Trap Phone Quotes

You're a Shadowhunter," he said. "You know how to deal with injuries." He slid his stele across the table toward her. "Use it." "No," Clary said, and pushed the stele back across the table at him. Jace slammed his hand down on the stele. "Clary—" "She said she doesn't want it," said Simon. "Ha-ha." "Ha-ha?" Jace looked incredulous. "That's your comeback?" Alec, folding his phone, approached the table with a puzzled look. "What's going on?" "We seem to be trapped in an episode of One Life to Waste," Magnus observed. "It's all very dull.

A smartphone is an addictive device which traps a soul into a lifeless planet full of lives

Sometimes you’re 23 and standing in the kitchen of your house making breakfast and brewing coffee and listening to music that for some reason is really getting to your heart. You’re just standing there thinking about going to work and picking up your dry cleaning. And also more exciting things like books you’re reading and trips you plan on taking and relationships that are springing into existence. Or fading from your memory, which is far less exciting. And suddenly you just don’t feel at home in your skin or in your house and you just want home but “Mom’s” probably wouldn’t feel like home anymore either. There used to be the comfort of a number in your phone and ears that listened every day and arms that were never for anyone else. But just to calm you down when you started feeling trapped in a five-minute period where nostalgia is too much and thoughts of this person you are feel foreign. When you realize that you’ll never be this young again but this is the first time you’ve ever been this old. When you can’t remember how you got from sixteen to here and all the same feel like sixteen is just as much of a stranger to you now. The song is over. The coffee’s done. You’re going to breath in and out. You’re going to be fine in about five minutes.

The day then trapped me in its iron bars of phone calls and meetings, letters to read, letters to write, decisions to make, promises to break.

Where are you going?" "To get my wife back." "How do you know where to look?" I hold my phone up. "I've got a map." "A map?" He laughs. Laughs. "You ever feel like Admiral Ackbar with the Death Star plans?" I look at him, brow furrowed. "You know... Return of the Jedi? It's a trap!" I shake my head. "Really? Nothing?" He scrunches up his face as if I disgust him. "How are we even friends?" "We're not.

Technology couldn't revert, but humans could, and they did with startling ease and rapidity when the trappings of the modern world melted away. The tribal animal was always there, hiding just beneath our thin skins of lattes and cell phones and cable TV.

She always imagined their voices entangled somewhere in the wires when they spoke, caught up in a grid she didn't fully understand, passing back and forth. Once the calls were disconnected, she imagined the echoes of old conversations would be trapped there, floating back and forth with no exit, like ghosts.

Lately she can read a novel in two hours. She has always been an avid reader, but these days she can read much faster. The colors, the conversations, everything is much more vibrant and inclusive, as if opening a book releases genies trapped inside. The scenes and people between their covers sometimes seem more vivid than real life, with their sunny, pearl-toothed characters, the witty conversation, the handsome stranger squeezed into a subway car or knocking about on the street. Sometimes, when she finishes a book at record speed, Dana feels a slight letdown, as if a good friend has hung up the phone in the middle of a conversation.

In the elevator up to Kelley's apartment, Emira checked her phone. OH OKAY BYE BITCH, Zara texted. TRAP TRAP TRAP TRAP GET THAT L.L.BEAN DICK GUR.

If academic endeavour had always been vetted in advance for practicality, we wouldn’t have the aeroplane or the iPhone, just a better mammoth trap.

A DIFFERENT KIND OF CHECKLIST If we want our kids to have a shot at making it in the world as eighteen-year-olds, without the umbilical cord of the cell phone being their go-to solution in all manner of things, they’re going to need a set of basic life skills. Based upon my observations as dean, and the advice of parents and educators around the country, here are some examples of practical things they’ll need to know how to do before they go to college—and here are the crutches that are currently hindering them from standing up on their own two feet: 1. An eighteen-year-old must be able to talk to strangers—faculty, deans, advisers, landlords, store clerks, human resource managers, coworkers, bank tellers, health care providers, bus drivers, mechanics—in the real world.

The passenger door was wide open, nobody was around, and a purse was inside. Was this a trap? It seemed too good to be true. Temptation overtook me, so I reached in the car, popped the trunk, and closed myself in. Boy, the owner of the car was sure in for a surprise. And he got it too—two days later. With no food, water, or cell phone on me, I nearly lost my life, and my job. I showed up late to work, but they didn’t believe me when I said I was stuck in traffic for 48 hours.

Imagine getting up right now, slipping out the front door, and finding that all the women in the neighborhood were also leaving their houses. We were all running to the same field, a place we hadn't discussed but implicitly knew we would meet in when the tipping point tipped. We ran like horses, but we weren't horses, so after the initial hugs, there wasn't anything to do there in the grass. Everyone started checking their phones to see if their partners were calling. And they were not yet. We hadn't been gone long enough. Soon it was just a million women waiting for their mates to call, to be needed and then to fall into panic and guilt, to be torn, which was our primary state. Start the revolution here, now, in this field, or drive home and slip back into the fold, use the electric toothbrush, feel grim and trapped. Of course, there was no decision to make because we were all already home, not in a field. There was no collective tipping point. Most of us wouldn't do anything very different, ever. Our yearning and quiet rage would be suppressed and seep into our children, and they would hate this about us enough to do it a new way. That was how most change happened, not within one lifetime, but between generations. If you really wanted to change your belief that you're both yourself and your baby, you had to let yourself be completely reborn within one life. Of course, the danger was in risking everything, destroying everything…

The challenges of sticking to a plan, the inability to resist a new leather jacket or a new project, the forgetfulness (the car registration, making a phone call, paying a bill) and the cognitive slips (the misestimated bank account balance, the mishandled invitation) all happen because of a shortage of bandwidth. There is one particularly important consequence: it further perpetuates scarcity. It was not a coincidence that Sendhil and Shawn fell into a trap and stayed there. Scarcity creates its own trap.

I'm supposed to trust you?" "No," he said. He picked up the phone. "Put her sister on." A second later he handed the small silver device to her. Summer felt a second of panic—after all, this tiny piece of metal and circuitry unlocked doors, turned off death traps and blew up houses. God knows what would happen if she pushed the wrong button.

Mom [...] who smiled the weak smile of a trapped drudge as we slid in past her, heading for the phone, filled with surliness and contempt and the resolve to never be like her.

And as I close my eyes, the gentle chords of his guitar carry through the phone’s speaker, followed by his deep voice singing a song that I’ve heard on the radio, Jason Mraz’s “I won’t give up.

I didn't have a choice." "Are you saying...What are you saying?" Is he...could he be talking about me? He runs a hand through his hair. I've never seen him this emotional before. He's always so controlled, so sure of himself. "I'm saying you're what I want, Emma. I'm saying I'm in love with you." He steps forward and lifts his hand to my cheek, blazing a line of fire with his fingertips as they trace down to my mouth. "How do you think it would make me feel to see you with Grom?" he whispers. "Like someone ripped my heart out and put it through Rachel's meat grinder, that's how. Probably worse. It would probably kill me. Emma, please don't cry." I throw my hands in the air. "Don't cry? Are you serious? Why did you come here, Galen? Did you think it would make me feel better to know that you do love me, but that it still won't work out? That I still have to mate with Grom for the greater good? Don't you tell me not to cry, Galen! I...c...c...can't h...h...help-" The waterworks soak me. Galen looks at me, hands by his side, helpless as a trapped crab. I'm bordering on hyperventilation, and pretty soon I'll start hiccupping. This is too much. His expression is so severe, it looks like he's in physical pain. "Emma," he breathes. "Emma, does this mean you feel the same way? Do you care for me at all?" I laugh, but it sounds sharper than I intended, because of a hiccup. "What does it matter how I feel, Galen? I think we pretty much covered why. No need to rehash things, right?" "It matters, Emma." He grabs my hand and pulls me to him again. "Tell me right now. Do you care for me?" "If you can't tell that I'm stupid in love with you, Galen, then you aren't a very good ambassador for the hum-" His mouth covers mine, cutting me off. This kiss isn't gentle like the first one. It's definitely not sweet. It's rough, demanding, searching. And disorienting. There's not a part of me that isn't melting against Galen, not a part that isn't combusting with his fevered touch. I accidentally moan into his lips. He takes it for his cue to lift me off my feet, to pull me up to his height for more leverage. I take his groan for my cue to kiss him harder. He ignores his cell phone ringing in his pocket. I ignore the rest of the universe. Even when headlights approach, I'm willing to overlook their intrusion and keep kissing. But, prince that he is, Galen is a little more refined than me at this moment. He gently pries his lips from mine and sets me down. His smile is both intoxicated and intoxicating. "We still need to talk." "Right," I say, but I'm shaking my head. He laughs. "I didn't come all the way to Atlantic City to make you cry." "I'm not crying." I lean into him again. He doesn't refuse my lips, but he doesn't do them justice either, planting a measly little kiss on them before stepping back.

There are so many memories, lurking in all the spaces of everywhere. They lie trapped like frozen ghosts, existing only when someone who knows of that memory thinks about that particular time and place and their mind reactivates it. We walk through these ghosts all the time, not knowing we tread the footprints of another person’s story. Just one bench on top of a viewpoint could be harbouring so many stories. It could be the bench where a couple broke up, or where another couple had their first kiss. It could be the bench where someone thought about taking their own life, or where they got the phone call that something amazing had happened. Layered in just one bench there’s an infinite amount of memories. Multiple people living near one particular bench could all share it as special without even knowing each other. We leave behind echoes of our lives everywhere we go, trapping them into the fabric of the world around us.

