<?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-9038479106854368194</id><updated>2011-11-10T07:28:30.987-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Oh the Places I'll Go</title><subtitle type='html'>I'll get there someday.</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://gotheresomeday.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9038479106854368194/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://gotheresomeday.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>HollyAnn</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>13</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038479106854368194.post-2976833197762832512</id><published>2008-12-22T09:46:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-12-24T05:35:29.733-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Lyrical (lack of) life</title><content type='html'>There is something I see in you.  It might kill me, but I want it to be true.  Slow it down, make it stop or else my heart is going to pop.  'Cause it's too much, yeah it's a lot to be something I'm not&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm just a little girl lost in the moment.  I'm so scared, but I don't show it.  I can't figure it out.  It's bringing me down, I know.  I've got to let it go and just enjoy the show.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span&gt;Never really said too much.  Afraid it wouldn’t be enough.  Just try to keep my spirits up when there’s no point in grieving.  It doesn’t matter anyway, words could never make you stay, words will never take your place when I know you're leaving&lt;/span&gt;.  I remember you made me believe that tomorrow and today the sun would hold our hands.  But the night came in to stay while you made other plans.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I remember time.  I remember days slid into years. Building lifetimes, thinking you'd be here. But tomorrow and today, well they misunderstood. And you went along your way, I think you're gone for good.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You're pushing and pulling me down to you, but I don't know what I want.  You're leaving me breathless.  I hate this, I hate this,  you're not the one I believed in.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I see your face in my mind as I drive away.  None of us thought it was gonna end that way. But people are people and sometimes we change our minds.  It’s killing me to see you go after all this time.  It’s two a.m., feeling like I just lost a friend.   Hope you know it’s not easy for me.&lt;br /&gt;And we know it’s never simple, never easy. Never a clean break, no one here to save me.  You’re the only thing I know like the back of my hand.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's a crime you let it happen to me.. Out of mind, forget it, there's nothing to lose but my mind and all the things I wanted.  Never mind, forget it, just memory on a page inside a spiral notebook.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The more boys I meet, the more I love my dog.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If you're gonna leave, well you better get going.  I ain't wasting no more time on what you did and what you didn't, so if you're gonna leave, you better start running. I ain't wasting no more time on what it might have been.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How can I decide what's right when you're clouding up my mind?   The truth is hiding in your eyes, but you think that I can't see what kind of man that you are.  If you're a man at all.  I keep knocking on wood , hoping there's a real boy inside.  But you're not a man, you're just a mannequin.  With you, there is no guarantee - only expired warranty.  A bunch of broken parts, and I can't seem to find your heart.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9038479106854368194-2976833197762832512?l=gotheresomeday.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://gotheresomeday.blogspot.com/feeds/2976833197762832512/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=9038479106854368194&amp;postID=2976833197762832512' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9038479106854368194/posts/default/2976833197762832512'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9038479106854368194/posts/default/2976833197762832512'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://gotheresomeday.blogspot.com/2008/12/lyrical-lack-of-life.html' title='Lyrical (lack of) life'/><author><name>HollyAnn</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038479106854368194.post-2636770131807949258</id><published>2008-11-05T12:36:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-11-06T21:00:54.929-08:00</updated><title type='text'>About A Boy</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;"Fall not in love.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;It will stick to your face."&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;-Unknown&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've been thinking lately about the different men/boys/guys who have affected my life.  Specifically, ex-boyfriends.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-I &lt;span _fcktemp="1"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;guess we have to start with M.  But, the first time around didn't necessarily change me much.  I &lt;span _fcktemp="1"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;think it gave me some confidence in myself, despite my overly-tall awkward Amazonian figure at a premature age.&lt;br /&gt;-The various guys between 9th and 10th grades:  Dan P &lt;span _fcktemp="1"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&amp;amp; C, G, E, (am I &lt;span _fcktemp="1"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;forgetting someone?).   Not a whole lot taken away from these "relationships", not really even many memories.. lol  Sad.  Alas.&lt;br /&gt;-And then there was Ryan.  Oh, dear Ryan.   