Tate Best Quotes

So I’m daring you. Wake up. Wake up and tell me that you were right. That you’re the best thing that has ever happened to me.” Logan sucked in a shaky breath and then let it out as he ran his eyes over Tate’s body. “And that I never stood a chance. I love you, and I’m not letting you go. Not now, not ever. I can be stubborn too. Got it?

It’s for the best. But no matter how many times I repeat it, the strange, hollow feeling in my stomach doesn’t go away. And ridiculous as it is, I can’t shake the persistent, needling feeling that I’ve forgotten something, or missed something, or lost something forever.

Best way to get over a guy was to get under a new one, right?

Brad (Lauren's ex) ignored Hayley (she's Brad's ex girlfriend) and looked at me, he did a top to toe and back again then his gaze moved to Tate. "I'm here to tell you I'm suing you," he announced. Jim-Billy, Nadine, Steg, Wing and my eyes moved to Tate. Tate stared at Brad then he said, "Come again?" "I'm suing you," Brad repeated. "For what?" Tate asked. "Alienation of affection," Brad answered. Without hesitation, Tate threw his head back and burst out laughing. Then he looked at me and remarked, "You're right, babe, this is fun." Ignoring Tate's comment, Brad declared, "You stole my wife." Tate looked back at Brad. "Yeah, bud, I did." Brad pointed at Tate and his voice was raised when he proclaimed, "See? You admit it." He threw his arm out. "I have witnesses." "Not that any judge'll hear your case, seein' as Lauren divorced your ass before I alienated her affection, but you manage it, I'll pay the fine. In the meantime, I'll keep alienating her affection. You should know, and feel free to share it with your lawyers," Tate continued magnanimously, "schedule's comin' out mornin' and night. Usually, in the mornin', she sucks me off or I make her come in the shower. Night, man…shit, that's even better. Definitely worth the fine." Sorry, it's just too long; I have to cut it off. But it continues…like that: "This is the good life?" (Brad) "Part of it," Tate replied instantly, taking his fists from the bar, leaning into his forearms and asking softly, in a tone meant both to challenge and provoke, "She ever ignite, lose so much control she'd attack you? Climb on top and fuck you so hard she can't breathe?" I watched Brad suffer that blow because I hadn't, not even close. We'd had good sex but not that good and Brad was extremely proud of his sexual prowess. He was convinced he was the best. And he knew, with Tate's words, he was wrong. "Jesus, you're disgusting," Brad muttered, calling up revulsion to save face. "She does that to me," Tate continued. "Fuck off," Brad snapped. "All the fuckin' time," Tate pushed. "Fuck off," Brad repeated. "It's fuckin' magnificent," Tate declared. "Thanks, honey," I whispered and grinned at him when his eyes came to me. I was actually expressing gratitude, although embarrassed by his conversation, but I was also kind of joking to get in Brad's face. Tate wasn't. His expression was serious when he said, "You are, Ace. Fuckin' magnificent.

Like I said, when I get pissed I say a lotta shit I don't mean and what I said about you I didn't mean," he repeated, beginning to look as impatient as he sounded. "And like I said, you're old enough to learn you shouldn't do that," I repeated too, probably also looking impatient. "That isn't me," he replied. "Well, then, this obviously is eating you and that's your consequence because I have feelings and you walked all over them and you can't order me to shake it off so you can feel better. It's there, burned in my brain and I can't just forget it because you tell me to. So you have to live with that. You can't and want me gone, say it now because I'm beginning to like Betty and I met Shambles and Sunny and I'm having dinner with them tomorrow night and I'd rather not make ties when I'm going to need to hit the road because my boss is going to get rid of me." "Shambles and Sunny?" he asked. "Shambles and Sunny," I answered but didn't share more. "Now, can we just move on and do our best to work together and all other times avoid each other or do you want me to go?" He moved forward an inch and I again fought the urge to retreat. "Forgiveness is divine," he said softly and I'd never heard him talk soft. He had a very nice voice but when it went soft, it was beautiful. This also sucked. (BTW, in the beginning a lot of things sucked! :D) I mean Lauren uses this word 'sucks'. "I'm not divine," I returned. "I'm also not Ace and I'm not Babe. I'm Lauren. You don't like my name, don't call me anything at all. Now can I clean the danged table?" I had my head tipped back to look him in the eye but I could tell he was expending effort to hold his whole body still. Then he said in that soft voice, "I'm sorry, Ace." "Me too," I replied instantly being clear I didn't accept his apology...

