Too Much Headache Quotes

You are always dragging me down,' said I to my Body. 'Dragging _you_ down!' replied my Body. 'Well I like that! Who taught me to like tobacco and alcohol? You, of course, with your idiotic adolescent idea of being "grown up". My palate loathed both at first: but you would have your way. Who put an end to all those angry and revengeful thoughts last night? Me, of course, by insisting on going to sleep. Who does his best to keep you from talking too much and eating too much by giving you dry throats and headaches and indigestion? Eh?' 'And what about sex?' said I. 'Yes, what about it?' retorted the Body. 'If you and your wretched imagination would leave me alone I'd give you no trouble. That's Soul all over; you give me orders and then blame me for carrying them out.

We have too much technological progress, life is too hectic, and our society has only one goal: to invent still more technological marvels to make life even easier and better. The craving for every new scientific discovery breeds a hunger for greater comfort and the constant struggle to achieve it. All that kills the soul, kills compassion, understanding, nobility. It leaves no time for caring what happens to other people, least of all criminals. Even the officials in Venezuela's remote areas are better for they're also concerned with public peace. It gives them many headaches, but they seem to believe that bringing about a man's salvation is worth the effort. I find that magnificent.

You think too much.' 'I suppose I do; but I can’t help it, my mind is so terribly active. When I give myself, I give myself. I pay the penalty in my headaches, my famous headaches--a perfect circlet of pain! But I carry it as a queen carries her crown.

She always had a headache, or it was too hot, always, or she pretended to be asleep, or she had her period again, her period, always her period. So much so that Dr. Urbino had dared to say in class, only for the relief of unburdening himself without confession, that after ten years of marriage women had their periods as often as threes times a week.

There are blondes and blondes and it is almost a joke word nowadays. All blondes have their points, except perhaps the metallic ones who are as blond as a Zulu under the bleach and as to disposition as soft as a sidewalk. There is the small cute blonde who cheeps and twitters, and the big statuesque blonde who straight-arms you with an ice-blue glare. There is the blonde who gives you the up-from-under look and smells lovely and shimmers and hangs on your arm and is always very tired when you take her home. She makes that helpless gesture and has that goddamned headache and you would like to slug her except that you are glad you found out about the headache before you invested too much time and money and hope in her. Because the headache will always be there, a weapon that never wears out and is as deadly as the bravo’s rapier or Lucrezia’s poison vial. There is the soft and willing and alcoholic blonde who doesn’t care what she wears as long as it is mink or where she goes as long as it is the Starlight Roof and there is plenty of dry champagne. There is the small perky blonde who is a little pal and wants to pay her own way and is full of sunshine and common sense and knows judo from the ground up and can toss a truck driver over her shoulder without missing more than one sentence out of the editorial in the Saturday Review. There is the pale, pale blonde with anemia of some non-fatal but incurable type. She is very languid and very shadowy and she speaks softly out of nowhere and you can’t lay a finger on her because in the first place you don’t want to and in the second place she is reading The Waste Land or Dante in the original, or Kafka or Kierkegaard or studying Provençal. She adores music and when the New York Philharmonic is playing Hindemith she can tell you which one of the six bass viols came in a quarter of a beat too late. I hear Toscanini can also. That makes two of them. And lastly there is the gorgeous show piece who will outlast three kingpin racketeers and then marry a couple of millionaires at a million a head and end up with a pale rose villa at Cap Antibes, an Alfa-Romeo town car complete with pilot and co-pilot, and a stable of shopworn aristocrats, all of whom she will treat with the affectionate absent-mindedness of an elderly duke saying goodnight to his butler.

Where is my human pillow? Where are my clothes? Why am I alone in this bed? Do I smell coffee? Do I have a headache because I drank too much tequila or because someone hit me over the head while I was sleeping when I got frisky?

The Necrotelicomnicon was written by a Klatchian necromancer known to the world as Achmed the Mad, although he preferred to be called Achmed the I Just Get These Headaches. It is said that the book was written in one day after Achmed drank too much of the strange thick Klatchian coffee which doesn't just sober you up, but takes you through sobriety and out the other side, so that you glimpse the real universe beyond the clouds of warm self-delusion that sapient life usually generates around itself to stop it turning into a nutcake. Little is known about his life prior to this event, because the page headed 'About The Author' spontaneously combusted shortly after his death. However, a section headed 'Other Books By the Same Author' indicates that his previous published work was Achmed the I Just Get These Headaches's Book of Humorous Cat Stories, which might explain a lot.

Defined simply, narcissism means excessive self-preoccupation; pragmatism means excessive focus on work, achievement, and the practical concerns of life; and restlessness means an excessive greed for experience, an overeating, not in terms of food but in terms of trying to drink in too much of life...And constancy of all three together account for the fact that we are so habitually self-absorbed by heartaches, headaches, and greed for experience that we rarely find the time and space to be in touch with the deeper movements inside of and around us.

Slowly, even though I thought it would never happen, New York lost its charm for me. I remember arriving in the city for the first time, passing with my parents through the First World's Club bouncers at Immigration, getting into a massive cab that didn't have a moment to waste, and falling in love as soon as we shot onto the bridge and I saw Manhattan rise up through the looks of parental terror reflected in the window. I lost my virginity in New York, twice (the second one wanted to believe he was the first so badly). I had my mind blown open by the combination of a liberal arts education and a drug-popping international crowd. I became tough. I had fun. I learned so much. But now New York was starting to feel empty, a great party that had gone on too long and was showing no sign of ending soon. I had a headache, and I was tired. I'd danced enough. I wanted a quiet conversation with someone who knew what load-shedding was.

Up!” Mimi said sharply. “Lying there howling never gives you anything but a headache, and the only good reason to get a headache is because you’ve drunk too much champagne.

Wanting a straight guy who tastes like sin is too much of a headache. Too much of a distraction.

Kit stares at me, and I stare back. Eye contact usually feels like an ice headache. Just too much, too fast. Sharp and unpleasant. With Kit it feels like the first few seconds on a roller coaster, all gravitational force, no escape, pure thrill.

A friend understands what you’re going through enough and can help you through it. A best friend Understands what you’re going through too much and ,frankly, it’s giving them a headache.

I’m filled with so much shame and anxiety every time after I eat, I literally don’t know what to do to make myself feel better except throw up. And after I’m done, I half do. Half of me feels depleted, exhausted, like there’s nothing left, which is helpful. The other half of me now has a splitting headache, a sore throat, vomit sliding down my arm and tangled in my hair, and even more shame on top of the initial shame since now I’ve not only eaten but thrown up, too. Bulimia is not the answer.

Physical and emotional sensitivity are so closely linked that if you take Tylenol to numb a headache, research shows you will score lower on an empathy test until the medication wears off.

I appreciate the pep talk, Dr Worries-Too-Much. But really, I'm fine. I mean, yeah, I'm a little queasy, and I have a slight headache - but wouldn't you, if you hadn't eaten in two days? Or has it been three?" Elwin sighed. "Actually, it's probably closer to four at this point." "Okay, four," Keefe corrected, trying hard not to wince. But almost four days unconscious in the Healing Center? That was a Foster-Level of almost dying! He'd have to make sure he returned the favor the next time he saw Mom of the Year.

He pulled me toward him so that I was resting on my side. I coughed up some more water. He took off his wet shirt and folded it. Then he gently lifted me and placed it under my sore head, which hurt too much to appreciate his…bronzed…sculpted…muscular…bare chest. Well I guess I must be okay if I can appreciate the view, I thought. Sheesh, I’d have to be dead not to appreciate it. I winced as Ren’s hand brushed against my head, shaking me from my reverie. “You’ve got a major bump here.” I reached up to feel the giant lump on the back of my skull. I gingerly touched it and recalled the source of my headache. I must have lost consciousness when the rock hit me. Ren saved my life. Again. I looked up at him. He was kneeling next to me with a look of desperation on his face, and his body was shaking. I realized that he must have changed to a man, dragged me out of the pool, and then remained by my side until I woke up. Who knows how long I’ve been laying here unconscious. “Ren, you’re in pain. You’ve been in this form too long today.” He shook his head in denial, but I saw him grit his teeth. I pressed my hand on his arm. “I’ll be okay. It’s just a bump on the head. Don’t worry about me. I’m sure Mr. Kadam has some aspirin tucked away in the backpack. I’ll just take that and lie down to rest for a while. I’ll be alright.” He trailed his finger slowly from my temple to my cheek and smiled softly. When he pulled back, his whole arm shook and tremors rippled under the surface of his skin. “Kells, I-“ His face tightened. He threw his head to the side, snarled angrily, and morphed to a tiger again. He softly growled, then quieted, and drew close beside me. He lay down next to me and watched me carefully with his alert blue eyes. I stroked his back, partly to reassure him and partly because it soothed me too.

Darling, you’ll have to turn that off now.’ Elvy wagged her finger at the television screen. ‘That groaning is too much for my head.’ Flora nodded without taking her eyes off the screen, said, ‘OK. I’ll just save this.’ Elvy laid Grimberg aside—she had not been able to concentrate on her reading anyway since this headache began—and watched as Jill Valentine made her way back to her safe room.

