Unbothered Quotes

She read paperbacks too, one after the next like she was chain-smoking—romance, science fiction, old pulp fantasy. All she wanted to do was sit, unbothered in a circle of lamplight, and live someone else’s life.

Not easy to state the change you made. If I'm alive now, I was dead, Though, like a stone, unbothered by it.

Where does all our effort go? It’s hard not to envy the monsters when you see how good they have it. And how unbothered they are at being monsters.

she kept dancing. the ground beneath her shaking the foundation she stood upon began to crumble unbothered by the destruction she danced like flames at a bonfire

wear the term “basic bitch” with a sense of pride. embrace every part of you they told you to hate.- unbothered.

In the interest of ultimate honesty,” Celine cut in, “I’m pretty sure that everyone present would appreciate it if you two got a room.” “I wouldn’t,” Dean grumbled. “I am unbothered by displays of physical and emotional intimacy,” Sloane volunteered. “The nuances and statistics underlying courtship behavior are quite fascinating.” The edges of Celine’s lips quirked upward as she met Sloane’s gaze. “You don’t say.” Sloane frowned. “I just did.

I hadn’t realized quite how much of early-days dating was pretending to be unbothered, or busy, or not that hungry, or demonstratively ‘low-key’ about everything.

I'm in no rush to patch up these questions. God save me from the day when stories of violence, rape, and ethnic cleansing inspire within me anything other than revulsion. I don't want to become a person who is unbothered by these texts, and if Jesus is who he says he is, then I don't think he wants me to either. There are parts of the Bible that inspire, parts that perplex, and parts that leave you with an open wound. I'm still wrestling, and like Jacob, I will wrestle until I am blessed. God hasn't let go of me yet.

One of the attractions of moving away into te life of employment, I think, is being disconnected and free, unbothered by membership. It is a life of beginnings without memories, but i is a life too that ends without being remembered.

Naomi could shove a knife in my gut, and I’d remain unbothered. She didn’t know how much she already had a hold on me.

Love Letter" Not easy to state the change you made. If I'm alive now, then I was dead, Though, like a stone, unbothered by it, Staying put according to habit. You didn't just tow me an inch, no- Nor leave me to set my small bald eye Skyward again, without hope, of course, Of apprehending blueness, or stars. That wasn't it. I slept, say: a snake Masked among black rocks as a black rock In the white hiatus of winter- Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure In the million perfectly-chisled Cheeks alighting each moment to melt My cheeks of basalt. They turned to tears, Angels weeping over dull natures, But didn't convince me. Those tears froze. Each dead head had a visor of ice. And I slept on like a bent finger. The first thing I was was sheer air And the locked drops rising in dew Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay Dense and expressionless round about. I didn't know what to make of it. I shone, mice-scaled, and unfolded To pour myself out like a fluid Among bird feet and the stems of plants. I wasn't fooled. I knew you at once. Tree and stone glittered, without shadows. My finger-length grew lucent as glass. I started to bud like a March twig: An arm and a leg, and arm, a leg. From stone to cloud, so I ascended. Now I resemble a sort of god Floating through the air in my soul-shift Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift.

That night, lying beside her, I remembered how when I was a child I would slip my cold feet between my mother’s thighs to warm them. How she’d shiver and whisper that she would always suffer to bring me comfort, that that was how you knew someone really loved you. I remembered the boots she’d broken in so that by the time I got them I could go on unbothered, without harm. Now, more than ever, I wished desperately for a way to transfer pain, wished I could prove to my mother just how much I loved her, that I could just crawl into her hospital cot and press my body close enough to absorb her burden. It seemed only fair that life should present such an opportunity to prove one’s filial piety. That the months my mother had been a vessel for me, her organs shifting and cramping together to make room for my existence, and the agony she’d endured upon my exit could be repaid by carrying this pain in her place. The rite of an only daughter. But I could do no more than lie nearby, ready to be her advocate, listening to the slow and steady beeping of machinery, the soft sounds of her breathing in and out.

It was a good ten minutes before I realized Roman and I had been sitting in silence. I stole a look at him out of the corner of my eye, but he seemed unbothered by quiet as I was. For the first time in a long while, I didn't feel like I had to say anything. There was no one to comfort tor convince. There was no one to charm or encourage. I disappeared into myself as I drove on, trying to find my center. I could breathe. Be still. What I hadn't expected was how much Roman seemed to need it, too. Some people feared silence. They did anything to fill it, talking about things that didn't matter, asking questions just to hear some kind of response. it seemed to me that a lot of people saw it as a kind of failure. Evidence that they weren't interesting enough, or that a bond wasn't strong enough. Or maybe they were just nervous about what it would reveal about themselves.

