Timeline Love Quotes

Love, as most know, follows its own timeline. Disregarding our intentions or well rehearsed plans.

We’ve got to go to the police,” Alec repeated. He wondered if somebody was actually dead or if the vicar had imagined it. But then there was the bloody cassock. “Come with me,” Father Joe pleaded. “It’s just down the road in my vestry. And then we can decide what we should do about the police.” Alec thought he might as well. There might be a story in it if it was something to do with Charlotte de Tournet. Would people remember her disappearance? It was so long ago. But then there was the connection to Baroness Freya Saumures …

My life-altering moment would never be a measurement of time. It would never be as simple as marking a few points in the timeline of my life that I could identify as transcendent. It was him. Aaron. He was my moment. And for as long as I had him, my life would constantly be changing, be altered. I’d be challenged, cherished, loved. With him, I’d live.

A Timeline You and I against a rule, set for us by time. A marker drawn to show our end, etched into its line. The briefest moment shared with you— the longest on my mind.

Sylvie had read somewhere that the more times a story was told, the less accurate it became. Humans were prone to exaggeration; they leaned away from the parts of the narrative they found boring and leaned into the exciting spots. Details and timelines changed over years of repetition. The story became more myth and less true. Sylvie thought about how she and William rarely told their story and felt pleased; by not being shared, their love story remained intact.

Love, as most know, follows its own timeline, disregarding our intentions or well-rehearsed plans.

Because in the late twentieth century, you couldn't seriously ask other people to think that you believed in honor and truth, and the purity of the body, the defense of women, the sanctity of true love, and all the rest of it. But apparently, Andre really had believed it.

Do you think that maybe there’s another version of us, somewhere in another timeline? Where we’re not just a messed-up lump of scar tissue, and we’re whole enough to be capable of loving others the way they want to be loved?

I think that before and after we kissed are two different timelines.

Love has its own timeline, Tyler. Remember that.

I’m not sure of much in this world, Isla, but I am sure of this. My love for you doesn’t know reason. It doesn’t know limit. It doesn’t know death. In every universe, every timeline, I am yours . . . and you are mine.

For those struggling with grief, there’s no timetable. It can last months, years, or longer. There is no rush. Give yourself permission to take however long it may be to fully heal from your loss.

She could have just told him about the magic phone. Full disclosure. Then they could have solved it together. They could have Sherlocked and Watsoned from both ends of the timeline

You, too, were supposed to be a one-night stand. A quick fix. A conquest. A ten-line poem in my grand anthology of lovers. But you altered the narrative, you marked your territory on my timeline o that as I look back, I find I can neatly divide my more recent past into two unequal halves: before you and after.

Sylvie had read somewhere that the more times a story was told, the less accurate it became. Humans were prone to exaggeration; they leaned away from the parts of the narrative they found boring and leaned into the exciting spots. Details and timelines changed over years of repetition. The story became more myth and less true. Sylvie thought about how she and William rarely told their story and felt pleased; by not being shared, their love story remained intact.

The timeline of your life is not a straight line, after all; it is a series of ebbs and flows, backs and forths, heres and theres. You are nowhere and everywhere all at once, and that means that most of the time, the best you can do is be present to the moment, be open to the unlearning and the learning, and trust that you’re doing the work of Love.

Loving people means that you have to meet them where they are. You must learn how to let adults be adults. This is why the Let Them Theory is so effective. When you Let Them be, you’re accepting them for who they are right now. Let Them be on their own timeline.

I think that perhaps everyone has a moment that splits their life in two. When you look bak on your own timeline, there’s a sharp spike somewhere along the way, some event that changed you, changed your life, more than the others. A moment that creates a “before” and an “after.

But then I remembered that our hearts didn’t care about logic or time. My heart didn’t play by rules that my mind made up. It didn’t follow silly timelines or measure its feelings based on the number of days it had known someone. No, hearts simply felt, whether you wanted them to or not.

The first time I looked into a microscope at seaweed and pond water micro- organisms, there was something inside me that shifted—like the way people describe falling in love. And if I hadn’t been given the opportunity to cut into a cow’s eyeball at the age of fifteen, maybe I would have never majored in science, or gone on the semester study abroad trip to Colombia with the UC Santa Cruz biology department. So yes, I blamed seaweed and pond water microorganisms, a cow’s eyeball, and my teachers, the real culprits, for starting me down this path. Just like accident investigators put together a timeline, I call this the causation analysis of my love life.

One day you’re a college graduate, in love with Mr. Right and looking for a job. The next day, your Rambo.” “Your timeline is off. And can we lose the Rambo part?

She could have just told him about the magic phone. Full disclosure. Then they could have solved it together. They could have Sherlocked and Watsoned from both endsof the timeline.

I love plans. Checklists, spreadsheets, timelines. I am literally passionate about that stuff.

How could I fall for someone that quickly? Love doesn’t have a timeline.

Today’s list: Goal: Nobody talk to me 1. Sleep 2. Wake up in an alternate timeline Someone pounded on my bedroom door.

I know who I am. I am Clive. I am seen and loved by God. I was created for a purpose. I need no other truth.

On a long enough timeline, every story ends. Lives always fail. Love always fades. And every secret learned is one less thing to dream about.

