Stepped.on Quotes

Remember this. The people you're trying to step on, we're everyone you depend on. We're the people who do your laundry and cook your food and serve your dinner. We make your bed. We guard you while you're asleep. We drive the ambulances. We direct your call. We are cooks and taxi drivers and we know everything about you. We process your insurance claims and credit card charges. We control every part of your life. We are the middle children of history, raised by television to believe that someday we'll be millionaires and movie stars and rock stars, but we won't. And we're just learning this fact. So don't fuck with us.

The idea is like grass. It craves light, likes crowds, thrives on crossbreeding, grows better for being stepped on.

Many cannot understand how to maneuver, getting out of black holes, but it is, up and above, still much more important to learn how to avoid falling into the trap of getting into deep water or being palmed off buckets with a hole. (“Step on the gas”)

The New Year is a painting not yet painted; a path not yet stepped on; a wing not yet taken off! Things haven’t happened as yet! Before the clock strikes twelve, remember that you are blessed with the ability to reshape your life!

You don’t know what it means to be betrayed! Should I explain it to you? It means to be treated like trash and your feelings get stepped on… you get hurt over and over again and in the end you are left alone! Can’t you see how much I care for you? How hard I’m trying to connect with you? When did I ever betray you? When did I ever leave you alone?

It is the nature of the idea to be communicated, written, spoken, done. The idea is like grass it craves light, likes crowds, thrives on crossbreeding, grows stronger from being stepped on.

If we feel we do not focus enough on our actual needs, we like to know the traps of our fake priorities and find out how to identify and avoid them. By stopping trendy causes and averting shiny object syndrome, we eschew misallocation of time and energy. If we take responsibility for our actions, we can avoid creating a culture of blame-shifting or missing out on valuable chances for better insight. (“Step on the gas”)

It can be stolen, but never bought. It can be given, but never taken. It can be stepped on, but cannot walk . It can fly, but has no wings. It can sing, but has no voice. It can be broken, but still it work s. It can be left, even while it follows. And though it’s easily commanded, it can never, ever be demanded.

If you stand tall, you'll be shot at. If you stoop down, you'll get stepped on. Everybody faces this, Ana. It's up to you to decide what you want and who you are.

The Titans looked on humans the way we might look on gerbils. Some Titans thought humans were kind of cute, though they died awfully quick and didn't serve any purpose. Other Titans thought they were repulsive rodents. Some Titans didn't pay them any attention at all. As for the humans, they mostly just cowered in their caves and scurried around trying not to get stepped on.

The idea is like grass. It craves light, likes crowds, thrives on crossbreeding, grows better for being stepped on.

One bright pansy popping through a sidewalk crack will get weeded or stepped on; it's not until twenty fabulous flowers bust through and the pavement is ruined anyway that someone decides maybe it isn't a sidewalk at all, but a flower garden. So please, for the love of gender--go bloom.

I know a little of suffering. The worlds are very big. The people in them…and the systems…well they are very cold and very uncaring. I know what it is to be small. To be…stepped on. There’s dignity in holding up your hands against the boot. But it crushes all the same.” He touches his breast. “On this fragile heart of mine, I promise no harm will come to you here.

For people to actually live by some golden rule, we’d have to be living in a world with no contradictions. But we don’t live in a world like that. No one does. People do what works for them, whatever makes them feel good. But because nobody likes getting stepped on, people start spouting crap about being good to others, being considerate, whatever. Tell me I’m wrong. Everyone does things they don’t want people doing back. Predators eat prey, and school serves no real purpose other than separating the kids who have what it takes from the ones who don’t. That’s the whole point. Everywhere you look, the strong walk all over the weak. Even those fools who think they’ve found the answers by coming up with perfect little sayings about how the world ought to be can’t escape it. Because the real world is everywhere.

It makes no difference if you’re rich or poor Or if you’re smart or dumb. A woman’s place in this old world Is under some man’s thumb, And if you’re born a woman You’re born to be hurt. You’re born to be stepped on, Lied to, Cheated on, And treated like dirt. —Sandy Posey, “Born a Woman” Lyrics by Martha Sharp

They-Could-Step-on-Me-and-I’d-Thank-Them

God’s plan for you is to move you into a position of impact by infusing you with truth and employing you in prayer. You don’t need to be a genius to do it. You don’t need to learn ten-dollar words and be able to spout them with theological ease. You just need to bring your honest, transparent, available—and, let’s just say it—your fed-up, over-it, stepped-on-your-last-nerve self, and be ready to become fervently relentless. All in His name.