I &lt;span _fcktemp="1"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;remember the first time I &lt;span _fcktemp="1"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;saw him, at that end-of-the-year Vignette meeting before summer, to meet the new would-be Sophomores on the staff.  Me and Kayleigh leaned to eachother and said "Look, we have a new guy!  Hope he's not gay.."  (the irony.)   Ryan was an overachiever, straight-A student, involved in so many things..  he helped me open up.  He encouraged me to try out for Guys and Dolls, and fight for a lead part.  He gave me confidence to actually perform that lead role.  He gave me butterflies.  He loved his mom, treated her well.  We sang together, we were that perfect high school couple everyone wanted to resent but couldn't, because they loved us.   He showed me, and the memory continues to show me, that it is possible to find someone who actually feels the same about me as I do about them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-Juanfer.  He taught me that I &lt;span _fcktemp="1"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;can actually be literally swept off my feet.  But that when that happens, it's mostly the charm rather than actual true feelings that gets to me.  When it comes down to a real relationship, I don't need to be swept off my feet.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-M., take two.  He taught me I &lt;span _fcktemp="1"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;can easily allow myself to think I'm in love with someone because they're in love with me.  He taught me there *are* &lt;span _fcktemp="1"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;good guys in the world, but that just because a guy is decent doesn't necessarily make him automatically "the one".  He taught me that I'm capable of breaking someone's heart.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-JD - Again, there are good guys in the world, but just cuz he's a good guy doesn't mean he's the one.   And, I &lt;span _fcktemp="1"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;really don't like casual relationships.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-EW.  Unfortunately, cheesy as this sounds, he taught me about love at first sight.  He taught me about feeling so happy you literally can't contain it, and can't help but just laugh out of pure happiness.  He taught me about confusion, and most of all, about what it feels like to have a broken heart.   He helped me learn how to keep my feelings in control.  How to separate myself from that side of me.  Because you have to, to survive.   He made me learn how to stand up for myself.  He gave me a need to be clear on motivations and objectives.&lt;br /&gt;He showed me how blurry the lines that separate "relationship" from "non-relationship" can be.&lt;br /&gt;He taught me that maybe love doesn't go away, but just because you love someone doesn't make them right for you. &lt;br /&gt;He taught me about speaking my mind.  He made me realize that there &lt;em&gt;are&lt;/em&gt; people in the world who I &lt;span _fcktemp="1"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;can communicate with who'll understand what I'm saying, and know I don't mean to judge and I &lt;span _fcktemp="1"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;won't be judged.   That there are people who can appreciate my bizarre gift of innately understanding someone.     He taught me how to forgive, too.&lt;br /&gt;He is still teaching me how to have a truly loyal friend and how to be one in return.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't need someone to sweep me off my feet.   I don't need someone to lead me, and I certainly don't want someone who can only follow me.   I need someone who is firmly grounded, who has his own opinions and doesn't need to rely on mine.  I won't settle for someone who doesn't make me &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;feel&lt;/span&gt;.   Who comes around and is just so friggin awesome that he blows all my walls down.  Who sees &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;me&lt;/span&gt; through my reserve.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't want to have reservations.  I want to feel like I know I can feel. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But maybe not yet.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9038479106854368194-2636770131807949258?l=gotheresomeday.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://gotheresomeday.blogspot.com/feeds/2636770131807949258/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=9038479106854368194&amp;postID=2636770131807949258' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9038479106854368194/posts/default/2636770131807949258'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9038479106854368194/posts/default/2636770131807949258'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://gotheresomeday.blogspot.com/2008/11/about-boy.html' title='About A Boy'/><author><name>HollyAnn</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038479106854368194.post-3516704871648741647</id><published>2008-09-29T22:00:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-10-01T05:00:15.691-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Lost Locke-ian theory</title><content type='html'>Talking to my mom makes me realize that life really is pretty good right now.  Or, at least, it's not bad.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm fairly successfully saving up money.&lt;br /&gt;I paid off 1/4th of the remaining balance on my car loan today.  It should be paid off by the end of the year.&lt;br /&gt;I've lost almost half of the weight I want to lose, in just over a month.  That's a lot.&lt;br /&gt;I have a chance of doing pretty well in my classes this semester.&lt;br /&gt;I'm in general able to stay alert and pay attention at both work and school.