My love for you doesn't know reason. It doesn't know limit. It doesn't know death. In every universe, every timeline, I am yours ... and you are mine. - Grim

The most beautiful thing is that despite the shallow life we sometimes succumb to - the soul has no timeline and it knows what it wants and will yearn within until it seeks the journey

I’m—God, I think I’m falling for him. But how? I’ve only known him for a few days. How could I possibly care about someone that quickly? How could I fall for someone that quickly? Love doesn’t have a timeline.

I think that perhaps everyone has a moment that splits their life in two. When you look back on your own timeline, there's a sharp spike somewhere along the way, some event that changed you, changed your life, more than others.

When asked if he thought that the French Revolution had been a good thing, Zhou Enlai famously answered that it was too early to tell, which is trite about the Terror, but it would be true about America. It’s too early to tell. If you take a timeline from the first settlements in the 1600s to the present, and compare it with the foundation of modern Europe from the end of the Roman Empire, at the same point in our history the Vikings are attacking Orkney, and Alfred is the first king of bits of what will one day be England.

what makes timelines thrive is CREATION and you are part of this. your way makes ripples of creation whether you are writing song or book or making spaghetti or turning on a light. YOU ARE INFINITELY POWERFUL JUST BY BEING YOU do not forget this strength and wield it for love

think that perhaps everyone has a moment that splits their life in two. When you look back on your own timeline, there’s a sharp spike somewhere along the way, some event that changed you, changed your life, more than the others. A moment that creates a “before” and an “after.

I think that perhaps everyone has a moment that splits their life in two. When you look back on your own timeline, there's a sharp spike somewhere along te way, some event that changed you, changed your life, more than the others. A moment that creates a "before" and an "after.

I think that perhaps everyone has a moment that splits their life in two. When you look back on your own timeline, there’s a sharp spike somewhere along the way, some event that changed you, changed your life, more than the others. A moment that creates a “before” and an “after.

I think that perhaps everyone has a moment that splits their life in two. When you look back on your own timeline, there's a sharp spike somewhere along the way, some event that changed you, changed your life, more than the others. A moment that creates a 'before' and an 'after.

I think that perhaps everyone has a moment that splits their life in two. When you look back on your own timeline, there’s a sharp spike somewhere along the way, some event that changed you, changed your life, more than the others. A moment that creates a ‘before’ and an ‘after’.

Women with dark skin are sharing selfies on social media after decades of being underrepresented in the mainstream media. From what I have observed much of the dark skin adoration on social media appears to come from us - black women. We tend to use the appreciation hashtags with our own pictures of photographs of dark skin women whom we feel are stunning. While I am loving this fierceness.. There is just one sidetone to this revolution: I feel as if we are much more appreciated if we show more skin. The timelines are filled with absolutely beautiful dark-skinned women but most sadly most of the time they are all oiled up and showing their body parts in different angles. Now, I am definitely in to art and as a model I know that this comes with the territory. But we most not forget that we are Queens.. We need to stop degrading ourselves for likes on the gram. You don't have to be naked to show the world you're beautiful. You my sister are an African Queen. I feel as if black women are only appreciated if they wear very provocative clothes or if they do naked photoshoots. To me, it's degrading and reminds me of the time that we couldn't ride the bus because we were black. Women were seen as servants. The black women that weren't servants were sex slaves. We are not objects, we are not meat and people need to stop looking at us as sex objects. BUT we need to start respecting ourselves first! A black woman is a woman first and it should not even be necessary to specify the colour but this is the society we live in and I feel like I had to share this.

This is the real, hard work of faith for most of us--not jumping of cliffs or swimming in shark-infested waters, but being willing to lay our hearts and souls before God without protection or pretense. And it's risky business. It's risky to continue to open our hearts to the Lord when our dreams and desires don't line up with reality. Don't let anyone tell you differently. Don't let anyone make you feel like coming to the Lord should always feel warm and easy and clear-cut. It won't. It doesn't. ...He isn't bound by our ways, our timelines, our demands. He is bound by truth and love and justice and mercy--by the things he is and contains within himself.

Hello Here November... November traditionally signals shifts in the human spirit, may our kind actions in gifting seasons transcend our culturally attended timelines... to consistently circulate the ethereal fluid of "mindful love" that can endlessly~pulse the power of spirit to touch lives without calendar & watchclock reminders that tick or tock us to do so...Dr. Tracey Bond

Have you lost your teeny tiny mind, you too-tall, too-skinny, too-crazy jerk?” “Oh, look who’s talking, Miss Let’s Blunder Around the Time Stream and Hang the Consequences! Thanks to you, we’ve got a dead Marc and a live Marc in the same timeline . . . in the same house! Thanks to you, I got chomped on by a dim, blonde, undead, selfish, whorish, blood-sucking leech when I was minding my own business in the past.” “Don’t you call me dim!” “Um. Everyone. Perhaps we should—” Tina began. “Wait, when did this happen?” Marc asked. He had the look of a man desperately trying to buy a vowel. “Past, an hour ago? Past, last year? Help me out.” “Oh, biiiiig surprise!” Laura threw her (perfectly manicured) hands in the air. “Let me guess, you were soooo busy banging your dead husband that you haven’t had time to tell anybody anything.” “I was getting to it,” I whined. “Then after not telling anyone anything and not being proactive—or even active!—you grow up to destroy the world and bring about eternal nuclear winter or whatever the heck that was and how do you deal with your foreknowledge of terrible events to come? Have sex!” “An affirmation of life?” Sinclair suggested. Never, I repeat, never had I loved him more. I was torn between slugging my sister and blowing my husband. Hmm. Laura might have a point about my priorities . . . but jeez. Look at him. Yum. “—even do it and what do you have to say for yourself? Huh?” “You’re just uptight, repressed, smug, antisex, and jealous, you Antichristing morally superior, fundamentally evil bitch.” Laura and Marc gasped. My husband groaned.

