U And Me Quotes

I can't change where I come from or what I've been through, so why should I be ashamed of what makes me, me?

Assume' makes an 'ass' out of 'u' and 'me'.

Him: Confession: I deleted all the 1 Direction from your iPod when u were in the can. You’re welcome. Me: WHAT?? I’m going to kiss u! Him: With tongue? It takes me a second to realize what happened, at which point I’m completely mortified. Me: Kill u! I meant KILL. u. Damn autocorrect. Him: Surrrrrre. Let’s blame it on autocorrect. Me: Shut it. Him: I think someone wants to kiss me…

since i will not send this, i also feel it is my duty to inform you that almost six months on I think I still love you and that makes me sad becaue love shouldn’t feel this way. is like getting kicked in the stomach every time i think of you and it makes me want to roll my face across this keyboardbiu;///ubEWdcfhugiov’byhi;.//////-=‘-0i9juh8ygtfdcsaazs34defg7uefg7u8hi9o0p8hi9o0p-[[09ju8dcsaazs34d9o0p-[[09.

[...]you know what they say about messengers, right"? Excuse me?" Too much bad news will get you shot."[...]

Daddy once told me there's a rage passed down to every black man from his ancestors, born the moment they couldn't stop the slave masters from hurting their families. Daddy also said there's nothing more dangerous than when that rage is activated.

You remind me of him. He was the best man I have ever known.

Now I know who you are U got nothin' on me, I see I should've known it from the start You can't tell me lies Don't even try cuz This is goodbye Goodbye

Kumikirot ang tyan? Kumikirot ang ulo? Correlation? I therefore conclude na ang utak ay parang tyan, sumasakit kapag walang laman.

My son loved working in the neighborhood," One-Fifteen's father claims. "He always wanted to make a difference in the lives there." Funny. Slave masters thought they were making a difference in black people’s lives too. Saving them from their “wild African ways.” Same shit, different century. I wish people like them would stop thinking that people like me need saving.

If bravery is a medical condition, everybody's misdiagnosed me.

Stay with me until this thing is done, and I will take off the cuffs and the collar. I will release you willingly. We can face each other as free men. Whatever is to fall out between us can do so then.

Damen to Jord about Laurent: 'He needs me,' said Damen. 'I don't care if you tell the world.

Let him come to Charcy, with his hithertos and his wherefores, and there he will find me, and with all the might of my kingdom I will scourge him from the field. "And if you want a personal message," said Laurent, "You can tell my uncle boykiller that he can cut the head off every child from here to the capital. It won't make him into a king, it will simply mean he has no one left to fuck.

Don't follow me, I'm lost.

I texted back: Did you make it home? A few minutes passed while I stared at my phone. Yeah. Fam showering me with affection. U cld learn frm them. I think you get enough attention. I'm needy. Boy, don't I know that.

What happened?" said Clover, wetting a cloth in the basin, and dabbing Azalea's face. "She had a sort of fit," said the King. "I think her underthings may be laced too tightly." All the girls, including Azalea, blushed brilliantly. "Sir," said Eve. "You're not suppose to know about the U word!" "Am I not? Forgive me.

It was with a shock that he felt the touch of Laurent's fingers against the back of his wrist. [...] Laurent was shifting the fabric of his sleeve, sliding it back slightly to reveal the gold underneath, until the wrist cuff he had asked the blacksmith to leave on was exposed between them. 'Sentiment?' said Laurent. 'Something like that.' Their eyes met and he could feel each beat of his heart. A few seconds of silence, a space that lengthened, until Laurent spoke. 'You should give me the other.

….watch me rise like smoke from fire. Watch me fly above your hate. Watch me dance upon your meanness like a ballerina with posture; grace. Watch me laugh over your hatred; watch me soar above your sea of grief. And know that I am out there somewhere… C R U S H I N G.

Why do you give me good advice?" asked Laurent. Isn't that why you brought me with you? Instead of speaking those words aloud, Damen said, "Why don't you take any of it?

That isn't why. She would have chosen him even if you'd had royal blood in your veins, even if you'd had the same blood as Kastor. You don't understand the way a mind like that thinks. I do. If I were Jokaste and a king maker, I'd have chosen Kastor over you too.' 'I suppose you are going to enjoy telling me why,' said Damen. He felt his hands curl into fists, heard the bitterness in his throat. 'Because a king maker would always choose the weaker man. The weaker the man, the easier he is to control.

Totoo pala na kulang ang salita para sa lahat ng nararamdaman.

the truth will set u free but first it will piss u off

Čuvala me, i pored svega, onakvog kakav sam bio u njenim snovima. Čarobnjački me sastavljala od razbijenih komada, možda i ne primećujući pukotine

It won’t let me just use my own name as my username.” “Yeah, probably because about nine hundred Brendan Taggarts joined before you.” “So what should I use?” “CaptainCutie69,” Fox spat out. “IGotCrabs4U,” Deke supplied. “SlipperyWhenWet.” Brendan stared. “You’re all fired. Go home.

Defend my honor protect my pride the good advice i always hated but looking back it made me greater .. u make me laugh u make me hoarse from yelling at you and getting at u ...

Meron bang taong walang itsura? Anu yun, abstract?

when you assume you make an ass out of u and me !

Hindi lahat ng tama, totoo.

Mabuti na nga siguro yung ganito, na papaniwalain ko sya na hindi ko sya mahal at baka sakali, sa ganitong pamamaraan ay minamahal nya ako.

In sum, U.S. history is no more violent and oppressive than the history of England, Russia, Indonesia, or Burundi - but neither is it exceptionally less violent.

Pukang ama talaga, sa karami-ramihan ng pwedeng siksikan nya, bakit sa isip pa.

He got a tan over break. I used to tell him he was so pale he looked like a marshmallow. He hated that I compared him to food. I told him that's what he got for calling me caramel. It shut him up.

i like u so much/ but it makes me nervous when u don't call/ under my breath i say/ Don't make me be resilient/ i want to be soft/ if u let me be myself/ u will be the first one who ever did.

What would my first sergeant do if he came across me and another girl getting it on? He'd want pictures. He'd want to join in. He'd want me and this other girl to double-team him right then and there. On the other hand, since most heterosexual men are homophobic and sexist, most straight guys figure gay men will treat them the way they themselves treat women- that is, like sex objects. And this freaks them the fuck out.

But my later experience has taught me two lessons: first, that things are seen plainer after the events have occurred; second, that the most confident critics are generally those who know the least about the matter criticised.

Mas sumaya nga lang nang dumating sya. Pero bakit nung umalis sya, hindi na ako naging kasinsaya gaya ng dati bago pa sya dumating?

Auguste preferred women. He told me I would grow into it. I told him that he could get heirs and I would read books. I was . . . nine? Ten? I thought I was already grown up. The hazards of overconfidence.

Encouragement from any source is like a drop of rain upon a parched desert. Thanks to all the many others who rained on me when I needed it, and even when I foolishly thought I didn't. (acknowledgements in The P.U.R.E.)

A kiss, at its very core, is an emotional experience. Or at least it is for me. Anyone can give me an orgasm, but not everyone can touch my soul. One kiss can make me fall in love with someone.

Zar ne vidiš koliko mi je važno...? Da zatrpaš sobom prazninu što me plaši, da me izdvojiš između svih ljudi, da zaboraviš predrasude i zamišljeno nepotrebno dostojanstvo, da pošalješ do đavola sve pametne postupke, jer nisu pametni, da me uvjeriš kako mi daješ sebe cijelu u zamjenu za ono što gubim, ili da se praviš da je tako, da me obmaneš dok se ne naviknem na život, jer ovo što je sad, to nije život, već sjećanje i čekanje

Volela bih da si uvek uz mene. Da si na mojoj strani. I kad sam razdražena. I kad nisam u pravu. I kad nismo sami. I kad sam nepravedna. Pređi preko moje zlobe, umiri me tihim dodirom, ne mučim te bez razloga. Ako ne znaš, sve je uzalud.

Bakit kahit simpleng pagmamahal ay kinakailangan ng materyal na kapital?

looked me in the eye and, said, ' Sometimes you can do everything right and things will still go wrong. The key is to never stop doing right.

My scorn and contempt,' said Laurent, 'are not in need of your leniency. Lord Touars, you face me in my own kingdom, you inhabit my lands, and you breathe at my pleasure. Make your own choice.

I want you," said Damen. "You've had me," said Laurent. "Twice. I can still feel the . . . sensation of it." Laurent shifted, just so. Damen buried his face in Laurent's neck and groaned, and there was laughter too, and something akin to happiness that hurt as it pushed at the inside of his chest. "Stop it. You will not be able to walk," said Damen. "I'd welcome the chance to walk," said Laurent. "I have to ride a horse.

We could try some other arrangement." "You're right: it should be me in front and you carrying the horse.

I'd ask him if he wished he shot me too.

Is my name dorothy? No Then why do u think munchkins could help me?

Hindi naman porke’t may hiwa at dyoga ay okay na. Titigas na. Hindi naman DPWH ang kargada ko na “Basta may lubak, tambak. Basta may butas, pasak.

Stridey-Man: " Want 2 vaca w/me?" William: "Romantic getaway for 2? UR not my type" Stridey-Man: "I'm everyone's type. So U in or out? 'Cause I'm thinking about hooking up w/P, wherever he is. U'd just B extra baggage." William: "In" Stridey: "Knew you couldn't resist me. B ready in 5." William: "Right on. Make it 10. I want 2 style my hair for U. U know, just how U like it." Stridey: "Now U only have 8 minutes 2 do UR hair.

When you assume you make a you-know-what out of U and me. Yep, so let's stop assuming so much. We are often quick to explain details to strangers, who we understand might not be reading our minds, but we often assume that those people closest to us, those who share our household such as spouses, children parents and siblings, can read our minds. And we get upset with them when they don't go figure. I wonder how many angry words are directed not at an action or inaction as would at first appear, but simply at the fact that somebody did not read our minds. So let's give those people we care most about the benefit of the doubt and do a little less assuming and a little more explaining.

She’s only seventeen years old,” Llarimar said. “I can’t imagine being married to the God King at her age.” “I can’t imagine you being married to the God King at any age, Scoot,” Lightsong said. Then he pointedly cringed. “Actually, yes I can imagine it, and the dress looks painfully inelegant on you. Make a note to have my imagination flogged for its insolence in showing me that par tic u lar sight.” “I’ll put it in line right behind your sense of decorum, Your Grace,” Llarimar said dryly. “Don’t be silly,” Lightsong said, taking a sip of wine. “I haven’t had one of those in years.

You can't fix grief,” said Simon. “A rabbi told me that when my father died. The only thing that fixes grief is time, and the love of the people who care about you, and Tavvy has that.” He squeezed Mark's shoulder briefly. “Take care of yourself,” he said. “Shelo ted'u od tza'ar, Mark Blackthorn.” “What does that mean?” said Mark. “It's a blessing,” said Simon. “Something else the rabbi taught me. ‘Let it be that you should know no further sorrow.

After I got shot, you want to know the very first thing that entered my mind? The U.S. Mint. I am coin in the U.S. Army. Now, I have two small holes in me. I'm no longer perfectly culled. Do you want to know the very last thing that entered my mind, You.

Kaya nga sa fairy tale, lagi na lang sinasabing 'and they live happily ever after' kasi hindi maikwento ano talaga ang naging ending. Nung magpakasal ang prinsesang maganda sa isinumpang prinsipe na naging palaka na bumalik uli sa pagiging gwapo ng prinsipe(matapos mahalikan), hindi pa naman ending yun. Kalagitnaan pa lang ng buhay nila yun. Ilan ang anak nila? Nanganak kaya ang prinsesa ng butete? Ano ang nangyari sa kanila nung tumanda sila? Sino ang unang namatay? kahit nga ang buhay sa mundo, matapos di umano ang katapusan ng mundo, magsisimula uli ang tao sa bagong paraiso. Wala pa ring closure.

Abe's face came back into focus. "Greetings, Zmey," I said weakly. Somehow, him being here didn't surprise me. "Nice of you to slither on in." He shook his head, wearing a rueful smile. "I think you've outdone me when it comes to sneaking around dark corners. I thought you were on your way back to Montana." "Next time, make sure you write a few more details into your bargains. Or just pack me up and send me back to the U. S. For real." "Oh," he said, "that's exactly what I intend to do." He kept smiling as he said it, but somehow, I had a feeling he wasn't joking.

Oh noes, kitteh haz major angriez!” I said. I turned around to share a laugh with my companions and found them glaring at me. “What?” I asked. Leif shook a finger and said in a low, menacing tone, “If you tell me I have to talk like an illiterate halfwit to fit into this society, I will punch you.” “And I’ll pull out your goatee,” Gunnar added. “Lolcat iz new happeh wai 2 talk,” I explained to them. “U doan haz 2 be kitteh 2 speek it.

I don’t care how much money you get,” my dad used to tell me. “It’s not worth it if you’re not happy.” That’s the most valuable piece of advice he ever gave me: Do what you want in life. To this day I’ve tried to follow that philosophy.

Ovih dana mi, doduše, svi govore da im djelujem nekako umorno, ali ti znaš da je to kod mene pobrkano kao instalacije u ruskom soliteru, i da retko pokazujem ono što stvarno osećam, vrag da me nosi...

We live in a society where too many women tear each other down instead of raising each other up. That's absurd to me. We need to empower one another, teach future generations of girls that it's important to stand together. Once upon a time, we had a common goal and a common enemy. We were burning bras, and fighting for the right to vote. Now we're body shaming each other on social media and blaming the mistress if our man cheats.

GUESS WHERE I AM. CLUE? she texted back SWEAR U WON'T TELL A SOUL? U HAVE 2 ASK? I reluctantly texted,@ DINNER W. MARCIE'S DAD. #?@#$?!& MY MOM IS DATING HIM. TRAITOR! IF THEY GET MARRIED, U & MARCIE... COULD USE A LITTLE CONSOLATION HERE! DOES HE KNOW UR TEXTING ME? Vee asked . NO. THEY R INSIDE. I'M IN THE PARKING LOT ----COOPERSMITHS. THE PIMP. 2 GOOD 4 APPLEBEE'S, I SEE. I'M GOING 2 ORDER THE MOST EXPENSIVE THINGS ON THE MENU. IF ALL GOES WELL,HIM GOING TO THROW HANK'S DRINK IN HIS FACE 2.