People say home is where the heart is but I couldn’t disagree more. Home is wherever I’m unbothered. That’s true peace for me.

wear the term “basic bitch” with a sense of pride. embrace every part of you they told you to hate. —unbothered.

Rip. “Son of a motherfuck!” I screech. After that, she plucks my eyebrows, moisturizes my face, and then spends a long time combing the tangles from my hair, looking unbothered by the verbal abuse I hurl at her along the way.  “How much do men pay for this?” I sneer, head snapping back forth with each pass of the comb. “Am I getting the sadistic whore premium?

Most females are dissatisfied with how they look and battle with countless insecurities, not realizing that you look most beautiful when you think you don’t. I wish that women and girls all over the world knew just how uniquely beautiful that we ALL are. Loving yourself for who YOU are is empowering! There’s great freedom in being unbothered by other people’s opinion of you.

Rhys lifted one shoulder. "Funny thing is, if you'd made maybe a pre-step that involved, oh, I don't know, giving me any sort of bloody heads-up that you were coming to town, all of this could have been avoided. You could've come in completely unbothered and lit a candle to Da's picture or whatever it is you do when you arrive in a new place, and I would not have had my delightful wife woken up by a phone call that seemed to involved the words 'high-handed' and 'complete asshole.'" He threw Wells a wink. "That's how I knew she was taking about you.

After all, these were not topics you could discuss with someone else; what was there to say to another person about how it felt? You could concoct things you wanted but in certain moments the light shifted or time slowed – on Sundays in particular, time slowed, and occasionally on Saturday afternoons, if you didn’t have a game – and you saw that it was all really nothing. It was just endlessness and what you got or didn’t get would hardly make a difference, and then what was there? The loathsomely familiar room where you lived, your horrible face and body, and the rebuke of other people, how they were unbothered, how you would seem, if you tried to explain, kind of weird and kind of boring and not even original. Why did their lives proceed so easily? Why was it that you needed to convince them and they needed to be convinced and not the other way around? Not, of course, that you would actually succeed if you tried.

The first time I took Valium was the first time that I experienced being unbothered by my own body. The thing is, until the calm of that little pill spread its lovely little tentacles all through me, I had absolutely no idea how uneasy in my own skin I'd always felt. I am not just talking about pain, either. It's more of an extreme and ever-present awareness of my body, as if I don't quite fit myself properly, as if my flesh is a pair of underpants that is forever sliding up the butt crack of my soul.

Not easy to state the change you made. If I’m alive now, then I was dead, Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,

Listening to her, I wondered, how does rape age inside of women as the world around them moves on unbothered?

All she wanted to do was sit, unbothered in a circle of lamplight, and live someone else’s life.

If a guy shoved his phone number into your pocket around me, I'd rip his fucking throat out and yet you're standing there, unbothered and ready for fucking class?

I enjoy writing alone, naked and unbothered.

And I’m so tired of you pretending things didn’t happen!” My face heats up. I hate the way he looks at me, so unbothered by

Some people will be so bothered by you being unbothered that they don't know what to do.

Home is wherever I’m unbothered. That’s true peace for me.

Garbo said she wanted to be alone, that famous line, but what the real Miss Garbo desired was to be left alone, a very different thing: as in unbothered, unwatched, unharried. What she longed for was privacy, the experience of drifting unobserved

Caroline wore detachment fashionably, like the slick skin of a seal, the grip of reality sliding off so that she always appeared cool and unbothered in the hot, frantic world. I’m not like her – I catch on everything. Every small want grows out of me, like thorns, making me impossible to embrace.

there will always be people who refuse to treat you the way you deserve. there will be jealousy. there will be malice. there will be pettiness. oh, plenty of it to go around. as you smile, unbothered, let them know how much better off you are without their venom coursing through your veins. - treat your wounds

I’m a big advocate for not hiding your enthusiasm for things. It seems to me that there is a false stigma around eagerness in our culture of ‘unbothered ambivalence.’ This outlook perpetuates the idea that it’s not cool to ‘want it.’ That people who don’t try hard are fundamentally more chic than people who do. And I wouldn’t know because I have been a lot of things but I’ve never been an expert on ‘chic.’ But I’m the one who’s up here so you have to listen to me when I say this: Never be ashamed of trying. Effortlessness is a myth. The people who wanted it the least were the ones I wanted to date and be friends with in high school. The people who want it most are the people I now hire to work for my company.

