There are times when you may feel your life has been crumpled, crushed, stomped on, or even torn in pieces. Your value and worth is not determined by what has happened to you, but rather by the value placed upon you by the one who governs your life (the one who created you in His image and likeness). The one who sees you as wonderfully and fearfully made... A $100 dollar bill can be crumpled, crushed, stomped on or even torn - it is still is worth $100. The value of the $100 dollar bill is not determined by what happened to it. To the government it will still spend as a $100; its value has not changed even if the state of its condition has. Even crumpled, it could be pressed out, crushed it could be pressed and smoothed out, or stomped on and torn, it could be taped back together and still be worth $100 in value. What may have happened to you in life does not define who you are. You are the apple of God's eye. You are His prize possession and treasure. You must see yourself as a person of worth and value.
You know what kind of person it takes to run for President? Not normal. They could start out okay, but by the time they reach that level they've sold their soul to the devil so many times and stomped the guts out of enough people that they are definitely not like you and me, not even close.
I can totally identify with the younger kids. I'll never do what Jon Spencer did to me when I was 16, though. I made a tape with my friends and I put it onstage right near his mic stand by the pedal board and he pulled it out with his foot, kicked it to the center of the stage, looked me in the eye and stomped it to pieces.
Yeah, you bet Romani.' Percy bared his forearm and showed them the brand he'd got at Camp Jupiter- the SPQR mark, with the trident of Neptune. 'You mix Greek and Roman, and you know what you get? You get BAM!' He stomped his foot, and the empousai scrambled back. One fell off the boulder where she'd been perched.
And I've got THIS, " I pulled out the signum and held it up for him to see, "that says I'm kindred. And I've got THIS, " I pointed at my head, "that says I'm as smart as you. And I have THIS, " I held up my middle finger, "that says go to hell, you immortal bigot." And with that I spun around and stomped out the door, filing the expression on Arthur's face in a mental folder labeled "Kate's Proudest Moments".
And Max, I've put some scraps in a bowl for your dog," Mom said. "It's on the floor, by the back door." The flock and I went still. Uh-oh, I thought. Total stomped up to me, his glare accusing. "A bowl on the floor!" he seethed. "Why don't you just chain me to a stake in the yard and throw me a bone!
And Flock Rule Number Two is, Don't argue with Max or you'll live to regret it." I spun and stomped out to the clearing, turning back for one last jab at Dylan. "And by the way, you clearly DON'T know me better than Fang does. Do you see Fang arguing with me? No, you do not." Fang rolled his eyes.
My mother told me I said to her, at age three, 'I'm going to go to Italy and get my father in a tractor.' 'You've never seen quite so fierce a little boy as you were,' she told me. She tried to explain that I couldn't get my father in a tractor. Apparently I looked at her and narrowed my eyes and said 'In that case, I'm going in a double-decker bus,' and stomped off. Which is kind of funny, but it's very sad, as well.
It will be as if I'd never existed. The words ran through my head, lacking the perfect clarity of my hallucination last night. They were just words, soundless, like print on a page. Just words, but they ripped the hole wide open, and I stomped on the brake, knowing I should not drive while this incapacitated. I curled over, pressing my face against the steering wheel and trying to breathe without lungs.
I stomped on the spiders as I backed away, halting their progress. A brave one ambled forward and sank it's dripping mandibles into its nearest kin. The other spiders followed suit, joining in the feeding frenzy. 'Oh, look, aren't they cute?' Torn asked, pointing to where baby spiders were busy cannibalizing each other. 'Freaking adorable, ' I growled.
The wild notes of tuba and trumpet and trombone rattled and hummed through the trees. In the first group of musicians, there were kids as young as fourteen playing the tuba and one kid who probably couldn't drive banging a bass drum. They stomped together in rhythm to the music. Two ladies had dressed up in what looked like princess outfits. They wore white gloves and socks with tassels.
He shook me, and despite it being one-handed, it made my teeth rattle. "If anything like that ever happens again. You. Leave. Me. Behind. Do you understand?" I would have argued, but I was feeling a little shocky for some reason. "I'm not good at abandoning people," I finally said. A front-desk person scurried over, first-aid kit in hand, but Pritkin snarled at the poor guy and he quickly backed up a step. "Then get good at it!" He stomped off, limping, one shoulder hanging at an odd angle. "You're welcome," I murmured.
He smiled at that, and then his gaze shifted to a spot over my shoulder and it faded. 'These doubts wouldn't have anything to do with the company you're keeping of late, would they?' I didn't get a chance to answer before the shop door was thrown open and a furious war mage stomped in. Pritkin spotted me and his eyes narrowed. 'You shaved my legs?!' Mircea looked at me and folded his arms across his chest. I looked from one unhappy face to the other and suddenly remembered that I had somewhere else to be.
