<?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-5318206088043574873</id><updated>2011-11-27T16:24:41.503-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Cater to the willing.</title><subtitle type='html'></subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Chalki</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15462116432273864378</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SejdVSrmXtI/AAAAAAAAAHw/IHfippkZy4s/S220/Grumpy+as+shit.png'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>20</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5318206088043574873.post-3657267694732792286</id><published>2011-07-02T15:43:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-07-02T16:14:08.485-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Contradict me.</title><content type='html'>So, my mind is all over the place and the only time I ever have a chance to put abnything in order is when I'm in an argument. In which case, it gets scrambled anyway, jumping from subject to subject.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We should both be happy. That's what it boils down to. I want friends, because that's normal and me being a whore isn't an excuse. It's a cop-out. What's the accomplishment of being the most important to me, if there's only one or two other people in my life? Friends also let me talk and they care about all the shit I say that you don't. It's that simple. You asked me not to get friends just because I'm lonely, but I'm not. I'm getting them because you're not being my friend and I need those.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You need them too. That's why you have them. You flirt with your friends and you have fun and hang out with them, and I'm jealous of your friends because you don't do those things with me. Just because you got me doesn't mean you get to stop doing all the mundane stuff like joking around with me. You used to be excited to see me, you used to make time for me, and we used to be able to laugh together. I don't feel like myself anymore. I feel like a worn down version 8.0 of Open Office that didn't need to be upgraded in the first place.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm loyal. &lt;br /&gt;I was happy with you to begin with.&lt;br /&gt;We talked and got along.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But now--&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm unfaithful?&lt;br /&gt;We're unhappy more than happy?&lt;br /&gt;We don't talk much, mainly because it starts arguments.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Let's just try to trust each other. I'm such a guilty person that anything I do wrong I would tell you about anyway. I would never cheat. I like to think you wouldn't either.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We like each other. We're just too sensitive to each other that we get offended by everything.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ultimately it comes down to this.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am in love with you.&lt;br /&gt;I like having friends.&lt;br /&gt;I like having hobbies that include other people. Like art collaberations, and talking about books I've read. Playing video games together. I can do those things with you, but you not wanting to do them doesn't mean I don't want to still.&lt;br /&gt;I like helping people-- it makes me feel useful. I don't like touching them, or sharing anything but advice with them-- I don't want to connect on a deeper level, I just want to help them. Sometimes I wish people would do the same for me.&lt;br /&gt;I want to tutor people. Not because I'm a whore, but because I like helping, I like teaching. I don't like lots of people, I hate most of them, so I don't want to help everyone. Just the ones who couldn't get help otherwise.&lt;br /&gt;I wish you would try and talk to my friends. Maybe then you'd accept them.&lt;br /&gt;I want to do everything with you, but you're busy and one day I will be, too. So I want you to schedule in time for me.&lt;br /&gt;I want to hang out with just you sometimes. No phone, no computer, no other people. Just the two of us. Where I can enjoy just you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I love you. But we do have things to work on. We probably always will. I want to work on trust. Us trusting each other.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5318206088043574873-3657267694732792286?l=ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/feeds/3657267694732792286/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5318206088043574873&amp;postID=3657267694732792286' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/3657267694732792286'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/3657267694732792286'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/2011/07/contradict-me.html' title='Contradict me.'/><author><name>Chalki</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15462116432273864378</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SejdVSrmXtI/AAAAAAAAAHw/IHfippkZy4s/S220/Grumpy+as+shit.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5318206088043574873.post-6409718321067799258</id><published>2010-09-16T19:08:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2010-09-16T19:08:56.724-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Even the URL is good.</title><content type='html'>http://users.aristotle.net/~diogenes/meaning1.htm&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5318206088043574873-6409718321067799258?l=ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/feeds/6409718321067799258/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5318206088043574873&amp;postID=6409718321067799258' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/6409718321067799258'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/6409718321067799258'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/2010/09/even-url-is-good.html' title='Even the URL is good.'