Super Woman Quotes

I think Jesus was a compassionate, super-intelligent gay man who understood human problems. On the cross, he forgave the people who crucified him. Jesus wanted us to be loving and forgiving. I don't know what makes people so cruel. Try being a gay woman in the Middle East -- you're as good as dead.

The ultimate weapon isn't this plague out in Vegas, or any new super H-bomb. The ultimate weapon has always existed. Every man, every woman, and every child owns it. It's the ability to say No and take the consequences.

One woman filled with self love and self acceptance is a model more super than any cover girl.

I don't see what women see in other women, I told Doctor Nolan in my interview that noon. What does a woman see in a woman that she can't see in a man? Doctor Nolan paused. Then she said, Tenderness. That shut me up.

There are moments when the hands of a woman possess super human force.

His appearance gives no clue to what his profession might be, and yet he doesn't look like a man without a profession either. Consider what he's like: He always knows what to do. He knows how to gaze into a woman's eyes. He can put his mind to any question at any time. He can box. He is gifted, strong-willed, open-minded, fearless, tenacious, dashing, circumspect—why quibble, suppose we grant him all those qualities—yet he has none of them! They have made him what he is, they have set his course for him, and yet they don't belong to him. When he is angry, something in him laughs. When he is sad, he is up to something. When something moves him, he turns against it. He'll always see a good side to every bad action. What he thinks of anything will always depend on some possible context—nothing is, to him, what it is: everything is subject to change, in flux, part of a whole, of an infinite number of wholes presumably adding up to a super-whole that, however, he knows nothing about. So every answer he gives is only a partial answer, every feeling an opinion, and he never cares what something is, only 'how' it is—some extraneous seasoning that somehow goes along with it, that's what interests him.

A man can reach the heights of the Super-Man by entering the field of supra-sexuality, by knowing how to enjoy love, by knowing how to enjoy a woman, by knowing how to live with joy or with more emotion and less useless reasoning.

A baby is God's opinion that life should go on. A book that does nothing to you is dead. A baby, whether it does anything to you, represents life. If a bad fire should break out in this house and I had my choice of saving the library or the babies, I would save what is alive. Never will a time come when the most marvelous recent invention is as marvelous as a newborn baby. The finest of our precision watches, the most super-colossal of our supercargo plants, don't compare with a newborn baby in the number and ingenuity of coils and springs, in the flow and change of chemical solutions, in timing devices and interrelated parts that are irreplaceable. A baby is very modern. Yet it is also the oldest of the ancients. A baby doesn't know he is a hoary and venerable antique — but he is. Before man learned how to make an alphabet, how to make a wheel, how to make a fire, he knew how to make a baby — with the great help of woman, and his God and Maker.

We have never sought power. We have sought to disperse power, to set men and women free. That really means: to help them to discover that they are free. Everybody's free. The slave is free. The ultimate weapon isn't this plague out in Vegas, or any new super H-bomb. The ultimate weapon has always existed. Every man, every woman, and every child owns it. It's the ability to say No and take the consequences. 'Fear is failure.' 'The fear of death is the beginning of slavery.' "Thou hast no right but to do thy will.' The goose can break the bottle at any second. Socrates took the hemlock to prove it. Jesus went to the cross to prove it. It's in all history, all myth, all poetry. It's right out in the open all the time.

Her taste still teased my tongue, and her touch tipped my fingers. Her smile licked my lips, and her heart beat my own. So I tugged on her sheets, like it was a cape. To me, she was a God damned super hero, and underneath, was everything I need. Her super powers on top of me.

Teenage girls today need strong, positive role models that can show them how to be independent thinkers and confident decision-makers. Dana is proud and self-confident, which is good, but she does not always make wise decisions. Rather than make her a super woman, I balanced her with difficult situations that could have been handled better. Her strength, however, shines through. This way, a young woman can read the book, discuss Dana's actions, and reflect on the decision-making in her own life.

Whedon: Studios will tell you: A woman cannot headline an action movie. After The Hunger Games they might stop telling you that a little bit. Whatever you think of the movie, it’s done a great service. And after The Avengers, I think it’s changing. Johansson: A lot of the female superhero movies just suck really badly. Whedon: The suck factor is not small. Johansson: They are really not well made, and already you’re fighting against the tide. There are a couple [female-driven action movies] that have worked-ish, don’t you think? Hemsworth: Angelina Jolie tends to do it pretty well, as the dominant female. Jackson: They got to get The Pro to the screen! Whedon: [Groaning] See, that is the problem. Sam is the problem! Jackson: I love that book! Whedon: [Reluctantly] The Pro is hilarious. Jackson: The Pro’s hilarious. [To the group] You ever see or hear of it? Johansson: No, what’s The Pro? Jackson: It’s [a comic book] about a hooker who gets super powers! Johansson: [Pauses] That is exactly the problem right there. Whedon: That’s why I wasn’t going to bring up The Pro! (From an Entertainment Weekly interview)

Remember how I woke you up? If you could have seen me during the 15 minutes before your wake-up call, you would have seen a man watching a woman sleep. You would have seen the tenderness in his eyes. You would have seen a smile on his lips. And if you had looked super-super hard, you just might have seen the love growing in his heart.

Reading for me, was like breathing. It was probably akin to masturbation for my brain. Getting off on the fantasy within the pages of a good novel felt necessary to my survival. If I wasn't asleep, knitting, or working, I was reading. This was for several reasons, all of them focused around the infititely superior and enviable lives of fictional heroines to real-life people. Take romans for instance. Fictional women in romance novels never get their period. They never have morning breath. They orgasm seventeen times a day. And they never seem to have jobs with bosses. These clean, well-satisfied, perm-minty-breathed women have fulfilling careers as florists, bakery owners, hair stylists or some other kind of adorable small business where they decorate all day. If they do have a boss, he's a cool guy (or gal) who's invested in the woman's love life. Or, he's a super hot billionaire trying to get in her pants. My boss cares about two things: Am I on time ? Are all my patients alive and well at the end of my shift? And the mend in the romance novels are too good to be true; but I love it, and I love them. Enter stage right the independently wealthy venture capitalist suffering from the ennui of perfection until a plucky interior decorator enters stage left and shakes up his life and his heart with perky catch phrases and a cute nose that wrinkles when she sneezes. I suck at decorating. The walls of my apartment are bare. I am allergic to most store-bought flowers. If I owned a bakery, I'd be broke and weigh seven hundred pounds, because I love cake.

Death was a one-shot deal—it happened, and then you were free. Sally was an old-school southern woman, and Hank knew first-hand that they weren’t nearly as kind as death when they got cross.

ROSE: I married your daddy and settled down to cooking his super and keeping clean sheets on the bed. When your daddy walked through the house he was so big he filled it up. That was my first mistake. Not to make him leave some room for me. For my part in the matter. But at that time I wanted that. I wanted a house that I could sing in. And that's what your daddy gave me. I didn't know to keep up his strength I had to give up little pieces of mine. I did that. I took on his life as mine and mixed up the pieces so that you couldn't hardly tell which was which anymore. It was my choice. It was my life and I didn't have to live it like that.But that's what life offered me in the way of being a woman and I took it. I grabbed hold of it with both hands.

