Validation Is For Parking Quotes

Validation is for parking.

We gobble up cable news' insistence that both sides of an argument are equally valid and South Park's insistence that both sides are equally stupid, because taking a firm stand on anything opens us up to criticism.

In an unjust society a man may violate laws for valid social or economic reasons. In a just society there are no valid reasons except mental illness.

She knew it was time, What for was the mystery but focused; she remained. She turned her back on anything that no longer served her strengths nor taught her vital lessons with her weaknesses. She said no without explanation & assigned validation back just to parking spots. She was fierce but gentle and authentic in her approach to live even if it meant standing alone. She knew the hard days weren't over but stood proud that she had already survived some of the worst. She laughed in the midst of a mindfuck & gathered her worth with all the pieces of herself that have held her together throughout the years. She knew it was time What for was the mystery, but focused; she remained. She learnt that motherhood provided unconditional love doesn't have boundaries, it's pure in all its forms. Family are rare connections. Friendships are like shoes, not all will fit but when some do it's like you have won the lotto. She learnt that every love was different and how important it was to keep her heart open for the possibility of being able to experience it just one more time.

I am good with names, though, always have been. Intentionally. People respond well to that sort of shit. Makes them feel seen, makes them feel validated.

Although there is validity, I believe, in leaving a church where the leadership consistently presents false doctrine, I also see people who are offended by one remark from the pulpit or one perceived hurt flit to the next church to look for fault there. It's like the cartoon I saw of a skeleton dressed in women's clothes and sitting on a park bench; the caption read, 'Waiting for the perfect man.' There is no perfect church either.

What does this white lady know about struggling at work? She wrote a career book from a place of privilege, and she already had a seat at the table, so leaning in was easier. Her feelings were valid, to be clear, and I don’t want to take that away from her. But while she was pissed about not having a prime parking spot during her pregnancy, black and brown women were dealing with systemic racism that prevents us from using our voice to speak on subject matters like support for working mothers or the wage gap, because we often aren’t yet at “the table.” Imagine me busting down Sergey Brin’s door at Google and demanding new workplace policies. He would probably call security. Who is this crazy black woman leaning in!

But I try to make sure they understand that writing, and even getting good at it, and having books and stories and articles published, will not open the doors that most of them hope for. It will not make them well. It will not give them the feeling that the world has finally validated their parking tickets, that they have in fact finally arrived. My writer friends, and they are legion, do not go around beaming with quiet feelings of contentment. Most of them go around with haunted, abused, surprised looks on their faces, like lab dogs on whom very personal deodorant sprays have been tested.

In 2017, I was invited to lead a mindfulness workshop and guide a live meditation on Mingus Mountain, Arizona, to over 100 men and women at a recovery retreat. On the eve of my workshop, I had the opportunity to join in a men's twelve-step meeting, which took place by the campfire in Prescott National Park Forest, with at least 40 men recovering from childhood grief and trauma. The meeting grounded us in what was a large retreat with many unfamiliar faces. I was the only mixed-race Brit, surrounded by mostly white middle-class American men (baby boomers and Generation X), yet our common bond of validating each other's wounds in recovery utterly transcended any differences of nationality, race and heritage. We shared our pain and hope in a non-shaming environment, listening and allowing every man to have his say without interruption. At the end of the meeting we stood up in a large circle and recited the serenity prayer: "God grant me the serenity to accept the people I cannot change, the courage to change the one I can, and the wisdom to know that one is me". After the meeting closed, I felt that I belonged and I was enthusiastic about the retreat, even though I was thousands of miles away from England.

You know that you and Hunter aren't even remotely subtle," Kieran told me through the open window. I just grinned at him. "Wave to the top-floor corner window over there. Lia's got a crush on you." Kieran's ears went red. "How does she even know I'm here?" "I told her you were coming," I said, sliding into my seat. I dropped my knapsack full of weapons at my feet. "You're a menace." "I was twelve once." I shrugged. "A little crush in a place like this can make a difference. She's got to think about something other than vampires." "What, like you?" he remarked drily, reversing out of the parking-spot. "Come on, drive like you're cool," I urged him, ignoring his very valid point. "Pop a wheelie or something. It'll give her something to swoon over." He laughed despite himself. "I can't pop a wheelie in an SUV, you lunatic.