This should be easy because I’ve fallen out of love with Facebook. First, I want to be the kind of friend who hears about others’ milestones in person. I hate learning about major life events buried in a timeline between photos of fresh pedicures and pictures of lunch. When someone close to me has a baby or goes through emergency surgery or suffers a loss, they deserve more than a “like.” A click should never take the place of real interaction. Plus, I almost never visit anyone else’s page

We've simply become too attached to work," I explained. "We've become too addicted to working and we need to balance our lives with a little idle activity like sitting on porches or chatting with neighbors." "I would HATE that!" she answered with a moo of disgust. "I LOVE to work! I can't stand just sitting around. Work makes me happy." This woman, by the way, is one of the most grounded, cheerful, and talented people I know. She's also not an outlier. I've had this conversation many times over the past few years with both friends and strangers and I often get some version of, "but I love to work!" in response. The question for me wasn't whether people enjoyed their work but whether they needed it. That was the question that drove my research. The question I asked hundreds of people around the country and the essential question of this book: Is work necessary? A lot of people will disagree with my next statement to the point of anger and outrage: Humans don't need to work in order to be happy. At this point, in our historical timeline, that claim is almost subversive. The assumption that work is at the core of what it means to lead a useful life underlies so much of our morality that it may feel I'm questioning our need to breathe or eat or sleep. But as I examined the body of research of what we know is good for all humans, what is necessary for all humans, I noticed a gaping hole where work was supposed to be. This lead me to ask some pointed questions about why most of us feel we can't be fully human unless we're working. Please note that by "work" I don't mean the activities we engage in to secure our survival: finding food, water, or shelter. I mean the labor we do to secure everything else beyond survival or to contribute productively to the broader society - the things we do in exchange for pay.

I think that perhaps everyone has a moment that splits their life in two. When you look back on your own timeline, there’s a sharp spike somewhere along the way, some event that changed you, changed your life, more than the others. A moment that creates a “before” and an “after.” Maybe it’s when you meet your love or you figure out your life’s passion or you have your first child. Maybe it’s something wonderful. Maybe it’s something tragic. But when it happens, it tints your memories, shifts your perspective on your own life, and it suddenly seems as if everything you’ve been through falls under the label of “pre” or “post.

Idealization is the first step in the psychopath’s grooming process. Also known as love-bombing, it quickly breaks down your guard, unlocks your heart, and modifies your brain chemicals to become addicted to the pleasure centers firing away. The excessive flattery and compliments play on your deepest vanities and insecurities—qualities you likely don’t even know you possess. They will feed you constant praise and attention through your phone, Facebook Timeline, and email inbox. Within a matter of weeks, the two of you will have your own set of inside jokes, pet names, and cute songs. Looking back, you’ll see how insane the whole thing was. But when you’re in the middle of it, you can’t even imagine life without them.

Writing fiction twists your brain in knots. You get to experience the life of a compulsive liar. You are constantly double-checking for consistency, acting as continuity supervisor for your own imagination. You become a detective, picking through the diary of a suspect; checking for the slip up that undermines the story and breaks the alibi. You wake up sweating about some detail that wrecks the timeline, or breaches the established character of the person you invented. You craft wonderful, frightening people, who you fall in love with, but must discard. You find brilliant twists that you can’t use because they somehow subtly compromise the story. It drains you. You can’t sleep. You are preoccupied with minutia. It’s brilliant.

February 11: Andre de Dienes sends Marilyn a telegram calling her “Turkey Foot,” his nickname for her: “STOP FEELING SORRY FOR YOURSELF. GET OUT OF THE HOSPITAL. LET’S GO DRIVING AND HIKING THROUGH THE REDWOODS, INCOGNITO, AND TAKE BEAUTIFUL PICTURES LIKE NOBODY COULD EVER TAKE. IT WILL CURE YOU OF ALL YOUR ILLS. CALL ME UP. LOVE.” Nan Taylor, the wife of Frank Taylor, producer of The Misfits, writes to Marilyn: “It seems to me again, as it did last summer, very sad that we who have been given so much by you cannot give you even what little we might in return. You have my admiration for your courage, my gratitude for the many delights of charm and beauty and humor your presence has meant, and my deep sorrow for your troubles. I believe in your strength, Marilyn, as I believe in the sun. If at any time I can help in any way, please let me, Love, Nan.