Oh," he said softly. It was like this wasn't even a word. It felt more like he was laying out a stone for me to step on, so that I could keep going.

It makes no difference if you're rich or poor Or if you're smart or dumb. A woman's place in this old world Is under some man's thumb, And if you're born a woman You're born to be hurt. You're born to be stepped on, Lied to, Cheated on, And treated like dirt. -Sandy Posey, 'Born a Woman' Lyrics by Martha Sharp

commonplace, adj. ... But then I'll walk into the bathroom and find you've forgotten to put the cap back on the toothpaste again, and it will be this splinter that I just keep stepping on.

once you have lifted your foot, do not be in a hurry to put it down again: who can tell what menacing nest of vipers you might step on.

Hope works like that. It hinds and blends in, only to pop out when you least expect it. It's always a surprise, something you step on, trip over, or stumble on by accident. It hides in the divots of our lives. in the loneliest valleys. It's like a child, always playing hide and seek to keep our lives unpredictable. Just when we're about to give up, hope turns on, like light, to guide out way.

It is of the nature of idea to be communicated: written, spoken, done. The idea is like grass. It craves light, likes crowds, thrives on crossbreeding, grows better for being stepped on.

the government’—that’s too sweeping a term. ‘The government’ is several million people, nearly a million in Washington alone. We have to ask ourselves: Whose toes were being stepped on? What person or persons? Not ‘the government’—but what individuals?

There's no way out of this, it's stark: live or die. Every given moment a bubble that bursts. Step on, from one to the next, ever onwards, a rainbow of stepping stones, each bursting softly as your foot touches and passes on. Till one step finds only empty air. Till that step, live.

Usually when one throw's oneself at another's feet, one should be prepared to do a fast roll to avoid being stepped on.

He was a worm, and worms get stepped on.

Sometimes people have been stepping so long, they have forgotten what it's like to be stepped on.

if i hide i will get stepped on. so i have learned to face my fears head on.

Life is like dancing. If we have a big floor, many people will dance. Some will get angry when the rhythm changes. Other's might accidently get their toes stepped on. But life is changing all the time. So... Let's dance!

Black women know what it means to love ourselves in a world that hates us. We know what it means to do a whole lot with very little, to “make a dollar out of fifteen cents,” as it were. We know what it means to snatch dignity from the jaws of power and come out standing. We know what it means to face horrific violence and trauma from both our communities and our nation-state and carry on anyway. But we also scream, and cry, and hurt, and mourn, and struggle. We get heartbroken, our feelings get stepped on, our dreams get crushed. We get angry, and

Everybody's gotta have somebody to step on. Makes 'em feel important.' 'But there have to be better, more productive ways of proving your worth in the world - ways that don't involve crushing other people. Isn't that why we fought the war?

Whenever she steps out into the world, that woman often becomes an invisible being she gets shoved around and stepped on… and when she gets mixed amongst the crowd… I don’t thin she is visible to other people that’s why that woman hides in her room, her small room feels cozy to her like a cage feels cozy to a bird with a broken wing. And in that room … she can breathe freely. She’s never dreamed of the world outside, or missed the world out there. at least until now… at least until now…

If anger is active and powerful, grief and sadness are tender, vulnerable. Anger puts us back in the power position, while grief lays us bare, like letting ourselves lie down on a sidewalk, knowing we could get stepped on, crushed. Grief gives up the pretense of control.

Frustration If I had a shiny gun, I could have a world of fun Speeding bullets through the brains Of the folk who give me pains; Or had I some poison gas, I could make the moments pass Bumping off a number of People whom I do not love. But I have no lethal weapon- Thus does Fate our pleasure step on! So they still are quick and well Who should be, by rights, in hell.

In my life, I have been kicked by horses and bitten by them. I've been stepped on, crushed against gates, and thrown to the ground, but I have also been nuzzled, rubbed against, carried by, nickered at, and warmed by the great beasts. I thought of all the horses I'd known and couldn't think of a bad one.

