Wuss Quotes

Hey, T-Rex? Remind me next time I want to get smartass with you that it’s a really stupid move on my part? (Talon) Oh, no, you don’t, you wuss. You told me the next time you saw Ash you were going to ask him if he’d seen the movie 10,000 BC and if it’d made him homesick. (Wulf)

From then on, I brainwashed myself into craving discomfort. If it was raining, I would go run. Whenever it started snowing, my mind would say, Get your fucking running shoes on. Sometimes I wussed out and had to deal with it at the Accountability Mirror. But facing that mirror, facing myself, motivated me to fight through uncomfortable experiences, and, as a result, I became tougher. And being tough and resilient helped me meet my goals.

I look down at our knees, slightly touching. Jeans against jeans. Does she notice the heat transferring from her body to mine? Does she even realize what she's doing to me? I know, I know. I'm not a virgin and the slightest touch of a girl's knee is driving me insane. I don't even know what I'm feeling for Maggie, I just know that I'm feeling. It's something I've tried to avoid and deny until yesterday, when I held her in my arms while her tears spilled onto my shirt. God, our knees touching isn't enough. I need more. She's knotting her fingers together on her lap as if she doesn't know what to do with them. I want to touch her, but what if she pulls away like before? I've never been such a wuss with a girl in my life. I bite my bottom lip as I slide my hand about millionth of a millimeter closer to her hand. She doesn't seem fazed so I move closer. And closer. When the tips of my fingers touch her wrist, she freezes. But she doesn't jerk her hand away. God, her skin is so soft, I think as my fingers trail a path from her wrist to her knuckles to her smooth, manicured nails. I swear touching her like this is driving me nuts. It's more erotic, more intense than any other time with Kendra. I feel awkward and inexperienced as a freshman again. I look up. Everyone else is oblivious to the intensity of emotions running rampant in the back of the public bus. When I look back down at my hand covering hers, I'm grateful she hasn't come to her senses and pulled away. As if she knows my thoughts, we both turn our hands at the same time so our hands are palm against palm...finger against finger. Her hand is dwarfed against mine. It makes her seem more delicate and petite than I'd realize. I feel a need to protect her and be her champion should she ever need one. With a slight shift of my hand, I lace my fingers through hers. I'm holding hands. With Maggie Armstrong. I'm not even going to think about how wrong it is because it feels so right. She's avoided looking right at me, but now she turns her head and our eyes lock. God, how come I never noticed before how long her lashes were and how her brown eyes have specks of gold that sparkle when the sun shine on them? The bus stops suddenly and I look out the window. It's our stop. She must have realized this because she pulls her hand away from mine and stands. I follow behind, still reeling.

Don’t be jealous, baby. We’ll get to you in a jiffy. (Daimon) Jiffy? What kind of pathetic wuss uses the word ‘jiffy’? (Xypher)

Just my luck,' sighed the endolg. 'Twenty million people in the Realm and I get locked up with a wuss.

Buck up,” she whispered to him. “Don’t be such a wuss.

What?” Eric shook his head. “Angel Moreno is into talking to chicks now? When did you turn into a total wuss?" Angel shrugged, and took another bite of his food. He avoided looking at Eric; suddenly not sure he wanted to talk about it. “I don’t know, dude, she’s just cool to hang with, I guess.” Eric nodded, as if he got it. “So, you’re not into her? I thought she was pretty hot.” “I’m into her, you ass, just ‘cause I didn’t bone her the first night. Not all girls are like that, you know.” Eric grinned. “So, you did get shot down.

And you plan to do this alone? You think a lot of yourself, don’t you animal? (Stone) Oh, punk, please. Believe me, when dealing with wusses like you who have to gang up on a kid to feel powerful, I don’t need any help. (Fang)

I close my eyes again. There’s the smell of mountain snow on the air. I shiver. I would have brought a coat if I’d known I was going to be in Wyoming today. I’m a wuss about cold. You’re my California flower, I remember Tucker saying to me once. We were sitting on the pasture fence at the Lazy Dog, watching his dad break in a colt, the leaves in the trees red just like they are today. I started shivering so hard my teeth actually began to chatter, and Tucker laughed at me and called me that—his delicate California flower— and wrapped me in his coat.

