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Other People Are Not Responsible For Your Happiness

This is the secret to happiness. It sounds as simple as breathing, but letting go is more complex than it seems. What other people think about you doesn’t matter. You can overanalyze all day Sunday over the drunk texts you sent Saturday night, or how embarrassing you looked, and I promise no one spent as much time thinking about you. You can obsess over why he doesn’t like you, why you are not good enough, you can chase approval until you die but that won’t do any good.

The overanalyzing, the need for other people’s approval is just a waste of energy. This need for people to like you will become draining. Ironically, it is this desperate need of being loved that is making you miserable and undesirable.

The approval from other people will not make you as happy as you thought it would. There will always be something with someone. You can never please everyone. Other people are not responsible for your happiness. If the only way you can be happy is if someone loves you back then you are completely reliant on them. You have lost all sense of control. Most importantly, you have lost yourself.

Do Not Let Negative People Change Your Mind, Let Them Motivate You

I love it when people doubt me. I thrive when I am underestimated. Nothing motivates me more than when someone does not think I am good enough. Thank the people in your life who do not support you. Thank the ignorant for not seeing your true worth. Thank the people who were never there for you. They taught you to be better than them.

Instead of letting them bring you down, prove them wrong. Let their doubt push you. Do not drown in self-pity, because they do not believe in you. Use their negativity as power. Be the Elle Woods to their Warner.

I am extremely competitive and nothing in this world makes me happier than proving someone wrong about myself. I do not see their negativity as a setback—I see it as motivation. I see it as a chance to turn the tables on the naysayers. Instead of letting the opinions of others control your self-worth, let them better your self-worth. Change your mindset change your perspective. Take this criticism as a challenge. Remember you are not competing with them. You are competing with yourself.

Set Goals, And Achieve Progression

This is a war between you and last year’s you. Someone once told me in hell you meet the person you could have been. You never want to feel like you have peaked. Your potential is endless. My greatest nightmare is becoming a has-been.

Always look for new ways to progress. If you have mastered your business career, find a way to excel creatively. There is no limit to improvement. Nothing feels better than watching yourself grow.

At the beginning of this year, I started a new tradition with a few friends where we wrote a list of what we wanted to accomplish. With less than 2 months left of 2018 I have almost completed my list.

I highly recommend this cheesy new year method. It was as simple as writing it down, but for some reason putting the pen to paper made it seem much more legitimate. It was like I was signing a contract and I would be committing perjury if I broke this commitment to my list.

I want to also emphasize the point of progression. Progression is not always winning. Sometimes losing is actually more important than winning. Progression is growth and that is what is vital to your success.

Your Love Life Is Not Your Whole Life

A toxic relationship is worse than being single. I know when you are lonely you romanticize the past. You only remember the good, because you have repressed the bad. Going back is so tempting, especially in this day in age of modern dating where every person is replaceable.

Living in the past is warm and it is safe, but it is also a form of regression. It is like rereading the same story over and over again and trying to change the ending. There can be something very romantic about coming back to each other, however, there is a fine line between romance and sadness. Melancholy sometimes only leaves you with misery.

Usually, my advice for loneliness would be to distract yourself. Keeping busy is always the best medicine. Travel, go to the gym, go shopping, get a promotion. The problem is you can do all these things, you can do everything, but it is not enough. It is never enough. You can have it all and still feel so empty. That is the scariest part about success—winning and still feeling nothing. It is terrifying when you do not know what can make you happy anymore.

People look for that happiness in other people rather than themselves.

Sometimes people believe finding the perfect partner can solve all their problems. Your partner is not supposed to magically come in your life to be the hero that saves you.

As The Killers would say, “You sit there in your heartache waiting on some beautiful boy to save you from your old ways.”

Saving someone is not the same as falling in love. You cannot seek answers in other people. That is the fastest way to let someone completely control you. Once they control your happiness it is game over.

Real happiness will come from yourself. From letting go and not caring what people think. Real happiness is allowing yourself to be free. TC mark


Source: https://thoughtcatalog.com/jennifer-meade/2018/11/other-people-are-not-responsible-for-your-happiness-and-3-other-things-you-need-to-learn-to-thrive-in-life/

When I really like something, I go all in –

I take notes in all of my books so that I can go back and find my favorite passages more easily. I listen to songs I love on loop for hours, and when I see a film that really moves me, it’s not unusual for me to rewatch it multiple times within a span of a few days.

It probably stems from the first time my parents took me to the movie theater to see Aladdin. I threw a tantrum, kicking and screaming all the way back to the car, crying for them to “rewind it”.

It’s only human nature, after all, to want more of a good thing when we find it.

And while I just led with the nerdy, artsy, quirky anecdotes that make me appear “cultured”, my obsessive tendencies are anything but highbrow.

