Spelling My Name Wrong Quotes

He bent his head to mine and kissed the sense out of me. If you’d asked me my name, I’d have told you wrong. He had that kind of ability and he was mine, maybe it was because he was mine and because I loved him the way I did that his spell could cast itself over me with such ferocity.

THAT’S HOW MY STORY ENDS. With the loss of everyone I have ever loved. With me, in a big, beautiful Upper East Side apartment, missing everyone who ever meant anything to me. When you write the ending, Monique, make sure it’s clear that I don’t love this apartment, that I don’t care about all my money, that I couldn’t give a rat’s ass if people think I’m a legend, that the adoration of millions of people never warmed my bed. When you write the ending, Monique, tell everyone that it is the people I miss. Tell everyone that I got it wrong. That I chose the wrong things most of the time. When you write the ending, Monique, make sure the reader understands that all I was ever really looking for was family. Make sure it’s clear that I found it. Make sure they know that I am heartbroken without it. Spell it out if you have to. Say that Evelyn Hugo doesn’t care if everyone forgets her name. Evelyn Hugo doesn’t care if everyone forgets she was ever alive. Better yet, remind them that Evelyn Hugo never existed. She was a person I made up for them. So that they would love me. Tell them that I was confused, for a very long time, about what love was. Tell them that I understand it now, and I don’t need their love anymore. Say to them, “Evelyn Hugo just wants to go home. It’s time for her to go to her daughter, and her lover, and her best friend, and her mother.” Tell them Evelyn Hugo says good-bye.

Do you like Shakespeare?" he asks me. An odd segue. I shake my head. "All I know about him is that he stole my name and spelled it wrong.

What a great article," Lockwood said, for the twentieth time that day. "Couldn't have been better." "They spelled my name wrong," I pointed out. "They didn't mention me at all," George said. "Well, in all the essentials, I mean." Lockwood grinned round at us.

Alex? Where’d you go? There’s a cookie here that’s labeled but my name is spelled wrong. Brent is spelled B-R-E-N-T, not A-L-E-X.” Alex rolled her eyes. “Don’t touch my cookie.

You know how to spell that? G-U-Z-M-A-N. Don’t you go spelling my name wrong, or I’ll have to mess you up.

You are wrong. I have dreamed of your Wall, Jon Snow. Great was the lore that raised it, and great the spells locked beneath its ice. We walk beneath one of the hinges of the world.” Melisandre gazed up at it, her breath a warm moist cloud in the air. “This is my place as it is yours, and soon enough you may have grave need of me. Do not refuse my friendship, Jon. I have seen you in the storm, hard-pressed, with enemies on every side. You have so many enemies. Shall I tell you their names?

What do you think we’re hunting tonight?” I twisted and pulled at my backpack until it was in front of me, then opened it. More silver stakes. Little glass bottles of holy water. And, oh my God, was that a gun? My knees were wobbling as I zipped up the Bag O’Death and gingerly dropped it in the grass. “What’s wrong?” Izzy asked. “Um, a lot? There is seriously so much wrongness going on right now. Namely, the fact that you people are teenagers with bags of guns.” Izzy stiffened a little at that. “We’re not kids,” she spit out. “We’re Brannicks.” Sighing, I shoved my hands in my pockets. “I get that, but look, Izzy, I can’t kill a werewolf. I know werewolves. I lived with some, and they’re…well, they’re gross and slobbery and super scary, but I can’t kill one.

Melisandre’s red lips curled into a smile. “I have seen you in my fires, Jon Snow.” “Is that a threat, my lady? Do you mean to burn me too?” “You mistake my meaning.” She gave him a searching look. “I fear that I make you uneasy, Lord Snow.” Jon did not deny it. “The Wall is no place for a woman.” “You are wrong. I have dreamed of your Wall, Jon Snow. Great was the lore that raised it, and great the spells locked beneath its ice. We walk beneath one of the hinges of the world.” Melisandre gazed up at it, her breath a warm moist cloud in the air. “This is my place as it is yours, and soon enough you may have grave need of me. Do not refuse my friendship, Jon. I have seen you in the storm, hard-pressed, with enemies on every side. You have so many enemies. Shall I tell you their names?” “I know their names.” “Do not be so certain.” The ruby at Melisandre’s throat gleamed red. “It is not the foes who curse you to your face that you must fear, but those who smile when you are looking and sharpen their knives when you turn your back. You would do well to keep your wolf close beside you. Ice, I see, and daggers in the dark. Blood frozen red and hard, and naked steel. It was very cold.” “It is always cold on the Wall.” “You think so?” “I know so, my lady.” “Then you know nothing, Jon Snow,” she whispered.

