<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031679789995190714</id><updated>2012-02-16T05:18:56.211-08:00</updated><category term='the bachelor'/><category term='relationship'/><category term='love'/><category term='work'/><title type='text'>Under My Ribcage</title><subtitle type='html'></subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://undermyribcage.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5031679789995190714/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://undermyribcage.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>George</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/13566390165243452222</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_TMLfbS9nouc/S2R3s_MyZEI/AAAAAAAAAAM/reYAj2dtVhc/S220/n506668686_116152_40.jpg'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>8</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031679789995190714.post-2086810293673909609</id><published>2010-03-08T18:42:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-03-08T18:58:17.859-08:00</updated><title type='text'>A test that an unfortunate number of people will always refuse to take part in, February 19th</title><content type='html'>&lt;pre  style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;(Apparently my iPhone fucks with the line-lengths of text..)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;With new years resolutions still semi-fresh (ok, slightly stale) in our minds, and&lt;br /&gt;now Lent, the topic of drinking came into conversation  with my sister thismorning.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Her boyfriend and she, have decided to go one month without drinking  (for their&lt;br /&gt;own, un-Eastery reasons) and see where that takes them. And I couldn't be happier,&lt;br /&gt;or moreso, prouder.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Drinking is a tricky thing. Everyone does it, basically, so it's tough&lt;br /&gt;not to. If bars served extacy, and bars were still where everyone went&lt;br /&gt;on a Friday or Saterday (or Sunday, or Tuesday..) night, we'd be facing a human&lt;br /&gt;extinction likely. Perhaps it's somewhat lucky that drinking is our&lt;br /&gt;main issue, and not mind altering, brain frying chemicals. But it is&lt;br /&gt;an issue.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Well, maybe it's just an issue for me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Because I don't drink. At all. Not even a shot of Baileys on StPattys&lt;br /&gt;day, or champagne at a wedding.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;People assume that since I don't drink now, it's because I never have,&lt;br /&gt;and I don't know what I'm missing, or how to have a good time. But I&lt;br /&gt;know very well, thank you very much! I've had plenty of good times!&lt;br /&gt;Plenty of black-out-pass-out good times! Hooray! Lol&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've been left on my front portch befor, I've been left in a van&lt;br /&gt;unconcious after puking through the sliding door all along the&lt;br /&gt;highway! I've woken up on strange bathroom floors, curled up under a&lt;br /&gt;hand towel for warmth! I was arrested once, on a school night,&lt;br /&gt;then I went to Krystynas birthday dinner (yes, badass me got arrested&lt;br /&gt;BEFORE I got drunk at the party) and went to school the next day in my&lt;br /&gt;same clothes, with barf on my shirt. Steve Mullin thought I was a REAL&lt;br /&gt;catch after showing up to our first period, gifted English class&lt;br /&gt;completely hungover.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've been drunk! Very drunk! Pump-my-stomach-befor-I-die drunk!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And there are still moments, after a long day of flu'y kids at work, or&lt;br /&gt;a mere hour with my mother, or a fight with my boyfriend, where my&lt;br /&gt;brain conciders that all may be made better with a drink. I still&lt;br /&gt;every now and again envy the girl dancing in the middle of the club like a MORON not giving a&lt;br /&gt;shit about anyone else because she won't remember anything tomorrow&lt;br /&gt;morning anyways. But then I remember what comes after the crazy&lt;br /&gt;dancing and the glowy happy photoshoot in the squishy bar's bathroom.&lt;br /&gt;The spinning, and the hotflashes, and the toilet bowls as pillows, and&lt;br /&gt;the headaches and the sheer panick.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yes, maybe I am just weak and can't hold my liquor, lol.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I just think, that if everyone was forced to go a month without any&lt;br /&gt;alcohol, you'd all see that weekends are still enjoyable, and you may&lt;br /&gt;still be a decent dancer, and guys will still hit on you only you'll&lt;br /&gt;actually remember why you're waking up in his bed, half naked/fully&lt;br /&gt;naked the next morning! And after the initial shock, the initial&lt;br /&gt;taunting, people will still invite you out, and they'll still be you're&lt;br /&gt;friend and associate with you downtown, even though you're not as&lt;br /&gt;giddy and intoxicated as them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I however, do not see many people taking such a pledge any time soon.