Whiskey Tango Foxtrot Quotes

You are not going to like what I have to say,” Sean said. “Just give it to me fast, I’d rather have you kick me square in the nuts then squeeze and twist on them all afternoon.

Love, after all, beats Death. Every time.

She was old enough now to read the secret meaning embedded in all real advice: that the giver has fallen short of it himself, and that falling-short still rings in him and shapes his soul.

DADI protocol (deflect attention, discourage inquiry).

Walnut trees must live in fear of private aviation.

Bro, your plan fucking sucks,” Brad said as he sat back into the chair. “Yeah, well, sometimes you have to embrace the suck.

Why did grown-ups find it necessary to tease fellow citizens who actually gave a shit?

A teacher in high school once told him that until you can describe clearly what it is you mean, you don’t really mean it. That was the last great thing he had been taught in a classroom.

And what about for the first eight, ten years of his life, when loving parents encouraged his obsession with dragons and secret worlds and animals in vests who poured tea and drove motorcars and who gave him to read Tolkien and Susan Cooper and the Brothers Grimm and Madeleine L’Engle and C. S. Lewis? Is a boy supposed to leave his imagination on the side of the road when he boards the bus to manhood?

EPIC NAPPING! A NAP THAT WILL BE IMMORTALIZED FOR ALL TIME! A NAP FIT FOR THE KINGS OF ALL BEASTS!

But maybe that’s not how life works at all. Maybe you’re not supposed to put up so much resistance. Maybe a lot of that is pride and ego and pointless in the end. In which case she’d been misled by all that required reading and by the Die Hard movies.

But that self-abduction shit—where you take leave of yourself, and a ghoul takes over instead, and the night comes back at you the next day, memories like shredded documents; the gut wrench of wanting to know exactly what you did and not wanting to know at all—that was the kind of alcoholic he minded being.

And as his twenties became his thirties, the landscape came to feature swamps of gloom dotted with marshy hummocks of anxiety.

just a pot cripple with a grudge

When the Grim Reaper comes to call, words fail- they're just too small.

Mark had known a lesbian attorney for an evil cabal would never smoke Lucky Strikes.

I think they do not want you here no way. The guy had looked scared when he’d said it. A pronoun without a referent. Always troubling.

But she thought that maybe she didn’t like all that many people. How many people are you supposed to like? she wondered. Below what number are you attachment-disordered? She liked colleagues in a drinks-after-work kind of way. But in general, they were net-unhelpful during the workday, and often annoying, with their egg salad sandwiches and their bike helmets perched on their monitors.

He figured that this was between him and his sense of artistic integrity. And artistic integrity is a fine thing, but so is financial security. And so is a twenty-three-hundred-square-foot loft on Water Street.

As we neared the watering hole, I saw lions sprawled at the base of the acacia tree, relaxing in the shade. Many, many lions. If a group of lions is normally called a pride, then this was, at the very least, an overconfidence. Possibly an arrogance.

A - ALPHA B - BRAVO C - CHARLIE D - DELTA E - ECHO F - FOXTROT G - GOLF H - HOTEL I - INDIA J - JULIETT K - KILO L - LIMA M - MIKE N - NOVEMBER O - OSCAR P - PAPA Q - QUEBEC R - ROMEO S - SIERRA T - TANGO U - UNIFORM V - VICTOR W - WHISKEY       X - X-RAY Y - YANKEE Z - ZULU

Whenever he was reminded that it was largely fools and galoots who ran the world, Leo resorted to subvocal mantric recitations of the true-yet-banal moral directives that he had picked up from the few AA meetings he had ducked his head into after the blacked-out drive home: Reserve Judgment. My Side of the Street. Principles Before Personalities.

The strange brew of neurotransmitters that had encouraged the bike-activist fantasy sloshed up against some limiting mechanism and began to recede; the recipe was tweaked, and chemicals brushed past one another, exchanging glances, methyl groups. Leo started the process, which would increase in period and intensity throughout the day, of telling himself that he was a loser and a failure.

I really am quite sure that there is something we’re supposed to do together, that there is more that is supposed to go on between us. Aren’t you? Isn’t there a held breath in your life right now? I’ve missed a few boats already, and I really don’t want to miss this one too. I realize that in that metaphor or analogy or whatever, you are a boat. That doesn’t really quite get what I mean, because I am also a boat. We are both boats and we are both passengers. We should not miss each other.

I do see that I am unwell somehow. Sometimes I feel like I’ve got my hands around the truth, you know? And when that feeling goes away, when it’s replaced by its opposite…well, I feel just terrible then. The gloom gets so deep it’s like I can’t see. I feel like a teacup that’s certain to shatter; my mind goes over and over the same terrible data. And then, so, yes, maybe I use the pot and the drinking to treat that, to escape from it. Maybe that’s a bad system. But the pot and the drinking—they’re not the root complaint or final cause or underlying issue or whatever.

Leila’s particular sensitivities seemed to cycle between the wafty, closer smells—mainly food and human—that draped over a moment, and the dusty, distant smells that could be carried by coat sleeve or breeze. In the former category was the knapsack that still smelled of curry, the hairbrush left too near the stove, and the human hangover behind the counter at Kinko’s. In the latter category was the subway-tunnel vent mixed with newspaper that had snaked around her corner in Bushwick, and the tang of handrails, and the seep of wet gravel, but it also included the thinner smells that came from paper and paint and industrially produced hard surfaces.

a good story, I’ll give you that. So, how many times have you done this sort of thing?  Send the inbred trash out ahead on the road to spook up unsuspecting travelers and you all hang back, jerking each other off, waiting to ambush anyone that makes it past them?” The wounded man looked away, ignoring Shane’s comments. “Don’t worry kid, I won’t kill ya today. But if I catch you in a lie, or if I find more of your inbred cousins at this camp, I will make the last moments of your life very painful,” Shane said in a calm voice. “Why are you doing this?” Shane feigned laughter and ignored the question. “What’s your name kid?” “Kyle,” he answered. “Kyle, everything I do, I do for her.” “You kill for her?” “No, I protect her and I destroy anything that tries to harm her—” “It’s right up here, follow the white fence,” Kyle interrupted using his neck to point out a quickly approaching high fence skinned in white sheet metal. The fence was tall and set back off the road. Mounds of stacked cars and other junk could be seen piled high at points. Shane slowed the car and carefully eased over to the shoulder of the road. He put the car in park and killed the engine. Shane sat silently for a minute, hushing Kyle when he tried to speak. He opened the door and slowly walked to the front of the car while listening for sounds. He climbed onto the hood and moved to the roof of the sedan. He could just barely see inside the compound. As it appeared from the outside, it was definitely a scrap yard. Piles of sorted metal were scattered around a central building while rows of smashed and stacked cars made up the far sides of the lot. From

-Alpha B--Bravo C--Charlie D--Delta E--Echo F--Foxtrot G--Golf H--Hotel I--India J--Juliett K--Kilo L--Lima M--Mike N--November O--Oscar P--Papa Q--Quebec R--Romeo S--Sierra T--Tango U--Uniform V--Victor W--Whiskey X--X-ray Y--Yankee Z--Zulu

The better someone is at their profession, the less time they have to spend on their own life;

vertical.

dominate

pleather.

Shawn

tightening

trial.

Why didn’t she know more about computers? That knowledge suddenly seemed more important than feminist theory or eighties’ song lyrics, both of which she was well acquainted with. Computers had risen around her all her life, like a lake sneakily subsuming more and more arable land, but she’d never learned to write code or poke behind the icons or anything like that. She was like a medieval peasant confounded by books and easily impressed by stained glass.