Cthulhu seems like kind of a wuss if he can be trapped by a sinking island or killed by a boat." "That’s just because the stars aren’t right. When the stars are right, it don’t matter how many boats hit him. He’ll sink whole continents and lick off the people like salt off a pretzel." "Says you." "You keep talking smack like that, he’s gonna eat you first.

I never quite got the hang of the getting drunk & fondling the thighs [of all the cumbersome young males] business... whether that makes me a gallant & proper gentleman, a cowardly wuss or an unadventurous prude, I cannot make out

I hope y'all haven't punk'd me or anything and you're actually calling me a wuss.

It was a weird thing for me, because I don't read vampire books. I don't watch vampire movies. I'm not into the horror genre. I'm a wuss, I'm a scaredy cat.

I didn't feel strong. I felt like a big ball of wuss that wanted to curl up in my bed and never get out.

And then there’s its hair,” Justin said, pushing the vegetables across to me. “Don’t forget the hair. It’s horrible.” “It’s wearing a dead person’s hair,” Rafe informed me. “If you stick a pin in the doll, you can hear screaming coming from the graveyard. Try it.” “See what I mean?” Abby said, to me. “Wusses. It’s got real hair. Why he thinks it’s from a dead person—” “Because your poppet was made in about 1890 and I can do subtraction.

You should always be prepared to defend your choices, whether just to yourself (sometimes this is the hardest) or to your coworkers, your friends, or your family. The quickest way for people to lose confidence in your ability to ever make a decision is for you to pass the buck, shrug your shoulders, or otherwise wuss out. Learning how to become a decision maker, and how you ultimately justify your choices, can define who you are.

...the longer I've lived with cancer, the more my definition of toughness has changed. I used to think not crying meant you were tough. Now I think crying means you're tough. It means you're strong enough to be honest and vulnerable. It means you're not pretending. And not pretending, being able to let your guard down and show people how you truly feel and admit that you're a wuss, is one of the toughest things a person can do.

Kind of a wuss? Kind of a wuss? Dude, you are, like, the Duke of Wussendorf. The Earl of Wussheim. In fact, wherever wusses meet and mingle, your name is whispered in hushed, reverent tones.

You two will figure it out. I know you will." Maybe we will, maybe we are, but not if she tells him. "You're very much alike. You both feel things very deeply, too deeply sometimes." What? "Jude and I have quite a bit of armor on us," she continues. "It takes a lot to break through it. Not you and Dad." This is news. I never thought I was anything like Dad. But what she's really saying is that we're both wusses. That's what Brian thinks too. I'm just someone who "draws pictures." And it burns in my chest that she thinks Jude's like her and I'm not. How come everything I think about our family keeps changing? How come the teams keep switching? Is this how all families are? And most importantly, how do I know she's not lying to me about not telling Dad?

Don’t be afraid of exploring your capabilities, of seeking adventures, of searching for answers, of pushing the envelope, of finding gaps between the fences. Don’t, be afraid... Period. Life is too short to be a wuss.

I’m teetering on the verge of tears and I feel like such a wuss. Who am I to be crying when all these people just got displaced from their homes? No one. That’s who.

He fought his inner wuss and groaned, “Fine. Bait me up and show me the hook.

Whatever,” I said. “It’s getting cloying in here. Are we there yet?” He smiled. “Jerk.” “Wuss.” “Jackass.” “Pansy.” “Philistine.” “Dandysprat.” “Butthead.” “Whiner …

Snowblowers are expensive,” he used to say. “You’re free.” Once, I tried to appeal to my mom. “Don’t be such a wuss,” she suggested.

Deep inside me, the wuss still ran strong in a few situations, but extra, extra especially when it was related to Zac Travis. Time had healed a lot of wounds but not all of them.

Snow White was such a wuss. All that housework. Looking after seven men. And she sang while she was doing it. That girl was not bright.

Ye’re a scholar — that’s easy to see, for a’ ye’re sae plain spoken. It dis a body’s hert guid to hear a man ‘at un’erstan’s things say them plain oot i’ the tongue his mither taucht him. Sic a ane ‘ill gang straucht till’s makker, an’ fin’ a’thing there hame-like. Lord, I wuss minnisters wad speyk like ither fowk!

When I do something, I go full-out. Half-measures are for wusses.

Regrets are for wusses.

Especially men. They take away your freedom. Or rather, they don't take it, you bloody well give it away like a wuss, as if you're programmed to. And freedom is worth more than men.

