ทดลองอ่านหนังสือฟรี ◕‿◕ Why men marry bitches

Why men marry bitches

FROM DOORMAT

TO

Dreamgirl

Act Like a Prize and You’ll Turn

Him into a Believer

“Sex appeal is 50% what

you’ve got, and 50% what

people think you’ve got.”

Meet the Nice Girl

Everyone has known a “nice girl.” She is the woman who will

overcompensate, giving everything to a man she barely knows,

without him having to invest much in the relationship. She’s the

woman who gives blindly because she wants so much for her

attentions to be reciprocated. She’s the woman who goes along

with what she thinks her man will like or want because she wants to

keep the relationship at all costs. Every woman, at some point, has

been there.

Certainly, the average fashion magazine gives women ridiculous

relationship advice that makes it easy to understand why women are

so eager to overcompensate: “Play hard to get, then cook him a

four-course meal . . . bake him Valentine’s cookies with exotic

sprinkles shipped from Malaysia (just like Martha Stewart). Don’t

forget the little doilies and the organic strawberries that you drove

two hours to get. Then serve it all to him on the second date,

wearing a black lace nightie.” And what is this a recipe for?

Disaster.

ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #1

Anything a person chases in life runs away.

Especially when it comes to dealing with a man. With one caveat:

If you chase him in a black nightie, first he’ll have sex with you . . .

and then he’ll run.

Why does a man run from a situation like this one? He runs

because the woman’s behavior doesn’t suggest that she places a

high value on herself. The relationship is new, and the bond between

them is relatively shallow. Yet she’s already dealt him her best card.

The fact that she is willing to overcompensate to a virtual stranger

immediately suggests one of two things. He’ll either assume she is

desperate, or he’ll assume she is willing to sleep with all men right

away. Or both. What gets lost is his appreciation for her extra

effort. Once a man begins to lose respect for a woman because she

is willing to subtly devalue herself, he will also lose the desire to get

closer to her. Nightie or no nightie.

A dreamgirl, on the other hand, won’t kill herself to impress

anyone. This is why the woman he really falls in love with doesn’t

serve a four-course meal. And you won’t see her breaking out the

fancy china, either. She’ll start out cooking him a one-course meal.

(Popcorn.) No fancy doilies. A Tupperware bowl does the trick.

She simply asks her guest, “Hey, do you want the bag or the

bowl?” Six months later, the same woman throws together a meal

and puts down a hot plate in front of him. And what does he say to

himself? “Man! I’m special!”

It doesn’t matter if it is pasta with Ragu topped by a meat-ball

you picked up at the corner deli. He’ll say, “This is the best pasta I

have ever had in my life!”

Now he feels like a king. And the only difference is the amount of

time and effort he had to invest, first. He didn’t get it all right up

front and he appreciated it more.

ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #2

The women who have the men climbing the

walls for them aren’t always exceptional.

Often, they are the ones who don’t

appear to care that much.

This isn’t about how to play a game or how to manipulate

someone. This is about whether you are genuinely needy, or

whether you can genuinely show him that you’ll be an equal partner

in the relationship. It’s about whether you are capable of holding

your own in a relationship.

What would happen if you let him know from day one that you

are willing to bend over backward? He’d think you’re desperate,

and he’d want to see just how far you’d be willing to bend. It is

human nature. He’d immediately start to test the waters. The more

malleable you’d become, the more he’d expect you to bend. He’ll

instantly perceive you as a Duracell battery, as in, “Just how far will

she go? How much can I get out of her?”

Nice girls need to know what a bitch understands.

Overcompensating or being too eager to please will lessen a man’s

respect; it will give the kiss of death to his attraction, and it will put a

time limit on the relationship.

Most men don’t perceive a woman who jumps through hoops as

someone who offers a mental challenge. Intelligent women make the

mistake of assuming that if they hold a higher degree, they can hold

their own in a political debate, and they have a good understanding

of mid-caps, they offer a man mental stimulation during dinner. But

the mental challenge has little to do with conversation. (Granted, if

she thinks that Al Green and Alan Greenspan are the same person,

then Houston? We have a problem.)

In general, the mental challenge has to do with whether you

expect to be respected. It has to do with how you relate to him. It

has to do with whether he knows that you aren’t afraid to be

without him.