There has been a recent rash of authors and individuals fudging evidence in an attempt to argue that women have a higher sex drive than men. We find it bizarre that someone would want to misrepresent data merely to assert that women are hornier than men. Do those concerned with this difference equate low sex drives with disempowerment? Are their missions to somehow prove that women are super frisky carried out in an effort to empower women? This would be odd, as the belief that women’s sex drives were higher than men’s sex drives used to be a mainstream opinion in Western society—during the Victorian period, an age in which women were clearly disempowered. At this time, women were seen as dominated by their sexuality as they were supposedly more irrational and sensitive—this was such a mainstream opinion that when Freud suggested a core drive behind female self-identity, he settled on a desire to have a penis, and that somehow seemed reasonable to people. (See Sex and Suffrage in Britain by Susan Kent for more information on this.) If the data doesn’t suggest that women have a higher sex drive, and if arguing that women have a higher sex drive doesn’t serve an ideological agenda, why are people so dead set on this idea that women are just as keen on sex—if not more—as male counterparts? In the abovementioned study, female variability in sex drive was found to be much greater than male variability. Hidden by the claim, “men have higher sex drives in general” is the fun reality that, in general, those with the very highest sex drives are women. To put it simply, some studies show that while the average woman has a much lower sex drive than the average man, a woman with a high sex drive has a much higher sex drive than a man with a high sex drive. Perhaps women who exist in the outlier group on this spectrum become so incensed by the normalization of the idea that women have low sex drives they feel driven to twist the facts to argue that all women have higher sex drives than men. “If I feel this high sex drive,” we imagine them reasoning, “it must mean most women secretly feel this high sex drive as well, but are socialized to hide it—I just need the data to show this to the world so they don’t have to be ashamed anymore.” We suppose we can understand this sentiment. It would be very hard to live in a world in which few people believe that someone like you exists and people always prefer to assume that everyone is secretly like them rather than think that they are atypical.

The problem is obvious, once the Father began creating, He risked that, although perfect, His new and autonomous family could choose badness. How else did we get demon angels? Two is a risky number. The solution is unifying, or amening, with the original “one.” Only recently has science been able to monitor a quasar. The elements that compose the stars is too base for the creation of higher forms of life. When these stars die, however, they go through two steps: First, the star implodes. Second, the star explodes. Only after the second step does the quasar create higher elements, from which we are formed. Stardust: We are made of stardust. The universe we come from is lyrical. From polarity, matter, energy and light eventuate. Even a black hole emits a super-charged jet. For the birth of any new thing, there must be polarity. For any children to exist, there must be a man and his opposite, woman. It is no mystery why the ancient Sumerian words for, “one” and “two” are the same words for, “man” and “woman.

Yes I am sure I am Super Woman now add more Spanx to the spandex in my suit please ;)

يتذمر الرجل من طلبات المرأة فالمرأة حوت لا يشبع تريد المال .. تريد الوقت .. تريد الحب و تريد عقله إن لزم الأمر و هو يا قلبي المسكين هو فقط يريد منها شئ واحد ان تكون Super woman !!

Girl, how small is your brain?” I heard a familiar voice coming from behind. That was Wonder Woman. “Sorry, was I thinking out loud?” I apologized. “No, but I am Wonder Woman! I can read minds, you know”, she answered with pride. I have to admit, I was really impressed, I did not know my minds could write.

I can’t describe to you how it feels to go from thinking you have a true partner, true best friend, and true soul mate to seeing that person become your abuser—and then seeing them cheat on you and see that maybe you were a mark all along, a pawn in a game you didn’t see coming that played out exactly the way they intended. I’ve experienced so many shades of this before, and all I can say is this: If you see a woman who is working super hard to become who she’s meant to be and to achieve the things she wants to achieve, and you have nothing to add to her life or to give back to her in any way, please just leave her the fuck alone.

Like there are these things that matter on a large grand scale, the kind of things Melly cares about, like stopping fascism and curing climate change, and that’s obviously super important, but then there are the little individual things, like a woman who’s getting hit at home or a girl whose rapist gets a free pass for being popular. Do you go for the big sweeping save-the-world changes that will help the most people, or do you chip away at the little problems, fixing one and another and another until you have this huge snowball of good deeds built up?

But life changes people. It smothers that kind of larger-than-life woman. Time quiets them down. That firecracker girl you knew in high school—where is she now? It didn’t happen to men as much. Those boys often grew up to be masters of the universe. The super successful girls? They seemed to die of slow societal suffocation. So

At the Concours d’Elegance, the annual auto show and zillionaire fest at Pebble Beach, I introduce myself to a woman in her early fifties whom I’ll call Sally.

It all came down to all the different ways of loving, and Stasia was a perfect example of that. She didn’t love her boyfriend any less because of falling in love with another woman. Her

Neither super strength, nor telepathy, nor flight, nor telekinesis, nor any aberrant ability will ever be as great as the innate ability that a woman has when she is able to control her own mind.

There was a time when women totally honoured and celebrated their monthly cycles. For real. It was the cycle that moved a woman from girl, through to mother, through to wise woman, through to crone. Back

There are threads of fiction intricately woven into our muscles. Fictional characters such as Superman, Black Panther, Wonder Woman etc., are birthed from something struggling to come alife from deep within us.

Easy to Understand, but profound wisdom for women seeking a deeper understanding of what happens to their bodies and minds as they reach the age of forty and beyond. A must read for every woman! -- Super Health Nation

Sociologist Rachel Sherman, who wrote a book called Uneasy Street about the anxieties of wealthy Manhattanites, had one woman nearly cancel their interview because Sherman used the word “affluent” in an outreach email.

When at last the time came for Wonder Woman's costume unveiling, the room was abuzz. Literally. Bumblebee's costume had malfunctioned again, sending electrical stings all around the classroom, which heightened the excitement.

And then there was the sad sign that a young woman working at a Tim Hortons in Lethbridge, Alberta, taped to the drive-through window in 2007. It read, “No Drunk Natives.” Accusations of racism erupted, Tim Hortons assured everyone that their coffee shops were not centres for bigotry, but what was most interesting was the public response. For as many people who called in to radio shows or wrote letters to the Lethbridge Herald to voice their outrage over the sign, there were almost as many who expressed their support for the sentiment. The young woman who posted the sign said it had just been a joke. Now, I’ll be the first to say that drunks are a problem. But I lived in Lethbridge for ten years, and I can tell you with as much neutrality as I can muster that there were many more White drunks stumbling out of the bars on Friday and Saturday nights than there were Native drunks. It’s just that in North America, White drunks tend to be invisible, whereas people of colour who drink to excess are not. Actually, White drunks are not just invisible, they can also be amusing. Remember how much fun it was to watch Dean Martin, Red Skelton, W. C. Fields, John Wayne, John Barrymore, Ernie Kovacs, James Stewart, and Marilyn Monroe play drunks on the screen and sometimes in real life? Or Jodie Marsh, Paris Hilton, Cheryl Tweedy, Britney Spears, and the late Anna Nicole Smith, just to mention a few from my daughter’s generation. And let’s not forget some of our politicians and persons of power who control the fates of nations: Winston Churchill, John A. Macdonald, Boris Yeltsin, George Bush, Daniel Patrick Moynihan. Hard drinkers, every one. The somewhat uncomfortable point I’m making is that we don’t seem to mind our White drunks. They’re no big deal so long as they’re not driving. But if they are driving drunk, as have Canada’s coffee king Tim Horton, the ex-premier of Alberta Ralph Klein, actors Kiefer Sutherland and Mel Gibson, Super Bowl star Lawyer Milloy, or the Toronto Maple Leafs’ Mark Bell, we just hope that they don’t hurt themselves. Or others. More to the point, they get to make their mistakes as individuals and not as representatives of an entire race.