I once watched enough Jennifer Lawrence interviews in the lobby café of my office building that a barista working there thought I was a Letterman fan. And when it comes to celebrities, I spent days watching the press junket for Ocean’s 8 because nothing beats delusional Cate Blanchett and Sarah Paulson insulting and climbing on top of each other without letting a teary-eyed Hoda Kotb get a word in. I can also Wikipedia with the best of them, and clicked my way through to some deep pages on astrophysics after Interstellar came out, and I swear to god I was not high at the time. That’s how bad it really is.

But most recently, after signing up for classes at my local dojo, I fell into a Google hole on karate and watched this entire YouTube documentary on Okinawan karate specifically. If you have the time, watch it. It’s brilliant. If not, here’s a quick summary:

It emphasizes, through various visuals and interviews, that the original, or “pure” intention of traditional Okinawan karate is to never use it. To spend your entire life training for something you will intentionally avoid seeking out – physical confrontation. That simply by preparing your body and mind to be able to defend yourself, you will acquire a confidence that will manifest itself in almost a kind of aura. One that will literally deter your opponents from wanting to fight you in the first place.

Mind-blowing, right?

And somehow I realized (after a date), that this same concept would probably be the ideal outlook on dating. At least, it would be for me.

After my last relationship, I wanted nothing to do with dating. I lived for my new single life. For throwing up in (well really, outside of) Ubers and still maintaining a 4.88-star rating. For waking up on Sunday mornings hungover out of my mind with Gatorade waiting for me in my fridge and the entire day ahead of me to watch SNL and indie movies in my bed in all my unshowered glory.

Picture Pinocchio on Treasure Island with a cigar in his mouth playing pool – at the pinnacle of pleasure before realizing he’s about to be sold into donkey slave labor. I wanted to be the Artful Dodger, the Latarian Milton of singledom before anyone got into trouble of course. But obviously, you can’t pause a story at the good part, and I barely lasted a few months before meeting someone and falling hard. For the last person I thought I could fall for, the last person I should have fallen for, and before I could kick and scream for my donkey ears and pool cue back, for the chance to continue reveling in my life as an ass, I found myself faced with the cruel reality that I, in fact, wanted to date them. Which was met by an even more powerful deterrent – the knowledge that they did not want to date me.

I found myself once again wanting to “rewind it”, my time with this person, sometimes involuntarily, and sometimes on purpose. Little things they said, stories they told, mannerisms, defense mechanisms I could see through so easily. The whole gamut.

And suddenly throwing up and maintaining an outstanding Uber score wasn’t as entertaining without them offering to come to my rescue, and my hangovers weren’t as enjoyable without them trying to bring me a breakfast sandwich to help me feel better, and nothing I watched could capture my attention as much as talking about it with them afterward did.

I didn’t go on a date for a very long time. Because when it was the last thing I wanted to do, I found myself getting close to the one person the strongest feelings I ever had were for. And when I did want to date, no one I met seemed worth the time or effort. It was frustrating to feel nothing at the time I wanted to feel something most, but, in a sense, I also wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready to date anyone if I was trying to cover up my own feelings. I couldn’t be honest with myself, and mature is the last word I would use to describe the way I handled things.

So, I thought to myself, what if dating was like karate?

If you go looking for a fight without knowing how to, you’re sure to end up with at least a broken nose, and maybe looking for love was just another stupid way to get yourself hurt, or at the very least left feeling unsatisfied.

What would happen instead, if the purpose of dating was not to find someone, but to feel okay with not finding them? To feel perfectly fine on your own. What would dating be if our intentions were not to fall in love, but to prepare ourselves to handle it in the case such an unfortunate tragedy ever befell us?

Now I’m just being dramatic, of course, but really think about it. What if we treated love as something that could happen to us, instead of something that should, or needed to? What if dating was just a way to practice meeting new people, getting to know them, and opening ourselves up to let them get to know us in return?

What if swiping left and swiping right was the “wax on, wax off” of dating? An exercise that seems pointless and tedious at the time, but is really preparing us to be ready for something more complex when and if we face it. What if learning to connect with strangers built that same kind of muscle memory, except one that’s emotional instead of physical? What if learning to treat people well when we may not have a romantic connection with them was just a way to teach us how to be decent human beings until it becomes a reflex? So we don’t fuck it up when it actually matters?

What if not settling, not dating because we’re too insecure not to date, is the way we realize how happy we are just being ourselves? What if repeating personal facts and stories to someone across the table that we’ve just met is the way we determine what we like most about ourselves? The things we find most entertaining, most endearing, most lovable?

What if dating isn’t about falling in love with another person at all, but finding instead that all we need is ourselves?

