No matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself
I don't know why, but life is usually more complicated than the plans that we make.
I blame Jeb for letting you be such a smart aleck. ” I stared at her. “I blame you for altering my DNA! I mean, I have wings, lady! What were you thinking?
Yeah,” said Iggy. “But what now? Let’s do something fun. ” I guess being on the run from bloodthirsty Erasers and insane scientists wasn’t enough fun for him. Kids today are so spoiled.
Do I open it? Do I open it? Of course I freaking open it!
My life would never contain a convenient, pain-saving plan when it could stretch a problem out into an endless agony of uncertainty and torture.
What are you doing in there, waxing your mustache?” Iggy yelled, pounding on the bathroom door. I yanked the door open and pushed him backward hard, making him stagger. “I don’t have a mustache, you idiot!” Iggy giggled and put his arms up to protect himself in case I punched him. “And you know what?” I added. “You don’t have one either. Well, maybe in a couple years. You can always hope. ” I left him in the hallway, anxiously fingering his upper lip.
All this argument is the temperature going up or not, it's absurd. . . Of course it's going up. It has gone up since the early 1800s, before the Industrial Revolution, because we're coming out of the Little Ice Age, not because we're putting more carbon dioxide into the air.
When humans work, they frequently become unaware of their own body, their own senses, are surprised to find that their wrists ache or their backs are sore or their friend has left the building. It's as close to an out-of-body experience as can be achieved short of fifty volts, a circle of warding, a pigeon's claw cut from an albino female of purest white feathers, or a lot of mushrooms.
We've had distressed edges. We've had culottes. We've had high waisted jeans, we've seen the heralding of the new bootcut back again. I'm so sorry to say this to you, but the only way forward is ultra-hipsters, you know? Like super-low cut, low-rider jeans, to the extreme.
Back in Romania, always I was struggling to compete with Vladislav Rastorotsky, the great Russian coach of Lyudmila Turishcheva. He was a powerful coach, internationally. I took him like the major challenge of my life, and pretty soon I'm beating him and we are pushing each other so hard, so fierce. But out of the arena, we are friends.