You Can't Undo Quotes

Don’t do what you can’t undo, until you’ve considered what you can’t do once you’ve done it.

Love? Be it man. Be it woman. It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land. To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.

Look forward, not back. Correct your course and go on. You can't undo yesterday's journey.

All I can think about is how fucked up it would be for your life to end here, now. I mean I know that your life if fucked up no matter what now, forever. And I'm not dumb enough to think that I can undo that, that anyone can. But I can't wrap my mind around the notion of you not getting old, having kids, going to Juilliard, getting to play that cello in front of a huge audience, so that they can get the chills the way I do every time I see you pick up your bow, every time I see you smile at me.

We are not created equal in talent. But the place where we are least equal is the heart. You can work at a talent, take lessons, but love, love either works or it doesn't. You love someone or you don't. You can't change it. You can't undo it.

There are some things you can't undo no matter how good your intentions are.

You can’t undo something that’s happened; you can’t take back a word that’s already been said out loud.

Never do what you can’t undo until you’ve considered well what you can’t do once you’ve done it.

A Betrayal I cannot undo what I have done; I can't un-sing a song that's sung. And the saddest thing about my regret— I can't forgive me, and you can't forget.

My ma says You can't unspill a stew." "She also says Undoing a wrong is greater than doing a right." "You know, Ma is very good at saying two things at once.

Wanting to Die Since you ask, most days I cannot remember. I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage. Then the almost unnameable lust returns. Even then I have nothing against life. I know well the grass blades you mention, the furniture you have placed under the sun. But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic. In this way, heavy and thoughtful, warmer than oil or water, I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole. I did not think of my body at needle point. Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone. Suicides have already betrayed the body. Still-born, they don't always die, but dazzled, they can't forget a drug so sweet that even children would look on and smile. To thrust all that life under your tongue!— that, all by itself, becomes a passion. Death's a sad Bone; bruised, you'd say, and yet she waits for me, year after year, to so delicately undo an old wound, to empty my breath from its bad prison. Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet, raging at the fruit, a pumped-up moon, leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss, leaving the page of the book carelessly open, something unsaid, the phone off the hook and the love, whatever it was, an infection.

To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.

Never do what you can’t undo.

You can't undo loss. You can't unmake a mistake. (What The Hell Have You Done, Sophie Roth?)

I can’t undo the past. But in the future, I will gladly lay my life down for you, brother. (Styxx)

When you open yourself to somebody, when you feel these thing that you feel, well, what do you do? You can try to ignore it, maybe you can try to forget about it, but you can't undo it and you can't give it back.

She can't afford to commit more troops,' Holly whispered. 'The gate is her priority, and she needs to have as many Berserkers watching her back as possible. We are secondary at this point.' 'That will be her undoing,' Artemis gasped, already suffering under the weight of the flak jacket. 'Artemis Fowl will never be secondary.' 'I thought you were Artemis Fowl the Second?' said Holly.

You can’t heal a heart that’s been fragmented. But my wounds were closing. Stitch by stitch, I was starting to feel again. I can’t undo the past and stop everything that has happened. However, I can try to take a tiny step forward.

You can't undo loss. You can't unmake a mistake.

It’s interesting-most people think about therapy as something that involves going in and undoing what’s happened. But whatever your past experiences created in your brain, the associations exist and you can’t just delete them. You can’t get rid of the past. Therapy is more about building new associations, making new, healthier default pathways. It is almost as if therapy is taking your two-lane dirt road and building a four-lane freeway alongside it. The old road stays, but you don’t use it much anymore. Therapy is building a better alternative, a new default. And that takes repetition, and time, honestly, it works best if someone understands how the brain changes. This is why understanding how trauma impacts our health is essential for everyone.

You can’t do over what’s already been done, but you sure can undo it. Not easy, but you can undo it.

Just you. My brain has picked you, and now, I can’t undo it. You’re trapped. With me. For life.

But I'm starting to realize there are some things you can't undo, no matter how good your intentions are.

Would you trade him in order to undo the past?" That's a question I can't answer.

You're a man who cheats on his wife, you can't ever undo that.

And how do you undo damage that’s been built into the foundations? With houses, it’s easier to pull the whole thing down and start again. You can’t do that with people.

I don't have a lot of regrets about the way I've lived my life. Not because I haven't made mistakes - I've made plenty. But what's the point of regret? You can't undo the past.

...I know I was wrong. If i could go back and do it over, I would. I wish I could undo it all." I know that." Grandma reached over and put a twisted hand on hers. "'Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.' Isaiah one eighteen." I've done terrible things." Don't make no difference. You can't out-sin the cross.

I realize now that no simple, single-factor theory of depression will ever work. Depression is partly in our genes, partly in our childhood experience, partly in our way of thinking, partly in our brains, partly in our ways of handling emotions. It affects our whole being.

I need my warriors whole. You made each other bleed.” I ignored Ren's bewildered expression. “Now undo the damage.” “You've got to be kidding me.” Shay grimaced. “I can't begin to tell you how much I'm not kidding.” I stepped back, folding my arms over my chest. “Until I choose a mate, I'm the only alpha here; I've made it clear that I'm not making a choice right now. You two answer to me. Prove your loyalty. Heal each other.

The problem is caring too much, caring so much you can’t ask for help because everyone else is already in so much pain.

If you are treated like dirt long enough, you begin to fell like dirt

In the end you will be your own undoing. You can't escape you.

Sorry isn't a magic eraser that undoes whatever wrong thing you did! You can't just say sorry and expect everything to be the way it was, not when people have been hurt!

My dad says stop thinking that way. “You be lookin’ backward all the time, Brady, you’re gonna have one heck of a crook in the neck.” He smiles when he says that. But I know what he means deep down, and it’s not funny. You can’t keep dwelling on the past when you can’t undo it. You can’t make it happen any different than it did.

Nothing you do now can undo what’s been done. You can’t change the past.

You can't undo the past, but you can learn from it.