Not in a solipsistic way, but a way in which our own self-love and the infinite possibilities we have to connect with other human beings, to be kind and compassionate and understanding in a meaningful way, is enough to be happy?

When I think of it this way, it actually seems worthwhile, and I’m personally compelled, as with things I really enjoy, to go all in.

The documentary also uncovered, that of course it’s hard, maybe nearly impossible, to develop such a skill and truly not desire the opportunity to demonstrate it. To put it to use and prove out the extent of your own abilities.

So what if dating was just like karate?

Then love would be an unavoidable fight where you’ve learned to defend yourself without hurting anyone else in retaliation.

Something we all want to be ready for in case it ever happens. TC mark


Source: https://thoughtcatalog.com/nicole-stawiarski/2018/11/the-martial-art-of-dating/

People can forgive you different food and customs; they can fall in love with your baklawa; and they can respect you for your long school uniform skirts and opaque tights, and for saying your daily prayers as fast as you can in a corner of your cabin during science camp. But saying you couldn’t have a boyfriend or that you’d likely marry someone whom you had never gone on a date with, made you an alien. It made all the girls in your sixth-grade class circle around you during recess and ask why you couldn’t just go with John; it wasn’t as if he’d be your boyfriend or you had to kiss him or anything. It made the same girls corner you in the restroom at the spring social and ask why you couldn’t just dance with Chris; you were making him so sad, and it was really so selfish and mean to keep saying no. It made the guy in the mall who just asked for your number tell you to go back to Kuwait where you came from.

Not being allowed to date was the issue that plucked me out of the realm of exotic and interesting and planted me firmly into a sad documentary about people from other cultures, the kind that makes its audience walk away grateful to be themselves. In my peers’ insis­tent questions, their shakes of the head, I could almost see them reflecting on how lucky they were to be holding the keys to their own love lives, when there were girls like me whose mom and dad were going to drive them to the door of their future relationship and take a seat inside.

My peers’ relief bothered me far more than the prohibition against dating itself. Deep down, I wanted to marry the Iraqi, Shia boy who would make my parents proud, someone who prayed and fasted, someone who knew as much Arabic as I did if not more, and someone who’d give our children Arabic names and take them to the masjid. I wasn’t the trope of an immigrant’s kid, prepared to reject her family’s traditions in order to fit into mainstream culture. On the contrary, the contents of my mind deeply ashamed me. I could sing along to nearly every theme song on television, but my Arabic vocabulary was limited to words said around the house, my five daily prayers, and some of the shorter Quranic verses that I could recite but did not understand. I did not have a single memory of Iraq, not my mother’s childhood home with the flat roof satah where she slept outside on balmy nights, not the creamy gaymar and freshly baked samoun she used to eat for breakfast, not the gilded shrines she made pilgrimages to every Ashura with their massive Persian carpets and crystal chandeliers.

I had been only two years old in 1979 when my family made their last trip to Iraq. An intense interrogation in the airport made Mama decide it wasn’t worth going back anymore and that it was time to get the rest of her family out. There was no way I was going to sever what little ties I had to my culture and religion by marrying someone outside of it.

My entire extended family consisted of couples who had barely known each other when they wed, couples who had been intro­duced via photographs or paired together from within the same clan. Mama and Baba were themselves distant relatives, something I never told any of my friends for fear they’d recoil with disgust and forever brand me the child of an incestuous union. Baba was from a branch of the Marashis that left Iraq in the 1920s and settled in the tropical island of Zanzibar. He was studying abroad in Canada when his sister sent him Mama’s picture, a wallet size he blew up to poster proportions and proudly toted back to Iraq to gift to my grandfather as a stand-in for the daughter he was taking with him. Whenever he came across the original wallet-size photograph, he’d show it to me and my siblings and tell us, “Look here. See how your mummy was so pretty,” his Arab–East African accent thick, dragging out the o’s and pushing hard on the t’s.

Mama was, indeed, the quintessential pretty brunette—the kind who usually plays sidekick to a bombshell blond, the kind you wouldn’t expect to find married to a short man, 20 years her senior, with thinning gray hair, a salt-and-pepper mustache, and the beginnings of a potbelly. People often mistook Mama for Baba’s daughter, and Lina, Ibrahim, and me for his grandchildren, but Mama only wanted me to see the wisdom in her union and the folly in American dating.

“The problem with the women in this country is they expect too much,” Mama would often say to me while getting ready for work. “They want love, they want passion, and they want it to last forever. Your father is a good man; he encouraged me to go back to school. Not every man would put up with his wife working and studying. If you want to start believing in this country’s what-about-me garbage, there’s no end to it.”

