Trigger Dave Quotes

If we care about ending this, we in the media need to see our role as clearly as the perps have. We did not start this, nor have we pulled any triggers. But the killers have made us reliable partners. We supply the audience, they provide the show.

Healing is not healed. Numbed is not healed. Healing takes time. Healing takes patience. Healing takes love. Healing sometimes triggers anger or sadness or sorrow or guilt or regret. Long suppressed. Long unaddressed So we make up that healing is wrong,useless and to be avoided And we head back to numbing And look for love and connection With the numbed and suppressed,unaddressed and repressed... Give space for the damage Give space for the healing Let the healing begin and begin and begin.........

The guy pulling the trigger,” wrote Allen Cole and Chris Bunch, “never suffers as much as the person on the receiving end.” It is the existence of the victim’s pain and loss, echoing forever in the soul of the killer, that is at the heart of his pain.

Then it gets even worse—your irritated intestinal lining allows undigested food particles and bacteria to enter your bloodstream and trigger a wider inflammatory response as your body attacks these foreign particles. When these antinutrients continually damage your gut, which unfortunately happens to most people on Western diets that include large amounts of inflammation-causing processed foods, your body is forced to constantly mount a response against a perceived enemy. It does this by releasing a stream of small inflammatory proteins called cytokines into your bloodstream, which eventually enter your brain.

Introduction. You introduce the characters/environment in the story, and hook in your listener. For example, “The music bumped and the ground shook below me. I looked around in awe. I had just stepped into my first nightclub in Asia, after nearly 30 hours of travel. And I was scared.” 2) Development. You share the characters’ main struggles and obstacles. For example, “It took me about six months and a few lucky breaks. But once I started making $2k a month, I pulled the trigger and bought my plane ticket in May of 2014. I was set to leave at the end of July. But a week after I bought my ticket, I met Natalie. She was the first girl in years that I truly connected with. The problem? I knew I’d have to leave her…” 3) Climax. This is the turning point in the story. For example, “And that’s when it hit me. ‘Holy fuck. What have I done?!’ I thought. I’d flown all the way across the world to fulfill some dream of adventure, travel, and entrepreneurship. But maybe that’s not what I wanted after all.” 4) Resolution. You wind the story down and wrap it up. It’s the “come-down” from the climax. For example, “I decided to give Vietnam a real try, even though it was scary. So I guess sometimes, you have to scare yourself a little bit. You have to destroy your life to let the next great thing happen. And that’s okay. Because you can build it back up better than you ever thought possible.

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Some people’s reminiscence is triggered by taste, some people’s by sight or smell. Mine is triggered by sound, playing like an unfinished mixtape waiting to be sent.

She pulled the trigger on the bullhorn.“HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN OUR ASSEMBLY THIS MORNING?” The principal’s voice echoed off the walls. The kids stared at her. She aimed the bullhorn at Dave and yelled, “DAVID PACKER, ANSWER ME: DO YOU REMEMBER WHAT I TOLD ALL OF YOU THIS MORNING?” When Dave nodded his head, she yelled, “ANSWER ME. WITH YOUR VOICE. OUT LOUD.” So Dave swallowed his first bite of macaroni and cheese and said, “I remember.” His voice sounded very small. Dave felt like he was the Scarecrow talking to the Great and Powerful Oz. Mrs. Hiatt took five steps closer to Dave and shouted, “THEN WHY AREN’T YOU TALKING WITH YOUR FRIENDS?

I could see only one of his eyes—squinted, cordite-bitten, liquid with the reflected images of dead water buffalo in the heat, smoking villages, and glassy countryside, where the people had scurried into the earth like mice. His hands were swollen and red, his finger wrapped in a knot around the trigger, the flying brass cartridge casings kaleidoscopic in the light. There were no people to shoot at anymore, but no matter—his charter was clear. He was forever wedded and addicted to this piece of earth that he’d helped make desolate, this land that was his drug and nemesis. The silence in the dream was like a scream.

What most observers unfamiliar with the arcane do not realize is that a wizard actually casts the larger portion of any spell long before unleashing its power into our world. For most spellcasters, the act of releasing the magic is a simple matter of uttering the final triggering phrases, performing a concluding gesture, and perhaps expending a catalytic matter.

Hildebrand turned after closing the door of his truck and the raven mocker struck. He sunk viselike talons into Hildebrand’s shoulders, flapping wildly to stay in the air, intending to distract him while he took his soul, all of it, leaving him dead on the ground. So no one would be able to go into the other world to retrieve it, because there would be no place to return it to. Hildebrand screamed as the raven mocker sucked his soul from his body through his breath. He was strong. The raven mocker filled with soul energy. He was charged with it, changed with it. Before Sky reacted Dave was out of his seat and in through the front door. He raced through the house. On the back porch he stopped, arrested by an astounding sight. A huge crow attacking Rocky, enormous, like a mastiff with wings, talons hooked into Rocky’s coveralls, flapping furiously, pecking at Rocky’s face. And something else, the bird was draining Rocky’s life. Filled with adrenalin, he perceived all this instantly; he reached down, pulling his Levi’s pants leg up with his left hand and drew the .32 Beretta in his boot with the right. He drew, aimed and fired twice in one smooth motion. He hit the son of a bitch, but all it did was piss him off. The crow dropped Rocky. Dave re-aimed and fired another double tap. The bird flew at him, growing large in his vision, filling all of it, even as John opened the door behind him and Dave fired again, absolutely sure he hit him every time he squeezed the trigger. No effect. No effect whatsoever. Talons clawed his shirt and the gun fell from his hand. The raven locked eyes and Dave felt his energy draining. He felt an invisible tentacle enter his body through his eyes. He didn’t know what was happening, psychic wrestling, not connected with anything physical; something inside him grabbed that tentacle and shoved it out. Then he was through and inside the bird’s eyes himself, reaching in there, doing something. He heard Sky’s feet stomp on the porch as he cried, “Usinuliyu Selagwutse …” in Cherokee as he scooped up the pistol. The bird flew away, cawing, straight into the sky. Dave stood on the porch, gasping, weak in the knees, as Sky darted past him and went to Rocky. He knelt beside his friend, touched his face, and said, “Let’s get him inside.