The nice girl makes the mistake of being available all the time. “I

don’t want to play games,” she says. So, she lets him see how

afraid she is to be without him and he soon comes to feel as though

he has a 100 percent hold on her. This is often the point when

women begin to complain: “He doesn’t make enough time for me.

He isn’t as romantic as he used to be.”

A bitch is more selective about her availability. She’s available

sometimes; other times she’s not. But she’s nice. Nice enough, that

is, to consider his preferences for when he’d like to see her so that

she can sometimes accommodate them. Translation? No 100

percent hold.

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Anna and the french kiss

the maze runner

since you've been gone

ทดลองอ่านหนังสือฟรี ◕‿◕ Anna and the french kiss

Anna and the french kiss

 Chapter 1
Here is everything I know about France: Madeline and Amelie and Moulin Rouge. The Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe, although I have no idea what the function of either actually is. Napoleon, Marie Antoinette, and a lot of kings named Louis. I’m not sure what they did either, but I think it has something to do with the French Revolution, which has something to do with Bastille Day. The art museum is called the Louvre and it’s shaped like a pyramid and the Mona Lisa lives there along with that statue of the woman missing her arms. And there are cafes or bistros or whatever they call them on every street corner and mimes. The food is supposed to be good, and the people drink a lot of wine and smoke a lot of cigarettes.
I’ve heard they don’t like Americans, and they don’t like white sneakers.
A few months ago, my father enrolled me in boarding school. His air quotes practically crackled over the phone line as he declared living abroad to be a “good learning experience” and a “keepsake I’d treasure forever.” Yeah. Keepsake. And I would’ve pointed out his misuse of the word had I not already been freaking out.
Since his announcement, I’ve tried yelling, begging, pleading, and crying, but nothing has convinced him otherwise. And now I have a new student visa and a passport, each declaring me: Anna Oliphant, citizen of the United States of America. And now I’m here with my parents—unpacking my belongings in a room smaller than my suitcase—the newest senior at the School of America in Paris.

It’s not that I’m ungrateful. I mean, it’s Paris. The City of Light! The most romantic city in the world! I’m not immune to that. It’s just this whole international boarding school thing is a lot more about my father than it is about me. Ever since he sold out and started writing lame books that were turned into even lamer movies, he’s been trying to impress his big-shot New York friends with how cultured and rich he is. My father isn’t cultured. But he is rich. It wasn’t always like this. When my parents were still married, we were strictly lower middle class. It was around the time of the divorce that all traces of decency vanished, and his dream of being the next great Southern writer was replaced by his desire to be the next published writer. So he started writing these novels set in Small Town Georgia about folks with Good American Values who Fall in Love and then contract Life-Threatening Diseases and Die. I’m serious. And it totally depresses me, but the ladies
eat it up. They love my father’s books and they love his cable-knit sweaters and they love his bleachy smile and orangey tan. And they have turned him into a bestseller and a total dick.
Two of his books have been made into movies and three more are in production, which is where his real money comes from. Hollywood. And, somehow, this extra cash and pseudo-prestige have warped his brain into thinking that I should live in France. For a year. Alone. I don’t understand why he couldn’t send me to Australia or Ireland or anywhere else where English is the native language. The only French word I know is oui, which means “yes,” and only recently did I learn it’s spelled o-u-i and not w-e-e.
At least the people in my new school speak English. It was founded for pretentious Americans who don’t like the company of their own children. I mean, really. Who sends their kid to boarding school? It’s so Hogwarts. Only mine doesn’t have cute boy wizards or magic candy or flying lessons. Instead, I’m stuck with ninety-nine other students. There are twenty-five people in my entire senior class, as opposed to the six hundred I had back in Atlanta. And I’m studying the same things I studied at Clairemont High except now I’m registered in beginning French. Oh, yeah. Beginning French. No doubt with the freshmen. I totally rock. Mom says I need to lose the bitter factor, pronto, but she’s not the one leaving behind her fabulous best friend, Bridgette. Or her fabulous job at the Royal Midtown 14 multiplex. Or Toph, the fabulous boy at the Royal Midtown 14 multiplex. And I still can’t believe she’s separating me from my brother, Sean, who is only seven and way too young to be left home alone after school. Without me, he’ll probably be kidnapped by that creepy guy down the road who has dirty Coca-Cola towels hanging in his windows. Or Seany will accidentally eat something containing Red Dye #40 and his throat will swell up and no one will be there to drive him to the hospital. He might even die. And I bet they wouldn’t let me fly home for his funeral and I’d have to visit the cemetery alone next year and Dad will have picked out some god-awful granite cherub to go over his grave. I hope Dad doesn’t expect me to fill out college applications to Russia or Romania now. My dream is to study film theory in California. I want to be our nation’s greatest female film critic. Someday I’ll be invited to every festival, and I’ll have a major newspaper column and a cool television show and a ridiculously popular website. So far I only have the website, and it’s not so popular.Yet. I just need a little more time to work on it, that’s all.