When Mama arrived in the United States in 1972, she was 18 years old. She didn’t drive, speak English, or have a high school diploma. Baba urged her to go back to school right after my brother was born, and from then on, she’d always worked and studied, earning first her GED, then two different associate’s degrees, then a bachelor’s in nursing. Eventually she’d earn a master’s and doctorate of nurse practice. She often said she would have gone to medical school had there been one in town.

For years, Mama worked the 3 to 11 pm shift on a pediatrics floor. We got home from school after she left for work, and most nights, we were in bed before she got back. Days often passed without us seeing her, and so when Mama was home, she expected us to be available for parenting. One afternoon, while getting ready for her shift, she told me of a coworker, “That little twit-twit Sandy has only been married for two months, and she already wants a divorce. She slept with her husband, kissed him, and now she says she doesn’t even know him. How much more does she want to know?”

Standing in front of her dresser mirror, Mama swiped a padded applicator across a square of eye shadow and added, “People here tell me, ‘You married a stranger.’ What stranger? Someone your parents know and your family knows is a stranger? They think if they date someone and they kiss him and sleep with him, they know who they’re marrying. What does that tell you about a person except for what they look like naked?”

“Mama!” I said, from where I sat on her bed, with the sharp tone of surprise I believed was expected of a 12-year-old.

Mama ignored my theatrics. She’d always considered anything biological—pees and poops (Mama always referred to these in the plural), menstruation and sex—to be healthy topics of conversa­tion. She unscrewed the cap from a tube of mascara and added, “That’s how people think here. It’s all about ‘my feelings,’ and ‘do I love him?’ But just because you don’t love someone when you marry him, it doesn’t mean you’ll never love him. The important thing is to marry a good person, someone who shares your culture and religion, and then you’ll fall in love with him later.”

“Is that how it was for you with Baba?” I asked. “You didn’t love him, but now you do.”

“Things were different for me,” Mama said, brushing the mascara wand along her top lashes. “I hadn’t finished high school, and Jidu had just married Bibi.”

Jidu and Bibi are the Iraqi words for “grandfather” and “grandmother,” but in this case, Bibi was Mama’s stepmother and Jidu’s third wife. Jidu’s first wife, Mama’s mother, had died tragically and suddenly in her twenties. He remarried, only for his new wife to meet the same fate, this time as a result of a cooking fire. When Jidu found himself alone with seven kids between Mama’s fifteen years and her youngest brother’s eighteen months, his father pressured him to marry a distant cousin—a spinster in her forties, who lived in a pala­tial home with her brother, servants, and black cat.

Now Mama tossed the mascara back in her makeup box and continued, “Bibi didn’t like having us all around the house, and she thought she was doing Jidu a great favor because she married off his daughters to doctors. So I just said okay because I always did what I was told, and I got lucky. Your father is a kind man, and I now have you beautiful kiddies to be grateful for.”

Mama affixed her name tag to her collar and kissed me on the cheek on her way out the door. As always, Mama was too busy to waste a moment on regret. She could have easily blamed Bibi for marrying her off to a man who was not just twice her age but also her complete opposite, a sickly, nearly humorless man, far too serious and literal for Mama’s mischievous sense of humor, her boundless energy for exercise, dancing, and projects of all kinds. But Mama did not blame Bibi. Rather she moved her and Jidu into our tiny ranch home, putting me and Ibrahim in the same room until she could afford to build a house with a granny unit above the garage. And not only did Mama never dwell on how different she was from my father, but she also told me time and again what a good man he was, how he took in her family, how he encouraged her to go back to school, and how devoted he was to us kids.

I believed this ability to embrace the relationship you were in was the upside to matchmade marriages. Muslim love was secure and uncomplicated, a decision entirely under a person’s control, but American love was almost frighteningly fragile and mysterious. It had to be fallen into after a number of dates, and when couples on television and in movies finally uttered the L-word to each other, it was a grand moment, a surprise even to themselves. Maybe it was a frustrated, “Because I love you, all right,” cried out in the midst of an argument. Or a tearful, “Now that I lost you, I know I love you.” It was something that could befall them even when they were committed to other people. “We didn’t mean for it to happen,” the cheater might explain to his former beloved.

I feared the fickleness of American love—the notion that someone could love you and still fall in love with someone else, or like you but not be in love with you, or love you for a time and then lose that spark—but like all delicate things, there was something special about this kind of love. In a love marriage, you knew the couple at the altar were drawn together by more than their matching culture, religion, or family ties. They shared a connection to each other. The bride was someone wholly unique and irreplaceable, someone who made the groom misty-eyed watching her walk down the aisle, someone he’d describe as his best friend while holding her hand and reciting the vows that he’d written. These couples got married in weddings they planned for a year, and hired photographers to capture every moment, photographers who would later assemble their pictures into thick, bound photo albums and into framed portraits.