If you don’t drink coffee, you should think about two to four cups a day. It can make you more alert, happier, and more productive. It might even make you live longer. Coffee can also make you more likely to exercise, and it contains beneficial antioxidants and other substances associated with decreased risk of stroke (especially in women), Parkinson’s disease, and dementia. Coffee is also associated with decreased risk of abnormal heart rhythms, type 2 diabetes, and certain cancers.12, 13 Any one of those benefits of coffee would be persuasive, but cumulatively they’re a no-brainer. An hour ago I considered doing some writing for this book, but I didn’t have the necessary energy or focus to sit down and start working. I did, however, have enough energy to fix myself a cup of coffee. A few sips into it, I was happier to be working than I would have been doing whatever lazy thing was my alternative. Coffee literally makes me enjoy work. No willpower needed. Coffee also allows you to manage your energy levels so you have the most when you need it. My experience is that coffee drinkers have higher highs and lower lows, energywise, than non–coffee drinkers, but that trade-off works. I can guarantee that my best thinking goes into my job, while saving my dull-brain hours for household chores and other simple tasks. The biggest downside of coffee is that once you get addicted to caffeine, you can get a “coffee headache” if you go too long without a cup. Luckily, coffee is one of the most abundant beverages on earth, so you rarely have to worry about being without it. Coffee costs money, takes time, gives you coffee breath, and makes you pee too often. It can also make you jittery and nervous if you have too much. But if success is your dream and operating at peak mental performance is something you want, coffee is a good bet. I highly recommend it. In fact, I recommend it so strongly that I literally feel sorry for anyone who hasn’t developed the habit.

Guy goes to the doc, and he says, ‘Doc, you gotta help me. I got this terrible headache. It feels like somebody is pounding a nail through my forehead. Like I got a big pair of pliers squeezing behind my ears. It’s tension from my job. I can’t stop working right now, but the headache’s killing me. You gotta help.’ So the doc says, ‘You know, I do have a cure. Exactly the same thing happened to me—I was working too much, and I got exactly the same headache. Then one night I was performing oral sex on my wife, and her legs were squeezing my head really tight, really hard, and the pressure must have done something, because the headache was a lot better. So I did this every night for two weeks, and at the end of two weeks, the headache was gone.’ And the guy says, ‘I’m desperate, Doc, I’ll try anything.’ The doc said, ‘Well, then, I’ll see you in two weeks.’ So the guy goes away, and two weeks later he comes back for his appointment and he’s the most cheerful guy in the world. And he says, ‘Doc, you’re a miracle worker. I did just what you told me, and the headache’s gone. Vanished. I feel great. I think it’s got to be the pressure, and—by the way, you’ve got a beautiful home.

How is Life Full of Choices? When we eat too much, we make a choice to be overweight. When we drink too much, we make a choice to have a headache the next day. If we drink and drive, we choose to risk being killed or killing someone in an accident. When we ill-treat people, we choose to be ill-treated in return. When we don’t care about other people, we choose not to be cared for by them. When we light up a cigarette, we choose to invite cancer. Choices have consequences. The most important thing to understand is that we are all free to the point of making choices. but, after we make a choice, the choice controls the chooser. We have no more choices. What is success? Series of positive choices is called success and series of negative choices is called failure. We have an equal opportunity to be unequal. The choice is ours. Life can be compared to a pottery maker who shapes clay in any form he wants. Similarly we can mould our lives into any shape we want.

the boom-and-bust nature of Venezuela’s economy has taught most people that producing is too much of a headache—importing goods is an easier business. Or as Vollmer puts it: “We’re a nouveau riche country that never really had to work for what it has.

Some research has suggested that moderate amounts of caffeine may help to improve memory and may help detox the liver. Consuming too much can result in caffeine dependency accompanied by physical effects such as insomnia, headaches, heart palpitations and restlessness.

Upstairs, later. I’ve had too much to drink, I can’t see the computer screen properly, everything doubles, trebles. I can read if I hold my hand over one eye. It gives me a headache. Cathy is home, she called out to me and I told her I was in bed, unwell. She knows that I’m drinking.

Well, ma'am, as I said, I found Willow lying ill down on the riverbank." "What was she doing there?" Rider swallowed. "Ah,well, she, ah, was kind of taking a bath." "A bath!" The landlady looked like she was going to be sick. They now had Bartel's full attention. A grin wrinkled the corner of this mouth. "Oh,she was all done,of course," Rider rushed to explain. "Dressed,too," he lied. "Poor girl said she had a severe headache." Rider was sweating bullets. He'd rather face the whole Clanton gang than his formidable landlady. She had the uncanny ability to make him feel like a ten-year-old boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. And it didn't take much to figure out what her reaction would be to his "headache treatment." Since there were definitely no benefits to be won for total honesty, he reasoned that what she didn't know woulnd't hurt him.

New York’s prince saved by a Southern shipping princess. The closest thing to American royalty, they call us. The whole thing gives me a fucking headache. I shouldn’t want to be in the spotlight; it makes it that much harder to do the things necessary for the family. But of course, Pops didn’t see it that way, so I ignored how uncomfortable it made me feel. And eventually, things you ignore grow roots too strong, their weeds all but impossible to dig out.

Lucinda might sneak from her own house at midnight to place a wager somewhere else, but she dared not touch the pack that lay in her own sideboard. She knew how passionate he had become about his 'weakness.' She dared not even ask him how it was he had reversed his opinions on the matter. But, oh, how she yearned to discuss it with him, how much she wished to deal a hand on a grey wool blanket. There would be no headaches then, only this sweet consummation of their comradeship. But she said not a word. And although she might have her 'dainty' shoes tossed to the floor, have her bare toes quite visible through her stockings, have a draught of sherry in her hand, in short appear quite radical, she was too timid, she thought, too much a mouse, to reveal her gambler's heart to him. She did not like this mouselike quality. As usual, she found herself too careful, too held in. Once she said: 'I wish I had ten sisters and a big kitchen to laugh in.' Her lodger frowned and dusted his knees. She thought: He is as near to a sister as I am likely to get, but he does not understand. She would have had a woman friend so they could brush each other's hair, and just, please God, put aside this great clanking suit of ugly armor. She kept her glass dreams from him, even whilst she appeared to talk about them. He was an admiring listener, but she only showed him the opaque skin of her dreams--window glass, the price of transporting it, the difficulties with builders who would not pay their bills inside six months. He imagined this was her business, and of course it was, but all the things she spoke of were a fog across its landscape which was filled with such soaring mountains she would be embarrassed to lay claim to them. Her true ambition, the one she would not confess to him, was to build something Extraordinary and Fine from glass and cast iron. A conservatory, but not a conservatory. Glass laced with steel, spun like a spider web--the idea danced around the periphery of her vision, never long enough to be clear. When she attempted to make a sketch, it became diminished, wooden, inelegant. Sometimes, in her dreams, she felt she had discovered its form, but if she had, it was like an improperly fixed photograph which fades when exposed to daylight. She was wise enough, or foolish enough, to believe this did not matter, that the form would present itself to her in the end.

The Sinsar Dubh popped up on my radar, and it was moving straight toward us. At an extremely high rate of speed. I whipped the Viper around, tires smoking on the pavement. There was nothing else I could do. Barrons looked at me sharply. “What? Do you sense it?” Oh, how ironic, he thought I’d turned us toward it. “No,” I lied, “I just realized I forgot my spear tonight. I left it back at the bookstore. Can you believe it? I never forget my spear. I can’t imagine what I was thinking. I guess I wasn’t. I was talking to my dad while I was getting dressed and I totally spaced it.” I worked the pedals, ripping through the gears. He didn’t even try to pat me down. He just said, “Liar.” I sped up, pasting a blushing, uncomfortable look on my face. “All right, Barrons. You got me. But I do need to go back to the bookstore. It’s . . . well . . . it’s personal.” The bloody, stupid Sinsar Dubh was gaining on me. I was being chased by the thing I was supposed to be chasing. There was something very wrong with that. “It’s . . . a woman thing . . . you know.” “No, I don’t know, Ms. Lane. Why don’t you enlighten me?” A stream of pubs whizzed by. I was grateful it was too cold for much pedestrian traffic. If I had to slow down, the Book would gain on me, and I already had a headache the size of Texas that was threatening to absorb New Mexico and Oklahoma. “It’s that time. You know. Of the month.” I swallowed a moan of pain. “That time?” he echoed softly. “You mean time to stop at one of the multiple convenience stores we just whizzed past so you can buy tampons? Is that what you’re telling me?” I was going to throw up. It was too close. Saliva was pooling in my mouth. How far behind me was it? Two blocks? Less? “Yes,” I cried. “That’s it! But I use a special kind and they don’t carry it.” “I can smell you, Ms. Lane,” he said, even more softly. “The only blood on you is from your veins, not your womb.” My head whipped to the left and I stared at him. Okay, that was one of the more disturbing things he’d ever said to me. “Ahhh!” I cried, letting go of both the wheel and the gearshift to clutch my head. The Viper ran up on the sidewalk and took out two newspaper stands and a streetlamp before crashing to a stop against a fire hydrant. And the blasted, idiotic Book was still coming. I began foaming at the mouth, wondering what would happen if it passed within a few feet of me. Would I die? Would my head really explode?