I wonder how they will like Maria in Missoula, Montana? That is if I can get a job back in Missoula. I suppose that I am ticketed as a Red there now for good and will be on the general blacklist. Though you never know. You never can tell. They've no proof of what you do, and as a matter of fact they would never believe it if you told them, and my passport was valid for Spain before they issued the restrictions. The time for getting back will not be until the fall of thirty-seven. I left in the summer of thirty-six and though the leave is for a year you do not need to be back until the fall term opens in the following year. There is a lot of time between now and the fall term. There is a lot of time between now and the day after tomorrow if you want to put it that way. No. I think there is no need to worry about the university. Just you turn up there in the fall and it will be all right. Just try and turn up there. But it has been a strange life for a long time now. Damned if it hasn't. Spain was your work and your job, so being in Spain was natural and sound. You had worked summers on engineering projects and in the forest service building roads and in the park and learned to handle powder, so the demolition was a sound and normal job too. Always a little hasty, but sound. Once you accept the idea of demolition as a problem it is only a problem. But there was plenty that was not so good that went with it although God knows you took it easily enough. There was the constant attempt to approximate the conditions of successful assassination that accompanied the demolition. Did big words make it more defensible? Did they make killing any more palatable? You took to it a little too readily if you ask me, he told himself. And what you will be like or just exactly what you will be suited for when you leave the service of the Republic is, to me, he thought, extremely doubtful. But my guess is you will get rid of all that by writing about it, he said. Once you write it down it is all gone. It will be a good book if you can write it. Much better than the other. But in the meantime all the life you have or ever will have is today, tonight, tomorrow, today, tonight, tomorrow, over and over again (I hope), he thought and so you had better take what time there is and be very thankful for it. If the bridge goes bad. It does not look too good just now.

Indian Express (Indian Express) - Clip This Article at Location 721 | Added on Sunday, 30 November 2014 20:28:42 Fifth column: Hope and audacity Ministers, high officials, clerks and peons now report for duty on time and are no longer to be seen taking long lunch breaks to soak in winter sunshine in Delhi’s parks. Reform is needed not just in economic matters but in every area of governance. Does the Prime Minister know how hard it is to get a passport? Tavleen Singh | 807 words At the end of six months of the Modi sarkar are we seeing signs that it is confusing efficiency with reform? I ask the question because so far there is no sign of real reform in any area of governance. And, because some of Narendra Modi’s most ardent supporters are now beginning to get worried. Last week I met a man who dedicated a whole year to helping Modi become Prime Minister and he seemed despondent. When I asked how he thought the government was doing, he said he would answer in the words of the management guru Peter Drucker, “There is nothing quite so useless as doing with great efficiency something that should not be done at all.” We can certainly not fault this government on efficiency. Ministers, high officials, clerks and peons now report for duty on time and are no longer to be seen taking long lunch breaks to soak in winter sunshine in Delhi’s parks. The Prime Minister’s Office hums with more noise and activity than we have seen in a decade but, despite this, there are no signs of the policy changes that are vital if we are to see real reform. The Planning Commission has been abolished but there are many, many other leftovers from socialist times that must go. Do we need a Ministry of Information & Broadcasting in an age when the Internet has made propaganda futile? Do we need a meddlesome University Grants Commission? Do we need the government to continue wasting our money on a hopeless airline and badly run hotels? We do not. What we do need is for the government to make policies that will convince investors that India is a safe bet once more. We do not need a new government that simply implements more efficiently bad policies that it inherited from the last government. It was because of those policies that investors fled and the economy stopped growing. Unless this changes through better policies, the jobs that the Prime Minister promises young people at election rallies will not come. So far signals are so mixed that investors continue to shy away. The Finance Minister promises to end tax terrorism but in the next breath orders tax inspectors to go forth in search of black money. Vodafone has been given temporary relief by the courts but the retroactive tax remains valid. And, although we hear that the government has grandiose plans to improve the decrepit transport systems, power stations and ports it inherited, it continues to refuse to pay those who have to build them. The infrastructure industry is owed more than Rs 1.5 lakh continued... crore in government dues and this has crippled major companies. No amount of efficiency in announcing new projects will make a difference unless old dues are cleared. Reform is needed not just in economic matters but in every area of governance. Does the Prime Minister know how hard it is to get a passport? Does he know that a police check is required even if you just want to get a few pages added to your passport? Does he know how hard it is to do routine things like registering property? Does he know that no amount of efficiency will improve healthcare services that are broken? No amount of efficiency will improve educational services that have long been in terminal decline because of bad policies and interfering officials. At the same time, the licence raj that strangles private investment in schools and colleges remains in place. Modi’s popularity with ordinary people has increased since he became Prime Minister, as we saw from his rallies in Kashmir last week, but it will not la

We have good reason to, of course. But doesn’t everyone believe their reasons to be just as valid, just as true?