I think that perhaps everyone has a moment that splits their life in two. When you look back on your own timeline, there’s a sharp spike somewhere along the way, some event that changed you, changed your life, more than the others. A moment that creates a “before” and an “after.” Maybe it’s when you meet your love or you figure out your life’s passion or you have your first child. Maybe it’s something wonderful. Maybe it’s something tragic. But when it happens, it tints your memories, shifts your perspective on your own life, and it suddenly seems as if everything you’ve been through falls under the label of “pre” or “post.” I used to think that my moment was when Jesse died. Everything about our love story seemed to have been leading up to that. And everything since has been in response. But now I know that Jesse never died. And I’m certain that this is my moment. Everything that happened before today feels different now, and I have no idea what happens after this. 

timelines register the pain of her loss for the first time. “I’m sorry, honey.” He remembers the day she died, eight weeks ago. She had become almost childlike by that point, her mind gone. He had to feed her, dress her, bathe her. But this was better than the time right before, when she had enough cognitive function left to be aware of her complete confusion. In her lucid moments, she described the feeling as being lost in a dreamlike forest—no identity, no sense of when or where she was. Or alternatively, being absolutely certain she was fifteen years old and still living with her parents in Boulder, and trying to square her foreign surroundings with her sense of place and time and self. She often wondered if this was what her mother felt in her final year. “This timeline—before my mind started to fracture—was the best of them all. Of my very long life. Do you remember that trip we took—I think it was during our first life together—to see the emperor penguins migrate? Remember how we fell in love with this continent? The way it makes you feel like you’re the only people in the world? Kind of appropriate, no?” She looks off camera, says, “What? Don’t be jealous. You’ll be watching this one day. You’ll carry the knowledge of every moment we spent together, all one hundred and forty-four years.” She looks back at the camera. “I need to tell you, Barry, that I couldn’t have made it this long without you. I couldn’t have kept trying to stop the inevitable. But we’re stopping today. As you know by now, I’ve lost the ability to map memory. Like Slade, I used the chair too many times. So I won’t be going back. And even if you returned to a point on the timeline where my consciousness was young and untraveled, there’s no guarantee you could convince me to build the chair. And to what end? We’ve tried everything. Physics, pharmacology, neurology. We even struck out with Slade. It’s time to admit we failed and let the world get on with destroying itself, which it seems so keen on doing.” Barry sees himself step into the frame and take a seat beside Helena. He puts his arm around her. She snuggles into him, her head on his chest. Such a surreal sensation to now remember that day when she decided to record a message for the Barry who would one day merge into his consciousness. “We have four years until doomsday.” “Four years, five months, eight days,” Barry-on-the-screen says. “But who’s counting?” “We’re going to spend that time together. You have those memories now. I hope they’re beautiful.” They are. Before her mind broke completely, they had two good years, which they lived free from the burden of trying to stop the world from remembering. They lived those years simply and quietly. Walks on the icecap to see the Aurora Australis. Games, movies, and cooking down here on the main level. The occasional trip to New Zealand’s South Island or Patagonia. Just being together. A thousand small moments, but enough to have made life worth living. Helena was right. They were the best years of his lives too. “It’s odd,” she says. “You’re watching this right now, presumably four years from this moment, although I’m sure you’ll watch it before then to see my face and hear my voice after I’m gone.” It’s true. He did. “But my moment feels just as real to me as yours does to you. Are they both real? Is it only our consciousness that makes it so? I can imagine you sitting there in four years, even though you’re right beside me in this moment, in my moment, and I feel like I can reach through the camera and touch you. I wish I could. I’ve experienced over two hundred years, and at the end of it all, I think Slade was right. It’s just a product of our evolution the way we experience reality and time from moment to moment. How we differentiate between past, present, and future. But we’re intelligent enough to be aware of the illusion, even as we live by it, and so,

People who keep timelines of mistakes in love, often lose on the memories.

In Avignon, the breadth of my ignorance dawned on me: I knew almost no facts, no chronology, no geography. I tried to sketch a timeline of my grandparents' relationship and realized I didn't even know what year they had been married.

May 19: At 2:00 p.m., Marilyn arrives at Madison Square Garden for a brief rehearsal. She departs to have her hair styled by Kenneth Battelle at a cost of $150. Then she returns to her New York apartment for a $125 makeup session with Marie Irvine. Finally, her maid, Hazel Washington, helps hook Marilyn into her Jean Louis gown, and she arrives at Madison Square Garden approximately three hours before she is to perform. Introduced to an audience of fifteen thousand as the “late Marilyn Monroe” after she delays her entrance (all part of the carefully rehearsed show), Marilyn performs flawlessly as the last of twenty-three entertainers and is clearly the highlight of the evening. Columnist Dorothy Kilgallen describes Marilyn as “making love to the president of the United States.” Marilyn also attends a party at the home of Arthur Krim, president of United Artists. She is photographed in a group of Kennedy supporters watching Diahann Carroll sing. To her right is Maria Callas and Arthur Miller’s father, Isidore. She is also photographed with both Robert and John Kennedy, as well as presidential advisor Arthur Schlesinger Jr. Schlesinger and Robert Kennedy playfully compete to dance with Marilyn. Contrary to sensationalistic reports, Marilyn spends the rest of the evening in her New York apartment with her friend Ralph Roberts and James Haspiel, one of her devoted fans.

June 27: Sidney Fields is the first columnist to write about Marilyn, commenting in the New York Mirror: “Marilyn is a very lovely and relatively unknown movie actress. But give her time; you will hear from her.

Grief. It resists all of our timelines and attempts to control. It is a wild animal of a thing, primal and raw in one moment, soft and tender and wounded in the next. Our bodies in those moments? Just portals for something so much bigger than we could ever be. That’s the way of love and loss and grief and joy and all we hold in our wild and unruly hearts. Larger than anything we could construct to attempt to contain the whole of this human thing, as messy as it can sometimes be. But when grief comes, mark my words, it will ultimately have its way.

I blamed seaweed and pond water microorganisms, a cow’s eyeball, and my teachers, the real culprits, for starting me down this path. Just like accident investigators put together a timeline, I call this the causation analysis of my love life.