Like a good seed planted on a good soil it don't matter how long it get walked and stepped on, it will still grow up and see better fruits hanging on it branches

Every person has an inspiration. I want to be your inspiration. No longer the one to be stepped on. Just keep your thoughts in the clouds, and head in the game. You'll eventually get there.

For people to actually live by some golden rule, we’d have to be living in a world with no contradictions. But we don’t live in a world like that. No one does. People do what works for them, whatever makes them feel good. But because nobody likes getting stepped on, people start spouting crap about being good to others, being considerate, whatever … Everyone does things they don’t want people doing back.

Harshaw held that certain feet were made for stepping on, in order to improve the breed, promote the general welfare, and minimize the ancient insolence of office; he had seen at once that Heinrich had such feet.

She points at two big steps on the back of her bike. "You have training... somethings? What are they?" "Feet platforms. My dad made them for my cousin to use. Step on." "But I don't have a cool helmet with a lightning bolt." "Your head is hard enough." "Funny." I steady myself without touching her. "To the train yard," she says and pushes on the pedals. We don't move. "Anytime," I tell her. 'You know. While we're still young and beautiful." She pushes hard again. "You weight a ton." "You need me to drive?" "I need momentum, that's all. Get off." "You're very charming, but you must hear that all the time." "Get off," she says. "I'll ride, and you run after me and jump on the bike." "Do many guys ask you out twice?" "Only the ones with balls.

When, shortly afterward, I stopped at the top of the hill and saw the town beneath me, my feeling of happiness was so ecstatic that I didn’t know how I would be able to make it home, sit there and write, eat, or sleep. But the world is constructed in such a way that it meets you halfway in moments precisely like these, your inner joy seeks an outer counterpart and finds it, it always does, even in the bleakest regions of the world, for nothing is as relative as beauty. Had the world been different, in my opinion, without mountains and oceans, plains and seas, deserts and forests, and consisted of something else, inconceivable to us, as we don’t know anything other than this, we would also have found it beautiful. A world with gloes and raies, evanbillits and conulames, for example, or ibitera, proluffs, and lopsits, whatever they might be, we would have sung their praises because that is the way we are, we extol the world and love it although it’s not necessary, the world is the world, it’s all we have. So as I walked down the steps toward the town center on this Wednesday at the end of August I had a place in my heart for everything I beheld. A slab of stone worn smooth in a flight of steps: fantastic. A swaybacked roof side by side with an austere perpendicular brick building: so beautiful. A limp hot-dog wrapper on a drain grille, which the wind lifts a couple of meters and then drops again, this time on the pavement flecked with white stepped-on chewing gum: incredible. A lean old man hobbling along in a shabby suit carrying a bag bulging with bottles in one hand: what a sight. The world extended its hand, and I took it.

Everybody’s gotta have somebody to step on. Makes ’em feel important.

I build myself up from nothing, using only my bare hands and an assortment of Legos. I’m not the sort of man you want to step on. Ouch!

There, don't you think I'm always a-fault-finding! When I get hold of the real thing in folks, I stick to 'em,—but there's an awful sight of poor material walking about that ain't worth the ground it steps on.

Remember this,” Tyler said. "The people you’re trying to step on, we’re everyone you depend on. We’re the people who do your laundry and cook your food and serve your dinner. We make your bed. We guard you while you’re asleep. We drive the ambulances. We direct your call. We are cooks and taxi drivers and we know everything about you. We process your insurance claims and credit card charges. We control every part of your life. "We are the middle children of history, raised by television to believe that someday we’ll be millionaires and movie stars and rock stars, but we won’t. And we’re just learning this fact,” Tyler said. "So don’t fuck with us.

I am the trees and the flowers you step on. Iam the earth you walk on, the water you drink, the animals you kill. I am the mountains and the never-ending sea. I am here and everywhere else, now and forever. I am Everything.