SinnerThree: … Tell me more about lobster sex, if you want. I’m not picky about sex talk as long as someone’s fucking. I laugh softly. This guy’s funny, I’ll give him that. LobsterShorts: I’m fresh out of lobster sex facts atm. BUT…lemme tell you about sea slugs. SinnerThree: Omg yes. I can’t wait for this. Hold on. Let me undo my pants.

This is a little dirty secret of mental health economics: if you're depressed, you don't think you're worth the cost of treatment. You feel guilty enough about being unproductive and unreliable.

I wanted to scream. When I'm with you, I feel I can take what others call my life and turns its face away from the wall. My entire life faces the wall except when I'm with you. I stare at my life and want to undo every mistake, every deceit, turn a new leaf, turn the table, turn the clock. I want to put a real face on my life, not the drab front I've been wearing since forever. So why can't I speak to you now?

The constitution of our country says that all men are created equal, but it's a lie. I'll never be able to make a jump shot like Magic Johnson, or drive a car like Mario Andretti, or paint like Picasso. We are not created equal in talent. But the place where we are least equal is the heart. You can work at a talent, take lessons, but love, love either works or it doesn't. You love someone or you don't. You can't change it. You can't undo it." - A Lick of Frost

Unkindness is a serial killer. Death in the flesh sometimes seems like a less excruciating way to succumb than the slow and steady venom unleashed by mean-spirited, cruel words and actions that poison you over time. I guess that’s why I can’t stand the old children’s rhyme: sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me. Every time I hear it, I think to myself: that’s a lie. You can dodge a rock, but you can’t unhear a word. You can’t undo the intentional damage that some words have on your mind, body, and spirit. Especially a word like ugly.

The truth is, once you understand that there are people who do not want you to exist, that is a difficult card to remove from the table. There is no liberation, no undoing that knowledge. It is the unyielding door, the one that simply cannot be pushed back against any longer. For many, there are reminders of this every day, every hour. It makes "Alright," the emotional bar and the song itself, the best there is. It makes existence itself a celebration.

I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron: Penelope did this too. And more than once: you can't keep weaving all day And undoing it all through the night; Your arms get tired, and the back of your neck gets tight; And along towards morning, when you think it will never be light, And your husband has been gone, and you don't know where, for years. Suddenly you burst into tears; There is simply nothing else to do. And I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron: This is an ancient gesture, authentic, antique, In the very best tradition, classic, Greek; Ulysses did this too. But only as a gesture,—a gesture which implied To the assembled throng that he was much too moved to speak. He learned it from Penelope... Penelope, who really cried.

He took the pen and book from her and faltered. “Just write anything – anything trivial that won't matter if it comes to pass.” “Erm...” God, he was useless at this. Elena's hair turned blue. “Hey!” “What?” “I don't want blue hair! What the hell did you write that for?” “It seemed trivial.” “Blue hair – blue? That's trivial? What if I can't undo it?” Karl stared at her blankly. His throat went dry. He felt like a total dickhead, but writing really wasn't his strong point, so he went for humour instead and flashed her a grin. “I was going to write that all your clothes fall off, but figured you may have a problem with that. This was the second thing that came to mind.” (Karl and Elena)

But there was always a negative space, a shadow on the sand. That is the way with loss: you can’t undo it, no matter what you have gained.

I can't breathe without you, baby. You undo me and then put me back together whole again. You take it all, and you still love me for it.

Dear girl, face whatever it is. You’ve been brave already. You’ve come here on your own. Only a brave soul would do that. Be brave again. Be brave until the end. You can’t go back and undo this. It’s one of the harsh realities of this life. If I could I’d go back and unsay every harsh word I’ve ever uttered. But I can’t—and you can’t change the past either. Look ahead.

It's not that your mother didn't love you,' the boy named Crow says from behind me. 'She loved you very deeply. The first thing you have to do is believe that. That's your starting point.' 'But she abandoned me. She disappeared, leaving me alone where I shouldn't be. I'm finally beginning to understand how much that hurt. How could she do it if she really loved me?' 'That's the reality of it. It did happen,'the boy named Crow says. 'You were hurt badly, and those scars will be with you forever. I feel sorry for you, I really do. But think of it like this: It's not too late to recover. You're young, you're tough. You're adaptable. You can patch up your wounds, lift your head, and move on. But for her that's not an option. The only thing she'll ever be is lost. It doesn't matter whether somebody judges this as good or bad- that's not the point. You're the one who has the advantage. You ought to consider that.' I don't respond. 'It all really happened, you can't undo it,' Crow tells me. 'She shouldn't have abandoned you then, and you shouldn't have been abandoned. But things in the past are like a plate that's shattered to pieces. You can never put it back together like it was, right?' I nod. You can never put it back together like it was. He's hit the nail on the head. The boy named Crow continues. 'Your mother felt a gut-wrenching kind of fear and anger inside her, okay? Just like you do now. Which is why she had to abandon you.' 'Even though she loved me?' 'Even though she loved you, she had to abandon you. You need to understand how she felt then, and learn to accept it. Understand the overpowering fear and anger she experienced, and feel it as your own- so you won't inherit it and repeat it. The main thing is this: You have to forgive her. That's not going to be easy, I know, but you have to do it. That's the only way you can be saved. There's no other way!' - pg 398-99

What am I?” Joan whispered. “I don’t know,” Aaron said. “All I know is that if you undo the massacre, you can’t ever meet me. You can’t ever trust me. I won’t know. I won’t remember what-” He cut himself off. Then he ground out. “I won’t remember what you mean to me.

Finn is God: I reach between us and release the buckles that are holding us together. This is when I really panic. The ride up in the plane didn't scare me. Or the height or the jump or the noise. None of that scared me. Right now, only one thing does. Julie Seagle: Tell me. Finn is God: I'm terrified that when I undo that buckle and release you, that you'll get up and walk away from me. I can't think of anything more excruciating.