True love doesn’t wait for anything and it sure as hell doesn’t follow a timeline.

There is no timeline you must follow. You’re not too late . . . you’re not too early . . . you are just where you should be at this moment in your life, so relax. There’s plenty of time to find love, there’s plenty of time to get married, there’s plenty of time to live happily ever after. And it starts by living happily now by embracing this version of yourself—this wild, unsettled, unfinished version of yourself. Every moment of your life and your journey is so precious and sacred, and it’s so very, very okay that it is completely unique and entirely your own. You don’t have to catch up to anyone or wait for anyone to catch up to you. You can simply go your own way and trust that everything meant for you will come in its perfect time, in its perfect way. You can stop viewing dating as something you have to do and start viewing it as something you get to do. You can stop frantically searching for “the one” and allow yourself to have a little fun. Breathe. Relax. Trust. Let go. Laugh. Smile. Live. Your life is unfolding just as it should . . . so stop trying to skip ahead to the end, and enjoy the chapter you’re in. And while you’re at it, remember that finding love is merely one chapter of your story. There is still an entire book of other crazy, beautiful, wild, funny, colorful, meaningful adventures to be lived.

Throughout the years, the ugly boy had lost belief in the practicality of love. He argued there would always be a better version of a man somewhere in the world and thus, no sound reason for a woman to commit to one. Plus, he believed, there was nothing to a woman—they did not love. They chose men for certain seasons and focused to enjoy life above all, in all its grandeur, intentionally saving sincerity for the end—once they were finished. How can men with eyes not sink into depression? And if a woman ever welcomed a man as a companion, she always smelled his feelings, which were gratifying and advantageous to her, and rosily sipped a man’s glad spring of generosity until she was satiated. Andrei saw a woman’s timeline and in response, froze his heart dry and hammered it to pieces. Steel or emptiness—these were the only two available armors available and adequate to withstand the ephemeral nature of women, who he regarded not as individual people, but as a collective entity of superficial vampires. So he promised himself he’d never woo the dead.

People figure out who they are on different timelines—some when they’re younger, some much later in life. But I’m really glad you figured it out before you met me.

Somewhere in another universe or timeline, I am what you deserve. I do what you deserve. I love you the way you deserve. I care about you. I haven’t lost you. I haven’t let you go. We are parents. You and kids are my everything. I do what you deserve in Valentine’s Day every year. Don’t forgive this version of me in this universe, even though you deserve the best here. But know that, even with all of my imperfectness, I have loved you all the ways I can, with all my heart. Wednesday, Valentine’s Day February 14, 2024 Slemani

Love doesn’t have a timeline. You love who you love when you love them.

February 14: Marilyn and Miller send Steffi Sidney (Sidney Skolsky’s daughter) a wedding present: a sterling silver cigarette box with the inscription “For this wonderful day—affectionately, Marilyn and Arthur.” Epoca (Italy) shows Marilyn in a white halter-top in a photo taken during a party for Let’s Make Love.

January 18: Filming of Let’s Make Love resumes. Stern (Germany) shows Marilyn, all in black, during a number from Let’s Make Love.

Love isn't something you can put a timeline on, you know that right?As it would seem, fate had other plans for us. Wouldn't you agree?

January 29: A young fan writes to Marilyn thanking her for “love and kisses. You have made me very happy.” He tells her about a “horrid arithmetic exercise” and asks if she was good at school. “My mother sends her love, and my sisters! I take the liberty of sending you also love and kisses. Yours, Anthony.” The letter contains his drawing of a motion picture camera, a slate, and a figure in a director’s chair looking at a script.

March 2: Johnny Hyde has Marilyn sign with the William Morris agency. Johnny Hyde secures a walk-on part for Marilyn in Love Happy, a Marx Brothers movie. To her line, “Men keep following me,” Groucho, rolling his eyes, says, “Really? I can’t understand why.

February 28, 11:38 p.m.: Marilyn writes a love letter to DiMaggio, who has departed for work in New York City: “I want someday for you to be proud of me as a person and as your wife and as the mother of the rest of your children. (Two at least! I’ve decided.)

March 8: Love Happy is released. Marilyn’s total screen time is thirty-eight seconds—long enough for Groucho to respond to her slinking into his detective agency office with the question, “Is there anything I can do for you?” He promptly responds, “What a ridiculous statement.” Marilyn tells him that men keep following her and sways out of camera range as Groucho comments, “Really? I can’t understand why.” Marilyn later recalled, “There were three girls there and Groucho had us each walk away from him. . . . I was the only one he asked to do it twice. Then he whispered in my ear, ‘You have the prettiest ass in the business.’ I’m sure he meant it in the nicest way.” Groucho later said Marilyn was “Mae West, Theda Bara and Bo Peep rolled into one.” Marilyn received $500 for her appearance and another three hundred to pose for promotional photographs. Marilyn is sent on a promotional tour for a fee of one hundred dollars a week. She meets dress manufacturer Henry Rosenfeld in New York City, and they become lifelong friends. During this period she also does her famous Jones Beach photo sessions with Andre de Dienes. The tour takes her to Detroit, Cleveland, Chicago, Milwaukee, and Rockford, Illinois. Marilyn attends a party at the Chicago nightclub Ricketts with Roddy McDowell. Marilyn appears in print advertisement for Kyron diet pills, with accompanying text: “If you want slim youthful lines like Miss Monroe and other stars, start the KYRON Way to slenderness—today!