Mama, on the other hand, kept her wedding photographs in a manila envelope stuffed in the back of a half-empty photo album. The pictures weren’t even taken at her wedding, but at a stopover in England at the request of my father’s sister who lived in Newcastle and missed out on the actual wedding, which Mama had told me was really no more than a dinner with some family members at home and had ended with her washing the dishes. In these photos, Mama was wearing an A-line wedding gown made from white and silver lace thrown over an acetate lining. She wore a rhinestone crown out of which flew yards of tulle that pillowed at her feet. In her hands were a bunch of red carnations, and she looked uncomfortable, as if she was trying to suppress a giggle. Baba wore a navy blue suit, his hair and mustache a slightly darker gray. He looked at Mama with what my siblings and I call “Baba’s proud face,” lips forced closed as if to contain the beams of happiness shining inside him. In some of the pictures, Baba’s four-year-old niece posed as the flower girl.

Mama’s dress still hung at the back of her closet but without any attempt at preservation. We were welcome to wear it, play in it, or do whatever we wanted with it. Her tiara, minus several rhine­stones, was in my bedroom, left over from all the Halloweens that I’d dressed up as a princess. I wanted Mama’s wedding things to be too special for me to use, but every time I’d offer to return the tiara to her room, she’d shrug and say there was no need. Sometimes she’d add, “I never really liked the things from my wedding. My uncle bought everything, and they just told me to wear it.”

Mama’s wedding memorabilia told the story of resignation, loss, and acceptance that she didn’t tell. Mama could have been the subject of one of those pity documentaries, albeit with an inspira­tional twist—the Story of How One Woman Overcame Her Heart­breaking Childhood and Arranged Marriage by Taking Pride in Her Children and Getting Lots of Education—but as remarkable as I knew Mama’s example was, I didn’t want to repeat it.

I wanted a love story with the Iraqi, Shia man of my dreams. I wanted to be a Wakefield sister who found her Tarek at Sweet Valley High, a Scarlett O’Hara who met her Raheem without the depriva­tion of war, a Juliet who lived into old age with her Rumi. I didn’t need a string of boyfriends or affairs—just one grand, sweeping love story so fantastic that it was worth a lifetime of romantic adventures.

Because, falling in love was a veritable jackpot. There was the bounty of the feelings themselves, the spiritual connection, the physical attraction, the thrill of having a handsome man devoted entirely to me, but it was also redemptive. It was life’s way of saying, “Here, little Muslim girl, since you were so good and stayed away from boys before marriage, you will be rewarded with the perfect, Iraqi, Shia husband who is so awesome you don’t have to learn to love him.” And the story I had with this Mr. Khair Inshallah, Mr. Good God Willing, would immediately banish all my American friends’ pity and fear that I was getting married for the wrong reasons. “I love him,” I’d say, and it wouldn’t matter if I only met the guy once in my living room with my family all around me. Americans forgave everything in the name of love, and so would I.

__________________________________

From First Comes Marriage: My Not-So-Typical American Love Story. Used with the permission of Prometheus Books. Copyright © 2018 by Huda Al-Marashi


Source: https://lithub.com/my-parents-wedding-was-arranged-i-wanted-something-different/

1541953652100s.jpg My boyfriend and I have been fighting a lot lately. It's been on and off for a few months, now. Most of the fighting is him criticizing my appearance, and telling me that despite me looking the same as I did throughout the relationship, he just isn't attracted to me anymore. He often compares me unfavorably to other women. I feel ugly, I feel betrayed, and it makes me puke every time I think abut it too much. I've changed my wardrobe, and I now pile on makeup, both at his request, and he still acts very distant and hardly ever has sex with me. It's very weird and I don't see how this behavior isn't suspicious. I've been paranoid that he may be cheating on me, especially because only as of recently, he often criticizes my bedroom performance even though I'm (supposedly) the only woman he's ever had sex with. This is all very weird because lots of guys find me to be very attractive. I've had them comment on this very often.

Anyway, I met a guy who has a lot in common with me. We have all the same hobbies and interests and the same sense of humor. And I find him to be just as attractive as my boyfriend. We have only hung out once, and he has only gone as far as hugging me. He's very polite and respectful, and he's never tried to make a move on me. He did tell me that he was interested in dating me, but I said I wasn't sure if relationships were worth it. I kind of wish this friendship wasn't so awkward now, cause I can't lie, I definitely am interested in this guy, and I have to admit that I'm developing feelings for him. I don't want it to become physical, at least not until (and if) I end up breaking up with my boyfriend.

I know that my boyfriend's behavior doesn't really justify mine. I'm just confused as to whether I should stop talking to my friend, or just break up with my boyfriend. I don't know whether or not his behaviors are grounds for a breakup, or if he's cheating, or what, but it doesn't help that we really have nothing in common in the end.