When I was twelve, my parents had two talks with me. One was the usual birds and bees. Well, I didn't really get the usual version. My mom, Lisa, is a registered nurse, and she told me what went where, and what didn't need to go here, there, or any damn where till I'm grown. Back then, I doubted anything was going anywhere anyway. While all the other girls sprouted breasts between sixth and seventh grade, my chest was as flat as my back. The other talk was about what to do if a cop stopped me. Momma fussed and told Daddy I was too young for that. He argued that I wasn't too young to get arrested or shot. "Starr-Starr, you do whatever they tell you to do," he said. "Keep your hands visible. Don't make any sudden moves. Only speak when they speak to you." I knew it must've been serious. Daddy has the biggest mouth of anybody I know, and if he said to be quiet, I needed to be quiet. I hope somebody had the talk with Khalil.

E, kung lahat kami, special... Sino pa ang hindi special? Kaya nga special , hindi pangkaraniwan. Kakaiba. Kung pareparehas kaming special, sino pa ang special? Para maging special, dapat may egg, may dalawang scoop ng ice cream, may ube't leche plan.

when will it stop the pain that darkness that that that that part of me that was or Y-O-U! why can't you fill it why did u leave why why why? love hurts but so does life

I want a man with clear intentions. A man who makes an effort and is excited to spend time with me. A man who actually wants to want me. If he has to fight himself to be with me, then chances are he'd never fight for me if it came down to it. What woman would ever choose somebody like that?

Četrdeset mi je godina, ružno doba: čovjek je još mlad da bi imao želja a već star da ih ostvaruje. Tada se u svakome gase nemiri, da bi postao jak navikom i stečenom sigurnošću u nemoći što dolazi. A ja tek činim što je trebalo učiniti davno, u bujnom cvjetanju tijela, kad su svi bezbrojni putevi dobri, a sve zablude korisne koliko i istine. Šteta što nemam deset godina više pa bi me starost čuvala od pobuna, ili deset godina manje pa bi mi bilo svejedno. Jer trideset godina je mladost, to sad mislim, kad sam se nepovratno udaljio od nje, mladost koja se ničega ne boji, pa ni sebe.

Kung pareparehas kaming special, sino pa ang special?

- Oprosti. Bila je to najljepša riječ koju je moglo pronaći njegovo kukavičko poštenje. Tako me srećno skinuo sa savjesti i prijateljski ispratio u prošlost.

Ako ti jave da večeras hodam po kafanama i olajavam tebe i našu ljubav, da se prodajem za loše vino, da skupljam opuške tuđih simpatija, ljubim ruke nečistih konobarica, ispadam budala u svačijim očima, to je živa istina, ne traži me da provjeriš da li je tako - to je jedna od rijetkih istina u vezi sa mnom.

Contrary, aren’t you,’ said Damen softly, thumbing over Laurent’s cheek. ‘Fuck me,’ said Laurent. ‘I want to,’ said Damen. ‘Can you let me?

Clay said, "If they have flashlights like us, we can almost assume-" "We can't assume anything," [Alice] said restlessly, querulously. "My father says assume makes an ass out of you and me. Get it, u and-" "I get it," Clay said.

Former police chief of Houston once said of me: “Frank Abagnale could write a check on toilet paper, drawn on the Confederate States Treasury, sign it ‘U.R. Hooked’ and cash it at any bank in town, using a Hong Kong driver’s license for identification.

My turn now. The story of one of my insanities. For a long time I boasted that I was master of all possible landscapes-- and I thought the great figures of modern painting and poetry were laughable. What I liked were: absurd paintings, pictures over doorways, stage sets, carnival backdrops, billboards, bright-colored prints, old-fashioned literature, church Latin, erotic books full of misspellings, the kind of novels our grandmothers read, fairy tales, little children's books, old operas, silly old songs, the naive rhythms of country rimes. I dreamed of Crusades, voyages of discovery that nobody had heard of, republics without histories, religious wars stamped out, revolutions in morals, movements of races and continents; I used to believe in every kind of magic. I invented colors for the vowels! A black, E white, I red, O blue, U green. I made rules for the form and movement of every consonant, and I boasted of inventing, with rhythms from within me, a kind of poetry that all the senses, sooner or later, would recognize. And I alone would be its translator. I began it as an investigation. I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.

It's like a 'Fragile' sticker's on my forehead, and instead of taking a chance and saying something that might break me, they'd rather say nothing at all. But the silence is worst.

But if there's one thing I've learned in life it's this: assume makes an ass out of 'u' and 'me

no matter how u run away, no matter how can u pretend, no matter how scared u are there is gona be the sense u have missed something, fallen heart feeling u mixed with in the moments u should live, u will get used to that feeling, believe me when i tell u, this is crazy, some day ur life will be so u r just warming up

O, da povredila me. Nisam to hteo da priznam ni sebi, a još manje njoj. Izgubio bih sve bitke tim priznanjem. A ovako, ne priznajući ni njoj, ni sebi, gubio sam dve najvažnije stvari u životu... Nju i sebe.

They act like I’m the official representative of the black race and they owe me an explanation. I think I understand though. If I sit out a protest, I’m making a statement, but if they sit out a protest, they look racist.

People ask me all the time, “How many people have you killed?” My standard response is, “Does the answer make me less, or more, of a man?

I’m proud of my service, but I sure as hell didn’t do it for any medal. They don’t make me any better or less than any other guy who served. Medals never tell the whole story.

I look at the stars again. Daddy says he named me Starr because I was his light in the darkness. I need some light in my own darkness right about now.

Being a copper I like to see the law win. I'd like to see the flashy well-dressed mugs like Eddie Mars spoiling their manicures in the rock quarry at Folsom, alongside of the poor little slum-bred guys that got knocked over on their first caper amd never had a break since. That's what I'd like. You and me both lived too long to think I'm likely to see it happen. Not in this town, not in any town half this size, in any part of this wide, green and beautiful U.S.A. We just don't run our country that way.

I onda kada sam mislio da je pravo vreme da odem, da zaboravim, i kada sam verovao da mi je svejedno, ona bi banula niotkud i sve bi počelo ponovno... Ne znam zašto me taj pogled toliko očaravao, a da budem iskren, nisam se preterano ni otimao kada je bila u mojoj blizini. Sa srcem ne možeš kako želiš...

Slave masters thought they were making a difference in black people’s lives too. Saving them from their “wild African ways.” Same shit, different century. I wish people like them would stop thinking that people like me need saving.

You want to marry me?" Xavier asked, and I saw some faces turn toward u in curiosity. "I was thinking we'd start slow and see where things went, but hey, what the hell!

Awesome ends with me; but Ugly starts with u...

A day will come when everything in my life will be changed, when I shall do good to others, when some one will love me, when I shall give my whole heart to the man whi gives ne his; neanwhile, U will suffer in silence and keep my love as a reward for him who shall set me free.

Glaring at the Gasman, ter Borcht said, “Your time is coming to an end, you pathetic failure of an experiment. Vhat you say now is how you vill be remembered.” Gazzy’s blue eyes flashed. “Then you can remember me telling you to kiss my-” “Enough!” ter Borcht said.

I’ve never sung anywhere without giving the people listening to me a chance to join in - as a kid, as a lefty, as a man touring the U.S.A. and the world, as an oldster. I guess it’s kind of a religion with me. Participation. That’s what’s going to save the human race.

I'm sorry," said Damen. Laurent gave him a strange look. "Why would you apologise to me?" He couldn't answer. Not with the truth. He said, "I didn't understand what being King meant to you." "What's that?" "An end to fighting." Laurent's expression changed, the subtle signifiers of shock imperfectly repressed, and Damen felt it in his own body, a new pull in his chest at the look in Laurent's dark eyes.

I remembered what it is I like about sex: what I like about sex is that I can lose myself in it entirely. Sex, in fact, is the most absorbing activity I have discovered in adulthood. When I was a child I used to feel this way about all sorts of things—Legos, The Jungle Book, The Hardy Boys, The Man from U.N.C.L.E., Saturday morning cartoons...I could forget where I was, the time of day, who I was with. Sex is the only thing I've found like that as a grown-up, give or take the odd film: books are no longer like that once you're out of your teens, and I've certainly never found it in my work. All the horrible pre-sex self-consciousness drains out of me, and I forget where I am, the time of day...and yes, I forget who I'm with, for the time being.

Stridey-Man' asked, Want 2 vacay w/me? William snorted as he typed. Romantic getaway for 2? UR not my type, dickwad. Fuck U. i'm everybody's types. So U in or out?Last chance in or out? In Knew U couldn't resist me. B ready in 5. Right on. Make it 10. I want 2 style my hair for U. U know, just how U like it. ASSHOLE.

I wasn't paying attention," said Myrtle dramatically. "Peeves upset me so much I came in here and tried to kill myself. Then, of course, I remembered that I'm -- that I'm --" "Already dead," said Ron hopefully. Myrtle gave a tragic sob, rose up in the air, turned over, and dived headfirst into the toilet, splashing water all over them and vanishing from sight, although from the direction of her muffled sobs, she had come to rest somewhere in the U-bend.

Hey Pudge," the Colonel said. "What do you think of a truce?" "It reminds me of when the Germans demanded that the U.S. surrender at the Battle of the Bulge," I said. "I guess I'd say to this truce offer what General McAuliffe said to that one: Nuts.

I wanted to tell you that, because you," said Laurent, as though he was forcing the words out, "You remind me of him. He was the best man I have ever known. You deserve to know that, as you deserve at least a fair . . . In Arles, I treated you with malice and cruelty. I will not insult you by attempting to atone for deeds with words, but I would not treat you that way again. I was angry. Angry, that isn't the word.

Damen bridged the nine chilly inches at the first opportunity. 'What are you doing? You were the one who warned me about Nicaise.' He spoke in a low voice. Laurent went very still; then he deliberately shifted in his seat and leaned in, bringing his lips right to Damen's ear. 'I think I'm out of stabbing range, he's got short arms. Or perhaps he'll try to throw a sugar plum? That is difficult. If I duck he'll hit Torveld.' Damen gritted his teeth. 'You know what I meant. He heard you. He's going to act. Can't you do something about it?' 'I'm occupied.' 'Then let me do something.' 'Bleed on him?' said Laurent.

I met a girl in a U-Haul. A beautiful girl And I fell for her. I fell hard. Unfortunately, sometimes life gets in the way. Life definitely got in my way. It got all up in my damn way, Life blocked the door with a stack of wooden 2x4's nailed together and attached to a fifteen inch concrete wall behind a row of solid steel bars, bolted to a titanium frame that no matter how hard I shoved against it- It wouldn't budge. Sometimes life doesn't budge. It just gets all up in your damn way. It blocked my plans, my dreams, my desires, my wishes, my wants, my needs. It blocked out that beautiful girl That I fell so hard for. Life tries to tell you what's best for you What should be most important to you What should come in first Or second Or third. I tried so hard to keep it all organized, alphabetized, stacked in chronological order, everything in its perfect space, its perfect place. I thought that's what life wanted me to do. This is what life needed for me to do. Right? Keep it all in sequence? Sometimes, life gets in your way. It gets all up in your damn way. But it doesn't get all up in your damn way because it wants you to just give up and let it take control. Life doesn't get all up in your damn way because it just wants you to hand it all over and be carried along. Life wants you to fight it. It wants you to grab an axe and hack through the wood. It wants you to get a sledgehammer and break through the concrete. It wants you to grab a torch and burn through the metal and steel until you can reach through and grab it. Life wants you to grab all the organized, the alphabetized, the chronological, the sequenced. It wants you to mix it all together, stir it up, blend it. Life doesn't want you to let it tell you that your little brother should be the only thing that comes first. Life doesn't want you to let it tell you that your career and your education should be the only thing that comes in second. And life definitely doesn't want me To just let it tell me that the girl I met, The beautiful, strong, amazing, resilient girl That I fell so hard for Should only come in third. Life knows. Life is trying to tell me That the girl I love, The girl I fell So hard for? There's room for her in first. I'm putting her first.

OPOMENA Čuj, reći ću ti svoju tajnu: ne ostavljaj me nikad samu kad neko svira. Mogu mi se učiniti duboke i meke oči neke sasvim obične. Može mi se učiniti da tonem u zvuke, pa ću ruke svakom pružiti. Može mi se učiniti lepo i slatko voleti kratko za jedan dan. Ili mogu kom reći u tome času čudesno sjajnu, predragu mi tajnu koliko te volim. O, ne ostavljaj me nikad samu kad neko svira. Učiniće mi se: negde u šumi ponovo sve moje suze teku kroz samonikle neke česme. Učiniće mi se: crn leptir jedan po teškoj vodi krilom šara što nekad neko reći mi ne sme. Učiniće mi se: negde kroz tamu neko peva i gorkim cvetom krvavog srca u ranu dira. O, ne ostavljaj me nikad samu, nikad samu, kad neko svira.

I thought you'd want the honor of taking down Martino." "Oh, hell yes." "Then what's with the look?" "It just occured to me that as U.S. attorney, you're now in a position of authority over me." Cameron raised an eyebrow. "Yuo're right, Agent Pallas. There is a new sheriff in town." "Cute. How long have you been waiting to say that?" (Jack & Cameron)

She loops her arms around my neck, wraps her legs around my hips, and clings to me like a monkey, and some happy part of my brain does flips and jumping jacks and fucking triple axels because this is my wife.

But you just choose because that's where you want to be. Not because you were trying to do somebody else's job. You hear me?

Never assume," my dad once told me. "To assume makes an 'ass' out of 'u' and 'me'.

Me: fine. u ever want 2 sleep w/someone u really dont like? Everett: you mean like a republican?

Mogao sam da mu kažem: ne tiče te se, ostavi me na miru, ne ulazi u moje skrivene prostore, muka mi je od ljudi koji daju savjete. I to bi bilo najiskrenije.

And don’t forget… If you mess with me, I mess right back.

My parents haven’t raised me to fear the police, just to be smart around them.

zoegirl: have u named the chicks? SnowAngel:yes, but i keep getting them mixed up. so now i call all of them "squishy." they're the collective squishy. zoegirl: *r* they squishy? SnowAngel: when you squeeze them,yes. but not in a yucky way. SnowAngel: they're growing on me, the little squishies. altho 1 of them pooped on my pillow. zoegirl: u let them on your bed? SnowAngel: they like it when i bounce them.

I am a strong Christian. Not a perfect one—not close. But I strongly believe in God, Jesus, and the Bible. When I die, God is going to hold me accountable for everything I’ve done on earth. He may hold me back until last and run everybody else through the line, because it will take so long to go over all my sins. “Mr. Kyle, let’s go into the backroom. . . .” Honestly, I don’t know what will really happen on Judgment Day. But what I lean toward is that you know all of your sins, and God knows them all, and shame comes over you at the reality that He knows. I believe the fact that I’ve accepted Jesus as my savior will be my salvation. But in that backroom or whatever it is when God confronts me with my sins, I do not believe any of the kills I had during the war will be among them. Everyone I shot was evil. I had good cause on every shot. They all deserved to die.

