Slater Quotes

It is in the healing of self-blame and judgement, that the self is liberated from the constraints of binding emotions...And you come to remember your true authentic self." © 2015 W.E. Slater

When blame and self-judgement are transformed, healed, and cease to be, we have reawakened without the myth, the mythos, of separation. We are One.

Our economy is based on spending billions to persuade people that happiness is buying things, and then insisting that the only way to have a viable economy is to make things for people to buy so they’ll have jobs and get enough money to buy things.

Shut up with the backtalk, because if I wanted lip from you, I'd sit on your face.

You've always been mine, pretty girl. You just didn't know it.

When a woman tells you to 'Go ahead,' you do not, under any circumstances go ahead. You retreat to a safe distance and observe the situation very carefully. She is daring you to do something, not giving you permission.

It is impossible not to love someone who makes toast for you.

Living is about clucking your tongue and enjoying the sound. ~Slater

The third word is 'Whatever'. This is another way for ladies to say fuck you.

Together let us hold the intention that all aspects of this living planet come together in love, acceptance, and celebration of both our diversities and commonalities. Let us possess the common purpose that we heal from our hearts into compassion and forgiveness for ourselves. Together let us own the belief that we will no longer unite with blame and judgement, but come to accept that we all carry the same wounds. In acknowledging this, the hope is for the whole planet in its jubilant diversity to be healed from any and all woundings so that we come together on equal footing, living in peace and joy and setting the tone for a future of harmony within and on this planet. Peace to all and healing to all.

Second word is 'Nothing'. By the might of God Alec, when a woman says nothing is wrong, something is definitely fucking wrong.

If this were a fairy tale, I'd be my own damned knight.

The fourth is a sentence. When a woman says 'It's okay, don't worry about it,' you do worry about it. You worry a lot because she is thinking of a way to make you pay for whatever you did wrong.

Well let's face it, who on earth besides antique dealers and gay couples actually still give dinner parties?

Weak people seek revenge, strong people forgive, and intelligent people ignore. Which one are you?

I more than like you but don't feel near love yet, so I put the word love and like together and got live so I live you. I'm in live with you, pretty girl.

If Slater were someone else, Kevin would merely be the poor victim of a horrible plot. Unless he was killed by Slater, in which case he would be the dead victim of a horrible plot

I want a new liver to replace my heart." "Um, why?" "Because then I could drink more and care less.

You are the one with the cut eyebrow and busted up face, you need the ice more than I do, princess." Dominic's brothers snorted. "I like her," Ryder said. "I like her more and more each time she insults him," Damien chuckled. "Fuck you both," Dominic grinned as he continued to move towards me.

Never let your obstacles become more important than your goal.

He put his hand on what's mine, don't fucking tell me I don't have something to prove.

The first word is 'Fine'. When a woman says this during an argument, she knows she is right and that you are very wrong. She is not fine - you're not fine, nothing is fine." I snorted because that was true. Alec frowned. "But what about if she is wrong-" "Alec, stop. Do not talk back when she says something is fine, wait until she is calm to mention she might be wrong.

Sorry, I can't help it." "Oh, so your middle finger has a mind of its own then?" Alex asked with an amused look. I glared at him and said, "Yeah, and she was just sticking up for me.

Why do you call me Dominic?" he asked me, ignoring my question and my trembling. My mind was getting all mushy, and my stomach was fluttering with butterflies. "Because it's your name." He grinned. "Everyone calls me Nico though, only my brothers call my Dominic." I shrugged. "I'm not like everyone else.

I was born from nothing and to nothing I will return. And yet, when i say the word nothing, when i admit, at last, 'I am nothing,' i feel mysteriously like something again, ground zero, genesis, the pull of possibilities.

No, and I don't like mornin' people... or mornin's... or people." "Wow, I'm a lucky guy to have you, baby." Sarcastic pig!

I am a winter person, never happier than on a clear, frosty morning.

You're actin' like a girl, wanting to add me on Facebook and change your relationship status,

Dominic smiled at me and kissed the tip of my nose then winked as he said, "You've always been mine, pretty girl. You just didn't know it.

