The Break Up Pact Quotes

A writer makes a pact with loneliness. It is her, or his, beach on which waves of desire, wild mind, speculation break. In my work, in my life, I am always moving toward and away from aloneness. To write is to refuse to cover up the rawness of being alive, of facing death.

You shouldn't have to settle for someone to love you.

life is both too short and too long for being something you're not

Back then it felt like the grief would swallow us whole. It’s different now, more like the waves at our feet—constantly ebbing and flowing, swollen one moment and quiet the next. A tide I can dip my feet into and let myself feel, or a swell that will hit me from behind when I least expect it.

It was the weekend. She was watching a film on TV. It was about four teenage girls, friends who’d been devastated to find that they were all going to have to spend their summer holidays in different parts of the world. So they made a pact that they’d share a pair of jeans, meaning they’d send the jeans by post from one to the next to the next and so on as a sign of their undying friendship. What happened next was that the pair of jeans acted as a magic catalyst to their lives and saw them through lots of learning curves and self-esteem-getting and being in love, parents’ breaking up, someone dying etc. When it got to the part where a child was dying of cancer and the jeans helped one of the girls to cope with this, George, sitting on the floor in the front room, howled out loud like a wolf at its crapness.

I hope so. Being a self-actualized single woman is nice and all, but god, am I bored.

Is that why you’re here? So we can form a Benson Beach viral break-up support group? Because I don’t really have time for niche extracurriculars right now.

swallow us whole. It’s different now, more like the waves at our feet—constantly ebbing and flowing, swollen one moment and quiet the next. A tide I can dip my feet into and let myself feel, or a swell that will hit me from behind when I least expect it.

I think we don't have control over what happens. But we control how we react to it.

I don't think anyone ever gets to be settled in life. I think you just fine people who weather it with you.

Do not entertain this dessert delinquent,

That there is no consequence to massacring foreigners, our criminal rulers have long known, but they also know that when Pentagon guns are turned on Americans, a good portion of the world will break out in cheers, just as we've whooped and hollered as our tax-paid munitions splattered their loved ones. When blood darkens our streets, our victims will dance in theirs, no doubt, so why are our transfat asses still parked at this sad cul-de-sac as that day of reckoning looms? When you're broke, though, it's hard to move a mile, much less out of the country, so many of us will simply escape into our private universe, inside our various screens, and ignore, as best we can, an increasingly ugly reality. Moreover, some still believe there is no serious decline, while others that a unified fight is possible. For the most hopeless, there is always suicide. This month, a thirty-year-old Bensalem man and his fifty-nine-year-old mother attempted, it appears, a suicide pact by breathing toxic fumes from a borrowed generator. Only she died, however, so now he's charged with her murder. Neighbors said they had fallen on hard times and "had nothing left". Not that long ago, it was highly unusual to have young adults living with their parents, but not anymore. As this trend continues, many Americans will know exactly one house their whole lives, but at least they'll still have a home. Should you be homeless in greater Philadelphia, there is one place you can have a private bed and bathroom for a few hours, at minimal cost. Keep this information in mind, for you might need it. At Bensalem's Neshaminy Inn, you'll only have to cough up $34, including tax, if you check in after 7 a.m. and leave by 4 p.m. This will give you plenty of time to refresh yourself or even have sex, with or without a (paid) partner, many of whom routinely patrol the hallways. Dozing before dark will also spare you from the worst of the bedbugs, and don't even think of complaining about heroin addicts' bloodstains on the walls, no sheet on your bed or used condoms beneath it. You didn't pay much, OK?

As the Soviets contemplated additional expansion following the “Great Patriotic War” and the U.S. military came to understand the putative allies of today would emerge as the enemies of tomorrow, the men possessing knowledge of the V-2 rockets and other Third Reich military technology programs became seen as crucial pieces in the incipient NATO versus Warsaw Pact standoff.               The result was the American-led “Operation Paperclip” on the Western side, which resulted in German scientists putting their expertise at the disposal of the U.S. and other NATO members. Operation Paperclip aimed not only to obtain the benefits of German scientific advances for the United States but also to deny them to the potentially hostile Soviets, as General Leslie Groves enunciated: “Heisenberg was one of the world's leading physicists, and, at the time of the German break-up, he was worth more to us than ten divisions of Germans. Had he fallen into the Russian hands, he would have proven invaluable to them (Naimark, 1995, 207).