They were the best family I'd ever had, and it was all total, total bullshit.

Ob-gyns don’t have the best dirty talk game in the world, huh?”My back was to Tate when he answered me. “Bet you all the pennies in your cheap little purse that I can make you drip cum on my face in less than ten seconds—before I even use my tongue or cock.

The big dick energy was so thick I was gagging on it. In the best kind of way.

Each day, we have the opportunity to learn something new, apologize for our mistakes, and become better.

Talking to Bree helped, though. Even if her best suggestion was to sneak into Archer's room and superglue his nuts to his leg.

Don't buy things you can't afford with money you don't have to impress people you don't like it.

I was never happier than on the nights we stayed home, lying on the living room rug. We talked about classes and poetry and politics and sex. Neither of us were in love with the Iowa Writers' Workshop, but it didn't really matter because we had no place else to go. What we had was the little home we made together, our life in the ugly green duplex. We lived next door to a single mother named Nancy Tate who was generous in all matters. She would drive us to the grocery store and give us menthol cigarettes and come over late at night after her son was asleep to sit in our kitchen and drink wine and talk about Hegel and Marx. Iowa City in the eighties was never going to be Paris in the twenties, but we gave it our best shot.

Engaged, productive employees do not work in a vacuum. They need workplaces that help them bring out the best in themselves—mosh pits of creativity where energy and inspiration can flow freely.

I want to apologize to you,” she says calmly. “Oh yeah? For what?” I don’t have time for this. We don’t have time for this. I push away thoughts of what will happen to Hana even if I manage to escape. She’ll be here, in the house . . . My stomach is clenching and unclenching. I’m worried the bread will come straight back up. I have to stay focused. What happens to Hana isn’t my concern, and it isn’t my fault, either. “For telling the regulators about 37 Brooks,” she says. “For telling them about you and Alex.” Just like that, my brain powers down. “What?" “I told them.” She lets out a tiny exhalation, as though saying the words has given her relief. “I’m sorry. I was jealous.” I can’t speak. I’m swimming through a fog. “Jealous?” I manage to spit out. “I—I wanted what you had with Alex. I was confused. I didn’t understand what I was doing.” She shakes her head again. I have a swinging, seasick feeling. It doesn’t make any sense. Hana—golden girl Hana, my best friend, fearless and reckless. I trusted her. I loved her. “You were my best friend.” “I know.” Again she looks troubled, as though trying to recall the meaning of the words. “You had everything.” I can’t stop my voice from rising. The anger is vibrating, ripping through me like a live current. “Perfect life. Perfect grades. Everything.” I gesture to the spotless kitchen, to the sunshine pouring over the marble counters like drizzled butter. “I had nothing. He was my one thing. My only—” The sickness surges up and I take a step forward, clenching my fists, blind with rage. “Why couldn’t you let me have it? Why did you have to take it? Why did you always take everything?

See there, Heck? Thank you from the bottom of my heart, but I don’t want my boy starting out with something like this over his head. Best way to clear the air is to have it all out in the open. Let the county come and bring sandwiches. I don’t want him growing up with a whisper about him, I don’t want anybody saying, ‘Jem Finch . . . his daddy paid a mint to get him out of that.’ Sooner we get this over with the better.” “Mr. Finch,” Mr. Tate said stolidly, “Bob Ewell fell on his knife. He killed himself.