You can't undo the past, but you can learn from it. ... I believe in you, Charlie. I believe that you can be a man God designed you to be. A man of honor and integrity. You've got a good heart. ... It's just a little rusty, is all. Give it a good scrubbing, scrape away the corrosion, and infuse it with a purpose higher than itself. It will shine again.

First rule of restorations. Never do what you can’t undo.

You can’t undo the past, but you can remedy it by creating a better future.

But I’m starting to realize there are some things you can’t undo, no matter how good your intentions are.

You can't rewind life or undo things.

You told me once that history matters, but it's frozen, set in stone. This is part of our history. I can't change it or undo it. But it doesn't have to dictate our future.

there are some things you can't undo, no matter how good your intentions are

You can't undo the past

Saying what if never helped anyone. You can't undo the bad things that have happened. Pain cannot be avoided, but it can be accepted.

There’s a difference between jumping off a cliff and having fun. Once you jump off a cliff, there’s no undoing it, there’s no stopping mid-air. But having the kind of fun that seems daring and embarrassing in front of strangers requires a special bravery.’ “What am I going to do without you?” ‘This loaded question is the reason I didn’t want anyone to know I was dying. There are questions I can’t answer. I cannot tell you how you will survive without me. I cannot tell you how to mourn me. I cannot convince you to not feel guilty if you forget the anniversary of my death, or if you realise days or weeks or months have gone by without thinking about me. I just want you to live.

I've loved you since I knew what love was and I can't undo that. I would never wish to take that away. Loving you is all the proof I needed that love can last decades. Maybe even a lifetime, who knows.

Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes) , it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will end. Love? Be it man. Be it woman. It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land. To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.

You can’t take away the past; you can only add to the narrative. There is a narrative about Muslims that already exists. I’m not here to undo or rewrite history. That is propaganda or an impossibility. What I, and others, can do is expand on the notion of what it means to be Muslim, continue the story line that survives alongside us.

Ten things that won’t make you happier Wanting to be someone you aren’t. Wishing you could undo a past that can’t be undone. Taking out your hurt on people who didn’t cause your hurt. Trying to distract yourself from pain by doing something that creates more pain. Being unable to forgive yourself. Waiting for people to understand you when they don’t even understand themselves. Imagining happiness is the place you reach when you get everything done. Trying to control things in a universe characterized by unpredictability. Avoiding painful memories by resisting a contented present. The belief that you have to be happy.

She started out, then pressed a hand on the door to brace herself. “You think I don’t know, that I don’t understand what that cost you. But you’re wrong.” She couldn’t keep her voice steady, gave up trying. “You’re wrong, Roarke. I do know. There’s no one else in the world who would want, who would need to kill for me. No one else in the world who would step back from it because I asked it. Because I needed it.” She turned, and the first tear spilled over. “No one but you.” “Don’t. You’ll do me in if you cry.” “I never in my life expected anyone would love me, all of me. How would I deserve that? What would I do with it? But you do. Everything we’ve managed to have together, to be to each other, this is more. I’ll never be able to find the words to tell you what you just gave me.” “You undo me, Eve. Who else would make me feel like a hero for doing nothing.” “You did everything. Everything. Are everything.” Mira was right, again. Love, that strange and terrifying entity, was the answer after all. “Whatever there is, whatever happened to me, or how it comes back on me, you have to know, you need to know that what you did here gave me more peace than I ever thought I’d find. You have to know that I can face anything knowing you love me.” “Eve.” He stepped away from the slot, away from what was gone. And toward her, toward what mattered. “I can’t do anything but love you.

Are white people only able to talk to me if they’ve trained their minds not to see me as black? Is the only path to acceptance not breaking the fantasy that white people have of everyone’s equality? I’ve never thought I was anything but human. My black womanhood does not cancel out my humanity. These are not facts that repel each other. Physiologically, of course, we are all human. Socially, we dehumanize people of color daily. We judge their clothes, speech, hair, and education level as criteria for whether they have earned the right to be treated with common decency. We use these same criteria to judge if they deserve to die at the hands of law enforcement, or men like George Zimmerman. Because the question that white people are asking is not Why can’t we all be human?, but Why can’t you be like us?

I picked up all your things and I put them in a box. I was going to send them back to you, all those things you gave me when you promised I was the only thing you needed. And then I realized I can’t put every kiss in the box or return every “I love you.” I can’t return every time I held you or unwrite every love letter I wrote you. I can’t undo every time I touched you or unhear the way you said my name. I can’t send back every “You’re beautiful” because things will never be the same. What am I going to do with all these things if I can never pack them away?

Admitting mistakes, apologizing is very important in life but change! Someone can't just apologize and disappear. We need to be responsible. We have to clean up our mess. Actions are much more important than the words. Don't repeat the same mistake over and over again and end up saying sorry. 'I'm Sorry' just isn't enough always! If you still have the chance to undo the hurt with your actions, then you should. You must!

Heredity and environment are funny things. You can’t rid yourselves of all the odd ducks in just a few years. The home environment can undo a lot you try to do at school. That’s why we’ve lowered the kindergarten age year after year until now we’re almost snatching them from the cradle. We had some false alarms on the McClellans, when they lived in Chicago. Never found a book. Uncle had a mixed record; antisocial. The girl? She was a time bomb. The family had been feeding her subconscious, I’m sure, from what I saw of her school record. She didn’t want to know how a thing was done, but why. That can be embarrassing. You ask Why to a lot of things and you wind up very unhappy indeed, if you keep at it.

Why can’t you just get over it? It’s all in the past.’ These two statements often run together. Apparently, history is not there to be learned from, rather it’s a large boulder to be gotten over. It’s fascinating, because in the hundreds of workshops I’ve taught on Shakespeare no one has ever told me to get over his writing because it’s, you know, from the, erm, past. I’m still waiting for people to get over Plato, or Da Vinci or Bertrand Russell, or indeed the entirety of recorded history, but it seems they just won’t. It is especially odd in a nation where much of the population is apparently proud of Britain’s empire that critics of one of its most obvious legacies should be asked to get over it, the very same thing from the past that they are proud of. But anyway, let’s imagine for a second that humanity did indeed ‘get over’ - which in this case means forget - the past. Well, we’d have to learn to walk and talk and cook and hunt and plant crops all over again, we’d have to undo all of human invention and start from . . . when? What period exactly is it we are allowed to start our memory from? Those that tell us to get over the past never seem to specify, but I’m eager to learn. In reality, of course, they just don’t want to have any conversations that they find uncomfortable.