When I lifted my head, I realised that Rome and Yael were both still standing at the end of the bed, staring down at me. They seemed uneasy, and the strangeness of our grouping finally hit me in that moment. Rome and Yael were the least likely to break the girl-brother pact, at least when they were paired together. Yael was too competitive to share, and Rome was the easiest to rile into an argument. Especially an argument about me. The others had somehow chosen this grouping with my discomfort firmly in mind, and that annoyed the hell out of me. “Are you both going to sleep standing up?” I grumbled, propping myself up on my elbows. “Is this some kind of weird, true-god sleeping position? Does it keep your heads upright so that you can easily look down on everyone?” “What got into her just now?” Rome asked Yael, turning his head to the side to talk to his brother, while his eyes stayed fixed on me. His posture was wary. “No idea.” Yael’s voice was low, as though I might not hear him if he tricked me into thinking that the conversation was a private one. “It was very sudden. But mortal women are supposed to have mood swings. Did she not eat enough? Should I put some bread in her mouth before it gets worse?” “Is that why you all have such good posture?” I pressed on, my voice getting louder—possibly to drown out Yael before he said anything else about what mortal women were like. “Because you sleep standing up like you might wrinkle your powerful reputation by laying down?” “Too late.” Rome’s eyebrows shot up a little. “It got worse.

We must not think that a man ceases to follow the (official) line when there is a sharp turn. He continues to follow it because he is caught up in the system. Of course, he notices the change that has taken place, and he is surprised. He may even be tempted to resist — as the Communists were at the time of the German-Soviet pact. But will he then engage in a sustained effort to resist propaganda? Will he disavow his past actions? Will he break with the environment in which his propaganda is active? Will he stop reading a particular newspaper? Such breaks are too painful; faced with them, the individual, feeling that the change in line is not an attack on his real self, prefers to retain his habits.

Do you think gouda gets upset about getting older? No. It just gets more expensive at Trader Joe's.

I'd never had an audience like Rebecca Cross. Her shining eyes and respectful silence spurred me to ever greater heights of invention. Ever deeper trenches of imagined horrors. By Friday, I'd pegged half our class as speeding towards some kind of astonishing doom. And Becca was mine. We'd been written off as weirdos together. Together. Some girls treated their friends as athletes in competitive trials, constantly moving them up and down the ranks. But for us best friendship was deadly serious. More permanent than a tattoo. We invented code words and handshakes. We made repeated blood pacts. We scratched each other's arms with pine needles and sipped unholy potions we invented in our parents' gardens out of some nebulous, but passionate desire to show out devotion. We snuck clothes into each other's drawers, so we could swear to anyone who asked (no-one ever asked) that we lived together. Our mom's conducted hush phone calls, worried we'd burn bright then break each others hearts. They set up play dates with other children who never asked to come back. Our parents didn't get it. That was all. They didn't believe you could find your soulmate at six.

Neither of you wants to change the other one or tell the other what to do. You just want each other to be happy. And that’s what love is supposed to look like.

I’m not stalling because I’m scared of asking Annie. I’m stalling because I’m scared of moving forward myself.

Then she says, “Oh, trust me. I’m used to finishing off Levi’s desserts by now.” My eyes go wide and hers just stay trained on mine, unyielding. She pulls out her clutch to pay. “Oh, don’t worry about it,” I say. As I bag up the scone, something in me rises to meet her, turning to steel. “Levi’s already our best customer.

I hope it isn’t really over. I hope this whole day was just a silly, overblown blip. I hope it so recklessly that there isn’t any other feeling left, and then I hold on to it like a balloon, trying my best not to squeeze it so tight that it bursts.

But by then I was so angry with him that I wouldn’t budge. I told myself it was the only choice I had, the only way to protect myself from the hurt—but now that I’m looking into Levi’s eyes, I understand that it wasn’t just that. I was looking to punish him. I wanted him to feel just as awful as I did, so I seized on my own silence like a weapon.

the Tea Tide that feels like home. The Tea Tide that feels like sitting on the porch with our mom, bare feet dangling from the chairs, little hands reaching for the decaf tea she poured out of the pot. The Tea Tide that feels like looking over at Annie from the brims of our mugs, a shared spark between sisters, a happy, hopeful, messy moment in time that feels more preserved in this version of Tea Tide than it ever was.

PACT: Preserving American Culture and Traditions. A solemn promise to root out any anti-American elements undermining the nation. Funding for neighborhood-protection groups to break up protests and guard businesses and stores, for make-work projects churning out flags and pins and posters

Sweeter than dreams, sharper than hope.

Only once in the five years that I ran him did he seem to let slip the clue I was searching for. He was tired to death. He had been attending a conference of Warsaw Pact Intelligence chiefs in Bucharest, in the midst of fighting off charges of brutality and corruption against his Service at home. We met in West Berlin, in a pension on the Kurfürstendamm which catered to the better type of representative. He was a really tired torturer. He sat on my bed, smoking and answering my follow-up questions about his last batch of material. He was red-eyed. When we had finished, he asked for a whisky, then another. “No danger is no life,” he said, tossing three more rolls of film on the counterpane. “No danger is dead.” He took out a grimy brown handkerchief and carefully wiped his heavy face with it. “No danger, you do better stay home, look after the baby.” I preferred not to believe it was danger he was talking about. What he was talking about, I decided, was feeling, and his terror that by ceasing to feel he was ceasing to exist—which perhaps was why he was so devoted to instilling feeling in others. For that moment, I thought I caught a glimpse of why he was sitting with me in the room breaking every rule in his book. He was keeping his spirit alive at a time of his life when it was beginning to look like dying.