There is ample evidence that confirmation bias permeates throughout investors' decisions. For example, once an investor likes a stock, he is likely to seek out information that validates that stock. In a 2010 study, researchers showed that investors used message boards to seek out information that validated rather than challenged, stocks they owned (Park et al. 2010). If we own a stock, we tend to look for anything that validates our decision to buy it, and to reinforce why we should keep holding it.

The Nursing Home This Sunday, I paid a visit to a nursing home and noticed the empty bed in the room adjacent to my mom's. Crisp sheets stood proxy for where her elderly neighbor lay, an unshaven man or a woman with whiskers, I forget which, when I visited last ~ it couldn't have been a month, two at the most. The empty bed's corners were meticulously tucked in, like an army recruit's at boot camp, bleached of any possible embarrassment. After countless episodes of CSI, I cannot hear the word 'bleach' without thinking of incriminating evidence linking a victim to a killer. You must admit an empty bed at a nursing home is creepy; every empty room seems a trap, every lackadaisical nurse an accessory to murder, every administrator a potential Adolf Eichmann facilitating a program of geriatric genocide... Shit, I forgot to validate my parking. "Mom, I'll be right back," I say, with a smile, closing the room with the empty bed, bleaching my head of any possible embarrassment.

The officers weren’t parked on a street corner, eating doughnuts. They were in constant motion. Police officers are no different from the rest of us. They want to feel that their efforts are important, that what they do matters, that their hard work will be rewarded. What happened in District 144 provided exactly what the profession of law enforcement had been searching for: validation.

Park your ideas to the side until you validate your market with an offer people will pay for. When you find an offer that converts, you’ll have discovered the closest thing business has to a holy grail.

On the one hand, I recognize the power of the placebo effect: if you believe it’s working, it may well work. If you think an object brings you luck, you are more confident. And yet what the Italian students in the “lucky” seats showed wasn’t confidence; it was overconfidence. They thought they were doing better, but the evidence didn’t actually back them up. And then there’s the flip side of the placebo, the nocebo effect: the belief in evil signs or bad luck. It turns out people can literally scare themselves to death. If you think you’ve been cursed or otherwise made ill, you may end up actually getting sick, failing to improve poor health, or, yes, dying altogether. In one medically documented instance, a man was given three months to live after a diagnosis of metastatic cancer of the esophagus. He died shortly after. When his body was autopsied, doctors realized that he had been misdiagnosed: he did indeed have cancer, but a tiny, non-metastatic tumor on his liver. Clinically speaking, it could not have killed him. But, it seems, being told he was dying of a fatal illness brought about that very outcome. In another case, a man thought he was hexed by a voodoo priest. He came close to death, only to recover miraculously after an enterprising doctor “reversed” the curse through a series of made-up words. In yet a third, a man almost died in the emergency room after overdosing on pills. He’d been in a drug trial for depression and decided to end his life with the antidepressants he’d been prescribed. His vitals were so bad when he was admitted that doctors didn’t think he would make it—until they discovered his blood was completely clear of any drugs. He’d been taking a placebo. Once he found out he had not in fact taken a life-threatening quantity of pills, he recovered quickly. The effect our mind has on our body makes for a scary proposition. Belief is a powerful thing. Our mental state is crucial to our performance. And ultimately, while some superstitions may give you a veneer of false confidence, they also have the power to destroy your mental equilibrium. I like to think of this as the black cat effect. You see one cross the parking lot as you walk to a tournament. You brood about the bad luck. Your game is thrown off. You blame the cat. You bust. You feel validated. Superstitions are false attributions, so they give you a false sense of your own abilities and in the end, impede learning.