&lt;br /&gt;I'd still recommended it, though! Your stomach and your liver and your&lt;br /&gt;esophagus and you brain will thank you later. And if that's not&lt;br /&gt;enough, your bank account will really thank you for it! (Yes, I am&lt;br /&gt;still in debt, but not nearly as in debt as I'd be if I were dropping&lt;br /&gt;$50 evert night I'm out..)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Bottom line, I suppose, you dont have to be 30 and married with a kid&lt;br /&gt;and a dog and a job with a salary before you can start giving it a rest&lt;br /&gt;and growing up, and being able to get home to your own bed after a&lt;br /&gt;good night out.  NOT all the cool kids are doing it.  I'm sober! And&lt;br /&gt;I'm still fly as a white guy.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/pre&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5031679789995190714-2086810293673909609?l=undermyribcage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://undermyribcage.blogspot.com/feeds/2086810293673909609/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://undermyribcage.blogspot.com/2010/03/test-that-unfortunate-number-of-people.html#comment-form' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5031679789995190714/posts/default/2086810293673909609'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5031679789995190714/posts/default/2086810293673909609'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://undermyribcage.blogspot.com/2010/03/test-that-unfortunate-number-of-people.html' title='A test that an unfortunate number of people will always refuse to take part in, February 19th'/><author><name>George</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/13566390165243452222</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_TMLfbS9nouc/S2R3s_MyZEI/AAAAAAAAAAM/reYAj2dtVhc/S220/n506668686_116152_40.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031679789995190714.post-1606858193912579142</id><published>2010-03-08T18:41:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2010-03-08T19:00:23.442-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='love'/><title type='text'>From February 13th</title><content type='html'>&lt;pre&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;I got the prettiest valentine once, in grade 1 or 2, and it said 'I&lt;br /&gt;love you' on it. However, it was from a girl in my class. But also&lt;br /&gt;(luckily) signed in pencil.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was very clever in grade 1 or 2, and very sure of myself, and very&lt;br /&gt;sure of how much this boy in my class adored me. Soo I erased that&lt;br /&gt;dumb girls name, and wrote 'Kyle' in my most masquline, elementry&lt;br /&gt;school hand writing. And I showed it off.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I suppose that puts me in the same boat as girls who send themselves&lt;br /&gt;flowers to make the boy they like jealous. Only I didn't do it to make&lt;br /&gt;Kyle jealous! In fact, I had to hide the valentine, desperately from&lt;br /&gt;him. No one wants to be known as the crazy chick, when you're barely 6.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hated hearing parents complain about Valentines thisaft. We made a&lt;br /&gt;class list for the kids to take home to write up their valentines, and&lt;br /&gt;too many parents complained about the time and effort and money, and&lt;br /&gt;HEART it takes to participate in a little festive activity like that.&lt;br /&gt;I mean really, now. I bought 36 little lovey cards WITH STICKERS for a&lt;br /&gt;whole one dollar! And I filled in all my little friend's names befor&lt;br /&gt;Greys was over. And I even stuck extra stickers on!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Do these super busy parents not think about how excited my class is&lt;br /&gt;going to be to check their hand decorated heart'y mailboxes and see&lt;br /&gt;all the treats inside? Is that just me?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Bottom line: it's a freaking dollar (okay and 13cents for the tax) and&lt;br /&gt;30 minutes to make a class full of kids fill up with smiles. And&lt;br /&gt;bottom line number two: ask your 3year old to sign all the cards in&lt;br /&gt;pencil, mmkay? Thanks.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/pre&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5031679789995190714-1606858193912579142?l=undermyribcage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://undermyribcage.blogspot.com/feeds/1606858193912579142/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://undermyribcage.blogspot.com/2010/03/and-from-february-13th.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5031679789995190714/posts/default/1606858193912579142'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5031679789995190714/posts/default/1606858193912579142'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://undermyribcage.blogspot.com/2010/03/and-from-february-13th.html' title='From February 13th'/><author><name>George</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/13566390165243452222</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_TMLfbS9nouc/S2R3s_MyZEI/AAAAAAAAAAM/reYAj2dtVhc/S220/n506668686_116152_40.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031679789995190714.post-2340392611126180899</id><published>2010-03-08T18:29:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-03-08T18:56:47.053-08:00</updated><title type='text'>a C- for effort</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family:courier new;"&gt;Yes, I WOULD start a blog, and be all excited about getting the/MY word out there, and post lots for a few days, and then completely slack off.  