You are not sacrificing me…to anything.” – Abigail “You started this, babe. The choice is simple. Either you die alone, nobly like a good sport, or the entire world dies with you, which I don’t think they’d appreciate much. So put on your big-girl pants and own up to what you and your stupidity caused. It’s Joe Versus the Volcano time. But in the end, I don’t give a shit what you do. With the exception of the cowboy there and my family, I hate people with a passion that makes your feelings for Jess look like a schoolgirl crush. Lovely thing about my current situation, I’m truly immortal. You annihilate humanity and the world…I’m still good. So whatever you decide, it won’t affect me personally. I would say you’re the one who’ll have to live with the guilt. But either way, you’re dead. Whatever. I delivered my message. My job here is done, and I need to get back to the one that I’m still not sure how I let them talk me into doing – which is even weirder and scarier than the Dark-Hunter gig. Jess, call me if she wusses, and I’ll make sure you survive the holocaust.” – Zarek

A guy next to me sees the massive bruise on my arm. "God, what a wuss! You got bruised from playing dodge ball?" I look at him, and I realize that I don't know him. I don't even recognize him from walking through the halls or assemblies. I couldn't tell you what grade he's in or what classes he takes. So why does he even bother? Why does he even bother being mean to me?

Yes, with each sandstorm comes the inevitable Cleaning of the Solar Cells, a time-honored tradition among hearty Martians such as myself. It reminds me of growing up in Chicago and having to shovel snow. I'll give my dad credit; he never claimed it was to build character or teach me the value of hard work. "Snowblowers are expensive," he used to say. "You're free." Once, I tried to appeal to my mom. "Don't be such a wuss," she suggested.

One of the hardest things you'll ever do is give yourself permission to be in pain of any kind. There's a reason we have survival instincts, so that we don't die. That goes for humans, animals (redundant, I know), all the fishes in the sea, everyone. Some researchers even say that even plants feel pain and a cucumber will scream when you cut it. (And some others say that's crap because they have no brain or central nervous system.) The point is, we're all wusses. And emotional pain is the worst.

My rib cage clenched all of the organs and muscles within it. It pulsed, full of life and warmth and gummy bears and glitter. This was... I don't know how to explain it—it was like Christmas morning when you were a kid. It was everything I’d wanted. Each of his thumbs curved over the shells of my ears. "That's my girl." His girl. After all the crap that I'd gone through today, there couldn't have been three better words to hear. Well, there were three other words I'd like to hear but I'd take these from him. That didn't mean that he was the only one who knew how to give. He'd given enough. My bones and heart knew that there was nothing for me to fear. I loved him and sometimes there were consequences of it that were scary, but it—the emotion itself—wasn't. I knew that now. What kind of life was I living if I let my fears steer me? This was a gift I’d forgotten to appreciate lately. For so long I’d been happy to just be alive but now...now I had Dex. I had my entire life ahead of me, and I needed to quit being a wuss and grab life by the balls. In this case, I’d take his nipple piercings. “What’cha thinkin’, Ritz?” I held my hands out for him to see how badly they were shaking. “I’m thinking that I love you so much it scares me. See?” Dex's thumbs tipped my chin back so that I could look at his face—at his beautiful, scruffy face. "Baby." He said my name like a purr that reached the vertebrae of my spine. "And even though it really scares the living crap out of me, I love you, and I want you to know that. Everything you've done for me..." Oh hell. I had to let out a long gust of breath. "Thank you. You're the best thing that ever yelled at me." He murmured my name again, low and smooth. The pads of his thumbs dug a little deeper into the soft tissue on the underside of my jaw. "If all the shit I do for you, and all the shit I'd be willin' to do for you doesn't tell you how deep you've snuck into me, honey, then I'll tell you." He lowered his mouth right next to my ear, his teeth nipping at my lobe before he whispered, "Love you." The feeling that swamped me was indescribable. He gave me hope. This big, ex-felon with a temper, reminded me of how strong I was, and then made me stronger on top of it. "Dex," I exhaled his name. He nipped my ear again. "I love you, Ritz." The scruff of his jaw scraped my own before he bit it gently. "Love your fuckin' face, your that's what she said jokes, your dorky ass high-fives and your arm, but I really fuckin' love how much of a little shit you are. You got nuts bigger than your brother, baby." I choked out a laugh. Dex tipped my head back even further, holding the weight on his long fingers as he bit the curve of my chin. "And those are gonna be my nuts, you little bad ass." Fire shot straight through my chest. "Yeah?" I panted. "Yeah." He nodded, biting my chin even harder. "I already told you I keep what's mine.