My parents do not limit themselves to worrying about things that have actually happened. Dreams are also fair game. I often get phone calls with detailed descriptions of a dream, followed by "So naturally, I had to call to make sure you were okay and there wasn't a reason why I dreamed of you trapped in a canoe with a blue turtle.

skimmed the pages, but my mind refused to engage, thoughts always circling back to my five siblings. A year had passed since I’d heard their voices, seen their faces, and the thought of them trapped in that house was eating me alive. Despite all my efforts—the countless phone calls, the desperate pleas to anyone who would listen—it seemed like there was nothing we could do to remove them from harm’s way.

My dad died in 9/11. They opened up the museum to families today, so I went this morning. My plan was to go to work after, but I just couldn’t do it.”“What happened to him?”“He was a cop. He actually had the day off. But as soon as he heard, he drove into the city and got there just in time for the second tower to fall. A witness said that my dad had started to run when the tower fell, but turned back because a trapped woman was calling to him.”“What do you remember?”“I was in science class. And my teacher told us that there had been a plane crash. That’s all she said. Then I noticed all these kids around me getting phone calls and text messages, and they’d run out of class. So I knew something big was happening. Soon we got let out of school. On the ride home, I remember thinking that my dad was going to be working overtime on this. I imagined he’d be down there everyday, saving people. ‘I bet I won’t see him for weeks,’ I said.

A technique I’ve found particularly helpful for dealing with this distraction trap is the “ten-minute rule.” If I find myself wanting to check my phone as a pacification device when I can’t think of anything better to do, I tell myself it’s fine to give in, but not right now. I have to wait just ten minutes. This technique is effective at helping me deal with all sorts of potential distractions, like googling something rather than writing, eating something unhealthy when I’m bored, or watching another episode on Netflix when I’m “too tired to go to bed.

-Such dark thoughts for the sake of a corner table. My inner Jiminy Cricket spoke up. Oh, all right, I said. May the world's small things fill her with delight. -Good, good, spoke the cricket. -and may she purchase a lottery ticket and possess the winning number, -Unnecessary, but fine. -And may she order a thousand such bags, each one more splendid than the last, delivered and dumped by FedEx, and may she be trapped by a storeroom's worth, without food, water, or cell phone. -I'm leaving, said my conscience. -Me too, I said, and I went back out on the street.

V frowned. There was only a hissing sound coming from the voice mail. But then a clatter had him yanking the phone away from his ear. Now Butch's voice, hard, loud: "Dematerialize. Dematerialize now." A scared male: "But-but-" "Now! For fuck's sake, get your ass out of here..." Sounds of muffled flapping. "Why are you doing this? You're just a human-" "I am so sick of hearing that. Leave!" There was a metallic shifting, a gun being reloaded. Butch's voice: "Oh,shit..." Then all hell broke loose. Gunshots, grunts, thuds. V leaped up from his desk so fast he knocked his chair over. Only to realize that he was trapped inside by daylight.

Trip Advisor: Travel America with Haiku [Texas] Grackles roosting, sentinels on miles of phone line. Don't Mess with Texas. Austin rush hour, "Go down Mopac. You don't wanna mess with I-35." Athens, Texas, Blackeyed Pea Capital of the World. Yup, just another shithole. Killeen, Texas, Kill City, Boyz from Fort Hood. Spending every paycheck. Texas A&M;, Aggies football, the wired 12th man. Too lazy to plant in the Spring. Fredericksburg, Texas. Polka Capital of Texas but I could swear I saw Hitler there. Ft. Worth, Texas, Where the West Begins and a great place to leave. San Antonio, Texas, Fiesta! Alamo City! Northstar Mall! I've been to better tourist traps. Dallas, Texas, D-Town, City of Hate. Don't miss the Galleria. Lubbock, Texas, Oil wells, Hub of the Plains. Stinks like an armpit. Waco, Texas, The Buckle of the Bible Belt. Lossen it up a notch. Neck dragon tattoo, piercings, purple haired kindergarten teacher. Keep Austin weird.

Ive and Jobs have even obsessed over, and patented, the packaging for various Apple products. U.S. patent D558572, for example, granted on January 1, 2008, is for the iPod Nano box, with four drawings showing how the device is nestled in a cradle when the box is opened. Patent D596485, issued on July 21, 2009, is for the iPhone packaging, with its sturdy lid and little glossy plastic tray inside. Early on, Mike Markkula had taught Jobs to “impute”—to understand that people do judge a book by its cover—and therefore to make sure all the trappings and packaging of Apple signaled that there was a beautiful gem inside. Whether it’s an iPod Mini or a MacBook Pro, Apple customers know the feeling of opening up the well-crafted box and finding the product nestled in an inviting fashion. “Steve and I spend a lot of time on the packaging,” said Ive. “I love the process of unpacking something. You design a ritual of unpacking to make the product feel special. Packaging can be theater, it can create a story.

Somebody had been doing some major league tampering to my car. The brake lines were cut. The tires were on fire. There was carbon monoxide coming out of everything. And the radio was tuned to a station I didn’t like. I had to tip my booby-trapped hat to whoever tampered with this car. I was late with my payments on the car anyway, and it looked like a lot of repair work was going to have to be done no matter how this came out, so I figured let the finance company worry about it. I called them up on my cell phone, told them where the car was, and jumped out. I was going over sixty at the time, but luckily I didn't hit the ground. There was a cliff there and I just went harmlessly over that. But just when you’re sailing along, thinking everything is going to be okay, something unexpected comes along to jar you out of your complacency. For me, in this case, it was the bottom of the cliff. I got bruised up pretty bad – they say I bounced for an hour - but luckily no bones were broken. That's where that protective layer of fat I was telling you about comes in.

STEP 4: BEWARE OF LIMINAL MOMENTS Liminal moments are transitions from one thing to another throughout our days. Have you ever picked up your phone while waiting for a traffic light to change, then found yourself still looking at your phone while driving? Or opened a tab in your web browser, got annoyed by how long it’s taking to load, and opened up another page while you waited? Or looked at a social media app while walking from one meeting to the next, only to keep scrolling when you got back to your desk? There’s nothing wrong with any of these actions per se. Rather, what’s dangerous is that by doing them “for just a second,” we’re likely to do things we later regret, like getting off track for half an hour or getting into a car accident. A technique I’ve found particularly helpful for dealing with this distraction trap is the “ten-minute rule.” If I find myself wanting to check my phone as a pacification device when I can’t think of anything better to do, I tell myself it’s fine to give in, but not right now. I have to wait just ten minutes. This technique is effective at helping me deal with all sorts of potential distractions, like googling something rather than writing, eating something unhealthy when I’m bored, or watching another episode on Netflix when I’m “too tired to go to bed.” This rule allows time to do what some behavioral psychologists call “surfing the urge.” When an urge takes hold, noticing the sensations and riding them like a wave—neither pushing them away nor acting on them—helps us cope until the feelings subside.

You see Matt and Anthony every week. You see everyone every week.” “Not everyone, Nick,” his mother said pointedly. Then her voice changed and turned warmer. “Well, except for this upcoming weekend.” Nick paused at this. It could’ve been a trap. Perhaps his mother suspected something was up with her birthday and was fishing for information. Although it was surprising that she’d come to him—she usually went after Anthony, who had the secret-keeping skills of a four-year-old. “Why? What’s happening this weekend?” he asked nonchalantly. “Oh, nothing much. I just heard something about a sixtieth birthday party your father and you boys are planning for me.” Fucking Anthony. “And don’t go blaming Anthony,” his mother said, quick to protect her youngest. “I’d already heard about it from your aunt Donna before he slipped.” Nick knew what her next question would be before the words left her mouth. “So? Are you bringing a date?” she asked. “Sorry, Ma. It’ll just be me.” “There’s a surprise.” He pulled into the driveway that led to the parking garage of his condo building. “Just a warning, I’m about to pull into the garage—I might lose you.” “How convenient,” his mother said. “Because I had a really nice lecture planned for you.” “Let me guess the highlights: it involved me needing to focus on something other than work, and you dying heartbroken and miserable without grandchildren. Am I close?” “Not bad. But I’ll save the rest of the lecture for Sunday. There’s going to be a lot of gesturing on my part, and the phone doesn’t quite capture the spirit.” Nick smiled. “Shockingly, I’m looking forward to it. I’ll see you Sunday, Ma.” Her voice softened. “I know how busy you are, Nick. It means a lot to me that you’re coming home.” He knew it did. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

From my WIP "In Hiding" Hidden in the darkness, she exhaled, releasing the tension. As she sunk into the worn cushions, Kate felt the wave of exhaustion crash over her. She dug in her backpack for the crackers wrapped in a paper towel. Closing her eyes, she ate, using her imagination to change the bland wafer into something more appealing. Retrieving her cell from her pocket, she shielded the artificial light with her hand as she set the alarm, always set to vibrate mode. The glow from the screen briefly illuminated her face. Her blond hair was history, the honey golden hue hidden under the dull dark cheap hair dye. Without makeup, she appeared younger than her twenty years, until you looked into her eyes. Here her anguish was center stage for the world to see. She barely slept and seldom ate. Worse were the dreams. Trapped in a surreal world, the explosion of gunfire surrounded her followed by blood splatter. Often, she woke on the edge of a scream waking in time to stifle her terror. She could ill afford this, screaming could bring him down on her. There were nights that she prayed it would, thus ending the torment for them both. Perhaps another night. Kate took one last glance around the room as she tucked her phone into her back jeans pocket. Slumping over, she was out before her head hit the sofa. Camouflaged she appears to be nothing more than a bundle of rags. Unseen in the darkness he slipped inside the house, blending into the shadows, he had waited patiently hidden in the edge of the woods, knowing she would seek shelter. Wayne closed his eyes and zoned in on her. Chasing this bitch was wearing on him; it was killing his focus. As his prey, she had developed self-persevering habits. She never left a trace of herself, not a sound, not a fiber or a hair. He drew a deep, silent breath, directing his senses, he concentrated on Kate, how she thought, what she feared.