Christian turned around and penetrated Slater with his obsidian eyes. "Better talk or I'll introduce you to my two best friends," he said harshly, holding up his fists. "Meet thunder and lightning. If you don't start talking, it's going to storm all over your face.

Startled, I accidently knock over my inkwell. A black tsunami of ink sprawls out across the page, engulfing the tiny village of my words. They are swept away into the midnight sea. Gone forever. I am bereft.

those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it

Please don't follow in my footsteps. I'm already knee-deep in them, and am sinking rapidly...

You aren't a morning person, are you?" he mused. "No, I'm not. There is a reason mornin' and mournin' sound the same.

It always amazes me how it is so easy to appear one way to the people around you but to live inside as someone else entirely.

Fate has a funny way of intervening in people’s lives.

No, I like you because you stay true to yourself and aren't in the slightest bit fake. You're also really gorgeous and have a great ass, but those things are just a plus. I really just like you for you.

We fear storms and wild beasts, but we do not censor them. If we must guard ourselves from evil influences we thereby admit their seductive appeal.

If you don't want a sarcastic answer, don't ask a stupid question.

Pretty much. I was going to let you think the ball was in your court and that you had all the power but as you already found out, I've all the power in the world right here in my fingertips." He grinned and wiggled his fingers at me making me flush.

Who the hell do you think you are?" I snapped. He grinned and gave me a wink as he said, "Alec Slater, your next - or only - great fuck." Was he for real? "You're about to be Alec Slater - murder victim - if you don't shut that hole in your face!

Good kitchens are not about size; they are about ergonomics and light.

Thanks baby, but I won't be sharing you with another man or woman. You're mine and I don't share. Ever." My pulse spiked. "I like that,

Because I’m going to make you understand the family motto: Never let your obstacles become more important than your goal.

Sometimes doing the immoral thing is the moral thing to do. I would lie and cheat and steal to protect the ones I love.

98: I love you because I would NEVER spend three hours making this book of 100 reasons why I love you for anyone else.

Hey, you arrived safely?" Aideen asked when she answered. I grinned. "No, we died. I'm callin' to tell you that you get to keep Storm forever now that I'm dead.

Etsuko was given the name Esther by her teacher, Mr. Slater, on her first day of school. "It's his mother's name," she explained. To which we replied, "So is yours.

Nadira gave Kate a long hard look. "Mr. Slater has the ship. Mr. Cruse has the coordinates. I have the key. What exactly do you have?" For the first time Kate looked flustered.

But if you look to your Maker, you'll find enough power to kill a thousand Slaters - Dr. John Francis

Despair ... is the only cure for illusion. Without despair we cannot transfer our allegiance to reality - it's a kind of mourning period for our fantasies. Some people do not survive this despair, but no major change within a person can occur without it.

Hold up, buddy. A contract? Is this conversation about to get Fifty Shades of Grey?

I'm finding myself highly attracted to you right now. Would you like to come home with me since you're already dressed for bed?

Besides, after all the shite you lot did over the past few years, you need to be prayin' to God.

At a conservative estimate, there are probably a million men and women in their twenties and thirties who would happily work long hours doing what most needs to be done, if they were paid something for it.

God promised men that obedient women would be found on all corners of the Earth. I've been all over the Earth, and I call bullshit on that!" Alec snapped as he glared directly at me. I snorted. "I hate to burst your bubble, but God also made the Earth round, he's got jokes." Alec paused and glanced and me then to the sky. "Well played man, well played.

It was the way your sweet, soft hands wiped away my tears, and the way your body just curved into mine when you let me hold you. It all made me feel, for just an instant, that everything really was going to be all right. No one has ever comforted me like that…except my mom.” What the fuck? Did I just say all that out loud? I shook my head furiously from side to side as the room started spinning me like a Tilt-a-Whirl at the county fair back home. Abby grabbed my shoulders to steady me. I blinked my eyes trying to focus on her blurry, but beautiful image. “Most of all, it’s that I want someone like you to want me—just for me, not for Jake Slater the singer of Runaway Train.” I smacked my hand hard against my chest. “For what’s really inside me.