I haven’t slept in two days so I feel tired now, lying on my sleeping bag. My feet are very cold but I am ok. In the long transition to sleep I entertain a complex paranoia about a group of people who will be assigned to review each action I have taken throughout my life. And once dead, I’ll meet them in council. There will be a group assigned to review my “thank-yous said” to “those not said.” There will be a group assigned to review every face I’ve made just after waking up. There will be a group assigned to review how I treated people who asked me for help. And a group assigned to review the times I felt bad but didn’t tell anyone. A group assigned to review the times I deliberately threw crayons into the small fan my third grade bus driver positioned by his face. And a group assigned to review bugs I needlessly stepped on. A group for this nap I’m taking too. And in the paranoia, I see myself getting dressed-up to go before them and answer questions. I’m very nervous before each council but I try to be brave. “This nap you took—” someone says. “Yes?” A mean-looking woman in the middle of the panel, she clasps her hands together and she says, “Tell us about this nap.” When I wake up, one of my legs is numb. And I remain awake in my sleeping bag, staring at the blinds until the black behind gets more blue, then lighter blue, then white. Sometimes I definitely feel a sense of accomplishment but it’s never after accomplishing something.

Metcalf, is that your foot I'm stepping on?' 'No, sir. It must be Lieutenant Scheisskopf's foot.' 'It isn't my foot,' said Lieutenant Scheisskopf. 'Then maybe it is my foot after all,' said Major Metcalf. 'Move it.' 'Yes, sir. You'll have to move your foot first, colonel. It's on top of mine.' 'Are you telling me to move my foot?' 'No, sir. Oh, no, sir.

Then, she stepped hard on something soft. “Ouch!” exclaimed an urgent, musical voice behind her followed by another blast of that scent. That voice rang out in the night like a small bell. Damn, thought Carmen. These late-night stragglers always show up just as I am closing! “We’re closed,” she commented impatiently, not even bothering to turn around. “I can’t get you anything, my cash register is empty. And, I definitely can’t get you any gasoline. The pumps are shut down.” “You’re on my foot!” said the small, feminine voice again, protesting more loudly. “Get off!” The girl laughed. The street lights came on, as if the pressure of stepping on this person’s foot had turned them on. Carmen laughed at the synchronicity. She felt a small hand on her waist as she moved her foot off the soft place it had landed. It had been years since she had felt a woman’s touch. The feminine voice said quietly, “That hurt.” Carmen whirled around to face the girl she had stepped on, and almost lost her balance. Her eyes met the huge violet eyes of the most beautiful country girl she had ever seen standing directly behind her. Obviously, she had stepped on her. She apologized until she was speechless. Then, she coughed and indicated her truck. The girl had straight, healthy blue hair, delicately shaved over one ear and well-done light makeup with a few rhinestone studs in her ears and nose. Carmen had sucked her breath in audibly at the girl’s appearance. This diminutive girl was stunning. She was a real beauty, set in the dark country night like a diamond against the warm obsidian of the sky. And that fragrance!

The few remaining men can exist out their puny days dropped out on drugs or strutting around in drag or passively watching the high-powered female in action, fulfilling themselves as spectators, vicarious liver*, or breeding in the cow pasture with the toadies, or they can go off to the nearest friendly suicide center where they will be quietly, quickly, and painlessly gassed to death. Prior to the institution of automation, to the replacement of males by machines, the male should be of use to the female, wait on her, cater to her slightest whim, obey her every command, be totally subservient to her, exist in perfect obedience to her will, as opposed to the completely warped, degenerate situation we have now of men, not only not only not existing at all, cluttering up the world with their ignominious presence, but being pandered to and groveled before by the mass of females, millions of women piously worshiping the Golden Calf, the dog leading the master on a leash, when in fact the male, short of being a drag queen, is least miserable when his dogginess is recognized – no unrealistic emotional demands are made of him and the completely together female is calling the shots. Rational men want to be squashed, stepped on, crushed and crunched, treated as the curs, the filth that they are, have their repulsiveness confirmed. The sick, irrational men, those who attempt to defend themselves against their disgustingness, when they see SCUM barreling down on them, will cling in terror to Big Mama with her Big Bouncy Boobies, but Boobies won’t protect them against SCUM; Big Mama will be clinging to Big Daddy, who will be in the corner shitting in his forceful, dynamic pants. Men who are rational, however, won’t kick or struggle or raise a distressing fuss, but will just sit back, relax, enjoy the show and ride the waves to their demise.