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Not much is happening socially, but that's honestly not too much of a loss in my opinion.  At least for now.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Every day, my desire to go live abroad gets stronger and stronger.   Most philosophers agree on pretty much only one thing:  knowledge=best.   They all disagree on what exactly constitutes knowledge, but all essentially say that the attainment of knowledge is the path to all fulfillment.  (Except for maybe Hobbes, but who likes Hobbes anyway.  What a jerk.)   In my Theory class, we just talked about John Locke (see images below) and Kant.  Locke believed that when we are born, we start out as a complete blank slate- &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Tabula rasa&lt;/span&gt; - and all knowledge comes from &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;experience&lt;/span&gt;.  We have the ability to reason, and all of this capacity to contain information and interpret it, but it takes actually experiencing a person, place, object, etc to truly know it.  So in this mindset, I have no knowledge of the world "out there" because I have no experience of/with/in it. Knowledge is paramount.  Therefore?    I must go.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Thanks for backing me up, Locke.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="text-decoration: underline;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.locke-smith.com/images/john-locke.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 128px; height: 177px;" src="http://www.locke-smith.com/images/john-locke.jpg" alt="" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.redzeppelin.org/images/07/050207.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 146px; height: 154px;" src="http://www.redzeppelin.org/images/07/050207.jpg" alt="" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;~ John Locke from Lost John Locke the theorist~&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9038479106854368194-3516704871648741647?l=gotheresomeday.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://gotheresomeday.blogspot.com/feeds/3516704871648741647/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=9038479106854368194&amp;postID=3516704871648741647' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9038479106854368194/posts/default/3516704871648741647'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9038479106854368194/posts/default/3516704871648741647'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://gotheresomeday.blogspot.com/2008/09/lost-locke-ian-theory.html' title='Lost Locke-ian theory'/><author><name>HollyAnn</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038479106854368194.post-3728177842322306925</id><published>2008-09-18T06:05:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-09-19T01:29:46.419-07:00</updated><title type='text'>10 Dislinked Items or Less</title><content type='html'>I'm weary and aching from these long cold nights&lt;br /&gt;My broken smile in the making, we try to pretend it's all alright&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh let's take a boat on that water under the bridge&lt;br /&gt;we built to span the distance between your intentions&lt;br /&gt;and everything you did.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After all this time and troubles we've been through&lt;br /&gt;I never thought it would break my heart to hear I love you&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I &lt;span _fcktemp="1"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;remember every word like it was written just for me&lt;br /&gt;Forget all the scrapes and scars that cross your mending heart&lt;br /&gt;Those demons will go to sleep, I'll sing them a melody&lt;br /&gt;Lay your head on my shoulder now dear&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What do you do when you can't seem to stop loving someone you don't even really want to be with?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9038479106854368194-3728177842322306925?l=gotheresomeday.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://gotheresomeday.blogspot.com/feeds/3728177842322306925/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=9038479106854368194&amp;postID=3728177842322306925' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9038479106854368194/posts/default/3728177842322306925'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9038479106854368194/posts/default/3728177842322306925'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://gotheresomeday.blogspot.com/2008/09/10-dislinked-items-or-less.html' title='10 Dislinked Items or Less'/><author><name>HollyAnn</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038479106854368194.post-1107655516495430330</id><published>2008-09-13T23:36:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2008-09-13T23:43:29.310-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Rant rhymes with Ant</title><content type='html'>Sometimes I just get really mad.   I get angry about where I am in life, or rather.. where I'm &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;not&lt;/span&gt; in life.   I had a plan.  I was going to go to BYU, major in Physics - Astronomy, and go work for NASA.  But once things started to get tough, I gave up and decided it wasn't for me.   Then I changed my plan.  And started it.  And failed it.  And changed again!  And look, I'm still nowhere.  I mean sure, I've got another plan that should actually get me to a diploma, but what am I really going to do with a little flimsy piece of paper that says "Congratulations, you've spent enough wasted energy at this place, we'll give you some big BS in Sociology!"   I should have graduated this year.  I should be in graduate school, or interning at some awesome company, or touring the world, or &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;something&lt;/span&gt;.  Rather than this big fat nothing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I should have had a life!   &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I should go to bed.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9038479106854368194-1107655516495430330?l=gotheresomeday.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://gotheresomeday.blogspot.com/feeds/1107655516495430330/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=9038479106854368194&amp;postID=1107655516495430330' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9038479106854368194/posts/default/1107655516495430330'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9038479106854368194/posts/default/1107655516495430330'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://gotheresomeday.blogspot.com/2008/09/rant-rhymes-with-ant.html' title='Rant rhymes with Ant'/><author><name>HollyAnn</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038479106854368194.post-1908297584112009112</id><published>2008-08-22T08:26:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-08-22T08:50:51.504-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Randomoniousness</title><content type='html'>Hey, don't look at me like that.  It's my blog.  I'll go for however long I'd like without updating!  Take that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today's pet peeve = when people use the word "downloading" incorrectly.  For example, when a customer says: "I need help downloading the program to my computer"   When they really mean: "I need help installing the program."   Come on folks.  Downloading is completely different from Installing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A few things I've learned over the past few weeks = don't allow yourself to be turned from a Bridesmaid in to a  6-hour Babysitter.    Avoid being the last person to move out of a student apartment that hasn't been completely vacated in years, you &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;will&lt;/span&gt; have tons of plates and dishes and crap to get rid of by yourself.   And, this diet I'm on does actually work.   :)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9038479106854368194-1908297584112009112?l=gotheresomeday.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://gotheresomeday.blogspot.com/feeds/1908297584112009112/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=9038479106854368194&amp;postID=1908297584112009112' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9038479106854368194/posts/default/1908297584112009112'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9038479106854368194/posts/default/1908297584112009112'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://gotheresomeday.blogspot.com/2008/08/randomoniousness.html' title='Randomoniousness'/><author><name>HollyAnn</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038479106854368194.post-6770145581922593328</id><published>2008-07-21T16:07:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2008-08-01T13:15:48.250-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Questions with no answers....</title><content type='html'>....should not be allowed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why do some strangers have a stronger impact on your life than others? &lt;br /&gt;Why is it that with some people, you remember almost every word they've ever said to you? &lt;br /&gt;How can certain songs carry so many strong memories? &lt;br /&gt;Why is it that no matter how hard you try, there is no way to completely remove some people from your life?&lt;br /&gt;Why is it sometimes so complicated to take the simplest route?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;" class="quote"&gt;No question is so difficult to answer  as that&lt;br /&gt;which the answer is obvious.&lt;/span&gt;   &lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;-George Bernard Shaw&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9038479106854368194-6770145581922593328?l=gotheresomeday.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://gotheresomeday.blogspot.com/feeds/6770145581922593328/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=9038479106854368194&amp;postID=6770145581922593328' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9038479106854368194/posts/default/6770145581922593328'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9038479106854368194/posts/default/6770145581922593328'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://gotheresomeday.blogspot.com/2008/07/questions-with-no-answers.html' title='Questions with no answers....'/><author><name>HollyAnn</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038479106854368194.post-4231398022276540073</id><published>2008-07-11T13:45:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-07-14T11:02:24.764-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Random thoughts.</title><content type='html'>So, one trip down the stairs, 11 screws, one metal plate, and 2 months later, I'm starting to walk again.  I have a big plan to go shopping this week for some shoes that will fit over my once-size-9 left foot so I can start walking outside more.   It's very exciting to be able to walk with the assistance of only one crutch, leaving my other hand to be able to carry things.  Something as simple as carrying your own glass of water can be incredibly fulfilling.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm seriously considering hiring a personal trainer at the gym to help me get back(....) in to shape, so I don't end up re-injuring this retarded ankle.  Especially considering my McDreamy-wanna-be orthopedics doc won't get me in to physical therapy for another 3 weeks.  Come on folks.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have two years to graduate college (now that I'm 21...), save up $10,000, and lose x amount of lbs.    Two years may seem like a long time, but it goes by reaally quickly.  That is my deadline.   I'm not entirely sure how feasible it's going to be to graduate college AND save $10,000, but hey.  