January 15: Fox holds a press party for Yves Montand, who has been cast (at Arthur Miller’s suggestion) to replace Gregory Peck in Let’s Make Love. Marilyn seems in better health and ready to work. Group photographs are taken of Miller, Simone Signoret (Montand’s wife), Montand, Marilyn, and Frankie Vaughan, a popular British singer, and Milton Berle, who also appears in Let’s Make Love. Marilyn is photographed with producer Buddy Adler, gossip columnist Dorothy Kilgallen, and director George Cukor. Marilyn and Miller join Montand and Signoret for dinner. The couples occupy adjoining bungalows in the Beverly Hills Hotel.

March 6: Emmeline Snively, head of the Blue Book Modeling Agency, sends Norma Jeane to Joseph Jasgur for test shots. In The Birth of Marilyn, Jeannie Sakol reports Jasgur’s first impressions: “What he saw was not too encouraging. Her hips were too broad and would photograph even broader if he didn’t take special pains. Her loose pink wool sweater and check pedal pushers only exaggerated the imperfections of her figure and emphasized her need to lose some weight. As for her hair, it was thick and wild and reddish brown, its natural curliness obviously impossible to control—although she had equally obviously tried to do just that with a saucy beret. The colour, Jasgur realized, was totally wrong for her blue eyes and peach blossom skin tones. If ever a girl should be blonde it was this girl who was so patiently enduring his professional scrutiny. . . . She didn’t have a chance, he thought, until he looked into her eyes. . . . A lovely vivid blue, they gazed at him with a calm and quiet dignity, neither arrogant nor seductive. There was something there. Jasgur shakes his head with amazement that has never left him in forty-five years. ‘I never thought that something would take her so far.’” He finds her shy and anxious. Other photographers report similar experiences with her. But in front of the camera, Jasgur remembered, “[S]he was relaxed, no trace of self-consciousness. Even in those formative days, I think she trusted the camera more than she trusted people.

April 5: Marilyn appears for costume fittings for Love Nest. Marilyn enrolls at UCLA in a “Backgrounds of Literature” course.

February 4–15: The couple visits holy places, Osaka, Mount Fuji, Yokohama, and the Izu Peninsula. Marilyn looks especially comfortable among a group of women dressed in traditional Japanese clothing. In some shots she wears a hat and a modestly cut suit. Marilyn accepts the Japanese emperor’s gift of a natural pearl necklace. In Korea to entertain the troops General John E. Hull invites Marilyn to entertain American troops in Korea. A disturbed DiMaggio opposes the invitation, but Marilyn accepts it. Marilyn writes photographer Bruno Bernard from Japan: “I’m so happy and in love. . . . I’ve decided for sure that it’ll be better if I only make one or two more films after I shoot There’s No Business Like Show Business and then retire to the simple good life of a housewife and, hopefully, mother. Joe wants a big family. He was real surprised when we were met at the airport by such gigantic crowds and press. He said he never saw so much excitement, not even when the Yankees won the World Series.

February 4: Miller returns to Los Angeles, finding Marilyn hard at work. Jack Cole, Marilyn’s choreographer on Let’s Make Love, sends her a telegram: “THE UNIVERSE SPARKLES WITH MIRACLES BUT NONE AMONG THEM SHINES LIKE YOU REMEMBER THAT WHEN YOU GO TO SLEEP TONIGHT. TOMORROW WILL BE FUN THERE IS NO OTHER WAY ALL MY LOVE JACK COLE.

May 28: Shooting begins on There’s No Business Like Show Business. Marilyn’s director, Walter Lang, does not seem to know how to handle her. Donald O’Connor, Marilyn’s love interest in the film, recalls that the director was afraid to ask her to take her shoes off in a scene because her bouffant hairdo and high heels made her look taller than O’Connor. Lang wants the actor to stand on an apple box. O’Connor goes to Marilyn and tells her, “[T]his idiot’s afraid to ask you to take off your shoes, but I’d feel very strange working with you, standing on an apple box.” Marilyn says, “Oh Christ, the guy’s nuts,” kicks off her shoes, and “everything was fine,” according to O’Connor.

People are romantic idiots in the ideals of courtship. When a person says they have x, y, and z, their romantic counterpart takes x, y, and z as distinct points in a person's timeline-versus the imperceptibly messy distances in between (and the attributed entanglement). Thus resulting in happily never afters.

June 15: Norma Jeane writes to Grace McKee Goddard, “Of course I know that if it hadn’t been for you we might not have never been married and I know I owe you a lot for that fact alone, besides countless others. . . . I love Jimmie in a different way I suppose than anyone, and I know I shall never be happy with anyone else as long as I live, and I know he feels the same toward me. So you see we are really very happy together, that is of course, when we can be together. We both miss each other terribly.” Marilyn later suggested she was trying to please Grace.

May 5: At 5:00 a.m., Marilyn awakes with chills and sheets drenched in perspiration. Her fever is again 101 degrees, and her vision is blurred. Marilyn hires a bicycle at the cost of eighteen dollars a month, a rental from the Hans Ohrt Lightweight Bicycles store in Beverly Hills. But Marilyn never acts on her plans to ride this English-style bicycle to the studio. Marilyn purchases Rodin’s The Embrace, and Poucette’s oil painting The Bull, from Edgardo Acosta, Modern Paintings, 441 North Bedford Drive, Beverly Hills, California. Norman Rosten, who was with her, remembered her comment on The Embrace: “He’s hurting her but he wants to love her, too.” The bull appears against a fierce red background and seems reflective of Monroe’s rage over “romance gone awry,” as Lois Banner puts it in MM—Personal.

