Size Doesn't Matter Quotes

Hey, girls, you're beautiful. Don't look at those stupid magazines with sticklike models. Eat healthy and exercise. That's all. Don't let anyone tell you you're not good enough. You're good enough, you are too good. Love your family with all your heart and listen to it. You are gorgeous, whether you're a size 4 or 14. It doesn't matter what you look like on the outside, as long as you're a good person, as long as you respect others. I know it's been told hundreds of times before, but it's true. Hey, girls, you are beautiful.

Maybe they know what I know, that the true way to a man's heart is six inches of metal between his ribs. Sometimes four inches will do the job, but to be really sure, I like to have six. Funny how phallic objects are always more useful the bigger they are. Anyone who tells you size doesn't matter has been seeing too many small knives.

I shot him a look. "That bouncer was really big." His lips quirked. "Oh, Kitten, see, I try not to say bad things." "What?" The grin spread. "I would say size doesn't matter but it does. I would know." he winked, and I let out a disgusted groan. He laughed.

Anyone who tells you size doesn't matter has been seeing too many small knives.

The number doesn't matter. If I got down to 070.00, I'd want to be 065.00. If I weight 010.00, I wouldn't be happy until I got down to 005.00. The only number that would ever be enough is 0. Zero pounds, zero life, size zero, double-zero, zero point. Zero in tennis is love. I finally get it.

If you want someone to be ignored then build a life-size bronze statue of them and stick it in the middle of town. It doesn't matter how great you were, it'll always take an unfunny drunk with climbing skills to make people notice you.

Look at all the things that can go wrong for men. There’s the nothing-happening-at-all problem, the too-much-happening-too-soon problem, the dismal-droop-after-a-promising-beginning problem; there’s the size-doesn’t-matter-except-in-my-case problem, the failing-to-deliver-the-goods problem…and what do women have to worry about? A handful of cellulite? Join the club. A spot of I-wonder-how-I-rank? Ditto.

Didn't anyone tell you that size doesn't matter?" "Yes, but I told him to put his pants back on and go home.

I know what the majority of you think about all this. All this sex and money and drugs. You think: people who live like that never end up happy. You need to think that in just the way men with small penises need to think size doesn't matter. It's understandable. The rich, the famous, the big-dicked, the slim-and-gorgeous - they can incite an envy so urgent that you can escape it only by translating it into pity. People who live like that never end up happy. Yes, you're right. But neither do you. And in the meantime, they've had all the sex and drugs and money.

Physical size can not measure the ferocity and compassion of the heart, spirit and soul. Truly in the measure of a person, short or tall doesn’t matter at all.

Women are taught that size doesn't matter, that it's the motion in the ocean. But this is a theory propagated by those bright guys with insecurities who need big theories.

With you,love is a trophy that comes in different sizes, and you're always trying to get the biggest one out there. Mine wasn't the biggest, or the shiniest. For me, love is a ribbon. It doesn't matter what color or size it is, as long as I can pin it to my heart

Trust me child, it doesn't matter what size, shape or form they come it, you give a good man your love and care, he'll lay waste to the world to keep you by his side.

Friends: It’s not the quantity, but the quality that matters. You will meet a lot of people throughout your life, not everyone will be your friend. That’s ok. You’ll know when you meet a true friend. True friends are trusting and loyal. They are there for you during good and bad times. They come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. It doesn’t matter what they look like on the outside. The inside is where you find their quality.

As a woman, I know you're young but you gotta hear it now,the most valuable part about you is your brain. Get an education,don't let anybody tell you that your body or the size that you wear or any of that bullshit matters because it doesn't. Your brain matters, so be the smart girl in the room because to be funny you have to be smart, because you have to get the joke

When I was a kid," Orr replied, "I used to walk around all day with crab apples in my cheeks. One in each cheek." ... A minute passed. "Why?" [Yossarian] found himself forced to ask finally. Orr tittered triumphantly. "Because they're better than horse chestnuts... When I couldn't get crab apples," Orr continued, "I used horse chestnuts. Horse chestnuts are about the same size as crab apples and actually have a better shape, although the shape doesn't matter a bit." "Why did you walk around with crab apples in your cheeks?" Yossarian asked again. "That's what I asked." "Because they've got a better shape than horse chestnuts," Orr answered. "I just told you that." "Why," swore Yossarian at him approvingly, "you evil-eyed, mechanically aptituded, disaffiliated son of a bitch, did you walk around with anything in your cheeks?" "I didn't," Orr said, "walk around with anything in my cheeks. I walked around with crab applies in my cheeks. When I couldn't get crab apples I walked around with horse chestnuts. In my cheeks.

That dot covers all the places we've ever been. You could cut that piece of land out of the ground and sing it into this ocean and no one would even notice. I feel that fear again, the fear of my own size. 'Right. So?' 'So? So everything I've ever worried about or said or done, how can it possibly matter?' He shakes his head. 'It doesn't.' 'Of course it does,' I say, 'All that land is filled with people, every one of them different, and the things they do to each other matter.

Al's red eyes slid past me to Pierce. "Play?" he said, his voice dripping with interest. "Gordian Nathaniel Pierce's quirks are legendary. Why do you think I want the runt so badly? Size truly doesn't matter if you can do what he can." ~ Algaliarept, Black Magic Sanction, Kim Harrison

The myth of true love is one of the greatest self-deceptions ever embraced by the female sex. It’s right up there with the ridiculous notion that money can’t buy happiness and size doesn’t matter.

You’re so beautiful.” “I’m still covered,” she moaned. “But it doesn’t matter what you look like.” He lifted his head and stared at her. “The details of size and shape don’t matter to me. The fact that it is you…that is what makes it beautiful to me.

Every day, people engaged in the clever defiance of their own intuition become, in mid-thought, victims of violence and accidents. So when we wonder why we are victims so often, the answer is clear: It is because we are so good at it. A woman could offer no greater cooperation to her soon-to-be attacker than to spend her time telling herself, “But he seems like such a nice man.” Yet this is exactly what many people do. A woman is waiting for an elevator, and when the doors open she sees a man inside who causes her apprehension. Since she is not usually afraid, it may be the late hour, his size, the way he looks at her, the rate of attacks in the neighborhood, an article she read a year ago—it doesn’t matter why. The point is, she gets a feeling of fear. How does she respond to nature’s strongest survival signal? She suppresses it, telling herself: “I’m not going to live like that, I’m not going to insult this guy by letting the door close in his face.” When the fear doesn’t go away, she tells herself not to be so silly, and she gets into the elevator. Now, which is sillier: waiting a moment for the next elevator, or getting into a soundproofed steel chamber with a stranger she is afraid of? The inner voice is wise, and part of my purpose in writing this book is to give people permission to listen to it.

It doesn't matter the size of the dog in the fight, rather the size of the fight in the dog.

Size doesn't but dick matters!

But those demons are twice her size." "You should already know size doesn't matter.

Not everyone's purpose is to build an empire or change the world. Your purpose can be raising a great family or being of service to the community. The size of the purpose doesn’t matter, but the size of the heart behind each purpose.

No. It’s not. When I walk down the road, people immediately make judgments about me based on my body size. That doesn’t happen to you guys, no matter how self-conscious you might be about your bodies. You’re still thin, and you get to exist in spaces without constantly being found wanting.

I know you've taken to wearing tour father's hand-me-down anger. But I wish that you wouldn't. It's a few sizes too big and everyone can see it doesn't fit you...

Size doesn't matter, when Matter thinks big.

I have come to see this fear, this sense of my own imperilment by my creations, as not only an inevitable, necessary part of writing fiction but as virtual guarantor, insofar as such a thing is possible, of the power of my work: as a sign that I am on the right track, that I am following the recipe correctly, speaking the proper spells. Literature, like magic, has always been about the handling of secrets, about the pain, the destruction and the marvelous liberation that can result when they are revealed. Telling the truth, when the truth matters most, is almost always a frightening prospect. If a writer doesn’t give away secrets, his own or those of the people he loves; if she doesn’t court disapproval, reproach and general wrath, whether of friends, family, or party apparatchiks; if the writer submits his work to an internal censor long before anyone else can get their hands on it, the result is pallid, inanimate, a lump of earth. The adept handles the rich material, the rank river clay, and diligently intones his alphabetical spells, knowing full well the history of golems: how they break free of their creators, grow to unmanageable size and power, refuse to be controlled. In the same way, the writer shapes his story, flecked like river clay with the grit of experience and rank with the smell of human life, heedless of the danger to himself, eager to show his powers, to celebrate his mastery, to bring into being a little world that, like God’s, is at once terribly imperfect and filled with astonishing life. Originally published in The Washington Post Book World

The biggest lie a girl will ever tell you is that the size or authenticity of an engagement ring doesn’t matter to her. The truth is that the worth of a woman could be defined by her engagement ring.