Overall, depression is considered “clinical” when symptoms are severe and include difficulty getting through a daily routine, sleeping too much or too little, disturbance of concentration, excessive negative or pessimistic thoughts, severe guilt, and an inability to connect with or be around others. Secondary symptoms include diverse aches and pains, headaches, or other uncomfortable physical symptoms. Depression can make you feel overwhelmed, anxious, worthless, and hopeless, and you might even have thoughts about ending your life.

Adam took Ellie’s hand and brought it to his lips, his eyes closing as he pressed his mouth to her skin. When he opened them I saw tears shimmering there, and felt my throat close up. I watched Ellie’s breath catch as he tugged on her hand and pulled her into the kitchen with him to face Braden. All of sudden Adam looked a little sick. “I need to tell you something.” Braden crossed his arms over his chest, frowning as he took in the two of them standing close together. “Go on.” Adam closed his eyes briefly and then when he opened them I saw determination that I admired in the face of his bulldozer of a friend. “You’re like a brother. I would never do anything to hurt you. And I know I haven’t been what a brother would consider good material for his wee sister, but I love Ellie, Braden. I have for a long time now and I can’t not be with her. I’ve wasted too much time as it is.” Ellie and I held our breaths as the two best friends faced off. Braden’s eyes went to Ellie, his expression not giving anything away. God, he could be an intimidating a-hole when he wanted to be. “Do you love him?” Adam looked back at her and she squeezed his arm. With a small smile she turned to her brother. “Yes.” Braden shrugged and reached casually over to the kettle to turn it on. “About bloody time. You two were giving me a headache.” My mouth fell open along with Adam and Ellie’s. Not once the entire time we’d been dating did Braden let on that he knew what was going on with Adam and Ellie. That sneaky bastard.

GET BEYOND THE ONE-MAN SHOW Great organizations are never one-man operations. There are 22 million licensed small businesses in America that have no employees. Forbes suggests 75 percent of all businesses operate with one person. And the average income of those companies is a sad $44,000. That’s not a business—that’s torture. That is a prison where you are both the warden and the prisoner. What makes a person start a business and then be the only person who works there? Are they committed to staying small? Or maybe an entrepreneur decides that because the talent pool is so poor, they can’t hire anyone who can do it as well as them, and they give up. My guess is the latter: Most people have just given up and said, “It’s easier if I just do it myself.” I know, because that’s what I did—and it was suicidal. Because my business was totally dependent on me and only me, I was barely able to survive, much less grow, for the first ten years. Instead I contracted another company to promote my seminars. When I hired just one person to assist me out of my home office, I thought I was so smart: Keep it small. Keep expenses low. Run a tight ship. Bigger isn’t always better. These were the things I told myself to justify not growing my business. I did this for years and even bragged about how well I was doing on my own. Then I started a second company with a partner, a consulting business that ran parallel to my seminar business. This consulting business quickly grew bigger than my first business because my partner hired people to work for us. But even then I resisted bringing other people into the company because I had this idea that I didn’t want the headaches and costs that come with managing people. My margins were monster when I had no employees, but I could never grow my revenue line without killing myself, and I have since learned that is where all my attention and effort should have gone. But with the efforts of one person and one contracted marketing company, I could expand only so much. I know that a lot of speakers and business gurus run their companies as one-man shows. Which means that while they are giving advice to others about how to grow a business, they may have never grown one themselves! Their one-man show is simply a guy or gal going out, collecting a fee, selling time and a few books. And when they are out speaking, the business terminates all activity. I started studying other people and companies that had made it big and discovered they all had lots of employees. The reality is you cannot have a great business if it’s just you. You need to add other people. If you don’t believe me, try to name one truly great business that is successful, ongoing, viable, and growing that doesn’t have many people making it happen. Good luck. Businesses are made of people, not just machines, automations, and technology. You need people around you to implement programs, to add passion to the technology, to serve customers, and ultimately to get you where you want to go. Consider the behemoth online company Amazon: It has more than 220,000 employees. Apple has more than 100,000; Microsoft has around the same number. Ernst & Young has more than 200,000 people. Apple calls the employees working in its stores “Geniuses.” Don’t you want to hire employees deserving of that title too? Think of how powerful they could make your business.

A Safety Travel with Sinclair James International Traveling to somewhere completely foreign to you may be challenging but that is what travelers always look for. It can be a good opportunity to find something new and discover new places, meet new people and try a different culture. However, it can involve a lot of risk as well. You may be surprised to find yourself naked and penniless on the side of the road trying to figure out what you did wrong. These kinds of situations come rarely when you are careful and cautious enough but it is not impossible. Sinclair James International Travel and Tours, your Australian based traveling guide can help you travel safely through the following tips: 1. Pack all Security Items In case of emergencies, you should have all the safety tools and security items with you. Carry a card with your name and number with you and don’t forget to scribble down the numbers of local police station, fire department, list of hospitals and other necessary numbers that you may need. Place them in each compartment and on your pockets. If ever you find yourself being a victim of pick pocketing in Manila, Philippines or being driven around in circles in the streets of Bangkok, Thailand, you will definitely find these numbers very helpful. It is also advisable to put your name and an emergency number in case you are in trouble and may need someone else to call. 2. Protect your Passport Passports nowadays have RFID which can be scanned from a distance. We have heard some complaints from fellow travelers of being victims of scams which involves stealing of information through passports. An RFID blocking case in a wallet may come in handy to prevent hackers from stealing your information. 3. Beware of Taxis When you exit the airport, taxis may all look the same but some of them can be hiding a defective scam to rob tourists during their drive. It is better to ask an official before taking a taxi as many unmarked ones claim that they are legitimate. Also, if the fare isn’t flat rate, be sure you know the possible routes. Some drivers will know better and will take good care of you, but others will take longer routes to increase the fare. If you know your options, you can suggest a different route to avoid paying too much. 4. Be aware of your Rights Laws change from state to state, and certainly from country to country, but ignorance to them will get you nowhere. In fact, in many cases you can get yourself out of trouble by knowing the laws that will affect you. When traveling to other countries, make sure to review the laws and policies that can affect your activities. There are a lot of misconceptions and knowing these could save you a headache. Sinclair James International

I'm still not sure why you're risking your neck. You don't really even like me." Rider tugged her to an abrupt halt on the path and tilted her face up to his. "I like you plenty, lady.Maybe too much. But if you choose not to believe that, then maybe you can believe this. You're not using me any more than I'm using you. Right now,you need a strong man to protect you. I'm strong and I need the job. It's as simple as that." For a moment Willow stood stock still. Then she grinned. "You like me, huh?" "Yeah." He chucked her under the chin. "I got this thing about poor helpless females." "Helpless!" She bristled. Then recognizing the teasing twinkle in his eye, she smiled. "Don't make me laugh, Rider. That makes my head hurt,too." "Tell you what. Doc Sinclair will attempt to work a special treatment that my father swore helped relieve my mother's headaches." "Right at this moment you could shoot me and I'd be forever grateful." He chuckled. "This treatment isn't anywhere near fatal.

They had this course you had to take, Oral Expression. That I flunked. 'Why?' 'Oh, I don't know.' I didn't feel much like going into it. I was still feeling sort of dizzy or something, and I had a helluva headache all of a sudden. I really did. But you could tell he was interested, so I told him a little bit about it. 'It's this course where each boy in class has to get up in class and make a speech. You know. Spontaneous and all. And if the boy digresses at all, you're supposed to yell "Digression!" at him as fast as you can. It just about drove me crazy. I got an F in it.' 'Why?' 'Oh, I don't know. That digression business got on my nerves. I don't know. The trouble with me is, I like it when somebody digresses. It's more interesting and all.' 'You don't care to have somebody stick to the point when he tells you something?' 'Oh, sure! I like somebody to stick to the point and all. But I don't like them to stick too much to the point. I don't know. I guess I don't like it when somebody sticks to the point all the time. The boys that got the best marks in Oral Expression were the ones that stuck to the point all the time—I admit it. But there was this one boy, Richard Kinsella. He didn't stick to the point too much, and they were always yelling "Digression!" at him. It was terrible, because in the first place, he was a very nervous guy—I mean he was a very nervous guy—and his lips were always shaking whenever it was his time to make a speech, and you could hardly hear him if you were sitting way in the back of the room. When his lips sort of quit shaking a little bit, though, I liked his speeches better than anybody else's. He practically flunked the course, though, too. He got a D plus because they kept yelling "Digression!" at him all the time. For instance, he made this speech about this farm his father bought in Vermont. They kept yelling "Digression!" at him the whole time he was making it, and this teacher, Mr. Vinson, gave him an F on it because he hadn't told what kind of animals and vegetables and stuff grew on the farm and all. What he did was, Richard Kinsella, he'd start telling you all about that stuff—then all of a sudden he'd start telling you about this letter his mother got from his uncle, and how his uncle got polio and all when he was forty-two years old, and how he wouldn't let anybody come to see him in the hospital because he didn't want anybody to see him with a brace on. It didn't have much to do with the farm—I admit it—but it was nice. It's nice when somebody tells you about their uncle. Especially when they start out telling you about their father's farm and then all of a sudden get more interested in their uncle. I mean it's dirty to keep yelling "Digression!" at him when he's all nice and excited... I don't know. It's hard to explain.' I didn't feel too much like trying, either. For one thing, I had this terrific headache all of a sudden. I wished to God old Mrs. Antolini would come in with the coffee. That's something that annoys hell out of me—I mean if somebody says the coffee's all ready and it isn't.