The chokecherries -- gregarious and chatty, perched on their branches calling out to everyone to strip them off. Wild plums -- sarcastic and timid at the same time -- called out from behind their leaves only to retreat into the brushy brambles where they lived. Raspberries and blackberries -- royal and corrupt princes -- braved it out in the full sun of forest clearings. Gooseberries and huckleberries -- reticent, tradition-bound and private -- lived on unbothered in the swamps. Cranberries and pincherries (those party-goers) draped themselves over the furniture of the branches and invited all passerby, birds and people, to join the party. The blueberries and wintergreen grew undisturbed -- calmly bourgeois -- in the carpeted hush of the big woods.

Architectural education is notably under-theorised as an underlying discipline, though is clearly intensely theorised as a set of surface actions. It has remained largely unbothered by reformist educational movements such as critical pedagogy, with the result that its central structures and methods have altered little since they were founded in the École des Beaux Arts in the early C19.

You have to speak the future into your words too. Write about your husband and everything you want in him. Don’t leave out ONE detail. Then write about him everyday just like it’s your life. Walk him right on in… Hello.

That bomb is made up of your success, your indifference, and your ability to be everything that your ex has consistently proven he isn’t—genuinely happy, emotionally intelligent, honest, unbothered, and consistent. Someone who loves their younger self unconditionally and will go to the ends of the earth to choose and protect that child. Someone whose boundaries preserve her peace and mental health. Someone who knows that her triggers are not her truth and, because of this, is no longer a slave to her ego.

That night, lying beside her, I remembered how when I was a child I would slip my cold feet between my mother’s thighs to warm them. How she’d shiver and whisper that she would always suffer to bring me comfort, that that was how you knew someone really loved you. I remembered the boots she’d broken in so that by the time I got them I could go on unbothered, without harm. Now, more than ever, I wished desperately for a way to transfer pain, wished I could prove to my mother just how much I loved her, that I could just crawl into her hospital cot and press my body close enough to absorb her burden.

We watch on as a young woman passes us by, her eyes glued to the screen of her phone. She almost walks into a cyclist, looks up for a split-second and then eyes back onto the screen and walks on, unbothered, like nothing has happened. It is clear to us, the world’s center of attention had shifted in the last few years, its center was now in our hands, its currency was measured in likes and shares. Information these days swirls in an endless, never-ending tornado of tweets, news feeds and viral sensations, each single word, no every single letter actually, fighting for our attention, fighting for a moment in the spotlight before fading into the depths of digital oblivion, to be forgotten forever.

I brought things to break curses,” he said. “I didn’t know who cursed you, or how, so I brought as many as I could find.” He gestured toward the mule. “There’s moly and salt and rowan and rue and candles, and a knife that my mother’s imam said duas over and also I had it blessed by the Benedictine monk who ran the library, so between the two of them, it ought to be quite holy by now. I couldn’t find a rabbi. Well, I did, but he wanted to come alone because he’d never met a fairy, and I thought you wouldn’t like that.” Toadling began to laugh because if she didn’t, she would cry immediately. “I told you, I wasn’t cursed!” Cursed by fortune. Cursed by circumstance. Cursed to be whatever I am… Halim seemed unbothered by this. “We’ll work something out.

Don’t worry about me, really,” Gideon said, for probably the millionth useless time. “I don’t think she’ll actually kill me. Or if she does, it’ll be an accident. She’s just very careless.” “She nearly drowned you twice!” “I might be misremembering that.” “I don’t think there’s a way to misremember!” “I’m her defense, she didn’t know I couldn’t breathe underwater. The first time, anyway.” “That,” Nico said, aghast, “is not a defense!” Gideon though, was laughing. “You know, Max is perfectly unbothered by all of this,” he said. “You should consider doing what he does.” “What, dragging my ass across the carpet?” “No, and he’s stopped doing that,” Gideon said. “Thankfully.” “Gideon, I just want you to be okay,” Nico told him pleadingly. “Por favor. Je t’en supplie.” “I am, Nico. Worrying about me is just your excuse to avoid your own life—which, by the way, I know nothing about,” Gideon pointedly reminded him. “Are you planning to tell me anything, or am I just always going to be your princess in the tower?” “You’d make a terrible princess, first of all,” Nico muttered. “You haven’t the figure for a corset at all, and as for the rest, believe me, I would if I could—” “But you can’t,” Gideon preemptively supplied, and grimaced.

What was the point of dedicating your life to giving warnings if everyone who might have listened—because the majority were still unbothered and would possibly remain so till the sun went out—merely nodded and agreed?