I learned a simple lesson about being awesome: always play to the size of your heart, not to the size of your audience. Awesome doesn’t let the crowd determine the size of the performance. Awesome gets up for two people or 200. Awesome writes great books even if no one is going to read them. Awesome sweeps the parts of store floors that no foot will ever touch. Awesome can’t help itself. Awesome has a huge heart. And that’s what it always plays to. The size of the crowd doesn’t matter. The applause of the audience doesn’t matter.

No matter how small I am--no matter how hopeless everything seems--I mustn't give up! My size doesn't matter! Even my life doesn't matter! No one can win--every battle, but--no man should fall-- without a struggle!

You sentimentalise them because they're little," she said. "But the format doesn't matter. I have gradually learned that everyone, absolutely everyone of every size, is out to get something. People want things. It comes to them naturally. Of course they get more skilful with age, and they're no longer so disarmingly obvious, but the goal doesn't change. Your children simply haven't had time to learn how it's done. That's what we call innocence.

But what can happen over time is this: You wake up one day and realize that you have put yourself back together completely differently. That you are whole, finally, and strong – but you are now a different shape, a different size. This sort of change — the change that occurs when you sit inside your own pain — it’s revolutionary. When you let yourself die, there is suddenly one day: new life. You are Different. New. And no matter how hard you try, you simply cannot fit into your old life anymore. You are like a snake trying to fit into old, dead skin, or a butterfly trying to crawl back into the cocoon, or new wine trying to pour itself back into an old wineskin. This new you is equal parts undeniable and terrifying. Because you just do not fit. And suddenly you know that. And you have become a woman who doesn’t ignore her knowing. Who doesn’t pretend she doesn’t know. Because pretending makes you sick. And because you never promised yourself an easy life, but you did promise yourself a true one. You did promise – back when you were putting yourself back together – that you’d never betray you again.

He smiled proudly at the machine Ephraim was staring at. "That's our Coheron Drive. Isn't she beautiful? I helped build her." Ephraim glanced at the coin in his hand. Zoe patted his shoulder comfortingly. "Don't worry. Size doesn't matter in quantum mechanics," she said. "It's how you use it.

The true way to a man's heart is six inches of metal between his ribs. Sometimes four inches will do the job, but to be really sure, I like to have six. Funny how phallic objects are always more useful the bigger they are. Anyone who tells you size doesn't matter has been seeing too many small knives.

I've always been fascinated by how the body works. How a fist-sized muscle deep in your chest is responsible for keeping you alive every day. It steadily beats, every second of every hour, pushing blood through your arteries then back to it through your veins. And you do nothing to make it happen. It just does it, all on its own. Doesn't matter how you're feeling, what you're thinking, if your fucking heart is breaking... it keeps on beating, a hundred thousand times a day.

Opia. So much can be said in a glance. Such ambiguous intensity, both invasive and vulnerable—glittering black, bottomless and opaque. The eye is a keyhole, through which the world pours in and a world spills out. And for a few seconds, you can peek through into a vault, that contains everything they are. But whether the eyes are the windows of the soul or the doors of perception, it doesn't matter: you're still standing on the outside of the house. Eye contact isn't really contact at all. It's only ever a glance, a near miss, that you can only feel as it slips past you. There’s so much we keep in the back room. We offer up a sample of who we are, of what we think people want us to be. But so rarely do we stop to look inside, and let our eyes adjust, and see what's really there. Because you too are peering out from behind your own door. You put yourself out there, trying to decide how much of the world to let in. It's all too easy for others to size you up, and carry on their way. They can see you more clearly than you ever could. And yours is the only vault you can't see into, that you can't size up in an instant. So we're all just exchanging glances, trying to tell each other who we are, trying to catch a glimpse of ourselves, feeling around in the darkness.

Size, cosmically speaking, doesn’t matter. Only space. And even the smallest of spaces can hold the vastest of universes.

There is the head of the axe and the head of him who wields it. And if both are sharp, the size of the axe and the height of the tree doesn’t matter.

If you eat healthy food and exercise, then it doesn’t really matter what size you are.

It doesn’t matter if you work at a fast food joint or if you are the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. Your job title does not define your purpose. The size of your paycheck does not make you worthy. What makes you valuable is your contribution to the world and the legacy that you leave behind. Stop defining yourself by what you do, and start defining yourself by who you are!

Would you like to hold my sword?" He asked the question with a gleam in his eyes. Lucy burst out laughing. At least she didn't giggle again. "You did not just say that. But, um, yeah, I'd like to hold your sword, Agent Riley." Hunter grinned and unzipped his backpack, pulling out something surprisingly small. He held it out to her, and noticed the disappointed look on her face. "Expecting something bigger?" She smirked at his continued play on words. She had a lifetime of training in verbal and physical sparring; he was no match for her. "They say size doesn't matter, but I disagree." Hunter, who apparently hadn't expected her response, choked on his own comeback and unsheathed the sword, then placed it in her hand. "You have to stroke it a certain way to make it bigger.

Pros and cons lists are flat, as if (payoff) size doesn’t matter. Because it is merely in list form, a pros and cons list treats the chance of an early arrival as equal to the possibility of getting into a serious traffic accident. Without explicit information about size, about the magnitude of any pro or con, it is unclear how you would compare the positive and negative sides of the list. If there are ten pros and five cons, does that mean you should go with the decision? It is impossible to say without information about the size of the payoffs, because without that you can’t figure out if the upside potential outweighs the downside.

The Universe can cover any part of your life that you feel is lacking. The size of your request doesn’t scare the Universe, so just write it out. Don’t hesitate over any desire that comes to mind. Write it out, no matter how silly or far-fetched you may think it is at the moment.

The size of your bank account doesn’t make you classy. It’s the dignity you carry yourself with and the respect you show to others. If you have an ugly attitude and belittle those around you, it doesn’t matter who designs your suits or how posh your penthouse is. None of it matters.

I am not interested in love that is aloof. In a love that refuses hard work, instead demanding a bite-size education that doesn’t transform anything. In a love that qualifies the statement “Black lives matter,” because it is unconvinced this is true. I am not interested in a love that refuses to see systems and structures of injustice, preferring to ask itself only about personal intentions. This aloof kind of love is useless to me. I need a love that is troubled by injustice. A love that is provoked to anger when Black folks, including our children, lie dead in the streets. A love that can no longer be concerned with tone because it is concerned with life. A love that has no tolerance for hate, no excuses for racist decisions, no contentment in the status quo. I need a love that is fierce in its resilience and sacrifice. I need a love that chooses justice.

No matter how sexy or appealing or flashy or tall, dark, and handsome the object of your desire may be...no matter how AMAZING the job opportunity may seem...no matter the size of your impossible dream..if it is NOT meant for you, it is time to let it go and move on to what IS. Just as Rose let go of Jack, so she could bloom instead of meet her doom. "But MY Leonardo diCaprio WANTS to be held," you might argue. No, he doesn't. (If he did, you wouldn't be reading this book.) THE SINGLE WOMAN SAYS: You don't have to cling to what is truly meant for you. You can let go. It'll stick around

Take your situation and pretend it is not happening to you. Pretend it is not important, that it doesn’t matter. How much easier would it be for you to know what to do? How much more quickly and dispassionately could you size up the scenario and its options? You could write it off, greet it calmly.

Oh, you're right. I'm just a human with thick skin, purple eyes, and hard bones. Which means you can go home. Tell Galen I said hi." Toraf opens and shuts his mouth twice. Both times it seems like he wants to say something, but his expression tells me his brain isn't cooperating. When his mouth snaps shut a third time, I splash water in his face. "Are you going to say something, or are you trying to catch wind and sail? A grin the size of the horizon spreads across his face. "He likes that, you know. Your temper." Yeahfreakingright. Galen's a classic type A personality-and type A's hate smartass-ism. Just ask my mom. "No offense, but you're not exactly an expert at judging people's emotions." "I'm not sure what you mean by that." "Sure you do." "If you're talking about Rayna, then you're wrong. She loves me. She just won't admit it." I roll my eyes. "Right. She's playing hard to get, is that it? Bashing your head with a rock, splitting your lip, calling you squid breath all the time." "What does that mean? Hard to get?" "It means she's trying to make you think she doesn't like you, so that you end up liking her more. So you work harder to get her attention." He nods. "Exactly. That's exactly what she's doing." Pinching the bridge of my nose, I say, "I don't think so. As we speak, she's getting your mating seal dissolved. That's not playing hard to get. That's playing impossible to get." "Even if she does get it dissolved, it's not because she doesn't care about me. She just likes to play games." The pain in Toraf's voice guts me like the catch of the day. She might like playing games, but his feelings are real. And can't I relate to that? "There's only one way to find out," I say softly. "Find out?" "If all she wants is games." "How?" "You play hard to get. You know how they say. 'If you love someone, set them free. If they return to you, it was meant to be?'" "I've never heard that." "Right. No, you wouldn't have." I sigh. "Basically, what I'm trying to say is, you need to stop giving Rayna attention. Push her away. Treat her like she treats you." He shakes his head. "I don't think I can do that." "You'll get your answer that way," I say, shrugging. "But it sounds like you don't really want to know." "I do want to know. But what if the answer isn't good?" His face scrunches as if the words taste like lemon juice. "You've got to be ready to deal with it, no matter what." Toraf nods, his jaw tight. The choices he has to consider will make this night long enough for him. I decide not to intrude on his time anymore. "I'm pretty tired, so I'm heading back. I'll meet you at Galen's in the morning. Maybe I can break thirty minutes tomorrow, huh?" I nudge his shoulder with my fist, but a weak smile is all I get in return. I'm surprised when he grabs my hand and starts pulling me through the water. At least it's better than dragging me by the ankle. I can't but think how Galen could have done the same thing. Why does he wrap his arms around me instead?