Maria Orsic has claimed that she has received direct messages from extraterrestrials and aliens from other planets and constellations, such as Alpha Tauri, and began to work on a super flying machine she could use to visit the aliens in Aldebaran.

In May 2013, the Supreme Court had to use its super serious powers to give Mummyjis a special instruction. The crux of its statement was, and I quote, ‘A daughter-in-law is to be treated as a family member, not a housemaid.’ What kind of a non-problem requires advice from the Supreme Court?

A woman with super long platinum blonde hair, a fake tan, injected bubble gum pink lips, and a large boob job came in. Phoebe showed her where to set up in front of us and we all sat patiently. "Hello, I’m Tandy" I almost rolled my eyes at her name, given her appearance. She placed a case on the coffee table in front of us, opened it, and pulled out rubber penises. I almost shot my drink out of my nose, again. "I will be instructing you on proper blow job technique." "Oh my God, Phoebe." I shouted at her. "Yeah," Viola clapped her hands and reached out to be the first to get a rubber practice penis.

Men rarely admit this, but they want to want your attention. In other words, men want to desire a woman just as much (or even more) than a woman wants to be desired by a desirable man. But if access to you is super easy and your attention is super cheap, guys are going to get bored with you very quickly.

Probably best not to mention the whole roommate situation just yet. “As for looks, Mollie, she’s…pretty. Smart as hell. Uh, tall, a little thin…great smile.” There was a moment of prolonged silence, and Jackson glanced around the room to see every person’s lips pressed together as though trying desperately to hold in a laugh. “What?” he asked. “You just said she has a ‘great smile,’ ” Cole said. “And you’re telling me you’re not into this woman?” “Cole has a point,” Penelope said. “Guys only say a woman has a great smile when they’re super not attracted to her or they’re secretly in love with her.” “Oh my God,” Jackson said, running his hands through his hair in irritation.

Doris loves Superman as well.unfortunately, she got knocked down by a van last year, and it was a big, long recovery for her, really. It took about six months, didn't it, before she was fully back to normal. She never gone back to normal. She's got a bionic leg now, which made her twice as fast and twice as stupid. You know, but she's just such good fun. But anyway,like she had a bit of a low point, you know, when she got really fed up, you know, with those stupid lampshade collars, you know, that they have on their head. Ugh, bumping into everything, she was walking about sighing. Ugh, like that, you know, and if you've ever been known or been with the terriers, but that ball of energy,you know, and she wasn't allowed to be for a walk or anything. It was awful. So to cheer her up, I bought her a little Superman outfit for dogs. When you get home, you look online. They are absolutely brilliant. You can get Wonder Woman and Darth Vader, all sorts. They're the funniest thing I have ever seen in my. The front paws, the front legs go in Super man's legs, you know, and it like covers up the paw with these little, red boot things on the bottom. And it comes up and ties around the neck, and there's tube stuff down from the front. So from the front, it's like a tiny, little Superman with a dog's head. And then, on the back there's this cape. So when she trots around, it looks like she's flying! Ah, it's brilliant! And she loves it. I couldn't get it off for about a week. It's honestly, they're absolutely brilliant, you must check it out. So anyway, tonight this is for Doris.

So what about you, Fern? Wonder Woman?” Ambrose teased. “Fern decided super heroes weren't for her,” Bailey said from the back. “She decided she would just be a fairy because she liked the option of flying without the responsibility of saving the world. She made a pair of wings from cardboard, covered them in glitter, and rigged up some duct tape straps so she could wear the wings around on her back like a back pack.

I grin. “It’s just a party,” I assure her. “Nothin’ big.” “There ain’t nothin’ that happens on this ranch that’s organized by your mama that ain’t big. That woman’s about as subtle as a shotgun.” “A shotgun can be subtle if it ain’t bein’ fired,” I point out. She narrows her eyes. I think she’s about to quip back with something super sassy, but then a smile wrinkles up her face. “You sayin’ I’m better off to keep the shotgun from firin’?” “I’m sayin’ quit playin’ with the trigger, Grandma.

The only way to conquer Barbara Stanwyck was to kill her, if she didn’t kill you first. Lynn Bari wanted any husband that wasn’t hers. Jane Russell’s body promised paradise but her eyes said, “Oh, please!” Claire Trevor was semi-sweet in Westerns and super-sour in moderns. Ida Lupino treated men like used-up cigarette butts. Gloria Grahame was oversexed evil with an added fey touch—a different mouth for every role. Ann Sheridan and Joan Blondell slung stale hash to fresh customers. Ann Dvorak rattled everyone’s rafters, including her own. Adele Jergens was the ultimate gun moll, handy when the shooting started. Marie Windsor just wanted them dead. Lucille Ball, pre–Lucy, was smart of mouth and warm as nails. Mercedes McCambridge, the voice of Satan, used consonants like Cagney used bullets. Marilyn Maxwell seemed approachable enough, depending on her mood swings. And Jean Hagen stole the greatest movie musical ever made by being the ultimate bitch. These wonderwomen proved that a woman’s only place was not in the kitchen. We ain’t talkin’ Loretta Young here.

A co-op woman, old, tired, Jewish, fake drops of jade spread across the little sacks of her bosom, looked up at the pending wind and said one word: "Blustery." Just one word, a word meaning no more than "a period of time characterized by strong winds," but it caught me unaware, it reminded me of how language was once used, its precision and simplicity, its capacity for recall. Not cold, not chilly, blustery. ... "It is blustery, ma'am," I said to the old co-op woman. "I can feel it in my bones." And she smiled at me with whatever facial muscles she still had in reserve. We were communicating with words.

After the punches, I went over how to kick. The deer women were at an extreme advantage when it came to kicking. Not only were their legs super powerful and full of muscles from all the climbing and running they did, but they were way longer than any dragon woman’s or orc’s legs could ever hope to be. One well placed kick from the deer women could stop an orc in his tracks, and he’d never even get close to her. “Always remember, aim for the balls,” I instructed while I walked amongst the group. “It’ll hurt like hell and almost definitely send your attacker to his knees. Then, you can come in with a spear, or bow and arrow, whatever you want.

