my profile
KEYS (10k)
NEW FULL DB (2.4M)
2 Gabriel Garc a M rquez
*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***
1:Never has a gift for pining,” Nikolai said. “Though I do like to show off my profile by staring mournfully out of windows. ~ Leigh Bardugo, #NFDB
2:I have any number of completely dark obsessions and fascinations, and none of this was present in my profile or my growing profile as a writer. ~ Justin Cronin, #NFDB
3:The effects of her words stung me, and after she stole away I stood a long while before her looking glass, studying my profile, the line I cut in this world of men and ladies. ~ Patrick deWitt, #NFDB
4:The tires bore down, kicking up dust like an Arabian stampede. Elizabeth flipped off the car stereo. Out of the corner of my eye, I could tell that she was studying my profile. I wondered what she saw, and my heart started fluttering. ~ Harlan Coben, #NFDB
5:Were I to put myself on... one of those online dating things, I would not include in my profile that I'm regularly hospitalized for psychosis. But I do know that when I get really bad, there is a place for me to go where I will feel better. ~ Marya Hornbacher, #NFDB
6:IK.” When they didn’t respond, she expanded. “On my profile? IK. Impact kink.” She looked at them like they were naive. “Slapping, scratching, biting, hitting with a crop. Tamakeri if the guy asks. You know—the Japanese fetish? For getting kicked in the balls? ~ Meg Gardiner, #NFDB
7:I think it helps to have a good old-fashioned trajectory, plodding along. Obviously one has an ego and it's really easy to have that ego tickled, but what helps me get through the night is if I concentrate on just quality of work so that I don't panic about my profile. ~ Anne Marie Duff, #NFDB
8:I've been in real estate for a long time and I always try to stay on the edge. I'm really excited about the partnership with Trulia because it's centered around technology and the various social engagements it lends itself to. This is real estate going forward with a mobile and social application. It fits my profile and perspective. ~ MC Hammer, #NFDB
9:I remember so little from high school, but in the past few years, as my profile as a writer has gotten more visible, I’ve started to hear from the kids I went to high school with and, oddly enough, they all remember me distinctly. They reach out via e-mail, or Facebook, or at events, and ask me, eagerly, if I remember them too. They share anecdotes that make me seem like I was interesting and not as unbearable as I remember myself. I ~ Roxane Gay, #NFDB
10:It was almost noon when the plane touched down at the Triad airport on the outskirts of Greensboro. There was a hire car waiting for me; I waved my notepad at the dashboard to transmit my profile, then waited as the seating and controls rearranged themselves slightly, piezoelectric actuators humming. As I started to reverse out of the parking bay, the stereo began a soothing improvisation, flashing up a deadpan title: Music for Leaving Airports 11 June 2008. ~ Greg Egan, #NFDB
11:Another, a former Wall Street Journal reporter, suggests I need to change my Facebook photo to something that makes me look younger. I scan an old photo from my First Communion and make it my profile photo. There I am, age eight, wearing my First Communion robe, hands folded in prayer in front of me, looking angelic. “I’m trying to get a promotion at HubSpot,” I write. “The 8-year-old version of me has lots of ideas about how to expand geographically while also driving up MRR by pushing into the enterprise. ~ Dan Lyons, #NFDB
12:I'm trying to work out a way to be a singer and to create cool content. I'm willing to do that as an entertainer. But I'm not willing to give up my actual self. And the way the system is built up, there'll be a backlash soon. Just recently some people published 11 photos of Sia's face. It's a bummer for me because it's going to elevate my profile and make me more recognizable. But I don't look the same as I did when I used to have my photo taken. Music is for your ears, not your eyes, right? But film is for your eyes, and I would like to give you something. ~ Sia Furler, #NFDB
13: Compact Dusk
Here at the height of the day night change
The color of the sky is uncertain,
The sky depending in which direction
One's eye strains, each of its swatches a strange
Hue which dies too soon and which makes this hour
Linger in the mind transient as a life,
Whose names once known remain another
Posied-up portrait on our palette knife.
Until even I wonder if one tint
Ever survives the harm of seeming unique
(Evening's intrigue, time's singularity.)
Study for its trace, its placemap, I see
— Redundant as a stopsign in italic—
The face on which my profile leaves no print.
~ Bill Knott,#NFDB
14:Something came for you in the mail,” she says, sliding a small envelope across the counter. “From Italy.”
I snatch it and study the handwriting. It’s not Chiara’s.
Pulse pounding in my ears, Morgan and I race back upstairs and shut the door to my bedroom.
“Open it, open it!” Morgan chants. “Who’s it from?”
“I have no idea.” I tear at the thin envelope and pull out a 4X6 photo. It’s me, my profile. Eyes wide in wonder, lips slightly parted in awe. “Get. Out. This was the moment I first saw the Colosseum.”
“What?” She looks at the photo. “Who took that?”
There’s nothing else inside the envelope. I turn the photo over and we read the note on the back written in small, careful handwriting.
I miss you, Pipperoni.