In Great Britain, the bastion of Islamism in Europe, a figure of ‘British Islam’, Abu Hamza al-Masri,[71] who, according to the Americans, is linked to terrorist networks, is the guru of the Grand Mosque (with a seating capacity of 1,500) in Finsbury Park in north-central London. He openly preaches jihad, and his Friday sermons are sold on cassettes and transmitted into every Muslim country through the Internet. Here are examples of some of his remarks: ‘It is the duty of every Muslim to fight every law that is not inspired by God [therefore only shariah is valid, not European law]; we must fight every kuffar [non-Muslim], without distinction, and there will be a special reward and a privileged place in paradise for those who volunteer to fight, while Muslims who stay at home without fighting will have only a small place.’ This information, which is in perfect agreement with the Qur’an, pulverises the belief in a difference between a ‘peaceful’ Islam and an ‘aggressive Islamism’. The following comes from other speeches by Abu Hamza: ‘I do not preach Islam as the West would like it to be, but as God wants it to be. Some imams want to “moderate” Islam in order to please the West, but not me. I expound Islam as it is, that is, fighting against the West. . . . I do not belong to Bin Laden’s networks, but I share some of their views. My sympathies and my prayers go to the Taliban and that is not a crime.’[72

For validation of knowledge about something, seeing something is not necessary. We use inference to know about things we have not seen, but which nevertheless are considered as true by inference. We would infer that someone put book on table if it was lying in cupboard when we last saw it. If we see an infant crying in a stroller in park and is unattended, we would immediately search for the parent or attendant who would have accompanied the infant to this place. Inference can be used to derive valid knowledge about unseen concepts whose physical manifestations can however be observed like gravity, for instance. We know that dark energy and dark matter, detectable only because of their effect on the visible matter around them, make up most of the universe. We knew black holes exist even before we observed them through a visible image in 2019.

you want to leave the park and your child isn’t ready to go, give her a hug and validate her feelings: “You’re really upset right now. I know you want to stay, and it’s time to leave.” Then hold your child and let her experience her feelings before you move on to the next activity. If you were to pamper your child by letting her stay at the park longer, she would not have the opportunity to learn from experience that she can survive disappointment—and she might be learning that you can be manipulated.

Society was crazy like that, able to move past a tragedy and keep grinding. Not judge ourselves too harshly. Push past grief in order to live life. It was a valid coping mechanism, and there was no doubt in my mind that Bayfront Park would shed the memory of the shooting and go full steam ahead with the New Year's Eve bash tonight. Though I dwelt on the hopeful resilience of mankind, a more cynical part of me also knew the celebrations would be a prime target for a crazed militia. But the police weren't stupid. They knew that too. Any gathering of that magnitude would have an army of good guys watching. I

Sera downs all the liquor and half the beer almost immediately. She pushes her glass forward to indicate that she’s ready for another. In lieu of working she has decided to drink a lot tonight. This is one of those rare times when everything seems to be getting to her. The normally undefined craving for companionship is making itself known to her and she doesn’t like it. She feels strange, older. The incident with the security guard has disturbed her more than she can admit to herself. She cannot accept that she needs to be, at least at some deeply hidden level, or even in some insignificant way, accepted, validated like a parking ticket, punched.

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No one needs as much sex as you have , and even if they do, which they don’t, by the way, because if they needed it, they’d be an addict. Are you an addict?” She gives me a long look that makes me feel uneasy about myself. “But let’s say, for shits and giggles, you did need it—you don’t need to tell her every time you have it. You tell her to hurt her .” She folds her arms over her chest. “You have sex with other people and tell her because when you do, it makes her sad and her being sad about that validates your feelings for her. She still cares. She wouldn’t be sad otherwise. She’s sad that I’m sleeping with other people, it must be because she still has feelings for me. You do it to feel close to her.” I scowl up at her, equal parts annoyed and confronted. “I don’t need a psychology lecture, Bridge.” “No, Beej.” She gives me a pointed look. “You need a therapist.

Feeling the need to perform and be perfect forces us to give away our power to whomever or whatever we’re performing for. Like junkies seeking our next fix, we find ourselves on a perpetual hunt for fresh validation. We need that next compliment, promotion, achievement, relationship, or result in order to feel worthy. We need something or someone outside of ourselves to tell us we’re okay in order for us to believe it. The opportunity we all have, and what I’m encouraging you to consider, is to separate our confidence from any external source and reclaim trust in ourselves

Confidence is an inside job. Real, unshakeable trust is not about what anything looks like. It’s about what it is.

Susan Sontag as “just another scribbler who spent her life signing up for protest meetings and lumbering to the podium encumbered by her prose style, which had a handicapped parking sticker valid at Partisan Review.

Criticism is often unwelcome for various reasons, but if we immediately go on the defensive, we can’t distinguish between valid, helpful criticism and unfair criticism. If you have an insecurity button that gets pushed when you are criticized, try to quell the automatic internal storm that erupts: “Who is she to criticize me?” “He thinks he knows better than I do.” “If I don’t respond strongly, she’ll think I’m admitting fault.” This reaction short-circuits the process of seeing whether the criticism has value and correcting the underlying problem.

