The favorite game of temperamental people is Try to Guess Why I'm Ticked Off. (Contestant number one, Why do YOU think he's pissed off? Why, I'm not sure, Bob, but I'm going to go with 'Because I Left the Faucet Dripping.' BEEP. I'm sorry, that's incorrect. The correct answer is: 'Because You Happen to Exist.')
Yes?' he asked, looking at me over the sheet. 'I'm a writer temporarily down on my inspirations.' 'Oh, a writer, eh?' 'Yes.' 'Are you sure?' 'No, I'm not.' 'What do you write?' 'Short stories mostly. And I'm halfway through a novel.' 'A novel, eh?' 'Yes.' 'What's the name of it?' ''The Leaky Faucet of My Doom.'' 'Oh, I like that. What's it about?' 'Everything.' 'Everything? You mean, for instance, it's about cancer?' 'Yes.' 'How about my wife?' 'She's in there too.
...Say somebody shot somebody....We...are so concerned about whether this evidence was admitted properly...(and) not recognize the intrusion into our sacred individuality that is being caused every time people turn on the faucet? ...I am astounded by how much untruth has been officially promulgated (pro fluoridation).
Even though, theoretically, being a composer and being a songwriter are the same thing, in my brain, they are completely different. When I am in my composing mode, I go into my studio and turn that part of my brain on like a faucet. And when I finish, I turn it off. But with songwriting, that process is much more elusive.
There are no shortcuts. I approached practices the same way I approached games. You can't turn it on and off like a faucet. I couldn't dog it during practice and then, when I needed that extra push late in the game, expect it to be there. Very few people get anywhere by taking shortcuts.
If you've never programmed a computer, you should. There's nothing like it in the whole world. When you program a computer, it does exactly what you tell it to do. It's like designing a machine "" any machine, like a car, like a faucet, like a gas-hinge for a door "" using math and instructions. It's awesome in the truest sense: it can fill you with awe.
Creativity is so delicate a flower that praise tends to make it bloom while discouragement often nips it at the bud. Creativity is now something we can turn on and off like a faucet. It is an experience and expression in our lives that must be nurtured. This nurturing process means that creativity is at once a skill, an art, and a life-style.
Alex Faickney Osborn
Jules turned off the faucet and the room became silent except for the ticking clock. 'Promise me one thing.' She picked up the dishtowel and wiped her hands. 'Promise me you're not going to get yourself killed.' Katie met her friend's gaze. 'I'm going to fight like a queen bitch to stay alive. I give you my word.
Good sex is an all-day affair. You can't treat your wife like a servant and expect her to be eager to sleep with you at night. Your wife's sexual responsiveness will be determined by how willingly you help out with the dishes, the kids' homework, or that leaky faucet that drips throughout the night.
I think that idea that sort of our emotional self and our emotional life is a faucet that you turn on and off, and that we are in control of it entirely, that's a really appealing idea for a lot of people. But there are certainly the times where it's appealing to me, but it never quite works the way I hoped it would.
What is the story with the airport sinks, that they will not give us a twist-on twist-off human faucet. "Is it that too risky for the human population? We have to do the one-handed pain-in-the-ass Alcatraz-style faucets. "What is it they think we will do? Turn 'em all on full, run out into the parking lot, laughing, pushing each other into the bushes?
is there any I could get a glass of water?" [waiter]There is no way... I toss and turn many a night trying to think up some way some how I could get glasses of water to costomers but I keep coming up empty... Legend has it there was a waiter here many years ago... who had figured out a way to do just that but he is long gone and with him the secret. It had something to do with a glass rack and a faucet but no one has been able to put the pieces together so I must say no there is no way. HOW I WISH THERE WAS A WAY!!!
When she heard about Mitch, it was Roberta that talked me into making the pizza. 'You have to!' she'd nearly shrieked. She did this because I'd waxed on perhaps a little too enthusiastically about Mitch's looks, his warm smile and his neighborly behavior. I shook my head. 'I don't know. He freaks me out.' 'Yeah, I get that. Johnny Depp came in and fixed my faucet then told me he wanted to try my pizza that would freak me out too. But I'd still make him my freaking pizza.