R u ration yet?" "What language is that?" "R U AWAKE" "Much to my extreme dismay. The sun is no friend to my fragile complexion." "Poor baby. Come to my room asap." "It's too early to proposition me, Ellie." "GET OVER HERE?" "So frisky. Give me a minute to get some clothes on. Or should I not...?

The lesson for me was clear: national security officials do not like the light. They act abusively and thuggishly only when they believe they are safe, in the dark. Secrecy is the linchpin of abuse of power, we discovered, its enabling force. Transparency is the only real antidote.

The many pro-surveillance advocates I have debated since Snowden blew the whistle have been quick to echo Eric Schmidt’s view that privacy is for people who have something to hide. But none of them would willingly give me the passwords to their email accounts, or allow video cameras in their homes.

Baby steps for your nerdy girl, she writes. The girl clearly underestimates the power of her bum and a seductively minimal pose. Nerdy my arse, I type back. All the cold showers in the world can't cure what u've done to me. Cruel wife.

Ali život se nikome, razumete li me, nikome na ovom svetu ne duguje. Ni majci, ni deci, ni prijateljima, ni jedom idealu! Život je moje neprikosnoveno pravo! U šta i kako ću ga satreti, moja je lična stvar.

So please just tell me how (to make you love me again) ... to fix this

You mean more to me than hockey,” he says simply, and damned if that doesn’t make my heart expand. “Get it through your stubborn head.

There are five unread messages on the screen, which is what happens when you’re the meat in a hot girl sandwich. Threesomes trump checking your phone. That’s a no-brainer. Logan: Hey, bro, Wellsy’s friend Allie is crashing at our place this weekend. Logan: Keep your dick in your pants. G and I aren’t in the mood to beat u senseless if u try something. Wellsy might be in the mood for violence, tho. So: dick = pants = don’t bother our guest. Hannah: Allie’s staying with u guys til Sunday. She’s in a vulnerable place right now. Don’t take advantage of her or else I’ll be unhappy. And u don’t want to make me unhappy, do u? I snicker. Hannah, diplomatic as always. I quickly scan the last two messages. Garrett: Allie’s gonna crash in my room. Garrett: Your dick can stay in your room. Jeez, what is everybody’s fascination with my dick?

Smatrao sam da me mora razumjeti, ako me voli, da me mora razumjeti i kad ništa ne kažem, mora biti na mojoj strani i kad nemam pravo. Zaboravljajući da bi to trebalo da bude i moja obaveza, okrenuo sam se protiv nje, stavljajući ih zajedno na jednu stranu. Sad sam sâm, ima zadovoljstva i u tome. I ne želim više da ih uvjerim, da im objasnim sebe, hoću da imam pravo. Jer imam pravo, iako to nema nikakva značaja.

You never answered," he said. "You got the hots for me, or not?" His dark eyes lit up with a smile. Squaring her shoulders, Holiday started talking. "Della assumed I might have the hots for you. And you know what they say about assuming, right?" “It makes an ass out of you and me," Della answered, and gave Kylie the elbow. "Get it. A.S.S.U.M.E." Holiday cut her eyes to Della in visual reprimand, then started walking away. She got three steps and swung back around. "Are you coming?" she snapped at Burnett. "You didn't ask me to," He answered. "Well, I assumed you would know I needed to discuss what happened." He arched one dark brow upward. "And what did you just about assuming?

Ona je moja suprotnost. Ja nisam jednostavan, delujem uznemirujuće, sve je u meni nesigurno, nemam oslonca, tražim nemoguće i onda sam vrlo neugodan, pa mučim sebe i druge. Neću da joj kažem, žao mi je, boli me, želio sam da me prizna kao jedinu svoju mogućnost. Ne iz sujete, već iz potrebe, koja za mene znači sve, da budem bezuslovno prihvaćen na ovom prelasku u život koji se još ne pokazuje, u kojem ću biti potvrdjen ili odbačen. Kažem: odbačen, a ne verujem u to. Zato sam želio da stane uza me, hvatao sam se za nju, gurao je da pobijedi oklijevanje, činila mi se dovoljno sigurna da me podrži. Ali, bilo je važno da to učini sama, od svoje volje.

I flip open my phone to text Jessica: Me: Guess who's pregnant? Jess: u? Me: Get real. Jess: ur mom? Me: yep Jess: Mazel tov!? Me: Don't congratulate me, plz Jess: Could b worse Me: How? Jess: Could be u? Me: I'm a virgin. Jess: Nobody's perfect.

‎Bejah zauzet čitanjem i pisanjem, kad grunu u moju sobu velik broj tih ljudi naoružanih neznanjem tupim kao batina i mržnjom oštrom poput noža. To ne bejahu moje svile od kojih im se zakrvaviše oči, no moje knjige poređane po policama; svilu smotaše pod ogrtače, a knjige pobacaše na pod i stadoše ih gaziti nogama i cepati ih na moje oči. A knjige te bejahu u kožu povezane i obeležene brojevima i bejahu napisane od učenih ljudi, i u njima bejaše, da su ih hteli čitati, hiljade razloga da me smesta ubiju i bejaše u njima, da su ih hteli čitati, leka i melema za njihovu mržnju. I rekoh im da ih ne cepaju, jer mnoge knjige nisu opasne, opasna je samo jedna; i rekoh im da ih ne cepaju, jer čitanje mnogih knjiga dovodi do mudrosti, a čitanje jedne jedine do neznanja naoružanog mahnitošću i mržnjom.

Ne znam odakle je našla u meni sve te divne osobine o kojima nisam ni sanjao, niti sam želio da ih imam. Ali zašto bih kvario njenu naivnu sliku? Zašto joj ne bih izgledao tako kako me ona vidi? Biću njen ponos i zaštita, ovakav nikakav, podržaću njenu vjeru u mene, jer joj je potrebna. Biću tobože snažni hrast nad njenom krhkom stabljikom. Izgleda da zaista sanjamo život.

Me: Not happening. Him: How bout tmrw night? I’m free at eight. Me: Can’t. I have the Spanish Flu. Highly contagious. I just saved your life, dude. Him: Aw, I appreciate the concern. But I’m immune to pandemics that wiped out 40-mil ppl from 1918 to 1919. Me: How is it u know so much about pandemics? Him: I’m a history major, baby. I know tons of useless facts.

me doy cuenta de que por lo general la muerte es un proceso, más que un suceso. Generalmente la gente se muere poco a poco, acumulativamente. Se pudren lentamente en residencias u hospitales, o sitios como éste

You have to decide if the relationship is worth salvaging. Make a list of the good stuff, then made a list of the bad stuff. If one outweighs the other, then you know what you gotta do. Trust me, that method hasn't failed me yet. . . . What if the good doesn't outweigh the bad? . . . Then let her go. And if you keep her in your life and she keeps doing the bad, let her go.

On me obespokojio, unio nered u dušu, ubio ljubav za životom. On je moje svjetlo i moja tama, tamna svjetlost i svijetla tama, moj otrov i protuotrov, moja bolest i lijek, onaj koji me osuđuje i oslobađa, diže i ruši, pobjeda i poraz, moj život i moj strah od života. U čemu naći utjehu? S kim? Najslađa utjeha je ona za koju se sami izborimo. Voljela sam, volim, bezuslovno. Nema ljubavi bez bola.

Reading all the quotes in the world won’t make you or me into Plato, Gandhi Or Einstein, just like watching hundreds games of soccer won’t make you a soccer player or taking a yoga class will make u a yogini, or reading a golf book will make you a golfer. We need to put the Knowledge to practice and that is the challenge. Put it to work for you, make the effort to Follow Through

Okay, I thought. Here you are. You are here. And you move forward because that's the way it works; that's the only place u can go. You keep going until it stops hurting, or until you find new things to hurt you worse, I guess. And that is the human condition, all of us lurching along in our own private miseries, because that's the way it is. Because, I guess, God didn't give us any choice. You grow up, I remembered Abigail telling me. You learn.

Todo es una actuación. Ellos se burlan de los demás y se meten con los solitarios sólo para poder encajar. Y yo no estoy mucho mejor. Puede que parezca confiada y habladora, pero paso la mayor parte de mi tiempo riéndome de chistes que no me parecen graciosos, diciendo cosas que realmente no quiero decir. Porque al fin y al cabo eso es lo que todos estamos tratando de hacer: encajar, de una u otra manera tratando desesperadamente de fingir que todos somos iguales.

Neću da joj pomognem, neka se otkrije sama, to je i smisao ove igre u kojoj se uspostavlja naš odnos. Pomalo sam nadmoćan, jer vidim da se ne brani, ali osjećam da nije slučajno stala na moj put : nešto će se desiti među nama. Čini mi se da to znamo i ona i ja, tražimo se i čekamo. I uvijek sve odgađamo, kao u strahu od rješenja. Ovako je mogućnost, cvjetanje, prostranstvo želje. Sve je tu moguće, sve je pred nama. A kad pređemo tu granicu, naći ćemo se na čvrstom tlu tačno određenog odnosa i obaveza kojih se bojim. Samo ona i ja, u uskom kavezu moguće ali nedovoljne nježnosti, omeđeni sobom i osjećanjima koja bi se mogla zaviti, ili koja bismo pokazivali da ne bude sasvim mučno. Samo ona i ja, bez svjetla, bez neomeđenih širina, koje nas draže kao mogućnost ... I ne znam šta je jače, šta je važnije, i zato se ispitujemo i čekamo. Bez ikakve logike, dirnut sam što osjećam da sam joj potreban i što me gleda drukčije nego ikoga drugog, a baš toga se bojim. Žao bi mi bilo da joj nanesem bol, a sigurno bi tako bilo. Ili vrlo vjerovatno. Užasavaju me obaveze, mogle bi da budu mučne, a privlači me što ih ona nudi. To rađa nadmoćnost, koja može da bude surova, ali i velikodušna : čuvam se i jednog i drugog ...

He's private about it. You saw his personal training ring, inside the palace. He'll go a few rounds with some of the guard occasionally, with Rochert, with me--laid me out a few times. He's not as good as his brother was, but you only have to be half as good as Auguste to be ten times better than everyone else.

Tony:...but you need something to do about Noah. Paul: I know, I know. The only problem being that (a) he thinks I'm getting back with my ex-boyfriend, (b) he thinks I'll only hurt him, because (c) I've already hurt him and (d) someone else has already hurt him, which means that I'm hurting him even more. So (e) he doesn't trust me, and in all fairness, (g) every time I see him, I (h) want everything to be right again and I (i) want to kiss him madly. This means that (j) my feelings aren't going away anytime soon, but (k) his feelings don't look likely to budge, either. So either (l) I'm out of luck, (m) I'm out of hope, or (n) there's a way to make it up to him that I'm not thinking of. I could (o) beg, (p) plead, (q) grovel, or (r) give up. But, in order to do that, I would have to sacrifice my (s) pride, (t) reputation, and (u) self-respect, even though (v) I have very little of them left and (w) it probably wouldn't work anyway. As a result, I am (x) lost, (y) clue-free, and (z) wondering if you have any idea whatsoever what I should do.

Y Won’t U B With Me, Kate? Oh, Kate, Y won’t U B with me? Kate, Don’t U know what U mean to me? I look at the dirty dishes piling up in the sink and all I can think is Kate U kept the place so clean Kate, I treated U like a queen Oh, Kate, U mean the world to me Kate, Come home to me Oh, Kate, Y can’t it B Like it used to B Because this world ain’t meant for lovers No, this world ain’t meant for U and me Because the bureaucrats in Washington, they’ll set off the bombs, so what’s the point, Kate? We’re all just going to die, anyway. So, Kate, Y won’t U B with me? —Dale Carter, All Rights Reserved

What did I want? I wanted a Roc's egg. I wanted a harem loaded with lovely odalisques less than the dust beneath my chariot wheels, the rust that never stained my sword,. I wanted raw red gold in nuggets the size of your fist and feed that lousy claim jumper to the huskies! I wanted to get u feeling brisk and go out and break some lances, then pick a like wench for my droit du seigneur--I wanted to stand up to the Baron and dare him to touch my wench! I wanted to hear the purple water chuckling against the skin of the Nancy Lee in the cool of the morning watch and not another sound, nor any movement save the slow tilting of the wings of the albatross that had been pacing us the last thousand miles. I wanted the hurtling moons of Barsoom. I wanted Storisende and Poictesme, and Holmes shaking me awake to tell me, "The game's afoot!" I wanted to float down the Mississippi on a raft and elude a mob in company with the Duke of Bilgewater and the Lost Dauphin. I wanted Prestor John, and Excalibur held by a moon-white arm out of a silent lake. I wanted to sail with Ulysses and with Tros of Samothrace and eat the lotus in a land that seemed always afternoon. I wanted the feeling of romance and the sense of wonder I had known as a kid. I wanted the world to be what they had promised me it was going to be--instead of the tawdry, lousy, fouled-up mess it is.

When I wake up in the morning… I don’t think, wow, how can I make her love me more? How can I have my way with her? I, I, I? Not in my vocabulary. In fact, I’m a big fan of the letter u. I eat, I think of you. I drink, I drink to you. I cry, so you don’t have to. I’d die, for you to live. And I’d survive with a broken heart only if it meant mending yours.” - Nixon

A minute or two more and Orlant disengaged, and swore. 'Are you going to fight me or not?' You said we were sparring,' said Damen, neutrally. Orlant flung down his sword, took two steps off to one of the watching men, and pulled from its sheath thirty inches of polished steel straightsword, which without preamble he returned to swing with killing speed at Damen's neck.

You can't fix grief,” said Simon. “A rabbi told me that when my father died. The only thing that fixes grief is time, and the love of the people who care about you, and Tavvy has that.” He squeezed Mark's shoulder briefly. “Take care of yourself,” he said. “Shelo ted'u od tza'ar, Mark Blackthorn.” “What does that mean?” said Mark. “It's a blessing,” said Simon. “Something else the rabbi taught me. ‘Let it be that you should know no further sorrow.

Lere pastaj qe ka dhe jo pak pasunare qe s'i pelqen te degjojne ankimet me ze te larte te varfanjakeve. Se, sigurisht, i shqetesojne, i bezdisin me ankesat pa fund. Po, moj shpirt, varferia kurdohere e bezdisshme eshte. Ja ç'eshte, Varenjka. Renkimet e te uriturve, klithmat e zemerplasurve u prishin gjumin ca zoterinjve.