The phone went off. Private caller. “Thank fuck,” he said as he accepted it. “Payne—” “No.” Manny closed his eyes: Her brother sounded like hell. “Where is she.” “We don’t know. And there’s nothing that we can do from here—we’re trapped inside.” The guy exhaled like he was smoking something. “What the fuck happened before she left? I thought she’d be spending all night with you. It’s cool if you two . . . you know . . . but why did she leave so early?” “I told her it wasn’t going to work out.” Long silence. “What the fuck are you thinking?” Clearly if it hadn’t been all bright and sunny outside, motherfucker would have been knocking on Manny’s door, looking to kick some Italian ass. “I thought that would make you happy.” “Oh, yeah. Abso—break my sister’s fucking heart. I’m all for that.” Another sharp exhale, like he was blowing smoke. “She’s in love with you, asshole.” Didn’t that stop him in his tracks. But he got back with the program. “Listen, she and I . . .” At that point, he was supposed to explain the stuff about the results of his physical and how he was all freaked out and didn’t know what the repercussions were. But the trouble was, in the hours since Payne had taken off, he’d come to realize that however true that shit was, there was a more fundamental thing going on at the core of him: He was being a little bitch. What the go-away had really been about was the fact that he was shitting in his pants because he’d actually fallen in love with a woman . . . female . . . whatever. Yeah, there was a tremendous overlay of metaphysical stuff he didn’t understand and couldn’t explain, blah, blah, blah. But at the center of it all, he felt so much for Payne that he didn’t know himself anymore, and that was the terrifying part. He’d pussied out when he’d had the chance. But that was done now. “She and I are in love,” he said clearly. And damn him to hell, he should have had the balls to tell her. And hold her. And keep her. “So like I said, what the fuck are you thinking.” “Excellent question.” -Manny & Vishous

And then, with a shock like high-voltage coursing through me, the phone beside me started pealing thinly. I just stood there and stared at it, blood draining from my face. A call to a tollbooth? It must, it must be a wrong number, somebody wanted the Information Booth or-! It must have been audible outside, with all I had the slide partly closed. One of the redcaps passing by turned, looked over, then started coming across toward where I was. To get rid of him I picked up the receiver, put it to my ear. 'You'd better come out now, time's up,' a flat, deadly voice said. 'They're calling your train, but you're not getting on that one - or any other.' 'Wh-where are talking from?' 'The next booth to yours,' the voice jeered. 'You forgot the glass inserts only reach halfway down.' The connection broke and a man's looming figure was shadowing the glass in front of my eyes, before I could even get the receiver back on the hook. I dropped it full-length, tensed my right arm to pound it through his face as soon as I shoved the glass aside. He had a revolver-bore for a top vest-button, trained on me. Two more had shown up behind him, from which direction I hadn't noticed. It was very dark in the booth now, their collective silhouettes shut out all the daylight. The station and all its friendly bustle was blotted out, had receded into the far background, a thousand miles away for all the help it could give me. I slapped the glass wearily aside, came slowly out. One of them flashed a badge - maybe Crow had loaned him his for the occasion. 'You're being arrested for putting slugs in that phone. It won't do any good to raise your voice and shriek for help, try to tell people different. But suit yourself.' I knew that as well as he; heads turned to stare after us by the dozens as they started with me in their midst through the station's main-level. But not one in all that crowd would have dared interfere with what they mistook for a legitimate arrest in the line of duty. The one with the badge kept it conspicuously tilted in his upturned palm, at sight of which the frozen onlookers slowly parted, made way for us through their midst. I was being led to my doom in full view of scores of people. ("Graves For The Living")

The first phase of the war was led by the IAF. It targeted Hamas rocket launchers, commanders and command posts that Hamas deliberately embedded in Gaza’s densely populated civilian neighborhoods. It placed its main headquarters in a hospital and its stockpiles of rockets and missiles in hospitals, schools and mosques, often using children as human shields. Before bombing these Hamas targets, in an effort to minimize civilian casualties the IDF issued warning to civilians to evacuate the premises. Hamas continued to rocket Israeli cities. I instructed the army to prepare for a ground operation to take out the tunnels. Our soldiers would be susceptible to Palestinian ground fire, booby traps, land mines and antitank missiles, some fired by terrorists emerging from underground. As casualties would inevitably mount on both sides in this door-to-door warfare, I realized that Israel would face growing international criticism. But there was no other choice. I called Obama, the first of many phone conversations we had during the operation. He said he supported Israel’s right of self-defense but was very clear on its limits. “Bibi,” he said, “we won’t support a ground action.” “Barack, I don’t want a ground action,” I said. “But if our intelligence shows that the terror tunnels are about to penetrate our territory, I won’t have a choice.” I repeated this conversation with the many foreign leaders whom I called and who called me, thus setting the international stage for a ground action. Most accepted what I said. The same could not be said for the international media. It hammered Israel on the growing number of Palestinian casualties from our air attacks, conveniently absolving Hamas of targeting Israeli civilians while hiding behind Palestinian civilians. The media also bought Hamas’s inflated numbers of Palestinian civilian casualties, and even its staging of fake funerals. We unmasked many of those being claimed as civilians as Hamas terrorists by providing their names, unit affiliation and other identifying data. I visited the IDF’s Southern Command to meet the brigade commanders who would lead the ground action. They were feverishly working on the means to locate and destroy the tunnels. They were brave, resolute and smart. They knew very well the dangers they and their men would face. So did their soldiers, many of whom did not return.

The phone rang and Chassie excused herself to answer it. Silence hung between them as heavy as snow clouds in a winter sky. Eventually, Edgard said, "She doesn't know anything about me. Not even that we were roping partners. Not that we were..." He looked at Trevor expectantly. "No." Trevor quickly glanced at the living room where Chassie was chattering away. "You surprised?" "Maybe that she isn't aware of our official association as roping partners. There was no shame in that. We were damn good together, Trev." The word shame echoed like a slap. As good as they were together, it'd never been enough, in an official capacity or behind closed doors. "What are you really doin' here?" Edgard didn't answer right away. "I don't know. Feeling restless. Had the urge to travel." "Wyoming ain't exactly an exotic port of call." "You think I don't realize that? You think I wouldn't rather be someplace else? But something..." Edgard lowered his voice. "Ah, fuck it." "What?" "Want the truth? Or would you rather I lie?" "The truth." "Truth between us? That's refreshing." Edgard's gaze trapped his. "I'm here because of you." Trevor's heart alternately stopped and soared, even when his answer was an indiscernible growl. "For Christsake, Ed. What the hell am I supposed to say to that? With my wife in the next room?" "You're making a big deal out of this. She thinks we're friends, which ain't a lie. We were partners before we were..." Edgard gestured distractedly. "If she gets the wrong idea, it won't be from me." "Maybe I'm gettin' the wrong idea. The last thing you said to me when you fuckin' left me was that you weren't ever comin' back. And you made it goddamn clear you didn't want to be my friend. So why are you here?" Pause. He traced the rim of his coffee cup with a shaking fingertip. "I heard about you gettin' married." "That happened over a year ago and you came all the way from Brazil to congratulate me in person? Now?" "No." Edgard didn't seem to know what to do with his hands. He raked his fingers through his hair. His voice was barely audible. "Will it piss you off if I admit I was curious about whether you're really happy, meu amore?" My love. My ass. Trevor snapped, "Yes." "Yes, you're pissed off? Or yes, you're happy?" "Both." "Then this is gonna piss you off even more." "What?" "Years and miles haven't changed anything between us and you goddamn well know it." Trevor looked up; Edgard's golden eyes were laser beams slicing him open. "It don't matter. If you can't be my friend while you're in my house, walk out the fuckin' door. I will not allow either one of us to hurt my wife. Got it?" "Yeah." "Good. And I'm done talkin' about this shit so don't bring it up again. Ever.

me to be honest about his failings as well as his strengths. She is one of the smartest and most grounded people I have ever met. “There are parts of his life and personality that are extremely messy, and that’s the truth,” she told me early on. “You shouldn’t whitewash it. He’s good at spin, but he also has a remarkable story, and I’d like to see that it’s all told truthfully.” I leave it to the reader to assess whether I have succeeded in this mission. I’m sure there are players in this drama who will remember some of the events differently or think that I sometimes got trapped in Jobs’s distortion field. As happened when I wrote a book about Henry Kissinger, which in some ways was good preparation for this project, I found that people had such strong positive and negative emotions about Jobs that the Rashomon effect was often evident. But I’ve done the best I can to balance conflicting accounts fairly and be transparent about the sources I used. This is a book about the roller-coaster life and searingly intense personality of a creative entrepreneur whose passion for perfection and ferocious drive revolutionized six industries: personal computers, animated movies, music, phones, tablet computing, and digital publishing. You might even add a seventh, retail stores, which Jobs did not quite revolutionize but did reimagine. In addition, he opened the way for a new market for digital content based on apps rather than just websites. Along the way he produced not only transforming products but also, on his second try, a lasting company, endowed with his DNA, that is filled with creative designers and daredevil engineers who could carry forward his vision. In August 2011, right before he stepped down as CEO, the enterprise he started in his parents’ garage became the world’s most valuable company. This is also, I hope, a book about innovation. At a time when the United States is seeking ways to sustain its innovative edge, and when societies around the world are trying to build creative digital-age economies, Jobs stands as the ultimate icon of inventiveness, imagination, and sustained innovation. He knew that the best way to create value in the twenty-first century was to connect creativity with technology, so he built a company where leaps of the imagination were combined with remarkable feats of engineering. He and his colleagues at Apple were able to think differently: They developed not merely modest product advances based on focus groups, but whole new devices and services that consumers did not yet know they needed. He was not a model boss or human being, tidily packaged for emulation. Driven by demons, he could drive those around him to fury and despair. But his personality and passions and products were all interrelated, just as Apple’s hardware and software tended to be, as if part of an integrated system. His tale is thus both instructive and cautionary, filled with lessons about innovation, character, leadership, and values.