Worry is different from fear. If fear is like a raging fever, worry is a low-grade temperature. It nags at us, simmers in our souls, hovers in the back of our minds like a faint memory. We may fear certain realities, like death; we worry about vague possibilities. Worry distracts us more than paralyzes us. It is like a leaky faucet we never get around to fixing.
Gerald Lawson Sittser
If you can't hold your own, you're gonna get knocked out. You're bleeding all over the place. There are many, many nights that these boys are crawling off the mats. They drop from body shots, their nose is just bleeding like a faucet. On Wednesday nights, they come in and get a beating. It only happens once with these guys. You'll get karate experts or Tae Kwon Do experts and they can't hold a candle.
The only thing I can say that is not bullshit is that you do have to learn to write in a way that you would learn to play the violin. Everybody seems to think that you should be able to turn on the faucet one day and out will come the novel. I think for most people it's just practice, practice, practice, that sense of just learning your instrument until - when you have an idea on the violin, you don't have to translate it into violin-speak anymore - the language is your own. It's not something you can think your way into, or outsmart. you've just got to do it.
You took a life and the theft went unpunished. God didn't strike you down. The sky didn't fall. The morning after, you turned on the faucet and water still came out... It was still good when you raised your arm for a cab and one came towards you out of the flow like magic. You did things that were supposed to end you and found they were only things that changed you. It was a disappointment and a revelation and a bereavement and a new thrilling nudity. It was the basic prosaic obscenity: You kept going.
Dale's face is older. Just a little. Around the eyes and mouth. The skin of his neck. The back of his hands. Maybe not, he thinks, turning on the faucet, letting the water grow warm then hot. He begins shaving his lubricated chin and cheeks. Chrysalis hibernation slows things down, but it doesn't stop them, not all together, and he finds himself to currently resemble something between a derelict and a college student, neither one ringing particularly desirable in his present mood.
David Edward Wagner
I am not light nor the absence of it. I am the broad spectrum. Everything that makes you think, want to touch, or taste. Don't box me into that life that you so desperately need to be black and white because that's not me; I won't fit. I am bold, brilliant, and beautiful, I will sparkle and shimmer every hue. Ever changing. Undefinable. So do not give me limits or make me try to fit. There is no containing subtle softness careening into the harsh and dominant, every faucet creating a reaction which will cause you to feel and know you are alive." - Kendal Waller
All it takes is to pick up that one piece of trash you pass everyday on your way to work. Or to turn the water faucet off when you're brushing your teeth from afar. Or to compost. Or to buy 100 percent post-consumer recycled paper. Or to utilize vintage stores and secondhand markets. Or to fully devote yourself to only buying vegetables from local sources. It is remarkably easy to incorporate sustainable choices into our everyday, busy lives.
Besides, the sense of safety offered by bottled water is a mirage. It turns out that breathing, not drinking, constitutes our main route of exposure to volatile pollutants in tap water, such as solvents, pesticides, and byproducts of water chlorination. As soon as the toilet is flushed or the faucet turned on-or the bathtub, the shower, the humidifier, the washing machine-these contaminants leave the water and enter the air. A recent study shows that the most efficient way of exposing yourself to chemical contaminants in tap water is to turn on a dishwasher.