Little sister don't you worry about a thing today Take the heat from the sun Little sister I know that everything is not ok But you're like honey on my tongue True love never can be rent But only true love can keep beauty innocent I could never take a chance Of losing love to find romance In the mysterious distance Between a man and a woman No I could never take a chance 'Cause I could never understand The mysterious distance Between a man and a woman You can run from love And if it's really love it will find you Catch you by the heel But you can't be numb for love The only pain is to feel nothing at all How can I hurt when I'm holding you? I could never take a chance Of losing love to find romance In the mysterious distance Between a man and a woman And you're the one, there's no-one else who makes me want to lose myself In the mysterious distance Between a man and a woman Brown eyed girl across the street On rue Saint Divine I thought this is the one for me But she was already mine You were already mine... Little sister I've been sleeping in the street again Like a stray dog Little sister I've been trying to feel complete again But you're gone and so is God The soul needs beauty for a soul mate When the soul wants...the soul waits ... No I could never take a chance Of losing love to find romance In the mysterious distance Between a man and a woman For love and FAITH AND SEX and fear And all the things that keep us here In the mysterious distance Between a man and a woman How can I hurt when I'm holding you?

Are you going to try it with me? Or do you only take pleasure in attacking those who cannot defend themselves?" Damen heard the hardness in his own voice. He held his ground. Around them, the tower room was empty. He had sent everyone else out. "I remember the last time you were like this. You blundered so badly you gave your uncle the excuse he needed to have you stripped of your lands.

I throw my makeshift jai-namaz, my prayer rug, on the floor and I get on my knees, lower my forehead to the ground, my tears soaking through the sheet. I bow to the west. Then I remember I haven’t prayed for over fifteen years. I have long forgotten the words. But it doesn’t matter, I will utter those few words I still remember: La illaha ila Allah, Muhammad u rasul ullah. There’s no God but Allah, and Muhammad is his messenger. I see now that Baba was wrong, there’s a God, there always had been. I see Him here, in the eyes of the people in this [hospital] corridor of desperation. This is the real house of God, this is where those who have lost God will find Him, not the white masjid with its bright diamond lights, and towering minarets. There’s a God, there has to be, and now I will pray, I will pray that He forgive that I have neglected Him all of these years, forgive that I have betrayed, lied, and sinned with impunity only to turn to Him now in my hour of need, I pray that He is as merciful, benevolent, and gracious as His book says He is. [...] I hear a whimpering and realize it is mine, my lips are salty with the tears trickling down my face. I feel the eyes of everyone in this corridor on me and still I bow to the west. I pray. I pray that my sins have not caught up with me the way I'd always feared they would.

Ne bojim se ljubavi. Bojim se rizika. I zavisnosti. I mogućeg bola... Uvijek si jednom nogom u bjekstvu, uvijek polovinom sebe u ljubavi. Drugu ostavljam u pripravnosti da izvuče ludaka.Ali ta moja necinična polovina mnogo te voli.Toliko da me prevari cijelog..Večeras ti se nudim sav. Reci da me voliš, šta te staje?

Whenever I hear the word danger, I see Marlena and me staring into the mouth of that U-Haul in the winter hour between twilight and dark. Two girls full of plans, fifteen and seventeen years old in the middle of nowhere. Stop, I want to tell us. Stay right where you are, together. Don't move. But we will. We always do. The clock's already running.

Želim da me zvižduk vjetra zagluši, da zasvira kroz mene kao kroz trsku, mislim, kako bi bilo lijepo ne misliti, mislim: kako bi lijepo bilo naći se sad na rijeci, šiban olujom, u ribarskoj barci ili u štrkljastoj drvenoj kućici na obali rijeke, okružen divljom stihijom, sam s njom, bez tuge u sebi i oko sebe. Ali to je samo trenutna želja, davnašnja potreba za bijegom i za odvajanjem od tereta u sebi, neostvariva čežnja za tišinama.

You'll want all your strength for the wedding night." I cannot think why I should need strength," she said, ignoring a host of spine-tingling images rising in her mind's eye. "All I have to do is lie there." "Naked," he said grimly. "Truly?" She shot him a glance from under her lashes. "Well, if I must, I must, for you have the advantage of experience in these matters. Still, I do wish you'd told me sooner. I should not have put the modiste to so much trouble about the negligee." "The what?" "It was ghastly expensive," she said, "but the silk is as fine as gossamer, and the eyelet work about the neckline is exquisite. Aunt Louisa was horrified. She said only Cyprians wear such things, and it leaves nothing to the imagination." Jessica heard him suck in his breath, felt the muscular thigh tense against hers. "But if it were left to Aunt Louisa," she went on,"I should be covered from my chin to my toes in thick cotton ruffled with monstrosities with little bows and rosebuds. Which is absurd, when an evening gown reveals far more, not to mention--" "What color?" he asked. His low voice had roughened. "Wine red," she said, "With narrow black ribbons threaded through the neckline. Here." She traced a plunging U over her bosom. "And there's the loveliest openwork over my...well, here." She drew her finger over the curve of her breast a bare inch above the nipple. "And openwork on the right side of the skirt. From here" --she pointed to her hip--"down to the hem. And I bought---" "Jess." Her name was a strangled whisper. "--slippers to match," she continued." Black mules with--" "Jess." In one furious flurry of motion he threw down the reins and hauled her into his lap.

I think there will always be great new music and bands. As long as there's people around, there's going to be great music. I think there's bands like Wolf Eyes, Q & Not U, the Evens and many others that are doing great stuff. The music that doesn't please you, you just don't listen. No one makes me listen to Nickelback, so long may they wave.

Ja sam pesnica koja je udarila u zid. Ja sam udarac koji boli onog koji udara. Ja sam pijesak pod njihovim nogama, ptica što zanijemi kad kobac nadleti šumu, glista koju kokoš kljucne, kad izađe iz svojih podzemnih hodnika. Ja sam mali čovjek koji je zaboravio da je mali. Uvrijedio sam ih što se usuđujem da mislim. Zašto im treba ta osveta? Da me uplaše? Da mojom kaznom uplaše druge? Da likuju nad slabim? Da zabrane misao? Da zabrane riječ? Nikakva odgovora nisam mogao da nađem. Javio se u meni užas zbog te besmislene surovosti. Gdje smo mi? U kakvom to svijetu živimo?

Pero kung meron talagang may himala, gusto kong muling makita’t makausap si Jen. At kapag nangyari ‘yun, hindi ko na palalampasin ang pagkakataon na sabihin sa kanya ang lahat ng gusto kong sabihin. Huhubarin ko na ang kahihiyan ko. Itatapon ang pag-aastig-astigan. Hindi na baleng iwan nya sa huli kapag nalaman nyang mahal ko sya, na nababaliw na ako sa kanya, na gusto kong maging officially kami na. Kung sakaling magbago sya ng isip, na hindi nya na iiwan ang lahat ng nagmamahal o nababaliw sa kanya, kung sakaling hindi na rin sya nag-astig-astigan o nagmanhid-manhidan, isusumpa ko sa ngalan ng mga lamang lupang hindi matahimik sa pagmumura ko sa gabi at mamatay man ang lasenggero naming kapitbahay… Pukang ama… Hindi ko na sya pakakawalan.

How could I explain why I'd acted that way? How could I explain how scary it was, to find out that I needed her so much? Was I supposed to tell her how she'd changed everything? Like how U hadn't even realized how bad I felt until she'd made it better, just by looking at me. Like how I thought she was awesome, bad-ass ninja, and what I hated was the fact that I knew I couldn't protect her, when that's all I wanted to do. How could I explain, without sounding like a complete asshole, that I was so afraid of losing her I pushed her away? I couldn't.

Želio bih umrijeti u sunčanom danu. Klicu te male tajne želje nosim u sebi od djetinjstva. Što me kod smrti najviše plaši, to je predstava mraka s kojom je ona skopčana. Divim se religijama Istoka, koje su uspjele da čovjeku dočaraju svijetlu, sunčanu smrt, da mu usade predstavu beskrajnog jása za grobom. One su, možda, učinile čovjeku najveće dobro koje se smrtniku može da učini. Želio bih umrijeti izvaljen nauzak na dobroj, vrućoj zemlji, sav u suncu i jásu, umrijeti u jedrini dana, u sat uzavrelih zrikavaca. U sat kad sanjivo šute povijena žita i nijemo bujaju oteščani grozdovi, u sat vrele podnevne tišine. Plaši me smrt u predvečerje, smrt u jesen, smrt iza kosih zavjesa kiše.

Onda sam ja rekao da se ja to samo šalim i da nikad ne treba da mi vjeruješ, da je sve što kažem tek onako, da prođe vrijeme, da me ne uzimaš za ozbiljno, da bih se ja ubio kad bi me ljudi počeli tako shvatati, da ja već u sljedećem trenutku zaboravim šta sam maločas rekao, da mi je zajebancija u krvi.. Ti si rekla da se ništa ne brinem, da ti to znaš bolje od mene, da sam prokužen od prvog momenta našeg susreta i smijala si se.

Oborio sam pogled. Nikad čovjek ne smije misliti da je siguran, ni da je umrlo što je prošlo. Ali zašto se budi kad mi je najmanje potrebno? Nije ona važna, ta daleka, sjećanje na nju zamjenjuje skrivenu misao da je sve moglo biti drukčije, pa i ovo što me boli. Odlazi, sjenko, ništa nije moglo biti drukčije, i našlo bi se nešto drugo da boli. Ne može biti drukčije pa da bude bolje u ljudskom životu.

Svakoga dana pronalazio bi po koju zaboravljenu Uninu stvarčicu, iz koje bi ga nasmešeno gledale njene srneće oči. Kada je jedanput istresao madrac, pronašao je tri ukosnice, napukli češalj sa srebrnim zvezdama, četvrt čokolade punjene kokosom i do pola popušenu kutiju "Marlboroa". U kupatilu je otkrio ljubičasti ruž za usne i vatu. Fetišista! Je li to sve što ostaje posle ljubavi? I šta, uopšte, ostaje posle nje? Telefonski broj koji lagano bledi u pamćenju? Čaše sa ugraviranim monogramima ukradene u "Esplanadi". Posle ljubavi ostaje običaj da se belo vino sipa u te dve čaše, i da crte budu na istoj visini. Posle ljubavi ostaje jedan sto u kafani kod znaka "?" i začuđeni pogled starog kelnera što nas vidi sa drugima. Posle ljubavi ostaje rečenica: "Divno izgledaš, nisi se ništa promenila..." I: "Javi se ponekad, još imaš moj broj telefona." I neki brojevi hotelskih soba u kojima smo spavali ostaju posle ljubavi. Posle ljubavi ostaju tamne ulice kojima smo se vraćali posle ljubavi. Ostaju tajni znaci, ljubavne šifre: "Ako me voliš, započni sutrašnje predavanje sa tri reči koje će imati početna slova mog imena..." Ušao je u amfiteatar i kazao: "U našoj avangardi..." Poslala mu je poljubac. Posle ljubavi ostaje tvoja strana postelje i strah da će neko iznenada naići. Klak - spuštena slušalica kada se javi tuđi glas. Hiljadu i jedna laž. Posle ljubavi ostaje rečenica koja luta kao duh po sobi: "Ja ću prva u kupatilo!" - i pitanje: "Zar nećemo zajedno?" Ovaj put, ne. Posle ljubavi ostaju saučesnici: čuvari tajni koje više nisu nikakve tajne. Posle ljubavi ostaje laka uznemirenost kad u prolazu udahnem "Cabochard" na nekoj nepoznatoj, crnomanjastoj devojci. Prepune pepeljare i prazno srce. Navika da se pale dve cigarete, istovremeno, mada nema nikog u blizini. Fotografije snimljene u automatu, taksisti koji nas nikada nisu voleli ( "Hvala što ne pušite!" - a pušili smo), i cvećarke koje jesu. Posle ljubavi ostaje povređena sujeta. Metalni ukus promašenosti na usnama. Posle ljubavi ostaju drugi ljudi i druge žene. Posle ljubavi, ne ostaje ništa. Sranje...

He was done talking. Aiden came off the wall so fast the water reacted in a frenzy of bubbling. He—we—were in a frenzy. His arms crushed me to him, his mouth demanding, saying those three little words over and over again without speaking them. Aiden lifted me up, one hand burying deep in my hair, the other pressing into my lower back, fitting us together. He turned and my back was against the edge and he was everywhere all at once, stealing my breath, my heart, my soul. There was no coming up for air, no control or limits. There was no tottering on the edge. We both fell headfirst. In his arms, in the way the water bubbled and moved with our bodies, I may’ve lost track of time, but I gained a little part of me. I gained a part of him that U would hold close for the rest of my days, no matter how long or short that turned out to be.

Are you gonna talk to her after the game?” Hollis asks expectantly. “Or do we need to bring out a shotgun and—” “Relax, you don’t have to make me talk to her at gunpoint,” I say with a chuckle. “What?” His expression is puzzled. “I was going to say we’d clock you in the back of the head with the shotgun, knock some sense into you.” I turn to Fitzgerald, who shrugs and says, “His brain operates on a level us mortals can’t comprehend.

Klečala je preda mnom i šaputala, da ne može bez mene da živi. Ja sam joj rekao da ode. Predosećam smrt i rado kašljem, pa bi bilo suviše sentimentalno da umrem u njenim rukama. Ona bi suviše glasno plakala, a ja ne volim plač nego tugu. Nisam više željan, da me ljube, niti da mi iko pruža ruku. Dosta je bilo. Ako je ljubav, naljubio sam se. Umoran sam. Pod prozorom mi je niklo žito, i stoput na dan hoću da se zaplačem. Žao mi je sebe samog. Ali mi je žao i žita. Ko zna, možda i neće moći bez mene da živi. Zar je ona kriva, ako ljubav nije večna. Sve to priznajem. Ja ništa ne želim, osim da brzo prodje sve što dodje. Kad smo se našli i ja i ona imali smo već hiljadu greha, navika i senki u sebi. A da ljubav počinje u šumi, kako bi sve lakše bilo.

To me feminism is not simply a struggle to end male chauvinism or a movement to ensure that women will have equal rights with men; it is a commitment to eradicating the ideology of domination that permeates Western culture on various levels--sex, race, and class, to name a few--and a commitment to reorganizing U.S. society so that the self-development of people can take precedence over imperialism, economic expansion, and material desires.

WebMD calls it a stage of grief - anger. But I doubt I'll ever get to the other stages. This one slices me into millions of pieces. Every time I'm whole and back to normal, something happens to tear me apart, and I'm forced to start all over again. The rain lets up. The devil stops beating his wife, but I beat the dashboard, punching it over and over, numb to the pain of it. I wanna be numb to the pain of all this.