We’re trying to figure women out,” he explained. “What, in your opinion, would be the best Valentine’s Day present ever?” “We’re easy to please, any small detail will do,” Tate said. The collective male snort was loud. “It’s true,” Christy added coming out in her defence. “Yeah right. Any small detail will do, my ass,” Max began. “Let’s put it this way: what do my poor bros have to do for Valentine’s Day so that their Steak and BJ Day in a month will be memorable and won’t degrade into a handy and a hamburger?

Purely voluntary choices,” Pastor Pete continued, “Where they knew, at some level, that what they were doing was wrong. Maybe they thought they couldn’t stop what was going on. Maybe they thought that if they didn’t do it, the next guy would, so why not get something out of it for themselves? Maybe they had talked themselves into thinking that taking things from others via the government was fair and the best for the majority. Maybe. But, whatever was in their hearts, they kept choosing to do the wrong thing. And they knew it. At some level.

I know he’s had his problems in the past… “He can’t keep his hands off a liquor bottle at the best of times, and he still hasn’t accepted the loss of his wife!” “I sent him to a therapist over in Baltimore,” she continued. “He’s narrowed his habit down to a six-pack of beer on Saturdays.” “What does he get for a reward?” he asked insolently. She sighed irritably. “Nobody suits you! You don’t even like poor old lonely Senator Holden.” “Like him? Holden?” he asked, aghast. “Good God, he’s the one man in Congress I’d like to burn at the stake! I’d furnish the wood and the matches!” “You and Leta,” she said, shaking her head. “Now, listen carefully. The Lakota didn’t burn people at the stake,” she said firmly. She went on to explain who did, and how, and why. He searched her enthusiastic eyes. “You really do love Native American history, don’t you?” She nodded. “The way your ancestors lived for thousands of years was so logical. They honored the man in the tribe who was the poorest, because he gave away more than the others did. They shared everything. They gave gifts, even to the point of bankrupting themselves. They never hit a little child to discipline it. They accepted even the most blatant differences in people without condemning them.” She glanced at Tate and found him watching her. She smiled self-consciously. “I like your way better.” “Most whites never come close to understanding us, no matter how hard they try.” “I had you and Leta to teach me,” she said simply. “They were wonderful lessons that I learned, here on the reservation. I feel…at peace here. At home. I belong, even though I shouldn’t.” He nodded. “You belong,” he said, and there was a note in his deep voice that she hadn’t heard before. Unexpectedly he caught her small chin and turned her face up to his. He searched her eyes until she felt as if her heart might explode from the excitement of the way he was looking at her. His thumb whispered up to the soft bow of her mouth with its light covering of pale pink lipstick. He caressed the lower lip away from her teeth and scowled as if the feel of it made some sort of confusion in him. He looked straight into her eyes. The moment was almost intimate, and she couldn’t break it. Her lips parted and his thumb pressed against them, hard. “Now, isn’t that interesting?” he said to himself in a low, deep whisper. “Wh…what?” she stammered. His eyes were on her bare throat, where her pulse was hammering wildly. His hand moved down, and he pressed his thumb to the visible throb of the artery there. He could feel himself going taut at the unexpected reaction. It was Oklahoma all over again, when he’d promised himself he wouldn’t ever touch her again. Impulses, he told himself firmly, were stupid and sometimes dangerous. And Cecily was off limits. Period. He pulled his hand back and stood up, grateful that the loose fit of his buckskins hid his physical reaction to her. “Mother’s won a prize,” he said. His voice sounded oddly strained. He forced a nonchalant smile and turned to Cecily. She was visibly shaken. He shouldn’t have looked at her. Her reactions kindled new fires in him.