I HAD TO GO to America for a while to give some talks. Going to America always does me good. It’s where I’m from, after all. There’s baseball on the TV, people are friendly and upbeat, they don’t obsess about the weather except when there is weather worth obsessing about, you can have all the ice cubes you want. Above all, visiting America gives me perspective. Consider two small experiences I had upon arriving at a hotel in downtown Austin, Texas. When I checked in, the clerk needed to record my details, naturally enough, and asked for my home address. Our house doesn’t have a street number, just a name, and I have found in the past that that is more deviance than an American computer can sometimes cope with, so I gave our London address. The girl typed in the building number and street name, then said: “City?” I replied: “London.” “Can you spell that please?” I looked at her and saw that she wasn’t joking. “L-O-N-D-O-N,” I said. “Country?” “England.” “Can you spell that?” I spelled England. She typed for a moment and said: “The computer won’t accept England. Is that a real country?” I assured her it was. “Try Britain,” I suggested. I spelled that, too—twice (we got the wrong number of T’s the first time)—and the computer wouldn’t take that either. So I suggested Great Britain, United Kingdom, UK, and GB, but those were all rejected, too. I couldn’t think of anything else to suggest. “It’ll take France,” the girl said after a minute. “I beg your pardon?” “You can have ‘London, France.’ ” “Seriously?” She nodded. “Well, why not?” So she typed “London, France,” and the system was happy. I finished the check-in process and went with my bag and plastic room key to a bank of elevators a few paces away. When the elevator arrived, a young woman was in it already, which I thought a little strange because the elevator had come from one of the upper floors and now we were going back up there again. About five seconds into the ascent, she said to me in a suddenly alert tone: “Excuse me, was that the lobby back there?” “That big room with a check-in desk and revolving doors to the street? Why, yes, it was.” “Shoot,” she said and looked chagrined. Now I am not for a moment suggesting that these incidents typify Austin, Texas, or America generally or anything like that. But it did get me to thinking that our problems are more serious than I had supposed. When functioning adults can’t identify London, England, or a hotel lobby, I think it is time to be concerned. This is clearly a global problem and it’s spreading. I am not at all sure how we should tackle such a crisis, but on the basis of what we know so far, I would suggest, as a start, quarantining Texas.

The few times we do spend together stick out since they don't happen that often. Like when Dad was able to come to my eighth birthday party at the public swimming pool - the first birthday party of mine he'd been to in a few years due to his work schedule. He gave me a birthday card, which he had never done before. He spelled my name wrong on the envelope.

I was just about to get up when Dad rushed into the kitchen. He was in pajamas, which was totally bizarre. Dad never came down to breakfast until he was completely dressed. Of course, his pajamas even had a little pocket and handkerchief, so maybe he felt dressed. He had a sheet of paper in his hands and was staring at it, his eyes wide. “James,” Aislinn acknowledged. “You’re up kind of late this morning. Is Grace sleeping in, too?” Dad glanced up, and I could swear he blushed. :”Hmm? Oh. Yes. Well. In any case. Um…to the point at hand.” “Leave Dad alone,” I told Aislinn. “His Britishness is short-circuiting.” Instead of being grossed out, I was weirdly happy at the thought of my parents being all…whatever (okay, I was a little grossed out). In fact, their apparent reconciliation was maybe the one good thing to come out of this whole mess. Well, that and saving the world, obviously. Dad shook his head and held out the papers. “I didn’t come down here to discuss my personal…relations. I came here because this arrived from the Council this morning. I sat back in my chair. “The Council? Like, the Council Council? But they don’t even exist anymore. Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe it’s the Council For What Breakfast Cereals You Should-“ “Sophia,” Dad said, stopping me with a look. “Sorry. Freaked out.” He gave a little smile. “I know that, darling. And to be perfectly honest, perhaps you should be.” He handed the papers to me, and I saw it was some kind of official letter. It was addressed to Dad, but I saw my name in the first paragraph. I laid it on the table so no one would see my hands shake. “Did this come by owl?” I muttered. “Please tell me it came-“ “Sophie!” nearly everyone in the kitchen shouted. Even Archer was exasperated, “Come on, Mercer.” I took a deep breath and started to read. When I got about halfway down the page, I stopped, my eyes going wide, my heart racing. I looked back at Dad. “Are they serious?” “I believe that they are.” I read the words again. “Holy hell weasel.