So, who are they really, these hundred thousand white supremacists? They're every white guy who believed that this land was his land, made for you and me. They're every down-on-his-luck guy who just wanted to live a decent life but got stepped on, every character in a Bruce Springsteen or Merle Haggard song, every cop, soldier, auto mechanic, steelworker, and construction worker in America's small towns who can't make ends meet and wonders why everyone else is getting a break except him. But instead of becoming Tom Joad, a left-leaning populist, they take a hard right turn, ultimately supporting the very people who have dispossessed them. They're America's Everymen, whose pain at downward mobility and whose anger at what they see as an indifferent government have become twisted by a hate that tells them they are better than others, disfigured by a resentment so deep that there are no more bridges to be built, no more ladders of upward mobility to be climbed, a howl of pain mangled into the scream of a warrior. Their rage is as sad as it is frightening, as impotent as it is shrill.

Opportunists Opportunists are malicious people who reach their targets by stepping over others instead of seeking their support. They “do whatever it takes” to seize opportunity. “They find pleasure at the misfortune of others”-Schadenfreude. Even though succeeding May give them a sense of accomplishment, but their twisted ways will make them live in fear of being exposed one day. As my best friend told me a while ago: “ every person the opportunists step on will be a stone that makes them climb to the top. But in the end, once they reach the top of the mountain, they will look around and find no one next to them.

Remember this. The people you're trying to step on, we're everyone you depend on. We're the people who do your laundry and cook your food and serve your dinner. We make your bed. We guard you while you're asleep. We drive the ambulances. We direct your call. We are cooks and taxi drivers and we know everything about you. We process your insurance claims and credit card charges. We control every part of your life. We are the middle children of history, raised by television to believe that someday we'll be millionaires and movie stars and rock stars, but we won't. And we're just learning this fact. So don't fuck with us.

Perhaps I am like you. I love the byways, the tiny adventures, the faces that smile for an instant and are gone, a little boy with his face between the railings of a fence, watching the shoes go by. What is he thinking about? The people and their joys and sorrows? No way, he is seeing the shoes, shoes that tramp, limp, scuffle along, and perhaps his greatest concern is the tiny bug they might step on. It is probably the true meaning of compassionate, wondering about people's passions, thier feelings. Passion, one of the loveliest words in the language, one of the most misunderstood. One can have a love for so many things, but novelists sometimes overwork the word. Perhaps one can have a passionate belief, but not a passionate love for a car or asparagus. Passion is private, gentle, consuming, understanding and personal. It expresses so many things but does not belong to lipstick. It is in nature, pictures, people, always people. I suppose compassion begins when you watch the shoes and worry about the bug.

get mad when you're stepped on, forget you were stepped on

A giant gang of kids crammed around a locker trying to look casual is almost never a good sign. It’s basically the definition of a bad omen. One you can spot from the other end of the hallway, like a black cat, or a broken mirror, or a ladder you’re not supposed to walk under, or a crack you’re not supposed to step on.

There is nothing in the world that can replace perseverance. Talent is not acceptable. Unprecedented talents abound, and geniuses who accomplish nothing is common; education is also not acceptable. The world is full of people who are useless in learning. Only perseverance and determination will never be disadvantageous. As we continue to reach the peak, we must remember: each step of the ladder allows us enough time to step on, and then set foot to a higher level, it is not for us to rest. We are tired and discouraged on the way, but like a boxer said, you must fight another round to win. When encountering difficulties, we must fight another round. Everyone has unlimited potential inside, and unless we know where it is and insist on using it, it is worthless. Great opportunities do not seek external validation; however, we must work hard to grasp them. As the saying goes: “Strike while the iron’s hot.” It’s really good. Perseverance and hard work are both important. Every “no” brings us closer and closer to a “yes”. “Before dawn is always the darkest”, this sentence is not a catchphrase. When we work hard and make use of our skills, a successful day will eventually come.

When stepped on, the worm curls up. That is a clever thing to do. Thus it reduces its chances of being stepped on again. In the language of morality: humility.

To call something a lie, child, is an unhelpful characterization.' The abbess drew a deep breath, labouring up the slope.'Words are steps along a path: the important thing is to get where you're going. You can play by all manner of rules, step-on-a-crack-break-your-back, but you'll get there quicker if you pick the most certain route.

If Baru died today, she would die having done nothing for Aurdwynn, or even for Taranoke. How long could she delay? How much power would she insist on gathering before she did even *one* good thing for the people she'd stepped on? You couldn't manipulate people like little pawns forever. You had to remember that they were their own autonomy, their own power, self-moving, and you had to trust in that -- What was the sense of accumulating all this power if it never went to the people who needed it most?