/><author><name>Chalki</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15462116432273864378</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SejdVSrmXtI/AAAAAAAAAHw/IHfippkZy4s/S220/Grumpy+as+shit.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5318206088043574873.post-1011863781542264674</id><published>2010-09-15T19:05:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2010-09-15T19:05:56.210-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I like things.</title><content type='html'>Here, then, is what I was able to note immediately after the decapitation: the eyelids and lips of the guillotined man worked in irregularly rhythmic contractions for about five or six seconds . I waited for several seconds. The spasmodic movements ceased.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The face relaxed, the lids half closed on the eyeballs, leaving only the white of the conjunctiva visible, exactly as in the dying whom we have occasion to see every day in the exercise of our profession, or as in those just dead.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was then that I called in a strong, sharp voice: 'Languille!' I saw the eyelids slowly lift up, without any spasmodic contractions . Next Languille's eyes very definitely fixed themselves on mine and the pupils focused themselves . After several seconds, the eyelids closed again, slowly and evenly, and the head took on the same appearance as it had had before I called out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was at that point that I called out again and, once more, without any spasm, slowly, the eyelids lifted and undeniably living eyes fixed themselves on mine with perhaps even more penetration than the first time. Then there was a further closing of the eyelids, but now less complete. I attempted the effect of a third call; there was no further movement and the eyes took on the glazed look which they have in the dead.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have just recounted to you with rigorous exactness what I was able to observe. The whole thing had lasted twenty-five to thirty seconds.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-Dr. Beaurieux, Archives d'Anthropologie Criminelle, June 28th, 1905&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5318206088043574873-1011863781542264674?l=ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/feeds/1011863781542264674/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5318206088043574873&amp;postID=1011863781542264674' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/1011863781542264674'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/1011863781542264674'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/2010/09/i-like-things.html' title='I like things.'/><author><name>Chalki</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15462116432273864378</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SejdVSrmXtI/AAAAAAAAAHw/IHfippkZy4s/S220/Grumpy+as+shit.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5318206088043574873.post-6687976163131839815</id><published>2010-05-07T10:38:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-05-07T10:40:00.396-07:00</updated><title type='text'>So apparently, no.</title><content type='html'>You ever have one of those moments where you wonder why you ever really talk at all? Because no matter what you do or say, someone takes it wrong? I've had that feeling a lot lately, man I need to stop pissing people off.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Myself included.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5318206088043574873-6687976163131839815?l=ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/feeds/6687976163131839815/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5318206088043574873&amp;postID=6687976163131839815' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/6687976163131839815'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/6687976163131839815'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/2010/05/so-apparently-no.html' title='So apparently, no.'/><author><name>Chalki</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15462116432273864378</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SejdVSrmXtI/AAAAAAAAAHw/IHfippkZy4s/S220/Grumpy+as+shit.png'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5318206088043574873.post-4498912337455736613</id><published>2009-09-05T22:41:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2009-09-05T22:41:51.744-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I don't have room for feeling, apparently.</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-size: 78%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;"&gt;Myer-Briggs has a personality test more commonly known as the 'MBTI'. When you're a student in high school you're given this as an in-class assignment to figure out your personality type and some major careers it thinks you would do best in or should pursue. There's a four letter sequence you receive and a total of eight letters to choose from. The eight letters are I/E, S/N, T/F, P/J. For each set, you can only get one letter. They translate to: Introvert/Extrovert, Sensing/Intuitive, Thinking/Feeling, Perceive/Judge.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;"&gt;This test you take required you answer a lot of random situation questions and based on your choice of a), b), c), or e), you are given a type. The first time, I got 'ENTP', but I felt like I was half and half on one of my answers, so I switched it and received 'INTJ'. The constant is 'Intuitive Thinker'. During a conversation with a close friend of mine, I was explaining that I think a lot, but not about anything worthwhile, nothing with depth or importance. While she thought about major issues, or even small things but she had great detail in her thought processes. I was shocked, because she was an INFP, which means she feels more than she thinks, and given how much she thinks, she must feel a LOT. So she points out to me that if I don't think very much and what not, and I got 'Thinker', how much does that tell you I feel?