#bus

She was busy trying to stab me to death with her umbrella and I was busy trying to dodge." He made a little face. "She was better at her stabbing than I was about dodging. ↗

— Emma Goldrick

#business

If you want to change the fruits, you will first have to change the roots. If you want to change the visible, you must first change the invisible. ↗

— T. Harv Eker

#inspirational #self-development #business

Life cannot withstand death, but memory is gaining in its struggle against nothingness. ↗

— Tzvetan Todorov

#death

My son is now an 'entrepreneur.' That's what you're called when you don't have a job. ↗

— Ted Turner

#called #entrepreneur #job #now #son

I've always thought of science fiction as being, at some level, a 19th-century business. ↗

— Robert Reed

#always #being #business #fiction #i

This continuing spike in gas prices is bad for consumers, bad for our economy, and bad for all other businesses. It is hurting us and costing us jobs. ↗

— Jodi Rell

#businesses #consumers #continuing #costing #economy

Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we. They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we. ↗

— George W. Bush

#dumb #humor #humor

What a mistake that had been, to create a construct [AI] that could suffer. He knew that now. Life, pain, death, they were no playthings. Biology was serious business, not for amateurs and foolish gods. ↗

— David Marusek

#biology #death-and-dying #suffering #business

He was rather a low sort of pony. The fact is, he had been originally jobbed out by the day, and he never quite got over his old habits. He was clever in melodrama too, but too broad--too broad. When the mother died, he took the port-wine business.' 'The port-wine business!' cried Nicholas. 'Drinking port-wine with the clown,' said the manager; 'but he was greedy, and one night bit off the bowl of the glass, and choked himself, so his vulgarity was the death of him at last. ↗

— Charles Dickens

#business

I remembered during puberty, through the anorexic mists of intermittent menstrual cycles, that man, my father, lifting Shirley's nightdress over her head and asking her in his mocking way to choose what colour condom she wanted. 'Red or yellow?' Which did she choose? I can't remember. Perhaps she alternated. Perhaps there were other colours. It didn't happen once. It happened again and again. I had no power to stop it. That man, my father, had some control over me. I was drugged by the black silence in that big house, the vile whiff of aftershave, the crushing torment of inevitability. My father fucked Shirley using red or yellow condoms and it was those condoms that brought it all to an end. It was my last realization of the day; any more would have been too much to contemplate. That time when my mother had found used condoms in bedroom, he had admitted, after a pointless burst my father's of denial, that he had been going to prostitutes. That was no doubt true but I can't imagine clients take used condoms away with them; prostitutes would surely get rid of the things. No. My father kept those used condoms as a prize. He was fucking his fourteen-year-old-daughter. He was proud of it. Rebecca welled up with tears. Poor thing, she kept saying. Poor thing. ↗

— Alice Jamieson

#child-abuse #child-rape #child-sexual-abuse #condoms #dissociation