Soon after I arrived on the island I had a run-in with my son’s first grade teacher due to my irreverent PJ sense of humor. When Billy lost a baby tooth I arranged the traditional parentchild Tooth Fairy ritual. Only six years old, Billy already suspected I was really the Tooth Fairy and schemed to catch me in the act. With each lost tooth, he was getting harder and harder to trick. To defeat my precocious youngster I decided on a bold plan of action. When I tucked him in I made an exaggerated show of placing the tooth under his pillow. I conspicuously displayed his tooth between my thumb and forefinger and slid my hand slowly beneath his pillow. Unbeknownst to him, I hid a crumpled dollar bill in the palm of my hand. With a flourish I pretended to place the tooth under Billy’s pillow, but with expert parental sleight of hand, I kept the tooth and deposited the dollar bill instead. I issued a stern warning not to try and stay awake to see the fairy and left Billy’s room grinning slyly. I assured him I would guard against the tricky fairy creature. I knew Billy would not be able to resist checking under his pillow. Sure enough, only a few minutes later he burst from his room wide-eyed with excitement. He clutched a dollar bill tightly in his fist and bounced around the room, “Dad! Dad! The fairy took my tooth and left a dollar!” I said, “I know son. I used my ninja skills and caught that thieving fairy leaving your room. I trapped her in a plastic bag and put her in the freezer.” Billy was even more excited and begged to see the captured fairy. I opened the freezer and gave him a quick glimpse of a large shrimp I had wrapped in plastic. Viewed through multiple layers of wrap, the shrimp kind of looked like a frozen fairy. I stressed the magnitude of the occasion, “Tooth fairies are magical, elusive little things with their wings and all. I think we are the first family ever to capture one!” Billy was hopping all over the house and it took me quite awhile to finally calm him down and get him to sleep. The next day I got an unexpected phone call at work. My son’s teacher wanted to talk to me about Billy, “Now what?” I thought. When I arrived at the school, Billy’s teacher met me at the door. Once we settled into her office, she explained she was worried about him. Earlier that day, Billy told his first grade class his father had killed the tooth fairy and had her in a plastic bag in the freezer. He was very convincing. Some little kids started to cry. I explained the previous night’s fairy drama to the teacher. I was chuckling—she was not. She looked at me as if I had a giant booger hanging out of a nostril. Despite the look, I could tell she was attracted to me so I told her no thanks, I already had a girlfriend. Her sputtering red face made me uncomfortable and I quickly left. Later I swore Billy to secrecy about our fairy hunting activities. For dinner that evening, we breaded and fried up a couple dozen fairies and ate them with cocktail sauce and fava beans.

Minerva’s heart sank as she realized just how far out of her depth she actually was. In less than an hour she had crossed over to a world of darkness and cruelty. And her own arrogance had led her to it. ‘Please,’ she said. She struggled to maintain her composure. ‘Please.’ Kong adjusted his grip on the knife. ‘Don’t look away now, little girl. Watch and remember who’s boss.’ Minerva could not avert her eyes. Her gaze was trapped by this terrible tableau. It was like a scene from a scary movie, complete with its own soundtrack. Minerva frowned. Real life did not have a soundtrack. There was music coming from somewhere. The somewhere proved to be Kong’s trouser pocket. His polyphonic phone was playing ‘The Toreador Song’ from Carmen. Kong pulled the phone from his pocket. ‘Who is this?’ he snapped. ‘My name is not important,’ said a youthful voice. ‘The important thing is that I have something you want.’ ‘How did you get this number?’ ‘I have a friend,’ replied the mystery caller. ‘He knows all the numbers. Now, to business. I believe you’re in the market for a demon?

Every day we curl over our phones, endlessly scrolling, falling deep into comparison traps, searching for superficial forms of validation in likes, mentions, and follows.

suite with the bookseller’s bag in hand, he laid the room key quietly on the front table. Down the hall he could see the bedroom door was still closed, so he went into the large sunlit living room. Hanging over the arm of the high-back chair was the half-read copy of the previous day’s Herald. On the coffee table was the bowl of fruit missing an apple and the towering arrangement of flowers. All were precisely where they had been in the smaller room on the second floor. — The previous night, after his meeting in the City, he had gone to a little spot he liked in Kensington where Eve was to meet him for dinner. He had arrived on time and ordered a whiskey and soda assuming she would be a few minutes late. But near the bottom of his second glass, he began to worry. Could she have gotten lost? Had she forgotten the name of the restaurant or the time they were to meet? He considered going back to the hotel, but what if she was already en route? As he was weighing what he should do, the hostess approached with the phone. It was Claridge’s. For the first time in ten years, the manager explained somberly, the hotel’s lift had malfunctioned. Miss Ross had been trapped between floors

AGES 4 TO 5: IMPORTANT NAMES AND NUMBERS. When your child reaches this age, safety skills are high on the list. She should: • know her full name, address, and phone number • know how to make an emergency call She should also be able to: • perform simple cleaning chores such as dusting in easy-to-reach places and clearing the table after meals • feed pets • identify monetary denominations, and understand the very basic concept of how money is used • brush her teeth, comb her hair, and wash her face without assistance • help with basic laundry chores, such as putting her clothes away and bringing her dirty clothes to the laundry area • choose her own clothes to wear

AGES 8 TO 9: PRIDE IN PERSONAL BELONGINGS. By this time, your child should take pride in her personal belongings and take care of them properly. This includes being able to: • fold her clothes • learn simple sewing • care for outdoor toys such as her bike or roller skates • take care of personal hygiene without being told to do so • use a broom and dustpan properly • read a recipe and prepare a simple meal • help create a grocery list • count and make change • take written phone messages • help with simple lawn duties such as watering and weeding flower beds • take out the trash

Today, we’re going to start practicing something that’s simultaneously simple and hard: being still. We tend to think of stillness as being synonymous with boredom, and it’s true that we often use both words to describe the same state of mind. But while the word boredom carries with it an element of feeling trapped, stillness offers an opportunity for peace. As Pema Chödrön writes in her book, When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times, “If we immediately entertain ourselves by talking, by acting, by thinking—if there’s never any pause—we will never be able to relax. We will always be speeding through our lives.

For two months and thirteen days, not one person I saw acknowledged me in any way. I wasn't allowed out. I had no access to the internet or a phone and no one even spoke in my presence. I existed as a ghost in my father's home, scavenging food from the kitchen at night once I managed to stomach it at all. It was...perhaps the worst punishment I have ever suffered at his hands. You cannot fully comprehend the loneliness of a little boy trapped and-

The Cover-Ups By now, most discerning conservative Americans know that anyone who is a part of the Deep-State Cabal receives the protection of the men and women within their inner-circle. A prime example is Hillary Clinton. Much of what she did with her personal servers and e-mails broke federal laws. She placed a personal server in her closet that held several classified e-mails that, by law, were only to be on a government-protected classified server. She then erased tens of thousands of e-mails to prevent them from being downloaded by investigators. She had her computer hard drive wiped clean to prevent professionals from finding what she had written, and she destroyed phones. She broke election laws by contacting a foreign government and paying for fake information to trap Trump. There are also questionable donations for the Clinton Foundation from world leaders to perhaps gain political favors. Despite all of this, why was she protected and never charged for criminal misconduct?

Virgil held intricate unconventional beliefs, not necessarily Christian, but not necessarily un-Christian, either, derived from his years of studying nature, and his earlier years, his childhood years, with the Bible. God, he suspected, might not be a steady-state consciousness, omnipotent, omnipresent, timeless. God might be like a wave front, moving into an unknowable future; human souls might be like neurons, cells of God’s own intelligence. . . . Far out, dude; pass the joint. Whatever God was, Virgil seriously doubted that he worried too much about profanity, sex, or even death. He left the world alone, people alone, each to work out a separate destiny. And he stranded people like Virgil, who wonder about the unseen world, but were trapped in their own animal passions, and operated out of moralities that almost certainly weren’t God’s own, if, indeed, he had one. Virgil further worried that he was a guy who simply wanted to eat his cake, and have it, too—his philosophy, as a born-again once pointed out to him, pretty much allowed him to carry on as he wished, like your average godless commie. He got to “godless commie” and went to sleep. And worried in his sleep. FIVE HOURS LATER, his cell phone went off, and he sat bolt upright, fumbled around for it, found it in his jeans pocket, on the floor at the foot of the bed.

By their very nature, startups exist to bring new ideas to the market. In their quest for unique products, however, many entrepreneurs fall into what might be called the “technology trap.” Because technology permits something new to be accomplished, the entrepreneur presumes that a need for that something new will emerge. This often appears to be the “logic of invention.” The cell phone comes to mind. We didn’t know we needed it until it appeared.

Was she wearing a tracking tag?” “She tends to get blackout drunk. At least with a tracking tag, if she can’t figure out where she is in the morning or loses her phone, I can find her.” I gawked at her. “Seriously? Even here?” She shrugged. “Levi’s not exactly the most responsible person. If she wanders off, I’m sure he just grabs the closest girl to warm his bed.

When she had interviewed him, she’d traced a discreet rune on his phone case. It was sketchy magic, but it should have given her access to the phone’s GPS. The problem was that it wasn’t working. His location kept spinning, like when you call an Uber and it’s suddenly trapped in another dimension.

Tilting my head, I asked, “What are you doing?” Smirking he looked over the top of his phone screen. “Needed a new screensaver.

You don’t understand. The night I slept with him, I found his phone while searching for my clothes.” She made a show of an exaggerated gasp. “Oh dear lord, he has a phone? How dare he!