Ah, don't let us undo what you've done!' she cried. 'I can't go back now to that other way of thinking. I can't love you unless I give you up.

You cannot undo anything that you did in the past But you can learn from it Even the gods can’t change the past

Why are you all buttoned up like that?" Cameron ran his gaze down the blackberry-shaped buttons of her bodice.[...] "You were happy to bare all last night," Cameron said. He let his mallet handler hover an inch from her chest. "Your bodice was down here." Ainsley cleared her throat. "Low neckline for evening, high for morning."[...] "This doesn’t suit you," Cameron said. "I can’t help the fashion, Lord Cameron." Cameron poked the top button with his gloved finder. "Undo this." Ainsley jumped. "What?" "Unbutton your damned frock." She nearly choked. "Why?" "Because I want you to." Cameron's smile spread across his face, slow and sinful, and his voice went low. Dangerous. "Tell me, Mrs. Douglas. How many buttons will you undo for me?

Now? You’re a man who cheats on his wife, you can’t ever undo that,” Go said. “God, even Dad didn’t cheat. You’re so—I mean, your wife is missing, Amy’s who knows where, and you’re here making time with a little—

I slid my hand to the sash in her robe and discovered she’d tied it with some sort of sailor’s knot that only she could undo. “Oh, come on,” I groaned. “Sorry,” she said, laughing again. „I didn’t even think about it. Honest.” “I believe you”, I said. I paused to kiss the nape of her neck. “You’re the smartest girl I know. You can’t help knowing everything and being constantly brilliant – and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Her eyes are beautiful, eloquent, and frightened, and seem to be telling the man: "You're a clumsy lover . . . You don't begin to understand me . . . I don't really know you, and you scare me . . . You sneer at everything I like . . . You lie so well! . . . You possess me completely, yet I can't trust you . . . If you knew what limpid springs you wall up within me because I fear you! 'What am I doing here at your side? Would that this music could free me of you forever! Or else that this violin would stop before I find out any more about you! You yearn for my undoing, not my happiness, and what is worst in me assures you of your victory.

You can’t bring back what is gone or undo what has already happened, but what you can do is build a better tomorrow. You have no control over your past, but the future is still in your hands. So what are you waiting for?

I stay in that state of mind for the next couple of days, in the places that only exist in the past. The things you can’t undo get lodged in the darkest corners of your mind, where nothing ever seems to get solved, just recycled into new anxiety.

You can’t just put anything you want on the Internet. The Internet is forever, and the stuff you post out there is like putting up a sign on a street corner. Anyone could see it, and anyone could use that information to hurt you or your family. So be smart and be responsible, because you can’t undo anything you put there.

Emotionally abusive men don't go on to have amazing relationships after you leave them. They tell the new wife the same lies about other people and exes that they told you. They use the same games and play the victim to get their way. After the honeymoon stage has worn off and there is nothing exciting to learn about his new love he will become bored. This is when he is back to the same pattern of abuse, which includes securing new narcissistic supply. That new wife will start to wonder why they can't have deep conversations. She will start to wonder why he gets so quick to anger. She will not understand why she is being abused. She will start back down the same road you took to reach his heart. It will be an emotional trip she won't understand because she was too stupid to believe that his long line of broken relationships were because of the women before her. Her arrogance will be her undoing because we both know she is in for the worst ride of her life!

They arrested members of the nobility for their social origin. They arrested members of their families. Finally, unable to draw even simple distinctions, they arrested members of the “individual nobility”—i.e., anybody who had simply graduated from a university. And once they had been arrested, there was no way back. You can’t undo what has been done! The Sentinel of the Revolution never makes a mistake!

Y-You love me?” Gazing down at her pert nose and the freckles that made him think of an adorable pixie, he felt his throat constrict. “I want you every hour of the day. I can’t imagine a future without you in it. The idea of returning to my empty house alone is so hellish that I’d rather wander the world at your heels than be without you. Tell me, is that love?” She cast him a blazing smile. “It sounds like it.” “Then I love you, my wonderful, sword-wielding, tart-tongued angel. I want you to be my wife. I want you to preside over my table and accompany me to balls and share my bed.” A most uncharacteristic happiness surged through him. “And I want to have children with you, lots of them, filling every room in Halstead Hall.” A sudden understanding lit her face. His clever love didn’t miss the fact that he was offering her not just himself, but everything else he’d neglected, as well. Everything that he wanted to put to rights. That he needed to put to rights. “Not filling every room, I hope,” she teased, even as tears shone in her eyes. “There are three hundred, after all.” “Then I suppose we’ll have to get started right away,” he said, matching her light tone. His heart near to bursting, he reached again for the buttons on the back of her gown. “These things should never be left until the last minute.” As a laugh of pure joy bubbled out of her, she began to untie his cravat. “I can see you’re going to be quite the lusty husband, aren’t you?” He stripped her gown from her, then turned her around to undo her stays. “You have no idea,” he murmured, and filled his hands with the breasts he’d freed. Moaning, she pressed her bottom against him. “I have some idea.

The parts of me that need sanity are whispering one more taste is all I will need to finally regain my faculties. The parts already lost to you remind me a single taste of you is what brought me here, and to take more of you will be diving into my undoing. Knowing I'll never be able to get enough. You're a drug. I'm so thoroughly addicted, I can't see through the high you bring me to realize I can't exist without you anymore.