This tattoo hurts like Hel,” Bryce complained. “I can’t even lean against my chair.” Danika countered in a singsong voice, “The artist warned you it’d be sore for a few days.” “I was so drunk I spelled my name wrong on the waiver. I’d hardly say I was in a good place to understand what ‘sore for a few days’ meant.” Danika, who’d gotten a matching tattoo of the text now scrolling down Bryce’s back, had already healed. One of the benefits to being a full-blooded Vanir: swift recovery time compared to humans—or a half-human like Bryce.

Shepard clears his throat again. “I need to tell you something, a few somethings. Because now is the time to tell you. Before we get serious. But it’s going to make it seem like I think we’re more serious than we are. I just don’t want to miss my window for being honest with you.” “Shepard, you’re making me nervous.” He groans. “I’m sorry. Don’t be nervous.” My hands were on his shoulders. I drop them into my lap. “Don’t pull away,” he says. “Just tell me, Shepard! Are you engaged to more than one demon?” “No! But … you know I’ve been in a lot of unusual magickal situations…” “Right.” “And you know about my thirdborn…” “I know that a giant you call a friend is going to eat your thirdborn.” He closes one eye and bites his bottom lip. “I may also have promised someone my firstborn.” “Shepard, your firstborn…” He squeezes my waist. “It’s all right, I told you—I’m not having kids.” “Who gets your firstborn?” “An imp. Or three.” “Aren’t imps the same as demons?” “Never say that to an imp.” “How did this even happen?” “We were playing impdice. I thought they were joking about the wager.” “We are going to kill these imps.” “Penelope…” He bites his lip again. “There’s more.” “More? Your secondborn?” “No, I’ve got dibs on that one…” He’s grimacing. “But I did lose my last name.” Every time he talks, my jaw drops lower and my eyebrows climb higher. “How on earth did you lose your last name?” “Told it to the wrong fairy.” My hands are in the air. “How have you met so many fairies!” “I fell in with a crew of them…” “Shepard—hell’s spells, is your name even Shepard?” “Yes! I only lost my last name. And I only ‘magickally and profoundly’ lost it; I can still say it, I can still wear name tags. There’s just one more thing—one more big thing…” He closes both eyes for a second. “I have a, um, well … I don’t have a sexually transmitted disease. But I am a carrier. Only other merpeople can get it. So it’s probably not relevant. Unless you want to sleep with a merperson. And also me. Me first. Which I’m not suggesting…” Hell’s spells … Shepard. I climb off his lap.

That's how my story ends. With the loss of everyone I have ever loved. With me, in a big, beautiful Upper East Side apartment, missing everyone who ever meant anything to me. When you write the ending, Monique, make sure it’s clear that I don’t love this apartment, that I don’t care about all my money, that I couldn’t give a rat’s ass if people think I’m a legend, that the adoration of millions of people never warmed my bed. When you write the ending, Monique, tell everyone that it is the people I miss. Tell everyone that I got it wrong. That I chose the wrong things most of the time. When you write the ending, Monique, make sure the reader understands that all I was ever really looking for was family. Make sure it’s clear that I found it. Make sure they know that I am heartbroken without it. Spell it out if you have to. Say that Evelyn Hugo doesn’t care if everyone forgets her name. Evelyn Hugo doesn’t care if everyone forgets she was ever alive. Better yet, remind them that Evelyn Hugo never existed. She was a person I made up for them. So that they would love me. Tell them that I was confused, for a very long time, about what love was. Tell them that I understand it now, and I don’t need their love anymore. Say to them, “Evelyn Hugo just wants to go home. It’s time for her to go to her daughter, and her lover, and her best friend, and her mother.” Tell them Evelyn Hugo says good-bye.