Let’s just call it an adjustment of priorities.” Nick saw no reason to beat around the bush about this next part. Pallas was a good guy, and an excellent agent. “There’s more. You and I both know that Davis has been thinking about retiring. I told him today that when that happens, I’d like to be considered for the special agent in charge position. I wanted you to hear it from me first. Thought you might be eying the job, too.” Jack considered this. “I’ve given it some thought,” he admitted. “But politically, I doubt it would go over well if the special agent in charge of Chicago and the U.S. attorney of the same district were involved in a personal relationship.” His expression was one of pride. “And since Cameron got there first, it looks like I’m adjusting my priorities, too.” He paused. “Plus, I hear that people think I’m cranky.” He rubbed his jaw, musing. “Not sure why that is.” “Maybe it’s all the brooding and glowering.” “No one complains when you break out the don’t-fuck-with-me face.

Jose: Do not drop me senor Jeff:i wont drop you,jose Jose:then i be jose jalapeno on the floor Peanut:do a little tap dance and we got salsa! Jeff:Thats terrible! Peanut:not with the right chips its not Jeff:stop it! im sorry jose jose:its okay jeff: okay Jose:ill kick his ass later peanut:i'll turn ur ass into guacamole jeff: stop it! peanut: i will stir u with ur own stick! jeff:stop it! peanut: this is the way we stir the guac stir the guac stir the guac. OLE!!

Man, get outta here! Tupac was the truth." "Yeah, twenty years ago." "Nah, even now. Like, check this." He points at me, which means he's about to go into one of his Khalil philosophical moments. "'Pac said Thug Life stood for 'The Hate U Give Little Infants Fucks Everybody." I raise my eyebrows. "What?" "Listen! The Hate U - the letter U - Give Little Infants Fucks Everybody. T-H-U-G L-I-F-E. Meaning what society give us as youth, it bites them in the ass when we wild out. Get it?" "Damn. Yeah.

My phone buzzes, and I shut off YouTube so I can access my messages. Logan: Just found the perfect xmas present for you in Boston. A photo promptly appears, summoning a loud groan from my throat. The asshole sent me a pic of a novelty My Little Pony dildo. Damn thing is bright pink, with rainbow sparkles on the handle. Logan: And it’s rechargeable! U don’t have to buy batteries. THAT’S handy! Me: Hardy-har-har. You = comedian. Then I message Grace: Tell your BF to stop being mean to me. She texts back a smiley face. Traitor.

Znam, ponekad sam neprijatan, dobro, često sam neprijatan, mučim vas. Ali koga da mučim ako neću vas? Vi ste mi najbliži, volim vas oboje, i imam prava da budem neprijatan. U čudnom sam rasploženju, vjerujem da i vi imate časova koji su gori od drugih, samo što sam ja luđi od vas pa stvaram probleme i tamo gdje ih nema, kidam se bez razloga i tad se iskaljujem na vama. E pa, pretrpite se malo, prijatelji ste mi, poslije ću se ja vama staviti na raspolaganje. Zasad ste jači od mene, i ne ljutite se, primite me ovakvog nikakvog, dok ne dođem sebi.

I used to think love was two people sucking on the same straw to see whose thirst was stronger, but then I whiffed the crushed walnuts of your nape, traced jackals in the snow-covered tombstones of your teeth. I used to think love was a non-stop saxophone solo in the lungs, till I hung with you like a pair of sneakers from a phone line, and you promised to always smell the rose in my kerosene. I used to think love was terminal pelvic ballet, till you let me jog beside while you pedaled all over hell on the menstrual bicycle, your tongue ripping through my prairie like a tornado of paper cuts. I used to think love was an old man smashing a mirror over his knee, till you helped me carry the barbell of my spirit back up the stairs after my car pirouetted in the desert. You are my history book. I used to not believe in fairy tales till I played the dunce in sheep’s clothing and felt how perfectly your foot fit in the glass slipper of my ass. But then duty wrapped its phone cord around my ankle and yanked me across the continent. And now there are three thousand miles between the u and s in esophagus. And being without you is like standing at a cement-filled wall with a roll of Yugoslavian nickels and making a wish. Some days I miss you so much I’d jump off the roof of your office building just to catch a glimpse of you on the way down. I wish we could trade left eyeballs, so we could always see what the other sees. But you’re here, I’m there, and we have only words, a nightly phone call - one chance to mix feelings into syllables and pour into the receiver, hope they don’t disassemble in that calculus of wire. And lately - with this whole war thing - the language machine supporting it - I feel betrayed by the alphabet, like they’re injecting strychnine into my vowels, infecting my consonants, naming attack helicopters after shattered Indian tribes: Apache, Blackhawk; and West Bank colonizers are settlers, so Sharon is Davey Crockett, and Arafat: Geronimo, and it’s the Wild West all over again. And I imagine Picasso looking in a mirror, decorating his face in war paint, washing his brushes in venom. And I think of Jenin in all that rubble, and I feel like a Cyclops with two eyes, like an anorexic with three mouths, like a scuba diver in quicksand, like a shark with plastic vampire teeth, like I’m the executioner’s fingernail trying to reason with the hand. And I don’t know how to speak love when the heart is a busted cup filling with spit and paste, and the only sexual fantasy I have is busting into the Pentagon with a bazooka-sized pen and blowing open the minds of generals. And I comfort myself with the thought that we’ll name our first child Jenin, and her middle name will be Terezin, and we’ll teach her how to glow in the dark, and how to swallow firecrackers, and to never neglect the first straw; because no one ever talks about the first straw, it’s always the last straw that gets all the attention, but by then it’s way too late.

In a British accent, he tells me his name is Dr.Nawaz, and suddenly I want to be away from this man, because I don't think I can bear what he has come to tell me. He says the boy had cut himself deeply and had lost a great deal of blood and my mouth begins to mutter that prayer again: La illaha ila Allah, Muhammad u rasul ullah. They had to transfuse several units of red cells─ How will I tell Soraya? Twice, they had to revive him─ I will do namaz, I will do zakat. They would have lost him if his heart hadn't been young and strong─ I will fast. He is alive.

Nemoj me tako gledati, daj da ti kažem zašto me pogodilo. Nije mene ubola ni riječ „Ciganin“ ni riječ „najlepši“. Ova između, ova prokleta, „ali“. To je riječ uljez, to je zla riječ. Ne smije joj biti mjesto u rečenicama o ljudima. Ako si s krive strane te riječi, ona te zauvijek dijeli od dobrih slika, shvaćaš. On je vrejden, ali je Cigan. Ciganica je, ali pošrena. Sandijevi su za nas s te krive strane, shvatila sam. Od svega dobrog i lijepog dijeli ih riječ koja kaže da nisu sasvim vrijedni toga. Upozoraca da u svojoj srži…možda skrivaju i potpunu suprotnost. Bilo mi je teško zbog toga, shvaćaš. I, da, željela sam vidjeti kako je s njegove strane tog prokletog „ali“, pa makar tamo ostala zauvijek.

Didn't you just turn eighteen, Jen?" Vasile asked her. Jen looked a little confused at his choice of response. "Umm, yes. I believe that loud racket you heard a couple of weeks ago was Sally and Jacque's idea of a birthday party. What does that have to do with me leaving?" "If you are eighteen, Jen, you are an adult. I can't make you stay here. If you want to leave, if you really think that is the best thing for you, then you can go. I will allow you to use the pack plane to get back to the U.S. if that is truly what you want," Vasile explained. Jen cocked her head to the side, eyes narrowed at the Alpha sitting calmly in front of her. "Just like that? No trying to convince me to stay, or telling me not to give up, or yada yada yada bull crap?" "No 'yada yada yada bull crap'," he agreed. "Huh, okay then.

As soon as we were inside, Edwart's family rushed to greet me. What seemed like thirty people circled me, chattering away. "Oh my god, you smell good." "Good smell, good smell." "(she really does smell good.)" "do you mind if I put my nose right on you? Right on your arm?" "More smelly smelly please." "If I could destroy every part of my brain except the part that smelled your smell, I would do it. I would do it in a second." "Let's go, Belle," Edwart whispered and grabbed my hand. We pushed through the ravenous vampires nad out the front door. "So that went well!" I said outside in the U-HAUL. I sniffed my hair. I did smell good. "No, no, that wasn't my house," Edwart said, starting the truck. "I don't even know those people! Sometimes I get addresses confused.

As I brush my teeth, I scroll through my phone to see if Sabrina texted when my phone was on silent last night. She didn’t. Damn. I was hoping my speech—and that amazing fucking kiss—might’ve changed her mind about going out with me, but I guess it didn’t. I do, however, find the most mind-boggling conversation in the group chat I have with my roommates. All the messages are from last night, and they’re bizarre as fuck. Garrett: The hells, D?! Dean: It’s not what you think!! Logan: It’s hard to mistake ur romantic bath with that giant pink thing! In ur ass! Dean: It wasn’t in my ass! Garrett: I’m not even going to ask where it was Dean: I had a girl over! Garrett: Suuuuuuuuure Logan: Suuuuuuuuure Dean: I hate you guys Garrett: <3 Logan: <3 I rinse my mouth out, spit, and drop the toothbrush into the little cup on the sink. Then I quickly type out a text. Me: Wait… what did I miss? Since we have practice in twenty minutes, the guys are already awake and clearly on their phones. Two photos pop up simultaneously. Garrett and Logan have both sent me pics of pink dildos. I’m even more confused now. Dean messages immediately with, Why do you guys have dildo pics handy? Logan: ALINIMB Dean: ?? Me: ?? Garrett: At Least It’s Not In My Butt. I snort to myself, because I’m starting to piece it together. Logan: Nice, G! U got that on the first try! Garrett: We spend too much time 2gether. Me: PLEASE tell me u caught D playing w/ dildos. Logan: Sure did. Dean is quick to object again. I HAD A GIRL OVER! The guys and I rag on him for a couple more minutes, but I have to stop when Fitzy stumbles into the bathroom and shoves me aside. He’s got crazy bedhead and he’s buck-naked. “Gotta piss,” he mumbles. “Mornin’, sunshine,” I say cheerfully. “Want me to make you some coffee?” “God. Yes. Please.” Chuckling, I duck out of the bathroom and walk the four or so steps into his kitchenette. When he finally emerges, I shove a cup of coffee in his hand, sip my own, and say, “Dean shoved a dildo up his ass last night.” Fitzy nods. “Makes sense.” I snicker mid-sip. Coffee spills over the rim of my cup. “It really does, huh?

I TEND TO believe in government because it was the U.S. government that paid for my brain surgery when I was five months old and provided USDA food so I wouldn’t starve during my poverty-crushed reservation childhood and built the HUD house that kept us warm and gave me scholarship money for the college education that freed me. Of course, the government only gave me all of that good shit because they completely fucked over my great-grandparents and grandparents but, you know, at least some official white folks keep some of their promises.

A lump forms in my throat as the truth hits me. Hard. “That’s why people are speaking out, huh? Because it won’t change if we don’t say something.” “Exactly. We can’t be silent.” “So I can’t be silent.” Daddy stills. He looks at me. I see the fight in his eyes. I matter more to him than a movement. I’m his baby, and I’ll always be his baby, and if being silent means I’m safe, he’s all for it. This is bigger than me and Khalil though. This is about Us, with a capital U; everybody who looks like us, feels like us, and is experiencing this pain with us despite not knowing me or Khalil. My silence isn’t helping Us. Daddy fixes his gaze on the road again. He nods. “Yeah. Can’t be silent.

Nicaise had picked up a gilt three-pronged fork, but had paused before sampling the dish in order to speak. The fear he'd shown of Damen at the ring seemed to still be there. His knuckles, clenched around the fork, were white. 'It's all right,' said Damen. He spoke to the boy as gently as he could. 'I'm not going to hurt you.' Nicaise stared back at him. His huge blue eyes were fringed like a whore's, or like a doe's. Around them, the table was a coloured wall of voices and laughter, courtiers caught up in their own amusements, paying them no attention. 'Good,' said Nicaise, and stabbed the fork viciously into Damen's thigh under the table. Even through a layer of cloth, it was enough to make Damen start, and instinctively grab the fork, as three drops of blood welled up. 'Excuse me a moment,' Laurent said smoothly, turning from Torveld to face Nicaise. 'I made your pet jump,' said Nicaise, smugly. Not sounding at all displeased: 'Yes, you did.' 'Whatever you're planning, it's not going to work.' 'I think it will, though. Bet you your earring.' 'If I win, you wear it,' said Nicaise. Laurent immediately lifted his cup and inclined it toward Nicaise in a little gesture sealing the bet. Damen tried to shake the bizarre impression that they were enjoying themselves. Nicaise waved an attendant over and asked for a new fork.

Ubi me prejaka reč. Ne stigoh da se sklonim. Reče je ona jutros, uz slavujevu pesmu. Sad neku tugu tešku iz sebe zalud gonim, To njeno zbogom beše premnogo i za česmu MOJIH MUCAVIH REČI I BOLNOG PONIŽENJA... I puče reč kao bič, fijukom za sva vremena, Dok se još nečem nadah, dok bejah sav sa sobom. Sad sam niko i ništa – sam sebi svoja sena, Osušen bor na hridi pred vetrovitim dobom UBI ME PREJAKA REČ, UMREŠE SNOVIĐENJA... Ne reče ko je krivac za taj metak od reči, Nekuda odskakuta, sva gipka kao srna... U meni prošlo vreme kao parastos ječi, A negde ispred oka mota se kosa crna I OKO, BADEM ZRELI, NADOŠLO ZA VOLJENJA... Možda ću doći sebi kada pobegnu laste, Kad leto zaboravim i sav u jesen odem. Kad lepo što je, zaspi, a noć počne da raste U meni i za mene, kad mrak okom ubodem... UBI ME PREJAKA REČ, UMREŠE SNOVIĐENJA... U toj ću noći i ja sa svojim snom umreti, Kunući ono zbogom što ga izreče ona. A nije dobro nikom svom bolu da se sveti, Neka sve ide Nebu, nek' sudi Vasiona... UBI ME PREJAKA REČ, UMREŠE SVA VOLJENJA...

Nearly a Valediction" You happened to me. I was happened to like an abandoned building by a bull- dozer, like the van that missed my skull happened a two-inch gash across my chin. You were as deep down as I’ve ever been. You were inside me like my pulse. A new- born flailing toward maternal heartbeat through the shock of cold and glare: when you were gone, swaddled in strange air I was that alone again, inventing life left after you. I don’t want to remember you as that four o’clock in the morning eight months long after you happened to me like a wrong number at midnight that blew up the phone bill to an astronomical unknown quantity in a foreign currency. The U.S. dollar dived since you happened to me. You’ve grown into your skin since then; you’ve grown into the space you measure with someone you can love back without a caveat. While I love somebody I learn to live with through the downpulled winter days’ routine wakings and sleepings, half-and-half caffeine- assisted mornings, laundry, stock-pots, dust- balls in the hallway, lists instead of longing, trust that what comes next comes after what came first. She’ll never be a story I make up. You were the one I didn’t know where to stop. If I had blamed you, now I could forgive you, but what made my cold hand, back in prox- imity to your hair, your mouth, your mind, want where it no way ought to be, defined by where it was, and was and was until the whole globed swelling liquefied and spilled through one cheek’s nap, a syllable, a tear, was never blame, whatever I wished it were. You were the weather in my neighborhood. You were the epic in the episode. You were the year poised on the equinox.