Generation Wuss” in recent years. My huge generalities touched on millennials’ oversensitivity, their sense of entitlement, their insistence that they were always right despite sometimes overwhelming proof to the contrary, their failure to consider anything within its context, their joint tendencies of overreaction and passive-aggressive positivity—incidentally, all of these misdemeanors happening only sometimes, not always, and possibly exacerbated by the meds many this age had been fed since childhood by overprotective, helicopter moms and dads mapping their every move.

These people, I’m afraid, include those who suffer from ‘wheat intolerance’. I know there is such a thing, which can afflict even the sturdiest, most no-nonsense of souls and causes the consumption of foods containing wheat to bring on unpleasant symptoms that, while not at the same level as an allergic reaction, the sufferer would still want to do something about, such as stopping eating wheat, and that wouldn’t necessarily make them a tedious, attention-seeking wuss. However, I think the vast majority of people who cite the condition are tedious, attention-seeking wusses who mistake the normal symptoms of daily life – feeling sluggish after meals, tired in the morning, hungry before breakfast and generally not as though they want to leap around like someone in an advert – for there being something wrong with them. It’s not just wheat they’re intolerant of, it’s everything. They’re so dissatisfied with the sensation of being human, with the world’s constant assaults on the temples that are their bodies, that they’re now unwilling even to coexist with a grain.

There is a notion that men are supposed to be these indestructible pillars of strength. Where it’s frowned upon to show vulnerability and be emotionally expressive. Let us be honest, a large number of people’s perceptions and stereotypes regarding masculinity are bullshit! It does not make you less of a man to have depression, to wear your heart on your sleeve, to admit that you sometimes struggle, to cry yourself to sleep, or to be vulnerable. You are not a wuss, wimp, or weakling. Mental illness has nothing to do with ‘manning’ or toughening up. I have tons of respect and admiration for people who open up about their mental health struggles. It takes an advanced level of bravery, authenticity, and maturity. It takes some serious balls.

I brainwashed myself into craving discomfort. If it was raining, I would go run. Whenever it started snowing, my mind would say, Get your fucking running shoes on. Sometimes I wussed out and had to deal with it at the Accountability Mirror. But facing that mirror, facing myself, motivated me to fight through uncomfortable experiences, and, as a result, I became tougher. And being tough and resilient helped me meet my goals.

Yes, with each sandstorm comes the inevitable Cleaning of the Solar Cells, a time-honored tradition among the hearty Martians such as myself. It reminds me of growing up in Chicago and having to shovel snow. I'll give my dad credit; he never claimed it was to built character or teach me the value of hard work. "Snowblowers are expensive," he used to say. "You're free." Once, I tried to appeal to my mom. "Don't be such a wuss," she suggested.

So, you play Batman at night, and fix-it man during the day?" His nose wrinkled in a way that was entirely too adorable for his tough guy demeanor. She didn't say a word about it though, knowing he'd never do it again if she pointed it out. "Batman? Batman's a pathetic jelly donut. He's a little Richie Rich that prances 'round in fancy tights and dress up panties, too much of a wuss to do anythin' without a mask and a prepubescent scarecrow as a sidekick.

Recently, I watched an episode of The Big Bang Theory. One of the characters, Howard—an astrophysicist—is in space. His new bride, Bernadette, convinces him that it would be best if they lived by themselves when he comes back to earth and not with his loud, annoying mother. Howard agrees. He’s too scared to take ownership of the decision, so he pitches it to his mother like it was his wife’s idea. The mother yells so loud, she barely needs any equipment to be heard in space. Howard dutifully tells her that he will convince Bernadette and they’ll live with her. When Bernadette calls, he doesn’t have the, er, balls, to tell her the truth either. So he tells her all is well with the move. His counterpart, a Russian astronaut, cannot believe his country lost the Cold War to wusses like Howard. When he asks him what he plans to do, Howard has only one option. He’ll stay in space. Earth is where there are problems between his wife and mother. He’s safe in space. He’s not the only one. The world is full of conflicted husbands wishing they could be in space and