Iain MacGregor,” she whispered longingly, looking up. The woods were quiet. Strips of moonlight shone through tree limbs that reached like surreal black fingertips across her vision. A single tear slid down her cheek. She touched her mouth, imagining his kiss. Taking a small pocket knife out of her cargo pants, she looked about. A mystic had once told her that if she left pieces of herself around while she lived, it would expand her haunting territory when she died. Jane wasn’t sure she believed in sideshow magic tricks—or the Old Magick as the mystic had spelled it on her sign. She had no idea what had possessed her to talk to the palm reader and ask about ghosts. Still, just in case, she was leaving her stamp all over the woods. She cut her palm and pressed it to a nearby tree under a branch. Holding the wound to the rough bark stung at first, but then it made her feel better. This forest wouldn’t be a bad eternity. The sound of running feet erupted behind her and she stiffened. No one ever came out here at night. She’d walked the woods hundreds of times. Her mind instantly went to the creepy girl ghosts chanting by the stream. “Whoohoo!” Jane whipped around, startled as a streak of naked flesh sprinted past her. The Scottish voice was met with loud cheers from those who followed him. “Water’s this way, lads, or my name isn’t Raibeart MacGregor, King of the Highlands!” Another naked man dashed through the forest after him. “It smells of freedom.” Jane stayed hidden in the branches, undetected, with her hand pressed to the bark. “Aye, freedom from your proper Cait,” Raibeart answered, his voice coming through the dark where he’d disappeared into the trees. “Murdoch, stop him before he reaches town. Cait will not teleport ya out of jail again,” a third man yelled, not running quite so fast. “Raibeart, ya are goin’ the wrong way!” “Och, Angus, my Cait canna live without me,” Murdoch, the second streaker, answered. “She’ll always come to my rescue.” “I said stop him, Murdoch, we’re new to this place.” Angus skidded to a stop and lifted his jaw, as if sensing he was being watched. He looked in her direction and instantly covered his manhood as his eyes caught Jane’s shocked face in the tree limbs. “Oh, lassie.” “Oh, naked man,” Jane teased before she could stop herself. “That I am,” Angus answered, “but there is an explanation for it.” “I don’t think some things need explained,” Jane said.

People like me—like the Roussels—are a dying breed, our gifts of little value to a world that no longer believes in la magie. For generations, my family has been part of a kind of conte de fée—a fairy tale. Though perhaps fairy tale is the wrong term. Fairy tales have happy endings. Fables are meant as cautionary tales, lessons intended to teach us about life and its consequences. And over the years, the Roussels have learned much about consequences. There are many names for what we are. Gypsies, hexers, white witches, and shamans. In England we’re called cunning folk, though I’ve always hated the term. Perhaps because it conjures thoughts of slick-handed cheats, waiting to separate the unsuspecting passerby from the few pennies in his pocket, the charlatans with their phony magic and vulgar showmanship, making up fortunes and doling out platitudes. We are not those people. For us, The Work is sacred, a vocation. In France, where I come from, we are les tisseuses de sort—Spell Weavers—which is at least closer to the truth. We possess certain skills, talents with things like charms and herbs, cards and stones—or in our case, needle and thread. There are not many of us left these days, or at least not many who depend on the craft for their living. But there are a few still, if one knows where to look. And for a time, I was one of them, like my mother and her mother before her, living in the narrow, twisty lanes of Paris discreetly known as the craft district.