Boy, am I a winner.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:courier new;"&gt;However, Im not a total slacker! &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:courier new;"&gt;Ive written many blog entries, I just havnt published them.  Ill be on lunch break at work, and be inspired (more often, infuriated with germy rude children crawling under my skin) and Ill type it out! However, I type it on my phone, and save it in my notes, meaning to copy and paste it in an email to myself, and then copy and paste THAT into this little blog box!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:courier new;"&gt;But I forget about it! Or I feel relieved enough, that Ive gotten the words out of my head and down SOMEWHERE, that I no longer have the urgency or determination to publish.  I do that alot now.  Stupid iPhone! I get real mad at my boyfriend's and lock myself in HIS bathroom (because in the bathroom, on the toilet, whether actually using the toilet or not, is the best place to write) and type on the dinky little silent keyboard, thinking Ill go home and rewrite it into my journal.  But then I sleep on it, and all those raw emotions pass, and I suddenly dont care, or Im over whatever I was so upset about in the first place, and cant be bothered to try and genuinely revive it!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:courier new;"&gt;I scrolled through my Notes AP, lol and found a few pieces that I can still publish..along with the date actually written..coming next..&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5031679789995190714-2340392611126180899?l=undermyribcage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://undermyribcage.blogspot.com/feeds/2340392611126180899/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://undermyribcage.blogspot.com/2010/03/yes-i-would-start-blog-and-be-all.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5031679789995190714/posts/default/2340392611126180899'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5031679789995190714/posts/default/2340392611126180899'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://undermyribcage.blogspot.com/2010/03/yes-i-would-start-blog-and-be-all.html' title='a C- for effort'/><author><name>George</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/13566390165243452222</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_TMLfbS9nouc/S2R3s_MyZEI/AAAAAAAAAAM/reYAj2dtVhc/S220/n506668686_116152_40.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031679789995190714.post-8422318491589744887</id><published>2010-02-09T05:12:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-03-08T18:59:50.507-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='the bachelor'/><title type='text'>Another wee Batchelor rant..</title><content type='html'>&lt;pre&gt;I've watched these dating shows for a long long time, and it finally &lt;br /&gt;hit me. It so so infurriates me, that every season, the dater always &lt;br /&gt;makes a point of saying they've fallen for the final 3 or 4 people.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't get it. Do they get paid extra to say that? Is it part of &lt;br /&gt;their contract? I mean he just said he had fallen..like inlove, with &lt;br /&gt;all 4 girls! Not only is he an idiot because he said it to one of the &lt;br /&gt;girl's mothers. He's also an idiot if he believes what he just said.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Because it isn't possible. It's impossible. Love is a whole-heart and &lt;br /&gt;full-body thing. It's an all over experience, and for it to be real, &lt;br /&gt;it has to be ALL, and if you're feeling it for 4 people at the same &lt;br /&gt;time, their each only actually getting pieces.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I understand it's a dramatic, romantic notion, being torn between 2 &lt;br /&gt;great loves. But that's only in scripted movies, and even then, it's &lt;br /&gt;TWO lovers, not FOUR, you WHORE!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've never been paid to date 30 people at once, and be surrounded by &lt;br /&gt;fancy dates and tv cameras, so I know that I can't judge, and act like &lt;br /&gt;I really know what I'm talking about. Maybe love DOES act differently &lt;br /&gt;when it's on tv. But even if I ran into Shia tomorrow and he knocked &lt;br /&gt;my books out of my hands, and when we both bent down to pick them up, &lt;br /&gt;our hands brushed, and we gazed into eachothers eyes..I could still &lt;br /&gt;never possibly fall for him. Not into ANY sort of love, when I'm &lt;br /&gt;already so deep in it with my boyfriend. It isn't possible.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Love is only true love if it's whole love. Love is only whole love if &lt;br /&gt;it's all for one love.&lt;/pre&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5031679789995190714-8422318491589744887?l=undermyribcage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://undermyribcage.blogspot.com/feeds/8422318491589744887/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://undermyribcage.blogspot.com/2010/02/another-wee-batchelor-rant.