Recital' malsorit O, si nuk kam një grusht të fortë t'i bij mu në zemër malit që s'bëzanë, ta dij dhe ai se ç'domethanë i dobët - n'agoni të përdihet si vigan i vramë. Unë - lugat si hij' e trazueme, trashigimtar i vuejtjes dhe i durimit, endem mbi bark të malit me ujën e zgjueme dhe me klithma të pakënaqura t'instinktit. Mali hesht. Edhe pse përditë mbi lëkurë të tij, në lojë varrimtare, kërkoj me gjetë një kafshatë ma të mirë... Por më rren shaka, shpresa gënjeshtare. Mali hesht - dhe në heshtje qesh. E unë vuej - dhe në vuejtje vdes. Po unë, kur? heu! kur kam për t'u qesh? Apo ndoshta duhet ma parë të vdes? 0, si nuk kam një grusht të fuqishëm! Malit, që hesht, mu në zemër me ia njesh! Ta shof si dridhet nga grusht' i paligjshëm... E unë të kënaqem, të kënaqem tu' u qesh.

Daddy, you’re the worst person to watch Harry Potter with. The whole time you’re talking about”—I deepen my voice—“‘Why don’t they shoot that nigga Voldemort?’” “Ay, it don’t make sense that in all them movies and books, nobody thought to shoot him.” “If it’s not that,” Momma says, “you’re giving your ‘Harry Potter is about gangs’ theory.” “It is!” he says. Okay, so it is a good theory. Daddy claims the Hogwarts houses are really gangs. They have their own colors, their own hideouts, and they are always riding for each other, like gangs. Harry, Ron, and Hermione never snitch on one another, just like gangbangers. Death Eaters even have matching tattoos. And look at Voldemort. They’re scared to say his name. Really, that “He Who Must Not Be Named” stuff is like giving him a street name. That’s some gangbanging shit right there. “Y’all know that make a lot of sense,” Daddy says. “Just ’cause they was in England don’t mean they wasn’t gangbanging.” He looks at me. “So you down to hang out with your old man today or what?

[Author's Note:] It took me four years to research and write this novel, so I began long before talk about migrant caravans and building a wall entered the national zeitgeist. But even then I was frustrated by the tenor of the public discourse surrounding immigration in this country. The conversation always seemed to turn around policy issues, to the absolute exclusion of moral or humanitarian concerns. I was appalled at the way Latino migrants, even five years ago - and it has gotten exponentially worse since then - were characterized within that public discourse. At worst, we perceive them as an invading mob of resource-draining criminals, and at best, a sort of helpless, impoverished, faceless brown mass, clamoring for help at our doorstep. We seldom think of them as our fellow human beings. People with the agency to make their own decisions, people who can contribute to their own bright futures, and to ours, as so many generations of oft-reviled immigrants have done before them.

Ponekad mi se ucini da mi beze pod nogama putevi i daljine. I kadgod mi se dogodi da dospem u daleko, i stanem nasred njega i mislim: konacno, evo me; ako podignem oci, vidim da svako najdalje ima svoje jos dalje. Mozda je to i sreca. Mozda imam u sebi nesto duze od krajeva. Mozda imam u sebi toliko mnogo sveta, da se nikada, nigde, nec...e moci zavrsiti. Nije rec o zivotu, nego o njegovom dejstvu. Jer neke stvari se ne mogu saznati samo ocima. Postoje u meni mnoga, neverovatna cula. Cula vode i vazduha, metala, ikre, semenja,... Oni koji me srecu, misle da ja to putujem. A ne putujem ja. To beskraj po meni hoda. Od koje sam ja vrste? Znam jednu novu igru. Zaustavim se naprasno i ne micem se satima. Pravim se kao da razmisljam i da u sebi rastem. Cinim to dosta uverljivo. Dok imitiram drvece, neko sa strane, neupucen, stvarno bi pomislio da sam pustio korenje. Razlistavam se sluhom. Zagrljajima. Disanjem. Cak se i ptice prevare, pa mi slete u kosu i gnezde mi se na ramenu. Pravim se da sam trom sanjar. Nespretan penjac. Spor saputnik. Pravim se da mi je tesko da se savijam preko belih ostrica realnog. Pravim se da mi nedostaje hitrina iznenadnog skracivanja u tacku i produzetka u nedogled... Ja ne upoznajem svet, vec ga samo prepoznajem. Ne idem da ga otkrivam, nego da ga se prisetim, kao nekakve svoje daleke uspomene. Jer mnogo puta sam bio gde nisam jos koracao. I mnogo puta sam ziveo u onom sto jos ne poznajem. I mnogo puta sam grlio to sto ce tek biti oblici. Zato izgledam izgubljen i neprestano se osvrcem. A u sebi se smeskam. Jer, ako niste znali, svet je cudesna igracka. Moze li se izgubiti neko u nekakvom vremenu i nekakvom prostoru, ako u sebi nosi sva vremena i prostore?... Smeta mi krov da sanjam. Smeta mi nebo da verujem...

I’M LOSING FAITH IN MY FAVORITE COUNTRY Throughout my life, the United States has been my favorite country, save and except for Canada, where I was born, raised, educated, and still live for six months each year. As a child growing up in Waterloo, Ontario, Canada, I aggressively bought and saved baseball cards of American and National League players, spent hours watching snowy images of American baseball and football games on black and white television and longed for the day when I could travel to that great country. Every Saturday afternoon, me and the boys would pay twelve cents to go the show and watch U.S. made movies, and particularly, the Superman serial. Then I got my chance. My father, who worked for B.F. Goodrich, took my brother and me to watch the Cleveland Indians play baseball in the Mistake on the Lake in Cleveland. At last I had made it to the big time. I thought it was an amazing stadium and it was certainly not a mistake. Amazingly, the Americans thought we were Americans. I loved the United States, and everything about the country: its people, its movies, its comic books, its sports, and a great deal more. The country was alive and growing. No, exploding. It was the golden age of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. The American dream was alive and well, but demanded hard work, honesty, and frugality. Everyone understood that. Even the politicians. Then everything changed. Partly because of its proximity to the United States and a shared heritage, Canadians also aspired to what was commonly referred to as the American dream. I fall neatly into that category. For as long as I can remember I wanted a better life, but because I was born with a cardboard spoon in my mouth, and wasn’t a member of the golden gene club, I knew I would have to make it the old fashioned way: work hard and save. After university graduation I spent the first half of my career working for the two largest oil companies in the world: Exxon and Royal Dutch Shell. The second half was spent with one of the smallest oil companies in the world: my own. Then I sold my company and retired into obscurity. In my case obscurity was spending summers in our cottage on Lake Rosseau in Muskoka, Ontario, and winters in our home in Port St. Lucie, Florida. My wife, Ann, and I, (and our three sons when they can find the time), have been enjoying that “obscurity” for a long time. During that long time we have been fortunate to meet and befriend a large number of Americans, many from Tom Brokaw’s “Greatest Generation.” One was a military policeman in Tokyo in 1945. After a very successful business carer in the U.S. he’s retired and living the dream. Another American friend, also a member of the “Greatest Generation”, survived The Battle of the Bulge and lived to drink Hitler’s booze at Berchtesgaden in 1945. He too is happily retired and living the dream. Both of these individuals got to where they are by working hard, saving, and living within their means. Both also remember when their Federal Government did the same thing. One of my younger American friends recently sent me a You Tube video, featuring an impassioned speech by Marco Rubio, Republican senator from Florida. In the speech, Rubio blasts the spending habits of his Federal Government and deeply laments his country’s future. He is outraged that the U.S. Government spends three hundred billion dollars, each and every month. He is even more outraged that one hundred and twenty billion of that three hundred billion dollars is borrowed. In other words, Rubio states that for every dollar the U.S. Government spends, forty cents is borrowed. I don’t blame him for being upset. If I had run my business using that arithmetic, I would be in the soup kitchens. If individual American families had applied that arithmetic to their finances, none of them would be in a position to pay a thin dime of taxes.

Ja sam čovjek začet u sljepilu strasti, u mraku utrobe, porinut u vrijeme za mučno trajanje. Dali su mi na put radosti i boli (više boli, manje radosti) i dva oka da gledam mučenje i dva uha da slušam jecanje najmukotrpnijeg bića koje je izmislilo i plač i smijeh. I usta su mi dali da žvačem gorki zalogaj. I jezik da govorim: jao! Dali su mi ruke da gradim i rušim, da grlim i ubijam! I noge da bježim kad me progone, i sam da progonim. Imam srce da bih trpio jače od svih životinja. Imam razum da bih se mogao nadati sutrašnjemu danu koji bi mogao donijeti nešto radosti. A kad radosti ne bude, opet ću se nadati i lažima ispunjavati misli svoje da bi mi san pao na oči. I sanjat ću da sam ŽIV ZAUVIJEK. Ali probudit će se tada Polifem-kiklop jednooki, i navalit će golem kamen na spilju moga sna i neće biti izlaza. Zgrabit će me nešto strašno, ogromno, i probudit ću se u rukama ljudoždera...

No,” I start, hesitantly. “Well, we have to end apartheid for one. And slow down the nuclear arms race, stop terrorism and world hunger. Ensure a strong national defense, prevent the spread of communism in Central America, work for a Middle East peace settlement, prevent U.S. military involvement overseas. We have to ensure that America is a respected world power. Now that’s not to belittle our domestic problems, which are equally important, if not more. Better and more affordable long-term care for the elderly, control and find a cure for the AIDS epidemic, clean up environmental damage from toxic waste and pollution, improve the quality of primary and secondary education, strengthen laws to crack down on crime and illegal drugs. We also have to ensure that college education is affordable for the middle class and protect Social Security for senior citizens plus conserve natural resources and wilderness areas and reduce the influence of political action committees.” The table stares at me uncomfortably, even Stash, but I’m on a roll.

Zeleno, volim te, zeleno. Zelen vetar, zelene grane. Brod na moru i konj u planini. Opasana senkom ona sanja na verandi, zelene puti, kose zelene, sa očima od hladnog srebra. Zeleno, volim te, zeleno! Pod lunom Cigankom stvari pilje u nju a ona ih ne vidi. Zeleno, volim te, zeleno! Velike zvezde od inja dolaze sa ribom senke što otvara put zori. Smokva trlja vetar korom svojih grana, a breg, mačak lupež, ježi svoje ljute agave. Ali ko će doći? I odakle? Ona čeka na balkonu, zelene puti, kose zelene, sanjajuci gorko more. -Kume, daću ti konja za kuću, sedlo za njeno ogledalo, nož za njen ogrtač. Kume, dolazim krvareći iz Kabrinih klanaca. -Kad bih mogao, mladiću, lako bi se nagodili. Ali ja više nisam ja niti je moj dom više moj. Kume, hoću da umrem pristojno u svojoj postelji od čelika i, ako je moguce, sa holandskim čaršavima... Zar ne vidiš moju ranu od grudi do grla? -Trista crnih ruža pokrivaju tvoj beli grudnjak. Krv ti vri i miriše oko pojasa. Ali ja više nisam ja niti je moj dom više moj. -Pusti me bar na visoke verande, pusti me da se popnem! Pusti me na zelene verande. Verandice mesečeve, gde kaplje voda. Već se penju dva kuma na visoke verande. Ostavljajući trag krvi. Ostavljajući trag suza. Drhtali su krovovi, fenjerčići od lima. Hiljadu staklenih defova ranjavalo je zoru. Zeleno, volim te, zeleno! Zelen vetar, zelene grane. Dva kuma su se popela. Širok vetar ostavljao je u ustima čudan ukus žuči, mentola i bosiljka. -Kume, gde je, reci mi, gde je tvoje gorko devojče? -Koliko puta te je čekala sveža lica, crne kose, na toj zelenoj verandi. Nad ogledalom bunara Ciganka se njiha. Zelene puti, kose zelene, sa očima od hladnog srebra. Mesečev stalaktit od leda drži je nad vodom. Noć je postala intimna kao mali trg. Pijani su žandari lupali na vrata. Zeleno, volim te, zeleno! Zelene vetar, zelene grane. Brod na moru i konj u planini. - ROMANSA MESECARKA

Odjebi, JNA... Dao sam ti jednu dobru godinu života... Najbolju, možda? Veliki Vračevi Medicine rascepe grudi kao narandžu i spuste novo srce u njih (pažljivo, zatvorenih šaka, kao da vraćaju vrapčića u gnezdo), razdvoje skalpelom svetlo od tame u mutnom jezgru zenice, bajaju, pokretnu nepokretno, čudotvore na ljudima, pa opet, ni oni ne mogu da mi vrate moju otrgnutu devetnaestu.... Nikad više... Ali... Proklet da sam... Ja sam bar imao dvadesetu. Dvadeset prvu. I još neke dvadeset-tridesete... Za razliku od dečaka na čije crno uokvirene fotografije svakodnevno nailazim na predzadnjim stranicama štampe... Oni ostadoše negde u devetnaestoj... Zaljubljeni... Zaigrani... Zbunjeni... Ne dospevši da svoje olovne vojnike razdvoje od olovnih zrna, koje su im Zli Starci tako bezbožnički podmetnuli u džepove... Ne, Brate Kaine, ne zovi me u polje... Ne mami me, zalud, da prošetamo minskim poljem, moj grešni sivomaslinasti brate... Poturi nekog drugog Dobrovoljca na branike svoje nesposobnosti... Okači drugu metu na svoje kartonske bedeme... Nema Mojih u ovom Ratu Naših... Ma znam... Ne može to tek tako... Čičak Izdaje se kači na sve strane. I meni će ga već neki mangup prilepiti na leđa, onako u prolazu, tapšući me po ramenu, tobož prijateljski... Razmišljao sam o tome... Koga izdati kad mi ostane da biram između nas dvoje? I, žalim... Ali prestar sam da bih izdao sebe, još jednom... Zato odjebi, JNA... Dosta je bilo...