Colby arrived the next day, with stitches down one lean cheek and a new prosthesis. He held it up as Cecily came out to the car to greet him. He held it up as Cecily came out to the car to greet him. “Nice, huh? Doesn’t it look more realistic than the last one?” “What happened to the last one?” she asked. “Got blown off. Don’t ask where,” he added darkly. “I know nothing,” she assured him. “Come on in. Leta made sandwiches.” Leta had only seen Colby once, on a visit with Tate. She was polite, but a little remote, and it showed. “She doesn’t like me,” Colby told Cecily when they were sitting on the steps later that evening. “She thinks I’m sleeping with you,” she said simply.” So does Tate.” “Why?” “Because I let him think I was,” she said bluntly. He gave her a hard look. “Bad move, Cecily.” “I won’t let him think I’m waiting around for him to notice me,” she said icily. “He’s already convinced that I’m in love with him, and that’s bad enough. I can’t have him know that I’m…well, what I am. I do have a little pride.” “I’m perfectly willing, if you’re serious,” he said matter-of-factly. His face broke into a grin, belying the solemnity of the words. “Or are you worried that I might not be able to handle it with one arm?” She burst out laughing and pressed affectionately against his side. “I adore you, I really do. But I had a bad experience in my teens. I’ve had therapy and all, but it’s still sort of traumatic for me to think about real intimacy.” “Even with Tate?” he probed gently. She wasn’t touching that line with a pole. “Tate doesn’t want me.” “You keep saying that, and he keeps making a liar of you.” “I don’t understand.” “He came to see me last night. Just after I spoke to you.” He ran his fingers down his damaged cheek. She caught her breath. “I thought you got that overseas!” “Tate wears a big silver turquoise ring on his middle right finger,” he reminded her. “It does a bit of damage when he hits people with it.” “He hit you? Why?” she exclaimed. “Because you told him we were sleeping together,” he said simply. “Honest to God, Cecily, I wish you’d tell me first when you plan to play games. I was caught off guard.” “What did he do after he hit you?” “I hit him, and one thing led to another. I don’t have a coffee table anymore. We won’t even discuss what he did to my best ashtry.” “I’m so sorry!” “Tate and I are pretty much matched in a fight,” he said. “Not that we’ve ever been in many. He hits harder than Pierce Hutton does in a temper.” He scowled down at her. “Are you sure Tate doesn’t want you? I can’t think of another reason he’d try to hammer my floor with my head.” “Big brother Tate, to the rescue,” she said miserably. She laughed bitterly. “He thinks you’re a bad risk.” “I am,” he said easily. “I like having you as my friend.” He smiled. “Me, too. There aren’t many people who stuck by me over the years, you know. When Maureen left me, I went crazy. I couldn’t live with the pain, so I found ways to numb it.” He shook his head. “I don’t think I came to my senses until you sent me to that psychologist over in Baltimore.” He glanced down at her. “Did you know she keeps snakes?” he added. “We all have our little quirks.

It’s okay if you can’t. No worries. Just an idea,” I say quickly, looking away so she won’t see how disappointed I am. “No—I mean, I want to, but—” Hana sucks in a breath. I hate this, hate how awkward we both are. “I kind of have this party”—she corrects herself quickly— “this thing I’m supposed to go to with Angelica Marston.” My stomach gets that hollowed-out feeling. It’s amazing how words can do that, just shred your insides apart. [...] A rush of hatred overwhelms me. Hatred for my life, for its narrowness and cramped spaces; hatred for Angelica Marston, with her secretive smile and rich parents; hatred for Hana, for being so stupid and careless and stubborn, first and foremost, and for leaving me behind before I was ready to be left; and underneath all those layers something else, too, some white-hot blade of unhappiness flashing in the very deepest part of me. I can’t name it, or even focus on it clearly, but somehow I understand that this—this other thing—makes me the angriest of all. [...] Despite everything, this gives me pause. In the days after the party at Roaring Brook Farms, snatches of music seemed to follow me everywhere: I heard it winging in and out of the wind, I heard it singing off the ocean and moaning through the walls of the house. Sometimes I woke up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, my heart pounding, with the notes sounding in my ears. But every time I was awake and trying to remember the melodies consciously, hum a few notes or recall any of the chords, I couldn’t. Hana’s staring at me hopefully, waiting for my response. For a second I actually feel bad for her. I want to make her happy, like I always did, want to see her give a whoop and put her fist in the air and flash me one of her famous smiles. But then I remember she has Angelica Marston now, and something hardens in my throat, and knowing that I’m going to disappoint her gives me a kind of dull satisfaction.