Take your situation and pretend it is not happening to you. Pretend it is not important, that it doesn’t matter. How much easier would it be for you to know what to do? How much more quickly and dispassionately could you size up the scenario and its options? You could write it off, greet it calmly. Think

SELF-HELP FOR FELLOW REFUGEES If your name suggests a country where bells might have been used for entertainment, or to announce the entrances and exits of the seasons and the birthdays of gods and demons, it's probably best to dress in plain clothes when you arrive in the United States. And try not to talk too loud. If you happen to have watched armed men beat and drag your father out the front door of your house and into the back of an idling truck, before your mother jerked you from the threshold and buried your face in her skirt folds, try not to judge your mother too harshly. Don't ask her what she thought she was doing, turning a child's eyes away from history and toward that place all human aching starts. And if you meet someone in your adopted country and think you see in the other's face an open sky, some promise of a new beginning, it probably means you're standing too far. Or if you think you read in the other, as in a book whose first and last pages are missing, the story of your own birthplace, a country twice erased, once by fire, once by forgetfulness, it probably means you're standing too close. In any case, try not to let another carry the burden of your own nostalgia or hope. And if you're one of those whose left side of the face doesn't match the right, it might be a clue looking the other way was a habit your predecessors found useful for survival. Don't lament not being beautiful. Get used to seeing while not seeing. Get busy remembering while forgetting. Dying to live while not wanting to go on. Very likely, your ancestors decorated their bells of every shape and size with elaborate calendars and diagrams of distant star systems, but with no maps for scattered descendants. And I bet you can't say what language your father spoke when he shouted to your mother from the back of the truck, "Let the boy see!" Maybe it wasn't the language you used at home. Maybe it was a forbidden language. Or maybe there was too much screaming and weeping and the noise of guns in the streets. It doesn't matter. What matters is this: The kingdom of heaven is good. But heaven on earth is better. Thinking is good. But living is better. Alone in your favorite chair with a book you enjoy is fine. But spooning is even better.

So light doesn't really travel only in a straight line; it "smells" the neighboring paths around it, and uses a small core of nearby space. (In the same way, a mirror has to have enough size to reflect normally: if the mirror is too small for the core of neighboring paths, the light scatters in many directions, no matter where you put the mirror.)

Split your skull—a hatchet works well enough. Take a more delicate instrument—a scalpel, perhaps—and make a hand-sized slit; it doesn’t matter where. Reach in (no glove needed), plunge down to the very bottom, pinch the inside layer of membrane and yank, hard. If it feels like you’ve just turned your brain inside out, you have. Writing is brain surgery, pure and simple.

The size doesn’t matter.” The imp in her, the one that had obviously heard her sister one too many times, retorted, “Funny, I was always told by the girls that it’s all about the size. The bigger, the better.” While her own words didn’t make her blush, his reply did. “I assure you, I have more than enough size to please you, little kitten. And my oral skills are to scream for.

Look at all the things that can go wrong for men. There’s the nothing-happening-at-all problem, the too-much-happening-too-soon problem, the dismal-droop-after-a-promising-beginning problem; there’s the size-doesn’t-matter-except-in-my-case problem, the failing-to-deliver-the-goods problem… and what do women have to worry about? A handful of cellulite? Join the club. A spot of I-wonder-how-I-rank? Ditto.

When a candle burns down, and you pass the flame to a new one, you get a new candle; but what about the flame? It's the same flame that used to be on the old candle, ain't? And that flame can pass from candle to candle thousands of times, as many times as you have candles. Size of the candle doesn't matter, nor the color, whether it's a beautiful candle or a cheesy one...One dying candle lights two new ones, ain't? Two from one. Ten from one.

As we lead organizations—businesses, nonprofits, and churches—size doesn’t matter as much as another crucial factor. The biggest difference between leaders of large organizations and small organizations isn’t their location, the size of their building, the scope of the vision, the number of staff members, or their talent. In fact, some of the best leaders I’ve ever met have small organizations. But in all my consulting and conferences, I’ve seen a single factor: leaders of larger organizations have proven they can handle more pain.

I hate him. I hate them all. I hate the wretched, pitiful sound of my own tears. I hate the sting of shame piercing my heart like a thorn. I hate my stupidity, my naiveté believing Jared Foster wanted someone like me instead of someone like Cindy. I hate the way my thighs spread, stretching the denim of my jeans. The way my legs rub together when I walk. I hate this roll of fat hanging over my waistband. This body is an inadequate shell that doesn’t reflect the powerful, confident person I am inside. And yet there’s a part of me that knows it shouldn’t matter. That knows whether I’m a size 2 or 22, I’m still smart and ambitious and kind and generous. And yes, speak Italian, Russian, and a little Chinese. It shouldn’t matter, but I have to be honest with myself as I weep uncontrollably and admit that it does. Right now, it does.

Erin. “No matter what else has happened, you’re water and your element is welcome in our circle, but we don’t need any negative energy here—this is too important.” I nodded to the spiders. Erin’s gaze followed mine and she gasped. “What the hell is that?” I opened my mouth to evade her question, but my gut stopped me. I met Erin’s blue eyes. “I think it’s what’s left of Neferet. I know it’s evil and it doesn’t belong at our school. Will you help us kick it out?” “Spiders are disgusting,” she began, but her voice faltered as she glanced at Shaunee. She lifted her chin and cleared her throat. “Disgusting things should go.” Resolutely, she walked to Shaunee and paused. “This is my school, too.” I thought Erin’s voice sounded weird and kinda raspy. I hoped that meant that her emotions were unfreezing and that, maybe, she was coming back around to being the kid we used to know. Shaunee held out her hand. Erin took it. “I’m glad you’re here,” I heard Shaunee whisper. Erin said nothing. “Be discreet,” I told her. Erin nodded tightly. “Water, come to me.” I could smell the sea and spring rains. “Make them wet,” she continued. Water beaded the cages and a puddle began to form under them. A fist-sized clump of spiders lost their hold on the metal and splashed into the waiting wetness. “Stevie Rae.” I held my hand out to her. She took mine, then Erin’s, completing the circle. “Earth, come to me,” she said. The scents and sounds of a meadow surrounded us. “Don’t let this pollute our campus.” Ever so slightly, the earth beneath us trembled. More spiders tumbled from the cages and fell into the pooling water, making it churn. Finally, it was my turn. “Spirit, come to me. Support the elements in expelling this Darkness that does not belong at our school.” There was a whooshing sound and all of the spiders dropped from the cages, falling into the waiting pool of water. The water quivered and began to change form, elongating—expanding. I focused, feeling the indwelling of spirit, the element for which I had the greatest affinity, and in my mind I pictured the pool of spiders being thrown out of our campus, like someone had emptied a pot of disgusting toilet water. Keeping that image in mind, I commanded: “Now get out!” “Out!” Damien echoed. “Go!” Shaunee said. “Leave!” Erin said. “Bye-bye now!” Stevie Rae said. Then, just like in my imagination, the pool of spiders lifted up, like they were going to be hurled from the earth. But in the space of a single breath the dark image reformed again into a familiar silhouette—curvaceous, beautiful, deadly. Neferet! Her features weren’t fully formed, but I recognized her and the malicious energy she radiated. “No!” I shouted. “Spirit! Strengthen each of the elements with the power of our love and loyalty! Air! Fire! Water! Earth! I call on thee, so mote it be!” There was a terrible shriek, and the Neferet apparition rushed forward. It surged from our circle, breaking over Erin

If the weakness of mainstream fiction is its deliberate smallness, the weakness of sf is its puffed-up size, its gauzy immensities. SF often pays so much attention to cosmic ideas that the story's surface is vague. Too much sf suffers from a lack of tangible reality. Muzzy settings, generic characters concocted merely for the sake of the idea, improbable action plots tidily wrapped up at the end. Too much preaching, not enough concrete, credible detail. An sf writer can get published without mastering certain things that most mainstream writers can’t evade: evocative prose style, naturalistic dialogue, attention to detail. Refraining from editorializing, over-explaining, or pat resolutions. To us, the contents of The Best American Short Stories seem paltry and timebound. To them, the contents of Asimov’s are overblown and underrealized. It’s no wonder that sf never makes the Ravenel collection. SF is habitually strong in areas considered unessential to good mainstream fiction, and weak in those areas that are considered essential. It doesn't matter that to the sf reader most contemporary fiction is so interested in "how things really are" in tight focus that it missed "how things really are" in the big picture. SF’s different standards make it invisible to mainstream readers, not in the literal way of H.G. Wells's invisible man, but in the cultural way of Ralph Ellison's. It's not that they can’t see us, it's that they don't know what to make of what they see. What they don't know about sf, and worse still, what they think they do know, make it impossible for them to appreciate our virtues. We are like a Harlem poet attempting to find a seat at the Algonquin round table in 1925. Our clothes are outlandish . Our accent is uncouth. The subjects we are interested in are uninteresting or incomprehensible. Our history and culture are unknown. Our reasons for being there are inadmissible. The result is embarrassment, condescension, or silence.