Second-grade Wren's reasoning was that a life too noticeable might be stolen, and conversely, a wispy existence might blow away or be stepped on. Medium was safe.

She was just an ant that he happened to step on.

The night before, when he’d arrived in the town, what he’d walked across like soft grass—sometimes hard scrub, sometimes crackling thorns—had been mice. No wonder the soles of his shoes crunched; it was the heads of the mice that he stepped on, crushing them without realizing it, the bones of their legs, their stiff tails.

Get this: in order for the plankton to glow, it has to be stepped on. It only gives off its light when pressure is applied to it. Hmm. Sort of like what God does in your life and mine. The pressures we face are not intended to hurt us or discourage us. They are designed to bring out of us the light that is in us because of our love for God and our relationship with Him. When the light comes out of us, it changes the world.

Words are steps along a path: the important thing is to get where you’re going. You can play by all manner of rules, step-on-a-crack-break-your-back, but you’ll get there quicker if you pick the most certain route.

Instead of the old punishing puritanical moralisms about dropping litter on the street, we need a new and enjoyable animism that children would be the first to understand. “Don’t throw that candy wrapper on the street”—not because it’s dirty or bad manners; not because it’s wrong; not because “what if everybody did that?”—but instead “because your candy wrapper doesn’t want to lie around in the gutter or be stepped on; it wants to be in the trash basket along with all its friends.” When things are not properly buried, cremated or composted, could their souls remain as haunting and poisoning ghosts endangering the community, especially the most vulnerable, the children? Pollution is not only chemical and radioactive. There is psychological pollution, too.

The last time she cried like this, she was a child. She had reached for her mother for comfort, but Ruby had remained where she was, smoking a cigarette, observing her daughter with disgust, as if she were a cockroach Ruby had just stepped on.

Stepping on or holding others' hands can build wealth. I choose to hold hands.

began to be gripped by nameless fears and rages and black miseries. His mind sloshed around inside his skull, always off-kilter. Some days he felt vastly powerful, like an unacknowledged emperor; other times he felt revolting, a loathsome spider too degraded even to be stepped on. Often he wished to die, but he lacked the courage. Some dark god had left his heavy thumbprint on Dagonet. He tried to contain these feelings but they overflowed into his body, making him hunch and shiver and argue with himself at odd moments. Sometimes he wondered if he wasn’t mad at all, if he was the only sane one, because when other people looked at the world they seemed to see a paradise of ease and order and meaning. But when Dagonet looked he found only a wasteland of empty signs, transient and meaningless as the shapes in clouds. The worthless currency of a vanished empire.

Excuses came easily at first and then I realized no matter how much I changed or how many imaginary eggshells I avoided stepping on, Matt only grew worse. I felt like I was falling in a dark bottomless pit. Mom had been right.

I picture a small fern, low and compact. I have always liked ferns, their triangular fronds with tiny but hearty leaflets, their deep green color. If I am small like a fern, I am less exposed than a tree with high-reaching branches; the wind cannot whip me around. Yet, I am also more susceptible to being stepped on. Which is worse? I stop envisioning myself as a fern.

Falling in love can be surprising, unexpected, even scary. It’s like standing in line for a roller coaster and then stepping on. Once you’ve buckled in, there’s no turning back from the thrill and rush of it all.

We are Taught to, Work, Get married, and have Kids, pay your taxes, and then Retire and Get a Nice Grave. But why do That? You have a life to live, What you should do is, Make your own company, Get married, have Kids, and pay your taxes like it was just a ant you just stepped on, and Retire with Money to spare. So live your life prosperously and be kind to one another.

Despite the honor of being remembered as the first colonist to set foot on Deanna, he was also credited with discovering crabby-grass, the aforementioned life-form that disliked being stepped on. However, this also led to the unintended consequence that Mr Lupini also set the record for being the first person to actually swear on Deanna. He still lived on Deanna, and attended the Founder’s Day Ceremony every year, in safety boots. Not surprisingly, the bronze Lupini didn’t look very amused. Beside the representation of Lupini, stood Deanna’s national bird. It was supposed to be a symbol of the early colonists’ determination to stay and make a success of the colony, but its expression only made it look slightly constipated.