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5031679789995190714/posts/default/8422318491589744887'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5031679789995190714/posts/default/8422318491589744887'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://undermyribcage.blogspot.com/2010/02/another-wee-batchelor-rant.html' title='Another wee Batchelor rant..'/><author><name>George</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/13566390165243452222</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_TMLfbS9nouc/S2R3s_MyZEI/AAAAAAAAAAM/reYAj2dtVhc/S220/n506668686_116152_40.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031679789995190714.post-7887794575926335467</id><published>2010-02-03T16:19:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-03-08T19:00:42.177-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='work'/><title type='text'>Baby Kisses</title><content type='html'>I used to tell my friend Lisa to knock on my door and ask me to play precisely at the time I was to go down for my afternoon nap.  Mom would feel bad because Lisa walked all the way down the street, and Id be so excited, shed let me go play.  And skip nap time!&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Children hate nap time, until they get to be 23, and they're the ones sitting in a daycare classroom rubbing multiple backs of crying children, and THEY are the ones trying to explain, "when you get to be my age you're reeeeeally going to miss nap time, you know."  That's what I was doing thisaft, anyways.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;And then there was Atticus.  He's this tiny little 5 year old, like teeny tiny, with choppy short hair, and the oddest teeth that aren't big, but they till stick out sort of funny?  He wouldn't sleep.  Just refused.  I tried turning him onto his tummy, and threatening that if he kept his friends awake with his whining, they'd all be cranky and not want to play with him.  I use that line with my boyfriend too, swapping 'whining' with 'Nintendo noises' and 'play with' with 'have sex with'..  Men care more about sex with their girlfriends though, then children care about playing car with their snotty-faced classmates.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;So I'm getting impatient, and he's flailing his bony little arms around, so I take his hands and hold them on his bed, with my hand on top of his.  And as I'm trying to explain that if he does not give his hands a rest, I assume they're too tired to play with toys later...he kisses me.  This most minuscule smidge of a kiss.  Not a kiss on the hand, but a tiny little kiss, on my finger?! Like the tip of my finger, with his thin little lips pursed real soft, and just barrrrrely touched them to my finger.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I truly, nearly died.   &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;He looked up at me and smiled, as if it was no big deal, just a measly little kiss, and just stared at my hand on his.  Of course he'd have no reason to think that a silly kiss like that would melt his teacher's heart!  Have you ever been licked by a newborn kitten?! All fluffy and tiny, and they can't really see, and their rough little tongue just peeks out? It is the smallest, sweetest thing imaginable.  Just a smidge of a kiss, in a whole huge world.  A kajillion and one things going on 'out there' but I got a kiss in that moment, that made my heart skip a beat.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Needless to say, he was allowed to get up and read on his bed, instead of having a blanket held over his body until he passed out.  &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5031679789995190714-7887794575926335467?l=undermyribcage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://undermyribcage.blogspot.com/feeds/7887794575926335467/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://undermyribcage.blogspot.com/2010/02/baby-kisses.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5031679789995190714/posts/default/7887794575926335467'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5031679789995190714/posts/default/7887794575926335467'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://undermyribcage.blogspot.com/2010/02/baby-kisses.html' title='Baby Kisses'/><author><name>George</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/13566390165243452222</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_TMLfbS9nouc/S2R3s_MyZEI/AAAAAAAAAAM/reYAj2dtVhc/S220/n506668686_116152_40.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031679789995190714.post-4141963844717066122</id><published>2010-02-01T17:20:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-02-01T18:02:32.352-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='the bachelor'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='love'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='relationship'/><title type='text'>No Time To Waste Time</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family: courier new; font-style: italic;"&gt;I realize Im an absolute DOUCHE for taking reality television seriously enough to blog about it, however..&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: courier new; font-style: italic;"&gt;The world in general, should take a note from Jake, Mr. Bachelor Pilot Man.