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;"&gt;This was a concerning discovery and I always knew I was emotionally retarded, but this kind of just pointed out to what extent. My most common thoughts are;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;"&gt;'What's the point?' and&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;"&gt;'If I told you out loud that I don't care, would you stop talking?'&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;"&gt;I'm concerned about my future, except, not really. I'm not concerned. It's just a vague concept that resembles 'I wonder if I'll ever have an intimate relationship if I can't bring myself to care about someone enough to 'deal' with them on a daily basis'. I might undergo some hypno-therapy to see if I can find a way to cope with not loving people, or at least pin-point when I stopped.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5318206088043574873-4498912337455736613?l=ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/feeds/4498912337455736613/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5318206088043574873&amp;postID=4498912337455736613' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/4498912337455736613'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/4498912337455736613'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/2009/09/i-dont-have-room-for-feeling-apparently_05.html' title='I don&apos;t have room for feeling, apparently.'/><author><name>Chalki</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15462116432273864378</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SejdVSrmXtI/AAAAAAAAAHw/IHfippkZy4s/S220/Grumpy+as+shit.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5318206088043574873.post-7734196336356153643</id><published>2009-02-15T12:15:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-09-05T22:38:36.468-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Let's do a major mind sweep.</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"  &gt;My mother. She is synonymous with the words 'hectic', 'chaos', 'martyr', 'memory of convenience'. Let's explain that, yeah? Whenever she comes over, there's so much static in the air that it's both suffocating and insufferable. Somehow, she's trying to see who else will take her on, to see if their electricity snaps with hers the right way. Mine always does, the only difference is that my electricity starts fires and hers just fries everything it comes into contact with. Except me, it seems. She's endlessly not satisfied, there's always something wrong when she's here, it's almost like we've formed split personalities so that when she comes over we don't have to deal with her shit- and the thing is, she notices it, and even though we're doing what she always tells us to do, that's not good enough either. Say, for example, I never put my dishes in the dish washer. When she bitches at me, I decide I'll only do it when she comes over, so she comes over, I do it, and she has a problem with it. 'Oh, so NOW you put them away, now that I had to talk to you about it?' and I think 'yeah, that's right' because I wouldn't have done it if she hadn't said something. So, she says something, I do what she asked, and because I'm doing what she asked, she's mad. Somehow it makes her 'seem like a bad guy'. That was an example. An example of something that happened, but none the less.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She told me I was a mistake, years ago, and it came up in an argument. She says 'I don't remember that'. She never remembers when she hurts someone else, but she remembers when they hurt her. I had even asked 'do you mean 'accident'?' And she said 'no, a mistake.' After I told her that, she said 'well, you were a mistake. We didn't plan well and the real mistake was telling you that.' I see. The real mistake has nothing to do with how you were never our mother, you were our therapist, our very own private God if you will. She's so conniving. I don't get it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She disowned me. Said 'You just burnt this bridge' after she said 'I'll respect you if you get off your fat ass and do something' and I replied 'That's how I feel ['about you' was implied]'. In the same argument, my brother told her she was dead to him, and she came over two weeks later, announcing that those things never happened. I told her what she said, and how I don't want to be nice to her, and she said 'I don't remember that'. She said 'I apologize' and I said 'I don't accept. I don't know what you're apologizing for. Besides, what the hell is an 'apology'? Are you SORRY? Are you taking responsibilityity for what you did?'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;'No, I don't remember saying it, so I'm not sorry.'&lt;br /&gt;'Do you think I'm lying to you?'&lt;br /&gt;'No, I just don't remember.'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm done with not being angry at people who forget things. FUCK that. I'm so tired of that. I'm angry for so long and then they just don't remember and I'm supposed to let it go? What else can I do with it? No. She said she was sorry for hurting my feelings, later, and explained why she's been so hostile.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;'When you came back from Utah, you stayed the night with Elizabeth on your first day back. I was so angry because I had been the one who helped you get home and I felt betrayed.'&lt;br /&gt;'Mom? I called and asked if it was okay with you.'&lt;br /&gt;'You're twenty-one, you make your own decisions.'&lt;br /&gt;'No, mom, I wasn't asking for permission. I was asking if it was OKAY with YOU if I went with Liz.'&lt;br /&gt;'Oh. I didn't realize.'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Of course not. No one asks. I wonder if they realize how simple I am. I wonder if anyone really realized how simple I am. My characters are complex because I'm jealous that I'm not. I'm a code and if you can decode me, I'm the easiest thing in the world. No one realizes that if you ask me a blunt question, I'll give you a blunt answer.