This wasn’t the usual disappointment about election results—this was fear and horror and outrage that it seemed would never subside and not just for members of Generation Wuss, like my partner, but also for real grown-ups in their forties and fifties and sixties, so unhinged that their team hadn’t won they began using words like “apocalypse” and “Hitlerian.” Sometimes, when listening to friends of mine, I’d stare at them while a tiny voice in the back of my head started sighing, You are the biggest fucking baby I’ve ever fucking heard in my entire fucking life and please you’ve got to fucking calm the fuck down—I get it, I get it, you don’t like fucking Trump but for fuck’s sake enough already for fuck’s sake.

My huge generalities touched on millennials’ oversensitivity, their sense of entitlement, their insistence that they were always right despite sometimes overwhelming proof to the contrary, their failure to consider anything within its context, their joint tendencies of overreaction and passive-aggressive positivity—incidentally, all of these misdemeanors happening only sometimes, not always, and possibly exacerbated by the meds many this age had been fed since childhood by overprotective, helicopter moms and dads mapping their every move. These parents, whether tail-end baby boomers or Gen Xers, now seemed to be rebelling against their own rebelliousness because they felt they’d never really been loved by their own selfish narcissistic true-boomer parents, and who as a result were smothering their kids and not teaching them how to deal with life’s hardships about how things actually work: people might not like you, this person will not love you back, kids are really cruel, work sucks, it’s hard to be good at something, your days will be made up of failure and disappointment, you’re not talented, people suffer, people grow old, people die. And the response from Generation Wuss was to collapse into sentimentality and create victim narratives, instead of grappling with the cold realities by struggling and processing them and then moving on, better prepared to navigate an often hostile or indifferent world that doesn’t care if you exist.

My sisters and I giggled at “Dance: Ten; Looks: Three” (“Tits and ass / bought myself a fancy pair / tightened up the derriere”) while our parents sat in the front of the car—my father at the wheel, my mom in the passenger seat—both distracted and nonplussed. We flipped through the Jacqueline Susann and Harold Robbins hardbacks in my grandmother’s bookshelf and watched The Exorcist on the Z Channel (the country’s first pay-cable network that premiered in LA in the mid-’70s) after our parents sternly told us not to watch it, but of course we did anyway and got properly freaked out. We saw skits about people doing cocaine on Saturday Night Live, and we were drawn to the allure of disco culture and unironic horror movies. We consumed all of this and none of it ever triggered us—we were never wounded because the darkness and the bad mood of the era was everywhere, and when pessimism was the national language, a badge of hipness and cool. Everything was a scam and everybody was corrupt and we were all being raised on a diet of grit. One could argue that this fucked us all up, or maybe, from another angle, it made us stronger. Looking back almost forty years later, it probably made each of us less of a wuss. Yes, we were sixth and seventh graders dealing with a society where no parental filters existed. Tube8.com was not within our reach, fisting videos were not available on our phones, nor were Fifty Shades of Grey or gangster rap or violent video games, and terrorism hadn’t yet reached our shores, but we were children wandering through a world made almost solely for adults. No one cared what we watched or didn’t, how we felt or what we wanted, and we hadn’t yet become enthralled by the cult of victimization. It was, by comparison to what’s now acceptable when children are coddled into helplessness, an age of innocence.