Sometimes I think maybe they were right all along, the people on the other side in Zombieland. Maybe it would be better if we didn't love. If we didn't lose either. If we didn't get our hearts stomped on, shattered: if we didn't have to patch and repatch until we're like Frankenstein monsters, all sewn together and bound up by who knows what. If we could just float along, like snow. But how could anyone who's ever seen a summer - big explosions of green and skies lit up electric with splashy sunsets, a riot of flowers and wind that smells like honey - pick the snow?
JUGGALO'S PARADISE I'M SWEATING AGAIN, I ALWAYS DO, I SHOULD PROBABLY TAKE ANOTHER PILL OR TWO IN THE MIRROR, I SEE THE FACE OF FRANKENSTIEN, AND THAT FACE IS MINE I GO TO WORK AT SUBWAY, SLICING HAM CUT MY FINGER OFF AGAIN I WALK HOME, TRYIN TO DODGE AND HIDE FROM THUGS, THEY LIKE TO BEAT ON SCRUBS I GO THROUGH THIS ALL THE TIME THOUGH, I CALL, "J, WHERE THE FUCK YOU AT?" "THE MALL," "DID YOU GET YOUR ASS STOMPED AGAIN?" "NO!....YES..HA HA....SO? NOBODY SEES WHAT I SEE, DO THEY? THEY JUST CAST ME ASIDE, PUT ME AWAY NO FRIENDS, NO STYLE, NO PLACE TO GO, TIL I WENT JUGGALO!
Insane Clown Posse
Remember the last show you saw that got a standing ovation? Now try to think of one that had the audience on its feet at intermission. They stepped, strutted, stomped, romped, ran rung, hung, flung, flew, threw and played their way through 16 numbers (17 if you count the percussion encore in the lobby that stopped the departing crowd in its collective tracks). It was Blast! and it was fantastic. That said, the show is a cacophony of color and creativity a musical montage offering nearly two hours of stimuli.
I'll go with you, " Alec said, looking at Isabelle and Simon with suspicious eyes. "If you must, " said Isabelle with exaggerated indifference. "I should warn you we'll be making out in the dark. Big, sloppy make-outage." Simon looked startled. "We are -" he began, but Isabelle stomped on his toe, and he quieted. "Make-outage?" said Clary. "Is that a word?" Alec looked ill. "I suppose I could stay here.
He walked over to Isaac and grabbed him by the shoulders. 'Dude, pillows don't break. Try something that breaks.' Isaac reached for a basketball trophy from the shelf above the bed and then held it over his head as if waiting for permission. 'Yes, ' Augustus said. 'Yes!' The trophy smashed against the floor, the plastic basketball player's arm splintering off, still grasping its ball. Isaac stomped on the trophy. 'Yes!' Augustus said. 'Get it!' And then back to me, 'I've been looking for a way to tell my father that I actually sort of hate basketball, and I think we've found it.
Mr. Benedict: "After I woke up and composed myself, however, I realized the flowers must certainly be yours, Constance, to do with as you please. At any rate - " Mr.Benedict broke off, for just then Constance jumped to her feet, snatched the bouquet from his desk, and hurled it into the wastebasket with all the force she could muster - so hard that flower petals flew up out of the wastebasket like tiny pink butterflies. Then placing her hands against the wall to steady herself, she stomped one foot repeatedly into the wastebasket as if trying to put out a fire. "I see we are of the same opinion, " said Mr. Benedict as Constance returned to her seat, and the others congratulated her on her judgment.
Trenton Lee Stewart
In his sophomore year Wilbanks tried out for the high school basketball team and made it. On the first day of practice his coach had him play one-on-one while the team observed. When he missed an easy shot, he became angry and stomped and whined. The coach walked over to him and said, "You pull a stunt like that again and you'll never play for my team." For the next three years he never lost control again. Years later, as he reflected back on this incident, he realized that the coach had taught him a life-changing principle that day: anger can be controlled.
Lynn G. Robbins
I've been ripped off, lied to, slandered, gossiped about slapped, falsely accused, and had my truths not believed. I've had my heart broken, had my pride stomped on, witnessed unforgivable acts, and heard words that hurt so much I withed that they would not replay in my head, but they did. In all these moments-some tear-soaked, some life-defining, but all character-building moments-I have felt vulnerable. And I believe these feelings of vulnerability-when a person feels scared and alone and overwhelmed and pissed off, wen the sting of unfairness bites deep-while miserable to live through, are the basis for writing compelling fiction.