Graedon was sick of waiting for the FDA’s test results. He spoke with experts about what could produce the symptoms that patients were reporting. He even reached out for help to independent laboratories. Tod Cooperman, the president of ConsumerLab in White Plains, New York, was quick to join his cause. ConsumerLab tested the 300-milligram dose of Teva’s Budeprion XL against that of GSK’s Wellbutrin XL. The results revealed the likely source of patient distress: the generic dumped four times as much active ingredient during the first two hours as the brand name did. Graedon compared the effect to guzzling alcohol. “If you sip a glass of wine over the course of two or three hours, you’re not going to feel drunk,” he explained. “But if you drink the whole thing in fifteen minutes, you’re getting too much too fast.” The Graedons believed that this “dose dumping” explained why many patients were experiencing signs of overdose, such as headaches and anxiety, followed by symptoms of withdrawal, including renewed depression and suicidal thoughts. Teva flatly rejected the ConsumerLab report and claimed that the independent laboratory’s testing method was “inappropriate.” The FDA was silent.

They seemed so right together-both of them sophisticated, dark-haired, and striking; no doubt they had much in common, she thought a little dismally as she picked up her knife and fork and went to work on her lobster. Beside her, Lord Howard leaned close and teased, “It’s dead, you know.” Elizabeth glanced blankly at him, and he nodded to the lobster she was still sawing needlessly upon. “It’s dead,” he repeated. “There’s no need to try to kill it twice.” Mortified, Elizabeth smiled and sighed and thereafter made an all-out effort to ingratiate herself with the rest of the party at their table. As Lord Howard had forewarned the gentlemen, who by now had all seen or heard about her escapade in the card room, were noticeably cooler, and so Elizabeth tried ever harder to be her most engaging self. It was only the second time in her life she’d actually used the feminine wiles she was born with-the first time being her first encounter with Ian Thornton in the garden-and she was a little amazed by her easy success. One by one the men at the table unbent enough to talk and laugh with her. During that long, trying hour Elizabeth repeatedly had the strange feeling that Ian was watching her, and toward the end, when she could endure it no longer, she did glance at the place where he was seated. His narrowed amber eyes were leveled on her face, and Elizabeth couldn’t tell whether he disapproved of this flirtatious side of her or whether he was puzzled by it. “Would you permit me to offer to stand in for my cousin tomorrow,” Lord Howard said as the endless meal came to an end and the guests began to arise, “and escort you to the village?” It was the moment of reckoning, the moment when Elizabeth had to decide whether she was going to meet Ian at the cottage or not. Actually, there was no real decision to make, and she knew it. With a bright, artificial smile Elizabeth said, “Thank you.” “We’re to leave at half past ten, and I understand there are to be the usual entertainments-sopping and a late luncheon at the local inn, followed by a ride to enjoy the various prospects of the local countryside.” It sounded horribly dull to Elizabeth at that moment. “It sounds lovely,” she exclaimed with such fervor that Lord Howard shot her a startled look. “Are you feeling well?” he asked, his worried gaze taking in her flushed cheeks and overbright eyes. “I’ve never felt better,” she said, her mind on getting away-upstairs to the sanity and quiet of her bedchamber. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have the headache and should like to retire,” she said, leaving behind her a baffled Lord Howard. She was partway up the stairs before it dawned on her what she’d actually said. She stopped in midstep, then gave her head a shake and slowly continued on. She didn’t particularly care what Lord Howard-her fiance’s own cousin-thought. And she was too miserable to stop and consider how very odd that was.

Elizabeth glanced up as Ian handed her a glass of champagne. “Thank you,” she said, smiling up at him and gesturing to Duncan, the duke, and Jake, who were now convulsed with loud hilarity. “They certainly seem to be enjoying themselves,” she remarked. Ian absently glanced the group of laughing men, then back at her. “You’re breathtaking when you smile.” Elizabeth heard the huskiness in his voice and saw the almost slumberous look in his eyes, and she was wondering about its cause when he said softly, “Shall we retire?” That suggestion caused Elizabeth to assume his expression must be due to weariness. She, herself, was more than ready to seek the peace of her own chamber, but since she’d never been to a wedding reception before, she assumed that the protocol must be the same as at any other gala affair-which meant the host and hostess could not withdraw until the last of the guests had either left or retired. Tonight, every one of the guest chambers would be in use, and tomorrow a large wedding breakfast was planned, followed by a hunt. “I’m not sleepy-just a little fatigued from so much smiling,” she told him, pausing to bestow another smile on a guest who caught her eye and waved. Turning her face up to Ian, she offered graciously, “It’s been a long day. If you wish to retire, I’m sure everyone will understand.” “I’m sure they will,” he said dryly, and Elizabeth noted with puzzlement that his eyes were suddenly gleaming. “I’ll stay down here and stand in for you,” she volunteered. The gleam in his eyes brightened yet more. “You don’t think that my retiring alone will look a little odd?” Elizabeth knew it might seem impolite, if not precisely odd, but then inspiration struck, and she said reassuringly, “Leave everything to me. I’ll make your excuses if anyone asks.” His lips twitched. “Just out of curiosity-what excuse will you make for me?” “I’ll say you’re not feeling well. It can’t be anything too dire though, or we’ll be caught out in the fib when you appear looking fit for breakfast and the hunt in the morning.” She hesitated, thinking, and then said decisively, “I’ll say you have the headache.” His eyes widened with laughter. “It’s kind of you to volunteer to dissemble for me, my lady, but that particular untruth would have me on the dueling field for the next month, trying to defend against the aspersions it would cause to be cast upon my…ah…manly character.” “Why? Don’t gentlemen get headaches?” “Not,” he said with a roguish grin, “on their wedding night.” “I can’t see why.” “Can you not?” “No. And,” she added with an irate whisper, “I don’t see why everyone is staying down here this late. I’ve never been to a wedding reception, but it does seem as if they ought to be beginning to seek their beds.” “Elizabeth,” he said, trying not to laugh. “At a wedding reception, the guests cannot leave until the bride and groom retire. If you look over there, you’ll notice my great-aunts are already nodding in their chairs.” “Oh!” she exclaimed, instantly contrite. “I didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” “Because,” he said, taking her elbow and beginning to guide her from the ballroom, “I wanted you to enjoy every minute of our ball, even if we had to prop the guests up on the shrubbery.

Because I have already had a long leave I get none on Sundays. So the last Sunday before I go back to the front my father and eldest sister come over to see me. All day we sit in the Soldiers’ Home. Where else could we go? We don’t want to stay in the camp. About midday we go for a stroll on the moors. The hours are a torture; we do not know what to talk about, so we speak of my mother’s illness. It is now definitely cancer, she is already in the hospital and will be operated on shortly. The doctors hope she will recover, but we have never heard of cancer being cured. ”Where is she then?” I ask. ”In the Luisa Hospital,” says my father. ”In which class?” ”Third. We must wait till we know what the operation costs. She wanted to be in the third herself. She said that then she would have some company. And besides it is cheaper.” ”So she is lying there with all those people. If only she could sleep properly.” My father nods. His face is broken and full of furrows. My mother has always been sickly; and though she has only gone to the hospital when she has been compelled to, it has cost a great deal of money, and my father’s life has been practically given up to it. ”If only I knew how much the operation costs,” says he. ”Have you not asked?” ”Not directly, I cannot do that–the surgeon might take it amiss and that would not do; he must operate on mother.” Yes, I think bitterly, that’s how it is with us, and with all poor people. They don’t dare ask the price, but worry themselves dreadfully beforehand about it; but the others, for whom it is not important, they settle the price first as a matter of course. And the doctor does not take it amiss from them. ”The dressings afterwards are so expensive,” says my father. ”Doesn’t the Invalid’s Fund pay anything toward it, then?” I ask. ”Mother has been ill too long.” ”Have you any money at all?” He shakes his head: ”No, but I can do some overtime.” I know. He will stand at his desk folding and pasting and cutting until twelve o’clock at night. At eight o’clock in the evening he will eat some miserable rubbish they get in exchange for their food tickets, then he will take a powder for his headache and work on.

Squealing, Ashley threw her arms around Miranda, while Gage ducked swiftly out of the way. “You’ll get used to her, Miranda,” Parker sighed, pulling Ashley back. But Ashley broke free at once. “Miss Dupree loved your idea! She can’t wait to see how we put it all together. She says it’s the most original and creative topic in the whole class!” “Make that the most ridiculous,” Parker mutter. Miranda tried valiantly to resist Ashley’s hug. “Hey. It wasn’t my idea--” “Don’t be so modest! Of course it was!” Giving Miranda one last squeeze, Ashley got down to business. “Okay. So we’ll all meet at the library later and start our planning. You can come, can’t you, Miranda?” “Well, I--” Parker’s loud groan cut her off. “Oh please, not the library. All that whispering gives me a headache.” “You are a headache.” Roo yawned. “Let’s just go to The Tavern. I need background music.” “Too crowded. Too noisy.” Shaking his head, Gage leaned in toward Miranda. “It’s a restaurant,” he explained. “Not much to look at, but the food’s great. Everybody hangs out there.” Roo did a thumbs-down. “Two no votes for The Tavern. It won’t get dark for a while--why don’t we just go to the Falls?” Looks passed from one to another, followed by nods all around. “Have you seen the bayou yet, Miranda?” Gage asked, while she fumbled for an excuse. “Not exactly. I mean, sort of, from a distance. But really, I don’t think I can--” “Then this’ll be a first for you!” Ashley was delighted. “We’ll be right on the bayou.” Parker nodded, deadpan. “Alligators and water moccasins, up close and personal.” “Oh, Parker, for heaven’s sake. Don’t listen to him, Miranda. I’ve never seen any nasty things around there.” “Except for Roo,” Parker added. “She can be pretty nasty.” Roo pointedly ignored him. The boys grinned, and Ashley chattered on.