From his corner office on the ground floor of the St. Cyril station house, Inspector Dick has a fine view of the parking lot. Six Dumpsters plated and hooped like iron maidens against bears. Beyond the Dumpsters a subalpine meadow, and then the snow¬ capped ghetto wall that keeps the Jews at bay. Dick is slouched against the back of his two-thirds-scale desk chair, arms crossed, chin sunk to his chest, star¬ing out the casement window. Not at the mountains or the meadow, grayish green in the late light, tufted with wisps of fog, or even at the armored Dumpsters. His gaze travels no farther than the parking lot—no farther than his 1961 Royal Enfield Crusader. Lands¬man recognizes the expression on Dick's face. It's the expression that goes with the feeling Landsman gets when he looks at his Chevelle Super Sport, or at the face of Bina Gelbfish. The face of a man who feels he was born into the wrong world. A mistake has been made; he is not where he belongs. Every so often he feels his heart catch, like a kite on a telephone wire, on something that seems to promise him a home in the world or a means of getting there. An American car manufactured in his far-off boyhood, say, or a motor¬cycle that once belonged to the future king of England, or the face of a woman worthier than himself of being loved.

A storm. The ash tree cowers, the limestone glowers, dark and damp. I remember dropping a glass onto the patio once; it burst like a bubble, merlot flaring across the ground and flooding the veins of the stonework, black and bloody, crawling toward my feet. Sometimes, when the skies are low, I imagine myself overhead, in a plane or on a cloud, surveying the island below: the bridges spoked from its east coast; the cars sucked toward it like flies swarming a lightbulb. It's been so long since I felt the rain. Or wind - the caress of wind, I nearly said, except that sounds like something you'd read in a super-market romance. It's true though. And snow too, but snow I never want to feel again.

In men, there is the familiar distinction between the Madonna on a pedestal and the lowlife whore, in the sense that they elevate the love object to unknown—and, above all, unattainable—heights. These are the super-conventional husbands who respect their wives. They often respect them so much that they become psychologically impotent. The shadow of the for-bidden mother covers the beloved in this cloak of respect, so that any sexual approach becomes impossible. However, this impotence wholly melts away, together with the respect, when such a man goes to a whore, either in his imagination or in reality. The pendulum swings the other way, because in this case the woman, in the figure of the whore, is humiliated just as much as the wife-mother is extolled. The dimension of lust appears here, inevitably accompanied by feelings of guilt. It is in this context that we come across the typical male fantasy, well known to every prostitute, of 'saving' a woman. A large number of her clients want to 'save' her from her ruin. They want to restore to her the status of being an object of love. In other words, they want her to become a wife-mother, which brings them back to respect, and completes the circle. Interestingly, in either case, whether he saves her or humiliates her, the power lies with the man. This in itself is a rewrite of the original mother-child scenario. His position has shifted from passive to active.

drank in the vision of his mate. The sole woman to make his bear and the man he was, whole. The aching gape in his chest filled with hope. Then it occurred to him, she didn’t remember the geeky teen with glasses, bad haircut and braces. The image of him as a super skinny kid with clothes that fell off his gangly body wasn’t really going to get in his way. He could seduce Nita as the man he was now. Bigger. Stronger. Self-assured. He was the Chief of the Stone Bear Clan. He knew his body had changed. He knew women wanted him. Hell, watching lust flare in Nita’s eyes while he’d been on the floor had been unreal. He didn’t have the self-esteem issues now that he did back when he wanted to ask her to the movies but ended up offering to tutor her instead. Though that had been one of the best mistakes he’d ever made.

The vivid scenes with their elegant colour, their unexpected distinction, and their strangeness, were like an arras before which, like mysterious, shadowy shapes, played the forms of Kitty's fancy. They seemed wholly unreal. Mei-Tan-Fu with its crenellated walls was like the painted canvas placed on the stage in an old play to represent a city. The nuns, Waddington, and the Manchu woman who loved him, were fantastic characters in a masque; and the rest, the people sidling along the tortuous streets and those who died, were nameless supers. Of course it had, they all had, a significance of some sort, but what was it? It was as though they performed a ritual dance, elaborate and ancient, and you knew that those complicated measures had a meaning which it was important for you to know; and yet you could see no clue, no clue.

This meant that I went from being the person who responded to everyone all the time, to being a person who doesn’t respond to hardly anyone, at all. At first, it was hard. My text inbox went from typically ten unread messages to over four hundred. I would read letters from readers, and instead of responding with a novel-length letter, I began saving them to a folder and sending out energetic blessings instead. If an email landed in my inbox, I would let it sit sometimes for up to seven days before even opening it. I got to things when I got to things. At first, some people were super annoyed, but after a few years of this practice, people came to understand I don’t respond to things immediately, and sometimes I don’t respond at all. To me, this is the only sane way to live. I’m not chained to my phone or to other people’s expectations of responsiveness. I don’t prove my love by texting back in two minutes.

Was it the arc of the universe? The natural result of centuries, millenia of wrong headed politics? Was she trained to find you, or were you trained to be found? Was it the fact that you'd already been tenderized like a pork chop by: never having been properly in love, being told you should be grateful for anything you get as a fat woman, getting weird messages that relationships are about fighting and being at odds with each other? The fact that your heart had been broken that one time and you desperately wanted to feel it unbreak? That you felt complete with someone loving you? That you just straight-up loved being desired, desiring someone, coming all the time? That you got addicted to her smell, her voice, her body? That you figured this was what you deserved? The super predictable result of a religion that pathologized sex but never talked about relationships? Terrible sex ed? Bad timing? You feel as if there is a box you can open to find the answer, but with the lid closed, the answer is all of these things, all at once.

I close the book and text Livia back. Okay, Fern Woman. I’ll meet you at 8. Then I add, Are you super sure about the Nite’s Inn? She responds right away. I’ll see you then, and I’m very sure. I’m doing this on a public servant’s budget! And it’s close to a Steak’n Shake, so you know it’s in a good neighborhood. ...Liv. Kitten. They found a body in that Steak’n Shake’s dumpster last year. One body and all of a sudden it’s a ‘bad’ place. You are so judgey! I, for one, won’t be scared away by that one tiny thing. I like to see the best in places. My radio goes off in my ear—a senior is causing a disturbance at a nursing home and they need all available units to respond. With a rueful smile to myself at my idealistic little librarian, I send her a final message and then climb out of my car. See you tonight, Livvy-girl. Don’t get thrown into a dumpster before I get there. Even though I was mostly joking about the Murder Steak’n Shake, I get to the Nite’s Inn half an hour early so that I can be extra sure she’s not in the parking lot alone

In the car ahead, Jane was thinking fast and furiously. She had felt the purpose for which Tarzan had asked a few words with her, and she knew that she must be prepared to give him an answer in the very near future. He was not the sort of person one could put off, and somehow that very thought made her wonder if she did not really fear him. And could she love where she feared? She realized the spell that had been upon her in the depths of that far-off jungle, but there was no spell of enchantment now in prosaic Wisconsin. Nor did the immaculate young Frenchman appeal to the primal woman in her, as had the stalwart forest god. Did she love him? She did not know—now. She glanced at Clayton out of the corner of her eye. Was not here a man trained in the same school of environment in which she had been trained—a man with social position and culture such as she had been taught to consider as the prime essentials to congenial association? Did not her best judgment point to this young English nobleman, whose love she knew to be of the sort a civilized woman should crave, as the logical mate for such as herself? Could she love Clayton? She could see no reason why she could not. Jane was not coldly calculating by nature, but training, environment and heredity had all combined to teach her to reason even in matters of the heart. That she had been carried off her feet by the strength of the young giant when his great arms were about her in the distant African forest, and again today, in the Wisconsin woods, seemed to her only attributable to a temporary mental reversion to type on her part—to the psychological appeal of the primeval man to the primeval woman in her nature. If he should never touch her again, she reasoned, she would never feel attracted toward him. She had not loved him, then. It had been nothing more than a passing hallucination, super-induced by excitement and by personal contact. Excitement would not always mark their future relations, should she marry him, and the power of personal contact eventually would be dulled by familiarity. Again she glanced at Clayton. He was very handsome and every inch a gentleman. She should be very proud of such a husband.