Innocent girl! There in the distance she walked, She skipped, she frolicked and with a stranger she talked, Just for a while, maybe a moment or two, Still wondering what next to do, Maybe keep talking or just keep walking, Then the stranger left, but it was her innocence that he was stalking, I followed the stranger, and he followed the young girl, She was dressed decently with her each ear adorned with a pearl, Then as she reached the edge of the park, Where it is usually cold and dark, The stranger stood before her, And then he followed her, wherever she went it seemed he was with her, The girl seemed worried and uncomfortable, And desperately looked for means to feel a bit secure and comfortable, The stranger was resolved to keep bothering her, As I wondered what pleasure from this hideous act he might incur, He was about to assault her dignity, Without any remorse, any forethought and with no sign of pity, The girl closed her eyes, And I wonder in that moment what she felt about herself and about the inaction of the skies, It was then I decided to come forward, And I asked her if there was anything making her feel awkward, "Yes, yes," she said hurriedly, "It is him, he has been stalking me shamelessly," Then I turned toward this person, And I asked him if to justify his behaviour he had any valid reason, He shrugged his shoulders and walked away, The innocence of the young girl was saved today, But tomorrow when none of us is there, What shall she do and who will offer her strength in her moments of fear, Maybe it is time to change something forever, If we cannot do it now, then we may never, Today the stranger left, But who shall compensate the young girl for the theft, That robbed her of her freedom and innocence, Well I guess nobody can, because whenever she will be on a street, she will always feel the stranger’s presence!

Derek never confirmed his involvement with the Douglass Park Bishops, but he did not have to. The judge, the Honorable Dorothy White, was from the streets of Memphis, knew that a seventeen-year-old boy does not own an AK-47; that weapon had been gifted. She, and the jury, also knew that a boy from North Memphis had no valid, reasonable reason to even be in Orange Mound, much less with an automatic weapon used in warfare, all to kill two people he had never met. The jury took all of thirty minutes to issue a guilty verdict; didn’t even need to break for lunch.

A post-movie dance: [You walk out of the theatre. You stretch. You toss your popcorn in the trash bin and wonder if it’s recycling. You pretend to be a slow walker on your way to the exit so you don’t appear too close to the stranger in front of you. You walk to the bathroom. You wait in line. You piss. You hold your fart. You come out. You walk to the parking garage. You walk back to the theatre because you forgot to validate your ticket. You come back to your car. You leave the garage. You get a phone call from mom and talk to her. Then you turn on the radio in traffic. Then you come home and respond to e-mails and go back to sleep. And soon, a movie has died.]

Her limbs function, and she finds this miraculous when she dwells on it. In fact, she finds plenty of things miraculous. Forcefully, she summons her best memories. That time on a red-eye bus when the driver used the intercom to contemplate, in campfire baritone, the wonder of his grandchildren, the way they validated his life as time well spent. As he lulled the passengers with stories, someone began to pass around a Tupperware of sliced watermelon, and a drunk man offered to share the miniature bottles of whiskey from his bag, and Joan felt such overwhelming affection for her species, she feared she would sacrifice herself to save it. A bad summer storm. Green sky, tornado warning, violent winds. Joan was downtown, leaving work early, briskly walking toward the parking garage where her station wagon waited. On the opposite end of the sidewalk, a large woman in her sixties collapsed. Immediately, two people rushed to the woman's side, gingerly tending to her, touching her shoulders and face, speaking to her as though she were their mother -- a cherished one -- and Joan understood that human tenderness was not to be mocked. It was the last real thing. Dining alone on a blustery Easter night at the only Chinese restaurant in town. When she asked for the check, the waiter said, "It just started to rain. You're welcome to stay a little longer, if you want." Miraculous. Joan recalls the existence of dogs, craft stores, painkillers, the public library. Cream ribboning through coffee. The scent of the lilacs near her childhood home. Brown sugar on a summer strawberry. Her father's recovery from the tyranny of multigenerational alcoholism. The imperfect but true repossession of his life. The euphoria of the first warmth after winter, the first easy breath after a cold, the return of one's appetite after an anxiety attack. Joan has much to be happy about. She thinks: I am happy, you are happy, we are happy. These thoughts -- how she can force herself to have them. Miraculous.