I still have no choice but to bring out Minerva instead.” “But Minerva doesn’t care about men,” young Charlotte said helpfully. “She prefers dirt and rocks.” “It’s called geology,” Minerva said. “It’s a science.” “It’s certain spinsterhood, is what it is! Unnatural girl. Do sit straight in your chair, at least.” Mrs. Highwood sighed and fanned harder. To Susanna, she said, “I despair of her, truly. This is why Diana must get well, you see. Can you imagine Minerva in Society?” Susanna bit back a smile, all too easily imagining the scene. It would probably resemble her own debut. Like Minerva, she had been absorbed in unladylike pursuits, and the object of her female relations’ oft-voiced despair. At balls, she’d been that freckled Amazon in the corner, who would have been all too happy to blend into the wallpaper, if only her hair color would have allowed it. As for the gentlemen she’d met…not a one of them had managed to sweep her off her feet. To be fair, none of them had tried very hard. She shrugged off the awkward memories. That time was behind her now. Mrs. Highwood’s gaze fell on a book at the corner of the table. “I am gratified to see you keep Mrs. Worthington close at hand.” “Oh yes,” Susanna replied, reaching for the blue, leatherbound tome. “You’ll find copies of Mrs. Worthington’s Wisdom scattered everywhere throughout the village. We find it a very useful book.” “Hear that, Minerva? You would do well to learn it by heart.” When Minerva rolled her eyes, Mrs. Highwood said, “Charlotte, open it now. Read aloud the beginning of Chapter Twelve.” Charlotte reached for the book and opened it, then cleared her throat and read aloud in a dramatic voice. “’Chapter Twelve. The perils of excessive education. A young lady’s intellect should be in all ways like her undergarments. Present, pristine, and imperceptible to the casual observer.’” Mrs. Highwood harrumphed. “Yes. Just so. Hear and believe it, Minerva. Hear and believe every word. As Miss Finch says, you will find that book very useful.” Susanna took a leisurely sip of tea, swallowing with it a bitter lump of indignation. She wasn’t an angry or resentful person, as a matter of course. But once provoked, her passions required formidable effort to conceal. That book provoked her, no end. Mrs. Worthington’s Wisdom for Young Ladies was the bane of sensible girls the world over, crammed with insipid, damaging advice on every page. Susanna could have gleefully crushed its pages to powder with a mortar and pestle, labeled the vial with a skull and crossbones, and placed it on the highest shelf in her stillroom, right beside the dried foxglove leaves and deadly nightshade berries. Instead, she’d made it her mission to remove as many copies as possible from circulation. A sort of quarantine. Former residents of the Queen’s Ruby sent the books from all corners of England. One couldn’t enter a room in Spindle Cove without finding a copy or three of Mrs. Worthington’s Wisdom. And just as Susanna had told Mrs. Highwood, they found the book very useful indeed. It was the perfect size for propping a window open. It also made an excellent doorstop or paperweight. Susanna used her personal copies for pressing herbs. Or occasionally, for target practice. She motioned to Charlotte. “May I?” Taking the volume from the girl’s grip, she raised the book high. Then, with a brisk thwack, she used it to crush a bothersome gnat. With a calm smile, she placed the book on a side table. “Very useful indeed.

Imagine that you are a seamstress who works in a cloth shop in the city of Corinth, in Greece, in the year 56. Eutychus, a guy who lives next door to you and works in a leather workshop nearby, has just joined a new club, and he tells you about it. First, they don’t meet in the daytime, but either early, before light, or after dark. There are only enough of them to fill a decent-sized dining room, but they call themselves the “town meeting.” You’re not quite sure what they do at these meetings. They don’t appear to worship any god or goddess that you can see. They use the term “god” sometimes, but this god doesn’t have a name, and to you that would be bizarre. Remember, you are pretending that you’re a Greek living in the year 56 in Corinth. To you, these people look as if they don’t believe in gods at all; they look like atheists. The people in this new club have a very high respect for a criminal Jew who led some kind of guerrilla war and was executed long ago, somewhere in Syria. Eutychus says, though, that this Jew is still alive somewhere. In fact, Eutychus says that the Jew “bought” him, although you didn’t know that Eutychus was ever a slave. In fact, you’re pretty sure he wasn’t a slave. So what does it mean that this guy bought him? At these town meetings they eat meals—which is not unusual since most clubs in your society eat meals—but they call the meals the “boss’s dinner,” or sometimes “the thank-you.” Some people say they eat human flesh at these dinners, but you doubt that because for some reason they seem to be vegetarians. You doubt whether vegetarians would eat human flesh. Eutychus says that to initiate new members into their club, they “dip them,” naked, and then they “get healthy.” Once you’re in the club, they call you “comrade,” and you have sex with anyone and everyone, because it doesn’t matter anymore whether you’re a man or a woman; in fact, they kind of figure you’re neither—or both.

Anything to construct a new safe place where the melancholic freeze can’t find you. But all this is done to the detriment of your mind which is so tired from spinning the plates of so many different weights and sizes that it threatens collapse like a universe out of momentum, so you postpone decay by putting the inarguable tenet that it really truly did happen far in the back of your heart where it rots and takes up room that love could be occupying knowing one day it will just be all hard and black like an old rose, and because it is full of such incomprehensible truths, you believe, but will never say, that one day soon it will not serve you in the ways it was meant to serve you. It will pump blood and it will skip occasionally but that doesn’t even matter since it will not love another person well, no matter how hard you beg it to love another person well, and like a car that won’t start, it sits there hopelessly gasping and you know that it is your fault that it can’t be moved, so you drink even more because awareness of a lost way is the worst thing a creature on this earth can possibly have and when you lose sight of beauty you gain ownership of all the knowledge of everything evil that has ever been. You wish only to drown deeper because the acute agony felt in every nerve as you sink into your bottle is a welcomed distraction from the certainty of the pain your lust has howled into the garden. You stand alone in hell looking only into the dead eyes of your grim past. You are so sad and feel so disconnected from joy and love itself that when someone—anyone at all—reaches out to you in the mist that holds you back from the goodness of life like an unbreachable ravine you will become so thankful for her touch that reminds you of the girl you were sent to protect that you will kiss her lips and make yourself believe that interruption from grief might be what love is now but it is not, it is just another cruel trick hell plays on its slaves. It was only more wretchedness, because what even an absent god knows is that love is unmistakable. Love is unmistakable and nobody loves you like the one who waits.

I've got the kids in my room," she explained, while Jubal strove to keep up with her, "so that Honey Bun can watch them." Jubal was mildly startled to see, a moment later, what Patricia meant by that. The boa was arranged on one of twin double beds in squared-off loops that formed a nest - a twin nest, as one bight of the snake had been pulled across to bisect the square, making two crib-sized pockets, each padded with a baby blanket and each containing a baby. The ophidian nursemaid raised her head inquiringly as they came in. Patty stroked it and said, "It's all right, dear. Father Jubal wants to see them. Pet her a little, and let her grok you, so that she will know you next time." First Jubal coochey-cooed at his favorite girl friend when she gurgled at him and kicked, then petted the snake. He decided that it was the handsomest specimen of Bojdae he had ever seen, as well as the biggest - longer, he estimated, than any other boa constrictor in captivity. Its cross bars were sharply marked and the brighter colors of the tail quite showy. He envied Patty her blue-ribbon pet and regretted that he would not have more time in which to get friendly with it. The snake rubbed her head against his hand like a cat. Patty picked up Abby and said, "Just as I thought. Honey Bun, why didn't you tell me?"- then explained, as she started to change diapers, "She tells me at once if one of them gets tangled up, or needs help, or anything, since she can't do much for them herself - no hands - except nudge them back if they try to crawl out and might fall. But she just can't seem to grok that a wet baby ought to be changed - Honey Bun doesn't see anything wrong about that. And neither does Abby." "I know. We call her 'Old Faithful.' Who's the other cutie pie?" "Huh? That's Fatima Michele, I thought you knew." "Are they here? I thought they were in Beirut!" "Why, I believe they did come from some one of those foreign parts. I don't know just where. Maybe Maryam told me but it wouldn't mean anything to me; I've never been anywhere. Not that it matters; I grok all places are alike - just people. There, do you want to hold Abigail Zenobia while I check Fatima?" Jubal did so and assured her that she was the most beautiful girl in the world, then shortly thereafter assured Fatima of the same thing. He was completely sincere each time and the girls believed him - Jubal had said the same thing on countless occasions starting in the Harding administration, had always meant it and had always been believed. It was a Higher Truth, not bound by mundane logic. Regretfully he left them, after again petting Honey Bun and telling her the same thing, and just as sincerely.