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;'Do you love me?'&lt;br /&gt;'Yes.'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;'Do you want my body?'&lt;br /&gt;'Yes.'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;'Why are you so nice to me?'&lt;br /&gt;'Because I care about you. I'm not nice to people who don't mean anything to me.'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;---&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm very pointed about things. I won't have sex unless it means something to me. I won't kiss someone unless they mean something to me. I've counted the amount of times I've kissed someone romantically, I've counted who I've kissed, know their names. Anyone I'm fumbled around with, I have them counted. Anyone who has made it to level four or five. I know the first and last names of everyone who has ever meant a lot to me and I know all the people I've had crushes on since kindergarden. I keep track so that I know. Every single person that I care about will be in my life forever because I keep them there.  If I were a presidential candidate, every single vote counts, everytime.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I keep track of what is important to the people who are important to me. I keep track of what they want from life, ideals they have, and usually, I can even remember very small details that even I'm surprised about. I have the ability to be the best friend you could ever have. I can do these things, because that's important to me. If I care about you enough to treat you well, I want to be your favorite person and I will try forever until that happens and then I'll keep it that way. (Significant others excluded. It would suck if someone liked their best friend more than their arm ornament.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm really bad in relationships. I've never really built a relationship level in the same way I've built friendship levels. So I treat them the same, but I don't know what I'm allowed to do and so I don't do anything at all. Am I allowed to hug? Kiss? Can I hold your hand in public? Can I do anything I want in public? Do I have to ask you before I do something? If your parents already know me, should I still meet them? If I don't know them, is it too soon? I can touch people well, and it's not difficult to bring someone to climax, and if I've had enough time to feel at ease around you, I will do those things, but... is it okay that in the mean time, I don't want you to hang on me? If you're not okay with that, is it something we should break up over, or is it something we both have to compromise over? I mean, it's my body, so should I have to compromise just because you want to touch me? Does the fact that we're dating have influence over that?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm confused about a lot of things. Supposedly, after the term 'sex' was defined, I've had it with girls before. Sex is engaging in a sexual activity where one or more parties has an orgasm. Sexual intercourse is inserting (usually the penis) and object into (usually the vagina/anus) orafice. Having sex requires movement, thrusts, release, etc. This was very helpful, because some people don't realize that I really had no idea what sex was considered among two women and thus, partially why I'm afraid of having a same-sex relationship. I don't want a relationship in which I don't know what the bases are, e.g. first, second, third, home run.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've come to a conclusion about the type of love I want. I want to have a love where I can be whoever I am, no matter if it's the violent malicious me, or if it's the shy person. I can be cold and calculating, and I can be sadistic or masochistic and I can love it when you make me feel disgusting, I can be happy and cheerful and dopy and I might (rarely) cry. I can be jealous and lost and always confused about something, but I'm always using the same brain and rationaliztions.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I want someone who can handle me well. That's all.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;---&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Elizabeth is moving to Korea. When I was younger, I used to smash faces in with my bloody knuckles and I would laugh and I felt no remorse and I met her and gave it all up. You can't change the inside, but you can halt actions and sometimes dull reactions, and I've tried so hard, but I'm really scared. Firstly, of losing her. That's way above any other concerns. I'm scared. I'm going to miss her a lot. She's the person who knows me best and I want her to be happy and I want to not hold her back and so she's going and I love her and I'm going to write to her every couple of days once she's gone.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Second. What if I revert? Since the muzzle has been removed from the dog, does it know not to bite? Or does it not realize that when provoked it may snap back on instinct? I worry too much. Usually about things involving my friends and their mental health.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;---&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I live in the middle of no where and I can't get a job but I have things I need to pay for and this is pissing me right the fuck off.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm probably going to start working weekends in Bellevue, when Liz brings me down. Least I'll have some money coming in. It'll be better. More comfortable for Dad, then, too.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;---&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm really sad that Emily and I are no longer well acquainted. This has hurt my feelings a lot and now that I'm distanced from it, I'm able to say that. I didn't cry, but I felt this sense of numbing and I kind of nod now, wondering why it took so long, thankful that I'd had as long as I did.