-Darren ~ Kristin Rae,#NFDB
15:The truth is that I'd gain nothing by being a saint after being dead, an artist is what I am, and the only thing I want is to be alive so I can keep going along at donkey level in this six-cylinder touring car I bought from the marine's consul, with this Trinidadian chauffeur who was a baritone in the New Orleans pirates' opera, with my genuine silk shirts, my Oriental lotions, my topaz teeth, my flat straw hat, and my bicolored buttons, sleeping without an alarm clock, dancing with beauty queens, and leaving them hallucinated with my dictionary rhetoric, and with no flutter in my spleen if some Ash Wednesday my faculties wither away, because in order to go on with this life of a minister, all I need is my idiot face, and I have more than enough with the string of shops I own from here to beyond the sunset, where the same tourists who used to go around collecting from us through the admiral, now go stumbling after my autographed pictures, almanacs with my love poetry, medals with my profile, bits of my clothing, and all of that without the glorious plague of spending all day and all night sculpted in equestrian marble and shat on by swallows like the fathers of our country. ~ Gabriel Garc a M rquez, #NFDB
16:The truth is that I'd gain nothing by being a saint after being dead, an artist is what I am, and the only thing I want is to be alive so I can keep going along at donkey level in this six-cylinder touring car I bought from the marines' consul, with this Trinidadian chauffeur who was a baritone in the New Orleans pirates' opera, with my genuine silk shirts, my Oriental lotions, my topaz teeth, my flat straw hat, and my bicolored buttons, sleeping without an alarm clock, dancing with beauty queens, and leaving them hallucinated with my dictionary rhetoric, and with no flutter in my spleen if some Ash Wednesday my faculties wither away, because in order to go on with this life of a minister, all I need is my idiot face, and I have more than enough with the string of shops I own from here to beyond the sunset, where the same tourists who used to go around collecting from us through the admiral, now go stumbling after my autographed pictures, almanacs with my love poetry, medals with my profile, bits of my clothing, and all of that without the glorious plague of spending all day and all night sculpted in equestrian marble and shat on by swallows like the fathers of our country. ~ Gabriel Garc a M rquez, #NFDB
17:I put my hand on his forearm, I don't know why I do this, and it's not exactly natural, although it's not unnatural, except that I really want to touch his skin. It's smooth and tan just a little bit and feels like summer, like something familiar and warm and good, like my skin did on the first days aboard 'Fishful Thinking' before it salted and burned and peeled.
'We broke up three years after that.'
I sit back in my chair and give a sly smile. Relationships are complex and sometimes you can't really explain them to an outside party.
'I can't believe I just told you that'
'YES! YOU! ARE! LIVING! YOUR! FULL! LIFE!'
A third time. I am not imagining it.
'There you are.'
This time my heart does skip a beat. I look down at his arm, and we are still touching, and he has made no attempt to retract his arm or retreat. All my surroundings, the red formica table top, the pink yogurt, the blue sky, the green vegetables in the market, they all come alive in vibrant technicolor as the sun peers from behind a cloud. I am living my full life.
'Honesty in all things,' Byron adds, lifting his cup of yogurt for a toast of sorts.
I pull my hand away from him and the instant my hand is back by his side, I miss the warmth of his arm, the warmth of him. Honesty in all things. I should put my hand back, that's where it wants to be, that's Lily's lesson to me. Be present in the moment, give spontaneous affection. I'm suddenly aware I haven't spoken in a bit.
'Did you know that an octopus has three hearts?'
As soon as it comes out of my mouth, I realize I sound like that kid from 'Jerry McGuire.' 'Did you know the human head weighs eight pounds?' I hope my question comes off almost a fraction as endearing.
'No,' Byron says with a glint in his eye that reads as curiosity, at least I hope that it does, but even if it doesn't I'm too into the inertia of the trivia to stop it.
'It's true, one heart called the systemic heart that functions much like the left side of the human heart, distributing blood throughout the heart, then two smaller branchial heart with gills that act like the right side of our hearts to pump the blood back.'
'What made you think of that?'
I smile. It may be entirely inappropriate first date conversation, but at least it doesn't bore me in the telling. I look up at the winsome August sky, marred only by the contrails of a passing jet, and a vaguely dachshund shaped cloud above the horizon. I don't believe in fate. I don't believe in love at first site. I don't believe in angels. I don't believe in heaven and that our loved ones are looking down on us, but the sun is so warm and the breeze is so cool and the company is so perfect and the whole afternoon so intoxicating, ti's hard not to hear Lily's voice dancing in the gentle wind, 'one! month! is Long! Enough TO! BE! SAD!'
...
'I recently lost someone close to me....I don't know, I feel her here today with us, you, me, her, three hearts, like an octopus,' I shrug.
If I were him, I would run. What a ridiculously creepy thing to say. I would run and I would not stop until I was home in my bed with a gallon of ice cream deleting my profile from every dating site I belonged to. Maybe it's because it's not rehearsed, maybe it's because it's as weird a thing to say as it is genuine, maybe it's because this is finally the man for me.
Byron stands and offers me his hand, 'Let's take a walk and you can tell me about her.'
The gentle untying of a shoe lace.
It takes me a minute to decide if I can do this, and I decide that I can, and I throw our yogurt dishes away, and I put my hand in his, and it's soft and warm, and instead of awkward fumbling, our hands clasp together like magnets and metal, like we've been hand-in-hand all along, and we are touching again.
... ~ Steven Rowley,#NFDB
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