Fair. Alternate proposal, then. We’ll find a forest, somewhere off in… in Besrith, or maybe on one of those southern islands, or something. We could clear out a nice big patch of land. Big enough for a decent garden. Far enough away from society that we can go unbothered for as long as we want.” “A lake.” “Hm?” “It will be near a lake. I want to learn how to be a better swimmer.” “I’ll allow it. I appreciate seeing you in wet clothes.” She laughed, though it faded quickly. “And the most important part,” she added, “is that no one will ever find us.” “Not a soul.” What a dream.

We just assume that when we fall asleep, the world does, too. We expect it to resume exactly as it was in the morning, untouched. Unbothered. As if life just stops because we have.

slept like a baby, unbothered by the world.

[Love Wasn’t as They Said] Love wasn’t as they said… It didn’t last forever as they claimed… It is fleeting moments only recognized By those with sight and insight… And perhaps only captured By those patiently waiting as if to see a lightning in the sky… And, like lightning perhaps, we never know Where love goes after it strikes… And perhaps the only love that lasts Is one that know when to stay and when to walk away… ** Love wasn’t synonymous with honor As they defined honor... It is often the awareness that falls upon us After betraying or letting down the loved ones… Love wasn’t holding hands forever, It is boring afternoons spent together With no words And no activities… It wasn’t lifetime sexual attraction As many claimed… It is the companionship that remains After the hormonal fires are put out, When the noises of immaturity go silent, And after the childish quarrels and squabbles stop… It is the home that remains erected Long after getting erectile dysfunction… It that appetite for life after the last egg from the last period… It is that strange feeling of elation That may come after what is mistakenly called a “midlife crisis”, To fill that frightening gap between hope and reality… ** Love a widow brushing her hair, On a bus or in a public place, Unbothered by onlookers or passersby, As she opens her shabby handbag And takes out an apple to bite on With the teeth she has left… Love is an eye surrounded with wrinkles But is finally able to see the world Sensitively, insightfully, and more realistically, Without exaggerated embellishment or distortion… ** Love is shreds of joy Interspersed with long intervals Of boredom, exhaustion, reproach, and disappointment… It’s not measured with red flowers, bears, and expensive gifts in shiny wraps, It is who remains when the glucose, blood pressure and cholesterol numbers are high… It’s those who stay after the heart catheterization and knee replacement surgeries… Love gets stronger after getting osteoporosis And may move mountains despite the rheumatism… ** Love is the few seconds when our eyes cross with strangers Who awaken in us feelings we hadn’t experienced with those living with us in years… Or perhaps it’s rubbing arms and shoulders with a passenger On a bus, in a train, or on a plane… It is that fleeting look from a passerby in the street Convey to us that they, too, have understood the game, But there’s not much they can do about it… ** Love wasn’t as they said It wasn’t as they said… It is not 1+1=2… It is sometimes three or more… At other times, it grows at point zero or lower, In solitude, in loneliness, and in seclusion… Isn’t it time, I wonder, to demolish everything falsely, unfairly, and misleadingly attributed to love? Or is it that love burns and dies Precisely when we try to capture it in our hands? [Original poem published in Arabic on October 27, 2022 at ahewar.org]

[Love Wasn’t as They Said] Love wasn’t as they said… It didn’t last forever as they claimed… It is fleeting moments only recognized By those with sight and insight… And perhaps only captured By those patiently waiting as if to see a lightning in the sky… And, like lightning perhaps, we never know Where love goes after it strikes… And perhaps the only love that lasts Is one that know when to stay and when to walk away… ** Love wasn’t synonymous with honor As they defined honor... It is often the awareness that falls upon us After betraying or letting down the loved ones… Love wasn’t holding hands forever, It is boring afternoons spent together With no words And no activities… It wasn’t lifetime sexual attraction As many claimed… It is the companionship that remains After the hormonal fires are put out, When the noises of immaturity go silent, And after the childish quarrels and squabbles stop… It is the home that remains erected Long after getting erectile dysfunction… It that appetite for life after the last egg from the last period… It is that strange feeling of elation That may come after what is mistakenly called a “midlife crisis”, To fill that frightening gap between hope and reality… ** Love is a widow brushing her hair, On a bus or in a public place, Unbothered by onlookers or passersby, As she opens her shabby handbag And takes out an apple to bite on With the teeth she has left… Love is an eye surrounded with wrinkles But is finally able to see the world Sensitively, insightfully, and more realistically, Without exaggerated embellishment or distortion… ** Love is shreds of joy Interspersed with long intervals Of boredom, exhaustion, reproach, and disappointment… It’s not measured with red flowers, bears, and expensive gifts in shiny wraps, It is who remains when the glucose, blood pressure and cholesterol numbers are high… It’s those who stay after the heart catheterization and knee replacement surgeries… Love gets stronger after getting osteoporosis And may move mountains despite the rheumatism… ** Love is the few seconds when our eyes cross with strangers Who awaken in us feelings we hadn’t experienced with those living with us in years… Or perhaps it’s rubbing arms and shoulders with a passenger On a bus, in a train, or on a plane… It is that fleeting look from a passerby in the street Convey to us that they, too, have understood the game, But there’s not much they can do about it… ** Love wasn’t as they said It wasn’t as they said… It is not 1+1=2… It is sometimes three or more… At other times, it grows at point zero or lower, In solitude, in loneliness, and in seclusion… Isn’t it time, I wonder, to demolish everything falsely, unfairly, and misleadingly attributed to love? Or is it that love burns and dies Precisely when we try to capture it in our hands? [Original poem published in Arabic on October 27, 2022 at ahewar.org]