Love doesn't have a timeline, especially the life- altering kind. It can happen even faster when your heart knows it's met its other half.

One celestial quake and the timeline belonging to her had imploded in the heavens like a dying star. It was like falling into oblivion, she thought wearily, the tattered remains of her life floated—unanchored in a vacuum of what was and what little remained.

Marley felt crazy, but she was learning that love didn’t have a timeline. Just like grief, it hit you out of nowhere and could turn your world upside down.

Today’s list: Goal: Nobody talk to me 1. Sleep 2. Wake up in an alternate timeline

High up on the hill there is construction noise, down in the village, people go about their business. Dogs chase dogs, delivery vans unload. Letters are posted. The cold sun simply can't compete though. Coopers Chase is wearing death like chain mail. It is Thursday at eleven a.m., but nobody is in the Jigsaw Room. The Art History class have stacked their chairs away, as always, and that is where the chairs will remain until Conversational French comes in at noon. Motes of dust float in the air and settle. The Thursday Murder Club is nowhere to be seen today. Their absence echoes. Ron is texting Pauline, hoping beyond hope that she finally replies. Joyce has done some shopping for Elizabeth and dropped it outside her door. She rang, but no reply. Ibrahim sits in his flat, staring at a picture of a boat on his wall. Elizabeth? Well, she is no longer present in a time and a space for now. She isn't anywhere or anything. Bogdan has his eye on her. Joyce switches off the television - it has nothing for her. Alan lies at her feet and watches her cry. Ibrahim thinks that perhaps he should take a walk, but, instead, he keeps looking at the picture on the wall. Ron receives a text, but it is from his electricity provider. There is a murder still to be solved, but it won't be solved today. The timelines and the photographs and the theories and the plans will have to wait. Perhaps it will never be solved? Perhaps death has defeated them all with this latest trick? Who now has the heart for the battle? They still have each other, but not today. There will be laughing and teasing and arguing and loving again, but not today. Not this Thursday. As the waves of the world crash around them, this Thursday is for Stephen.

The “relationship escalator” refers to the expected progression of dating to marriage on a standardized timeline. You meet someone. You have sex on the third date. You decide to be monogamous after three months. You say I love you after five. You move in after a year and a half, propose after two years, are married six months later. Then you buy a “starter house” and pump out some rugrats. A few years in, you make some more monies and buy a “finisher house.” Finally, you remain married to your spouse until death do you part. If I sit and think about this for more than a minute, my testicles shoot up into my stomach. This doesn’t sound pleasant or comforting to me. It sounds horrifying, like a slow march toward the electric chair. Some people like having their life planned out. I do not. I like the freedom for life to change on a dime—for me to change on a dime.

There was a tremendous flash, as the crystal of the Secret Country exploded into a billion colored shards, and a ringing, terrible, sustained crash as the land, from end to end, from the Mountains of the North to the Dubious Hills, from the Wide West Waste to the Sunrise Sea, cities of men and manners, climates, councils, governments, the boost of heraldry and pomp of power, all that heart heard of or mind expressed, trees, flowers, cottages, and wells, the unicorn, the cardinal, the dragon, and the owl, sun, moon, stars, clouds, the loving detail of High Castle, the barely imagined cities of the Dwarves, the fabulous mines whence came Lord Randolph's ring, the Green Caves and the Magic Wood, King John's solemn tomb, Laura and Ellen downstairs, the stones beneath them and their very bones, shook, rang, shattered, and seemed to collapse in dust.

With B2B SaaS, sales shouldn’t be sleazy. Instead, it should be an educational conversation. My TinySeed cofounder Einar Vollset says, “When selling SaaS, think of yourself as an unpaid expert who’s helping the prospect solve their problem using software.” You’re not trying to force a fit between your software and your prospect’s problem. You’re putting on your consultant hat to help your prospect define their problem and come up with a good solution. Thinking of yourself as an expert problem solver first sets a good tone for sales demos. When I used to do sales demos, I would introduce myself as the founder and say, “I’m not trying to talk you into anything. I’d just love to show you our tool and get your feedback on how it might fit your needs.” If your tool doesn’t fit their needs, it’s far better to let that prospect move on (maybe with a recommendation for a tool that’s a better fit) than to pressure them into signing up. Don’t waste time or money onboarding someone who’s just going to churn out after a month or two. Qualify before You Demo There are few things worse than showing up to a sales call to find out the person doesn’t have the budget or the need for your product. As someone with intimate knowledge of customers who buy your software, you should have a good idea of the common threads that link them. Asking even a few questions about budget, timeline, and the problem they are trying to solve can be a window into whether it’s worth your time to jump on a demo. Have a Script Even though as the founder you can run a demo with your eyes closed, if you have a standard script, you are always ready to train someone new to take over sales. Say No to People Who Aren’t a Fit If you know someone will not get value from your product or believe they will be a problem to support, do not be afraid to let them know you don’t think they are a fit and recommend competing tools. If you are qualifying people in advance of your demo, this shouldn’t be something you have to do often, but forcing a sale only to have a customer churn out a few months later will waste a lot of resources.