If they get in here, what sort of damage can they do?’ Anji looked at the seriously malfunctioning console and wondered what additional damage might be possible at this point. ‘Oh, if they start monkeying with the primary systems, here in the vortex, that might trigger an interstitial singularity that could suck the entire universe into oblivion like bathwater down a plughole,’ said the Doctor. ‘On the other hand, they might just wreck the controls utterly, leaving us stranded with no way of ever getting home. Of course, since they’ll no doubt tear us limb from limb in the first place, that’ll be the least of our problems.

I didn’t make fun of myself. I looked for and found the humor in some of my darkest days. It changed the way I think. Instead of having an anxiety attack from a memory triggered by a song, I would think about how I could find the humor in it and then write a joke about it. Doing this gave me control over my experiences instead of my experiences having control over me.

That’s part of the reason I’m sitting on this plane. I have this fantasy that by leaving the house, it will trigger something in the universe that makes Owen come home again and offer up the answers himself. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work, the kettle boils once you stop watching?

Pearl pulled the trigger and an arrow flew from the crossbow. Somehow her aim was true, and the arrow hit the huge green cube right between the eyes. With a squelchy noise, the slime was pushed back, but then it kept on jumping towards her: THUD! THUD! THUD! Come on, Peal told herself. You can do this!

However, my Dave was choosing his way. More of the pessimistic perspective. I respected his decisions, but I was starting to feel unheard. Which now I understand was triggering me, and wounds that I had not healed were surfacing. I was crying a lot. What was happening was that my viewpoint wasn’t being listened to, which had ramifications within me and threw me off balance. It’s like you’re living a cognitive dissonance, meaning you value one thing but you’re doing another. I was learning to self-abandon parts of myself to become more convenient for others. For example, I valued connection, sharing dreams, truths of the world, energy healing, holistic and natural remedies... yet I wasn’t able to share this with my partner. It wasn’t his thing. When this happens, there is going to be a disconnect. Later coming to the conclusion and life lesson, we are just a mirror to the people around us steering us to ourselves and reflecting back to us what’s going on inside of us. What was this telling me? Pretty obvious. I needed to find the connection with myself. Self-love was in order.

… the root of our gun problem isn’t the weapon itself but the human beings behind them. After all, it’s a person who pulls the trigger. If you think this isn’t relevant, it may be worth noting that one of the Columbine, Colorado, shooters, Eric Harris, had Luvox (a Prozac-like, psychotropic medicine) in his bloodstream. Likewise, Stephen Paddock, the man who slaughtered fifty-eight people in the Las Vegas shooting—the worst in modern American history—had antianxiety medication in his system and had previously been prescribed diazepam. Meanwhile, Parkland, Florida, shooter, Nikolas Cruz, had been on psychotropic drugs before he embarked on his killing spree as well. These are facts. Yet we still allow mind-altering medication to be advertised on television, even though their side effects produce all sorts of problems, such as suicidal tendencies, anxiety, and insomnia. I’m no expert on prescription medicine or mental health, but perhaps focusing on these elements could be a sane place for the debate to go. After all, it maintains our Second Amendment freedoms without ignoring some pivotal factors.

Grieving is a messy process, and you yearn for it to just go away. You don't know when a sunset or a trip to the pharmacy is going to trigger a memory that crushes your spirit.

My dreams took me many places. Sometimes I would be in a pirogue with my father, deep in the Atchafalaya swamp, the fog thick in the black trees, and just as the sun broke on the earth’s rim, I’d troll my Mepps spinner next to the cypress stumps and a largemouth bass would sock into it and burst from the quiet water, rattling with green-gold light. But tonight I dreamed of Hueys flying low over jungle canopy and milky-brown rivers. In the dream they made no sound. They looked like insects against the lavender sky, and as they drew closer I could see the door-gunners firing into the trees. The down-drafts from the helicopter blades churned the treetops into a frenzy, and the machine-gun bullets blew water out of the rivers, raked through empty fishing villages, danced in geometrical lines across dikes and rice paddies. But there was no sound and there were no people down below. I saw a door-gunner’s face, and it was stretched tight with fear, whipped with wind, throbbing with the action of the gun. I could see only one of his eyes—squinted, cordite-bitten, liquid with the reflected images of dead water buffalo in the heat, smoking villages, and glassy countryside, where the people had scurried into the earth like mice. His hands were swollen and red, his finger wrapped in a knot around the trigger, the flying brass cartridge casings kaleidoscopic in the light. There were no people to shoot at anymore, but no matter—his charter was clear. He was forever wedded and addicted to this piece of earth that he’d helped make desolate, this land that was his drug and nemesis. The silence in the dream was like a scream.

Hey Kar, guess who I am." She put the fluffy red sweater on. "Do you know how highly triggering, it is to do anything. It was a offensive, you were offensive, she was offended, he was offended. This sweater was offended, Rose was offended, Dave was offended. I was completely offended. See how offensive everything is. Everything is triggers and triggers, I'm a trigger. The trigger is stupid, just like the person who made them. I might be very offensive, for always interrupting someone, and complain about triggers. I like to talk and talk, because I'm an offensive trigger and-