When my feet touch bottom, Galen releases me. I tiptoe toward shore, jumping with the waves like a toddler. Reaching the beach, I deposit myself in the sand just far enough in for the tide to tickle my feet. "Aren't you coming in?" I call to him. "I need you to throw me my shorts," he says, pointing behind me. "Oh. Oh. You're naked?" I squeak, bordering on dolphin pitch. Of course, I should have realized that fins don't come with a cubby for carry-on luggage, and most Syrena wouldn't have a need to stash something like swimming shorts. It doesn't matter much when he's in fish form, but seeing Galen-no, thinking about Galen-naked in human form would be detrimental to my plan to use him. Could be my undoing. "Guess that means you can't see into the water yet," he says. When I shake my head, he says, "I took them off before you came out this morning. I'd prefer not to ruin them if I don't have to." Clearing my throat, I hoist myself up and trudge through the sand, finding them a few feet away. I toss them to him and take my seat again, in case my vision suddenly gives me an unhealthy view of the briny deep. Thankfully, he keeps everything submerged as he makes his way to the floating trunks and pulls them on. Tying them as he walks ashore, he kicks water on me before sitting beside me.

I wish I could reverse time. If I could, I’d go back and change a lot of things. For one, I’d be a better friend to Dodds.” I rock back on my heels and stare down at the ground. Was I even a friend to him at all? “But, the thing is,” I continue, “we can’t go back.” My voice starts to crack. “That’s life’s greatest punishment. We can’t go back and right the wrongs, fix the mistakes, undo the tragedies, change our minds, make different decisions, unbreak hearts, take back words. All you can do is own your mistakes, forgive yourself, and keep on living.

If we don’t get in your car and start driving, right now, I’m going to be tempted to take you into that alcove, right over there” – he paused to turn his chin toward the small, bricked archway leading up to the bakery’s side door, cloaked by just enough shadow to keep it hidden to anyone passing by on the street – “undo this infernal sweater of yours, and put my mouth on you until you come so hard, you can’t stand up. So, please. Can we get out of here?” “Mmm.” Charlie arched against him for just a split second before using the leverage of her hands on his shoulders to swing him around. But rather than head toward her car, now a dozen paces from where they stood on the sidewalk, she turned in the other direction, away from the street. “Where are you going?” Parked asked, his confusion turning to shock a beat later as her destination became clear. Charlie paused in front of the archway leading into the shadows. “I’ve been dying for you to make me come all night,” she said over one shoulder, a sweetly wicked gleam in her eyes. “If you think I’m going to turn down a promise like that, you’re out of your mind.

Am I clear? Am I making myself clear? And yet in Ischia I was happy, full of love. But it was no use, my head always finds a chink to peer through, beyond - above, beneath, on the side - where the fear is. In Bruno’s factory, for example, the bones of the animals cracked in your fingers if you merely touched them, and a rancid marrow spilled out. I was so afraid that I thought I was sick. But was I sick? Did I really have a murmur in my heart? No. The only problem has always been the disquiet in my mind. I can’t stop it, I always have to do, redo, cover, uncover, reinforce, and then suddenly undo, break.

Elliot opens the gate to the top paddock and leads him in. “You are now grounded to the top paddock.” “Bahahaha,” Billy bleats. “Seeing that you can’t be trusted.” Oh my lord, this is priceless. Tough guy Elliot Miles grounding his goat. He undoes the rope around Billy’s neck. “I’m watching you, fucker. One wrong move and it’s off to . . .” He pauses as he thinks of the right wording. “The knackers.” “Bahahaha.” “Do you know what they do to naughty goats there?” he asks. I burst out laughing. “Go inside,” Elliot snaps. I turn and walk inside as I continue to laugh. “Bahahaha,” Billy bleats. “Stop making that noise, too,” Elliot barks.

Forgive yourself. Forgive yourself for what happened. For the mistakes you made. For your poor choices. For not showing up the way you needed to. For being the person you wanted to be. You're human. You did the best you could in the moment given what you knew and what you had, and that's all you can ask for yourself. You're still learning. You're still finding your way. That takes time. And you're allowed to give yourself that time. You're allowed to show up in the world imperfectly. You're allowed to fail at things you tried hard for. You're allowed to realize you made the wrong decision. You're allowed to be someone who's still figuring out their path and their purpose. You're allowed to forgive yourself. You can't go back and change the decisions you've made, but you can choose what you do today. You can keep choosing, again and again. You can start over. And that's where your power is--in today. So no more beating yourself up. No more going over and over it again in your head and torturing yourself with the past. What happened is over, and all the shame and self-hatred in the world won't undo that. Today, you're starting over. Today, you're moving forward with the new knowledge and experiences you have. Today, you can be the person you want to be and live the life you want to live. You're not a bad person. You're not a disappointment or a failure.

Crimson silk sheets. I’m in her and she’s looking at me like I’m her world. The woman undoes me. I flinch. I’m having sex with me, seeing myself from his eyes. I look incredible naked—is that how he sees me? He doesn’t see any of my flaws. I’ve never looked half as good to myself. I want to pull out. It feels perverse. I’m fascinated. But this was not what I was hunting for at all . . . Where are the handcuffs? Ah, grab her fucking head, she’s going down on me again. She’ll make me come. Tie her up. Is she back? How much longer do I have? He senses me there. Get out of my HEAD! I deepen the kiss, bite his tongue, and he is violent with lust. I take advantage, diving deep. There’s a thought he’s shielding. I want it. Nobody home but She for Whom I am the World. Can’t go on like this, can’t keep doing it. Why couldn’t he go on? What couldn’t he keep doing? I’m having sex with him, any way he wants me, while I stare up at him with utter worship. Where was the problem there? Weariness suddenly crashes over me. I’m in his body, and I’m coming beneath him, and I’m checking my eyes warily. What the fuck am I doing here? He knew what he was, what I was. He knew we came from different worlds, didn’t belong together. Yet for a few months there’d been no lines of demarcation between us. We’d existed in a place beyond definitions, where no rules had mattered, and I wasn’t the only one who’d reveled in it. But the entire time I’d been lost in sexual bliss, he’d been aware of time passing, of everything that was happening—that I was mindless, I wasn’t willing, and when I snapped out of it I’d blame him. Keep hoping to see the light in her eyes. Even knowing it’ll mean she’s saying good-bye. I had. Irrational or not, I’d held it against him. He’d seen me naked, body and soul, and I hadn’t seen him at all. I’d been blinded by helpless lust that hadn’t been for him. I had been lust, and he’d been there. Just one time, he’s thinking as we watch my glazed eyes go even emptier. One time, what? Instead of pushing, I try a stealth attack. I pretend to retreat, let him think he’s won, and at the last minute turn around. Instead of lunging for his thoughts, I stay very, very still and listen. He pushes my hair out of my face. I look like an animal. There’s no sentience in my gaze. I’m a cavewoman, with a miniscule, pre-historic brain. When you know who I am. Let me be your man.