Source: http://boards.4chan.org/adv/thread/20235807#20235807

This week’s Walking Dead gave us the most comic-infused storyline of the whole season. Between Magna’s group, the radio, and the Whisperers we were treated to some long-awaited moments from the source material. Let’s break it all down:


The Time Jump


Let’s start it off with a quick one. Yes, the comic also had a time jump, but it accounted for three years and immediately followed All Out War. The show, however, used two time jumps: a year-and-a-half one following the war and then a SIX YEAR time jump after Rick’s departure. Rick never left in the comics, but the long time jumps in both mediums allowed for the environment to change and our characters to age. Speaking of aging characters…


New Carl


The Fair


In a blink-and-you-missed-it moment we heard Ezekiel mention a community fair to Carol. May not have seemed like a big deal to the typical fan, but anyone who has read the books is probably freaking out. After the time jump in the comics, the communities joyfully throw a fair in Alexandria to celebrate their rebuilt civilizations. What could possibly go wrong? EVERYTHING! EVERYTHING WENT WRONG. We don’t want to spoil too much, but let’s say that while the fair happened several of our heroes have run-ins with Whisperer leader Alpha. MUCH more on that later, but for now know that The Fair is a big deal.


Magna’s Introduction


Last week time skipped ahead six years and we were introduced to a mysterious new survival group headed by a woman named Magna. A similar situation plays out in the comics, but the timelines differ.

SHOW: Magna and her crew get surrounded by walkers but are saved by Judith. Rosita, Eugene, and the others catch up and Judith convinces them to bring in her new friends. They’re stripped of their weapons and taken to Alexandria to meet with the council, but are treated more like prisoners than guests. Michonne isn’t happy to see them, but allows her people to interview them. More on that in a second.

COMICS: Magna and her people are also saved by people from Alexandria, but it’s Jesus, Rosita, and others that rescue them from the walker horde (Judith died as a baby back in the prison). They also lose their weapons but are warmly welcomed to Alexandria and are treated more fairly than their show counterparts.


The Interview


In both mediums Magna’s group was interviewed by a council in Alexandria to determine if they could stay.

SHOW: A council comprised of Michonne, Father Gabriel, Aaron, and Laura bring Magna’s group together in the church to ask them questions. Magna’s cold but Luke and the others give a more heartfelt defense that they’re normal people just seeking asylum. Despite that, Michonne sniffed Magna out and showed everyone she had been to prison and was concealing a knife.

COMICS: This part in the comics was actually split into two sessions – a general meeting sort of like we saw in the show, and then individual interviews conducted by Andrea (whose storylines are often remixed with Michonne in the show). Since Rick is still around, he conducted the general meeting (alone). So that scene where Magna’s exposed was exclusive to the show.


The Radio


Like the Fair, the radio hints at another major storyline in the comics.

SHOW: Gabriel puts together the radio he found in the woods with Carson and tells Rosita, who he’s dating, that they should find a way to extend the signal to find new communities. She agrees, and heads out with Eugene to place a transmitter on a water tower.

COMICS: In Issue 151 Eugene ALSO puts together a radio and miraculously makes contact with someone from afar. We later find out that it’s someone living in a massive Ohio community called The Commonwealth, which is where the story currently is at in the comics as of Issue 185. So the main difference is that the radio in the comics is used MUCH later in the story than the show and Eugene didn’t have to leave Alexandria to boost the signal, it just connected on its own.


Negan’s Visitor


We lied when we said Henry was the new Carl – he’s just half. Judith is also new Carl, but let’s agree to stop calling anyone new Carl and just recognize the show characters for who they are.

SHOW: This week we discovered Judith has a secret friendship with Negan that includes talking to him about life around Alexandria and her homework. Negan seems to enjoy the camaraderie.

COMICS: Starting in Issue 127, Negan is also visited by a Grimes kid, but it’s Carl instead of Judith (Judith was killed as a baby back in the prison days). Carl visits Negan to vent about girls and like the show, Negan does seem to enjoy talking to SOMEONE. But the conversations are slightly more tense than the show.


The Near Break-In


SHOW: Magna NEARLY breaks into Michonne’s home to presumably threaten or harm her for exposing her in that town hall. But then she sees Michonne with her TODDLER and chooses against it. Later, she returns to Michonne’s home to return her knife and explain she’s just trying to be safe. Michonne understands, and even though she still sends them to Hilltop, Michonne decides to escort them.

COMICS: Magna and her gang straight up break in to Andrea’s place in the comics and demand answers. Andrea agrees, but warns them not to threaten her. Andrea answers questions about Rick, the community, and why some guy (Negan) is locked up. Eventually, they earn each other’s trust and stay in Alexandria to live (they only go to Hilltop in the show). Also, that whole toddler thing is also unique to the show; Rick and Andrea never conceive.