You want me to fuck you?” I leaned down, bringing her face to mine so our noses crushed together. I grabbed the front of her dress, twisting, tightening it against her skin until the fabric began pulling apart and tearing. “You want me to knock you up?” “Yes,” she breathed out. “Yes.” I dropped to the marble, resting my back against the vanity. “Ask nicely.” “Please.” “Nicer.” She crawled toward me on all fours, straddled my lap, and grabbed my hand, bringing it between her legs. Her fingers guided mine into her slick pussy, two of hers joining mine inside her warmth. My lips found her nipple, biting down through her dress. Together, we fucked her cunt down to our knuckles, curling until her walls pulsed. I watched our fingers disappear inside her. She arched her back, trying to accommodate as much of us as she could. Her lips drifted to the shell of my ear. “Please, please, please.” I tore my fingers out of her, ripped her dress down the middle, and captured both sides of her waist, sinking her onto my cock, down to the hilt. Her head fell forward. She bit my shoulder, drawing blood, her hips bucking. She was so tight it felt like I was fucking her ass. Her walls squeezed around me, milking my dick for cum. I let her ride my length until my impatience won over, and I pulled her off me, flipped her over, and lowered her on all fours. The marble was cold and hard against her knees. I love seeing that spoiled little brat take all of my cock, feeling the discomfort of it. My silver-spooned nymph. I entered her from behind. She drove back, meeting each of my thrusts. My fingers curled around her neck and steered her upward until her back plastered against my front. She craned her head around and captured my lips, slipping her tongue past my teeth. Her back arched, fingers dipping between her legs, searching for her clit. I smacked them away, then landed a palm on her ass. “Rom,” she whined. “I need to come.” “What you need is to be fucking grateful.” My blood brought my point home, covering every inch of her back, arms, and tits, matting her hair in clumps. I released her throat and pet the crown of her head, whispering praises into her ear. “Such a good girl.” Words I never thought I’d say. Especially to this particular girl, who was anything but good two hundred percent of the time. “If only you took directions so well when you’re not filled with my cock.” I reached around her and found her clit, rewarding her with a single flick. She cried out and fell forward, on her hands and knees again, pushing onto my cock. More crimson drops splattered onto her back. I’d reopened my wound, and fresh red painted her spine. I dipped a finger into it, then spelled my name across her back dimples. “Who owns your ass?” I growled. “You.” “Louder.” “You.” “Now crawl forward and show me your cunt from behind. I want to see if it’s worth my cum.” With a reluctant moan, she inched away from my cock, writhing about two feet away. She started to turn when I hissed, “I don’t want to see your face, Mrs. Costa. Just the cunt I stole from my enemy.” She spread her thighs apart, exposing her pussy. It dripped on my floor, her juices mixing with my blood, creating a pink puddle at her feet. I stroked my cock, coated with her wetness, scented by the wife I couldn’t get enough of. I grinned, the release tickling my shaft. “Embarrassed?” “No. Empty.” Fuck me sideways. How this woman would ever end up with a wuss like Madison, I had no idea. She would make meatballs out of him before the reception. (Chapter 55)

kitchen to refill his cup with apple juice from the fridge. I ground my teeth and made my eyes go wide in his direction while going back to keeping an eye on my mom who happened to be standing at the stove in the kitchen, giving the rice she was making a stir. “I will. Give me a second,” I hissed at him, glancing in my mom’s direction one more time to make sure she was oblivious. My eleven-year-old mouthed “Wuss” to me over his shoulder as he left the room with his glass full.

At this, the so-called war heroine poked me in the chest. "Hey! I did manage to get some iron golems! I’m not a wuss, okay?!

At this, the so-called war heroine poked me in the chest. "Hey! I did manage to get some iron golems! I’m not a wuss, okay?!" "Sure. You’re not a wuss." Anger flashed across her face. She poked me again. "You might think you’re hot stuff, but honestly, your social skills need a lot of work! All you do is rage, show off, and act like a total tryhard!" Tryhard? Really … ?

So we have a deal,” she says. “We have a deal.” I take my right hand off the steering wheel, spit in my palm, and hold it out. “Shake on it.” The smile disappears, and she shrinks back toward the window. “Absolutely not.” “Don’t be a wuss. Just spit in your hand and shake.” “You’re disgusting.” “It’s like signing a contract. We made a deal; now we swap spit.” “It’s nothing like signing a contract.” “There are other ways to swap spit. Do you want me to pull over so we can make out instead?” She spits in her hand, takes mine, and shakes it firmly. “Note to self,” I mutter. “Threatening to kiss the fiancée yields immediate submission to my will.” “Ha,” she says, and wipes our spit on my shorts. “Gross. 

He nods and releases my hands, which I shove into my pockets. I don’t say to him what I can’t stop thinking, which is that if he hadn’t been such a wuss and just got tested for that dominant gene, Leah could have been his daughter.