Riko is dead,’ Jeremy insisted, strident, and it hurt him to his bones to watch the way Jean recoiled. ‘What are you so afraid of? He can’t hurt you anymore.’ Jean laughed, short and sharp, and Jeremy’s heart broke at the sound of it. ‘Jean, please.’ Jean dug trembling fingers into his temples and closed his eyes as he stepped back away from Jeremy. ‘Call him [Kevin], then,’ he said, ‘because I won’t. I won’t. I am Jean Moreau. I know my place. I am-’ He bit off whatever else he might have said, but the force it took to choke it back had his lips curling in a fierce snarl. Jeremy could only watch in retched silence as Jean tried to walk himself back from the edge. He cast his phone aside in favor of catching Jean’s face in his hands, and the way Jean flinched at his touch was almost his undoing.

Well, what happened to your scruples in the woodcutter’s cottage? You knew I thought you’d already left when I went inside.” “Why did you stay,” he countered smoothly, “when you realized I was still there?” In confused distress Elizabeth raked her hair off her forehead. “I knew I shouldn’t do it,” she admitted. “I don’t know why I remained.” “You stayed for the same reason I did,” he informed her bluntly. “We wanted each other.” “I was wrong,” she protested a little wildly. “Dangerous and-foolish!” “Foolish or not,” he said grimly, “I wanted you. I want you now.” Elizabeth made the mistake of looking at him, and his amber eyes captured hers against her will, holding them imprisoned. The shawl she’d been clutching as if it was a lifeline to safety slid from her nerveless hand and dangled at her side, but Elizabeth didn’t notice. “Neither of us has anything to gain by continuing this pretense that the weekend in England is over and forgotten,” he said bluntly. “Yesterday proved that it wasn’t over, if it proved nothing else, and it’s never been forgotten-I’ve remembered you all this time, and I know damn well you’ve remembered me.” Elizabeth wanted to deny it; she sensed that if she did, he’d be so disgusted with her deceit that he’d turn on his heel and leave her. She lifted her chin, unable to tear her gaze from his, but she was too affected by the things he’d just admitted to her to lie to him. “All right,” she said shakily, “you win. I’ve never forgotten you or that weekend. How could I?” she added defensively. He smiled at her angry retort, and his voice gentled to the timbre of rough velvet. “Come here, Elizabeth.” “Why?” she whispered shakily. “So that we can finish what we began that weekend.” Elizabeth stared at him in paralyzed terror mixed with violet excitement and shook her head in a jerky refusal. “I’ll not force you,” he said quietly, “nor will I force you to do anything you don’t want to do once you’re in my arms. Think carefully about that,” he warned, “because if you come to me now, you won’t be able to tell yourself in the morning that I made you do this against your will-or that you didn’t know what was going to happen. Yesterday neither of us knew what was going to happen. Now we do.” Some small, insidious voice in her mind urged her to obey, reminded her that after the public punishment she’d taken for the last time they were together she was entitled to some stolen passionate kisses, if she wanted them. Another voice warned her not to break the rules again. “I-I can’t,” she said in a soft cry. “There are four steps separating us and a year and a half of wanting drawing us together,” he said. Elizabeth swallowed. “Couldn’t you meet me halfway?” The sweetness of the question was almost Ian’s undoing, but he managed to shake his head. “Not this time. I want you, but I’ll not have you looking at me like a monster in the morning. If you want me, all you have to do is walk into my arms.” “I don’t know what I want,” Elizabeth cried, looking a little wildly at the valley below, as if she were thinking of leaping off the path. “Come here,” he invited huskily, “and I’ll show you.” It was his tone, not his words, that conquered her. As if drawn by a will stronger than her own, Elizabeth walked forward and straight into his arms that closed around her with stunning force. “I didn’t think you were going to do it,” he whispered gruffly against her hair.

Don't look at me like that." "Like what?" I arch an eyebrow. His gaze flashes to mine. "Like you're thinking about the sparring gym last night." "Well, now that you mention it." My tongue flicks over my lower lip, remembering how his hips pinned mine to the mat after everyone had left for the night. How close we both came to giving in to the pulsing need between us. His jaw flexes, and his grip tightens on his fork. "Seriously. I can't think when you look at me like that." "You're the one with the ridiculous rule about not falling for each other," I remind him. "You're still looking." He forces his attention back to his plate. "You make it hard to look away." I miss his mouth on my skin, the feel of his body pressed against mine. I miss the look on his face when he watched me come undone. But I miss the feeling of him curled around me in sleep more. "I'm over here keeping my hands and memories to myself because you asked me to, and you're fucking me with your eyes. That's not playing fair." "Told you to stop staring." There's laughter in his voice, but his face is as expressionless as ever. I tap my fork on my plate in pure frustration. You know what. Fuck this. Two can play at this game. "If you'd just man up and admit there's something between us, I would strip down to my skin so you could see every single inch of me. And once I had you begging, I'd drop down to my knees, undo those flight leathers you're wearing, and wrap my lips around—" Xaden chokes. Every head in the dining hall turns his way, and Garrick pounds on his back until Xaden waves him off, taking a drink of his water. I grin, which earns me about six looks of confusion from our table and one set of rolled eyes from Liam. "You're going to be the death of me

