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Suck Less, Do Better: The End of Excuses & the Rise of the Unstoppable You

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Nate Green
Nate Green

Nate Green, born on May 25, 1985, is an influential American author known for his distinctive writing style and engaging narratives. His works span various genres, including novels, essays, and poetry, and have garnered widespread acclaim from readers around the world. more

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“Na segunda-feira seguinte, na fábrica, todos já sabiam. Marfiza era um diabo-espalha-fatos, que inferno. Quando ouvi o primeiro comentário na fábrica, fiquei com um vermelho-roxo no rosto. Ela jamais seria capaz de enxergar. Se estivesse na minha frente, faria escorrer do pescoço dela. Boca aberta. Futriqueira. Venenosa. Rouba-vida. Mexeriqueira. Língua de escorpião. Maldosa. Ressentida. Vilipendiadora. Sonsa.”

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“It's been forever since we watched Friends. Besides, you're the one who made me sit through that show." "Because if it was up to you, we would've watched Bewitched reruns every night." "I Love Lucy," Alisha muttered. "And you say you're not a boomer." "Whatever. You're just bitter my mind is more sophisticated than yours and didn't immediately make the leap year to pop culture when I met Quentin." "Oh, okay." Simone crossed her arms, and the gold cuff on her wrist flashed in the sunlight. "You're gonna stand there and tell me you and your minion Meg haven't been dropping Jurassic Park references since he showed up?" Tongue in her cheek, Alisha scowled. "I hate you so much." "Behold, my sister the meganerd." Cackling, Simone struck a Vanna White pose.”

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“Since the picture is supposedly PG..." "How do you even know there is a picture?" "Are you going to share it or leave it to my imagination?" With a petty smirk, Alisha said, "I'll take door number two." "Oh, girl, c'mon." "Nuh-uh, nope. You took the wrong approach." Alisha kept the phone pressed to her chest. "Maybe one day you'll learn: shock and awe can't win every campaign.”

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“You always want to blame the person who gets hurt instead of the one who does the hurting. I guess that means you think I knew you when you were hooking up with Harland Henson behind my back?" I let this long-held secret come tumbling out, one of many wounds Bitsy delivered during childhood. "My first boyfriend stolen by my only sister. How much more Jerry Springer does it get? You'd have taken Fisher too, if he had let you. I know all about how you tried to kiss him while I was getting dressed for prom.”

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“Bitsy seems unimpressed, even when I describe the big campaign. "You sound like Whitman," she says, slow and monotone. "Work, work, work." I don't react. Instead, I reply by asking about her husband, Whitman Strayer II, a med-school dropout turned venture capitalist who now helps Oxford's elite decide what to do with all their money. "He's fine." She adds nothing more. "Still traveling a lot? Last I heard he was partnering with investors in Atlanta? Birmingham? Dallas? Looking for start-ups." "Yep. As I said, he's fine." She gives me a glance that warns me to back off, so I turn my attention back to the landscape, eager to drink in every gift Mississippi offers. Behind the picnic table, a batch of invasive kudzu has crept in from a steep ravine. With no natural balance to keep it in check, the Asian species now abuses its power, growing thick, leafy webs across everything in reach. Even the trees with the deepest roots have fallen victim to this vicious vine. As Bitsy's words echo, I wonder what lesson the kudzu wants to teach me. Have I, too, done better in foreign soil, opting to go far from the challenging conditions of home? Have I been able to thrive out there in Arizona, living without any real competition? Or am I nothing more than a wayward transplant, an aimless seed taking more than my fair share?”

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“I didn't know if you were still living... in sin. I didn't want a bad influence in his life." I spoke past the growing lump in my throat. "I'm not a monster. Just because I naively fell in love with a semi-divorced man doesn't mean I would have harmed your son. Jesus! You'd think I spent most of my life on death row by the way you talk about me when I've never seen the inside of a jail. Unlike Warren Sr.!" To this day, I have no idea why I had to tack on that part about Marvina's deceased husband. It was petty, but seeing as we were already wallowing in the muddy puddles of our past, what difference did it make? "He wasn't a jailbird," Marvina spat back. "He only went in once for a ticket he didn't pay before the deadline." She opened the oven and slid the onion skins inside next to the peppers. "Don't I know this already. I hope the forty dollars of mine that you put toward his bail served the both of y'all well.”

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“If you want Calum dead, why don't you kill him yourself?" "The Old One made me the healer," Phoebe argued. "She didn't give me your skills." Brigid felt her temper rising. "So my job is to kill while you keep your hands clean? How convenient." Phoebe's heart sank. There was so much at stake and Brigid was making it all about her again. "I can't believe this. You're not going to do anything because you're still jealous of me?" "Excuse me? What?" Phoebe instantly knew she'd pushed it too far. She'd shone a spotlight on something that should have stayed hidden. "I'm sorry," she hurried to say. "Fuck you," Brigid responded. "Here's a little tip, princess. If you want someone to do your dirty work, it's best not to insult them.”

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