Once I’m marked as the Hunter’s daughter, what man will ever love me? I won’t dare have children for fear they might turn out like him. No one will ever want me—ever!” “That’s not true!” Bud yelled. “I want you! I’ve always wanted you.” Holly choked, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Her pulse was roaring in her ears. Had she really heard that, or was it just her imagination? Bud groaned. Now he’d done it, but by God, he wasn’t taking any of it back. When she didn’t answer, he knew she was shocked. “Are you going to cry all night?” “No,” Holly said, then winced. She sounded like a damn mouse, squeaking in the dark. “Good. So keep your sweet ass in one piece and come home as soon as you can. Do you hear me?” “Yes.” “Good. Talk to you later.” Holly shivered. “Later.” The dial tone was suddenly buzzing in her ear. She dropped her phone and then covered her mouth with both hands, muffling her words. “Oh, my God, oh, my God, he did not just say that.” She bolted out of bed, dashed into the bathroom and flipped on the light. What she saw in the mirror made her wince. She looked like hell, with her hair all over the place, her eyes red and puffy, and her lips all swollen. “Bud Tate loves me,” she whispered. It was her best dream come true.

The best places for short-term rental investments are rural destinations approximately one to three hours outside of medium to large cities.

So many people grapple with various versions of the self-limiting beliefs listed above and with their derivatives. We all have that little voice in our head that tries to hold us back. The best way to silence the voice and move forward with your goal is to fight fear with facts.

Weekend getaway places in these areas make the best investments. Unlike downtown city properties, getaway locations have the potential to be scooped at a low price and repurposed into successful full-time, short-term rentals.

The best approach is to look at properties with a realistic understanding of your own skill set and also with a creative mindset that lets you envision the possibilities for guest amenities. Balancing your skills and creativity will help you find your ideal short-term rental property.

I find the best way to identify these properties is by getting to know your neighbors and making it known in the community that you are actively looking to purchase additional real estate.

My best advice for new investors is to secure your financing before you begin actively looking for a short-term rental investment.

Our weapons are many, and we need them all because patriarchy will not just roll over and die because we will it, pray for it or think positive thoughts. Our books of knowledge are our weapons because knowledge is power. Has not patriarchy tried their best to keep knowledge of Goddess and women’s natural leadership and spiritual authority from us? Intuition is our weapon. Women intuitively know how to birth life, nurture and multi-task. They are the glue keeping homes, businesses, and organizations going. If women stopped serving the status quo, if they stopped volunteering tomorrow, how many would collapse? Our voice is our weapon. Has patriarchy not tried to make us content and satisfied being subservient and our power diminished? We must all find our “sacred rage and our sacred roar” and let our wisdom and intellect reverberate out across the ethers to be heard by all. Our written word is our weapon, for the pen can be mightier than the sword. Each of you sitting here has changed her life not at the point of a dagger but because of the information you have no doubt read or been taught. Our tenacity and strength are our weapons. Any woman who has birthed or raised a child, had a book published, started an organization, manifested a temple – they all know the strength, courage and determination women possess. Remember women, we do 80% of the work around the world even if, under patriarchy, we only earn 20% of the assets. Our weapons are our innate ability to intuit, to love and nurture, to support our sisters, to tend and befriend in times of stress. We must begin to stand shoulder to shoulder, thinking of the Us and We, not the I and Me. Our weapon is the wisdom we embody and the power of the life-affirming Creatrix, while patriarchy is the obsolete and forceful destroyer. We must remember who we are!

need. Impulses to do anything to keep other people from feeling angry at me. I still need help overriding those impulses. I need help figuring out what two-syllable word best describes my feelings. Telling the truth of my desire, even when I’m ashamed of it. Tolerating other people’s intense feelings. Tolerating my own.

my best—" He cut me off with a sharp laugh of disbelief. "No, you dense bitch. I love you." And then, because clearly I'd missed the emphasis he was placing on that statement, he grabbed me by the front of my shirt and crashed his lips down on mine.