Most of my friends put their preferred pronoun in their Instagram bios—he/she, him/her, they/their—but I respond to any and all of them. I like to think of it as collecting pronouns: the more I get, the more fun I’m having. To get the obvious out of the way, because that’s apparently important to people, I think of myself as post-gender. I was trying to figure out how to explain that because sometimes it’s a paragraph and sometimes it’s a term paper depending on who I’m talking to, and I have no idea who will be reading this in the aftermath. Then I noticed that one of my fellow passengers has a cat with him, and that’s perfect. When you visit a friend and find they have a cat, you just see it as a cat in all its pure catness, it doesn’t require further definition. You’ll probably get a name, and if you ask, whether it was born male or female, but even after you have that information you still don’t think of it any differently. It’s not a He-Cat or a She-Cat or a They-Cat. It’s just a cat. And unless the cat’s name has any gender-specific connotations you’ll probably forget pretty fast which gender it was born into. My name is Theo, and by that logic, I am a cat. What I was or was not born into has nothing to do with how I see myself. It’s not about going from one gender to another, or suggesting that they don’t exist. Some of my friends say that the moment you talk about gender you invalidate the conversation because you’re accepting the limits of outmoded paradigms, but I’m not sure I agree with that. I just think gender shouldn’t matter. If you’re a man, aren’t there moments when you feel more female, like when you’re listening to music, or your cheek is being gently stroked, or you see a spectacularly handsome man walk into the room? If you’re a woman, aren’t there moments when you feel more male, when you have to be strong in the face of conflict, or stand behind your opinion, or when a spectacularly beautiful woman walks into the room? Well, in those moments, you are all of those things, so why deny that part of yourself? For me, it’s not about being binary or non-binary. It’s about moving the needle to the center of the dial and accepting all definitions as equally true while remaining free to shift in emphasis from moment to moment. It’s about being a Person, not a She-Person or a He-Person or a They-Person. (...) When you go into a clothing store, you don’t just go to the “one size fits all” rack. You look for clothes that fit your waist, hips, legs, chest, and neck, clothes that complement your form and shape, and reflect not just how you see yourself but how you want to be seen by others. If it’s still not quite right, and you can afford it, you get the clothes tailored to fit exactly who you are. That’s what I’m doing. Post-gender is one term for it. Another might be tailored gender. Maybe bespoke gender. But definitely not one-size-fits-all. The world doesn’t get to decide what best fits who I am and how I choose to be seen. I do.

Marvin stood there. ‘Out of my way little robot,’ growled the tank. ‘I’m afraid,’ said Marvin, ‘that I’ve been left here to stop you.’ The probe extended again for a quick recheck. It withdrew again. ‘You? Stop me?’ roared the tank, ‘Go on!’ ‘No, really I have,’ said Marvin simply. ‘What are you armed with?’ roared the tank in disbelief. ‘Guess,’ said Marvin. The tank’s engines rumbled, its gears ground. Molecule-sized electronic relays deep in its micro-brain flipped backwards and forwards in consternation. ‘Guess?’ said the tank. ‘Yes, go on,’ said Marvin to the huge battle machine, ‘you’ll never guess.’ ‘Errrmmm …’ said the machine, vibrating with unaccustomed thought, ‘laser beams?’ Marvin shook his head solemnly. ‘No,’ muttered the machine in its deep gutteral rumble, ‘Too obvious. Anti-matter ray?’ it hazarded. ‘Far too obvious,’ admonished Marvin. ‘Yes,’ grumbled the machine, somewhat abashed, ‘Er … how about an electron ram?’ This was new to Marvin. ‘What’s that?’ he said. ‘One of these,’ said the machine with enthusiasm. From its turret emerged a sharp prong which spat a single lethal blaze of light. Behind Marvin a wall roared and collapsed as a heap of dust. The dust billowed briefly, then settled. ‘No,’ said Marvin, ‘not one of those.’ ‘Good though, isn’t it?’ ‘Very good,’ agreed Marvin. ‘I know,’ said the Frogstar battle machine, after another moment’s consideration, ‘you must have one of those new Xanthic Re-Structron Destabilized Zenon Emitters!’ 'Nice, aren’t they?’ agreed Marvin. ‘That’s what you’ve got?’ said the machine in condiderable awe. ‘No,’ said Marvin. ‘Oh,’ said the machine, disappointed, ‘then it must be …’ ‘You’re thinking along the wrong lines,’ said Marvin, ‘You’re failing to take into account something fairly basic in the relationship between men and robots.’ ‘Er, I know,’ said the battle machine, 'is it … ’ it tailed off into thought again. ‘Just think,’ urged Marvin, ‘they left me, an ordinary, menial robot, to stop you, a gigantic heavy-duty battle machine, whilst they ran off to save themselves. What do you think they would leave me with?’ ‘Oooh er,’ muttered the machine in alarm, ‘something pretty damn devastating I should expect.’ ‘Expect!’ said Marvin. ‘Oh yes, expect. I’ll tell you what they gave me to protect myself with shall I?’ ‘Yes, alright,’ said the battle machine, bracing itself. ‘Nothing,’ said Marvin. There was a dangerous pause. 'Nothing?’ roared the battle machine. ‘Nothing at all,’ intoned Marvin dismally, ‘not an electronic sausage.’ The machine heaved about with fury. ‘Well doesn’t that just take the biscuit!’ it roared, ‘Nothing, eh?’ Just don’t think, do they?’ ‘And me,’ said Marvin in a soft low voice, ‘with this terrible pain in all the diodes down my left side.’ ‘Makes you spit, doesn’t it?’ ‘Yes,’ agreed Marvin with feeling. ‘Hell that makes me angry,’ bellowed the machine, ‘think I’ll smash that wall down!’ The electron ram stabbed out another searing blaze of light and took out the wall next to the machine. ‘How do you think I feel?’ said Marvin bitterly. ‘Just ran off and left you did they?’ the Machine thundered. ‘Yes,’ said Marvin. ‘I think I’ll shoot down their bloody ceiling as well!’ raged the tank. It took out the ceiling of the bridge. ‘That’s very impressive,’ murmured Marvin. ‘You ain’t seen nothing yet,’ promised the machine, ‘I can take out this floor too, no trouble!’ It took out the floor too. ‘Hells bells!’ the machine roared as it plummeted fifteen storeys and smashed itself to bits on the ground below. ‘What a depressingly stupid machine,’ said Marvin and trudged away.

community ownership doesn’t work in large-scale societies where people operate in anonymity. In The Power of Scale, anthropologist John Bodley wrote: “The size of human societies and cultures matters because larger societies will naturally have more concentrated social power. Larger societies will be less democratic than smaller societies, and they will have an unequal distribution of risks and rewards.”9 Right, because the bigger the society is, the less functional shame becomes. When the Berlin Wall came down, jubilant capitalists announced that the essential flaw of communism had been its failure to account for human nature. Well, yes and no. Marx’s fatal error was his failure to appreciate the importance of context. Human nature functions one way in the context of intimate, interdependent societies, but set loose in anonymity, we become a different creature. Neither beast is more nor less human.

Fat sex, skinny sex, if you love the way you look and you love your body, then it doesn't matter, the sex is gonna be good. Because I've seen celebrities that have sex tapes and they are skinny and they are boring as hell. I got a girlfriend pushing 250 and she is a good time… You can get freaky at any size and it can be good.

Business, regardless of size or scope, is forever, permanently global, while humans are naturally provincial. So it doesn’t matter where you are or where you came from, get out of there whenever you have the chance. Go live and work somewhere else. If you’re at a big company, seek the international assignments. Your managers will love you for it and you’ll be a much more valuable employee as a result. If working overseas isn’t an option, then travel, and when you are out and about don’t forget to see the world as your customers do. If you’re in retail, walk through a store or two. If you’re in media, pick up a paper or turn on the radio. It’s amazing how often people come back from business trips to foreign lands with insights gleaned solely from their conversation with the taxi driver who took them from the airport to the hotel. If those drivers only knew how much power they have in shaping global business strategy!