There once was a female snake that roamed around a small village in the countryside of Egypt. She was commonly seen by villagers with her small baby as they grazed around the trees. One day, several men noticed the mother snake was searching back and forth throughout the village in a frenzy — without her young. Apparently, her baby had slithered off on its own to play while she was out looking for food. Yet the mother snake went on looking for her baby for days because it still hadn't returned back to her. So one day, one of the elder women in the village caught sight of the big snake climbing on top of their water supply — an open clay jug harvesting all the village's water. The snake latched its teeth on the big jug's opening and sprayed its venom into it. The woman who witnessed the event was mentally handicapped, so when she went to warn the other villagers, nobody really understood what she was saying. And when she approached the jug to try to knock it over, she was reprimanded by her two brothers and they locked her away in her room. Then early the next day, the mother snake returned to the village after a long evening searching for her baby. The children villagers quickly surrounded her while clapping and singing because she had finally found her baby. And as the mother snake watched the children rejoice in the reunion with her child, she suddenly took off straight for the water supply — leaving behind her baby with the villagers' children. Before an old man could gather some water to make some tea, she hissed in his direction, forcing him to step back as she immediately wrapped herself around the jug and squeezed it super hard. When the jug broke burst into a hundred fragments, she slithered away to gather her child and return to the safety of her hole. Many people reading this true story may not understand that the same feelings we are capable of having, snakes have too. Thinking the villagers killed her baby, the mother snake sought out revenge by poisoning the water to destroy those she thought had hurt her child. But when she found her baby and saw the villagers' children, her guilt and protective instincts urged her to save them before other mothers would be forced to experience the pain and grief of losing a child. Animals have hearts and minds too. They are capable of love, hatred, jealousy, revenge, hunger, fear, joy, and caring for their own and others. We look at animals as if they are inferior because they are savage and not civilized, but in truth, we are the ones who are not being civil by drawing a thick line between us and them — us and nature. A wild animal's life is very straightforward. They spend their time searching and gathering food, mating, building homes, and meditating and playing with their loved ones. They enjoy the simplicity of life without any of our technological gadgetry, materialism, mass consumption, wastefulness, superficiality, mindless wars, excessive greed and hatred. While we get excited by the vibrations coming from our TV sets, headphones and car stereos, they get stimulated by the vibrations of nature. So, just because animals may lack the sophisticated minds to create the technology we do or make brick homes and highways like us, does not mean their connections to the etheric world isn't more sophisticated than anything we could ever imagine. That means they are more spiritual, reflective, cosmic, and tuned into alternate universes beyond what our eyes can see. So in other words, animals are more advanced than us. They have the simple beauty we lack and the spiritual contentment we may never achieve.

Incubus?" I asked Ben. He nodded grimly. "A lost soul-usually male-turned evil spirit that attaches itself to someone in order to lead her astray. The spirit is kind of...sexual in nature." He reddened and gestured to the picture. "Like it shows there. The incubus comes to a woman and has...you know...relations with her in her sleep." My jaw dropped, and I was glad Ben's eyes were averted as an exhilarating stream of images from my dreams flashed at super-speed through my head. I didn't realize I'd been holding my breath until it came out in a whoosh that I tried to pass off as a laugh. "It's not funny, Clea." "It's insane. Even if there were such a thing as an evil spirit, wouldn't it be obvious if I'd spent my whole life stalked by one? Wouldn't terrible things have happened to me?" "Maybe they will. Maybe he's just been waiting for the right time. Maybe that time is now, and that's why all of a sudden you see him everywhere." "So he's a patient evil spirit," I said sarcastically. "Know what else comes from the same Latin root as 'incubus'?" Ben retorted. "Incubate. I don't think it's coincidence. I think this...thing has been incubating, and now it's ready to come out and do whatever it's going to do. And I think your dad would agree with me.

Nowadays, enormous importance is given to individual deaths, people make such a drama out of each person who dies, especially if they die a violent death or are murdered; although the subsequent grief or curse doesn't last very long: no one wears mourning any more and there's a reason for that, we're quick to weep but quicker still to forget. I'm talking about our countries, of course, it's not like that in other parts of the world, but what else can they do in a place where death is an everyday occurrence. Here, though, it's a big deal, at least at the moment it happens. So-and-so has died, how dreadful; such-and-such a number of people have been killed in a crash or blown to pieces, how terrible, how vile. The politicians have to rush around attending funerals and burials, taking care not to miss any-intense grief, or is it pride, requires them as ornaments, because they give no consolation nor can they, it's all to do with show, fuss, vanity and rank. The rank of the self-important, super-sensitive living. And yet, when you think about it, what right do we have, what is the point of complaining and making a tragedy out of something that happens to every living creature in order for it to become a dead creature? What is so terrible about something so supremely natural and ordinary? It happens in the best families, as you know, and has for centuries, and in the worst too, of course, at far more frequent intervals. What's more, it happens all the time and we know that perfectly well, even though we pretend to be surprised and frightened: count the dead who are mentioned on any TV news report, read the birth and death announcements in any newspaper, in a single city, Madrid, London, each list is a long one every day of the year; look at the obituaries, and although you'll find far fewer of them, because an infinitesimal minority are deemed to merit one, they're nevertheless there every morning. How many people die every weekend on the roads and how many have died in the innumerable battles that have been waged? The losses haven't always been published throughout history, in fact, almost never. People were more familiar with and more accepting of death, they accepted chance and luck, be it good or bad, they knew they were vulnerable to it at every moment; people came into the world and sometimes disappeared at once, that was normal, the infant mortality rate was extraordinarily high until eighty or even seventy years ago, as was death in childbirth, a woman might bid farewell to her child as soon as she saw its face, always assuming she had the will or the time to do so. Plagues were common and almost any illness could kill, illnesses we know nothing about now and whose names are unfamiliar; there were famines, endless wars, real wars that involved daily fighting, not sporadic engagements like now, and the generals didn't care about the losses, soldiers fell and that was that, they were only individuals to themselves, not even to their families, no family was spared the premature death of at least some of its members, that was the norm; those in power would look grim-faced, then carry out another levy, recruit more troops and send them to the front to continue dying in battle, and almost no one complained. People expected death, Jack, there wasn't so much panic about it, it was neither an insuperable calamity nor a terrible injustice; it was something that could happen and often did. We've become very soft, very thin-skinned, we think we should last forever. We ought to be accustomed to the temporary nature of things, but we're not. We insist on not being temporary, which is why it's so easy to frighten us, as you've seen, all one has to do is unsheathe a sword. And we're bound to be cowed when confronted by those who still see death, their own or other people's, as part and parcel of their job, as all in a day's work. When confronted by terrorists, for example, or by drug barons or multinational mafia men.

