I don’t know what to believe, or who to trust.
Dear Internet: One Billion Hysterical Opinions Do Not Carry the Weight of a Single Fact.
I tried to talk about National Geographic one night, and Jason gave me a look like I was insulting him, so I moved on to a safer subject: which of the girls have implants.
I know what you’re thinking,” said Root. “Why am I picking on you every day? Why don’t I ever bawl out those other layabouts?” Holly said nothing, but agreement was written all over her face. “I’ll tell you why, shall I?” Holly risked a nod. “It’s because you’re a girl.
There are a lot of hopes riding on you. But there is a lot of prejudice against you too.
She ran a quick search on Wicca-pedia and came across a brief summary:.
Holly, I wish you wouldn’t appear like that. I’m a bodyguard. I get jumpy.
That’s the problem with being a semi-reformed criminal: you are never free from guilt. Exposure is always just a phone call away.
I don’t trust any of you.
A genius he may be, but he is still a habitual meddler and magnet for trouble.” The bodyguard winked at Artemis. “No offense, young sir, but you could turn a Sunday picnic into an international incident.
Everyone nodded. Technically it was correct, as they did know it now.
When you decide to die, Artemis thought sluggishly, it doesn’t matter how many people want to kill you.
What I did was shameful. I was weak and I will carry regret for the rest of my life.
Together we will be unstoppable. Your friend and benefactor, Artemis Fowl II.
But always among the humans, there are those individuals who would control all they see and are threatened by that which they do not understand.
The great Stephen King once wrote don’t sweat the small stuff, which I mulled over for long enough to realise that I don’t entirely agree with it. I get what he means: we all have enough major sorrow in our lives without freaking out over the day-today hangnails and such, but sometimes sweating the small stuff helps you make it through the big stuff.
When life gives you a lemon, thought Teddy, slipping his fingers neatly into the weapon’s finger holes, you knock the lemon senseless.
Swear toads infested every damp patch, cursing like sailors.
How about the adventures of Gloop and Angry Hamster in the Dimension of Fire?
I like to be loved, he thought, but he did not voice the notion.