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;---&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm over Andrew. Now I'm just trying to be his friend. Sometimes I remember why I liked him so much, and there's a throb, but that's slowly ebbing away, too. It's hard to extract yourself from something when it's all around.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;---&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think I have a crush on three girls right now, and it's impossible with all of them. Distance, closeness, and proximity. These are all the reasons. They're all too good for me, anyway. I like them intimidating, so it makes sense this way. Heh. Too bad, though, that's just more people to get over.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;---&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I like a guy who is so bad for me. I think we're both bored of each other. It's too bad. But we still want each other. How stubborn can you get?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;---&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I used to be fearless when I was young.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;---&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm going to become fearless.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;---&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm okay.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5318206088043574873-7734196336356153643?l=ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/feeds/7734196336356153643/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5318206088043574873&amp;postID=7734196336356153643' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/7734196336356153643'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/7734196336356153643'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/2009/02/lets-do-major-mind-sweep.html' title='Let&apos;s do a major mind sweep.'/><author><name>Chalki</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15462116432273864378</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SejdVSrmXtI/AAAAAAAAAHw/IHfippkZy4s/S220/Grumpy+as+shit.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5318206088043574873.post-5996645712382658235</id><published>2008-11-27T09:10:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-11-27T09:26:33.467-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Call in the cavalry.</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;Hi. My name is Christina and I've kind of been in a rut. It started a few months ago and has been continually getting worse and worse. For a while there, I thought I was over it. For a while there, I was, but then this brick wall presented itself to me and I was unsure of what to do. I can't climb it, I cannot walk around it, so I bashed my head against it until it crumbled to the ground and I lied beneath the rubble, bleeding, and confused and probably bounding on mental retardation for a while. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;So many bad things happened at once that I was back to square one, wondering how the fuck I was going to get out of this one. I'd been struggling, had been trying to figure out what to do, and thanks to some of my friends, I realized that I was the problem. I have this secretive issue, and I also have this lying concern. I don't worry about that last one so much anymore, I've been working on it a lot and I've gotten some very good and very bad results. Everything that happened, I completely deserved, so I didn't blame anyone and I wasn't offended, I was just sad. It is my fault that a lot of this stuff has happened, but no one knew that until I told them so. I guess I was idealistic to think that coming clean to my friends was worth something. I thought that if they knew I thought they were worth it, and that they knew I was trying to get better, we could try and work something out. Some people did not feel that way, and naturally, I have to respect that. After all, I don't want to be friends with someone who doesn't want to be friends with me.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;'Friends' came into question. The word and the definition. I don't have to talk to someone often to consider them my friend. I could go months without talking to someone and still consider them my friend because I trust that when the two of us aren't busy and we have time, I believe we'll fill in the blanks. For some friends, they don't agree. They think you have to be an active part of their life in order to be considered a friend. We don't see eye to eye because my heart loves people, not my brain. Even if I was mad at them, if they apologized, I'd be okay with it because I care about them.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;I don't see a lot of my friends very often at all. My closest friend, I live near and still don't see her as much as I'd like. I'm probably the one to blame for that. We're not talking right now, but she responded when I wished her a Happy Thanksgiving, so at least she doesn't detest me. My second closest friend (currently my closest?), the person I talk to most often, I don't even live in the same state as her, or even the same coast, but I consider us close. I keep a lot of things from her, and she dislikes it with fervor, but I just don't like sharing a lot about myself. I believe that if anyone really knew me, I'd be completely alone. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;I want to get closer with the friends I have now. Certain individuals, not all of them. S, E, A, A, G, E. Six people. One of them doesn't consider me a friend. One of them thinks it just takes time, and I hope that one day, we'll be able to be closer than just the internet. I want to spend more time with two of them, and I want to share more about myself with another. Lastly, I want one of them to share important things with me. I want all of them to do that, but this last one is important. He doesn't have anyone else.