My parents firmly believed that I could make up my mind to be happy. I understand now that they were offering me the tools they relied on: willpower, optimism, and self-reliance. But those tools kept slipping out of my grasp, so I reached for the more reliable bingeing and purging to tamp down the emotions trying to surface. My parents and I wanted the same thing: for me to be normal. I longed for a "normal me" more than they did, but none of us understood that I wasn't "moping" and that the attempts to stuff my feeling might come at a high cost. I also heard an implied request that I bury Hawaii and all its terrifying images. Beneath my parents' request thrummed a subtext: Don't think about it, or you'll get upset. Don't get upset, or you'll fall behind on the important work of being a normal teenage girl. Don't talk about it, or you'll upset yourself. Don't talk about it, or you'll upset me. I wanted to be a dutiful daughter, so I buried it the best I could.

Tate steps inside and her arms go around his neck. I’m not surprised to see her and Miles here. Miles and Ian have been best friends since before I was born, so I’m glad Ian has them.

Mum,” she snapped, “I’ve got to go.” “Oh! Of course, go, go. Sweets, I’m not sure that your pancakes are the best choice to make him for breakfast. Better maybe to ease him into your cooking skills. Some toast might be–

If it’s not in your best interest to continue coupling with your partner, then the universe will arrange convenient circumstances in which to help you separate.

Are you better on your worst day to beat your opponent on their best?

We are designed to love and be loved. To love what we do and be able to boldly say we are living our best life. And if you’re not walking in your happiness every day, you need to change the path.

I know," I replied softly. "I love you too. You're my best—" He cut me off with a sharp laugh of disbelief. "No, you dense bitch. I love you.

I understand the rules you're laying out, Dad," I responded with my very best calm voice, given the circumstances. "And, respectfully, go fuck yourself." Whoops.

His brows shot up. "Oh. Oh. I thought... Yeah, I mean, no. I mean I do now? I hope?" His hands went back to my waist, and his neck bent to meet me in another heated kiss. "This is actually turning out to be the best night of my life, I think." I laughed and swatted him playfully as I stuffed my feet back into my heels. "Come on; my place isn't far.

Hayden Darling Timber was my birth name, and for all my legal businesses I was Daria Wolff, CEO of Copper Wolf Enterprises. But only a handful of people had ever been close enough to use a playful nickname like Dare. Seph was one, and she still insisted on using it. Her newest best friend had briefly used it, but only because my asshole sister had introduced me as Dare, rather than Hades. No one had filled the poor girl in until she’d known me a good four months, too.

was in love with Steele... and with his two best friends. When the fuck did my life get so complicated?

I was in love with Steele... and with his two best friends. When the fuck did my life get so complicated?

Fuck, Katie. Why are you even sitting here right now? You should be in bed." His face was drawn, though, and he knew exactly why—because my best friend was in life or death surgery thanks to me.

I'm gonna be a dad," Dallas whispered in total shock. My best friend's baby almost died today. Guilt flooded every inch of my body, choking me and rolling my stomach sharply. I scrambled out of Archer's arms abruptly and raced in the direction of the ladies’ room. Bree had almost died. Her baby had almost died. I needed to find out who was behind that attack and make them pay.

From the crush of bodies all around, I couldn't see anything except her lifeless, blood-soaked hand hanging out of the car. Oh fuck. She was dead. My best friend was dead because of me.

Because, Hellcat. It also has to do with Rachel, and I'd really, really appreciate the distraction of your naked body when I need to drag up painful memories of my dead twin. Okay?" "Oh." That was the best response I could muster up because I hadn't expected that response from him. Crap, now I feel like a total bitch. Steele gave me a weak smile

best defense was a good offense.