I’d been writing for so long for the particular purpose of being approved that I’d forgotten the genesis of my impulse; unbothered, pure creation, existing outside the parameters of success and failure. And somewhere along the line, this being ‘good’ had come to paralyse my belief that I could write at all.

I never got to thank you for your advice with the Suriel.' Lucien tensed. 'Oh?' I looked ahead at the easy way Tamlin rode, the horse utterly unbothered by his mighty rider. 'If you still want me dead,' I said, 'you might have to try a bit harder.' Lucien loosed a breath. 'That's not what I intended.' I gave him a long look. 'I wouldn't shed any tears,' he amended. I knew it was true. 'But what happened to you-' 'I was joking,' I said, and gave him a little smile. 'You can't possibly forgive me that easily for sending you into danger.' 'No. And part of me would like nothing more than to wallop you for your lack of warning about the Suriel. But I understand: I'm a human who killed your friend, who now lives in your house, and you have to deal with me. I understand,' I said again.

I remembered how when I was a child I would slip my cold feet between my mother’s thighs to warm them. How she’d shiver and whisper that she would always suffer to bring me comfort, that that was how you knew someone really loved you. I remembered the boots she’d broken in so that by the time I got them I could go on unbothered, without harm. Now, more than ever, I wished desperately for a way to transfer pain, wished I could prove to my mother just how much I loved her, that I could just crawl into her hospital cot and press my body close enough to absorb her burden.

My ass was not made for this chair.” He shook his head, unbothered. “No, it’s the chair that wasn’t made for your ass.

Novah just enjoyed not having to pretend to be interested. She settled on hanging around nearby, happily reading away on her Kindle, checking every once in a while to see what progress they made. She was so unbothered about not having to help with puzzles that she went ahead and bought the ten thousand-piece puzzle she’d threatened to divorce him over.

Is this about our conversation earlier?” His light, unbothered tone might as well have been a dagger. “Dichotomy is a simpleton’s best friend. You should aim higher than that, Shortbread. Love isn’t in the cards for us, but that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy each other’s company. If I truly couldn’t suffer through our brief encounters, I would have granted you the divorce you desire so much.

and it was unclear what would happen to her after that but probably more good stuff! Better and better! And the woman in her seventies, well, nobody except the doctor knew—or could even conceive of—what was going on between her legs, though I tried and saw gray labia, long and loose, ball sacks emptied of their balls. How did it feel to still be dragging your pussy into this same office, decades after all the reproductive fanfare? She was scrolling on her phone, seemingly unbothered or unaware that she had nothing to look forward to, cunt-wise.

I'm expected to stand tall and unbothered.

Keep going,” he encourages, a wicked glint in his eye. “I’m a s-slut for your cock,” I force out, just as a shark pops up from behind him, it’s teeth on full display as they clamp around the cage and thrash. A startled squeal follows up my words, but he doesn’t relent, utterly unbothered by the agitated sharks. “Not enough,” he clips, keeping his pace steady despite the trembling cage around us. “Please… please let me come around your cock,” I rush out, yelping when the shark bashes against it again. “Good girl,” he praises, grinning wildly. He’s fucking unhinged, but God, he feels so good. “Now, let me hear you say you love me.” “I love you,” I breathe hurriedly. “And I love when you make me come.” Both dimples appear while his free hand slides up my throat, squeezing firmly as pleasure invades every cell in my body.

People say home is where the heart is but I couldn't disagree more. Home is wherever I'm unbothered. That'a true peace for me.