There appeared among our letters in 1988 a remarkably vivid account from a woman in Australia, who had been doing housework in the middle of the day when some very strange creatures had abruptly appeared in her sitting room. She observed a willowy being with dark, slanted eyes and a group of short, stocky ones in “brown shrouds,” who seemed to her to be workers, while the tall one was more of a supervisor. It proceeded to overpower her with its mind while the workers moved about in the background, doing what she could not imagine. After a ferocious mental struggle, during which she literally tried to crawl out of the house as she could no longer walk, all went dark. When she woke up, it was hours later. She never found out what had happened to her during that missing time. Presumably, though, the creatures who put her through this ordeal know—and perhaps, also, that is something close to the secret of the ages. In any case, one wonders, looking at Lorie Barnes’s story and the story of the Australian woman, if we are not seeing the outline of a very remarkable and unsuspected structure: we are the kobolds. They are us working, somehow, in the fields of the soul. And one day, many of the living will join them down this very strange path, as we enter this other level of humanity, where what is hidden to us in this state, is the grammar of their ordinary truth.

In her eyes, he could see the fear, but also the love. The need. Time to show her, that to him, she meant everything. “Before you shower me with kisses for saving you –” “I think it could be argued that I played a part.” “Not when I retell the story you won’t. But we can argue about that later, naked. As I was saying, I have something for you.” Remy pulled the sheet of paper out of his back pocket and unfolded it. Initially he’d worried about it being too short. But as Lucifer assured him when he made the contract and binding, the less clauses he put in, the more his promise would stick out. Handing it to her, he waited. Fidgeted when she didn’t say a word. Almost tore it from her grasp. Then stumbled back as she threw herself at him. I, Remy, the most awesome demon in Hell, do declare to love the witch Ysabel, fiery temper and all, for an eternity. I will never stray. Never betray her trust. Never do anything to cause her pain upon penalty of permanent death. This I do swear in blood, Remy A simple contract, which in its very lack of clauses and sub items, awed her. “You love me that much?” He peered at her with incredulity on his face. “Of course I love you that much. Would I have done all the things I did if I didn’t?” “Well, you are related to a mad woman.” “Yes, and maybe it’s madness for me to love you, but I do. Do you think just any woman would inspire me enough to take on a bloody painful curse. Or put up with the fact you have a giant, demon eating cat. I know you have trust issues, and that I might not have led the kind of life that inspires confidence, but I will show you that you can believe in me. I want you to love me.” “I know you do. And I do love you. Only for you would I come to the rescue wearing nothing to cover my bottom.” His eyebrows shot up. “You came to battle in a skirt without any underwear?” A slow nod was her answer. He grinned, then scowled. “You will not do that again. Do you know how many demons live in the sewer and could have looked up your skirt? I won’t have them looking at what’s mine. On second thought. Throw out all your underwear. I’ll lead the purge on the sewers myself so you can stroll around with your girl parts unencumbered for my enjoyment.” “You’re insane,” she laughed. “Crazy in love with you,” he agreed. “But I do warn you, we’ll have to have dinner with my crazy mother at least once a month.” “Or more often. I quite like your mom. She’s got a refreshing way of viewing the world.” “Oh fuck. Don’t tell me she’s already rubbing off,” he groaned, as he pulled her into his arms. She snuggled against him. This was where she belonged. But she did have a question. “As my new… what should I call you anyway? Boyfriend? Demon I sleep with?” “The following terms are acceptable to me. Yours. Mate. Husband. Divine taster of your –” She slapped a hand over his mouth. “I’ll stick to mate.” “And I’m going with my super, sexy, touch her and die, fabulous cougar, ass kicking witch.” “I dare you shout that five times in a row without stumbling.” He did to her eye popping disbelief. “I told you, I have a very agile tongue.” “I remember.

The age old idea of human dignity comes to apply even to the indigent, even to the slaves, even to immigrants, now recently even to women. This is not to say that great writing is propaganda. But because the fictional process selects those fit for it, and because a requirement of that process is strong empathetic emotion, it turns out that the true writer's fundamental concern, his reason for finding a subject interesting in the first place, is likely to be humane. He sees injustice or misunderstanding in the world around him, and he cannot keep it out of his story. It may be true that he writes principally for the love of writing, and that in the heat of creation he cares as much about the convincing description of Helen's face as he does about the verities her story brings to focus, but the true literary artist is a far cry from those who create "toy fiction," good or bad--TV entertainments to take the pensioner's mind off his dismal existence, self-regarding aesthetic jokes, posh super-realism, where emotion is ruled out and idea is thought vulgar, or nostalgia fiction, or pornography. The true writer's joy in the fictional process is his pleasure in discovering, by means he can trust, what he believes and can affirm for all time. When the last trump plays, he will be listening, criticizing, figuring out the proper psychic distance. It should be added, for honesty's sake, that the true literary artist and the man or woman who makes "toy fiction" may be the same person in different moods. even on the subject of high seriousness, we must beware of reckless high seriousness.

I just realized I know nothing about you. Do you have a family? Where are you from?” The idea that I just invited a relative stranger, who owns nothing, to live in my apartment gave me a stomachache, but the weird thing was that I felt like I had known him forever. “I’m from Detroit; my entire family still lives there. My mom works in a bakery at a grocery store and my dad is a retired electrician. I have twelve brothers and sisters.” “Really? I’m an only child. I can’t imagine having a huge family like that—it must have been awesome!” Relaxing his stance, he leaned his tattooed forearm onto the dresser and crossed his feet. Jackson came over and sat next to him. Will unconsciously began petting Jackson’s head. It made my heart warm. “Actually, I don’t have twelve brothers and sisters. I have one brother and eleven sisters.” He paused. “I’m dead serious. My brother Ray is the oldest and I’m the youngest with eleven girls in between. I swear my parents just wanted to give Ray a brother, so they kept having more babies. By the time I was born, Ray was sixteen and didn’t give a shit. On top of it, they all have R names except me. It’s a f**king joke.” “You’re kidding? Name ‘em,” I demanded. In a super-fast voice Will recited, “Raymond, Reina, Rachelle, Rae, Riley, Rianna, Reese, Regan, Remy, Regina, Ranielle, Rebecca, and then me, Will.” “Surely they could have figured out another R name?” “Well my brother was named after my dad, so my mom felt like I should be named after someone too, being the only other boy and all. So I was named after my grandfather… Wilbur Ryan.” “Oh my god!” I burst into laughter. “Your name is Wilbur?” “Hey, woman, that’s my poppy’s name, too.” Still giggling, I said, “I’m sorry, I just expected William.” “Yeah, it’s okay. Everyone does.” He smiled and winked at me again.

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The UFO phenomenon and saga, the first contacts with aliens from extraordinarily advanced civilizations beyond our solar system, and extraterrestrials’ messages, all started with an occult-metaphysical-mysticism-psychical movement created by Maria Orsic, a medium and founder of the Vrilerinnen ( The Vril Society), and based upon messages she claimed she received from extraterrestrials from Aldebaran (Alpha Tauri), which contained technical data and precise instructions on how to build a super “Out of this World” flying machine (UFO).