What the fuck happened between you two?” Logan asks as soon as the door closes. I shrug. Logan is famous for his shrugs. He should accept mine. But he doesn’t. Instead, he punches me in the shoulder. Shit, that hurt. “What the fuck?” I ask. “What happened?” he asks. He looks straight into my eyes. “Nothing,” I say. I shake my head. “Not a fucking thing.” “Dude, you had a pillow shoved in your lap, and you were getting off her bed when we walked in. Something happened.” He shoves my shoulder, almost knocking me over. Logan’s a big boy. A little bigger than me, and I’m a big guy. “Not to mention that she looked like she’d just been fucked.” I stop and turn to face him. I lay both lands flat on his chest and shove him as hard as I can. “Don’t ever fucking talk about her like that again,” I warn. Logan takes a few steps back. Then he grins. “It’s about fucking time,” he says. He holds up a hand to high five me. “Fuck you,” I say instead, and I keep walking toward my dorm. I can’t get there fast enough. “Did you kiss her?” he asks. He grins at me again, and I feel a smile tugging at my own lips. But it doesn’t last for more than a minute. His joviality isn’t contagious. “I was about to…. Then you guys busted in,” I admit. “She wants you, man. She’s got it as bad as you do. Trust me.” I shake my head. “She doesn’t.” “She does.” He claps a hand on my shoulder. “She told Emily. Emily told me.” He pauses and then says, “You’re welcome.” “What did she say?” I ask. I probably don’t want to know. “She said she wants to have your babies.” He jumps back when I go to punch him, and he laughs. “Shut up,” I say. “This is serious.” “Why’s it so serious all of a sudden?” Logan asks.  “This shit’s been going on between you two for a long time. Why does it suddenly matter so much?” “The contest is today. They’re raffling off a kiss from her.” I heave a sigh. “One lucky winner is going to get to kiss the woman I love. In front of everybody.” “Oh, fuck,” Logan breathes. “That’s shit.” “I asked her not to go,” I confess. “So, go buy all the tickets,” he says with a shrug, as though he just solved world poverty or AIDS. “It doesn’t work like that. You have to guess the number of jelly beans in her jar. If you get the wrong number, you don’t get anything. If you get the right number, you get to kiss her.” “So, we need to figure out how many jelly beans are in her jar,” he says simply. He looks at me. “Did you see the jar?” I nod. “It’s a pickle jar.” I hold out my hands to show him the size. “The big kind.” “So we need a jar that size, and we need to fill it with jelly beans and then count them. At least then you can get close, right?” I scrub a hand down my face. “This is stupid. I’ll never get it. Every guess costs a dollar.” I reach into my pocket and pull out my wallet. It’s nearly empty. “You’re just going to let somebody else kiss her?” “If I’m not there, I won’t see it.” I shrug my shoulders, trying to hide the fact that I feel as if I’m being gutted. He stares at me. He doesn’t say anything. “If it were Emily, I’d buy every fucking pickle and every damn jelly bean in the state of New York. There’s no way my girl would kiss some asshole.” “You’re right,” I say. “We need to go to the store.” Hope swells inside me. Do I have a chance? I won’t know until I try, I guess. Logan

Who the hell are you?” “It doesn’t matter who I am. It just matters who you are. Years ago... before you were born... you were my mother.” His mother? “I’m taking down your license plate and calling the police.” “Kate, is everything okay?” It was Mr. Niles, their neighbor, still in a suit, his tie undone as he walked across his own lawn. Kate sized the old man. “Go.” “Does the name Daniel Weaver mean something to you?” Daniel fucking what? “I said go.” “Your friend Kev. Do you know who he really is?” Another chill. This one making her quiver. “He’s not my friend.” She searched the man’s eyes. They remained kind. “Get lost.” The man entered his car, and Kate watched as he started his engine, making sure he drove off.

Then came Dani’s turn to read a question. “‘Who’s in charge in the bedroom?’” Much to the group’s amusement, none of them got a match, and Sean didn’t think they would either as he held up his notepad. “‘I am, since I carry the big stick.’” Emma read hers with a remarkably straight face. “‘Sean, because he has a magic penis.’” “Wow. Um…so Sean and Emma have a point,” Dani said as the men nearly pissed themselves laughing. No way in hell was he leaving that unpunished, and he winked at Emma when Kevin read the next question. “‘Where’s the kinkiest place you’ve had sex?’” The fact that Joe and Keri had done the dirty deed on the back of his ATV led to a few questions about the logistics of that, but then it was Emma’s turn. “‘In bed, because Sean has no imagination.’” Roger threw an embarrassed wince his way, but his cousins weren’t shy about laughing their asses off. Sean just shrugged and held up his notepad. “In the car in the mall parking lot. Emma’s lying because she doesn’t want anybody to know being watched turns her on.” Her jaw dropped, but she recovered quickly and gave him a sweet smile that didn’t jibe with the “you are so going to get it” look in her eyes. Beth asked the next question. “‘Women, where does your man secretly dream of having sex?’” Keri knew Joe wanted to have sex in the reportedly very haunted Stanley Hotel, from King’s The Shining. Dani claimed Roger wanted to do the deed on a Caribbean beach, but he said that was her fantasy and that his was to have sex in an igloo. No amount of heckling would get him to say why. And when it came to Kevin, even Sean knew he dreamed of getting laid on the pitcher’s mound at Fenway Park. Then, God help him, it was Emma’s turn to show her answer. “‘In a Burger King bathroom.’” The room felt silent until Dani said, “Ew. Really?” “No, not really,” Sean growled. “Really,” Emma said over him. “He knows that’s the only way he can slip me a whopper.” As the room erupted in laughter, Sean knew humor was the only way they’d get through the evening with their secret intact, but he didn’t find that one very funny, himself. It was the final answer that really did him in, though. The question: “If your sex had a motto, what would it be?” Joe and Keri’s was, not surprisingly, Don’t wake the baby Kevin and Beth wrote, Better than chocolate cake, whatever that was supposed to mean. Dani wrote, Gets better with time, like fine wine, and Roger wrote, Like cheese, the older you get, the better it is, which led to a powwow about whether or not to give them a point. They probably would have gotten it if they weren’t tied with Keri and Joe, who took competitive to a cutthroat level. When they all looked at Sean, he groaned and turned his paper around. They’d lost any chance of winning way back, but he was already dreading what the smart-ass he wasn’t really engaged to had written down. “‘She’s the boss.’” The look Emma gave him as she slowly turned the notepad around gave him advance warning she was about to lay down the royal flush in this little game they’d been playing. “Size really doesn’t matter,” she said in what sounded to him like a really loud voice. Before he could say anything—and he had no idea what was going to come out of his mouth, but he had to say something--Cat appeared at the top of the stairs. “I hate to break up the party,” she said, “but it’s getting late, so we’re calling it a night.” Maybe Cat was, but Sean was just getting started.

Let’s say the alphabet is actually in the size and shape of the stone; that is, each stone represents a distinct letter, even though they were clever enough to leave a clue in the ratios to show us what alphabet to use. Or at least they thought so, not realizing maybe that by the time their message was seen, many diverse alphabets would have developed. Let’s set that speculation aside, because it doesn’t matter what they thought, the key is, they have written a message in the blocks themselves.

String theory is potentially the next and final step in this progression. In a single framework, it handles the domains claimed by relativity and the quantum. Moreover, and this is worth sitting up straight to hear, string theory does so in a manner that fully embraces all the discoveries that preceded it. A theory based on vibrating filaments might not seem to have much in common with general relativity's curved spacetime picture of gravity. Nevertheless, apply string theory's mathematics to a situation where gravity matters but quantum mechanics doesn't (to a massive object, like the sun, whose size is large) and out pop Einstein's equations. Vibrating filaments and point particles are also quite different. But apply string theory's mathematics to a situation where quantum mechanics matters but gravity doesn't (to small collections of strings that are not vibrating quickly, moving fast, or stretched long; they have low energy-equivalently, low mass- so gravity plays virtually no role) and the math of string theory morphs into the math of quantum field theory.

Measurement aside, there are two reasons aggregate growth might matter. The first is to create jobs to assimilate the unemployed and anticipate increases in population. The second is to improve living standards. Economic logic does not require overall expansion to achieve either of these objectives. An expanding labour force can be accommodated if hours of work fall. And it's productivity growth, rather than the overall size of the economy, that drives improvements in living standards. Getting bigger doesn't necessarily yield wealth; improving productivity does.

Big things in glory of the world mean nothing. Small things in the glory of God mean everything. Truly size doesn't matter in this world or in the world to come. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.

1. After dark, stars glisten like ice, and the distance they span Hides something elemental. Not God, exactly. More like Some thin-hipped glittering Bowie-being—a Starman Or cosmic ace hovering, swaying, aching to make us see. And what would we do, you and I, if we could know for sure That someone was there squinting through the dust, Saying nothing is lost, that everything lives on waiting only To be wanted back badly enough? Would you go then, Even for a few nights, into that other life where you And that first she loved, blind to the future once, and happy? Would I put on my coat and return to the kitchen where my Mother and father sit waiting, dinner keeping warm on the stove? Bowie will never die. Nothing will come for him in his sleep Or charging through his veins. And he’ll never grow old, Just like the woman you lost, who will always be dark-haired And flush-faced, running toward an electronic screen That clocks the minutes, the miles left to go. Just like the life In which I’m forever a child looking out my window at the night sky Thinking one day I’ll touch the world with bare hands Even if it burns. 2. He leaves no tracks. Slips past, quick as a cat. That’s Bowie For you: the Pope of Pop, coy as Christ. Like a play Within a play, he’s trademarked twice. The hours Plink past like water from a window A/C. We sweat it out, Teach ourselves to wait. Silently, lazily, collapse happens. But not for Bowie. He cocks his head, grins that wicked grin. Time never stops, but does it end? And how many lives Before take-off, before we find ourselves Beyond ourselves, all glam-glow, all twinkle and gold? The future isn’t what it used to be. Even Bowie thirsts For something good and cold. Jets blink across the sky Like migratory souls. 3. Bowie is among us. Right here In New York City. In a baseball cap And expensive jeans. Ducking into A deli. Flashing all those teeth At the doorman on his way back up. Or he’s hailing a taxi on Lafayette As the sky clouds over at dusk. He’s in no rush. Doesn’t feel The way you’d think he feels. Doesn’t strut or gloat. Tells jokes. I’ve lived here all these years And never seen him. Like not knowing A comet from a shooting star. But I’ll bet he burns bright, Dragging a tail of white-hot matter The way some of us track tissue Back from the toilet stall. He’s got The whole world under his foot, And we are small alongside, Though there are occasions When a man his size can meet Your eyes for just a blip of time And send a thought like SHINE SHINE SHINE SHINE SHINE Straight to your mind. Bowie, I want to believe you. Want to feel Your will like the wind before rain. The kind everything simply obeys, Swept up in that hypnotic dance As if something with the power to do so Had looked its way and said: Go ahead.