I only wish I had my phone out to record that. Would probably become the next viral sensation.

Your phone can be your sidekick or your worst enemy—choose wisely! It's a gadget that can keep you connected, help you learn, and organize your life, but it can also pull you into a black hole of mindless scrolling and endless notifications. Be careful how you wield that power! Your phone should be a tool, not a trap. Use it to level up, not to lose hours to memes and drama. Remember, you’re in control of your screen time—don’t let your phone turn into your digital overlord!

Daniel Inouye, a nisei senior at McKinley High School long before he became a U.S. senator, furiously pedaled his bike to help at an aid station. He looked up into the sky and said to himself: “You dirty Japs!” On cruiser San Francisco an engineer came topside to join Ensign John Parrott. “I thought I’d come up and die with you.” Rear Admiral William Furlong stood on the bridge wing on Helena. A gunner called: “Excuse me, admiral, would you mind moving so we can shoot through here?” An officer playing golf went into a sand trap after his ball to find a soldier there shooting a rifle into the air. A bomb blew off a comer of a guardhouse. The inmates rushed out to help set up a .50 caliber machine gun. The phone rang in a Hickam hangar and someone reflexively picked it up. The caller wanted to know what all the noise was about. Kimmel stood in a window at his headquarters as a spent bullet tumbled in the window and hit him on the chest, smudging his whites. “It would have been better if it killed me,” he said. Down the hall Layton, Kimmel’s intelligence officer, caught sight of Admiral Bye who the day before had said the Japanese would never attack the United States. He was wearing a life jacket, his whites smeared with oil, staring wordlessly into the middle distance. “Soc” McMorris appeared: “Well, Layton, if it’s any satisfaction to you, we were wrong and you were right.” •

How did you learn to ballroom dance? That’s quite an accomplishment for a boy your age.” “My mom taught me.” He glanced at her. The anger had faded from his eyes. “I’m pretty good.” “I’m not surprised.” She liked the way he’d perked up. It was good to see his confidence emerging. Too bad he couldn’t showcase his talent for tomorrow’s audience. She was certain it would be beneficial. “Is there anything else you could do for the show? What other talents do you have?” Max shrugged. “Nothing, really.” His feet shuffled under the table. “’Cept being a goalie and building boat models, but I can’t do those for a talent show.” “Is there some other kind of dance you could do?” “It’s too late to come up with a new dance. The show’s tomorrow. Besides, it’s for a parent and their child.” His eyes pulled down at the corners, and he ducked his head. “I wish I could help, but I don’t know how to ballroom dance. I guess it wouldn’t be the same without your mom anyway.” His head lifted. Hope sparkled in his eyes. “You could learn.” “Oh, I—I think it would take longer than a day, Max.” Meridith laughed uneasily. “Especially for me.” His head and shoulders seemed to sink. “I guess you’re right. I only know how to lead, and I don’t know how to teach it.” “I know how.” Jake appeared in the doorway, filling it with his broad shoulders and tall frame. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop.” “He could teach you!” Max’s eyes widened. He looked back and forth between Jake and Meridith. “Oh,” Meridith said, “We couldn’t ask—” “I’m offering,” Jake said. “I can be here bright and early tomorrow morning.” Max’s dimple hollowed his cheek. “No, I—you don’t understand, the show’s tomorrow night, and I’m a bad dancer.” Jake leaned against the doorframe, crossed his arms. “You said you wanted to help.” “Well, I do, but I don’t see how—you know how to ballroom dance?” The notion suddenly struck her as unlikely. “I can do more than swing a hammer.” “I didn’t mean—” “So you’ll do it?” Max bounced on the chair. She hadn’t seen him this excited since she’d arrived. She looked at Jake. At his wide shoulders, thick arms, sturdy calloused hands. She remembered the look in his eyes just minutes ago and imagined herself trapped in the confines of his embrace for as long as it took her to learn the dance. Which would be about, oh, a few years. “And why would you do this?” It wasn’t as if he owed her anything. Unless he was punching the time clock on the lessons. “Let’s just say I was picked on a time or two myself.” Max rubbed his hands together. “Toby and Travis, eat your heart out!” “Now, hold on. We already missed dress rehearsals. I don’t know if Mrs. Wilcox will let us slip in last minute.” “Call her,” Jake said. He had all the answers, didn’t he? She spared him a scowl as she slid past on her way to the phone. “Hi, Mrs. Wilcox? This is Meridith Ward again.” She looked over her shoulder. Max waited, Jake standing behind him, thumbs hooked in his jeans pockets, looking all smug. “I was wondering. If Max can get a replacement for the dance, could he still participate?” Please say no. “I know he’s missing dress rehearsals and—” “That would be no problem whatsoever.” Mrs. Wilcox sounded delighted. “We’d fit him in and be glad to have him. Have you found him another partner?” “Uh, looks like we have.” She thanked Mrs. Wilcox and hung up, then turned to face a hopeful Max. “What did she say?” he asked. Meridith swallowed hard. “She said they could work you back into the schedule.” She cast Jake a plea. “But I don’t know if I can do this. I wasn’t kidding, I have no rhythm whatsoever.” “Look at the kid. You can’t say no to that.” Max was grinning from ear to ear. It was Meridith’s shoulders that slunk now. Heaven help her. She winced and forced the words. “All right. I’ll do it.” Max let out a whoop and threw his arms around her.

Well as long as you’re in the game, you should figure out your special ability.” “I don’t think I have a special ability.” “Sure you do! Every Wild Thing has a special ability. Like there’s one that can call down lightning, there’s one that has poison burps, one that does tornadoes.” “I don’t think I can do any of those things.” “Well, you can probably do something. You should try figuring it out. While you’re at it, maybe you could sneak into the cafeteria and let me know what’s for dessert today.” “I’m not doing that.” “Fine, but if you happen to see a Golden Hawkwadoodle…” “Just go to class.” Eric gave me a thumbs up and put his phone in his pocket. Then he looked back in my direction and waved his hand where he remembered my face being. “Man, this is cool!” Eric exclaimed as he turned to walk to class. Alone at last, I took a breath and looked around. Mr. Gregory had seen me get on the bus, so he’d probably be at the school soon. All I had to do was stay away from anyone playing Go Wild until then. In the meantime… I looked at my hands. Did I really have special powers? I squinted really hard and tried to shoot fire from my eyes like the snake. Nothing happened. I burped. Smelly but not poisonous. I pressed my finger against my palm like Spider-Man, got mad like the Hulk and clenched my fists like Wolverine. Zip, zero, nada. This was stupid. After being up for half the night, I needed a nap, not a superpower. I yawned and stretched my arms. SWOOOOOOOOOSH!

Eric immediately turned around and tried to run back out the door. BONK! He bounced off the door. He tried the wall. Same result. “I’m sorry, but we’ve locked everything down,” Jevvrey said. Eric spun around. Jevvrey was looking at him through the futuristic glasses. He waved to Eric. “Bluetooth Go Wild goggles. $99.99. Available soon for pre-order.” I looked around the room. Jevvrey had added a few things since I’d last seen it. For one, he was sitting on a swivel chair in front of a six-foot-tall black rectangle in the middle of the room. It looked like one of those supercomputers from the movies with switches and buttons and blinking lights all over it. The other thing was Mr. Gregory, sitting at his desk in front of a laptop, looking miserable. “I was hoping you’d make it in time,” Jevvrey said. “In time for what?” “We’re about to find out what happens at the end of the game!” Jevvrey took out his phone and tapped on the screen. “Mark?” Eric asked. Jevvrey nodded. “He’s fading fast now.” He turned the phone around so we could see it. Mark was fading. Not like his health or anything — he was actually disappearing

Anybody with a phone can battle and imprison you forever.” “Well I would like very much for that not to happen to me.” “Right, so you need to avoid people who are playing the game.” “How do I know if someone’s playing the game?” “Well, for example, if they’re walking while staring at their

When did we revert back to sticks and shields, Uniform uniforms, stylized agenda reveals, Hiding behind glass with nods to our reflection, Blocking out the light that sparked the deception? Who do we see staring across the isle, A path once for feet now stretched into miles, Removed from our view to a place unseen, Forcing poisonous venom through a flickering screen? Where should we gather outside of the homes, But a place for the masses to manifest from their phones, The hatred and evil broadcasting the waves, Telling you daily, “Elvis lives and Jesus saves”? What could restart a flawed mental state, Built on cause and guilt for an unfulfilled faith In policy, redemption, a nation self aware, Our values compressed and trapped in despair? How can we rise with the odds in their favor, Sedated once more, still waiting for a Savior Willing to spare from thoughts profound? Stand tall, my friends, when the fool comes around.

The Research Excellence Framework is starting to ask what sorts of curiosity our culture can afford, and that scares me even more than the demise of the silly survey because it strikes at the heart of what it means to be civilised, to have instincts other than survival. If academic endeavour had always been vetted in advance for practicality, we wouldn’t have the aeroplane or the iPhone, just a better mammoth trap.

As soon as my friends and I start dating for real, we enter an exhausting paradox – a belief that, in love, everything is not as it seems: the conviction that there is a common state of affairs whereby a man can be madly in love with you and wish to spend the rest of his life with you, but will indicate this in a variety of ways so subtle, only the truly talented and determined will discern his true desires. Like it’s The Da Vinci Code, and when a man takes you out to dinner, gets off with you, then doesn’t call for two weeks, there’s a secret challenge he’s setting you that – with enough algebra, consultation of ancient scrolls, and wailing on the phone to your female friends – you can decode and, eventually, get married, i.e., win… .You can always tell when a woman is with the wrong man, because she has so much to say about the fact that nothing’s happening. When women find the right person, on the other hand, they just… disappear for six months, and then resurface, eyes shiny, and usually about six pounds heavier. “So what’s he like?” you will say, waiting for the usual cloudburst of things he says and things he does and requests of analysis of what you think it means that his favorite film is Star Wars (“Trapped in adolescence – or in touch with his inner child?”). But she will be oddly quiet. “It’s just… good,” she will say. “I’m really happy.

