hoard

The shortest short-term investment is to serve ourselves.

If it has anything to do with me, it has nothing to do with sacrifice.

If one bad thing befell me, I immediately linked it to every bad thing that had happened in the last week or might happen in the coming week. And when I became sad, I was prone to wallow in grief, piling up my woes and sprawling on them like a dragon on a hoard.

We can fill our lives with __tuff,_ but as we do we__e concurrently filling our lives with the obligation to maintain that __tuff.

Even years from now, once I've stopped drinking, I will never stop trusting extremes. I will always believe that anything worth having is worth having in excess. The good things are worth hoarding until you have a cookie-fat ass, sex-aching loins, joy that fires through you like popping popcorn, or love, the weakness at the sight of some boy who makes your chest ache like indigestion. If it's good for you, it ought to be good for you in any amount, and you should track down every available bit of it. And if it's toxic, if it turns your liver into a hard little rock of scar tissue, or curls your memory at the edges like something burned in a fire, or makes your stomach flop, or your mind ache, or your personality contorted, you shouldn't buy into the bullshit about temperance.

In the deep sands a man must hoard his water.

To simply survive appears to be the choice of the plodding hoards that wander all around me. Therefore, I__e adamantly committed to never hoard hoards.