True, Mama, but he’ll find it a difficult job to govern the country with nothing but the High Tories to support him. And whatever you think of their politics, Huskisson and Palmerston are very able men the country can ill afford to lose. William Lamb was doing a good job in Ireland, too.’ ‘Poor William Lamb,’ Lucy said — his name always seemed to couple itself with the epithet quite automatically. ‘He needs office to keep his mind from his domestic troubles.’ ‘Sendin’ him to Ireland was goin’ rather too far, though,’ Theakston commented solemnly. ‘No good cuttin’ off a man’s head to cure him of a headache.’ ‘Well, he’d have been back soon enough anyway,’ said Lucy. ‘That drunken ruin of a father of his can’t last much longer, and then he’ll be taking his seat in the Lords as Lord Melbourn.’ ‘His sister thinks he’ll be Prime Minister one day,’ said her husband. ‘Said so to Mrs Arbuthnot yesterday.’ Lucy was dismissive. ‘She would say something like that! I can’t bear Emily Cowper at any price,’ she said impatiently; and then, ‘Where did you see Mrs Arbuthnot?

Coffee If you don’t drink coffee, you should think about two to four cups a day. It can make you more alert, happier, and more productive. It might even make you live longer. Coffee can also make you more likely to exercise, and it contains beneficial antioxidants and other substances associated with decreased risk of stroke (especially in women), Parkinson’s disease, and dementia. Coffee is also associated with decreased risk of abnormal heart rhythms, type 2 diabetes, and certain cancers.12, 13 Any one of those benefits of coffee would be persuasive, but cumulatively they’re a no-brainer. An hour ago I considered doing some writing for this book, but I didn’t have the necessary energy or focus to sit down and start working. I did, however, have enough energy to fix myself a cup of coffee. A few sips into it, I was happier to be working than I would have been doing whatever lazy thing was my alternative. Coffee literally makes me enjoy work. No willpower needed. Coffee also allows you to manage your energy levels so you have the most when you need it. My experience is that coffee drinkers have higher highs and lower lows, energywise, than non–coffee drinkers, but that trade-off works. I can guarantee that my best thinking goes into my job, while saving my dull-brain hours for household chores and other simple tasks. The biggest downside of coffee is that once you get addicted to caffeine, you can get a “coffee headache” if you go too long without a cup. Luckily, coffee is one of the most abundant beverages on earth, so you rarely have to worry about being without it. Coffee costs money, takes time, gives you coffee breath, and makes you pee too often. It can also make you jittery and nervous if you have too much. But if success is your dream and operating at peak mental performance is something you want, coffee is a good bet. I highly recommend it. In fact, I recommend it so strongly that I literally feel sorry for anyone who hasn’t developed the habit. Pleasure

When you have too much things in your head, you dont have a headache but, a hurricane

When you have too much things in your head, you dont have a headache but, a hurricane

a shake. He was a problem, she couldn’t deny it. The infuriating man could unveil her activities without the slightest glance back over his shoulder. One who could destroy her plans—much too easily and much too quickly. Sure, she was an oddity; she knew that. But she should have been inconsequential to a man with his considerable status and power—a hiccup in his life. Maybe he had forgotten their whole little scene on the balcony by now. And with luck, the inconvenience she had caused him the previous night in the street fight would also soon leave his mind. With even more luck, she would find her father’s other murderers tonight, and be done with the whole affair before he exposed her escapades. “Aggie dear, are you all right? You look a bit flushed and preoccupied,” her aunt said, worry evident in her brow. “Does your headache bother you overly much?” Aggie forced a smile. “No, Aunt Bea, I am fine, just a little tired. You saw me earlier, and I could not get back to sleep today.” “Well, no surprise after the last year you

Physical tension contributes to soreness, fatigue, poor circulation, and pain. This makes it very important to learn what physical tension feels like as well as how physical relaxation feels, enabling you to recognize tension before a bit of tightness in your neck and shoulders, for instance, becomes a full-blown headache. You will soon know how to replace too much tightness with just the right amount of effort needed. Relaxation is actually experiential and not merely a technique, thought, or plan.

Romantic retrospect aside, the night spent in the truck is distinctly unpleasant. We are cramped and cold. The much-vaunted heating of the truck is ineffectual. The wind prises through the cracks in the sides of the windows, and penetrates us to the bone. My feet are moist in my shoes, yet to take my socks off is to chill my feet even further. We take every warm item of clothing out of our bags and swaddle ourselves into immobility. The sheepskin on the seat cuts out a bit of the cold rising from below. We share a blanket and Sui, before he goes off to sleep, makes sure I get a generous part of this. He then drops off to sleep, and tugs it away. He jockeys for space, and I am forced to lean forward. He begins to snore. To make it all worse, both he and Gyanseng sleeptalk. They have told me before tat I do, too, but I've never noticed it. What I do notice, however, late at night, with my two territorially acquisitive companions wedging me forwards, is that I have started talking to myself: naming the constellations I can see move across the mud-stained windscreen, interviewing myself, reciting odd snatches of poetry. I also notice that I am hungry, which is curious, because during the day I was not; and itchy, which is to be expected after so much unwashed travel; and sleepy, though I cannot sleep for cold and headache and discomfort; and alas, bored out of my mind. When things get really bad, I imagine myself in a darkened room, up to my shoulders in a tub of hot water, with a glass of Grand Marnier beside me and the second movement of Mozart's Clarinet Quintet sounding gently in my ears. This voluptuous vision, rather than making my present condition seem even more insupportable, actually enables me to escape for a while from the complaints of my suffering body.

I just sobbed myself out until I had too much of a headache to go on crying, and after that I was cold and stiff

Speech is like ale. Best not wasted, and too much’ll give you a headache.

Mrs. Odell once told me that forgiveness had a whole lot more to do with the person doing the forgiving than it did with the person in need of forgiveness. She said holding on to hurt and anger made about as much sense as hitting your head with a hammer and expecting the other person to get a headache. But too many years of resentment were swollen inside me, and I had no forgiveness to offer my dad.

They play hard, and drink harder,” said Entreri, who was nursing a tremendous headache. “They dance, they love, and they sing with abandon.” “And they drink,” Jarlaxle repeated with a knowing grin. Entreri groaned and held his head. “You enjoyed your time with Vessi?” Catti-brie said with a laugh. “Too much so. But yes. He took me to a place he called De’lirr. I did not know that drow could sweat so much.” The other two looked at him curiously. “It was half a dance, half a fight to see who could stay on the floor the longest. Few left alone.” “Including Entreri?” The man just shrugged and even seemed to blush a bit, which caught Catti-brie off guard. “They are alive,” Entreri went on. “Maybe more alive than any people I have known. They play harder than many fight.

Early one morning in the late fall, when the whole apartment smelled of rust (the steam had come on during the night), the explanation of what was going and had gone wrong presented itself to her in the plainest terms: “There’s nothing left.” She repeated the phrase to herself like a prayer and with each repetition the circumference of its meaning would expand. The terror of it slowly wound its way through the tangle of her feelings until it had merged with its opposite. “There’s nothing left”: it was cause to rejoice. What had she ever had that it wouldn’t be a liberation to lose? Indeed, too much still clung to her. It would be long before she could say that there was nothing left, absolutely, blessedly nothing at all. Then, the way revelations do, the brilliance faded, leaving her with only the embers of the phrase. Her mind grew furry and she started developing a headache from the smell of the rust.

Every life experience and all creativity come from the clash of opposing forces—the collision of the energy of polar opposites. It’s healthy to laugh and it’s healthy to cry—the brightest stars eventually become black holes—the good person without accountability becomes the evil one. Steroids take away skin redness, but if used too long, they redden the skin. The germaphobe cleans her hands to avoid germs, but cleaning too much destroys antibodies, allowing for infection. Lying down for a headache helps, but if you stay down too long it gives you a headache. The desire of total control results in the loss of all control. The greater the love you feel the deeper the pain of loss. If you help your child, she learns; if you do everything for her, she never learns…

Excess oestrogen can be another likely culprit when it comes to fluid retention. It can also drive headaches, including migraines, increase blood clotting, decrease libido, interfere with thyroid hormone production, and, due to its relationship with progesterone, lead us to feel like we have to do everything with haste. So, big health and therefore beauty consequences all because there is too much of one little hormone.