Sex and the City 2 makes Phyllis Schlafly look like Andrea Dworkin. Or that super-masculine version of Cynthia Nixon that Cynthia Nixon dates. Or, like, Ralph Nader (wait, bad example—Schlafly totally does look like Ralph Nader in a granny wig). SATC2 takes everything that I hold dear as a woman and as a human—working hard, contributing to society, not being an entitled cunt like it's my job—and rapes it to death with a stiletto that costs more than my car. It is 146 minutes long, which means that I entered the theater in the bloom of youth and emerged with a family of field mice living in my long, white mustache.

Dear Woman....As You Face Resistance...And Need Perseverance...Turn To The Lord For Strength...All You Need Is In Him!

I was pretty focused and stoic about another week without Bobby until my Glow app sent me the super-helpful pastel-purple alert, “Your fertile window is closing . . .” This led to my sobbing to Maggie Haberman over a chardonnay in the hotel lobby. She looked up from Twitter, over her glasses. “Okay, you need to take that app off your phone immediately,” Mags said.

Your hair doesn’t look half bad today,” Star Sapphire said to Wonder Woman.

Even Cheetah said, “I don’t want to like her, but sometimes I think I do. Wait! Did I just say that?

make of Maria Lynch, with her freckled nose, inquisitive eyes and long hair tied up childishly in a ponytail, always dressed smartly. She looked eighteen, but having served fifteen years in the force, she was closer to thirty-five. Enthusiastic without overdoing it. She was aware that Lynch was super ambitious and Lottie had no intention of falling into the female rivalry trap. But she had to admit to a slight jealousy of the domestic stability her detective possessed. Lynch was married, she assumed happily. It was said her husband cooked, hoovered, brought their two small children to school before he went to work and all that shite. ‘It’s an absolute tip in there. I don’t know how the woman survived in such a dump,’ Lynch said, wiping dust from her pressed navy trousers. Lottie

Leah’s intelligence, wit, and level of coolness in a woman who looked like I used to would make her a “fun work colleague” or “a hilarious sexless friend in whom I confide about my love life.” But put those same characteristics in a super hot girl and you now have men falling all over themselves to crown her Time’s Person of the Year.

Amish Baked Oatmeal I would love to boast that I was taught how to make this breakfast dish by my Amish friend three farms over, but that isn’t the case. Instead, I learned how to make it from fellow homeschooling moms--which, if you don’t happen to live near an Amish community, is the next best thing. Homeschooling moms are rich with ideas for recipes that are quick, easy, nutritious, and gol-darn delicious…and that just so happens to be the exact Merriam-Webster definition for Amish Baked Oatmeal! This is pretty much an oatmeal cookie that decided to defect to the breakfast category, and I’m so very glad it did. It’s super easy to make, too!

It is a noble thing, the rearing of warriors for the revolution. I can find no fault with the idea. I do, however, find fault with the notion that dumping pills is the way to do it. You don't prepare yourself for the raising of super-people by making yourself vulnerable - chance fertilization, chance support, chance tomorrow - nor by being celibate until you stumble across the right stock to breed with. You prepare yourself by being healthy and confident, by having options that give you confidence, by getting yourself together, by being together enough to attract a together cat whose notions of fatherhood rise above the Disney caliber of man-in-the-world-and-woman-in-the-home, by being committed to the new consciousness, by being intellectually and spiritually and financially self-sufficient to do the thing right. You prepare yourself by being in control of yourself. The pill gives the woman, as well as the man, some control. Simple as that.

Food. Super!” Bess said. “I vote for that.” She drove the car to the restaurant, turned into its driveway, and parked in the rear. There was a side entrance so the three friends entered through this door. The first floor of the farmhouse had been converted into a charming, old-fashioned dining room. A pleasant-faced woman, who reminded Nancy of Hannah Gruen, showed them to a table next to a window. It overlooked a low hedge between the two properties. “We have no printed menus,” the restaurant owner said. “Tonight we have homemade vegetable soup, baked ham or pot roast, sweet potatoes, and some of my home-canned peaches with chocolate cake for dessert. Maybe you noticed my orchards. The peaches grew right here.” Bess sighed. “It must be heavenly living on a farm and raising all your own produce. Do you have chickens and cows and everything?” The woman, who said her name was Mrs. Ziegler, beamed. “Yes, everything.

In the refrigerated-food section, I pick up a few items, like another customer does next to me, and turn them over to read the nutritional information. I like reading the various numbers that tell me how what I am holding will transform inside a human's body. Energy: 326 cal, Fat: 16g, Carbohydrates: 38g; Protein: 11g. This meal has grains and pomegranate seeds, spring onion, olive oil, mustard seeds, garlic, and lemon. It is called a "Superfood, Super-Clean Salad.

would help rather than hurt, this was it. “How much is it going to cost?” asked the woman at Zuckerberg General, after the team at Chan Zuckerberg had explained their new COVID-19 testing lab. “It’s free,” said the Chan Zuckerberg person. “There was this super-long pause,” said Joe, who was on the line. “We don’t know how to do no-cost,” said Zuckerberg. “What do you mean?” asked Chan Zuckerberg. “It shows up as an error in the hospital computer if we put zero cost,” said Zuckerberg. “It won’t accept zero.

In Muncie, the “Constitution had ceased to function,” wrote the Chicago Tribune, after the Klan had established a “super-government” not based on the rule of law.

Evian. I would be Evian. A woman so self-assured she gives off a presidential vibe. Crowds part for her. People listen to her. She has more than one friend, can keep a rosemary plant alive, and earns enough to afford to heat her apartment all winter instead of parking the thermostat at fifty-nine degrees.

I believe, I deserve two wives, a king whose heart holds a love too great for a single woman. -MillYentei

We took everything we’d learned about the industry and Nest’s potential customers, about demographics and psychographics, and we created two distinct personas. One was a woman and the other a man. The man was into technology, loved his iPhone, was always looking for cool new gadgets. The woman was the decider—she dictated what made it into the house and what got returned. She loved beautiful things, too, but was skeptical of super-new, untested technology. We gave them names and faces. We made a mood board of their home, their kids, their interests, their jobs. We knew what brands they loved and what drove them crazy about their house and how much money they spent on heating bills in the winter. We needed to look through their eyes to understand why the man might pick up the box. And so we could convince the woman to keep it. Over time we added more personas—couples, families, roommates—as we better understood our customers. But in the beginning we started with two—two human beings who everyone could imagine, whose photos they could touch. That’s how prototyping works. It’s how you make abstract concepts into physical representations. You turn your messaging architecture into words and pictures on a box. [See also: Figure 5.4.1, in Chapter 5.4.] You turn “someone in a store” into Beth from Pennsylvania. And then you keep going. Every step of the way, along every link of the chain.

He won’t see me. I’ll be discreet.” I’d obviously created a monster. “What’s your plan? If he pulls a weapon on me, you pop into a phone booth, change into your Wonder Woman outfit, and kick his ass with your karate?” “First off, Wonder Woman doesn’t change in a phone booth. She spins. Second, there will be no outfit change—as much as you might like seeing me dressed as Wonder Woman. Third, it’s taekwondo. And lastly, my real super power is my ability to call the police.” “Wow, Wonder Woman spins, huh? Okay. Didn’t know you were such a comic book nerd.