The Whisperer Ditch


This episode we FINALLY got treated to first taste of The Whisperers, the massive group of people who wear human skin over their own to blend in with the undead. The scene at the end of the episode with Eugene and Rosita hiding in the ditch as the Whisperers walk by is straight out of the comics.

SHOW: After Eugene places the radio signal on the tower he spots a horde of walkers and accidentally falls off the ladder, injuring his leg. Rosita helps him and they hobble away until they’re forced to cover themselves in mud and hide in a ditch. Soon after, a horde of the “undead” pass by above them and you hear them WHISPERING to each other. They ask “whereeeee areeeee theyyyyy?” as Eugene and Rosita do their best to not make a sound.

COMICS: That scene also took place in the comics, but it was with Ken and Marco and not Rosita and Eugene. Like the show, they get surrounded by walkers during a supply mission and are forced to hide in a ditch. As the “walkers” pass by they ALSO hear them whispering. It’s the first time in both mediums that the Whisperers are shown. Read more about The Walking Dead’s new villainous group here, but for now know they are a MASSIVE group that make Negan look like nothing.


What Didn’t Happen In The Comics


As much as the show borrowed from the comics, there were also a lot of scenes that were unique to the episode. The Savior run-in, Michonne’s kid, and anything involving Henry, Carol, Daryl, or Judith were either completely show-exclusive or (as we mentioned above) remixed from other parts of the comics.


That wraps up our comic/show comparisons this week! Keep up with us all season because there some iconic storylines from the comic that are about to play out in the show…

The post The Walking Dead Season 9 Episode 6: Comic vs. Show appeared first on The Walking Dead Official Site - Comics & TV Show | Skybound.


Source: https://www.skybound.com/the-walking-dead/tv-film/the-walking-dead-season-9-episode-6-comic-vs-show/

Plan on throwing yourself into a fast-paced environment filled with the most beautiful women in the world? Read on to learn what to expect at a Russian speed dating event.

 

Russian speed dating events are great for meeting a lot of Russian women in a lively environment. Although time is limited, you get to talk to them all and by the end of the event, you’ll be matched with at least a few. If you have never attended one before, it always helps to know what to expect so let’s go over some things to expect from a Russian speed dating event.  

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Luxury

Most Russian speed dating events are held on luxury yachts so on top of possibly meeting the woman of your dreams, you get to enjoy time on the open water in nice accommodations in a foreign country. In other words, it’s a vacation. On these yachts, there are a lot of new faces to meet, great food, entertainment, activities and more.

Dress Code

With luxury also comes a dress code so make sure you have nice clothes to take with you on your trip. Agencies will usually ask those who attend the event to dress in formal wear or dress for cocktail hour. Either way, you want something that will catch the eyes of the many Russian ladies at the event.

Variety

The variety speed dating events offer is certainly a highlight. The women are beautiful, and they are offered in abundance meaning you are likely to see at least a handful of women who are your physical type. The average event has its fair share of blondes, brunettes, redheads, varying body types and best of all, most of these women are hand-picked by the agency meaning the selection is the best of the best!

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Fast Paced Environment

For this reason, you have to be ready every time a new woman is in front of you. To keep up with the speed of speed dating, have a few questions in mind that you want to ask as well as topics of conversation likely to make the most of the short time you have together. Remember that speed dating events are intended to be brief yet informative enough to help people decided who they would like to see more of. It is normal to be overwhelmed and your first speed date may not go as well as you intended. Instead of being discouraged, take a moment to get yourself together and enjoy the event. When you relax and have fun, you’ll find Russian speed dating events to be very enjoyable.

Hiccups

Expect hiccups throughout the duration of any speed dating event. Oftentimes it takes a while for name tags to be handed out, the coordinators need time to get everyone organized and in the right places and so forth. Not to mention there are always people at the event who are off doing their own thing which slows things down a bit. Instead of being frustrated by them, go with the flow and enjoy the experience. Grab a drink to pass the time, strike up a few conversations and enjoy the atmosphere.

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Confusion

It is best to take a notepad and pen with you to a Russian speed dating event. Having that many women before you and talking to so many of them can make it hard to remember which ones you liked and which ones you didn’t. If you don’t take notes you may find yourself matched with the wrong women thus making the event a huge waste of time. When you meet a woman you like, jot her number down really quick then you’re covered when you have to fill out your card after all the speed dates.

Fun

Speed dating tends to bring out people’s energetic sides. There are drawbacks to the fast-paced environment, but a huge advantage is that everyone is alert and lively since they want to make a good impression and have the most matches. This makes for interesting one on one time and even better conversations because people are trying to get to know each other in such a short amount of time. Once the dating begins, there will not be a dull moment.