To forgive, you have to forget,” he counseled. “Because otherwise you haven’t truly forgiven.

Two tongues in their mouths, the one they use to promise and the one they use to lie.

Alec raised his eyebrows and looked very confused. "Wait. They don't mean it's okay, and that I don’t have to worry about it? Why would they say that if they don't mean it?" Nico shrugged. "I think it's some sort of mind trick. They use that sentence as an illusion that things between you are okay, but when you least expect it, they will strike like a cobra and wound your soul.

It is the deep, salty stickiness of food that intrigues me more than any other quality.

Almost anything is edible with a dab of French mustard on it.

I came to grips at that moment that his dimples were huge weakness of mine which was crazy because holes in someone's face shouldn't be so bloody attractive!

Shut up with the backtalk, because if I wanted lip from you, I'd sit on your face

A few moments passed by until I heard a door open, a few light footsteps then a whisper,"If she has blonde hair, a mole on her left cheek and huge tits, close the door right fucking now.

Food is, for me, for everybody, a very sexual thing and I think I realised that quite early on. I still cannot exaggerate how just putting a meal in front of somebody is really more of a buzz for me than anything. And I mean anything. Maybe that goes back to trying to please my dad, I don't know. It's like parenting in a way I suppose.

Everyone knows that a lot of memoirs have made-up scenes; it's obvious. And everyone knows that half the time at least fictions contain literal autobiographical truths. So how do we decide what's what, and does it even matter?

Alec. She is a good girl!" Clients? What the hell did that mean? Alec grinned at Aideen before he flicked his eyes to me. "Oh, I'm bettin' there is a bad girl deep inside her somewhere. I'll just have to use my fingers, mouth, and cock to bring her out to play.

Pamper a tomato, overfeed it, overwater it and you will get a Paris Hilton of a tomato.

Carpet Peeum

Get off me you pervert,

Those monumental anniversary celebrations aren’t what ultimately determine the actual direction of our marriage. Rather, it’s the here and now. It’s those daily decisions we make individually and together that influence how our relationship actually fares in the long run

Binary There are two kinds of people in the world. Male and Female. Gay and Straight. Black and White. Normal and Weird. Cis and Trans. There are two kinds of people in the world. Saints and Sinners. Victims and Villains. Cruel and Kind. Guilty and Innocent. There are two kinds of people in the world. Just two. Just two. Only two.

You convinced me that you're a good kisser, that doesn't mean you like me." "I'm here pretending to be your boyfriend with the possibility of getting zero benefits from you. Trust me kitten, I like you. I like you a whole lottle, remember?

I cannot go any further without mentioning my favourite biscuit of all time, now sadly, tragically, extinct. The oaty, crumbly, demerara notes of the long-forgotten Abbey Crunch will remain forever on my lips. I loved the biscuit as much as anything I have ever eaten, and often, in moments of solitude, I still think about its warm, buttery, sugary self.

Food has been my career, my hobby, and, it must be said, my escape.

But an attentive researcher--like you--might be able to see something that all the experts can't see. If she asks the right questions.

Sam, his warrior. He would die before he put her fire out.

Yeah, because I feel very fucking lucky right now sleeping next to Edward Scissor Feet.

Holy shite. He looked like Matt Bomber, only hotter, because he was covered in tattoos!

Who did this then? Give me names and I'll fix it.

What movie do you want to watch? I have Netflix, so we have a lot of options.

Everyone is an asshole," says Libby. "I suppose all you can hope to be is a lighter shade of brown.

You could say it feels a bit like dressing up in the brightest party clothes so nobody sees how low and lost you feel underneath. You'd be surprised how easy it is to hide your true feelings with a smile and a kind word.

On her walls she’d posted the family slogan: Never let your obstacles become more important than your goal. The goals: go to class, get your grades up, graduate, stay out of jail, survive.

I understood that if ever one wanted to live with someone you cooked for them and they came running. But then it is my idea of hell these days, living with someone. The idea of sharing your life with someone is just utterly ghastly. I know why people do it, but it's never a good idea.

