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Hello there. My name is Wesley Scott. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams. Six pints of bitter, said Ford, prefect of the bombing of the horse and groom, and quickly, please the world's about to end. The barman of the horse and groom didn't deserve this sort of treatment. He was a dignified old man. He pushed his glasses up his nose and blinked at Ford. Prefect four ignored him and stared out of the window. So the barman looked instead at Arthur, who shrugged helplessly and said nothing So the bomb and said, Oh yes, sir, Nice weather for it and started pulling paints. He tried again, going to watch the match this afternoon. Then four glanced round at him. No, no point, he said, and looked back out of the window. What's that foregone conclusion? Then you reconcile, said the barman Arsenal without a chance. No, no, said Ford. It's just that the world's about to end. Oh, yes, sir. So you said, said the barman, looking over his glasses, this time at Arthur. Lucky Escape for Arsenal. If it did, Ford looked back at him genuinely surprised. No, not really, he said. He frowned the bomb and breathed in heavily. There you are, sir, six pints, he said. Arthur smiled at him, Wayne Lee and shrugged again. He turned and smiled Wayne Lee at the rest of the pub, just in case any of them had heard what was going on. None of them had, and none of them could understand what he was smiling at them for. A man sitting next to Fort at the bar looked at the two men. Look, the six points did A swift burst of mental arithmetic arrived at an answer he liked and grinned a stupid, hopeful Grantham. Get off, said Ford. There are giving him a look that would have an AL goalie in Sun Tiger get on with what it was doing. Ford slapped a £5 note on the bar. He said, Keep the change well from a fiber. Thank you, sir. You've got 10 minutes left to spend it the bomb and simply decided to walk away for a bit, Ford said. Arthur, would you please tell me what the **** is going on? Drink up, said Ford. You've got three pints to get through three pints, said Arthur. At lunchtime, the man next to Fort Grinned and nodded happily. Ford ignored him, he said. Time is an illusion. Lunchtime w cell very deep, said Arthur. You should send that in to Reader's Digest. They've got a page for people like you. The Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett. As Tom watched, the child snatched the saw from Alfred's hand without saying anything, and examined it as if it was something amazing. Alfred, offended by the discourtesy, snatched it back, and the child let it go without indifference. The mother said, Jack, behave yourself. She seemed embarrassed. Tom looked at her. The boy did not resemble her at all. Are you his mother? Tom asked. Yes, my name's Alan. Where's your husband? Dead. Tom was surprised. You're traveling alone, he said incredulously. The forest was dangerous enough for a man such as he. A woman alone could hardly hope to survive. We're not traveling, said Allen. We live in the forest. Tom was shocked. You mean you're He stopped not wanting to offend her. How laws? She said yes. Did you think that all outlaws were like farm and open mouth? Who stole your pig? Yes, said Tom, although what he wanted to say was, I never thought an outlaw might be a beautiful woman. Unable to restrain his curiosity, he asked, What was your crime? I cursed a priest, she said, and looked away. It did not sound like much of a crime to Tom, but perhaps the priest had been very powerful or very touchy. Or perhaps Ellen just did not want to tell the truth. Mistaken Mischief book, too, written by Ali Lleida and Simon Strange, but I'm thinking about you. I barely indulged a quiet smile and put my phone away, butterflies fluttering around the inside of my stomach. Some people would have called me pathetic for having a reaction like that to someone I'd never met who had never seen whose name I didn't even know. They probably wouldn't have been wrong, either. Hank let me out of his office into the elevator and called for a car on the way down. I tried not to look at him too intently. Anxious heart and the suit he wore showed off his wide, muscular body with just the right amount of ponch over his love handles and belly, and the stubble on his jaw was that perfect five o'clock length that gave him a kind of energy exciting look. Once I realized I was checking amount again, I felt a small needle of guilt in my chest. It wasn't like Master and I were at all exclusive. We weren't anything really other than sexting buddies sometimes and maybe friends, I guess. But ever since we started talking, I hadn't really bothered trying to see anyone else. Granted, I'd also been at MIT, where everyone was too busy for anything like relationship. There was plenty of hooking up on campus, but that wasn't really my thing, so I hadn't needed to go out of my way. But still, I like to think it was a choice when I've been perpetually making for the last six years. Even when I wasn't having a safe, long distance relationship with a stranger, I was consequently still a virgin except for a hand job. I gave a guy once, but that really didn't count. And the thing was, Master was the only one that knew about my particular fantasies. Even if I had been inclined to date one of the handful of guys back at school who seemed interested, none of them would have wanted to keep seeing me. Once I told them about my puppy side. I tried it once. It didn't go well, but Master, he didn't even know who I was not in terms of my name or face, which would have been easy to look up online and connect with my Brazilian air mother. All he knew was that deep down I was a pup, and to him, that's all that mattered. Well, it wasn't everything he thought. It was funny and smart and sweet and creative and the stuff that had basically nothing to do with mom or trust funds or legacies, or any of the things that sat on my shoulders, like £50 vultures waiting for me to trip and fall so they could pick over my carcass. A Series of Unfortunate