Source: http://www.fashionindustrynetwork.com/xn/detail/786233:BlogPost:1706869

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by Michael Satterfield

It comes up in conversations with the guys all the time. "What do women really look for in a guy? What should I put in my online profile? Do I post that shirtless bathroom mirror selfie?"  These age-old questions drive guys crazy and with the world of online dating, you might have just a split second to make that first impression. So how can a guy really stand out in the crowd?

To gain some more insights I reached out to dating and relationship coach, Lauren Korshak, as a certified Marriage and Family Therapist and former matchmaker she's able to share her perspective as a dating coach and woman.

According to Lauren, you need first need to be clear on what you are looking for. If you are just looking for casual dates or for a relationship, make sure that is clear in your profile. Once you chatting (in person or online), be direct, let her know what you like about her. If it's via an online dating app or site, wait for her reply, if she does ask her out within the first few messages. Be clear you want to take her on a date and try to move offline after a few messages.

Keep it simple:

For a first note or message, make the message clear, simple, and to the point.
Communicate what you like. Do this in the first message, on the first date, and ongoing. Complimenting can be vulnerable but feels good (don't over do it - once every few messages or once a date is enough)

The first date should be simple, on neutral ground, and should be somewhere you can really interact and get to know one another. Shouting over a loud band or dealing with a crowded bar might not be the best place to keep the conversation going. At the end of the date, be clear, let her know if you would like to see her again.

Getting to that first date today often means having the right dating profile. Lauren has shared her Dating Coach's online Dating Profiles Dos & Don'ts. While most of these should be common sense, a lot of guys are sending the wrong vibes with their online profile.

DO:

  • Include multiple pictures, including at least two that are solo and clearly show your face (one should show your body)
  • Include pictures that show your hobbies and personality
  • Be quirky, or be yourself. If you're funny, let that shine through what you write. If you're really into your dog or bike racing, you can reference that.
  • Include a written line about your interests and/or about what you value or what you're looking for


DON'TS

  • Send dick pics
  • Write nothing
  • Include shirtless gym selfies in your profile (instead, show you've put in the effort to find a picture of you or have one taken).
  • Write "looking for whatever." Women want to see that you know what you want.
  • Write about what you don't like or don't want, i.e. "don't bother messaging me if you're just gonna say hi." It just makes you sound like you focus on the negative.



Big thanks to Lauren Korshak, Dating + Relationship Coach | Marriage and Family Therapist for sharing her insights for more info on her practice and programs visit www.laurenkorshakmft.com.


Source: https://www.thegentlemanracer.com/2018/11/what-women-want.html

Photo: Instagram
Who Is Mary Austin? New Details About Freddie Mercury's Longtime Love

Queen front man Freddie Mercury once said: "I'll sleep with anything — man, woman, or cat!" While the flamboyant singer is largely thought to have been gay, he did have a significant relationship with a woman. That woman is Mary Austin. The two met when he was 24 and she was 19. In an interview in 1985, Mercury spoke about his long relationship with Mary, saying, "All my lovers asked me why they couldn't replace Mary, but it's simply impossible. The only friend I've got is Mary, and I don't want anybody else. To me, she was my common-law wife. To me, it was a marriage. We believe in each other, that's enough for me." Freddie and Mary lived together on and off for the better part of two decades. She was by his side as he died. He was her son's godfather. Mercury left the vast majority of his wealth, including his 28-room Georgian mansion in London and all recording royalties to Mary Austin. Who is Mary Austin?

1. They fell in love

Mercury and Austin met in 1969 when Mary was working at a clothing store in London called Biba. Mercury was not yet a member of Queen. Austin was drawn to the "wild looking artistic musician." They soon moved into a small apartment together. In an interview with the Daily Mail in 2013, she said, "He was like no one I had met before. He was very confident — something I have never been. We grew together." The two began dating and fell in love. Mercury proposed to Austin in 1973. He gave Austin a large box on Christmas Day. Inside the box was another box, and so on until it got down to the last small box. Inside was a jade ring. Austin was shocked. She whispered: "Yes, I will."

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

A post shared by Bruno Costa (@mr.brunoh) on Jul 1, 2017 at 2:16pm PDT


RELATED: 40 Best Freddie Mercury Quotes & Queen Song Lyrics Of All Time


2. Mary's early life

Mary Austin was born in 1951. She grew up in a poor family in the Battersea neighborhood of South London. Both of her parents were deaf. He father was a wallpaper trimmer and her mother was a maid.

 
 
 
 
 

read more


Source: https://www.yourtango.com/2018318926/who-is-mary-austin-new-details-about-freddie-mercury-longtime-love

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