, this is my way of officially thanking you. For what? Let me explain. To the ones who made me love learning as a whole – If you are an elementary school teacher, this goes out to you. You are the reason I am where I am today. If it weren’t for your hard work and dedication to teaching me and every other student what you know, my future would not be as bright as it is now. I chose to go to college because somewhere along the line, you taught me that education is important and I have to strive to help others by educating myself. This is not always easy, but you helped me understand that willingness to learn is one of the most important aspects of a person. For that, I am forever grateful for you and everything you have done for me and so many others. To the ones who helped me find my passions– Writing, training, and helping people are what I love. No matter what I have been through in my life, everything goes back to the fact that in the future, I want to help people and I want to change the world. Writing and creating training programs are what make that happen. It made me realize that in the future, I don’t just want a shiny car, big bungalow, and other material items. I want something that sticks with people for all time – and what better way to do that than to become a writer and write for those who can't write for themselves? Shout out to those teachers who helped me find my passion, and maybe even made an effort to help me pursue it as well. To the ones who taught me more than the textbooks – you honestly saved me. You taught me that learning isn’t always about getting 100s on every test and being the perfect student. You helped me realize that a part of learning means making mistakes. You taught me that brushing yourself off, getting back up, and trying again is essential to get anywhere in this world. I grew up being the smart kid who never had to study and when the going got tough, I didn’t always know how to respond. You helped me with my problem solving skills and fixing things that needed fixing. This isn’t necessarily always talking about school, but life in general. You taught me that my value was not depicted by my score on a test, but rather who I was as a person. It is hard to put into words, but some of you honestly are the reason I am here today – succeeding in my first semester of college, off to university before I know it. Thank you so much. To the ones who didn’t know I could talk – I’m sorry I didn’t speak up more in your class. Many of you knew I had a lot to say, but knew I did not know how to say it or how to get the thoughts out. I promise you, even though you could not hear it, I am thankful for you - thankful that you did not force me out of my comfort zone. I know that may not sound like much, but when you have as much of a fear of speaking out as I do, that is such a big deal. Thank you for working with me and realizing that someone does not need to speak in order to have knowledge in their mind. Thank you for not basing my intelligence on my ability to present that information. It means a lot more than you will ever realize. To the ones who don’t know why you made this list – Congratulations. Somewhere along the way, you impacted me in a way I felt was worth acknowledging you for. Maybe you said something in class that resonated with me and changed my outlook on a situation, or life in general. Maybe you just asked me if I was okay after class one day. If you’re sitting there scratching your head, wondering how you changed my life, please just know you did.

I drove fast and carefully while Sloan made calls. I scanned the road and went twenty over the speed limit on the freeway. I zipped around cars using my blinker and hand waves. When we got to the hospital, I dropped her off at the emergency room entrance and parked, then ran with her bag to meet her at the front desk. “He’s in surgery,” she said tearfully when I jogged in through the automatic doors of the ER, my shoes squeaking on the white shiny floors. I looked at the woman behind the check-in desk, like a robot gathering data. I could see everything. The age spots on her forehead, the gray wisps along her hairline. The sterile, white countertop and the shimmer in the petals of pink roses in a vase behind the desk. “Where can we wait? And can you inform the doctor that his family is here?” We were sent to a private waiting area for the neurology department on the third floor. Brightly lit, plastic potted plants tucked in the corners of the room, serene blue walls, uniform gray tweed upholstered chairs, magazines and boxes of tissues on every end and coffee table. Sloan scanned the room. Maybe it was the finality of it—the cessation of forward movement—but this was when she officially broke down. She buried her face in her hands and wept. “Why is this happening?” I wrapped her sweater around her and put her in a chair. “I don’t know, Sloan. Why does anything happen?” I knew what things had to be done, what I had to do to make her comfortable. But I couldn’t feel any of the panic or grief that I saw in Sloan. I felt like I was watching a movie with the sound off. I could see what was happening, but I couldn’t connect to the characters. We waited. And waited. And waited.

All the stupid people I know are happy. A fresh set of nails. The release of a new video game. Mascara that doesn’t run. Shiny rims on a car. These are the things I hear people gushing about as I walk out of school, their momentary elation at the simplest things serving as a reminder that I have higher ideals, bigger goals, a reward in my sights that won’t chip, wash off, wear down, or become boring. Sometimes I think I should borrow Dad’s earplugs to get through the day.