Jessica Page Morrell
The two keys to success as a sportswriter are: 1) A blind willingness to believe anything you're told by the coaches, flacks, hustlers and other "official spokesmen" for the team-owners who provide the free booze... and: 2) A Roget's Thesaurus, in order to avoid using the same verbs and adjectives twice in the same paragraph. Even a sports editor, for instance, might notice something wrong with a lead that said: "The precision-jack-hammer attack of the Miami Dolphins stomped the balls off the Washington Redskins today by stomping and hammering with one precise jack-thrust after another up the middle, mixed with pinpoint-precision passes into the flat and numerous hammer-jack stomps around both ends...
Hunter S. Thompson
From Bralloc's mounted position he could see over the heads of most of his men, but the thickening darkness of evening coupled with the storm made it impossible to see more than a few yards. He jerked at the reins and swung his horse around, pushing into the crowd. The large grey charger was nearly as mean-spirited as her owner; she snorted and bucked her head, then nipped, stomped and shoved her way through, giving every indication that she was enjoying herself. His men drew to either side, and the crawling excitement in Bralloc's belly became an angry swarm of insects. The scout - the ballsy woman whose name he could never remember - stood several paces away. Bralloc paid her no heed, however, and the mixture of nervousness, relief and fear on her face didn't even register in his mind: his eyes were locked on the captive at her side. His lips twitched into a smile and he licked them, like a ghoul eyeing a fresh corpse. He forced himself to move slowly, deliberately - sucking each individual drop of marrow from the bones of his anticipation... " -From 'Feral
Atticus adjusted his glasses as he peered down at the blanket. 'Hey, is that the book Nellie told us about?' Jake's eyes flicked to Olivia's book. 'You've got it outside in the sun? Are you out of your minds?' Amy crossed her arms. 'We're being careful.' 'It's not about careful, this is a five-hundred-year-old manuscript! You should be wearing gloves-Atticus brought some-and keeping it out of the sunlight.' 'It didn't take you long to start barking orders!' Any exclaimed, her face flushing. 'But then you always know best, don't you?' 'Somebody has to be mature in this situation, ' Jake said, his gaze flashing at Ian, who was now intently trying to brush cookie crumbs off his pants. 'True. In that case, we'd rather consult your little brother, ' Ian said with a smirk. 'Medieval manuscripts are his field, am I right?' 'Technically, it's early Renaissance, ' Jake said. 'Thanks for the correction, my good man. Amy is right-you do know best.' Ian slipped his arm around Amy. 'She's so perceptive. One of the many things I adore about her.' 'It's getting chilly. Why don't we go inside?' Amy suggested brightly as she tried to step out of the circle of Ian's arm. Ian took the opportunity to rub her shoulder. 'You do feel rather cold, ' he said. 'Let's sit by the fire. Jake, since you're so interested in proper handling, why don't you take the book?' Jake snatched up the book and furiously stomped off toward the house. 'You forgot to wear gloves!' Ian called after him. Amy pushed him away. 'Really, Ian.' 'What a touchy guy, ' Ian said. 'Frankly, I don't know what you see in him.' He winced as the kitchen door slammed, then glanced at Amy's red face. 'Hmmm. It might be a good time for me to take a walk.
Hester Lipp had written Where the Sidewalk Starts, an inexplicably acclaimed book of memoir, recounting - in severe language and strange, striking imagery - Lipp's childhood and adolescence on a leafy suburban street in Burlington. Her house was large and well-kept, her schooling uneventful, her family - the members of which she described in scrupulous detail - uniformly decent and supportive. Sidewalk was blurbed as a devastatingly honest account of what it meant to grow up middle class in America. Amy, who forced herself to read the whole thing, thought the book devastatingly unnecessary. The New York Times had assigned it to her for a review, and she stomped on it with both feet. Amy's review of Sidewalk was the only mean-spirited review she ever wrote. She had allowed herself to do this, not because she was tired of memoirs, baffled by their popularity, resentful that somehow, in the past twenty years, fiction had taken a backseat to them, so that in order to sell clever, thoroughly imagined novels, writers had been browbeaten by their agents into marketing them as fact. All this annoyed her, but then Amy was annoyed by just about everything. She beat up on Hester Lipp because the woman could write up a storm and yet squandered her powers on the minutiae of a beige conflict-free life. In her review, Amy had begun by praising what there was to praise about Hester's sharp sentences and word-painting talents and then slipped, in three paragraphs, into a full-scale rant about the tyranny of fact and the great advantages, to both writer and reader, of making things up. She ended by saying that reading Where the Sidewalk Starts was like "being frog-marched through your own backyard.