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: courier new; font-style: italic;"&gt;Instead of dragging things out for the ratings, he just kicks chicks off, the moment he knows she's not the one.  And that's how we should all respond to feelings, I think.  I believe in fate and destiny and stuff, and that there's one person out there who may not be perfect, but will be the best person for us, and if we're getting strung along by some guy too afraid to speak his feelings, we could totally wander mindlessly through the checkout at the grocery store and not notice the handsome hunk behind us, who was SUPPOSED to be the one, but we didnt look at him, because we were too busy trying to figure out what to make our current boyfriend for dinner, even though that current boyfriend is thinking about Nintendo and beer, and anything BUT us because he's nowhere near loving you enough to see himself marrying you, EVER, so why should he think about you right now?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: courier new; font-style: italic;"&gt;(Yes, that paragraph was just 2 sentences.) &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: courier new; font-style: italic;"&gt;I just think love is a precious commodity, and shouldnt be wasted on people that arent wasting theirs on us.  I think its cowardly and very asshole-like if a person breaks up with you, and then throws in, &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: courier new; font-style: italic;"&gt;"Ive been thinking about this for a long time."  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: courier new; font-style: italic;"&gt;"Really?! While I was grocery shopping and ignoring the sex machiene behind me, and then sweating in your kitchen, and burning myself while dipping strawberries in chocolate and shaving my legs..you were thinking about dumping me?"&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: courier new; font-style: italic;"&gt;"Well.."&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: courier new; font-style: italic;"&gt;"No, while I was spending a month's salary on your Christmas present 2 months ago, you were thinking about breaking up with me?"&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: courier new; font-style: italic;"&gt;"Well, I.."&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: courier new; font-style: italic;"&gt;"So when I agreed to let you cover me in chocolate and take my picture and ACCIDENTALLY send it to all your douchebag friends..you were thinking about dumping me?"&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: courier new; font-style: italic;"&gt;It's just rude.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: courier new; font-style: italic;"&gt;When I was in Grade 11, I broke up with my first boyfriend, whom Id dated for like a month lol, because I knew already that I was never going to marry him.  I want hoping to marry ANYONE in the near future, but I knew that even in the distant future, I was not going to become Mrs. Hull.  He talked about "boobies and dinkies" and after our first make out, my first ever make out, he assured me, "If you get sick, its normal.  Its our different saliva mixing for the first time, youll be fine".  WHY would I want to drag THAT out in hopes it'll maybe, possibly, likely not get better?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: courier new; font-style: italic;"&gt;If youre out there, and youre honestly, seriously questioning the person youre in a relationhip with right now, or if youve noticed yourself questioning it before, once or twice..especially if youve thought about it THREE times, I just believe its time to end it.  It's not fair to you and its not fair to this other person.  If you think you'll just give it another month and THEN think about it again, that's a whole month in which they could be finding, or be found by another person better for them, its a whole month in which you could be finding the actual one.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: courier new; font-style: italic;"&gt;Life doesnt last forever, and love is pretty much an endangered species, so we need to end things, maybe break a few hearts, send a few skanks home before that night's rose ceremony, until we've found the one we REALLY want to spend it all on.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: courier new; font-style: italic;"&gt;(Unless youre my boyfriend.  Im deliriously in some serious love with you, so please string me along as long as possible.  Thanks!)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: courier new; font-style: italic;"&gt;Ps. If your boyfriend wears turtlenecks in Chinatown, and sends you and your wine away from his bed, its time to move on and keep your eyes peeled for someone less gay.  Unless youre gay.  I guess&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5031679789995190714-4141963844717066122?l=undermyribcage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://undermyribcage.blogspot.com/feeds/4141963844717066122/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://undermyribcage.blogspot.com/2010/02/no-time-to-waste-time.