I’d always maintained that the best defense was a good offense.

Zed had the best of intentions. He wanted to push that delicate relationship balance between us in a way I'd been quietly hoping he would do for ages. Yet all it'd done was resurface my badly patched trauma and thrown me straight back into the past when I was seventeen, naïve as fuck, gaslighted at every waking moment, and abused behind closed doors by my sociopathic fiancé.

She shrugged. “I guess not, but at the same time, sometimes the best things are right in front of you.

Tate says I 'meddle.' I don't meddle. I just want what's best for her. And she's got good stuff that she doesn't mind me borrowing...as long as she doesn't notice it's gone.

Tate and I had lucked out when we’d discovered that the house across the street from Matty’s new best friend’s house was up for sale and we’d immediately put an offer in on it.

Phyllis, you awaken things in me,” he said suddenly. “Things I can’t allow myself to feel.” He stared at his shoes and glanced back at her. “I care for you. And because I care, I know we can’t go to my room to watch a movie. We shouldn’t call or e-mail either. I want what’s best for your marriage.” She

Or Dohrn—the Weather Underground leader who celebrated the Charles Manson murders, including that of the nine-months-pregnant Sharon Tate, with “Dig it! First they killed those pigs and then they put a fork in pig Tate’s belly! . . . The Weathermen dig Charles Manson!”—who went on to teach at Northwestern Law School, one of the best schools in the country. And her husband, Ayers, spent his post-terrorist life teaching at the University of Illinois in Chicago. Is it me, or is this a problem? A

Poetry is everywhere; it just needs editing.

Google was in the water when the waves of Internet traffic came because it was tinkering with new ideas under the umbrella of Google’s famous “20% Time.” “20% Time” is not Google indigenous. It was borrowed from a company formerly known as Minnesota Mining and Manufacturing, aka 3M, which allowed its employees to spend 15 percent of their work hours experimenting with new ideas, no questions asked. 3M’s “15% Time” brought us, among other things, Post-it Notes. Behind this concept (which is meticulously outlined in an excellent book by Ryan Tate called The 20% Doctrine) is the idea of constantly tinkering with potential trends—having a toe in interesting waters in case waves form. This kind of budgeted experimentation helps businesses avoid being disrupted, by helping them harness waves on which younger competitors might otherwise use to ride past them. It’s helped companies like Google, 3M, Flickr, Condé Nast, and NPR remain innovative even as peer companies plateaued. In contrast, companies that are too focused on defending their current business practice and too fearful to experiment often get overtaken. For example, lack of experimentation in digital media has cost photo brand Kodak nearly $ 30 billion in market capitalization since the digital photography wave overwhelmed it in the late ’90s. The best way to be in the water when the wave comes is to budget time for swimming.

Why the hell should it be expected that a woman needed multiple best friends in order to get married? Seemed like a pretty stupid rule to me.

most girls didn't have three boyfriends. But they should. It was the fucking best.

He grinned wider at my response, then tentatively lowered his face to my cunt. It took him all of about three seconds to find my clit, then my whole world exploded into stars and rainbows and shit. Between his fingers and his mouth, he delivered, hands down, the best oral sex I'd ever experienced. I came twice before literally begging him to fuck me properly.

Whoa, what?" His gravelly voice kicked up a notch at my accusation. "She's right here; I'm staring right at her. What the hell is going on?" My heart stopped a second, then beat twice as fast as those words sunk in and confused the fuck out of me. "Here where? Where are you?" He made a sound like he was walking while he spoke to me. "The frozen yogurt shop down the street. Apparently, she needed sugar for her period or some shit." I swallowed heavily, my free hand balled into a fist as my eyes surveyed the mess in my home. "Put her on, Cass. Put her on the phone." "Two seconds," he replied, and the sound of his boots on the pavement traveled down the phone, followed by the chime of a shop door opening. Then came the best sound I'd ever heard in my entire damn life. "Dare? What's up? Cass looks like he's ready to murder something.