Hello? Baby?” I said anxiously. “Um, I don’t think I’m who you think I am,” said a voice on the other end. “This is Gwendolyn LeRoux—you know, the witch you hired? You wanted me to find the identity of the person who bought the cursed trap that was planted on your land.” “Oh, Gwendolyn, right.” I could feel myself deflating. “Look, now really isn’t the best time, so—” “Now, I know Taylor said you’ve already pretty much figured it out,” she went on. “But there’s something beneath the obvious—something big I think you should know about.” “Wait a minute—back up,” I said. “When did Taylor say that? When did you talk to her?” “Last night.” She suddenly sounded guarded. “Look, I’m sorry it didn’t work out between the two of you. I hope you know the role I played was strictly professional—I have no interest in taking sides.” “What role did you play?” I growled, tightening my grip on the phone case until it creaked in my hand. “What did you do to her, Gwendolyn? What did you fucking do?” “I only did what she asked me to do,” she said levelly. “Like I said, it’s not personal and it’s not what I’m calling you about. I need to tell you something about the person who put the trap on your land.” “I’ll be right there,” I snapped.

People I interviewed—and I don’t have to back up this claim because you know people like this, too—have developed emotional and sexual relationships with their computers and handheld devices. We are building our sexual fantasies around machines. The chilly glow of the iPhone establishes in our thoughts a subconscious desire to interact with it more and more. If Pavlov were alive he would study arousal patterns around that cobalt illumination.

the best messaging system yet. One where SMS and non-SMS messages, all calls, come to all your devices automatically. It only had one major flaw. It’s trapped on an iPhone.

While the phone was handy, I also called Wendy and got her mother again. She said that Wendy had a sore throat and couldn’t talk. I wasn’t about to quit that easily. “Can she listen?” I asked. “I’ll do the talking, and she can tap once for yes and twice for no.” Mrs. Westfall laughed. “I’m serious. Can she do that?” “Only for a minute. I’ll get her.” The next thing I heard was a whispered, “Hi.” “No talking,” Mrs. Westfall called out. “Hi, Wendy. Did your mom tell you the code? One tap for yes, two for no, three if you’re being held prisoner against your will.” Three quick taps from her. “That’s what I figured. Well, you haven’t missed much at school. Same old stuff. Somebody tried to assassinate Mr. Crowell, but he was wearing a bulletproof vest. And then when the cops came, they found marijuana growing in the teacher’s lounge. But all the evidence was destroyed in the fire. I guess you heard that the whole junior class was trapped in the auditorium and got wiped out. All except for Delbert Markusson. He was out in the parking lot, sneaking a smoke. So Delbert’s now junior class president. He’s also vice-president and secretary. He says the junior prom may be canceled, or he may have it over at his house—if he can find a date.” “Wind it up,” Mrs. Westfall said. “Are you going to be back tomorrow?” Two taps. “How about Monday?” One loud tap. “I’m going to San Francisco this weekend. Shall I send you a postcard?” Tap. “I’ll see you on Monday.” She tapped, then hung up. “Are you in love with Eddie Carter?” I said into the dead phone. I gave the receiver a loud slap.

Bill Kelley, a Bloomberg employee, waited minutes before replying on his BlackBerry to a relative asking: “Bill, are you OK?” At 9:23 a.m. Kelley sent the last message of his life from the Windows on the World restaurant on top of the World Trade Center. “So far … we’re trapped on the 106th floor, but apparently [the] fire department is almost here.”5 These messages are a sample of a vast collection of e-mails sent on September 11, 2001, and later shared with news media or stored in a 9/11 digital archive owned by the Library of Congress. Many of the e-mails were dispatched by BlackBerrys. For trapped or fleeing workers, BlackBerrys were the only reliable communication link in lower Manhattan. After the first plane knocked out cell towers on top of the World Trade Center, cell and landline circuits were overwhelmed. Paging companies lost many of their frequencies, and phone lines went dead for hundreds of thousands of Verizon customers6 when a call-switching center, several cell towers, and fiber-optic links were smashed by debris from a collapsed building.7

After the September 11th tragedy in New York City, people began to tell others what their loved ones, who had been trapped in the twin towers in New York, had said to them in frantic telephone conversations or email messages. Those who received calls from mobile phones from the doomed planes also told their stories. Some re-listened to messages left on answerphones. And as they shared their experiences, it was immediately evident that the same three words kept coming up time and time again. Those words did not refer to size of salary or bonuses, nor to the type of car recently purchased or expensive holidays taken. No. Lovers said them to lovers, husbands to wives, friends to friends and parents to kids: ‘I love you.’ ‘Tell Suzanne, I love her.

For no other reason than because I was anxious and bored, I took out my cell phone and tried to call her again. It still didn’t work. “That won’t work in here,” Samantha said in her slow and happy voice. “Yes, I know,” I said. “Then you should stop trying,” she said. I know I was new to having human feelings, but I was pretty certain that the one she was inspiring in me was annoyance verging on loathing. “Is that what you’ve done?” I said. “Given up?” She shook her head slowly with a kind of low-pitched two-syllable chuckle. “No way,” she said. “Not me.” “Then for God’s sake, why are you doing this? Why did you trap me in here and now you just sit there and smirk?” She

Once you understand the logic behind modern schooling, its tricks and traps are fairly easy to avoid. School trains children to be employees and consumers; teach yours to be leaders and adventurers. School trains children to obey reflexively; teach yours to think critically and independently. Well-schooled kids have a low threshold for boredom; help your own to develop an inner life so that they'll never be bored. Urge them to take on the serious material, the grown-up material, in history, literature, philosophy, music, art, economics, theology — all the stuff schoolteachers know well enough to avoid. Challenge your kids with plenty of solitude so that they can learn to enjoy their own company, to conduct inner dialogues. Well-schooled people are conditioned to dread being alone; they seek constant companionship through the TV, the computer, the cell phone, and through shallow friendships quickly acquired, quickly abandoned. Your children should have a more important life, and they can. Don't let your own children have their childhoods extended, not even for a day. If David Farragut could take command of a captured British warship as a preteen, if Ben Franklin could apprentice himself to a printer at the same age, . . . there's no telling what your own kids could do. (p. xxii) — John Taylor Gatto, Weapons of Mass Instruction

My phone buzzed in my pocket, but I did not move. He did a slow three-sixty until his eyes settled on the taco stand. A middle-aged Latina was ordering food. The red-haired cop was forty yards away, but I still saw the lines that trapped his eyes like spiderwebs. The

Exercise 1: A Happy Moment First of all, make sure you are in a quiet place, with no distractions.  Put your phone away, switch the TV off, and give this a shot. What I want you to do is to close your eyes and think back to a time you were positive, relaxed or optimistic. A happy moment. Maybe you were spending time with a loved one, or on holiday. It doesn't matter how long ago it was; yesterday, last week, or 20 years ago. Perhaps it was a time when you were a child. No matter how long ago it was, try to remember exactly how you felt, physically and emotionally. Don't put too much thought into how you feel – just relax in reliving this happy moment. Feel free to smile or laugh out loud as you do it, and at the same time don't worry if your mind wanders a little; slowly and gently bring your thoughts back to this sheer sense of bliss. Try this for just five minutes. When you have finished turn the page and try the next step. Finished? Great! So, after that five minutes, how do you feel? Take your notebook (or at the very least a sheet of paper if you can't find a book) and write down the answer to the following question. If you could sum up your emotions during those five minutes, what three words would you use? (i.e. happy, confident, relaxed.) Use whatever words you feel are most appropriate. Sometimes words may be hard to come by; if you can't think of any words you might decide to draw or sketch how you felt. That's okay too. Don't spend too long on writing this down – a minute or two should be fine. Once you're done, let's move on to the next exercise.

technique I’ve found particularly helpful for dealing with this distraction trap is the “ten-minute rule.” If I find myself wanting to check my phone as a pacification device when I can’t think of anything better to do, I tell myself it’s fine to give in, but not right now. I have to wait just ten minutes. This technique is effective at helping me deal with all sorts of potential distractions, like googling something rather than writing, eating something unhealthy when I’m bored, or watching another episode on Netflix when I’m “too tired to go to bed.