Events by Lemony Snicket Mr Po took off his top hat, which made his head look large and square in the fog and stood for a moment, coughing loudly into a white handkerchief. Violet and Klaus moved forward to shake his hand and say, How do you do? How do you do? Said Violet. How do you do set clouds? Oh yeah, said Sonny fine, thank you, said Mr Po, but he looked very sad for a few seconds. Nobody said anything, and the Children wondered what Mr Poe was doing there at Briny Beach when he should have been at the bank in the city where he worked. He was not dressed for the beach. It's a nice day, Violet said, finally making conversation. Sonny made a noise that sounded like an angry bird, and Klaus picked her up and held her. Yes, it is a nice day, Mr Poe said, absently, staring out at the empty beach. I'm afraid I have some very bad news for you Children. The three Baudelaire siblings looked at him. Violet, with some embarrassment, felt the stone in her left hand and was glad she had not thrown at it. Mr. Po, your parents, Mr Post said, have perished in a terrible fire. The Children didn't say anything. They perished, Mr Post said, in a fire that destroyed the entire house. I'm very, very sorry to tell you this, my dears Violet took her eyes off Mr Poe and stared out at the ocean. Mr. Poe had never called the Baudelaire Children, my dears, before she understood the words he was saying but thought he must be joking, playing a terrible joke on her and her brother and sister perished, Mr Post said. Means killed. We know what the word perished means, Klaus said crossly. He did know what the word perished meant, but he was still having trouble understanding exactly what it was that Mr Poets said. It seemed to him that Mr Poe must somehow have misspoken. The fire Department arrived, of course, Mr Post said. But they were too late. The entire house was engulfed in fire. It burned to the ground. Klaus pictured all the books in the library, going up in flames. Now he'd never read all of them. Mr. Po coughed several times into his handkerchief before continuing. I was sent to retrieve you here and to take you to my home, where you'll stay for some time. While we figure things out. I am the executor of your parents' estate. That means I will be handling their enormous fortune in figuring out where you Children will go. When Violet comes of age, the fortune will be yours. But the bank will take charge of it until you are old enough Although he said he was the executor, Violet felt like Mr Poe was the executioner. He had simply walked down the beach to them and change their lives forever. Septimus Being and His Amazing Machine By Janet Quinn Harkin Back in the days of King Albert, the third there arrived at the palace as maybe you've heard a strange looking man who was both long and lean. He went by the name of Septimus being, and he came with a strange and amazing machine. It was terribly long and incredibly high, and it seemed from the ground to reach up to the sky. It had wheels. It had bells. It was painted bright blue. But King Albert asked Septimus, What does it do? So Septimus pulled on a huge heavy switch. The machine gave a rumble, a choke and a twitch. Wheels started to spin. Fan belt started to run, and steam valve shot off with a noise like a gun. Flags waved in the breeze. All the gears took to churning, and cog wheels kept turning and turning and turning. The whole machine shook with a horrible shake, but the king just asked Septimus, What does it make then? Septimus bowed and he answered quite slow. I regret good King Al that I don't rightly know. I'm sure it is useful one way or another, but just what it can do I've yet to discover. Then in rushed the Queen, Petronella by name, crying Children See here, What a lovely new game. What is it, my dear? She asked of the king. We're not really sure what to do with the thing, said King Albert, the third. Its use is not clear. Have you any brilliant suggestions, my dear? Perhaps it cleans floors with that long, funny hose that looks quite a lot like an elephant's nose, said the queen. It would save us some time on our chores if we used it instead of a broom to sweep floors. So the king nodded over to Septimus Bean, who pulled out the hose and turned on the machine. A great blast of air came out with a wash, and a tapestry sailed off the wall with a swish, sending statues and goblets and coronets flying. And all of the princess is running off crying. Stop! Stop! Cried the queen as she flew down the room. I'd rather sweep floors by myself with a broom coach Culture a playbook for winning in business. The knots in your stomach tighten like a python. You've run through and stressed out about each one of your deadlines already, and you haven't even finished making your morning coffee. Cortisol floods through your body on your commute as you anticipate each reaction and challenge you might face. Today, you cringe upon entering the building and again at the thought of what might be facing you and your ever shrinking cubicle in your ever growing inbox. And at today's ever boring meetings, you've been showing up to the office earlier and earlier to grab a moment of peace, no matter how tiny to prepare for the day. But everyone else is doing it, too, and so all you've achieved is a routine of working longer hours today, just like yesterday and the day before that your authority, your leadership and your territory will be challenged. You must monitor your staff's actions, positioning and even presentations to be sure that you look like you know what you are doing at all times. You can't even trust them to make sound judgments. In that project, you have to oversee everything and insert your experience at every turn. How much longer can you keep this up? You can't say anything to your boss. What if she thinks you are incompetent? If you ask for help, can you risk looking bad? If you don't make your numbers this quarter, one of the managers will be gone and it can't be you. You've got a kid going to college next year and another in two more years. It won't be long before