He bows to the two of us, and when he speaks, his voice fills the room, far louder and more booming than a voice should be before noon. “I intend to ride the estate today, if you two would like to join me.” I open my mouth to give him a quick, No thanks, I’d rather pull out my own hair, but Emily beats me to it. “How kind of you to offer! We would love to.” Huh? I can’t figure out why Emily doesn’t hate Alex. He’s a jerk and he’s done nothing to help her out of her engagement. And now she’s volunteering to hang out with him? An excuse…I need some kind of excuse to get out of this. Alex walks to the window and looks out, offering a rather flattering view of the back of his riding pants. “Did you enjoy the dance last evening?” Is he making small talk? That’s a first. “Yes, very much so,” Emily says. “It was delightful.” I nod. “Yeah. I guess so.” I won’t say I had fun because I don’t want him to get the wrong idea. I don’t want him to know dancing with him was the most exciting part of my evening and the most agonizingly long half hour of my life. Alex looks at me for a long silent moment. You’d think he’d bring up the big “lady” versus “miss” debacle. Or just that we’d danced. But he doesn’t. “Yes, I rather enjoyed myself as well,” he says. Seriously, what does that mean? I was the only girl he danced with. The entire night. Is he trying to tell me something? Ha. Right. He probably means that it was all sorts of fun to insult me. And that’s when Emily starts rubbing her temple. She sets her needlepoint down and frowns, massaging in circular motions on the side of her face. Oh, no, she’s not-- “Dear cousin, I am coming down with a headache. Perhaps you and Rebecca ought to ride without me.” I get a twinge when I hear Rebecca. Every day it feels more like we’re friends--and more like I’m betraying her. And then she turns to me, knowing Alex can’t see her, and winks. “Oh, no, I--” I start to say, because I suddenly realize what she’s trying to do. This can not happen. A horseback ride alone with Alex? No thank you! But Alex cuts in before I can stop her. “Yes, I would not have you overexerting yourself. We shall check on you when we return.” Okay, this is not how I want to spend my afternoon. Alone with Alex? I’d rather get a root canal. But…maybe it’s my chance to talk to him about Emily. Maybe he doesn’t know about Trent. Emily said Trent was wealthy, right? He’s not titled, but he has money. If Alex knew about him…maybe he would get Emily off the hook with Denworth. Maybe that’s why Emily is trying to arrange for me to spend time with Alex. She so owes me after this. I can do this. I can hang out with him for a couple hours--long enough to talk him into helping us. Emily jumps up from her chair far too quickly for someone with a headache and leaves the room before I can do anything. I rub my eyes. It’s going to be a long afternoon.

Jane tried to keep the despondency to herself, though Mr. Nobley seemed to be keeping a pretty good eye on her, as usual. She took another bite of…poultry of some sort?...and decided she’d pull the headache excuse out of the bag and dismiss herself to bed as soon as the dinner torture was over. She hated to waste a single moment of her last days, but she felt pulled inside out and couldn’t figure out how to right herself. She returned Mr. Nobley’s gaze. His eyebrows raised, he leaned forward slightly, his mannerisms asking, “Are you all right?” She shrugged. He frowned. When the women stood to leave the gentlemen to their port and tobacco, Mr. Nobley rose as well and made his unapologetic way to Jane’s side. “Miss Erstwhile, too long have you been asked to walk alone. May I accompany you to the drawing room?” Her heart jigged. “It’s not proper,” she whispered, the fear of Wattlesbrook in her. She didn’t want to be sent home, not before the ball. “Proper be damned,” he said, low enough for just her ears. Jane could feel all eyes on them. She took Mr. Nobley’s arm and walked across that negligible distance, stately as a bride. He found her a seat on a far sofa and sat beside her, and except for the fact that she couldn’t kick off her shoes and tuck her feet up under her, all felt pleasantly snug. “How is the painting going?” he asked. Of course it had been him (the paints). And of course it hadn’t been him (Colonel Andrews’s unseen smoking companion). Jane sighed happily. “How do you do it? How do you make me feel so good? I don’t like that you can affect me so much, and I find you much more annoying than ever. But what I mean is, thank you for the paints.” He wouldn’t acknowledge the thanks and pressed her for details instead, so she told him how it felt to manipulate color again, real color, real paint, not pixels and RGBs, like the joy in her muscles stretching after a long plane ride.

Hello, ladies, I’m your uncle Devlin. Has Westhaven scared you witless with his fuming and fretting?” This fellow looked to be great fun, with a nice smile and kind green eyes. “Mama and Papa didn’t say anything about getting uncles for Christmas,” Amanda observed, but she was smiling back at the big uncle. The biggest uncle—they were all as tall as Papa. “Well, that’s because we’re a surprise,” the other dark-haired fellow said. “I’m your uncle Valentine, and we have an entire gaggle of aunties waiting out in the coach to spoil you rotten. Westhaven here is just out of sorts because Father Christmas gave him a headache for being naughty yesterday.” “I was not naughty.” The other two uncles thought this was quite funny, judging by their smiles. “There’s your problem,” said Uncle Devlin. “I’m thinking it’s a fine day for a pair of ladies to join their aunts for a ride in the traveling coach.” Uncle Gayle—it didn’t seem fair to call him by the same name as Fleur’s puppy—appeared to consider this. “For what purpose?” “To keep the peace. Emmie and I never haul out our big guns around the children,” said Uncle Devlin, which made no sense. “Do you like to play soldiers?” Fleur asked. Amanda appeared intrigued by the notion. She was forever galloping up hills and charging down banisters in pursuit of the French. Uncle Devlin’s brows knitted—he had wonderful dark eyebrows, much like Papa’s. “As a matter of fact, on occasion, if I’ve been an exceedingly good fellow, my daughter lets me join her in a game of soldiers.” “I’m not exactly unfamiliar with the business myself,” said Uncle Valentine. “I excel at the lightning charge and have been known to take even the occasional doll prisoner.” “Missus Wolverhampton would not like being a prisoner,” Fleur said, though Uncle Valentine was teasing—wasn’t he?” “Perhaps you gentlemen can arrange an assignation to play soldiers with our nieces on some other day,” Westhaven said. He sounded like his teeth hurt, which Fleur knew might be from the seasonal hazard of eating too much candy. “You can play too,” Fleur allowed, because it was Christmas, and one ought to be kind to uncles who strayed into one’s nursery. “We’ll let you be Wellington,” Amanda added, getting into the spirit of the day. “Which leaves me to be Blucher’s mercenaries,” Uncle Devlin said, “saving the day as usual.” “Oh, that’s brilliant.” Uncle Valentine wasn’t smiling now. “Leave your baby brother to be the infernal French again, will you? See if I write a waltz for your daughter’s come out, St. Just.” Uncle Gayle wasn’t frowning quite so mightily. In fact, he looked like he wanted to smile but was too grown-up to allow it. “Perhaps you ladies will gather up a few soldiers and fetch a doll or two. We’re going on a short journey to find your mama and papa, so we can all share Christmas with them.” Fleur noticed his slip, and clearly, Amanda had too—but it was the same slip Amanda had made earlier, and one Fleur was perfectly happy to let everybody make. Uncle Gayle had referred to their papa’s new wife not as their stepmama, but as their mama. What a fine thing that would be, if for Christmas they got a mama again for really and truly. Amanda fetched their dolls, Fleur grabbed their favorite storybook, and the uncles herded them from the nursery, all three grown men arguing about whose turn it was to be the blasted French. ***

For God’s sake, Eve Windham, it was just a kiss under the mistletoe, probably inspired by your papa’s wassail more than anything else.” She had to put her hand on his arm while the feeling of the ground shifting beneath her feet swept over her. “My brothers said it was white rum.” “The occasional tot makes the holiday socializing less tedious. You really do not look well.” The last observation was grudging, almost worried. “I did not mean to swill from your glass, Deene. You should have stopped me.” They had to get to the coach. The night felt like it was closing in, and Deene’s voice—a perfect example of male aristocratic euphony—was swelling and shrinking in the oddest way. “I might have stopped you, except you downed the whole drink before I realized what was afoot, and then you were accosting me in the most passionate—” Eve clutched his arm and swayed into him, breathing shallowly through her mouth. “If you insist on arguing with me, my lord, I will be ill all over these bushes.” “Why didn’t you say so?” He slipped an arm around her waist and promenaded her down the steps. By the time they got to the garden gate, the nausea was subsiding, though Eve was leaning heavily on her escort. She had the notion that the scents of cedar and lavender coming from Deene’s jacket might have helped quiet her stomach. Deene ushered her through the gate, which put them on a quiet, mercifully dark side street. “How often do these headaches befall you?” “Too often. Sometimes I go for months between attacks, sometimes only days. The worst is when it hits on one side, subsides for a day, then strikes on the other.” Deene pulled one of his gloves off with his teeth, then used two fingers to give a piercing, three-blast whistle. “Sorry.” All the while he kept his arm around Eve’s waist, a solid, warm—and quite unexpected—bulwark against complete disability. “The coach will here in moments. Is there anything that helps?” “Absolute quiet, absolute dark, time.” Though her mother used to rub her neck, and that had helped the most. He said nothing more—Deene wasn’t stupid—and Eve just leaned on him. Her grandmother had apparently suffered from these same headaches, though neither Eve’s parents nor her siblings were afflicted. The clip-clop of hooves sounded like so much gunfire in Eve’s head, but it was the sound of privacy, so Eve tried to welcome it. Deene gave the coachy directions to the Windham mansion and climbed in after Eve. “Shall I sit beside you, my lady?” An odd little courtesy, that he would even ask. “Please. The less I move, the less uncomfortable I am.” He settled beside her and looped an arm around her shoulders. Without a single thought for dignity, skirmishes, or propriety, Eve laid her head on his shoulder, closed her eyes, and was grateful. ***

19The Necrotelicomnicon was written by a Klatchian necromancer known to the world as Achmed the Mad, although he preferred to be called Achmed the I Just Get These Headaches. It is said that the book was written in one day after Achmed drank too much of the strange thick Klatchian coffee which doesn’t just sober you up, but takes you through sobriety and out the other side, so that you glimpse the real universe beyond the clouds of warm self-delusion that sapient life usually generates around itself to stop it turning into a nutcake. Little

19The Necrotelicomnicon was written by a Klatchian necromancer known to the world as Achmed the Mad, although he preferred to be called Achmed the I Just Get These Headaches. It is said that the book was written in one day after Achmed drank too much of the strange thick Klatchian coffee which doesn’t just sober you up, but takes you through sobriety and out the other side, so that you glimpse the real universe beyond the clouds of warm self-delusion that sapient life usually generates around itself to stop it turning into a nutcake.