A knock came at the door and I stiffened, getting to my feet so that I could open it. Darius stood outside wearing a black tux which looked like it had been made specifically for him. It fit perfectly and my mouth dried up as my gaze roamed over him. His dark hair was slicked back and the rough stubble lining his jaw ached for me to brush my fingers over it. No, no, no. Bad Tory. “Darcy’s not here yet,” I said in place of a greeting. “I can see that,” he replied. Before I could lose myself to the spell of his unfairly good looks, I turned away from him, heading back to the mirror which hung on the wall as I applied another coat of lipstick which wasn’t in any way necessary. He stayed by the door, leaning against the frame as he watched me. “You’re not wearing the dress I sent you.” “This might be a good time for you to realise, I don’t tend to do as I’m told,” I said dismissively. “I think I like this one better anyway.” I turned to look at him in surprise as his gaze slid over me in a way that made heat rise along my skin. “Nice to know you can admit when you’re wrong,” I said. “So you’re actually going to stick to your word about being nice?” Darius flashed me a smile which transformed his face in a way I’d never seen before. “I am. Just try not to fall in love with me though, it could make things awkward when we go back to fighting with each other tomorrow.” I scoffed at that and tossed my lipstick into my clutch just as my Atlas pinged. Darcy: I bumped into Orion by The Orb. He says he’s coming with us and that you should meet us here... I raised an eyebrow in surprise and tapped out a quick response. Tory: Okay, I’ll be there to rescue you from his grumpy face ASAP x “Darcy says she’s going to meet us at The Orb. She ran into your bestie and he told her he can’t bear to spend the evening away from you so he’s tagging along. I just hope that this party isn’t going to be dull, because inviting a teacher has really lowered my expectations for debauchery,” I said as I moved out of my room and locked up behind me. “In all honesty, Lance is more likely to add to the debauchery than detract from it,” Darius said, offering me his arm. “Ooo Lance has a first name. Will he want me using that or is it a special right only given to those who get a tattoo in his honour?” I asked, touching my fingers to Darius’s forearm where I knew the Libra brand sat on his skin beneath the fancy suit. I didn’t take his arm though and started walking down the corridor unassisted. “What makes you think that tattoo is for him?” Darius asked, falling into step with me easily despite the fast pace I set. “Oh is it a secret? I thought everyone knew he was your Guardian and you’ve got that little soul bond thing going on.” “Who told you that?” Darius demanded, his voice dropping an octave. “You just did.” I flashed him a smile and he scowled at me. “Done playing nice so soon?” He released a long breath as we reached the common room but didn’t reply. A lot of eyes turned our way. I guessed the sight of the two of us suddenly hanging out was pretty weird. (Tory)

People spell my name wrong all the time, and I usually don’t think much of it, but that time it made me sad. I opened the card to see what he wrote inside. That’s the more important part anyway. “Love, Dad” was all he wrote underneath the poem in the card. I was even more sad, but it’s the thought that counts, and the fact that he had the thought meant something to me. Until on our way home I heard Mom say, “Did you get her a birthday card like I told you to? You should be nurturing a relationship with her, like a FATHER does.” So it was really Mom’s thought all along.

WHY I AM A FATALITY I know my destiny. There will come a day when my name will recall the memory of something formidable—a crisis the like of which has never been known on earth, the memory of the most profound clash of consciences, and the passing of a sentence upon all that which theretofore had been believed, exacted, and hallowed. I am not a man, I am dynamite. And with it all there is nought of the founder of a religion in me. Religions are matters for the mob; after coming in contact with a religious man, I always feel that I must wash my hands.... I require no "believers," it is my opinion that I am too full of malice to believe even in myself; I never address myself to masses. I am horribly frightened that one day I shall be pronounced "holy." You will understand why I publish this book beforehand—it is to prevent people from wronging me. I refuse to be a saint; I would rather be a clown. Maybe I am a clown. And I am notwithstanding, or rather not notwithstanding, the mouthpiece of truth; for nothing more blown-out with falsehood has ever existed, than a saint. But my truth is terrible: for hitherto lies have been called truth. The Transvaluation of all Values, this is my formula for mankind's greatest step towards coming to its senses—a step which in me became flesh and genius. My destiny ordained that I should be the first decent human being, and that I should feel myself opposed to the falsehood of millenniums. I was the first to discover truth, and for the simple reason that I was the first who became conscious of falsehood as falsehood—that is to say, I smelt it as such. My genius resides in my nostrils. I contradict as no one has contradicted hitherto, and am nevertheless the reverse of a negative spirit. I am the harbinger of joy, the like of which has never existed before; I have discovered tasks of such lofty greatness that, until my time, no one had any idea of such things. Mankind can begin to have fresh hopes, only now that I have lived. Thus, I am necessarily a man of Fate. For when Truth enters the lists against the falsehood of ages, shocks are bound to ensue, and a spell of earthquakes, followed by the transposition of hills and valleys, such as the world has never yet imagined even in its dreams. The concept "politics" then becomes elevated entirely to the sphere of spiritual warfare. All the mighty realms of the ancient order of society are blown into space—for they are all based on falsehood: there will be wars, the like of which have never been seen on earth before. Only from my time and after me will politics on a large scale exist on EArth.