NOBODY CAN PREDICT WHO’LL MAKE it through BUD/S. The brass tries to figure it out; they bring in psychologists and boost the number of guys beginning the process, hoping more SEALs will be left standing at the end. They tweak the design to create more equal opportunity for minorities, but all that happens is that the instructors do to the students exactly what was done to them, and always 80 percent don’t make it. We have more white SEALs simply because more white guys try out. Eighty percent of white guys fail, 80 percent of Filipinos fail, 80 percent of black guys fail. And the irony is, the Navy doesn’t want an 80 percent failure rate. There can’t be too many SEALs. We’re always undermanned. From the beginning of boot camp, the instructors try separating guys who want to be SEALs. They put them together, feed them better, give them workouts designed to prepare them for BUD/S. These promising rookies get in better shape, are better nourished, and are psychologically primed to go. Then they’re sent to SEAL training and 80 percent fail. No matter what the Navy process tweakers do, they can’t crack it. You’d think the Olympic swimmer would make it. You’d think the pro-football player would make it. But they don’t—well, 80  percent don’t. In my experience, the one category of people who get reliably crushed in BUD/S are that noble demographic, the loudmouths. They’re usually the first to ring the bell. As for who will make it, all I can say is: Are you the person who can convince your body that it can do anything you ask it to? Who can hit the wall and say, “What wall?” That strength of mind isn’t associated with any ethnicity or level of skin pigmentation. It’s not a function of size or musculature or IQ. In the end, it’s sheer cussedness, and I’m guessing you’re either born that way or you never get there.

You are a strange person. I’m kinda hoping my roommate will come home soon, but you can just leave if you want. How were you wasted an hour ago—you could barely talk or walk—and now you’re sitting here making up elaborate stories? I thought you’d pass out the second you hit the couch.” “Oh, well that’s easy to explain. My metabolism is a lot faster than yours. I can eat and drink a whole bunch.” “Are you bragging, or are you saying you have some special angel quality that allows you to drink more alcohol?” She smirked. “I’m not human. I don’t sleep—I can’t. I wish I could because you bore me to tears and I have to watch over you.” “Uh huh. So you don’t sleep, but you get wasted?” “There’s no rule about drinking and flying last time I checked, but I wouldn’t be much of a guardian angel if I slept on the job, now would I?” “You’re a bit arrogant and completely insane, but you are definitely creative, I’ll give you that. Do your wings sprout out of your shirt when you take flight?” “No, they’re always there. You just can’t see ’em.” “I bet they’re big, huh?” She rolled her eyes. “They’re huge. Did you see the size of my feet? Thirteens.” I pointed at my boots, bit my bottom lip, and wiggled my eyebrows. “All the other angels say size doesn’t matter, but wait till you see me in action.” I was still a little drunk. I was flirting with her. I was despicable. “Great, so my guardian angel is a perverted narcissist.” She’d left out that I was a drunk as well, which was a relief

Mel was just here. She’s complaining about the food.” “Huh?” Jack answered. “Mel?” “Yeah. She says my food is making her fat.” Jack chuckled. “Oh, that. Yeah, she’s making noises about that. Don’t worry about it.” “She didn’t make it sound like I shouldn’t worry about it. She was pretty much loaded for bear.” “She had two babies in fourteen months, plus a hysterectomy. And—she doesn’t like to be reminded about this—she’s getting older in spite of herself. Women get a little thicker. You know.” “How do you know that?” “Four sisters,” Jack said. “It’s all women ever worry about—the size of their butts and boobs. And thighs—thighs come up a lot.” “She yelled at me,” he said, still kind of startled. Paul laughed and Jack just shook his head. “Did you tell her that?” Preacher asked. “About women getting thicker with age?” “Do I look like I have a death wish? Besides, I don’t think she’s getting fat—but my opinion about that doesn’t count for much.” “She wants salads. And fresh fruit.” “How hard is that?” Jack asked. “Not hard,” Preacher said with a shrug. “But I don’t stuff that pie down her neck every day.” A sputter of laughter escaped Paul, and Jack said, “You’re gonna want to watch that, Preach.” “She wants me to use less butter and cream, take a few calories out of my food. Jack, it isn’t going to taste as good that way. You can’t make sauces and gravies without cream, butter, fat, flour. People love that stuff, salmon in dill sauce, fettuccine Alfredo, stuffed trout, brisket and garlic mash. Stews with thick gravy. People come a long way for my food.” “Yeah, I know, Preach. You don’t have to change everything—but make Mel a little something, huh? A salad, a broiled chicken breast, fish without the cream sauce, that kind of thing. You know what to do. Right?” “Of course. You don’t think she wants everyone in this town on a diet? Because she says it’s not healthy, the way I cook.” “Nah. This is a phase, I think. But if you don’t want to hear any more about it, just give her lettuce.” He grinned. “And an apple instead of the pie.” Preacher shook his head. “See, I think no matter what she says, that’s going to make her pissy.” “She said it’s what she wants, right?” “Right.” “May the force be with you,” Jack said with a grin.

Reagan catches my shirt in her fists and holds me, looking into my eyes. “What did you whisper to her?” she asks. I cough into my fist because there’s a lump the size of an apple in my throat. “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “Tell me,” she protests. I take a deep breath and steel myself. I clear my throat. “I thanked her for protecting you all these years and told her how much I appreciate it. But that she could go ahead and leave because I got you from here on out. I told her I’d take over where she leaves off.

It seemed as if all the months and years and need had distilled to this one moment, this slender form tucked beneath his. He was actually afraid of what he might do to her. He knew he should roll away, put distance between them, but all he could do was gather in the sensations of her, the enticing rise and fall of her breasts, the feel of her legs splayed beneath the layers of her skirts. The stroke of her fingers on his nape raised chills of pleasure, and at the same time turned his flesh hot with need. Desperately he groped for her hands and pinned them over her head. Better. And worse. Her gaze provoked him, invited him closer. He could feel the force of will in her, radiant as heat, and everything in him responded to it. Fascinated, he watched a blush spread over her skin. He wanted to follow the spreading color with his fingers and mouth. Instead he shook his head to clear it. “I’m sorry,” he said, and took a rough breath. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. A humorless laugh scraped in his throat. “I’m always apologizing to you.” Her wrists relaxed in his hold. “This wasn’t your fault.” Christopher wondered how the hell she could appear so composed. Aside from the stain of color in her cheeks, she showed no sign of unease. He had a quick, annoying sense of being managed. “I threw you to the floor.” “Not intentionally.” Her efforts to make him feel better were having the opposite effect. “Intentions don’t matter when you’ve been knocked over by someone twice your size.” “Intentions always matter,” Beatrix said. “And I’m used to being knocked over.” He let go of her hands. “This happens to you often?” he asked sardonically. “Oh, yes. Dogs, children…everyone leaps on me.” Christopher could well understand that. Leaping on her was the most pleasurable thing he’d done in years. “Being neither a dog nor a child,” he said, “I have no excuse.” “The maid dropped a tray. Your reaction was perfectly understandable.” “Was it?” Christopher asked bitterly, rolling off her. “I’ll be damned if I understand it.” “Of course it was,” Beatrix said as he helped her up from the floor. “For a long time you’ve been conditioned to dive for cover every time a shell or canister exploded, or a bullet was fired. Just because you’ve come back home doesn’t mean that such reflexes can be easily discarded.” Christopher couldn’t help wondering…Would Prudence have forgiven him so quickly, or reacted with such self-possession?

Too many people stop dreaming about what life could be and just focus on survival. It doesn't have to be that way. The size of your bank account or level of education doesn't matter when it comes to dreaming.