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why men marry bitches

the maze runner

since you've been gone

ทดลองอ่านหนังสือฟรี ◑ω◐the maze runner

ทดลองอ่านหนังสือฟรี  ◑ω◐ the maze runner

Chapter1

He began his new life standing up, surrounded by cold darkness and stale, dusty air.

Metal ground against metal; a lurching shudder shook the floor beneath him. He fell down at the sudden
movement and shuffled backward on his hands and feet, drops of sweat beading on his forehead despite
the cool air. His back struck a hard metal wall; he slid along it until he hit the corner of the room. Sinking
to the floor, he pulled his legs up tight against his body, hoping his eyes would soon adjust to the
darkness.
With another jolt, the room jerked upward like an old lift in a mine shaft.
Harsh sounds of chains and pulleys, like the workings of an ancient steel factory, echoed through the
room, bouncing off the walls with a hollow, tinny whine. The lightless elevator swayed back and forth as
it ascended, turning the boy’s stomach sour with nausea; a smell like burnt oil invaded his senses, making
him feel worse. He wanted to cry, but no tears came; he could only sit there, alone, waiting.
My name is Thomas, he thought.
That … that was the only thing he could remember about his life.
He didn’t understand how this could be possible. His mind functioned without flaw, trying to calculate
his surroundings and predicament. Knowledge flooded his thoughts, facts and images, memories and
details of the world and how it works. He pictured snow on trees, running down a leaf-strewn road,
eating a hamburger, the moon casting a pale glow on a grassy meadow, swimming in a lake, a busy city
square with hundreds of people bustling about their business.
And yet he didn’t know where he came from, or how he’d gotten inside the dark lift, or who his parents
were. He didn’t even know his last name. Images of people flashed across his mind, but there was no
recognition, their faces replaced with haunted smears of color. He couldn’t think of one person he knew,
or recall a single conversation.
The room continued its ascent, swaying; Thomas grew immune to the ceaseless rattling of the chains
that pulled him upward. A long time passed. Minutes stretched into hours, although it was impossible to
know for sure because every second seemed an eternity. No. He was smarter than that. Trusting his
instincts, he knew he’d been moving for roughly half an hour.
Strangely enough, he felt his fear whisked away like a swarm of gnats caught in the wind, replaced by
an intense curiosity. He wanted to know where he was and what was happening.
With a groan and then a clonk, the rising room halted; the sudden change jolted Thomas from his
huddled position and threw him across the hard floor. As he scrambled to his feet, he felt the room sway
less and less until it finally stilled. Everything fell silent.
A minute passed. Two. He looked in every direction but saw only darkness; he felt along the walls
again, searching for a way out. But there was nothing, only the cool metal. He groaned in frustration; his
echo amplified through the air, like the haunted moan of death. It faded, and silence returned. He
screamed, called for help, pounded on the walls with his fists.
Nothing.
Thomas backed into the corner once again, folded his arms and shivered, and the fear returned. He felt
a worrying shudder in his chest, as if his heart wanted to escape, to flee his body.
“Someone … help … me!” he screamed; each word ripped his throat raw.
A loud clank rang out above him and he sucked in a startled breath as he looked up. A straight line of
light appeared across the ceiling of the room, and Thomas watched as it expanded. A heavy grating sound
revealed double sliding doors being forced open. After so long in darkness, the light stabbed his eyes; he
looked away, covering his face with both hands.
He heard noises above—voices—and fear squeezed his chest.
“Look at that shank.”
“How old is he?”
“Looks like a klunk in a T-shirt.”
“You’re the klunk, shuck-face.”
“Dude, it smells like feet down there!”
“Hope you enjoyed the one-way trip, Greenie.”
“Ain’t no ticket back, bro.”
Thomas was hit with a wave of confusion, blistered with panic. The voices were odd, tinged with
echo; some of the words were completely foreign—others felt familiar. He willed his eyes to adjust as he
squinted toward the light and those speaking. At first he could see only shifting shadows, but they soon
turned into the shapes of bodies—people bending over the hole in the ceiling, looking down at him,
pointing.
And then, as if the lens of a camera had sharpened its focus, the faces cleared. They were boys, all of
them—some young, some older. Thomas didn’t know what he’d expected, but seeing those faces puzzled
him. They were just teenagers. Kids. Some of his fear melted away, but not enough to calm his racing
heart.
Someone lowered a rope from above, the end of it tied into a big loop. Thomas hesitated, then stepped
into it with his right foot and clutched the rope as he was yanked toward the sky. Hands reached down,
lots of hands, grabbing him by his clothes, pulling him up. The world seemed to spin, a swirling mist of
faces and color and light. A storm of emotions wrenched his gut, twisted and pulled; he wanted to scream,
cry, throw up. The chorus of voices had grown silent, but someone spoke as they yanked him over the
sharp edge of the dark box. And Thomas knew he’d never forget the words.