Gratitude isn’t just a fancy way to pat yourself on the back or feel smug about saying “thank you” to the barista who spelled your name wrong. Nope, it’s a full-on life upgrade that doesn’t require a subscription or Wi-Fi. It’s a mindset, a way to see life that makes even a cold cup of coffee feel like a small win. When we show gratitude, we’re not just hoarding all the good vibes; we’re actually tossing them back out into the world like confetti, starting a chain reaction of positive energy. But let’s be honest—when was the last time you truly asked yourself: What am I grateful for? And no, your Wi-Fi signal doesn’t count. Life’s a busy, chaotic mess. Between trying to remember your passwords, dodging traffic, and figuring out what’s for dinner (again), it’s no wonder we forget to appreciate the little things. That’s where gratitude comes in, giving us a chance to hit the brakes on our runaway thoughts and realize that, hey, maybe we do have it pretty good. That shift from “Ugh, my life is a series of unfortunate events” to “Wow, I have a roof over my head and socks without holes” can do wonders for your outlook. Gratitude is like the mental equivalent of putting on glasses—suddenly, everything comes into focus. It grounds you in the now, making you realize that even during your worst “can’t-even” moments, there are still little gems worth celebrating. Whether it’s your friend’s cheesy joke, your pet’s goofy antics, or the sheer joy of finding that one comfy spot on the couch, these snippets of life, when recognized, add up to a sense of well-being that no amount of scrolling through social media can match. The magic of practicing gratitude is that it turns “not enough” into “more than enough.” It’s like discovering you’ve been living in a treasure chest all along. And here’s the kicker: gratitude isn’t just about feeling warm and fuzzy; it’s also about spreading that warmth to others. Your good vibes become a beacon, making people wonder, “What’s their secret?” Spoiler: It’s not a miracle supplement. But let’s talk about giving back. What does it mean to share gratitude with the world? It’s not complicated. It’s about realizing that by being aware of what we’re thankful for, we create an atmosphere where appreciation becomes a thing. That sincere “thank you” you offer to the overworked delivery driver or the moment you pause to notice the sunset—those actions radiate positivity more than you know. Gratitude is the gift that keeps on giving, even when you’re not keeping tabs on it. If you want to research this more, Google is full of studies and numbers. But the real takeaway? Life experience shows us that gratitude is more than just a practice; it’s a game-changer. It shifts our focus to what we have, building mental resilience and helping us find peace and strength in the present. It’s a reminder that life’s value isn’t in towering achievements or shiny things but in the love, laughter, and moments that make us human.