I figured yesterday that simply living at home for the next 2 years will save me just about $7,000.  Europe, here I come!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In closing, I would like to leave you with an important term and definition...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Facebook &lt;/span&gt;(n.):  yet another facet of life that enhances awareness of one's state of being single.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9038479106854368194-4231398022276540073?l=gotheresomeday.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://gotheresomeday.blogspot.com/feeds/4231398022276540073/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=9038479106854368194&amp;postID=4231398022276540073' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9038479106854368194/posts/default/4231398022276540073'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9038479106854368194/posts/default/4231398022276540073'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://gotheresomeday.blogspot.com/2008/07/random-thoughts.html' title='Random thoughts.'/><author><name>HollyAnn</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038479106854368194.post-7131499347203688873</id><published>2008-07-10T14:22:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-07-10T14:54:43.941-07:00</updated><title type='text'>From the crutch to the cane to the highwire</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;"Nothing is more desirable than to be released from an&lt;br /&gt;affliction, &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;but nothing is more frightening than&lt;br /&gt;to be divested &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;of a crutch&lt;/span&gt;."  - James Baldwin&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So lately I've been thinking about independence.  Boggles the mind why, given the facts: Friday was good old America Day, better known as the 4th of July; my leg is freshly liberated from its immobile status dictated by one green [tyrannical] cast; and I have regressed back to the time in life where I first learned how to walk.  Except this time, I'm way less cute, and have a much greater distance to fall if gravity decides to stick it to me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have a 9-month old nephew who learned how to crawl this week.  This morning, he managed to crawl out of my sister's room all the way down the hall and fall down the first set of stairs in their split-level staircase.   He's still essentially made of rubber, as babies are, so he was totally fine apart from being a little scared.   However, he was powerless to actually get back up the stairs.  He couldn't just stand up and walk himself back to where he started.   He was essentially helpless.  He can eat food by himself, but he can't prepare it.  And he sure can't walk.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I never thought I'd have so much in common with a 9-month old baby boy.    He &lt;span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"&gt;is&lt;/span&gt; basically the most adorable thing in the world, so maybe it's not so bad to have so much in common.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So what &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;can&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt; I do, you ask?   I can blog.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9038479106854368194-7131499347203688873?l=gotheresomeday.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://gotheresomeday.blogspot.com/feeds/7131499347203688873/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=9038479106854368194&amp;postID=7131499347203688873' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9038479106854368194/posts/default/7131499347203688873'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9038479106854368194/posts/default/7131499347203688873'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://gotheresomeday.blogspot.com/2008/07/from-crutch-to-cane-to-highwire.html' title='From the crutch to the cane to the highwire'/><author><name>HollyAnn</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038479106854368194.post-145553479533303865</id><published>2008-07-09T14:03:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-07-09T16:09:10.391-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Travelisms</title><content type='html'>"If you look like your passport photo, you're too ill to travel." -- &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Will Kommen&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p&gt;  "Don't tell me how educated you are, tell me how much you have traveled." — &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Mohammed&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;  "Traveling tends to magnify all human emotions." — &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Peter Hoeg&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;“The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.” - &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;St. Augustine&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;“Traveling is a brutality. It forces you to trust strangers and to lose sight of all that familiar comfort of home and friends. You are constantly off balance. Nothing is yours except the essential things - air, sleep, dreams, the sea, the sky - all things tending towards the eternal or what we imagine of it.” - &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Cesare Pavese&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;And my favorite:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;“The first condition of understanding a foreign country is to smell it.” - &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Rudyard Kipling&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/02084a.htm"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9038479106854368194-145553479533303865?l=gotheresomeday.