The first mile was torture. I passed beneath the massive stone arch at the entrance to the school, pulled off the road and threw up. I felt better and ran down the long palm-lined drive to the Old Quad. Lost somewhere in the thicket to my left was the mausoleum containing the remains of the family by whom the university had been founded. Directly ahead of me loomed a cluster of stone buildings, the Old Quad. I stumbled up the steps and beneath an archway into a dusty courtyard which, with its clumps of spindly bushes and cacti, resembled the garden of a desert monastery. All around me the turrets and dingy stone walls radiated an ominous silence, as if behind each window there stood a soldier with a musket waiting to repel any invader. I looked up at the glittering facade of the chapel across which there was a mosaic depicting a blond Jesus and four angels representing Hope, Faith, Charity, and, for architectural rather than scriptural symmetry, Love. In its gloomy magnificence, the Old Quad never failed to remind me of the presidential palace of a banana republic. Passing out of the quad I cut in front of the engineering school and headed for a back road that led up to the foothills. There was a radar installation at the summit of one of the hills called by the students the Dish. It sat among herds of cattle and the ruins of stables. It, too, was a ruin, shut down for many years, but when the wind whistled through it, the radar produced a strange trilling that could well be music from another planet. The radar was silent as I slowed to a stop at the top of the Dish and caught my breath from the upward climb. I was soaked with sweat, and my headache was gone, replaced by giddy disorientation. It was a clear, hot morning. Looking north and west I saw the white buildings, bridges and spires of the city of San Francisco beneath a crayoned blue sky. The city from this aspect appeared guileless and serene. Yet, when I walked in its streets what I noticed most was how the light seldom fell directly, but from angles, darkening the corners of things. You would look up at the eaves of a house expecting to see a gargoyle rather than the intricate but innocent woodwork. The city had this shadowy presence as if it was a living thing with secrets and memories. Its temperament was too much like my own for me to feel safe or comfortable there. I looked briefly to the south where San Jose sprawled beneath a polluted sky, ugly and raw but without secrets or deceit. Then I stretched and began the slow descent back into town.

   Difficulty relaxing    Insomnia    Impatience    Taking on too much responsibility      Recent major life change (marriage, divorce, birth of child, death of close relative, purchase of home, new job, loss of job, etc.)    Irritability    Tension headaches    Sense of isolation from others    Difficulty delegating  

Why don't you come with me?" "Why? Where are you going?" "Home. I've had enough. I hate England." "Hate England?" It was too much to grasp, with a head full of searing headache.

Justin Case and women do not mix. Man boobs, a love of Kings and Castles, and being tight with the "nerd" crowd certainly don't win him any points either. After rescuing Katie, his crush, it turns out she might not be the girl he thought she was, while Elyssa, the school's Goth Girl, turns out to be more. Can high school get any more confusing? Determined to improve himself, he joins a gym and meets a sexy girl that just oozes a "come hither, Justin" vibe. Until she attacks him in the parking lot, and Justin realizes she's no ordinary girl but a being with supernatural speed and strength. After a narrow escape and an excruciating migraine headache, he wakes up with supernatural abilities all his own: speed, strength, and the ability to seduce every woman he sees. While that might sound like the perfect combo for any hormonal teen, Justin is a hopeless romantic who wants his first time to be special. Is that too much to ask for? But he doesn't know what he is or how to stop his carnal urges. One thing is clear: If he doesn't find answers there are other more sinister supernaturals who would like nothing better than to make him their eternal plaything and do far worse than kill him.

Every life experience and all creativity come from the clash of opposing forces—the collision of the energy of polar opposites. It’s healthy to laugh and it’s healthy to cry—the brightest stars eventually become black holes—the good person without accountability becomes the evil one. Steroids take away skin redness, but if used too long, they redden the skin. The germaphobe cleans her hands to avoid germs, but cleaning too much destroys antibodies, allowing for infection. Lying down for a headache helps, but if you stay down too long it gives you a headache. The desire of total control results in the loss of all control. The greater the love you feel the deeper the pain of loss. If you help your child, she learns; if you do everything for her, she never learns…

Creating Key User Segments The beauty with segmentation is that it can be used for more than email targeting. You can use your segmentation for tracking and reporting, to recruit candidates for interviews, and for quality assurance. If your segmentation doesn’t get you the right users, you want to find out as quickly as possible. Before starting to write emails, you’ll want to create key user segments. Those could be: people who haven’t signed up for your product (if the required data is available); people who signed up today; people who signed up in the last seven days; people who signed up in the last seven days, but didn’t engage, or didn’t activate; people who signed up in the last 30, 60 or 90 days and activated; inactive users; users whose trial is about to end or just ended and that you would eventually like to convert; paid subscribers in their first month; paid subscribers retained for two months or more; subscribers on annual plans; users who you think would be willing to refer your product to others; subscribers who cancelled; subscribers who cancelled more than once; or signups per specific acquisition channel. Don’t go too far, but do try to test real segments with real data. Let them run a few weeks. Do users flow through the way you’d expect them to? Go through random profiles in each of these segments and compare with the data from your database. Are those the users you’d expect to find in each of these segments? Any issues? You want to uncover issues with the implementation or your segmentation as early as possible. It’s easier if you do this—and much less costly in terms of mistakes—before you start sending emails than after. Make sure you can track users across different segments and that your segments truly are mutually exclusive when they need to be. Identify issues, adjust, and refine. This step will save your team a lot of headaches later on. As you test your segments, make them available to the rest of your team. Your colleagues can also help point out issues. At this point, if there aren’t any major issues, your setup is complete. Let’s get started sending some emails!

Was Arben alive when they brought him here, or had he lapsed into a diabetic coma? When the brain doesn't get enough glucose, or receives too much, it cannot function properly. The symptoms can appear slowly: an altered mental state, an inability to speak, drowsiness, weakness, headaches, restlessness, shaking, an irregular heartbeat, an eventually the loss of consciousness. If left untreated, it results in permanent brain damage and utlmately, death.

Her body ached, all of her muscles feeling tired in a way that they’d never felt before. She was so thirsty and had a headache blooming behind her eyes that had only happened once before when she’d gone too long without water. But this time it was so much more intense right between her eyes, like her brain was warning her about... something. Her stomach clenched in hunger, but she didn’t know how long it had been since she’d eaten anything. She didn’t even realize that her body was listing to the side until Imber gently propped her up. He pulled her pale, wrinkled hands out of her eyesight. “What is happening to you?” “I think the water...” Alys lifted her shaking hands again, just so she could see the damage. So it wasn’t entirely made up in her own head. “I can’t stay in the water this long. How long has it been?” His concerned gaze focused on her hands before he cleared his throat. “I don’t... I don’t know.” “How many sunrises?” “Three.” “How deep are we?” He shook his head. “I don’t know what that means. There is no measurement for me to give you.” She looked up at the surface, her mind ticking through all the possibilities. She didn’t think she was deep enough to get the bends. It wasn’t likely, anyway. What if all of this made her sick? What if going to the surface made her blood boil and her body just gave up? “Slowly,” she finally whispered. “I need to go to the surface very slowly. Just in case.” “Just in case what?” With a wide-eyed stare, she hoped she conveyed how terrified she was. And to his credit, Imber didn’t question her any more. He just gathered her in his arms and started their ascent.

How many evictions have been filed upon you?”: We used to ask, “Have you ever been evicted?” until we read about this little gem in Mike Butler’s book Landlording on Autopilot. In his book, Butler explains that landlords should phrase the question like this: “How many evictions have been filed upon you?” Such wording will require the tenant to think and not write an automatic “no.” Yes and no questions are much too easy to falsify, and tenants are used to questions being phrased that way. Also, an eviction filing identifies an irresponsible tenant as much as an eviction that proceeded to the point of the sheriff escorting them out the door. Both are consequences of bad behavior that you don’t need to deal with. Having them write an actual number also takes away their ability to claim they misunderstood the question. •

I have forgiven Ruby for her mistakes, but I do not wish to bring her back in my life. Some people are too much trouble and not worth the headache.