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From the Bridge” by Captain Hank Bracker Pebbles, Rocks & Mountains Rocks can be formed in many different ways and are found in just about every corner of our planet, the Moon, up in space and who knows where else. Now pebbles are the mini-me’s of rocks and generally are about one to three inches in size. Geologists will tell you that they are about 5 millimeters in diameter, but who’s counting? In fact there are two beaches that are made up entirely of pebbles such as the Shingle Beach in Somerset, England. Generally pebbles are found along rivers, streams and creeks whereas mountains are usually a part of a chain that was created along geothermal fault lines. The process of Mountain formation is associated with movements of the earth's crust, which is referred to as plate tectonics. See; now that I looked it up, I know these things! What I’m about to say has absolutely nothing to do with geology and everything to do about human nature. In the course of events we never trip over mountains and seldom over rocks, but tripping over pebbles is another thing. Marilyn French, a writer and feminist scholar is credited with saying, “Men (she should have included Women) stumble over pebbles, never over mountains.” She was the lady (I should have said woman) whose provocative 1977 novel, “The Women's Room” captured the frustration and fury of a generation of women fed up with society's traditional conceptions of their roles (and this is true). However, this has nothing to do with the feminist movement and is simply a metaphor. Of course we’re not going to trip over mountains, not unless we are bigger than the “Jolly Green Giant!” and so it’s usually the little things that trip us up and cause us problems. What comes to mind is found on page 466 of The Exciting Story of Cuba. This is a book that won two awards by the “Florida Authors & Publishers Association” and yet there are small mistakes. They weren’t even caused by me or my team and yet there they are, getting bigger and bigger every time I look at them. Now I’m not about to tell you what they are, since that would take the fun out of it, but if you look hard enough in the book, you’ll succeed in discovering them! I will however tell you that one of these mistakes was caused by a computer program called “Word.” It’s wonderful that this program has a spell check and can even correct my grammar, but it can’t read my mind. In its infernal wisdom, the program was so insistent that it was right and that I was wrong that it changed the spelling of, in this case, the name of a person in the middle of the night. It happened while I was sleeping! I would have seen it if it had been as big as a mountain, however being just a little pebble it escaped my review and even escaped the eagle eyes of Lucy who still remains the best proof reader and copy editor that I know. When you discover what I missed please refrain from emailing me, although, normally, I would really enjoy hearing from you! I unfortunately already know most of the errors in the book, for which I take full responsibility. The truth of it is that my mistakes leave me feeling stupid and frustrated. Now, you may disagree with me however I don’t think that I am really all that stupid, but when you write hundreds of thousands of words, a few of them might just slip between the cracks. None of us are infallible and we all make mistakes. I sometimes like to say that “I once thought that I had made a mistake, but then found out that I was mistaken.” And so it is; if you think about it, it’s the pebbles that create most of our problems, not the rocks and certainly not the mountains. I’ll let you know as soon as my other books, Suppressed I Rise – Revised Edition; Seawater One…. And Words of Wisdom, “From the Bridge” are available. It’s Seawater One that has the naughty bits in it… but that just spices it up. Now with that book you can really tell me what you think….

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My Name is Pansy Roger from Toronto, Canada. I am sharing this testimony because someone out there may have similar problem. My Husband doesn’t think polygamy is wrong. He has been seeing another woman for about three months now. I told him that it’s a sin and he needs to stop, but he says he is in love with her. They’ve talked about being together “FOREVER” and eventually her moving in with us. My husband still loves me, he regrets getting into this in the first place, but is not willing to break up with her. I contacted Dr. Dele because I couldn’t handle him again because she was getting much into him. Dr.dele cast a love spell for me and within 48 hour my husband surprisingly came home on his knees begging me to forgive him that he has broken up with her because he just realized that it’s a big sin unto man and God. All thanks to Dr.dele, I pray that God will continue to use you to help people. Friends don’t die in silent because someone like Dr. Dele has a solution to your relationship problem. Contact him via dr.delespiritualtemple@gmail.com

You see, in my blacked out state, Lincoln and Ari thought it would be hilarious for me to get Olivia’s name…pierced rather than tattooed on my dick. I literally had beads spelling out her name, speared down the base of my dick. “That’s my name,” she said with a gulp. “You have my name pierced through…your dick.” She started to back away. “Please tell me this isn’t where I end up as like a skin suit or something.