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://gotheresomeday.blogspot.com/feeds/145553479533303865/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=9038479106854368194&amp;postID=145553479533303865' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9038479106854368194/posts/default/145553479533303865'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9038479106854368194/posts/default/145553479533303865'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://gotheresomeday.blogspot.com/2008/07/travelisms.html' title='Travelisms'/><author><name>HollyAnn</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038479106854368194.post-4379502805833324236</id><published>2008-06-27T17:59:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-06-27T22:42:40.023-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The best laid plans of mice</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;"&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"&gt;Warning&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;:  worktime boredom may result in internet surfing and taking&lt;br /&gt;useless tests."   &lt;/span&gt;-A should-be warning label applied to Work&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Apparently, my Real Age is a decent 23.5, my Intelligence Quotient is 130, my personality color is White, and my Disney Princess alter-ego is Belle from &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Beauty and the Beast&lt;/span&gt;.   The things one can learn about oneself on the internet...  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Just for fun, I looked up the word "plan" in the dictionary.  Dictionary.com, that is.   Who uses a real paper dictionary these days?  I don't even remember the last time I saw a print dictionary up-close and personal.  But I digress.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My favorite given definition of &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;plan:&lt;/span&gt;  &lt;blockquote&gt;One of several planes in front of a represented object, and perpendicular to the line between the object and the eye.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p&gt;"In addition to the idiom &lt;a href="http://dictionary.reference.com/search?q=plan"&gt;plan&lt;/a&gt;, also see &lt;a href="http://dictionary.reference.com/search?q=best-laid%20plans"&gt;best-laid plans"&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/blockquote&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My plans do always seem to end up perpendicular to the line that connects the object and my eye.  Never parallel to that line, creating a pathway in between for me to walk down, but rather an intersecting, cutting that line between me and the object.    This leads me to question the purpose of plans anyhow.  What precisely is the point, if the best laid schemes o' mice and men &lt;a href="http://www.electricscotland.com/burns/mouse.html"&gt;gang aft agley&lt;/a&gt;?  Don't get me wrong, I can definitely appreciate the benefits that come from grander scale plans (like Health Care, Economy, Peace-keeping, you get the drift).  Making plans on such an insignificant scale as my future seems fairly futile.  Plans are constantly in a state of flux.  One tiny vicissitude and the whole line shifts.  Someone should write to Merriam-Webster and petition to have the word "fluid" added to its definition.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have always felt like my own future was going to be unordinary.  Not necessarily extraordinary, but against what is expected.  Grow up, go to college [to] get married and have babies and that's it?  I live in a culture where that is normal, expected, praised, even idolized by the majority of girls probably from birth.   In good ol' Happy Valley, if you're female and umarried by 23 or at the &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;very&lt;/span&gt; latest 25, you're a menace to society.  I personally know so many women who are 38-40 and are already grandmothers.  Got married at 18 and had a baby, then that child grew up and got married at 18 and had a baby.. etc.  I've never felt that pull.  Sure I want to get married and have a family eventually, like anyone else.   I sure don't want to be alone the rest of my life!  But what is coming? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Am I afraid of my future or am I just too comfortable standing still to take any risks?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I need to graduate college.  I want to live in Europe.  I want to make an impact and create memories that are unique, not average.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh the places I'll go.  I'll get there someday.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9038479106854368194-4379502805833324236?l=gotheresomeday.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://gotheresomeday.blogspot.com/feeds/4379502805833324236/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=9038479106854368194&amp;postID=4379502805833324236' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9038479106854368194/posts/default/4379502805833324236'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9038479106854368194/posts/default/4379502805833324236'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://gotheresomeday.blogspot.com/2008/06/best-laid-plans-of-mice.html' title='The best laid plans of mice'/><author><name>HollyAnn</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038479106854368194.post-4168922746181394675</id><published>2008-06-25T22:19:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-06-27T17:54:50.217-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Cripfucius fortune cookie says...</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;When you’re only wearing one sock a day and you’ve run out of socks,&lt;br /&gt;it’s probably time to do laundry.  &lt;/span&gt;-Cripfucius&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One week.  