The list of things that keep me up at night includes, but is not limited to: appendicitis, typhoid, leprosy, unclean meat, foods I haven’t seen emerge from their packaging, foods my mother hasn’t tasted first so that if we die we die together, homeless people, headaches, rape, kidnapping, milk, the subway, sleep. An assistant teacher comes to school with bloodshot eyes, and I am convinced he’s infected with Ebola. I wait for blood to trickle from his ear or for him to just fall down dead. I stop touching my shoelaces (too filthy) or hugging adults outside of my family. In school, we are learning about Hiroshima, so I read Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes and I know instantly that I have leukemia. A symptom of leukemia is dizziness and I have that, when I sit up too fast or spin around in circles. So I quietly prepare to die in the next year or so, depending on how fast the disease progresses. My parents are getting worried. It’s hard enough to have a child, much less a child who demands to inspect our groceries and medicines for evidence that their protective seals have been tampered with. I have only the vaguest memory of a life before fear. Every morning when I wake up there is one blissful second before I look around the room and remember my daily terrors. I wonder if this is what it will always be like, forever, and I try to remember moments I felt safe: In bed next to my mother one Sunday morning. Playing with Isabel’s puppy. Getting picked up from a sleepover just before bedtime.

Have you ever felt too accustomed to something because you’ve thought about it too much? Like being alone at home with no one around, deep in thought, suddenly aware that the causes of your stress, hurt, and sadness clouding your mind as a headache have all vanished. Maybe you haven’t yet solved this problem, you just accepted it, dealt with it, because you got used to it. The problem may only affect a few people like at work, something personal with your partner, or maybe they’re bigger than society itself. You know you can’t do it alone.

When an experience is an unusually powerful emotional event, there may be a series of reactions. These are both common and normal. Signs and symptoms of critical-incident stress include the following: 1. Physical—enduring fatigue, sleep dysfunction (either needing too much or insomnia), change of appetite (eating too much or too little), gastrointestinal upset, headache, backache, chills, nausea, muscular twitches or tremors, shock-like symptoms (especially in acute stress), hyperactivity, or its opposite, underactivity. 2. Emotional—anger, irritability, fear, grief, anxiety, guilt, depression, feeling overwhelmed, identification with the patient(s) in a rescue, emotional numbness, feelings of helplessness or hopelessness. 3. Cognitive—memory loss, especially anomia (the inability to remember names); inability to attach importance to things other than the incident; concentration problems; loss of attention span; difficulties with calculations, decision-making, and problem-solving; flashbacks; nightmares (especially recurrent ones), amnesia for the event; violent fantasies; confusing the importance of trivial and major tasks.

throwing a few more bodies on the blaze, if only to convince the world the Guard was made of monsters. He’ll kill Julian too, and Sara. They’re probably dead already. I can’t think of them at all. It’s too painful. Now my thoughts turn back to Maven himself, to cold blue eyes and the moment I realized his charming smile hid a beast. The bunk beneath me is hard, the blankets thin, with no pillow to speak of, but part of me wants to lie back down. Already my headache returns, throbbing with the electric pulse of this miracle boat. It is a firm reminder—there is no peace for me here. Not yet, not while so much more must be done. The list. The names. I must find them. I must keep them safe from Maven and his mother. Heat spreads across my face, my skin flushing with the memory of Julian’s little book of hard-won secrets. A record of those like me, with the strange mutation that gives us Red blood and Silver abilities

There are blondes and blondes and it is almost a joke word nowadays. All blondes have their points, except perhaps the metallic ones who are as blond as a Zulu under the bleach and as to disposition as soft as a sidewalk. There is the small cute blonde who cheeps and twitters, and the big statuesque blonde who straight-arms you with an ice-blue glare. There is the blonde who gives you the up-from-under look and smells lovely and shimmers and hangs on your arm and is always very very tired when you take her home. She makes that helpless gesture and has that goddamned headache and you would like to slug her except that you are glad you found out about the headache before you invested too much time and money and hope in her. Because the headache will always be there, a weapon that never wears out and is as deadly as the bravo’s rapier or Lucrezia’s poison vial. There is the soft and willing and alcoholic blonde who doesn’t care what she wears as long as it is mink or where she goes as long as it is the Starlight Roof and there is plenty of dry champagne. There is the small perky blonde who is a little pal and wants to pay her own way and is full of sunshine and common sense and knows judo from the ground up and can toss a truck driver over her shoulder without missing more than one sentence out of the editorial in the Saturday Review. There is the pale, pale blonde with anemia

He went to a doctor about his insomnia. The doctor gave Dahmer a prescription for Halcion, a sleeping pill. The drug, he said, worked dramatically. “It didn’t slowly put you to sleep; it knocked you out quickly.” He wondered what effect the drug might have on sexual partners, and brought crushed-up portions to the bathhouses. It worked like a charm. The drug rendered his partners unconscious, and Dahmer had his way with them. This satisfied his urge to dominate, as Dahmer now had complete control and did not have to reciprocate sexually in any way that he didn’t want. However, this solution was short lived because several of his pickups woke up with terrible headaches from the drug and complained. There was an episode where Dahmer gave a guy too much Halcion and he stopped breathing. Someone called an ambulance and the victim was revived, but after, management barred Dahmer from entering the bathhouse.

Hopefully, you like beer because it’s all I have.” So much for crashing. My body was wide awake now. “Beer’s good. I just got off though. I need to change real quick.” I tugged at my work tank top. “I’ll be here.” He grinned, and I couldn’t help but notice he had a perfect smile. Really nice teeth. God, that was weird to notice. But man, he was a seriously good-looking guy. Nothing I could pinpoint as the feature that made him exceptionally attractive; everything just came together nicely. Like those people who have perfect facial symmetry, which tricks the brain, making them attractive to everyone. He was one of those people. And my brain most definitely appreciated the flawlessness. He was still grinning as I studied him, and it suddenly hit me, I was standing there. Staring. Geez. “Sorry. I’m exhausted from my shift. Sort of out of it.” He nodded slowly, clearly not buying my excuse. “Well, get changed and come relax. We can bitch about our day, gripe about our aching bones, maybe get in a fight over whose turn it is to cook dinner.” I stifled a laugh and played along with his old married couple reference. “Which will, of course, lead me into reminding you that my lasagna is never as good as your mother’s.” “Ah, but we can’t forget, I always overseason when I cook.” “And while we are talking about dinner, we should probably discuss the fact that dishes don’t wash themselves.” “Well, if we’re going there, you might as well remind me that the floor is not a hamper.” “Obviously.” My smile finally broke free. “Then I’ll complain of a headache, and we’ll call it a night.” “Wow.” He leaned back and rubbed his chin. “I’m sorry to say it, but I think this relationship is moving too fast.” “Relationship?” I raised an eyebrow. “We’re one dirty sock away from divorce.” He laughed, and my chest fluttered because it was one hell of a sexy laugh. “Get changed and come on over. I’m eager to get to know my future ex-wife.” With what I’m sure could only be described as a stupid grin, I said, “Be right back.

I’m not gonna lie.” I leaned against the wall of the cabin and unabashedly checked her out. “It really ended the night on a high note for me. With our impending divorce hanging over us, I appreciate you trying to put a spark back into things.” I’d caught her off guard, and for a second I thought she might laugh, but then she fell into character, flashed her sweetest smile and said, “You’re welcome. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a terrible headache.” And I couldn’t deny how happy I was to hear her play along. “Wow, that’s cold. I thought we were reconciling.” “Sorry, but I don’t reconcile on the first date.” “So this was a date, then?” I held my breath, unsure if I pushed it too far with the flirting, but then she grinned. “What do you think?” “I think one day we’re going to laugh about your heart panties and our first date.” She smiled and shook her head. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?” “Are you kidding? We’re going to be sharing this story with our grandkids.” “I don’t think our future grandchildren need to know anything about what’s going on under my dress.” I smirked because she’d totally set herself up for this one. “So…we will have grandkids?” “Oh my God. You’re too much. Go to bed, Mason.” She turned to head into her cabin and called over her shoulder, “And quit talking about my underwear.” “I’ll stop talking about them, but no guarantees I can stop thinking about them.” Which wasn’t a lie. I’d already committed the image to memory. She laughed again. “Good night.” I smiled as I watched her disappear inside. “ ’Night, Felicity.

Niblings.” “Gender-neutral term for children of my siblings. One must never make assumptions, don’t you agree?” I love my sister very much, but the fact that she’s apparently made a presentation to educate any future children that may or may not ever exist? I shake my head and let it go. This is pure Sienna, and asking too many questions is going to result in a headache and no further understanding.

When I was drinking I was doing it to suppress emotion, yes, but I was also doing it because it made me, for the first time in my life, able to be King Extrovert. And I loved that feeling. Under the influence of alcohol I could socialize with friends for hours, and not get drained. I could go to packed stadiums to watch games or concerts, and not get drained. I could flirt and mingle and chat with dozens of people over the course of a night and not…get…drained. It was like a miracle pill that erased all the parts of myself I had struggled with for years. The shyness, the awkward way I made small talk, the pounding headaches I got after too much noise and too many bright lights.

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