Imagine that you have to break someone’s arm. Right or left, doesn’t matter. The point is that you have to break it, because if you don’t…well, that doesn’t matter either. Let’s just say bad things will happen if you don’t. Now, my question goes like this: do you break the arm quickly — snap, whoops, sorry, here let me help you with that improvised splint — or do you drag the whole business out for a good eight minutes, every now and then increasing the pressure in the tiniest of increments, until the pain becomes pink and green and hot and cold and altogether howlingly unbearable? Well exactly. Of course. The right thing to do, the only thing to do, is to get it over with as quickly as possible. Break the arm, ply the brandy, be a good citizen. There can be no other answer. Unless. Unless unless unless. What if you were to hate the person on the other end of the arm? I mean really, really hate them. This was a thing I now had to consider. I say now, meaning then, meaning the moment I am describing; the moment fractionally, oh so bloody fractionally, before my wrist reached the back of my neck and my left humerus broke into at least two, very possibly more, floppily joined-together pieces. The arm we’ve been discussing, you see, is mine. It’s not an abstract, philosopher’s arm. The bone, the skin, the hairs, the small white scar on the point of the elbow, won from the corner of a storage heater at Gateshill Primary School — they all belong to me. And now is the moment when I must consider the possibility that the man standingbehind me, gripping my wrist and driving it up my spine with an almost sexual degree of care, hates me. I mean, really, really hates me. He is taking for ever. His name was Rayner. First name unknown. By me, at any rate, and therefore, presumably, by you too. I suppose someone, somewhere, must have known his first name — must have baptised him with it, called him down to breakfast with it, taught him how to spell it — and someone else must have shouted it across a bar with an offer of a drink, or murmured it during sex, or written it in a box on a life insurance application form. I know they must have done all these things. Just hard to picture, that’s all. Rayner, I estimated, was ten years older than me. Which was fine. Nothing wrong with that. I have good, warm, non-arm-breaking relationships with plenty of people who are ten years older than me. People who are ten years older than me are, by and large, admirable. But Rayner was also three inches taller than me, four stones heavier, and at least eight however-you-measure-violence units more violent. He was uglier than a car park, with a big, hairless skull that dipped and bulged like a balloon full of spanners, and his flattened, fighter’s nose, apparently drawn on his face by someone using their left hand, or perhaps even their left foot, spread out in a meandering, lopsided delta under the rough slab of his forehead.

Hollywood Seven" "She came in one night from Omaha, worn out She never could sleep on trains, took the bus to Hollywood Lookin' for a room in the pourin' rain With hair so blonde and eyes so brown She thought she'd take this town and turn it upside down And me, I was livin' in a hotel just off Sunset She moved in across the hall And she said she'd be a movie star And waited every mornin' for a call So I asked her in just to have a little drink, but she hardly had the time A call might come tomorrow, she got to learn her lines On Hollywood Seven, rooms to rent, till your name goes up in lights Hollywood Seven, dream your dream - seven bucks a night And then the months went by without a job The money that she saved was nearly spent So she started bringin' strangers home Just tryin' to find a way to pay the rent And she'd sit down and drink my coffee, got nothin' much to say Just busy rehearsin' in her mind the scene she'd never play On Hollywood Seven, rooms to rent, till your name goes up in lights Hollywood Seven, dream your dreams for seven bucks a night I found her there one mornin' She didn't come for coffee when I called She'd gone and brought the wrong one home this time There were crazy lipstick marks all over the wall Now she's goin' back to Omaha but not the way she'd planned There'll be no crowd to cheer her on, no welcome home, no band On Hollywood Seven, rooms to rent, till your name goes up in lights Hollywood Seven, dream your dream for seven bucks a night She came in one night from Syracuse, tired from sleepin' on the plane Took a cab to Hollywood, dreamin' of the lights, that would spell her name So I watched her take the lease on the empty room across the hall Wakin' up every mornin', waitin' for that call On Hollywood Seven, rooms to rent, till your name goes up in lights Hollywood Seven, dreamin' your dream - seven bucks a night On Hollywood Seven, dreams to rent, till your name goes up in lights Hollywood Seven, pay your dues - seven bucks a night

Moreover, there are things that it is wrong to watch but permissible to do — and I think this point would not have needed spelling out in the days before Internet pornography, and all the other temptations that lie in wait for our contemporaries. ‘ What am I doing watching this? ’ is a deep moral reaction — the ‘ guilt ’ version of the shame that would accompany the knowledge Downloaded from that other people are watching you watching. To explore this aspect of fantasy, which has of course been of great concern to psychologists and psychotherapists in recent years, is beyond my scope. But it points us towards an important feature of fantasy, which again distinguishes it from imagination — namely, that fantasy is addictive, and exhibits the pattern of press-button rewards which we find in other addictions. Neuroscientists have had a lot to say about this pattern, and about the dopamine surges on which it depends. But it is not simply a matter of deviant neural pathways. There is a deviant intentionality involved in fantasy, and one that is connected with other deviations from what I call the ‘ aesthetic understanding ’ — a pathway back to the self, that escapes the demands of the other

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