A slow, wicked smirk glides across his face, unbothered by my increasingly burning stare. “I wouldn’t mind if it did.” I want to slap him. But the asshole would probably like it, and then turn around and slap me back. And my dumbass self would probably like it, too.

You said that if a killer zombie can’t find his murderer and have his revenge, he can start killing and eating anything that gets in his way, right?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘Then shouldn’t giving the vampires over to the zombies quiet some of them?’ ‘It might, but we’d be giving two legal citizens over to be torn limb from limb. Vampires are a lot harder to kill than humans usually, which means the vamps would stay alive a lot longer during the process.’ He nodded. ‘Makes sense.’ ‘That would be a really bad way to die, Nicky.’ ‘Yeah.’ He said it as if to say, So what? ‘If we were just going to execute the vamps anyway, and it would save dozens of lives …’ Yancey let his words trail off. Badger looked at him. ‘You could do that, give someone over to the thing we saw today?’ He shrugged. ‘It’s a thought; we’re just brainstorming and gathering information, right?’ ‘They’re rotting vampires,’ Nicky said. ‘If you can’t teach them how to look human, the woman seemed to want to die.’ ‘They should have two forms; one should be totally human and as attractive as they were in life,’ I said. Dev and Lisandro came over to us. ‘What has you guys all serious face?’ Dev asked, smiling. ‘We’re debating on whether giving the two vampires in custody over to the zombies of their murder victims would make the zombies stop killing other people,’ I said. Dev’s eyes widened and he went pale. ‘Who came up with the idea?’ Lisandro asked. ‘I did,’ Nicky said. ‘You are a sick motherfucker,’ Lisandro said. ‘Yes, yes, I am,’ Nicky said, totally unbothered by the comment. Lisandro laughed, as if he couldn’t quite believe it, but he did.

At the beginning of that same summer, in 1989, all of our crepe myrtles shed. This is not uncommon. Gluttons for the heat, these trees line all the major roads and boulevards of East Baton Rouge Parish. You can cut them down to nothing each year if you like. They are unbothered. This is their home, and our Junes are filled with pink, red, and purple flowers because of it. During this time, however, when they are in full bloom, long shards of bark peel off their trunks. They lie in circles upon the roots like skins.

Andy said, "You're worried because they've left the membership...They've gone over from the world of membership to the world of organization. Nathan would say the world of employment." And I said, "Yes. That's the trouble I have in mind." One of the attractions of moving away into the life of employment, I think, is being disconnected and free, unbothered by membership. It is a life of beginnings without memories, but it is a life too that ends without being remembered. The life of membership with all its cumbers is traded away for the life of employment that makes itself free by forgetting you clean as a whistle when you are not of any more use. When they get to retirement age, Margaret and Mattie and Caleb will be cast out of place and out of mind like worn-out replaceable parts, to be alone at the last maybe and soon forgotten. "But the membership," Andy said, "keeps the memories even of horses and mules and milk cows and dogs.

The country’s politicians, who are fighting to win a general election on May 7th, appear unbothered by the world’s sneers. That is a mistake. Britain’s diminishing global clout

One thing about happy people? They're too busy being their most unbothered, hilarious, and hot selves to worry about other people’s opinions. One thing about happy people? They offer kindness without any agenda and let the universe handle the rest. One thing about happy people? They’ve learned to love their story, even when it was once a source of pain. One thing about happy people? They know that growth often looks more like subtraction than addition. One thing about happy people? They don’t rent space in their head to anyone who walks out of their life. One thing about happy people? They've upgraded from trying to "keep up" with others to setting their own pace. One thing about happy people? They prefer their own company over spending time with people who treat them as optional. One thing about happy people? They’d rather be a hot mess living life fully than perfect playing it safe. One thing about happy people? They fill their hearts with so much gratitude there's no room for negativity.

People say home is where the heart is but I couldn’t disagree more. Home is where I’m unbothered. That’s true peace for me.

I pretend I'm unbothered by his threat despite my racing heart.

But I also saw shiny little dots of red and black. Lady beetles, or lady bugs, which can eat as many as 5,000 aphids in a lifetime, came to feast on the prairie project’s plenty. Some studies suggest that the milkweed sends a chemical message on the breeze to request the tiny predators’ assistance. Nymph and adult lady beetles are among the few predators who are unbothered by the fact that the aphids engorge themselves on milkweed’s noxious gluey sap. I can’t stop thinking about what it means to build a sustainable, mutually supportive community, and I can’t stop thinking about who I want beside me as I undertake this project of connection.