..Ona se verovatno tačno seća na kom smo se sastanku poljubili?... Ja, priznajem, ne... Jer svoj život sam počeo da brojim tek od tog poljupca, pa nadalje... Bilo je od našeg prvog izlaska milion penala, onih filmskih situacija, pri susretu, u kolima, na stepeništu, ali nekako sam se plašio da je poljubim, slutio sam da bi to moglo da pokvari sve? I bio sam u pravu... Prvim poljupcem, kao tamnocrvenim carskim pečatom, u momentu je poništila haotičnu hrpu mojih uspomena, i iz pretenciozne Biografije Mog Momčenja prezrivo iscepila sve one stranice na kojima se pominju devojke, ljubav, strast... Koliko samo promašenih tema? Iz jedne naizgled prozaične popodnevne gužve nadošla je lagano i nezadrživo, kao talas, osmehnula se, potopila me zagrljajem, i tiho se povukla ka tamnoj pučini svoje tajanstvenosti... Da... A more ume nemilosrdno da se primiri... Katkad me, eto, oseka danima i danima ostavi nasukanog i samog... Ali delići Onog Talasa zapali su u svaku božiju pukotinu Ove Stare Stene... I, ma šta da se desi... U meni će zauvek ostati ona so...

Jedne je večeri došla kasnije nego obično. Bio sam legao. Brzo sam navukao prve gaće koje su mi se našle pod rukom. Ispostavilo se da su me baš te gaće, od svih koje sam imao, najviše izdavale. Lastiša oko butina skoro i nije bilo – praktično sam bio u suknji. Sve vreme sam morao dobro da pazim da sedim u određenom položaju i da ne ustajem naglo. Ipak mi se činilo da bi još nesrećnije rešenje bilo obući pantalone. Ona bi to naime protumačila kao signal da može da ostane, da uopšte nemam nameru da spavam i da je i moja noć bez kraja i konca. Shvatio sam koliko je ta odluka bila ispravna, i u istom trenutku uvideo da je razlika između čoveka u gaćama i čoveka u pantalonama ogromna, skoro nepojmljiva. U pantalonama si spreman za sve. Nijedan poduhvat nije nezamisliv. U gaćama si pak slobodan. Čoveka u gaćama je, na primer, teško usred noći pozvati u šetnju, što me od nje inače uopšte ne bi iznenadilo.

Motherhood seems to be a no-win battle: however you decide to do (or not do) it, someone’s going to be criticizing you. You went to too great lengths trying to conceive. You didn’t go to great enough lengths. You had the baby too young. You should have kept the baby even though you were young. You shouldn’t have waited so long to try and have a baby. You’re a too involved mother. You’re not involved enough because you let your child play on the playground alone. It never ends. It strikes me that while all this judgment goes on, the options available to women become fewer and fewer. I’m not even (just) talking about the right to choose—across the U.S., women have less access to birth control, health care, reproductive education, and post-partum support. So we give women less information about their bodies and reproduction, less control over their bodies, and less support during and after pregnancy—and then we criticize them fiercely for whatever they end up doing. This

mad maddie: I GOT ACCEPTED TO SANTA CRUZ!!!! SnowAngel: omg!!! zoegirl: maddie!!!! yay!!!!! mad maddie: i know! it's incredible! SnowAngel: *squeals and hugs sweet maddie* SnowAngel: tell us every single detail!!! mad maddie: well, i got home from school and saw this big thick envelope on the kitchen counter, with "Santa Cruz Admissions Office" as the return address. i got really fidgety and just started screaming, right there in the house. no one was there but me, so i could be as loud as i wanted. zoegirl: omg!!! mad maddie: i took a deep breath and tried to calm down, but my hands were shaking. i opened the envelope and pulled out a folder that said, "Welcome to Santa Cruz!" inside was a letter that said, "Dear Madigan. You're in!" mad maddie: isn't that cool? i LOVE that, that instead of being all prissy and formal, they're like, "you're in! yahootie!" SnowAngel: oh maddie, i am sooooo happy for u! mad maddie: i ran out to my car all jumping and hopping around and drove to ian's, cuz i knew neither of u would be home yet. i showed him my letter and he hugged me really hard and lifted me into the air. it was AWESOME. zoegirl: i'm so proud of u, maddie! SnowAngel: me 2!

A’ight, so what do you think it means?” “You don’t know?” I ask. “I know. I wanna hear what YOU think.” Here he goes. Picking my brain. “Khalil said it’s about what society feeds us as youth and how it comes back and bites them later,” I say. “I think it’s about more than youth though. I think it’s about us, period.” “Us who?” he asks. “Black people, minorities, poor people. Everybody at the bottom in society.” “The oppressed,” says Daddy. “Yeah. We’re the ones who get the short end of the stick, but we’re the ones they fear the most. That’s why the government targeted the Black Panthers, right? Because they were scared of the Panthers?” “Uh-huh,” Daddy says. “The Panthers educated and empowered the people. That tactic of empowering the oppressed goes even further back than the Panthers though. Name one.” Is he serious? He always makes me think. This one takes me a second. “The slave rebellion of 1831,” I say. “Nat Turner empowered and educated other slaves, and it led to one of the biggest slave revolts in history.” “A’ight, a’ight. You on it.” He gives me dap. “So, what’s the hate they’re giving the ‘little infants’ in today’s society?” “Racism?” “You gotta get a li’l more detailed than that. Think ’bout Khalil and his whole situation. Before he died.” “He was a drug dealer.” It hurts to say that. “And possibly a gang member.” “Why was he a drug dealer? Why are so many people in our neighborhood drug dealers?” I remember what Khalil said—he got tired of choosing between lights and food. “They need money,” I say. “And they don’t have a lot of other ways to get it.” “Right. Lack of opportunities,” Daddy says. “Corporate America don’t bring jobs to our communities, and they damn sure ain’t quick to hire us. Then, shit, even if you do have a high school diploma, so many of the schools in our neighborhoods don’t prepare us well enough. That’s why when your momma talked about sending you and your brothers to Williamson, I agreed. Our schools don’t get the resources to equip you like Williamson does. It’s easier to find some crack than it is to find a good school around here. “Now, think ’bout this,” he says. “How did the drugs even get in our neighborhood? This is a multibillion-dollar industry we talking ’bout, baby. That shit is flown into our communities, but I don’t know anybody with a private jet. Do you?” “No.” “Exactly. Drugs come from somewhere, and they’re destroying our community,” he says. “You got folks like Brenda, who think they need them to survive, and then you got the Khalils, who think they need to sell them to survive. The Brendas can’t get jobs unless they’re clean, and they can’t pay for rehab unless they got jobs. When the Khalils get arrested for selling drugs, they either spend most of their life in prison, another billion-dollar industry, or they have a hard time getting a real job and probably start selling drugs again. That’s the hate they’re giving us, baby, a system designed against us. That’s Thug Life.

Ne zanima me od čega živiš. Želim znati za čim žudiš i imaš li hrabrosti snivati o ispunjenju želja srca svoga. Ne zanima me koliko ti je godina. Želim znati jesi li spreman riskirati ispasti budala zbog ljubavi, zbog svojih snova, zbog ove pustolovine koju nazivamo životom. Ne zanima me koji planeti djeluju na tvoj mjesec. Želim znati jesi li stigao do središta vlastite boli, jesu li te životna razočarenja otvorila ili si se skrutio i zatvorio od straha da ponovo ne osjetiš bol. Želim znati jesi li u stanju trpjeti bol, moju ili svoju, a da je pritom ne moraš skrivati ili ublažavati ili izbrisati. Želim znati znaš li se radovati, zbog mene ili sebe, i možeš li divlje zaplesati i pustiti da te ekstaza preplavi sve do vrškova prstiju, a da nas pritom ne upozoravaš neka budemo pažljivi, realni, svjesni ljudskih ograničenja. Ne zanima me je li priča koju mi pričaš istinita. Želim znati jesi li spreman razočarati drugoga kako bi bio iskren prema sebi; jesi li spreman podnijeti optužbe za izdaju, a pritom ne iznevjeriti sebe: možeš li biti izdajica i samim time vrijedan povjerenja. Želim znati jesi li u stanju vidjeti ljepotu, pa i ako nije lijepa, svakoga dana, i možeš li svoj život nadahnjivati Njezinom prisutnošću. Želim znati jesi li dovoljno snažan živjeti s neuspjehom, svojim i mojim, i da svejedno stojiš na rubu jezera i ushićeno vičeš prema srebrnom punom mjesecu: "To!" Ne zanima me gdje živiš i koliko novaca imaš. Želim znati jesi li sposoban ustati, nakon noći ispunjene tugom i očajem, umoran i do kostiju izubijan, i učiniti sve što je potrebno kako bi nahranio svoju djecu. Ne zanima me koga poznaješ i kako si dospio ovamo. Želim znati hoćeš li i dalje sa mnom stajati u žaru vatre i ne posustajati. Ne zanima me gdje si ili što ili s kim si studirao. Želim znati što te u tebi samom gura naprijed u trenucima kad se sve ostalo ruši. Želim znati možeš li biti sam sa sobom i voliš li uistinu osobu koja jesi u trenucima praznine.

I find it appalling that the Church claims Mary consented at the age of thirteen to become the mother of God.” “But she did,” James said. “There is ample evidence to show she consented.” “Isn’t that the classic defense of the pedophile?” Helena asked. “In Christ’s time and even today in some countries in the Middle East and India, child marriages are customary. But that doesn’t make it right. In Europe and the U.S. we prosecute adults for preying on children. God would be arrested for impregnating a girl below the age of consent.” “People didn’t live as long then,” James said. Helena would not back down. “But human biology hasn’t changed. My point is she was too young to consent. The brain of a young teenager isn’t fully developed.” “The mysteries of the faith require us to have faith.” “Don’t hide behind that nonsense. What kind of message is the Church sending to women? Only virgin children are pure? Experienced mothers are impure and unfit to raise Christ? It’s creepy and insulting when you think about it, but you would have me suspend rational judgment and just accept something I would tear your eyes out for thinking about my underage sister?

There is a saturation of books on Amazon due to a sudden get-rich-quick surge in "everyone can be authors" seminars similar to the house flipping ones in the early 2000s which led to the housing bubble and an economic slowdown in the U.S. To distinguish quality books from those get-rich-quick ones, look at the author's track record - worldwide recognition as books that garnered credible awards, authors who speak at book industry events, authors who speak at schools, authors whose books are reference materials and reading sources at school and libraries. Get-rich books have a system to get over 500 reviews quickly, manipulates the Kindle Unlimited algorithm, and encourage collusion in the marketplace to knock out rivals. Be wary of trolls who are utilized to knock down the rankings of rival's books too. Once people have heard there is money to be made as a self-published author, just like house flipping, a cottage industry has risen to take advantage of it and turn book publishing into a get rich scheme, which is a shame for all the book publishers and authors, like me, who had published for the love of books, to write to help society, and for the love of literature. Kailin Gow, Parents and Books

New Rule: Now that liberals have taken back the word "liberal," they also have to take back the word "elite." By now you've heard the constant right-wing attacks on the "elite media," and the "liberal elite." Who may or may not be part of the "Washington elite." A subset of the "East Coast elite." Which is overly influenced by the "Hollywood elite." So basically, unless you're a shit-kicker from Kansas, you're with the terrorists. If you played a drinking game where you did a shot every time Rush Limbaugh attacked someone for being "elite," you'd be almost as wasted as Rush Limbaugh. I don't get it: In other fields--outside of government--elite is a good thing, like an elite fighting force. Tiger Woods is an elite golfer. If I need brain surgery, I'd like an elite doctor. But in politics, elite is bad--the elite aren't down-to-earth and accessible like you and me and President Shit-for-Brains. Which is fine, except that whenever there's a Bush administration scandal, it always traces back to some incompetent political hack appointment, and you think to yourself, "Where are they getting these screwups from?" Well, now we know: from Pat Robertson. I'm not kidding. Take Monica Goodling, who before she resigned last week because she's smack in the middle of the U.S. attorneys scandal, was the third-ranking official in the Justice Department of the United States. She's thirty-three, and though she never even worked as a prosecutor, was tasked with overseeing the job performance of all ninety-three U.S. attorneys. How do you get to the top that fast? Harvard? Princeton? No, Goodling did her undergraduate work at Messiah College--you know, home of the "Fighting Christies"--and then went on to attend Pat Robertson's law school. Yes, Pat Robertson, the man who said the presence of gay people at Disney World would cause "earthquakes, tornadoes, and possibly a meteor," has a law school. And what kid wouldn't want to attend? It's three years, and you have to read only one book. U.S. News & World Report, which does the definitive ranking of colleges, lists Regent as a tier-four school, which is the lowest score it gives. It's not a hard school to get into. You have to renounce Satan and draw a pirate on a matchbook. This is for the people who couldn't get into the University of Phoenix. Now, would you care to guess how many graduates of this televangelist diploma mill work in the Bush administration? On hundred fifty. And you wonder why things are so messed up? We're talking about a top Justice Department official who went to a college founded by a TV host. Would you send your daughter to Maury Povich U? And if you did, would you expect her to get a job at the White House? In two hundred years, we've gone from "we the people" to "up with people." From the best and brightest to dumb and dumber. And where better to find people dumb enough to believe in George Bush than Pat Robertson's law school? The problem here in America isn't that the country is being run by elites. It's that it's being run by a bunch of hayseeds. And by the way, the lawyer Monica Goodling hired to keep her ass out of jail went to a real law school.