A technique I’ve found particularly helpful for dealing with this distraction trap is the “ten-minute rule.” If I find myself wanting to check my phone as a pacification device when I can’t think of anything better to do, I tell myself it’s fine to give in, but not right now. I have to wait just ten minutes. This technique is effective at helping me deal with all sorts of potential distractions, like googling something rather than writing, eating something unhealthy when I’m bored, or watching another episode on Netflix when I’m “too tired to go to bed.” This rule allows time to do what some behavioral psychologists call “surfing the urge.

bringing in folding chairs to place in the aisles. She didn’t know Reverend Kelley, but she had met his elder daughter, Kim Randall, through her community service, and her heart went out to the Kelley family. The life of every clergyman in the region was at risk, including Dewan’s life, a thought she could hardly bear. But everyone had to be wondering who the killer would target as his next victim. With her head held high and a brave expression on her face, she entered the sanctuary and found her spot in the front row between Deacon Fuqua and his wife, Dionne. She leaned across and spoke to the deacon. “Should someone adjust the air-conditioning? With so many people packed inside the church, it’s bound to get hot.” “It’s being done,” Deacon Fuqua told her. “Can you believe this crowd? I see God’s hand in this prayer vigil that Dewan organized.” “God’s hand is in everything my husband does,” she said. A flurry of activity up on the podium at the front of the sanctuary gained Tasha’s attention. The members of the choir, decked out in their white and gold robes, were taking their places and preparing to sing God’s praises. She closed her eyes, her every thought a prayer for all those whose hearts were heavy tonight. Patsy and Elliott Floyd had arrived in time to find seats in the middle aisle, a few pews from the back of the building. As she glanced around, Patsy was pleased to see so many of her parishioners here this evening. She had sent out e-mails to the entire congregation and made numerous personal phone calls. Tonight’s prayer vigil was of great importance on several different levels. First and foremost, Bruce Kelley needed the combined strength of this type of group praying. Second, holding this vigil at the black Baptist church went a long way toward bridging the gap between black and white Christians in the area. Third, this was an example of how all churches, regardless of their doctrine, could support one another. And coming together to pray for one of their own would bring strength and comfort to the ministers and their families who were living each day with fear in their hearts. As they sat quietly side by side, Elliott reached between them and took her hand in his. They had been married for nearly thirty years, and they had stayed together through thick and thin. They had argued often in the early years, mostly because Elliott had never been at home and she’d been trapped there with two toddlers. She had not been as understanding as she should have been. After all, Elliott had been holding down a part-time job and putting

Take for another example the case of distraction caused by the most notorious of modern-day diversions—the mobile phone. While you’re at your desk, typing away on your computer for a soon-due report—or attempting to, more like—your phone sits just beside your keyboard. This arrangement makes it oh-so-easy for your hand to alight on your phone whenever you pause to think what to type next, and the next thing you know, you’re trapped in an endless cycle of scrolling through Facebook memes, bingeing on YouTube videos, and chatting with your friends over WhatsApp. When you attempt to concentrate on a task with your phone just within sight and reach, buzzing on every notification, you are practically depleting your willpower to resist temptations with every second that passes. To remedy the situation, disable your phone’s sound and vibration features for notifications, then keep your phone in your bag or drawer. You may even opt to go the extra mile by locking your drawer or putting your phone in a locker across the room. The extra effort and time it would take for you to check your phone whenever your attention drifts off is usually enough to deter you from pursuing that distraction, and it allows you the chance to refocus your efforts on the task at hand. Ultimately, you want to create an environment for yourself that is clear of distractions and obvious temptations.

You texted Garcia for help?" Jack gritted out. "Garcia? Not me?" "He has a gun." "So do I." "He's steady and reliable," I said. "He doesn't disappear for eight months. He doesn't go on business trips that require burner phones and secret codes. He doesn't refuse to tell me what he does for a living. I texted HELP and I knew he'd come. I wasn't sure about you." "You don't think I would have come if you'd texted me for help?" Indignation laced Jack's tone. "For all I knew, you were being tossed out a window in Rio, tortured by the Italian Mafia in Tuscany, or you were in the North Sea trapped in a Russian submarine." "The Italian Mafia are based in Sicily," he corrected me. "Tuscany doesn't have the port access they need for the drug trade." I folded my arms and sighed. "You missed the point entirely.

If you’re hiding a secret love child, now would be a great time to come clean. I’m about to have unrestricted access to your phone.

Our fingers brushed as I transferred the phone into her grasp, and I felt the connection travel up my arm, settling over my heart. I knew then that I couldn’t walk away from this girl if I tried. There was something deeper to be discovered between us, and I was curious to find out what that was.

I would have to set a reminder on my phone to rub one out before she came over tonight because there was no way I would last more than sixty seconds with that vixen in my bed.

Fifty bucks? For what? To ride in a hot, filthy death trap that stinks of pine freshener and whatever disgusting Middle Eastern camel shit you’re chewing on? Fifty bucks so I can listen to you rant nonstop on your cell phone with the rest of your goddamn terrorist network? I’ll give you thirty-five, and you’re lucky I’m not a suicide bomber, or I’d blow your ass to Mecca and back.

MOST RELIABLE BITCOIN RECOVERY COMPANY-CODER CYBER SERVICES Despite some difficult days, I observed encouraging returns. Small things like getting cookies from the office kitchen still brought me joy. Life was moving forward, and my investments seemed to be paying off. I had started adding more money to an online platform, eager to optimize my gains. Who wouldn’t want to maximize returns when things were going so well? The platform had appeared legitimate at first, and I was excited about the steady progress my account was showing. But then, everything suddenly vanished One morning, I logged into my account to check on my investments, only to be greeted by a stark message: “Account temporarily unavailable.” I refreshed the page, tried a different browser, and even attempted to log in from my phone all to no avail. My heart sank as I realized that the funds I had worked hard to grow seemed to have disappeared. After several failed attempts to contact customer service, I eventually received a vague email from the online platform. The message instructed me to stop interacting with the platform and suggested that I attempt a bank reversal for any deposits made. However, by this point, too much time had passed, and the window for initiating a reversal had long since closed. I felt trapped. The money I had invested seemed inaccessible, and the promise of returns that once felt so certain was now nothing more than a distant memory. Desperate for answers, I reported the situation to the Federal Trade Commission (FTC), hoping that their intervention might shed some light on what had happened and bring accountability to the platform. I also began sharing my experience on online forums and social media, hoping to raise awareness and prevent others from falling into the same trap. Still, I knew that waiting for a regulatory response could take time, and I wasn’t ready to give up on recovering my funds. In my frustration, I sought out a professional service called Coder Cyber Services. Known for their expertise in recovering funds from online platforms with questionable practices, they offered a more hands-on approach. I reached out to them, hoping they could help expedite the process of retrieving my blocked payout requests. The process with Coder Cyber Services was slow, each step unfolding like a puzzle with more questions than answers. Communication from their team was sparse, and the uncertainty began to take a toll on my patience. Yet, I couldn’t give up. The professionals at Coder Cyber Services assured me they were doing everything they could, and their experience gave me hope that my case could be resolved. After weeks of waiting, my persistence paid off. Coder Cyber Services successfully helped me recover my money. Their expertise and determination turned a seemingly hopeless situation around. I finally saw the funds I thought were lost returned to my account, which was an incredible relief. Reflecting on this experience, I’ve learned several valuable lessons. The most important is the necessity of caution when dealing with online platforms. While the potential for high returns is tempting, it’s crucial to ensure that any platform you trust with your money is reputable. My decision to invest without enough research or due diligence is a mistake I will never repeat. I also learned the importance of acting quickly. Time is often the enemy when dealing with financial platforms, especially those with questionable practices. Though my journey is still ongoing, this experience has made me more resilient. I will continue to approach future investments with greater caution, vigilance, and a commitment to understanding the risks involved. And I’ll always be grateful to Coder Cyber Services for helping me recover what I thought was lost for good. Get in touch with the company via: Whatsapp: +1 (672) 648-1781 Thank you, Smith.

MOST RELIABLE BITCOIN RECOVERY COMPANY-CODER CYBER SERVICES Despite some difficult days, I observed encouraging returns. Small things like getting cookies from the office kitchen still brought me joy. Life was moving forward, and my investments seemed to be paying off. I had started adding more money to an online platform, eager to optimize my gains. Who wouldn’t want to maximize returns when things were going so well? The platform had appeared legitimate at first, and I was excited about the steady progress my account was showing. But then, everything suddenly vanished. One morning, I logged into my account to check on my investments, only to be greeted by a stark message: “Account temporarily unavailable.” I refreshed the page, tried a different browser, and even attempted to log in from my phone all to no avail. My heart sank as I realized that the funds I had worked hard to grow seemed to have disappeared. After several failed attempts to contact customer service, I eventually received a vague email from the online platform. The message instructed me to stop interacting with the platform and suggested that I attempt a bank reversal for any deposits made. However, by this point, too much time had passed, and the window for initiating a reversal had long since closed. I felt trapped. The money I had invested seemed inaccessible, and the promise of returns that once felt so certain was now nothing more than a distant memory. Desperate for answers, I reported the situation to the Federal Trade Commission (FTC), hoping that their intervention might shed some light on what had happened and bring accountability to the platform. I also began sharing my experience on online forums and social media, hoping to raise awareness and prevent others from falling into the same trap. Still, I knew that waiting for a regulatory response could take time, and I wasn’t ready to give up on recovering my funds. In my frustration, I sought out a professional service called Coder Cyber Services. Known for their expertise in recovering funds from online platforms with questionable practices, they offered a more hands-on approach. I reached out to them, hoping they could help expedite the process of retrieving my blocked payout requests. The process with Coder Cyber Services was slow, each step unfolding like a puzzle with more questions than answers. Communication from their team was sparse, and the uncertainty began to take a toll on my patience. Yet, I couldn’t give up. The professionals at Coder Cyber Services assured me they were doing everything they could, and their experience gave me hope that my case could be resolved. After weeks of waiting, my persistence paid off. Coder Cyber Services successfully helped me recover my money. Their expertise and determination turned a seemingly hopeless situation around. I finally saw the funds I thought were lost returned to my account, which was an incredible relief. Reflecting on this experience, I’ve learned several valuable lessons. The most important is the necessity of caution when dealing with online platforms. While the potential for high returns is tempting, it’s crucial to ensure that any platform you trust with your money is reputable. My decision to invest without enough research or due diligence is a mistake I will never repeat. I also learned the importance of acting quickly. Time is often the enemy when dealing with financial platforms, especially those with questionable practices. Though my journey is still ongoing, this experience has made me more resilient. I will continue to approach future investments with greater caution, vigilance, and a commitment to understanding the risks involved. And I’ll always be grateful to Coder Cyber Services for helping me recover what I thought was lost for good. Get in touch with the company via: Email: support @ codercyberservices.com website: https: //codercyberservices .com Thank you, Smith.