That's all I have left in this lovely bright green cast that goes nearly to my knee and shows only my first 3 toes, which happen to look rather cute with red nail polish thank you very much.    Six weeks ago, my legs committed mutiny as I was leaving an overly long work day.  My right leg decided to slip off a [carpeted!] stair, but it was my left leg that was &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;really&lt;/span&gt; out to get me.  I guess if you're going to break your leg, you oughta break it thoroughly.  I'm debating whether or not to include the last days of my broken leg escapades here,   I'm sure it will be several weeks afterwards before I can really walk again, but as Bob would say, baby step to the cast off... baby step to the cast off..  I'm sailing!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(If you get the above reference, you get 10 points and possibly a cookie.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Nobody ever talks about the emotional roller-coaster this kind of thing puts you through.  It's completely and outrageously nuts and I respectfully object your honor.   Oh you'd think it's just your average every-day bimalleolar equivalent fracture needing a metal plate and 11 screws, right?  Yeah, you'd think so.  No, my friends.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;!!!!Coming soon, to a theater near you:!!!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;u&gt;&lt;b&gt;My Time As A Cripple&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/u&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(*deep voice*  Rated R.   not really.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;u&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Starring: &lt;/u&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;i&gt;Me&lt;/i&gt;  playing  "Me"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;i&gt;Left Leggus &lt;/i&gt;playing "The foot that was curious what Me's butt looked like while falling down stairs"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll scowl, you'll wake up hungover without getting to have the fun night before.  Entertainment for the whole family!"   -Famous critic also known as &lt;i&gt;Famous Critic&lt;/i&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Something interesting I learned this week:   an surgeon is legally bound to autograph a patient's extremity to be operated on as part of the pre-op procedures.   The doctor then mysteriously disappears and the patient is wheeled from the pre-op room in to the OR.   Enter the anesthesiologist, who must then verify the surgeon's initials are already on the said extremity before allowing the surgeon to operate.  Then comes the fun part.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And there I was thinking that Dr. Bacon was being funny, but no.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Does anyone know the technical term for "being deathly afraid of stairs"?  I'd like to put it on my impressive resume.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9038479106854368194-4168922746181394675?l=gotheresomeday.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://gotheresomeday.blogspot.com/feeds/4168922746181394675/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=9038479106854368194&amp;postID=4168922746181394675' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9038479106854368194/posts/default/4168922746181394675'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9038479106854368194/posts/default/4168922746181394675'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://gotheresomeday.blogspot.com/2008/06/cripfucius-fortune-cookie-says.html' title='Cripfucius fortune cookie says...'/><author><name>HollyAnn</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038479106854368194.post-7490753115060730442</id><published>2008-06-24T18:21:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-06-24T22:29:26.065-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Testing one two three</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;"We're at the end of the universe, right at the edge of knowledge itself, and you're busy... blogging!"  -Doctor Who&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's been a long time since I've blogged here at good old Blogspot. I've never really been satisfied with my own blogging, really. It may have something to do with my incapacitating inability to truly express myself, coming from years of habitually repressing emotions. Or maybe it's just that I'm too lazy to think of witty things to say. It's a toss-up...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In light of this, I have decided to take a fresh start and begin a new blog, which is why we're all gathered here together.  (The old blog:  &lt;a href="http://trueprudency.blogspot.com/"&gt;clicky!&lt;/a&gt; )   Although not many people will read this, at least it's a Blog, right?   This is not the place where I'll record the daily dull comings and goings of the person I like to call "me," but rather this will be a place of what I'm sure will be random absurd musings more often than not.  Of things like this past [overly long]  sentence that probably don't really even make sense and may not be grammatically correct.  You get the drift.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/9038479106854368194-7490753115060730442?l=gotheresomeday.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://gotheresomeday.blogspot.com/feeds/7490753115060730442/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=9038479106854368194&amp;postID=7490753115060730442' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9038479106854368194/posts/default/7490753115060730442'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/9038479106854368194/posts/default/7490753115060730442'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://gotheresomeday.blogspot.com/2008/06/testing-one-two-three.html' title='Testing one two three'/><author><name>HollyAnn</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry></feed>