Nobody ever stops to wonder what happens in the dead of night, all the things that take place when the world is unconscious. The strangers who lurk in the shadows, crouching low beneath a window or twisting the knob of an unlocked door. The animals who hunt, warm blood dripping from their teeth as they feast on the meat of another. We just assume that when we fall asleep, the world does, too. We expect it to resume exactly as it was in the morning, untouched. Unbothered. As if life just stops because we have.

I learned a long time ago to let go of things I can't change. Being unbothered doesn't mean I'm oblivious. It means I'm choosing not to engage.

I was also uncomfortable with how unbothered I was by the thought of a breakup. Was that what I wanted? The only thing I’d ever truly wanted was to make my parents happy. My feelings had never factored into the equation,

One simply can't forget something like that. I'm stuck between pushing her for answers and looking unbothered by her comment.

Naomi could shove a knife in my gut, and I’d remain unbothered. She didn’t know how much she already had a hold on me.

People who climb mountains are lonely people; loneliness is needed. Acquaintances and friends are great things, but climbers need defined mental space that is untouched and unbothered by anyone.

You can't teach racists to be less racist by calling them what they are. They remain unbothered by insinuation or even direct accusations of racism but they are not fine with being told their writing is bad.

God forfend that parren would put the razzle-dazzle aside for even a steel and airless place like Defiance, where sensible folk would all be surely attired as she was — with pressure-suit linings and emergency mask and hood near at hand in case of rapid decompression. Semaya stood at her side in a parren-equivalent jumpsuit with green ties. Behind them all, Timoshene and his small group of Domesh warriors, black robes now replaced by black jumpsuits, hoods and dark interactive glasses similar to what Phoenix’s crew would wear. The robes were merely a style, and Timoshene had been unbothered to replace them with attire that achieved the same fully-covered result

There are,” said the Chief, unbothered and undeterred by what he’d just heard, “four sentences that lead to wisdom. Do with them as you will.” No one had ever spoken to Beauvoir in that way. Do with them as you will. Who talks like that? But, more than that oddly formal phrase, no one in Beauvoir’s experience had ever strung together three words without saying “fuck,” or “calice,” or “merde.” Including, especially, his father. And his mother, for that matter. And they sure had never mentioned wisdom in his presence. He stared at this older man, who spoke so softly. And Jean-Guy Beauvoir found himself actually listening. “‘I’m sorry.’ ‘I was wrong.’ ‘I don’t know.’” As he listed them, Chief Inspector Gamache raised a finger, until his palm was open. “‘I need help.

The others stared at the forgotten lens cap. Somehow it seemed to sum up the unbothered attitude of Lou’s parents. ‘Hey, don’t be too downcast!’ she chided them. ‘I have parents who couldn’t care less – so what? At least I get to stay here and do what I like and there’s money under the sink so I won’t starve and don’t really need to go catching fish, unless I feel like it! Let’s get that kettle boiling, have ourselves a cup of tea and cook up that lovely bacon and sausage.

I want to enjoy life and be the queen of unbothered.

The American anthropologist Gayle Rubin, for instance – a key figure in the academic discipline of Queer Theory, which emerged in the 1970s and 1980s – would, I imagine, be unbothered by the chicken scenario, just as she is unbothered by unusual sexual behaviour in general.

I slipped my fingers into Legion’s underneath the table, unbothered if he sensed how sweaty my palms were, or if he saw the thud of my heartbeat in my neck. I held his open palm on my leg, silently encouraging him to never let go. He didn’t.

we don’t get what we want by pretending to be unbothered and avoiding the straightforward expression of our needs. Being indirect is counterproductive because our needs go unmet. This only makes us more frustrated and overwhelmed in our interactions with others.

we don’t get what we want by pretending to be unbothered and avoiding the straightforward expression of our needs. Being indirect is counterproductive because our needs go unmet. This only makes us more frustrated and overwhelmed in our interactions with others. More examples of passive-aggressiveness: Appearing upset but refusing to admit it Making verbal attacks not related to the current situation Being moody for no known reason (often) Bringing up issues from the past Engaging in problem-focused complaining Gossiping about things you could fix but have no intention of addressing

I watch a young woman haggle with almost every seller. Finally, she buys smoked fish, okra, tomatoes, habaneros, and red bell peppers. She will go home to her tiny, sufficient apartment with one soot-stained kerosene stove in a corner and make food just enough for herself and eat less than half of it and fall asleep on her bed and be glad to be alone and unbothered.

Asa said, sounding unbothered. “My brothers and I don’t give a shit what they got going on in their pants. We’re equal opportunity monsters. If she wants to play with the bad guys, she gets to suffer the consequences.