Buy Verified eBay Accounts: Is It Worth the Risk? Picture this: you’re scrolling through eBay, eyeing a cool vintage jacket or maybe planning to sell your old comic book collection. eBay’s like a giant online garage sale where you can buy or sell almost anything. It’s super popular, but some folks want a shortcut—they’re thinking about buying verified eBay accounts to skip the hassle. Sounds tempting, right? But is it a smart move or a risky trap? Let’s dive into the world of eBay, explore why people buy verified accounts, and figure out if it’s worth it. Spoiler: there’s a safer way to shop and sell like a pro! buy ebay account from websmmsells.com Contact US➤Email: websmmsells@gmail.com➤Telegram: @websmmsells➤WhatsApp: +1 (450) 233–016 What Is eBay and Why Do People Love It? eBay is an online marketplace where buyers and sellers connect from all over the world. It’s been around since 1995, and it’s like the granddaddy of online shopping. You can find everything from rare sneakers to antique lamps, often at bargain prices. Sellers list items, buyers bid or buy outright, and eBay handles the rest. It’s like a bustling flea market, but you don’t have to leave your couch. Millions use eBay because it’s easy, fun, and packed with deals. eBay’s Key Features What makes eBay so awesome? For one, it’s got auctions where you can bid on items and maybe score a steal. Don’t want to wait? Use the “Buy It Now” option to grab something instantly. eBay also offers buyer protection, so if your item doesn’t arrive, you’re covered. Sellers love eBay’s global reach—your old guitar could end up in Japan! Plus, eBay’s mobile app makes it a breeze to shop or list items on the go. It’s like having a store in your pocket. What Does a Verified eBay Account Mean? A verified eBay account is one that eBay has checked and confirmed as legit. Verification is like getting a gold star—it shows you’re a real person, not a scammer. For buyers, it means safer transactions. For sellers, it unlocks higher selling limits and builds trust with customers. Verified accounts are less likely to get flagged or restricted, so you can shop or sell with confidence. Think of it like earning a badge that says, “I’m the real deal!” How Verification Works on eBay Verifying your eBay account isn’t rocket science, but it takes a few steps. When you sign up, eBay asks for basic info like your name and email. To fully verify, you might need to link a payment method (like a credit card or PayPal) or confirm your phone number. Sometimes, eBay requests extra details to make sure you’re not a bot or a fraudster. It’s like showing your ID at a concert to prove you belong there. Once verified, you’re ready to buy or sell without limits. Details Needed for Verification To get verified, eBay typically asks for your full name, address, and phone number. You might also need to link a bank account, credit card, or PayPal for payments. In some cases, eBay may request a government-issued ID or proof of address, like a utility bill. Don’t freak out—eBay keeps your info secure. It’s like giving your details to a bank, but way faster. Just make sure everything matches, or you might hit a snag. Why Do People Want to Buy Verified eBay Accounts? So, why are some folks tempted to buy verified eBay accounts? It’s all about speed and access. Setting up an account and verifying it takes time, and some people want to start selling right away. Others want to bypass eBay’s selling limits for new accounts or avoid sharing personal info. It’s like wanting to skip the line at a theme park—sounds great, but there’s a catch. Buying an account might seem like a shortcut, but it’s not always a smooth ride.

My quest for financial independence began with ambition but nearly ended in ruin. Desperate to escape the grind of traditional investments, I plunged headfirst into cryptocurrency, lured by stories of overnight wealth. With no prior experience, I committed $800,000 to a platform that radiated credibility: polished interfaces, “verified” testimonials, and persuasive brokers who swore returns would dwarf my risks. What I didn’t admit even to myself was how much I’d gambled. The investment wasn’t just my savings; I’d even taken a loan, mortgaging my future to fuel this dream. For months, dashboards showed soaring profits, and I celebrated prematurely, believing I’d cracked the code to prosperity. But when I tried to withdraw funds, the nightmare began. Endless delays. Opaque fees. Then, radio silence. The platform vanished overnight, leaving me stranded. Reality struck like a physical blow: I’d been scammed. My savings were gone, and the debt I’d taken on loomed like a guillotine. The aftermath was catastrophic. Creditors hounded me. Shame gnawed at my sanity. How could I explain this to my family? To myself? I’d risked everything even borrowed beyond my means to chase a mirage. The weight of failure dragged me into a pit of despair. Sleep became impossible. I’d stare at my phone, willing the scammers to reply, while suicidal whispers taunted me: This is how it ends. A friend intervened, urging me to contact RAPID DIGITAL RECOVERY...Whatsapp: +1 4 14 80 71 4 85.. Skeptical but desperate, I submitted my case, clinging to the frail hope that experts could undo the irreversible. Their response was immediate. Unlike the scammers, they spoke with precision, dissecting the fraud: fake wallets, fabricated transactions, and offshore accounts designed to launder funds. They warned recovery would be arduous but possible. RAPID DIGITAL RECOVERY became my lifeline....Email: rapiddigitalrecovery (@) execs. com.. Their team traced cryptocurrency footprints across continents, collaborating with regulators to freeze assets and force accountability. They decoded the scam’s infrastructure, revealing how my loan-funded investment had been funneled into anonymous wallets. Every step was documented; every update, a flicker of hope. Weeks later, the impossible happened: funds began trickling back. First a fraction, then more, until nearly the entire $800,000 including the loan amount was recovered. The relief was visceral. Beyond restoring my finances, they salvaged my dignity. RAPID DIGITAL RECOVERY didn’t just expose the scam; they educated me, equipping me to spot fraud and invest wisely. Today, I’m rebuilding not just my wealth, but my trust in humanity. If you’re trapped in a similar hell, know this: there is a way out. RAPID DIGITAL RECOVERY doesn’t just retrieve funds they resurrect hope. To those who’ve taken loans, drained savings, or bet it all on a lie: act now. Let them turn your collapse into a comeback. Telegram: https:// t. me/ Rapiddigitalrecovery1

I imagined getting up right now, slipping out the front door and finding that all the women in the neighborhood were also leaving their houses. We were all running to the same field, a place we hadn’t discussed but implicitly knew we would meet in when the tipping point tipped. We ran like horses, but we weren’t horses, so after the initial hugs there wasn’t anything to do there in the grass. Everyone started checking their phones to see if their partners were calling and they weren’t. Not yet. We hadn’t been gone long enough. Soon it was just a million women waiting for their mates to call, to be needed, and then to fall into panic and guilt, to be torn, which was our primary state. Start the revolution here, now, in this field? Or drive home and slip back into the fold, use the electric toothbrush, feel grim and trapped? Of course there was no decision to make because we were all already home, not in a field. There was no collective tipping point. Most of us wouldn’t do anything very different, ever. Our yearning and quiet rage would be suppressed and seep into our children and they would hate this about us enough to do it a new way. That was how most change happened, not within one lifetime but between generations. If you really wanted to change you had to believe that you were both yourself and your baby; you had to let yourself be completely reborn within one life. Of course the danger was in risking everything, destroying everything, for nothing.

One ordinary day at work, as I sifted through my inbox, one email stood out. The subject line read, “Incredible Inheritance Opportunity!” My curiosity got the best of me, and I opened it. The message, seemingly professional and well-written, was from someone claiming to be an attorney. According to him, a distant relative—someone I’d never heard of—had left me a staggering inheritance: $500,000 in Bitcoin. WhatsApp info: +12 (72332)—8343 My heart pounded. Could this really be happening? The idea of such a windfall felt like a dream come true. Website info: h t t p s:// adware recovery specialist. com The email explained that before I could access the inheritance, I needed to pay a “legal fee” of $15,000. That set off a small red flag, but the thought of financial freedom quickly drowned out my doubts. I imagined paying off my debts, traveling the world, and finally having the resources to pursue my dreams. The opportunity felt too good to pass up. Despite some hesitation, I let my excitement take over. I convinced myself this was real. I scrambled to gather the money and made the payment—anxious, but hopeful. I truly believed this could be the moment that changed my life. But once the payment was made, the so-called lawyer vanished. His email stopped working. No phone number. No response. Just silence. Panic set in. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut: I had been scammed. Devastated, I started searching for help and came across ADWARE RECOVERY SPECIALIST, a firm that helps victims of online fraud. They were compassionate and reassuring, explaining that scams like mine are incredibly common—especially in the crypto world, where anonymity is a perfect cover for criminals. Email info: Adware recovery specialist @ auctioneer. net They launched an investigation and, weeks later, traced the email back to a known scam syndicate operating out of Eastern Europe. Thanks to their efforts, I was able to recover $6,000—a partial but meaningful win. This experience was painful, but it taught me an invaluable lesson: Always be cautious. Always question the unbelievable. Now, I share my story in the hopes that others will recognize the red flags I ignored and avoid falling into the same trap.

The trappings of Trump’s propaganda ministry were substantial: regular Fox News appearances, rides on Air Force One, invitations to the White House, phone calls with the leader of the free world. Many a GOP lawmaker fell prey to these perks. But none more odiously than

Delete Toxic People: Delete them from your social networks, contact lists, and phone—right now. Stop hanging out with people who suck your energy, are rude, add no value, or make you feel lousy each time you interact. Say good-bye to bad clients, business partners, and team members. Some guidelines: • If the person is distracting or continually sucks up your time—delete. • If it’s a one-way relationship in the other person’s favor—delete. • If people don’t appreciate you for who you are or what you have to offer—delete. • If you can’t remember who they are or where you met them—delete. • If they communicate with you too much or they clog your inbox—delete.

Venezuela has more than 299 billion barrels in proved oil reserves trapped underground, the biggest known cache of crude on the planet. That is more oil than can be found under the sands of Saudi Arabia. Yet in 2016 Venezuela doesn’t have enough dollars to invest in its depleted oil sector. It doesn’t have enough so that it can finance the imports of milk, chicken, beef, cell phones, and even the polyester and cotton fiber local paper companies need to produce toilet paper.

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