According to your timeline,” he says, “they’ve been present as far as your mind stretches back.” His lips rise. “Lily Calloway…all this time, your superpower has been loving me.” Tears cloud my eyes, and they don’t stop, especially as he adds, “And you’ll be happy to know that I’m not mortal.” “You aren’t?” I choke. “No.” He shakes his head, brushing away the wetness beneath my eyes. “Because my superpower is the love that I have for you. It’s out of this world, extraordinary, incomprehensible kind of love. And no one and nothing on this earth comes close to it.

Merissa,” my father whispered, his gaze fixed on my face in terror and hope. “Can I truly speak with her?” “Yes, but remember what I told you,” my mother said, her features turning grave. “What did you tell him?” I asked and she looked back at me with pain in her eyes. “That we are speaking to you at a time of great need. I cannot see all of what ails you, and I must ask you not to speak of it, for our timelines are delicate, and we should not be crossing the barrier of them at all.” “Gwendalina,” my father said, taking me in with purest love, the kind I had only ever felt from Hamish Grus, and I suddenly realised how deeply Geraldine’s father cared for me and Tory. Because this was a father’s love I was seeing, I’d just never recognised it before. It left me shaken and yearning, wanting to dive into its warmth. My father’s throat rose and

Vice President Mike Pence said that it’s the stated policy of the Donald J. Trump administration and the United States to return American astronauts to the moon within the next five years. I love this. It’s the right thing to do, and for those of you doing the arithmetic at home, that’s 2024. And we can help meet that timeline. It’s time to go back to the moon, this time to stay.

Grief comes in waves. There’s no timeline for it. It takes a long time, and sometimes healing just happens, like on an ordinary Saturday. You just laugh, cry a little, and exhale, because you are finally a little more at peace with it.

I’m afraid that when your memories of the last timeline come, you’re going to feel like I abandoned you. Like I betrayed you. I didn’t spend the last timeline with you, but it’s not because I didn’t love or need you. I hope you can hear that. I just wanted you to live a life without the end of the world looming, and I hope it was a good one. I hope you found love. I didn’t. Every day I missed you. Every day I needed you. I was more lonely than I’ve ever been in my many lives.” “I’m

What happens when the order of birth and death are disrupted? Stillbirth goes against the way most people think about life and death, and the timeline in which they occur. It's unsettling. When death takes a life before birth, is it a life? I don't know. I don't think there will ever be an answer that feels certain, or one that is right for everyone. But right here, right now, I wonder, is it really just a single breath of air that creates a life? And the absence of it that makes a death?

We want the mastery of being able to lead our husband or wife into love. To stop thinking of passion as a hormonal experience for twenty-three-year-olds, and start living it for what it is: an adult, time-bound, mastery-seeking, exquisitely experiential ability to make our partner’s heart and senses go from zero to one hundred, over an adult timeline, just because we led him or her there. Just because we can. That’s what romance is all about. Guiding and awakening, with the expertise of all of our sensual art forms, arousing our lover to love.

Love moves quick. It should never have a timeline placed on it,

You are allowed to go slow. There’s no timeline to healing. You walk at the pace that works for you, and I’ll carry you when your legs get tired. You don’t have to walk this path alone.

She looked up at him—and, for a moment, everything changed, as if in a twinkling of an eye. Now, here—wherever here was, whatever this moment meant, whichever timeline it appeared in no longer mattered—a church bell had gone off in some distant tower, having ushered in a new age. “You,” he whispered, his eyes wide with excitement. “I’ve been thinking about you.” “Me too,” she said, her voice weighed by the romantic.

The proliferation of social media has significantly impacted the industry. Families now have a platform to share these treasured photographs with friends and loved ones, expanding the reach and impact of baby photography. The ability to connect with other parents and share the joy of parenthood through social media has also contributed to the growth of this niche. These photographs are more than just decorative pieces; they become a source of pride and a lasting symbol of the love and joy a baby brings. They play a pivotal role in documenting a child's growth and development, creating a visual timeline of milestones, from the first coo to the first step. Hyderabad baby photoshoot are not merely photography sessions but celebrations of the purest moments of life. They capture the fragile beauty of a new life, the wonder and love of parenthood, and the universal experience of the early days of a baby.

Connections cannot be measured in time, but rather in how deeply they help you to see yourself. See, you can love someone for years and lose yourself. And yet, you can know someone for a week and see your whole soul in another human being. There are no rules when it comes to the heart and where it feels most safe. There are no timelines for this kind of depth. You just have to trust it. You just have to see it for what it is and understand that the universe sometimes fights for souls to find one another. It is not to be questioned. It is not to be compared. It is simply just meant to be felt. Have the courage to feel it.

But there is no future nor any past. There is only here and now and the invitation to decide over and over again to choose yourself, accept yourself, love yourself, and celebrate precisely how and who you are right now. This is all that is true. Everything else is an illusion that’s been hardwired into mass consciousness for far too long, and this timeline ends now.

BOLD (adjective): fearless in embracing your honesty; refusing to allow society’s labels to define your worth; empowered by imperfection, simplicity, and forgiveness. To be bold is to question who you've been told to be, pressure to conform, and the timelines expected of you.  To be bold is to recognize you have work to do, but you’re still worthy of love, fulfillment, and rewarding experiences. To be bold is to find peace in being “lost in the right direction.” To be bold is to dismiss the labels society wants you to define yourself by - too sensitive, too honest, too quiet, too energetic, too intimidating, too ambitious, too independent, too loud, too difficult… To be bold is to decide you’re exactly who you're supposed to be.