your mom's cute forgetfulness becomes a memory care problem. You feel as if the only option is to keep your head down and put in the hours all of the hours. They can't let you go. If you keep meeting your objectives right? It's such a high cost to pay. What if I told you there was another way? But instead of your morning and your life looking like that, it could sound like this. The alarm goes off in the bathroom after reading. Mel Robbins is the five second rule. You decided to implement that change. So you recite to yourself 543 two, one, go and you're out of bed. It's going to be an excellent day. The Power of Now by Eckart Tolle Enlightenment. What is that? A beggar had been sitting by the side of a road for over 30 years. One day a stranger walked by, spare some change, mumbled the beggar, mechanically holding out his old baseball cap. I have nothing to give you, said the stranger. Then he asked, What's that you're sitting on? Nothing, replied the beggar. Just an old box. I've been sitting on it for as long as I can remember. Ever looked inside? Asked the stranger. No, said the beggar. What's the point? There's nothing in there. Have a look inside, insisted the stranger. The beggar managed to pry open the lid with astonishment, disbelief and elation. He saw that the box was filled with gold. I am that stranger who has nothing to give you and who is telling you to look inside, not inside any box, as in the parable, but somewhere even closer inside yourself. But I'm not a beggar. I can hear you say those who have not found their true wealth, which is the radiant joy of being and the deep, unshakable peace that comes with it are beggars, even if they have great material wealth. They are looking outside for scraps of pleasure and fulfillment for validation, security or love, while they have a treasure within that not only includes all those things but is infinitely greater than anything the world can offer. The word enlightenment conjures up the idea of some superhuman accomplishment, and the ego likes to keep it that way. But it is simply your natural state of felt oneness with being. It is a state of connectedness with something immeasurable and indestructible, something that, almost paradoxically, is essentially you and yet is much greater than you. It is finding your true nature beyond name and form. The inability to feel this connectedness gives rise to the illusion of separation from yourself and from the world around you. You then perceive yourself consciously or unconsciously, as an isolated fragment. Fear arises and conflict within and without becomes the norm. I love the Buddhist simple definition of enlightenment as the end of suffering. There's nothing superhuman in that, is there? Of course, As a definition, it is incomplete. It only tells you what enlightenment is. Not no suffering but what's left when there is no more suffering. The Buddha is silent on that, and his silence implies that you'll have to find out for yourself. He uses a negative definition so that the mind cannot make it into something to believe in or into a super human accomplishment, a goal that is impossible for you to attain. Despite this precaution, the majority of Buddhists still believe that enlightenment is for the Buddha, not for them, at least not in this lifetime into the Wild. By Jon Krakauer. Carthage, South Dakota Population to 74 is a sleepy little cluster of clapboard houses, tiny yards and weathered brick storefronts rising humbly from the immensity of the northern Plains. Set adrift in time stately rows of cottonwood shade, a grid of streets seldom disturbed by moving vehicles. There's one grocery in town, one bank, a single gas station, a lone bar, the cabaret where Wayne Westerberg is sipping a cocktail and chewing on a sweet cigar, remembering the young young man he knew as Alex, the cabarets ply wood paneled walls are hung with deer antlers, old Milwaukee beer promo s and mawkish paintings of game birds taking flight. Tendrils of cigarette smoke rise from clumps of farmers and overalls and dusty feet caps. They're tired faces as grimy as coal miners speaking in short matter of fact phrases they worry allowed over the fickle weather and fields of sunflowers still too wet to cut while above their heads, Ross Perot's sneering visage flickers across a silent television screen. In eight days, the nation will elect Bill Clinton. President. It's been nearly two months now since the body of Chris McCandless turned up in Alaska. These are what Alex used to drink, says Westerberg, with a frown swirling the ice in his white Russian. He used to sit right there at the end of the bar and tell us these amazing stories of his travels. He could talk for hours. A lot of folks here in town got pretty attached to old Alex. Kind of a strange deal. What happened to him? Westerberg, hyperkinetic man with thick shoulders in a black goatee, owns a grain elevator in Carthage and another one a few miles out of town, but spends every summer running a custom combine crew that follows the harvest from Texas north to the Canadian border. In the fall of 1990 he was wrapping up the season in North central Montana, cutting barley for Coors and Anheuser Busch. On the afternoon of September 10, Driving out of Cut bank after buying some parts for a malfunctioning combine, he pulled over for a hitchhiker. An amiable kid who said his name was Alex McCandless, McCandless was smallish with the hard, stringy physique of an itinerant laborer. There was something arresting about the youngsters, eyes dark and emotive. They suggested a trace of exotic blood in his heritage Greek, maybe more Cipolla and conveyed a vulnerability that made Westerberg want to take the kid under his wing. He had the kind of sensitive good looks that women made a big fuss over. Westerberg imagined his face had a strange elasticity. It would be slack and expressionless one minute, only to twist suddenly into a gaping, oversized grin that distorted his features and exposed a mouthful of horsey teeth. He was nearsighted and wore steel rimmed glasses. He looked hungry