Thanks for the ice cream, Jaxon!" Then she turned, adding, "Oh, and congrats on the super sperm." She's a dead woman.

You want me to break it down?” “I could try, be all woman hear me roar, or I could be super smart and let a big, tough guy like you do it for me.” “You’re more manipulative than them, I see why they love you.

Motherfucking bald bitch. That ain’t no way to treat a lady.” “You ain’t no fucking lady, you whore, you’re a dead woman walking.” It goes silent then, and I look over at Andrew. “This is super awkward, ‘cause I’m not walking. Do you think he gets all his lines from bad action movies?

If you think that I’m sharing my extra-tingly, heating, cherry-flavoured super-glide female-stimulating lubricant, you have another think coming.” “You’re willing to share a woman, but not your lube?” Riven says drily. Eli just shrugs. “I own the lube. I don’t own the woman.

Treasure reminded me of myself in so many ways. She thought she was Super Woman, just like I did, just before Frenchie put those three bullets through my body.

If I’m super woman, then he would be my kryptonite.

Macca is powerful adaptogen, which means that it boosts the body’s ability to adapt to external conditions aka stress. As an adaptogen, macca works broadly to contribute to overall well being. It nourishes and calms yo’ nerves and it’s also really important in helping your endocrine systemwhich basically regulates all your hormones. As a woman, it’s super duper crucial that you consume it. It’s super she hero food. For the men too, it increases sperm count for men by a gazillion (just kidding, don’t quote me on that one). It’s like the yoga of foods. It's a must for any and all women.

At around six a.m., he gave up on trying to go back to sleep. He called Leo, whose first reply instead of good morning or hello was, “Haven’t you gone to bed yet?” “Actually, I am just getting up.” That silenced Leo for a moment. “Are you sick?” “No.” “You do realize it’s not even close to noon, right?” “I know what time it is,” Hayder snapped, getting irked. “It’s time for you to stop messing with me and bring me some clothes.” “Why would I do that? Where are you? Wait, don’t tell me you stayed with the girl last night.” “She’s mine. Where else would I be?” “Dude, you met her yesterday.” “Yeah, and?” “You. Met. Her. Yesterday.” Leo enunciated each word slowly. “I. Know,” Hayder mocked. “What is this hang-up everyone has with time? She keeps saying the same thing. Who cares? She’s the one.” “This is my fault,” Leo grumbled. “How do you figure that? Are you in charge of the fates and the decision on who belongs together?” “No, but I might have knocked some sense into you one too many times.” “Aren’t you just the comedian? But this is no joke. Arabella’s mine, and that’s that. Now would you bring me some clothes?” “What about Jeoff?” “What about Jeoff?” “You don’t think her brother might have an issue with you hooking up with his sister, who, by all accounts, is vulnerable right now.” “Hey, are you implying my Arabella has loose morals? I’ll have you know she turned me down. Would you believe she shoved me out of bed? Told me to go away?” Incredulity still filled him. It didn’t take super hearing to catch Leo’s snort of mirth. “Ha. In that case, maybe she is the one. You need a woman who can say no to you sometimes.” “You are not a nice omega, Leo.” “Nice is for pussies. Now, are you done whining, or should I come over there and really give you something to whine about?” Hayder rubbed his jaw. “No need.” “Are you sure? You know I’m always ready to help a pride member in need.” “All I need right now are some clothes.

​“You were with men too long,” I said. “You haven’t found the right woman. Take the dominatrixes at Enthrall. They’re true babes in every sense of the word. They’re smart and funny and sassy and super sexy. Why, I’ll introduce you to one of them, if you like. Not lady Penny, though. She’s married. You might like Mistress Scarlet. She scares the hell out of me, but I think you’d like her.” His gaze stayed on me for the longest time. “You’re the funniest thing I’ve ever met.

Okay, Wonder Woman wears a bathing suit, and has super human stamina, and can fly.

Do you have any idea how many choices there were? Pearl, and super pearl, and gentle glide, and infinity. Seriously? Infinity? And let me tell you, when a dude at the grocery store asks a woman what kind she likes, he is escorted out by security.

The weatherman/woman definitely has SuperPowers.

men thinks women are stupid about finance ,about science and politics. otherwise they think themselves super intelligent. no . I am not saying this from hate or anger ,I am saying this because I have seen such persons around me . if a woman weak in finance ,with a limited budget how they manage households ? or in crisis come up with reserved fund ? they understand loan ,as equal overdraft ,they understand where her signature can protect her respect where might insult . they just pretend to be stupid much time ,that their loved one may feel safe and can be relaxed that their tricks are still unknown . funny . like let them win

I spent some time with my grandmother. During the winter the sheep are corralled close to home, and my grandmother works almost non-stop at her loom. She makes these amazing rugs and blankets. She says her ability to weave is a gift from Spider Woman.” He looked at me, a faint smile lurking around his firm lips. “Spider Woman is of no relation to Super Sam or Bionic Josie.” He quirked his eyebrows at me

A tree is my keeper, a warrior silhouette.

Lindbergh told Carl Jung that the United States Air Force investigated hundreds upon hundreds of UFO sightings without finding any evidence of supernatural phenomenon link to the UFOs, because they were real machines. Lindbergh was fully convinced that some of those UFOs were of a German origin, and the first to have worked on these enigmatic flying machines was Maria Orsic. Lindbergh admitted that he had discussed the subject of the German UFOs with General Spaatz, then Chief of the United States Air Force, and told him about Orsic’s super flying machine. Some have accused Lindbergh of having an affair with Maria Orsic, and because he was anti-Semite, Maria Orsic did not hesitate to tell him almost everything about the Aryan UFO she was working on.

Poor guy. Must be tough finding the right woman when you're a smoking-hot, super rich resort tycoon.

He literally said, 'I'm not going and you're not going without me.' You should've seen the way my head spun 360 degrees. The lady sitting beside us even muttered, 'oh shit.' She was this sassy looking Hispanic woman, so naturally, I felt the pressure to tear William a new asshole and then storm off the A train right before the doors shut. It was super dramatic ...

The only person who should have control over your life is God. You’re not super woman. Sometimes you have to put the oxygen mask on yourself before you can save anybody else.

A pair of researchers named Kristen Schilt and Matthew Wiswall wanted to systematically examine what happens to the salaries of people who switched gender as adults. It is not quite the experiment we proposed above—after all, the set of folks who switch gender aren’t exactly a random sample, nor are they the typical woman or man before or after—but still, the results are intriguing. Schilt and Wiswall found that women who become men earn slightly more money after their gender transitions, while men who become women make, on average, nearly one-third less than their previous wage.

Who are these hordes of fat people chasing you around, insisting that eating pot pies all day is awesome and good for your health? Because, um, I don't believe you. That sounds like a strawman. And I know some of your best friends are fat or whatever, but you sound like a bigot. Also, your super fucking obvious and regressive point has been made. Everyone in the world already thinks fat people are lazy and gross[...] We get it! You are not breaking any new ground here! Being fat is its own punishment. I don't give a shit if you think I lie on the couch all day under the Dorito funnel. I'd just rather not be abused on the internet from inside my own workplace.