A loser like Larry didn’t deserve a fine vintage car like Gloria. The Corvette Stingray had been lovingly restored by a jackass who named his car, yet treated his kids like afterthoughts. I planned to lovingly tear the fucking thing apart. “Have your fun then we’ll torch it and get a beer,” Vaughn said, yawning. “Did anyone see you?” I asked just to annoy him. My question worked like a charm and Vaughn squinted disgusted at me then walked over to a large rock where he sat down and looked at his phone. Swinging the bat, I smashed out the taillight. As painful as it was to tear apart such a beautiful car, Lark needed vengeance. In my mind, I wasn’t hitting the Corvette. I was destroying every person who ever hurt my girl. Every stepfather who hit her, mocked her, and ignored her. I imagined the hung over fucker who let her little brother die. I even pictured her mother who chose the latest fuck over her own kids. I hated them all for every tear Lark ever shed. If I couldn’t hunt them down, I’d destroyed the prized possession of the latest bastard to mistreat my muse. Smashing the windows, the lights, denting the cherry red doors, I trashed the car until I was out of breath. Eventually, I grabbed a blade and tore the tires, just to finish off my rage. “Wuss,” Vaughn said, standing over me as I leaned against the car. “Shame about Gloria. She was a beauty.” “I haven’t been to the batting cage in awhile. I think I pulled something” “Sure,” Vaughn muttered, yanking me to my feet. “Let’s light this little bitch up and get a beer.” “I need to get home to Lark.” “Are you fucking kidding me? I steal this car for you and don’t even get to trash it and you won’t have a beer with me? What an asshole.” “Please, don’t cry,” I said, patting his shoulder. “I don’t have the energy to hold you until your sobs turn to baby hiccups.” Vaughn laughed. “I miss Judd. The guy knew how to drink a beer and he didn’t mind when I pissed myself weeping like a chick.” “The guy is the epitome of patience,” I said, picking up the container of gas. “Or indifference. He always did seem a little bored when you two were talking.” “You looking to have me use that bat on you, is that it?” Grinning, I splashed gasoline on Gloria, careful not to have the liquid hit me. Once the car was thoroughly drenched, Vaughn lit a match.

Before you leave the house, honestly ask yourself what you’re going to do if a cute girl crosses your path. If you don’t do this, you’ll invent fancy excuses and wuss out. Always be ready to approach, even if you’re not in an optimal state.

I’ve heard people talk like making efforts inside the mind is some kind of lightweight activity, but in fact it’s always a matter of resolve and diligence—and sometimes it’s very challenging and uncomfortable. Practice is not for wusses. You will earn its benefits.

That’s not true, Gran.” Meg had to stand up for herself if no one else was going to. “I love the outdoors.” Not, but there was no way she was going to sound like a wuss. “Why, remember that time your parents took you camping when you were ten? You went potty in the woods and accidentally sat on a wasps’ nest.

We're sinking into each other's gazes. We're like starving people gorging on cream cakes. But he's challenged me, and I'm not going to wuss out, no way. So I wrench myself away and go to pester a strange blond woman about the circus. I don't look back once, the entire time I'm talking to her. But I can feel his eyes on me all the time. Like sunshine.

When Letty turned to Sloane, he shook his head. “No way. I’m not touching this.” “Come on, don’t be a wuss. Say it. You’d totally fuck Dex.” Already have. In the kitchen, bedroom, living room, bathroom, car, work… “Not touching this.” With

It’s barely sprinkling.” He smiled. “Don’t be a wuss.” “I’m absolutely a wuss. I need coffee.

Ali gestured with her eyes for me to look right. I followed the gesture to Coach Bobby. “Don’t you dare fight him,” she said. “He challenged me,” I said. “The bigger man steps away.” “In the movies maybe. In places filled with pixie dust and Easter Bunnies and pretty fairies. But in real life, the man who steps away is considered a big-time wuss.

This is the galaxy where Madelyne Jean Summers is a liar and a wuss, end of story, thanks for watching, roll the credits.

Pumas are wusses,” Rourke muttered from the front seat.

Badassery thrived in the incremental space between wussing out and being an idiot.

You’re brutal.” “Not brutal. Honest. So, she left and you…” Her head tilts to the side. “Just let her go. Just like that? You didn’t fight for her?” “This is real life. It isn’t some cheesy romance movie, Ariana.” “Obviously not. Future NHL star with up-and-coming songwriter. Best childhood friends turned high school enemies with a second chance at love. But no. You’re a colossal idiot. Not romance movie material at all. You let her go. Wuss move. If you were in a romance movie, you’d chase after her to the airport, or announce your love for her in front of the entire college. You wouldn’t run like a coward with your tail between your legs.” “She’s not flying anywhere.” “Totally missing the point, brother. If you don’t go after her, you’ve got zero chance. Personally, I think the odds are low even if you go after her, but a slim chance is better than no chance.” She glances around. “How about I stay another night? Before we have to go back to school on Monday.” “After that inspiring speech, how could I possibly say no?” I duck to avoid the second swat aimed at me.