My eyes dart to the police station, but Day’s safe inside: they all are, in there in their ivory towers. Unthinking, unfeeling, unbothered if they don’t solve the crimes, they still get paid, still get their final salary pensions. Meantime, we – the unfortunate – we languish, our lives upended.

Why are you so unbothered by the idea that I might be?” “We have tales of such as you, and they always begin the same way: ‘One day came a stranger to the hall.’” Garm shrugged. “I suppose I’m not disturbed because I’ve always hoped to one day stumble into a story.” “You’re very calm.” “A personal failing of mine.” His eyes, for all his calm affect, were bright, and he was watching me intently. If

I could have the world’s best painter try to recreate what I’m looking at right now,” he began, those soulless eyes looking across my face, unbothered by whatever I had to say, “and he could never truly capture you as beautiful as you are right now, my little mouse.

I had always heard that modern day police departments were rooted in slave patrols, yet I was still surprised by the clear connection in my research. Many, many police officers set out, each day, to do their job of protecting the people they serve and would never think of shooting, let alone killing, an unarmed person simply because the sight of black or brown skin made them fear for their lives. But it's hard to divorce the way in which slave patrols in the south targeted black people before slavery was abolished from the way in which police departments, their reorganized reincarnations, did afterward. To these forces, black people were always the enemy- a community to be tamed, whose mere existence presents a threat to the maintenance of the status quo. And those ideals have clearly persisted through generations of law enforcement who failed to see black people as free, equal, and worthy of living their lives unbothered.

If the key doesn't fit, don't ever force it. What will flow will flow. Trust the process, stay the course, and stay positive throughout your journey.

Like most artists, everything I produced was connected to who I was - and so I suffered according to how my work was received. The idea that anyone might be able to detach their personal value from their public output was revolutionary. I didn't know if it was possible, even desirable. Surely it would affect the quality of the work? Still, I knew I'd gone too far in the opposite direction, and something had to change. Ever since I could pick up a pen, other people's pleasure was how I'd garnered attention and defined success. When I began receiving public acknowledgement for a private act, something was essentially lost. My writing became the axis upon which all my identity and happiness hinged. It was not outward-looking, a self-conscious performance. I was asked to repeat the pleasure for people, again and again, until the facsimile of my act became the act itself. ...I'd been writing so long for the particular purpose of being approved that I'd forgotten the genesis of my impulse; unbothered, pure creation, existing outside the parameters of success and failure. And somewhere along the line, this being 'good' had come to paralyse my belief that I could write at all.

ring even more true is that defining an entire group of people, their attitudes, pitfalls and moral associations, based solely on their racial characteristics is itself a fairly good demonstration of racism. For ‘whiteness’ to be ‘problematized’ white people must be shown to be a problem. And not only on some academic, abstract, level but in the practical day-to-day business of judging other people. As so often this progression of an idea from academia into the rest of society has found its most prominent demonstrations in the world of celebrity, which like every area of life has gone past race-unbothered straight into race-obsessed.

That I did not accept Christ as my lord and savior left her unbothered. That I did not accept Christmas as the most wonderful time of the year made her fear for my very soul.

The traditional Virtues of each type are as follows: Type One Serenity Type Two Humility Type Three Truthfulness, Authenticity Type Four Equanimity, Emotional Balance Type Five Detachment Type Six Courage Type Seven Sobriety Type Eight Innocence Type Nine Action Returning to type One, when the mind is set at ease that God’s perfection is enough, then the heart rests in serenity, unbothered by what seems to be imperfect.

The Ashley Barton who drove the Ford was different from the one Logan had met at the police station. She was unbothered, casually slouched in her seat, T-shirt shifted carelessly above her belly button. The sun-kissed skin of her stomach was dappled with light brown freckles.

Name?' the man asked, still not looking up, clearly unbothered by the arrival of another convict. He must have seen hundreds by this point. 'Anteros,' said Nate with a grimace. He hated his name. 'Oh!' The man's head shot up, eyes wide with surprise. He appraised Nate for a moment, unabashedly curious. 'You don't look much like your capture.' 'More handsome?' 'Thinner,' said the man critically. 'And you've lost a lot of hair. Cut it yourself?' 'I let the rats I was living with chew it off. I'm told I taste like strawberries.

I helped Big Ma make breakfast while she muttered angry words about my mother being in the house she was born in and how her own mother called Cecile “daughter” and took Cecile’s side over hers. I don’t know how Uncle Darnell got my mother back in the house, talking to Big Ma, and then sitting at the table, but there she was, ready to eat and unbothered by Big Ma, who was still muttering and serving.