That was the thing about restorative justice. It allowed you to hold two things in your head at the same time--that butt-slapping was funny, and also that it wasn't. That asking permission to touch somebody was funny, but that you really didn't want to be touched by somebody who didn't ask. That the girls wanted Jeff to dial back the ass-smacking thing, but that they still liked joking around with him. That the whole thing wasn't a big deal, and that it kind of was (239).

I'm out of here, Bronagh. I'm sorry, but this is too much to deal with." With that said, he turned and stormed away. I was wide-eyed, and stared after him. "Gavin, wait, please-" "Don't!" Dominic's face was in mine and growling. "Don't call after him. He isn't man enough if he doesn't want to fight for you.

I rolled my eyes. "I'm not gettin' into this argument with you again. I still have a headache from that day in Dunnes Stores where we engaged in a battle of words, verbal assault if you wish to say-" "And physical. You hit me, remember?" I growled. "You put your arms around me and tried to take my cookies! A judge would understand that, and thank me for not doin' further damage!

I was about to ask Alec how he was getting on with the dealf when I heard him singing. The fucker was not only good looking, but he could sing and sing really well. His choice of song caused my eyes to roll though. "Sex bomb, sex bomb, I'm a sex bomb-" "You're a sex bomb!" I corrected the lyric cutting him off as I went into the bathroom.

And I have the same heart in the same socket of chest, and it hammers the way it used to, and I find myself thinking the same words, safe again, trapped again. My palms sweat on the steering wheel. I remind myself: I am not that girl. I am not that girl. I've changed. I've grown. It's a long time ago.

I record my life, sifting and trying to separate what is real from what I’ve dreamed. I have decided not to tell you what is fact versus what is unfact primarily because (a) I am giving you a portrait of the essence of me, and (b) because, living where I do, living in the chasm that cuts through thought, it is lonely… come with me, reader. I am toying with you, yes, but for a real reason. I am asking you to enter the confusion with me, to give up the ground with me, because sometimes that frightening floaty place is really the truest of all. Kierkegaard says, ‘The greatest lie of all is the feeling of firmness beneath our feet. We are most honest when we are lost.’ Enter that lostness with me. Live in the place I am, where the view is murky, where the connecting bridges and orienting maps have been surgically stripped away.

Don’t be afraid to do it harder,” she grunted. “That’s what she said,” Alec said earning a laugh from Keela and myself. “Have you ever thought of givin’ up sexual innuendos?” I asked him with my lip curled upward. “Because you should, you can be so disgustin’ at times.” “I’ve tried,” Alec sighed. “But it’s hard, so hard.

Bronagh when she entered the room. She placed her hands on her hips and sighed, deeply. “I’m so fat.” She frowned. “It 58/668 took me a whole sixty seconds to get meself off the toilet.” I snickered while Dominic tilted his head to the side. “Fat?” he questioned. “And here I thought you were pregnant. Man, you had me fooled.” Bronagh gave him the finger. “Bite me, Fuckface. You did this to me.

Individualism may be the greatest boon to authoritarianism since the whip, and has helped prolong it well beyond its natural lifespan. Its message is: 'Yes, fight the system by all means-- we all hate it, don't we? But you must fight it alone. That's what a real warrior does. Groups just stifle your creativity. You must stand alone!' It reflects the oldest authoritarian strategy-- divide and conquer. The dissolution of a tyrannical system is possible only by a cooperative effort. Therefore, an ideology that sneers at cooperation, instills an allergic reaction to groups, and idealizes the lonely hero tilting at 'the system' serves to preserve that system, since it attaches our anti-authoritarian impulses to an approach that holds no possibility of success.

Bronagh,” I said, grinning at my sister. “What is your favourite position in bed?” Dominic looked at his lady, a smirk playing on his lips. Bronagh mulled my question over in her mind then after some serious consideration she said, “Near the wall, so I’m closest to me phone when it’s chargin’.” I tittered at her answer, then looked to Dominic and burst into laughter. The look of hurt and betrayal was plastered all over his sculpted face. “Kicking me in the nuts would have been less painful, Bronagh,” he muttered as he stood up and practically dragged himself, and his wounded ego, out of the room

I hurt your feelings before. But then, I don’t think you were lacking in self-confidence. You must know that you’re beautiful. Your hair is so golden and you have the bearing of a young Venus. Kristen, it isn’t you. It’s me. I haven’t got any emotion left. I haven’t got what you need, what you want. Damn it, don’t you understand? I want you. I’m made out of flesh and blood and whatever else it is that God puts into men. I want you. Now. Hell, I could have wanted you right after I ripped another man away from you. I’m no better than he is, not really. Don’t you understand?