“Nice to meet ya, shank,” the boy said. “Welcome to the Glade.”

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Anna and the french kiss

why men marry bitches

since you've been gone

ทดลองอ่านหนังสือฟรี ⊙﹏⊙ since you've been gone

ทดลองอ่าน since you've been gone

THE LIST

The list arrived after Sloane had been

gone two weeks.

I wasn’t at home to get it because I

was at Sloane’s, where I had gone yet

again, hoping against hope to find her

there. I had decided, as I’d driven over

to her house, my iPod off and my hands

gripping the steering wheel, that if she

was there, I wouldn’t even need an

explanation. It wouldn’t be necessary for

her to tell me why she’d suddenly

stopped answering her phone, texts, and

e-mails, or why she’d vanished, along

with her parents and their car. I knew it

was ridiculous to think this way, like I

was negotiating with some cosmic

dealer who could guarantee this for me,

but that didn’t stop me as I got closer

and closer to Randolph Farms Lane. I

didn’t care what I had to promise if it

meant Sloane would be there. Because if

Sloane was there, everything could start

making sense again.

It was not an exaggeration to say that

the last two weeks had been the worst of

my life. The first weekend after school

had ended, I’d been dragged upstate by

my parents against my wishes and

despite my protests. When I’d come

back to Stanwich, after far too many

antique shops and art galleries, I’d

called her immediately, car keys in my

hand, waiting impatiently for her to

answer so that she could tell me where

she was, or, if she was home, that I

could pick her up. But Sloane didn’t

answer her phone, and she didn’t answer

when I called back an hour later, or later

that night, or before I went to bed.

The next day, I drove by her house,

only to see her parents’ car gone and the

windows dark. She wasn’t responding to

texts and still wasn’t answering her

phone. It was going right to voice mail,

but I wasn’t worried, not then. Sloane

would sometimes let her battery rundown

 until the phone shut off, and she

never seemed to know where her

charger was. And her parents, Milly and

Anderson, had a habit of forgetting to

tell her their travel plans. They would

whisk her off to places like Palm Beach

or Nantucket, and Sloane would return a

few days later, tan, with a present for me

and stories to tell. I was sure that’s what

had happened this time.

But after three days, and still no

word, I worried. After five days, I

panicked. When I couldn’t stand being in

my house any longer, staring down at my

phone, willing it to ring, I’d started

driving around town, going to all of our

places, always able to imagine her there

until the moment I arrived to find it

Sloane-free. She wasn’t stretched out in

the sun on a picnic table at the Orchard,

or flipping through the sale rack at

Twice Upon a Time, or finishing up her

pineapple slice at Captain Pizza. She

was just gone

for more ebook

Anna and the french kiss

the maze runner

why men marry bitches