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5031679789995190714/posts/default/4141963844717066122'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5031679789995190714/posts/default/4141963844717066122'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://undermyribcage.blogspot.com/2010/02/no-time-to-waste-time.html' title='No Time To Waste Time'/><author><name>George</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/13566390165243452222</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_TMLfbS9nouc/S2R3s_MyZEI/AAAAAAAAAAM/reYAj2dtVhc/S220/n506668686_116152_40.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031679789995190714.post-95690279388556759</id><published>2010-01-30T11:45:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-01-30T12:00:18.956-08:00</updated><title type='text'>The Ribcage Thing..</title><content type='html'>Its this feeling, this big feeling.  You can see a person, or hear a song, or hear words from someone special to you, find an old picture you forgot about, eat something really really yummy...And you get this feeling.  Its a little overwhelming (but not as overwhelming as an anxiety attack!) and sometimes people describe it as butterflies, or a lump you think you might need to cry out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I simply call it, Right.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wrote a poem years ago, when I was with a different boy, and it had those words, "what does right mean to you if you cant feel it under your ribcage?" I was asking him.  I sorta of forget why (which happens) but I think he was trying to convince himself that the right thing to do was for us to not be together, maybe? We'd just met, and we were infatuated.  And I wrote this poem as a way to counter-prove his ideas of right and wrong.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Words or rules, and society and elders can make us THINK we know what's right, but the proof is in our chests, in our hearts, under our ribcage.  The word 'ribcage' isn't romantic, but I think the notion is.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Its where the utter truth lives.  We can tell a person, "no" while our insides are racing "yes", and it gets harder and harder to deny.  So we just need to stop! Mmkay?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It'll be the title of the poetry compilation I plan on having published some day, Im quite sure!  My poetry is my real words, as will be this blog.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The End! Stay tuned..    ;)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5031679789995190714-95690279388556759?l=undermyribcage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://undermyribcage.blogspot.com/feeds/95690279388556759/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://undermyribcage.blogspot.com/2010/01/ribcage-thing.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5031679789995190714/posts/default/95690279388556759'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5031679789995190714/posts/default/95690279388556759'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://undermyribcage.blogspot.com/2010/01/ribcage-thing.html' title='The Ribcage Thing..'/><author><name>George</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/13566390165243452222</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_TMLfbS9nouc/S2R3s_MyZEI/AAAAAAAAAAM/reYAj2dtVhc/S220/n506668686_116152_40.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5031679789995190714.post-3463888025907895955</id><published>2010-01-30T10:28:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-01-30T10:40:49.518-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Apparently</title><content type='html'>I Googled 'start a blog' and clicked on this Blog Spot link, and I signed up.  When I sign into my account, there are TWO blogs to my name!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At first I was flattered.  Some IMPOSTER thought so highly of ME they'd stole my identity and started a blog, knowing that my name alone would gain them many more viewers and followers! It was a very likely conclusion.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then however, I looked a little deeper, and it turns out its just a silly blog that we had to create my second year..no, first year of college, for me elected Life Writing class.  I loved the class, I loved being given an excuse to write about random things..but its less thrilling then a stalker/copycat publisher.  My teacher was the only reader, too.  Not so flattering.  lol&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyways, here it is.  We'll see how it works! Any bets on how long this will last?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5031679789995190714-3463888025907895955?l=undermyribcage.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://undermyribcage.blogspot.com/feeds/3463888025907895955/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://undermyribcage.blogspot.com/2010/01/apparently.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5031679789995190714/posts/default/3463888025907895955'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5031679789995190714/posts/default/3463888025907895955'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://undermyribcage.blogspot.com/2010/01/apparently.html' title='Apparently'/><author><name>George</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/13566390165243452222</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_TMLfbS9nouc/S2R3s_MyZEI/AAAAAAAAAAM/reYAj2dtVhc/S220/n506668686_116152_40.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry></feed>