But then, not long after, in another article, Loftus writes, "We live in a strange and precarious time that resembles at its heart the hysteria and superstitious fervor of the witch trials." She took rifle lessons and to this day keeps the firing instruction sheets and targets posted above her desk. In 1996, when Psychology Today interviewed her, she burst into tears twice within the first twenty minutes, labile, lubricated, theatrical, still whip smart, talking about the blurry boundaries between fact and fiction while she herself lived in another blurry boundary, between conviction and compulsion, passion and hyperbole. "The witch hunts," she said, but the analogy is wrong, and provides us with perhaps a more accurate window into Loftus's stretched psyche than into our own times, for the witch hunts were predicated on utter nonsense, and the abuse scandals were predicated on something all too real, which Loftus seemed to forget: Women are abused. Memories do matter. Talking to her, feeling her high-flying energy the zeal that burns up the center of her life, you have to wonder, why. You are forced to ask the very kind of question Loftus most abhors: did something bad happen to her? For she herself seems driven by dissociated demons, and so I ask. What happened to you? Turns out, a lot. (refers to Dr. Elizabeth F. Loftus)

A healthy attitude to eating I am concerned about the current victimisation of food. The apparent need to divide the contents of our plates into heroes and villains. The current villains are sugar and gluten, though it used to be fat, and before that it was salt (and before that it was carbs and . . . oh, I’ve lost track). It is worth remembering that today’s devil will probably be tomorrow’s angel and vice versa. We risk having the life sucked out of our eating by allowing ourselves to be shamed over our food choices. If this escalates, historians may look back on this generation as one in which society’s decision about what to eat was driven by guilt and shame rather than by good taste or pleasure. Well, not on my watch. Yes, I eat cake, and ice cream and meat. I eat biscuits and bread and drink alcohol too. What is more, I eat it all without a shred of guilt. And yet, I like to think my eating is mindful rather than mindless. I care deeply about where my food has come from, its long-term effect on me and the planet. That said, I eat what you might call ‘just enough’ rather than too much. My rule of thumb – just don’t eat too much of any one thing.

Loftus grew up with a cold father who taught her nothing about love but everything about angles. A mathematician, he showed her the beauty of the triangle's strong tip, the circumference of the circle, the rigorous mission of calculus. Her mother was softer, more dramatic, prone to deep depressions. Loftus tells all this to me with little feeling "I have no feelings about this right now," she says, "but when I'm in the right space I could cry." I somehow don't believe her; she seems so far from real tears, from the original griefs, so immersed in the immersed in the operas of others. Loftus recalls her father asking her out to see a play, and in the car, coming home at night, the moon hanging above them like a stopwatch, tick tick, her father saying to her, "You know, there's something wrong with your mother. She'll never be well again. Her father was right. When Loftus was fourteen, her mother drowned in the family swimming pool. She was found floating face down in the deep end, in the summer. The sun was just coming up, the sky a mess of reds and bruise. Loftus recalls the shock, the siren, an oxygen mask clamped over her mouth as she screamed, "Mother mother mother," hysteria. That is a kind of drowning. "I loved her," Loftus says. "Was it suicide?" I ask. She says, "My father thinks so. Every year when I go home for Christmas, my brothers and I think about it, but we'll never know," she says. Then she says, "It doesn't matter." "What doesn't matter?" I ask. "Whether it was or it wasn't," she says. "It doesn't matter because it's all going to be okay." Then I hear nothing on the line but some static. on the line but some static. "You there?" I say. "Oh I'm here," she says. "Tomorrow I'm going to Chicago, some guy on death row, I'm gonna save him. I gotta go testify. Thank God I have my work," she says. "You've always had your work," I say. "Without it," she says, "Where would I be?