What’s more, if the Varden lose, Eragon and I can be together as brothers ought to be. But if they win, it’ll mean the death of Thorn and me. It’ll have to.” “Oh? And what of me?” she asked. “If Galbatorix wins, shall I become his slave, to order about as he wills?” Murtagh refused to answer, but she saw the tendons on the back of his hands tighten. “You can’t give up, Murtagh.” “What other choice do I have!” he shouted, filling the room with echoes. She stood and stared down at him. “You can fight! Look at me…Look at me!” He reluctantly lifted his gaze. “You can find ways to work against him. That’s what you can do! Even if your oaths will allow only the smallest of rebellions, the smallest of rebellions might still prove to be his undoing.” She restated his question for effect. “What other choice do you have? You can go around feeling helpless and miserable for the rest of your life. You can let Galbatorix turn you into a monster. Or you can fight!” She spread her arms so that he could see all of the burn marks on her. “Do you enjoy hurting me?” “No!” he exclaimed. “Then fight, blast you! You have to fight or you will lose everything you are. As will Thorn.” She held her ground as he sprang to his feet, lithe as a cat, and moved toward her until he was only a few inches away. The muscles in his jaw bunched and knotted while he glowered at her, breathing heavily through his nostrils. She recognized his expression, for it was one she had seen many times before. His was the look of a man whose pride had been offended and who wanted to lash out at the person who had insulted him. It was dangerous to keep pushing him, but she knew she had to, for she might never get the chance again. “If I can keep fighting,” she said, “then so can you.” “Back to the stone,” he said in a harsh voice. “I know you’re not a coward, Murtagh. Better to die than to live as a slave to one such as Galbatorix. At least then you might accomplish some good, and your name might be remembered with a measure of kindness after you’re gone.

There was a girl next door," he said, slowly. "She's gone now, I think, dead. I can't even remember her face. But she was different. How? How did she happen?" Beatty smiled. "Here or there, that's bound to occur. Clarisse McClellan? We've a record on her family. We've watched them carefully. Heredity and environment are funny things. You can't rid yourselves of all the odd ducks in just a few years. The home environment can undo a lot you try to do at school. That's why we've lowered the kindergarten age year after year until now we're almost snatching them from the cradle. We had some false alarms on the McClellans, when they lived in Chicago. Never found a book. Uncle had a mixed record; antisocial. The girl? She was a time bomb. The family had been feeding her subconscious, I'm sure, from what I saw of her school record. She didn't want to know how a thing was done, but why. That can be embarrassing. You ask Why to a lot of things and you wind up very unhappy indeed, if you keep at it. The poor girl's better off dead.

It’s nice when grown people whisper to each other under the covers. Their ecstasy is more leaf-sigh than bray and the body is the vehicle, not the point. They reach, grown people, for something beyond, way beyond and way, way down underneath tissue. They are remembering while they whisper the carnival dolls they won and the Baltimore boats they never sailed on. The pears they let hang on the limb because if they plucked them, they would be gone from there and who else would see that ripeness if they took it away for themselves? How could anybody passing by see them and imagine for themselves what the flavor would be like? Breathing and murmuring under covers both of them have washed and hung out on the line, in a bed they chose together and kept together nevermind one leg was propped on a 1916 dictionary, and the mattress, curved like a preacher’s palm asking for witnesses in His name’s sake, enclosed them each and every night and muffled their whispering, old-time love. They are under the covers because they don’t have to look at themselves anymore; there is no stud’s eye, no chippie glance to undo them. They are inward toward the other, bound and joined by carnival dolls and the steamers that sailed from ports they never saw. That is what is beneath their undercover whispers. But there is another part, not so secret. The part that touches fingers when one passes the cup and saucer to the other. The part that closes her neckline snap while waiting for the trolley; and brushes lint from his blue serge suit when they come out of the movie house into the sunlight. I envy them their public love. I myself have only known it in secret, shared it in secret and longed, aw longed to show it—to be able to say out loud what they have no need to say at all: That I have loved only you, surrendered my whole self reckless to you and nobody else. That I want you to love me back and show it to me. That I love the way you hold me, how close you let me be to you. I like your fingers on and on, lifting, turning. I have watched your face for a long time now, and missed your eyes when you went away from me. Talking to you and hearing you answer —that’s the kick. But I can’t say that aloud; I can’t tell anyone that I have been waiting for this all my life and that being chosen to wait is the reason I can. If I were able I’d say it. Say make me, remake me. You are free to do it and I am free to let you because look, look. Look where your hands are. Now.

I was told love should be unconditional. That's the rule, everyone says so. But if love has no boundaries, no limits, no conditions, why should anyone try to do the right thing ever? If I know I am loved no matter what, where is the challenge? I am supposed to love Nick despite all his shortcomings. And Nick is supposed to love me despite my quirks. But clearly, neither of us does. It makes me think that everyone is very wrong, that love should have many conditions. Love should require both partners to be their very best at all times. Unconditional love is an undisciplined love, and as we all have seen, undisciplined love is disastrous. You can read more about my thoughts on love in Amazing. Out soon! But first: motherhood. The due date is tomorrow. Tomorrow happens to be our anniversary. Year six. Iron. I thought about giving Nick a nice pair of handcuffs, but he may not find that funny yet. It's so strange to think: A year ago today, I was undoing my husband. Now I am almost done reassembling him. Nick has spent all his free time these past months slathering my belly with cocoa butter and running out for pickles and rubbing my feet, and all the things good fathers-to-be are supposed to do. Doting on me. He is learning to love me unconditionally, under all my conditions. I think we are finally on our way to happiness. I have finally figured it out. We are on the eve of becoming the world's best, brightest nuclear family. We just need to sustain it. Nick doesn't have it down perfect. This morning he was stroking my hair and asking what else he could do for me, and I said: 'My gosh, Nick, why are you so wonderful to me?' He was supposed to say: You deserve it. I love you. But he said, 'Because I feel sorry for you.' 'Why?' 'Because every morning you have to wake up and be you.' I really, truly wish he hadn't said that. I keep thinking about it. I can't stop. I don't have anything else to add. I just wanted to make sure I had the last word. I think I've earned that.