I HEARD THEY TRYIN' TO MAKE A COMEBACK, WELL, FUCK THAT HEARD YOU WANNA DO WHAT I DO, GUESS WHAT, I'VE, BEEN THERE AND DONE THAT AND I'M A KEEP IT GOIN', AIN'T NO SLOWIN' ME DOWN I'M HOLDIN' IT DOWN LIKE A SWITCH WHEN I DROP MY RIDE TO THE GROUND I KICK A SAMPLE, THEN I CHOP IT, PUT SOME MONEY IN MY POCKET I CALL IT FERIA, GET IT FOR FLOWIN' LIKE A FAUCET SOME PEOPLE SAY I'VE LOST IT BUT YOU KNOW I'M STILL SICK IT'S A KEEPER, SO I'M KEEPING SOME OF THAT SHIT YOU HIT THE STREETS WITH THAT'S BUMPIN' WHEN YOU'RE ONLY SOMETHIN' NEXT TO NOTHIN' SHIT, YOU BETTER WATCH WHO YOU FUCKING WITH I'LL CUT YOU OFF LIKE A DJ WHEN HE CUTS IT QUICK ONE TIME IS ONE TIME TOO MANY, YOU FUCK UP, THAT'S IT YOU DONE WITH YOU'RE JUST ANOTHER RAPPER TO HAVE FUN WITH THAT DOESN'T DO MUCH FOR ALL THEM RAPPERS THAT YOU RUN WITH CAUSE YOU ARE WHO YOU HANG WITH LA ULTIMA RISAS MIA EVEN LAUGHIN' IN MY OTHER LANGUAGE
Jill's face was hard when PE ended, and I had the feeling she was trying not to cry. I tried talking to her in the locker room, but she simply shook her head and headed off for the showers. I was about to go there myself when I heard a shriek. Those of us who were still by the lockers raced to the shower room to see what was happening. Laurel jerked the curtain back from her stall and came running out, oblivious to the fact that she was naked. I gaped. Her skin was covered in a fine sheen of ice. Water droplets from the shower had frozen solid on her skin and in her hair, though in the steamy heat of the rest of the room, they were already starting to melt. I glanced over to the shower itself and noticed that the water coming out of the faucet was also frozen solid.
Girls mature faster than boys, cost more to raise, and statistics show that the old saw about girls not knowing about money and figures is a myth. Girls start to outspend boys before puberty-and they manage to maintain this lead until death or an ugly credit manager, whichever comes first. Males are born with a closed fist. Girls are born with the left hand cramped in a position the size of an American Express card. Whenever a girl sees a sign reading, 'Sale, Going Out of Business, Liquidation, ' saliva begins to form in her mouth, the palms of her hands perspire and the pituitary gland says, 'Go, Mama.' In the male, it is quite a different story. He has a gland that follows a muscle from the right arm down to the base of his billfold pocket. It's called 'cheap.' Girls can slam a door louder, beg longer, turn tears on and off like a faucet, and invented the term, 'You don't trust me.' So much for 'sugar and spice and everything nice' and 'snips and snails and puppydog tails.
He tans into burning while the opening fanfare to "Peaches en Regalia" flows over him, the bugle call for a hippie army that marched at the peak of the American parabola, that moment when physics held its breath to allow levitation, a small reward before the descent. The hippies knew it then, Maggot Boy Johnson thinks; they couldn't build it into words but they could feel it; a floating in the stomach as history shifted direction. They stopped, hey, what's that sound, and knew that the spiny skyscrapers reflected in the river, the chasms of concrete, the wide streets and sidewalks, the power lines cutting into the hills and mountains above missile silos, the highways drawing lines across the blank plains under enormous skies, the pupil of God's eye, would be the ruins that their grandchildren wandered among, the reminders that once there was always water in the faucet, there was electricity all the time, and America was prying off the shackles of its past. The vision opened up to them and winked out again, and those it blinded staggered through their lives unable to see anything else, while the rest of them wondered if they had only dreamed it.
Brian Francis Slattery
My mother believed in God's will for many years. It was af if she had turned on a celestial faucet and goodness kept pouring out. She said it was faith that kept all these good things coming our way, only I thought she said "fate" because she couldn't pronounce the "th" sound in "faith". And later I discovered that maybe it was fate all along, that faith was just an illusion that somehow you're in control. I found out the most I could have was hope, and with that I wasn't denying any possibility, good or bad. I was just saying, If there is a choice, dear God or whatever you are, here's where the odds should be placed. I remember the day I started thinking this, it was such a revelation to me. It was the day my mother lost her faith in God. She found that things of unquestioned certainty could never be trusted again. We had gone to the beach, to a secluded spot south of the city near Devil's Slide. My father had read in Sunset magazine that this was a good place to catch ocean perch. And although my father was not a fisherman but a pharmacist's assistant who had once been a doctor in China, he believed in his nenkan, his ability to do anything he put his mind to. My mother believed she had nenkan to cook anything my father had a mind to catch. It was this belief in their nenkan that had brought my parents to America. It had enabled them to have seven children and buy a house in Sunset district with very little money. It had given them the confidence to believe their luck would never run out, that God was on their side, that house gods had only benevolent things to report and our ancestors were pleased, that lifetime warranties meant our lucky streak would never break, that all the elements were now in balance, the right amount of wind and water.