Classless: (adj) having no class

If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then kindness may only dwell in the mind of God.

We seem to have an excuse for every occasion when we resort to crude behavior. At least I do. (Forgive me for speaking for you.)

Being rude is usually a by-product of a reaction which comes quickly. We just don’t train ourselves enough before going out in public.

Oh, yes–we must practice our humanity. It is needful for us to envision scenarios when we are offended, shut out of the moment, so we can have some idea what is going to pour forth from our personality.

We should be saying “I’m sorry” a whole lot less because we have taken into consideration the possibility of affrontation.

For after all, some of our fellow-travelers do not feel powerful unless we are weakened.

They don’t sense their value unless everyone around them has been put in the bargain bin.

And they don’t wish to be nice because they view it as a definable weakness.

If you don’t practice class, you will be classless. If you hang around with folks who insist that you don’t need to say, “Thank you” or “I appreciate that,” it’s only because they plan on starving you from that warmth coming from them.

My family often thinks I am silly, because in the process of any given evening, I may say, “thank you” a hundred and twenty times. As you consider how excessive that may be, I am musing over how I could do it more.

When I do something good, I make sure I enjoy it thoroughly, because stumbling around waiting for others to express their admiration is a formula for deep depression.

We are a classless society simply because we are waiting for someone else to start it up, and no one has taken the time to put the fuel in their engine to accelerate toward tenderness.

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Autograph: (n) a signature, especially that of a celebrity written as a memento for an admirer.

Life is an elevator.dictionary with letter A

The same blessing that takes you up is the shaft that brings you down. It all depends on the buttons you push.

I learn this all the time.

Having authored a number of books, I often have people asking for my autograph. It is a very kind gesture.

I never get tired of the jolt of joy that comes into my soul, realizing that someone has first of all treasured my writings enough to purchase them, but also wants me to put my name on them.

It’s exciting.

I even practiced my signature to make sure that it looked “authorian” and had a certain flair that exuded eccentricity.

So one day, having some time on my hands, I perused the Internet, seeking out information on my name and the books I had written.

I was drawn to this website where used books were offered at reduced rates. I discovered that many of my volumes were available–and almost every one of them advertised that it was “signed by the author,” supposedly thus giving it some extra clout.

But to my great dismay, many of these copies I had signed had been discounted even from their original reduced rate–down so low that one of my books was being offered for 59 cents.

So not only was my original work and inspiration diminished in value, but apparently by adding my signature to the equation, no greater wealth was calculated.

It made me realize that I had better enjoy the elevator of autographing when it’s going up.

Because eventually it will come back down…into the bargain bin.

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