I am dreaming of happy Pandas. A whole field full of happy Pandas. I am beside myself. I am entirely myself. I am going to set myself on fire. Just you wait and see. I will destroy. You will obey. That's the way it has to be. You'll make the lemonade and I'll ensure that no other lemonade stand stands in our way. We will wear terrific Panda suits. We will have a secret hand shake. We'll stick to the plan. I will destroy. You will obey. That's the way it's going to have to be. Pouting about it won't change anything. Pouting about it will only make you look like an unhappy Panda and we can't be having that. So you should think before you speak. You should consider your options before you decide to become an unhappy Panda. Because you don't want to know what happens to Pandas that aren't happy. So you'd best be careful. Don't worry though. This is just us talking. This is just us coming together at the head. Like Siamese twins, like two happy peas in a pod. You would not like it if we were to do the other routine. There are no happy Pandas to be had in that one. Not at all. No mention of Pandas whatsoever. Just unpleasantness that I would rather avoid. So keep smiling. Always remember to keep smiling. Whatever will be, will be. There is nothing more pathetic than a sore loser. So keep smiling. Everything will take care of itself. Thank goodness. I'm tired now. I am going to go to bed. I don't much feel like being your friend anymore. The good old days are gone. Best to get on board with the depravity of the here and now. The world consumes, the world revolves, the world will someday come to and end. If not by us, then pulverized by the sun. The mysteries of the universe revealed with no time to study the data and reach an outcome, the sun will go out and all creatures great and small will be helpless against the unknowns of life. So why are you so worried? Why don't you go have some drinks, get laid, get back, get something. After everything has been done, been bought, sold, produced, consumed, recycled, re-packaged, and re-sold, you will have gained nothing by floundering about trying to change things that cannot be changed. The little things exist only so that the important ones never get touched upon. That's why you can wear leather shoes and, at the same time, refuse to eat beef. Because we are all, every one of us, ridiculous. And we've elected you our leader. I am going to go lay in bed and wait for the hands of impossibility to come strangle me. I am going to smile at my ceiling and sing the song of our undoing. I will wear my Panda pajamas. I will think of you often when I get to where it is that I'm going. Everything will be fine. Just you wait and see. Just you wait and see.

Orion threw a grin back at me as headed to the bar, ducking behind it. “What would madam like?” he asked in a formal tone which was a damn good impression of the Acruxes' butler. I giggled hurrying over to take a stool in front of the bar and placing my clutch down, relishing the cool breeze against my burning neck. “Hmm...a Manhattan?” I teased and he cocked his head. “I'm afraid we're fresh out of bullshit, how about a white wine spritzer with a tiny umbrella in it?” I laughed, nodding eagerly as he made up my drink then poured himself a measure of bourbon. He held it out for me and I leaned across the bar to take it. As I took hold of the glass, he didn't let go and I gazed up at him under my lashes questioning why. “Have I told you have exceptionally beautiful you look tonight, Darcy?” Darcy. He'd said my name. For the first time ever. And why did it sound like so much more than a name when he spoke it? It was like he'd fired an arrow and it had punctured a flesh wound in me at the exact same moment. Hell. I needed to get over this guy. Why was I so caught up on him? Unavailable, that's what it was. We always want what we can't have and Professor Orion was off limits. Simple as that. And those muscles. And the beard. And the dark eyes. And the dimple. But that was it. “That's the first I've heard of it, Professor,” I whispered, unable to make my voice rise any louder. “Don't do that,” he grunted, releasing the drink. I eyed him curiously as he walked around the bar with his bourbon in hand. He took the stool beside mine, his arm butting up against me. “Do what?” I asked, swivelling around to face the pool and taking a sip of my spritzer. It fizzed on my tongue and sent a deep kick of heat through my chest. “You know what.” “You're very presumptuous, Orion. You think I'm far more aware of your chaotic way of thinking than I really am.” I sipped my drink again, spying on him from the corner of my eye. He took a swig of his own drink and the familiar waft of bourbon drifted over me, tingling my senses. It was becoming a trigger, like the moment I walked into his office and he uncorked a bottle, it made me want to taste it on his mouth. And then that led to me wondering whether his fangs would brush my tongue when we kissed, and that always led to me mentally undressing him, then me conjuring an image of what those muscles looked like beneath that shirt... “I have something for you,” he said and I turned, blinking out of my dark fantasy. “You do?” He nodded, reaching into his inside pocket and taking out my coil of blue hair. My heart combusted and a choked noise escaped me. I reached for it and he slid it onto my wrist. He kept my hand in his, his eyes downcast as they remained on the band of hair. “I want you to know, I believe you would have gotten this back yourself when you were ready. But I took a lot of pleasure in retrieving it for you all the same.” I stared at him in complete shock, unsure what to say, my tongue tied in knots. “But Fae don't fight battles for other Fae,” I blurted, completely astonished that his actions that day had been to take this back from Seth. For me. And nothing else. He finished his drink and planted the glass on the bar, rising to his feet. He didn't reply to what I'd said and I barely even remembered what it was as he started pulling his clothes off. “Err, what are you doing?” I half laughed as he shed his jacket and kicked off his shoes, pulling off his socks. Oh my god. “I hate parties, but I like swimming.” He started undoing the buttons of his shirt and thought his back was to me, I was still captivated as he dropped it to the floor like a silken sheet. My eyes scraped down his skin to where his muscles etched an upside down v into his lower back, disappearing beneath his waistband. His shoulders were tanned and heavenly broad, making me long to explore all of those muscles with my hands.(Darcy)