The idea is like grass. It craves light, likes crowds, thrives on crossbreeding, grows better for being stepped on. Even

If Cosgrove means to play games, then so do I. I will marry him because I must, but I shall not be a lamb- or a cow- led to the slaughter. If he intends to destroy my spirit, he will find it a difficult task. I am not some fly whose wings he can pull off and then step on. I'm... I'm a bee, and I shall sting him back.

He and Sally Perryman had grown close. Very close. But there hadn’t been anything physical—not so much as a kiss. Lines hadn’t been crossed, but they’d been approached and challenged and perhaps even stepped on, though never over. There comes a stage, Adam had learned, where you are standing near that line, teetering, one life on one side, one life on the other, and at some point, you either cross it or something has to wither and die. In this case, something died. Two months after the case ended, Sally Perryman took another job with a law firm in Livingston.

If you stand tall, you'll be shot at. If you stoop down, you'll get stepped on. Everybody faces this, Ana. It's up to you to decide what you want and who you are. One day, honey, you'll learn that what other people think doesn't matter. What makes you happy, that's what's important.

O great King of kings, a man can possess only so much of the earth’s surface as this, the extent that one steps on. You are mortal, like the rest of us, and yet wish to possess more and more ground. You will soon be dead, and in that state you will own just enough earth as needed for your burial.

I’m aware of the incredible elasticity of life, how the buckled can become straight, the broken mended. Watch what is on the ground; watch what you step on, for it could contain hidden powers and, in a rage, fly up all emerald and scarlet to sting your face.

I think people put on a show that they’re good,” I said. “Maybe they even start to, like, believe it themselves. But people are really... not evil, exactly, but they just care about themselves. They don’t really care about who they step on. They just pretend like they do. You can’t trust them. You really can’t trust anyone.

Like a spy, I planted a bug. Like a farmer, I watched it grow into a politician that more than half the people chose not to step on.

Coyote stopped and turned to face me, his wrinkled eyes smoldering with feral determination. “Vato, have faith. Otherwise lie in the dirt like a turd and wait to be stepped on. Jolie

I suggest you try it, Margit. For every situation there is a proper distance. Growing up is just a matter of gaining perspective. Sometimes you just need to jump up for a moment, a foot above the earth. And sometimes you need to jump very far. It is as if there are thin slats, footholds, from here to the sun, Margit, for the babyfaces to step on. Do you understand?

Q: What did the grape do when he got stepped on? A: He let out a little wine.

My experience showed me an ugly side of our human nature. That if we are told it’s alright to step on someone, we will do so, in joy that we are not the one being stepped on. If we are told we can treat someone as lesser, we will do it, since it means we are more than they are.” -Norrie, Seeing Through Sampson's Eyes

Oh, the child you threatened once, the young shoot you stepped on, the Tamil you teased, is standing with a gun in front of you. His presence is taking you by surprise. How can you understand that it is the occupier who creates a poorali? You once dealt the blow. Now you are imprisoned. When a fox tries to eat the goat, the goat must turn into a tiger and leap. That is the edict of the times.

I tell you that ant is very alive! Look at how he fusses at being stepped on.

He wanted to be owned without being shackled. He craved to be used without being punished. He needed a master, but he needed to feel free. He would lie down at his man’s feet if he could be sure he wouldn’t get stepped on. Was such a connection even possible?

Just keep your shoes on the foot rails as you step on,” he suggested. “And hold on tight to me once we get going. Relax. I’ll do all the work.” I would never admit to him that his words brought to mind an entirely different scenario, one with me holding on tight to a naked Justin with tangled sheets all around us. I shook the erotic vision away, took a deep bracing breath, and climbed on.

Excuses came easily at first and then I realized no matter how much I changed or how many imaginary eggshells I avoided stepping on, Matt only grew worse. I felt like I was falling in a dark bottomless pit.