Once you have an image of what the inside of your drawers will look like, you can begin folding. The goal is to fold each piece of clothing into a simple, smooth rectangle. First, fold each lengthwise side of the garment toward the center (such as the left-hand, then right-hand, sides of a shirt) and tuck the sleeves in to make a long rectangular shape. It doesn’t matter how you fold the sleeves. Next, pick up one short end of the rectangle and fold it toward the other short end. Then fold again, in the same manner, in halves or in thirds. The number of folds should be adjusted so that the folded clothing when standing on edge fits the height of the drawer. This is the basic principle that will ultimately allow your clothes to be stacked on edge, side by side, so that when you pull open your drawer you can see the edge of every item inside. If you find that the end result is the right shape but too loose and floppy to stand up, it’s a sign that your way of folding doesn’t match the type of clothing. Every piece of clothing has its own “sweet spot” where it feels just right—a folded state that best suits that item. This will differ depending on the type of material and size of the clothing, and therefore you will need to adjust your method until you find what works. This isn’t difficult. By adjusting the height when folded so that it stands properly, you’ll reach the sweet spot surprisingly easily.

But what if it didn’t take money to make money? What’s terrifying about the digitally disrupted future is that this rhetorical question is already being concretely answered. The mindset of the digital disruptor accelerates every possible process by exploiting digital toolsets that are free for tinkering. Economists talk about trends that reduce barriers to entry. The force of digital disruption doesn’t just reduce these barriers, it obliterates them. This allows the disruptor to take new ideas of any size and potential impact and rapidly pursue target customers at almost no cost and in the space of a few days, rather than years. That’s the power of digital disruption, and it will happen to every industry on the planet, whether that company makes digital products or not. That’s why the rise of millions of digital disruptors like Thomas Suarez, whether they go it alone or choose to disrupt on behalf of massively physical firms like Verizon and Unilever, matters so much. These disruptors will do what they do in whatever industry they find themselves planted, ultimately generating significantly more innovation power into the marketplace.

Because it doesn't matter. The things you mentioned tell what kind of people they are. You need to hold your head high and have confidence in yourself as a person. You're such a cute girl, Bex. You really are. There are just some things about you that you can't change, but you can change your attitude about them. That starts inside of you with self-respect. I want you to focus on health, not a size, and don't compare yourself to anyone else.

You haven't even asked what I'll pay you," Rapunzel said innocently. "You don't have enough," Flynn promised. Then he turned to Gina and said in a theatrical whisper, "This is where she offers her necklace, or a bracelet, or some other rich girl trinket I couldn't pawn even if I wanted...." "How about a crown?" Rapunzel suggested. Flynn grew very, very still. "Uh-oh," Gina said with a wicked grin. "What, um-- what crown?" Flynn asked casually. "The one that you stole. The one that the Stabbingtons want back. The one that you hid, rather obviously, in a tree hollow," Rapunzel said smugly, crossing her arms. "Diamonds, pearls, about my size... You know, that crown?" "That's my crown! Give it back! I stole it fair and square!" Flynn, cried, leaping up. "You mean you stole it from the castle, or you stole it from the Stabbingtons?" Gina asked interestedly. "Doesn't matter," Flynn said, crossing his arms and setting his jaw childishly. "It's mine now." "Well, no, it's mine," Rapunzel said. "At least until you take me to see the lanterns, and home again. Then it's yours." "You must have seen me hide it! In the tree!" "Déduction très brillante," Rapunzel said archly.

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The form of what you share doesn’t matter. Your daily dispatch can be anything you want—a blog post, an email, a tweet, a YouTube video, or some other little bit of media. There’s no one-size-fits-all plan for everybody.

Honor He Wrote Sonnet 77 Be a muse to the world, not a mole. Be a flute to the world, not a fluke. Be a whistle to the world, not a hoax. Be a warm coat to the world, not a coup. Be O2 to the world, not CO. Be water to the world, not booze. Be a castle to the world, not another chaos. Be ointment to the world, not another wound. If you can't be a castle, be an apartment, If you can't be an apartment, be a hut. It's not about the size of your sacrifice, It's about the intent, you impetuous lovenut! Be a lamp, ladder or lego, what, it doesn't matter. Just be something that makes the world better.

Cloud-aerosol interactions are on the bleeding edge of our comprehension of how the climate system works, and it’s a challenge to model what we don’t understand. These modelers are pushing the boundaries of human understanding, and I am hopeful that this uncertainty will motivate new science.29 In other words, we don’t really understand an influence on the climate system that’s about the same size as the human-caused warming influence.

It doesn’t matter if you’re a size two or a size twenty-two. Beauty isn’t calculated in size.—Tati Green

follow his eyes to my chest. “And bigger boobs, I imagine.” “Size doesn’t matter to me.” “Me either,” I say with a wink. His head falls back and he bellows out a deep, throaty laugh. “I don’t think you’d be disappointed,” he says with a cocky grin. “I’m sure I wouldn’t be. I can already tell you have a massive … ego.

The auto trunk technique is used only when eventual discovery of the body doesn’t matter. And it has only become popular since the size of trunks has increased. “It used to be,” said a former Deputy Coroner, “that the bodies would be found a lot sooner because they’d be left in the front or back seat of the car. That’s when the trunks were small and you couldn’t very well strap a stiff up on the luggage rack. Even in Chicago that would attract attention.

It turns out that knitting has taught me that good things come in all sizes, and the size doesn’t matter, as long as you’re happy with what you’ve got.

As I wait for the streetlight to change, I inhale the warm spring air, and the most bizarre fantasy unravels in my head: Brandon secretly likes me because I know how to make him laugh. My size doesn’t matter to him, and he’s broken up about what he did to me at the party, so he dumps bitchy Taryn because she bores him and only cares about herself. Then he asks me out. I am completely aware that it is stupid and impossible. I guess it boils down to this: I liked Brandon a lot, and I wanted him to kiss me and touch me. Deep down, I wanted to have sex with him. And I keep trying to alter what actually happened that night so it resembles one of my fantasies. But nothing I do blocks out Brandon’s demand that I stay still. That I said no. That he left me naked and alone. I swear every stupid flower in Melissa’s parents’ bedroom shook its head at me as I pulled my underwear back on. None of my excuses can forgive how he treated me in the hallway. That look he had on his face. That scowl. He called me “dude.

At this point, I can boil down everything from previous chapters into two main lessons: 1. Part I: We are obsessed with gender, in every situation, with every person, whether it is relevant or not. We seem to make everything about boys versus girls. This division is less about gender per se and more about fitting people neatly into a category. The problem is that children latch on to gender and make it an important, and limiting, part of their lives. 2. Part II: Constant use of gender to define and the repeated quoting of “innate gender differences” is simply misguided. It doesn’t reflect actual gender differences or the accurate size of those gender differences (which are usually quite small). This matters because treating children differently can lead their brains to develop differently—in ways that permanently limit their capabilities.

So your first step to exchanging properly no matter where you want to go is to figure out the best week you have access to by using the Travel Demand index and book that week one year in advance for the biggest size unit you can. Once you have that week you immediately call and deposit that or at least ten months in advance. That will give you your maximum trade value and get you just about anywhere you need to go in most time periods. Then he said the next hardest part to trading and the most frustrating for people is the fact that you will almost never get your request by calling up on the phone or going online and asking for what you want and expect to get it for when you want on that phone call or search. Nothing good is ever available right when you call and the likelihood of what you want when you want it to be available at the time you call in is highly unlikely. This is what most people do and that is the reason most people think they can never get the exchange they want. It is also the worst way to get an exchange especially since they usually don’t follow the first step which is the most important. He said if you only booked your week two to four months in advance for an off-season week you will never get what you want. The only way to get what you want, is to book that prime week and then when you want to go somewhere you will need to put in an Ongoing Search for the property or multiple locations that you want. While it is not ideal, as everyone would like to just call up and go where they want when they want, it doesn’t work like that. However, the search does have a high success rate, such as Interval International’s 97% confirmation rate on ongoing searches. The thing is most people just don’t like to wait. They want to know immediately. The thing that they don’t realize is that most of the time, it’s within two weeks of when you asked to receive a confirmation number for your stay. So, as long as you put in a good week to trade that has enough trading power to go where you want to go and then you put in an ongoing search, you have an exponentially larger chance of getting the week you want, where you want. Then you can increase your chances by doing the normal things like going off-season, picking multiple resorts or dates, and a few other factors that can get your trade faster. Since he had taught me these ways on how to trade and I started doing more research, I found out that it actually is in the Interval International and RCI magazines on how to do it properly. I just realized that I had never really read them or I read them, but didn’t understand what they meant and how much of an impact each one thing could have on each other.

my experience has been that whiteness sees love as a prize it is owed, rather than a moral obligation it must demonstrate. Love, for whiteness, dissolves into a demand for grace, for niceness, for endless patience—to keep everyone feeling comfortable while hearts are being changed. In this way, so-called love dodges any responsibility for action and waits for the great catalytic moment that finally spurs accountability. I am not interested in love that is aloof. In a love that refuses hard work, instead demanding a bite-size education that doesn’t transform anything. In a love that qualifies the statement “Black lives matter,” because it is unconvinced this is true. I am not interested in a love that refuses to see systems and structures of injustice, preferring to ask itself only about personal intentions. This aloof kind of love is useless to me.