Why do you think all these wusses are so scared? I’m not that easy, Red. And either way, I won’t die from some measly cuts or bruises.” I guess I shouldn’t have gotten worried anyway, it was Annex. It was probably the ‘meat sacks’ that needed the most help in that kind of situation.

Why do I have to fall for the bad boy?” “I’m not even bad anymore. I’m a fucking wuss around you.

A thousand knives carve her name into my heart. Bleeding, barely able to breathe, I say gruffly, “Goddammit. Stop being sweet. I can’t handle it when you’re sweet.” “Yes, you can, you wuss. C’mon, we’ll practice.” She lifts up to an elbow and smiles down at me. “Hi, Homer. I’m Reyna. It’s nice to meet you. You look like an orphan’s idea of Christmas morning.

wussed

As readily as positive words to describe perseverance come to mind, so do the negative terms for those who quit, all of which encompass the idea that quitters are failures who don’t deserve our admiration. They are backtrackers, chickens, defeatists, deserters, dropouts, shirkers, wimps, and wusses. They give up and abandon things, waver and vacillate. We consider them aimless, capricious, craven, erratic, fickle, weak-willed, undependable, unreliable, and even untrustworthy. Or we call them the politically toxic flip-floppers.

Then he says gruffly, “Please don’t freeze me out. Be angry all you want, but don’t shut down on me. I need you right now. I won’t be able to think straight if you don’t communicate with me.” I’m such a wuss. That softens me up like microwaved butter.

IN THE YEARS AFTER 9/ 11, MORE EXTREME expressions of militant masculinity gained traction across American evangelicalism. At GodMen revivals, evangelist Brad Stine challenged men to “kick ass,” to “grab your sword and say, ‘OK family, I’m going to lead you.’” Profanity was encouraged, “liberals, atheists, and the politically correct” were denigrated, and men were called upon to combat “the wuss-ification of America.

The docs called it post-traumatic stress, but it was really that he was a total wuss who couldn’t get over being hit by someone bigger than him.

they make a lovely couple.” Lucinda’s father beamed. “What are you two doing tomorrow?” Hello… Now was the time for Bryce to jump in and explain that he had a girlfriend. His dad knew I was here with him… What kind of crap was he trying to pull? “Bryce,” I tried to keep an even tone to my voice, “tell your father why you can’t show Lucinda around.” “We haven’t made any firm plans yet.” Bryce said. “Lucinda, I’ll call you. Haley, we should go before the Cupcakery closes.” Hell no. “Bryce?” “Could we not do this here?” Bryce sounded annoyed. Too bad. “I’m sorry if this makes you uncomfortable, but I need to know where I stand.” He looked as frustrated as I felt. “What do you want me to do?” “Man up and make a choice.” I was tired of second-guessing our relationship. Either he wanted to be my boyfriend or he didn’t. Either way, I’d live. I might eat a dozen cupcakes by myself, but I’d survive. “Consider our deal over, and make a choice.” He didn’t say he wanted me to be his girlfriend. He didn’t say he wanted to continue dating me, but see other people. He didn’t say a word. He blinked and stared. And there was my answer. Fighting the urge to tell him what a wuss he was, I nodded. “Fine. It’s over. Have a nice life.” With that parting shot, I stomped out the door and wove through the crowd of people waiting for the valet. Slow, even breaths, that was the key. I could do this, even though it felt like I was inhaling broken glass. I would not cry in public. If people were going to gossip about me breaking up with Bryce, which they would, at least they’d say I made a dignified exit. Now what? I needed an escape route. Jane. I needed Jane. All I had to do was find her, because her real boyfriend would give me a ride home.

I am not sure what it is that finally allows people to just turn to each other and touch. There is some hidden trigger. There is a secret language people learn, so they can signal to stop talking and just move. I don’t know it.

I always thought you were someone things happened to.” “What sorts of things?” “You know. I thought you led a life of risk and adventure.” She shrugged. “Here’s what I know: People will think that, if you have a certain kind of hair.