I Once Was A Bee by Stewart Stafford I once was a bee, All striped and dorky, I got crushed underfoot, By Amber Heard's Yorkie. It mashed my wings, I never sought money, Even when it made me, Poop out some honey. As I flew to Bee Heaven, In a mystical fog, She made such a fuss, Of that murdering dog. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

Dogs will often yelp or cry out in response to sudden sharp pain like being hit or stepped on. After the initial insult, even if they have broken their leg, they won’t normally continue vocalizing for long. As humans we could imagine someone with a broken leg an no pain relief moaning, crying with tears, screaming out, shaking, and complaining vocally to us. This could continue intermittently for a very long time. However, dogs do not cry tears of pain, and they do not complain to us with the intention of letting us know of their suffering.

He put his hands against a post and leaned his face against an arm. “One. Two…” She spun around and studied the yard. Nothing was against the fence for her to climb and there were no boards for her to step on. On this side of the yard, the fence only had vertical slats.

You're no more than an ant to me, and do you remember every one you step on?

One cannot overlook the number of young women and girls involved,' he pointed out. 'Well they do make up somewhat more than half the population.' 'Yes, and because women are often kept in a position of subservience, they may prove more sensitive to unspoken tensions and threats than men.' I was so stunned by this statement that I came to a dead halt. Half a dozen steps on, he noticed that I was behind him. 'What?' he asked. You did say you realised that you have a blind spot when it comes to women, but I hadn't thought...' Indeed, I had not thought. I'd been so wrapped up in the turmoil of having lied to him about Mrs. Hudson, I had overlooked this bedrock truth about Sherlock Holmes: once the man's attention came to focus on an inequity, all his energies would go to setting it aright--even if the problem was one in his own self.

Wren wrote her dream: A Medium-Sized Life. Second-grade Wren’s reasoning was that a life too noticeable might be stolen, and conversely, a wispy existence might blow away or be stepped on. Medium was safe.

This evening Maxine finds herself abroad in this pageant of classic NYC behavior, having made the mistake of offering to spring for a turkey if Elaine will cook it, and compounded it by putting in an advance order at Crumirazzi, a gourmet shop down toward 72nd. She gets there after supper to find the place jammed tighter than a peak-period subway with anxious citizens gathering supplies for their Thanksgiving feasts, and the turkey line folded on itself eight or ten times and moving very, very slowly. People are already screaming at each other, and civility, like everything on the shelves, is in short supply. A serial line jumper has been making his way forward along the turkey line, a large white alpha male whose social skills, if any, are still in beta, intimidating people one by one out of his way. "Excuse me?" Shoving ahead of an elderly lady waiting in line just behind Maxine. "Line jumper here," the lady yells, unslinging her shoulder bag and preparing to deploy it. "You must be from out of town," Maxine addressing the offender, "here in New York, see, the way you're acting? It's considered a felony." "I'm in a hurry, bitch, so back off, unless you want to settle this outside?" "Aw. After all your hard work getting this far? Tell you what, you go out and wait for me, OK? I won't be too long, I promise." Shifting to indignation, "I have a houseful of children to feed—" but he's interrupted by a voice someplace over by the loading dock hollering, "Hey asshole!" and here cannonballing over the heads of the crowd comes a frozen turkey, hits the bothersome yup square in the head, knocking him flat and bouncing off his head into the hands of Maxine, who stands blinking at it like Bette Davis at some baby with whom she must unexpectedly share the frame. She hands the object to the lady behind her. "This is yours, I guess." "What, after it touched him? thanks anyway." "I'll take it," sez the guy behind her. As the line creeps forward, everybody makes sure to step on, not over, the fallen line jumper.

The woman was tall, wearing stretch leggings and a big red bulky sweater. Even though it was thick, it left no doubt that she filled it out a lot better than I filled out mine. Dolly Parton to my . . . well, let’s just say that the greatly endowed wagon had passed me by. Her blonde hair was cascading in glorious waves around her shoulders instead of hanging in tight curls like mine. She no doubt knew her way around a curling iron. She was resting a hand on Aunt Sue’s shoulders like they were the very best of friends. I couldn’t explain it, but I took an immediate dislike to her. Probably because Brad couldn’t take his eyes off her and was starting to drool. “Hey, everyone, this is Cynthia,” Aunt Sue announced, like we should all care when I definitely did not. “She’s staying at the condo next to yours. This is my niece, Kate, my nephew, Sam, and their friends.” “It’s great to meet you all,” Cynthia said a little too breathlessly, her voice having a little squeal to it, like she was trying really hard to sound sexy but she just came across sounding like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.