Kad sam je drugi put video rekao sam: "Eno Moje Poezije kako prelazi ulicu." Obećala je da će doći ako bude lepo vreme. Brinuo sam o vremenu, pisao svim meteorološkim stanicama. Svim poštarima svim pesnicima a naročito sebi. Da se kiše zadrže u zabačenim krajevima. Bojao sam se da preko noći ne izbije rat, Jer na svašta su spremni oni koji hoće da ometu naš sastanak Sastanak na koji već kasni čitavu moju mladost. Te noći sam nekoliko vekova strepeo za tu ženu Tu ženu sa dve senke, Od kojih je jedna mračnija i nosi moje ime. Sad se čitav grad okreće za Mojom Poezijom Koju sam davno sreo na ulici i pitao: "Gospodjice osećam se kao stvar koju ste izgubili Da nisam možda ispao iz vaše tašne?" Ja sam njen lični pesnik kao što ona ima i lične ljubavnike. Volim je više no što mogu da izdržim, Više od mojih raširenih ruku, Mojih ljubavnih ruku punih žara punih magneta i ludila. Moj snu, kao asfalt izbušen njenim štiklama, Noći, za mene sve duža bačena izmedju nas, Ona mi celu krv nesrećnom ljubavlju zamenjuje. Moje su uši pune njenog karmina, Te providne te hladne uši to slatko u njima Kad se kao prozori zamagle od njenog daha. Kako je ona putovala pomerao se i centar sveta. Pomerala se njena soba koja ne izlazi iz moje glave Sumo vremena, sumo ničega, ljubavna sumo, Još ne prestaje da me boli uvo Koje mi je pre rodjenja otkinuo Van Gog To uvo što krvari putujući u ljubavnim kovertama. U staklenu zoru palu u prašinu, Plivao sam što dalje ka pustim mestima da bih slobodno jaukao. Ptico nataložena u grudima što ti ponestaje vazduha, Radnice popodne na tudjem balkonu, Već dvadeset godina moj pokojni otac ne popravlja telefon, Već dvadeset godina on je mrtav bez ikakvih isprava. O koliko ćemo užasno biti razdvojeni i paralelni, O koliko ćemo biti sami u svojim grobovima. Još oko nje oblećem kao noćni leptir oko sveće I visoke prozore spuštam pred njene noge. Moje srce me drži u zatvoru i vodi pred njenu kuću Gde su spuštene zavese nad mojom ljubavlju. Ta žena puna malih časovnika sa očima u mojoj glavi, Taj andjeo, isprljan suncem list vode, list vazduha, Ljubomorne zveri oru zemlju i same se zakopavaju. O sunce nadjeno medju otpacima... Zuje uporednici kao telegrafske žice, Prevrću se golubovi kao beli plakati u vazduhu, I mrtve ih krila godinama zadržavaju u visinama Kao što mene njena obećanja održavaju u životu. O siroče u srcu što ti brišem suze Moja nesrećna ljubavi razmeno djubreta Stidim se dok je ljubim kao da sam sve to izmislio. Kuća, ništavilo na svim prozorima, Sve je dignuto u vazduh. Samo se još nesrećni pesnici kurvinski bave nadom.

We’re loyal servants of the U.S. government. But Afghanistan involves fighting behind enemy lines. Never mind we were invited into a democratic country by its own government. Never mind there’s no shooting across the border in Pakistan, the illegality of the Taliban army, the Geneva Convention, yada, yada, yada. When we’re patrolling those mountains, trying everything we know to stop the Taliban regrouping, striving to find and arrest the top commanders and explosive experts, we are always surrounded by a well-armed, hostile enemy whose avowed intention is to kill us all. That’s behind enemy lines. Trust me. And we’ll go there. All day. Every day. We’ll do what we’re supposed to do, to the letter, or die in the attempt. On behalf of the U.S.A. But don’t tell us who we can attack. That ought to be up to us, the military. And if the liberal media and political community cannot accept that sometimes the wrong people get killed in war, then I can only suggest they first grow up and then serve a short stint up in the Hindu Kush. They probably would not survive. The truth is, any government that thinks war is somehow fair and subject to rules like a baseball game probably should not get into one. Because nothing’s fair in war, and occasionally the wrong people do get killed. It’s been happening for about a million years. Faced with the murderous cutthroats of the Taliban, we are not fighting under the rules of Geneva IV Article 4. We are fighting under the rules of Article 223.556mm — that’s the caliber and bullet gauge of our M4 rifle. And if those numbers don’t look good, try Article .762mm, that’s what the stolen Russian Kalashnikovs fire at us, usually in deadly, heavy volleys. In the global war on terror, we have rules, and our opponents use them against us. We try to be reasonable; they will stop at nothing. They will stoop to any form of base warfare: torture, beheading, mutilation. Attacks on innocent civilians, women and children, car bombs, suicide bombers, anything the hell they can think of. They’re right up there with the monsters of history.

I’ve had enough I’m sick of seeing and touching Both sides of things Sick of being the damn bridge for everybody Nobody Can talk to anybody Without me Right? I explain my mother to my father my father to my little sister My little sister to my brother my brother to the white feminists The white feminists to the Black church folks the Black church folks to the ex-hippies the ex-hippies to the Black separatists the Black separatists to the artists the artists to my friends’ parents… Then I’ve got to explain myself To everybody I do more translating Than the Gawdamn U.N. Forget it I’m sick of it. I’m sick of filling in your gaps Sick of being your insurance against the isolation of your self-imposed limitations Sick of being the crazy at your holiday dinners Sick of being the odd one at your Sunday Brunches Sick of being the sole Black friend to 34 individual white people Find another connection to the rest of the world Find something else to make you legitimate Find some other way to be political and hip I will not be the bridge to your womanhood Your manhood Your humanness I’m sick of reminding you not to Close off too tight for too long I’m sick of mediating with your worst self On behalf of your better selves I am sick Of having to remind you To breathe Before you suffocate Your own fool self Forget it Stretch or drown Evolve or die The bridge I must be Is the bridge to my own power I must translate My own fears Mediate My own weaknesses I must be the bridge to nowhere But my true self And then I will be useful

Nonsense! Nonsense!” snorted Tasbrough. “That couldn’t happen here in America, not possibly! We’re a country of freemen.” “The answer to that,” suggested Doremus Jessup, “if Mr. Falck will forgive me, is ‘the hell it can’t!’ Why, there’s no country in the world that can get more hysterical—yes, or more obsequious!—than America. Look how Huey Long became absolute monarch over Louisiana, and how the Right Honorable Mr. Senator Berzelius Windrip owns his State. Listen to Bishop Prang and Father Coughlin on the radio—divine oracles, to millions. Remember how casually most Americans have accepted Tammany grafting and Chicago gangs and the crookedness of so many of President Harding’s appointees? Could Hitler’s bunch, or Windrip’s, be worse? Remember the Kuklux Klan? Remember our war hysteria, when we called sauerkraut ‘Liberty cabbage’ and somebody actually proposed calling German measles ‘Liberty measles’? And wartime censorship of honest papers? Bad as Russia! Remember our kissing the—well, the feet of Billy Sunday, the million-dollar evangelist, and of Aimée McPherson, who swam from the Pacific Ocean clear into the Arizona desert and got away with it? Remember Voliva and Mother Eddy?. . .Remember our Red scares and our Catholic scares, when all well-informed people knew that the O.G.P.U. were hiding out in Oskaloosa, and the Republicans campaigning against Al Smith told the Carolina mountaineers that if Al won the Pope would illegitimatize their children? Remember Tom Heflin and Tom Dixon? Remember when the hick legislators in certain states, in obedience to William Jennings Bryan, who learned his biology from his pious old grandma, set up shop as scientific experts and made the whole world laugh itself sick by forbidding the teaching of evolution?. . .Remember the Kentucky night-riders? Remember how trainloads of people have gone to enjoy lynchings? Not happen here? Prohibition—shooting down people just because they might be transporting liquor—no, that couldn’t happen in America! Why, where in all history has there ever been a people so ripe for a dictatorship as ours! We’re ready to start on a Children’s Crusade—only of adults—right now, and the Right Reverend Abbots Windrip and Prang are all ready to lead it!” “Well, what if they are?

I Not my best side, I'm afraid. The artist didn't give me a chance to Pose properly, and as you can see, Poor chap, he had this obsession with Triangles, so he left off two of my Feet. I didn't comment at the time (What, after all, are two feet To a monster?) but afterwards I was sorry for the bad publicity. Why, I said to myself, should my conqueror Be so ostentatiously beardless, and ride A horse with a deformed neck and square hoofs? Why should my victim be so Unattractive as to be inedible, And why should she have me literally On a string? I don't mind dying Ritually, since I always rise again, But I should have liked a little more blood To show they were taking me seriously. II It's hard for a girl to be sure if She wants to be rescued. I mean, I quite Took to the dragon. It's nice to be Liked, if you know what I mean. He was So nicely physical, with his claws And lovely green skin, and that sexy tail, And the way he looked at me, He made me feel he was all ready to Eat me. And any girl enjoys that. So when this boy turned up, wearing machinery, On a really dangerous horse, to be honest I didn't much fancy him. I mean, What was he like underneath the hardware? He might have acne, blackheads or even Bad breath for all I could tell, but the dragon-- Well, you could see all his equipment At a glance. Still, what could I do? The dragon got himself beaten by the boy, And a girl's got to think of her future. III I have diplomas in Dragon Management and Virgin Reclamation. My horse is the latest model, with Automatic transmission and built-in Obsolescence. My spear is custom-built, And my prototype armour Still on the secret list. You can't Do better than me at the moment. I'm qualified and equipped to the Eyebrow. So why be difficult? Don't you want to be killed and/or rescued In the most contemporary way? Don't You want to carry out the roles That sociology and myth have designed for you? Don't you realize that, by being choosy, You are endangering job prospects In the spear- and horse-building industries? What, in any case, does it matter what You want? You're in my way. - Not My Best Side

Ako ti jave da sam pao na razoranim, sleđenim poljima Flandrije, da me je pokosio šrapnel - ti nemoj da budeš tužna i nemoj plakati pred svijetom, jer vrlo dobro znaš da iz mojih grudi ne mogu da niknu suncokreti niti se moje kapi krvi mogu pretvoriti u makove. To je sve jedna obična literarna konstrukcija, a da ne pričamo o tome što ja nikad nisam ni vidio Flandriju niti je ona vidjela mene. Ako ti kažu da sam se u svojim posljednjim časovima junački držao, da sam neustrašivo gledao smrti u oči, da sam je čak i začikavao, da sam svog sudiju prezrivo pljunuo, a da sam dželatu dao kesu dukata uz riječi: "Dobro obavite svoj posao!", a da sam, potom, sam izmaknuo stolicu ispod vješala, ti bi morala znati da je to jedna obična izmišljotina, izmišljotina onih koji ne znaju šta je to život a šta smrt znači. Ti me dobro znaš: znaš kako ja često umirem svakog bogovjetnog dana, kako se trzam na svaki šum, kako mi se čelo često orosi znojem (reklo bi se bez razloga), znaš da se bojim proviriti kroz špijunku na vratima bojeći se ne znam ni sam čega, bojeći se nekoga ko će mi s nadmoćnim osmijehom na licu izrecitirati sti­hove Marine Cvetajeve: Predaj se! Još niko nije našao spasa od onoga što uzima bez ruku! Sjećaš se kako sam se bojao kad si trebala da me predstaviš svo­jim roditeljima, koliko ti je trebalo vremena da me ubijediš da nisam baš toliki kreten koliki izgledam, da se ponekad sa mnom može proći ruku pod ruku kroz prometnu ulicu... Ja pamtim ono veče kad smo otišli kod jedne tvoje prijateljice koja je slavila rođendan, sjećam se svakog vica koji sam ispričao i sjećam se pogleda društva koje je u meni gledalo neku egzotičnu životinju, sjećam se kako su se gurkali laktovima kad smo ulazili, kad sam skidao svoje cipele sa pačijim kljunom (a u modi su bile brukserice), kako sam ispod stola krio onu rupu na ne baš čistim čarapama... Pamtim kako sam to veče, ponesen strahom, popio tri flaše "Fruškogorskog bisera", litar i po domaće rakije (više je nije bilo) i završio sa "Mandarmetom", nekim likerom od mandarina... Od svega toga bi se napilo jedno omanje krdo slonova, ali ja sam bio najtrezniji, bojao sam se da tebi ne napravim neko sranje i to me je držalo. Onda smo izašli na Vilsonovo šetalište i ti si se propela na prste i poljubila me, evo, baš ovdje, pored uha, a ja sam morao da sjed­nem na klupu i da počnem plakati... Prolazila su neka djeca i čuo sam ih kako kažu: "Vidi pedera!!!" Kao i uvijek, ti si me pitala šta mi je najednom, a ja nisam mogao da ti objasnim da to uopšte nije najednom, da je to stalno, da je to neka vrsta mog zaštitnog znaka, nešto po čemu bih sebe poznao među hiljadama meni sličnih, nešto što se i ne trudim da sakrijem, jedan zloćudni tumor s kojim sam se rodio, tumor na mozgu i duši koji se ne da ukloniti nikakvim operativnim putem ni zračenjem, ni činjenicom da te volim i da ti voliš mene... Ako ti jave da večeras hodam po kafanama i olajavam tebe i našu ljubav, da se prodajem za loše vino, da skupljam opuške tuđih simpatija, ljubim ruke nečistih konobarica, ispadam budala u svačijim očima... To ti je živa istina.

For now, the Simple Daily Practice means doing ONE thing every day. Try any one of these things each day: A) Sleep eight hours. B) Eat two meals instead of three. C) No TV. D) No junk food. E) No complaining for one whole day. F) No gossip. G) Return an e-mail from five years ago. H) Express thanks to a friend. I) Watch a funny movie or a stand-up comic. J) Write down a list of ideas. The ideas can be about anything. K) Read a spiritual text. Any one that is inspirational to you. The Bible, The Tao te Ching, anything you want. L) Say to yourself when you wake up, “I’m going to save a life today.” Keep an eye out for that life you can save. M) Take up a hobby. Don’t say you don’t have time. Learn the piano. Take chess lessons. Do stand-up comedy. Write a novel. Do something that takes you out of your current rhythm. N) Write down your entire schedule. The schedule you do every day. Cross out one item and don’t do that anymore. O) Surprise someone. P) Think of ten people you are grateful for. Q) Forgive someone. You don’t have to tell them. Just write it down on a piece of paper and burn the paper. It turns out this has the same effect in terms of releasing oxytocin in the brain as actually forgiving them in person. R) Take the stairs instead of the elevator. S) I’m going to steal this next one from the 1970s pop psychology book Don’t Say Yes When You Want to Say No: when you find yourself thinking of that special someone who is causing you grief, think very quietly, “No.” If you think of him and (or?) her again, think loudly, “No!” Again? Whisper, “No!” Again, say it. Louder. Yell it. Louder. And so on. T) Tell someone every day that you love them. U) Don’t have sex with someone you don’t love. V) Shower. Scrub. Clean the toxins off your body. W) Read a chapter in a biography about someone who is an inspiration to you. X) Make plans to spend time with a friend. Y) If you think, “Everything would be better off if I were dead,” then think, “That’s really cool. Now I can do anything I want and I can postpone this thought for a while, maybe even a few months.” Because what does it matter now? The planet might not even be around in a few months. Who knows what could happen with all these solar flares. You know the ones I’m talking about. Z) Deep breathing. When the vagus nerve is inflamed, your breathing becomes shallower. Your breath becomes quick. It’s fight-or-flight time! You are panicking. Stop it! Breathe deep. Let me tell you something: most people think “yoga” is all those exercises where people are standing upside down and doing weird things. In the Yoga Sutras, written in 300 B.C., there are 196 lines divided into four chapters. In all those lines, ONLY THREE OF THEM refer to physical exercise. It basically reads, “Be able to sit up straight.” That’s it. That’s the only reference in the Yoga Sutras to physical exercise. Claudia always tells me that yogis measure their lives in breaths, not years. Deep breathing is what keeps those breaths going.