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;Being a disappointment isn't fun.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;Happy Thanksgiving, I leave in three days for Utah.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5318206088043574873-5996645712382658235?l=ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/feeds/5996645712382658235/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5318206088043574873&amp;postID=5996645712382658235' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/5996645712382658235'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/5996645712382658235'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/2008/11/call-in-cavalry.html' title='Call in the cavalry.'/><author><name>Chalki</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15462116432273864378</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SejdVSrmXtI/AAAAAAAAAHw/IHfippkZy4s/S220/Grumpy+as+shit.png'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5318206088043574873.post-6018248882673567527</id><published>2008-10-12T00:39:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2008-10-12T00:39:44.491-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Wao.</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" &gt;Not really.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5318206088043574873-6018248882673567527?l=ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/feeds/6018248882673567527/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5318206088043574873&amp;postID=6018248882673567527' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/6018248882673567527'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/6018248882673567527'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/2008/10/wao.html' title='Wao.'/><author><name>Chalki</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15462116432273864378</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SejdVSrmXtI/AAAAAAAAAHw/IHfippkZy4s/S220/Grumpy+as+shit.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5318206088043574873.post-4084062853219355192</id><published>2008-10-06T13:56:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2008-10-06T15:44:06.724-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Wow.</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" &gt;A bunch of friends and I had a whole bunch of large conversations last night. They were pretty important sounding, and I, being one who asks until she understands, or has a lot of rebuttal, I believe it was my fault. It started with a game of Rockband and after two comments, the last being 'okay, I'm still really upset about...' I cut in and said 'Alright, what about it? Are you going to do something, or just talk? We don't have to play anymore if it's so frustrating.' She began to respond saying 'but' and I cut in again saying 'are we playing, or not?' and she said 'I guess not'. So we stopped.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then ensues a huge multiple hour conversation where I'm told to butt-out many times, thinking often about how much of a hypocrite all of them are. Telling me to shush, even after all the times they got into mine, or anyone else's business and justified it. Fuck that. Fuck them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I started a list. This one is pretty important. I don't want to forget why the person I care about most dislikes me, so I started a journal on it, in hopes of never forgetting since somehow I can't apologize.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Lots of drama. A little less than an hour of roller-blading. Fury. Fear of the dark. Sobbing. A horrible stomach ache. Pounding migraine. I'm a fucking mess. I don't want anyone to talk to me ever so that I don't have to think at all. People are so hard to be around, my logic doesn't coencide with their logic and I'm the one who's wrong, but I just don't get it and I want it explained and it isn't. Instead, it's this isn't your business and you're being too invasive and really, what's so wrong with wanting to understand where someone is coming from? I wasn't arguing because I didn't agree, I was arguing because I didn't understand why they wanted what they wanted, why that was the best solution, I didn't get it. It didn't make sense. I guess it doesn't matter if it makes sense to me, does it?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm not a part of the group anymore. I haven't been for a long time. I'm the one who did it, aren't I? I don't mind that I'm not anymore, I don't mind not having the people- they were rude and in my face and made me feel stupid. Telling me 'you don't know what you're talking about' or 'I know (insert name) better than you' and who the hell cares? The drama wasn't worth the laughter.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now, I just miss being a part of something. I'll have to find a niche again. I'll have to do something, or I'll end up shutting everyone out. Somehow, I think I already have.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5318206088043574873-4084062853219355192?l=ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/feeds/4084062853219355192/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5318206088043574873&amp;postID=4084062853219355192' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/4084062853219355192'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/4084062853219355192'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/2008/10/wow.html' title='Wow.'/><author><name>Chalki</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15462116432273864378</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SejdVSrmXtI/AAAAAAAAAHw/IHfippkZy4s/S220/Grumpy+as+shit.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5318206088043574873.post-8059928021085240432</id><published>2008-09-30T16:43:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-09-30T16:54:29.675-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The world ends with me.</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" &gt;Got kicked out. Not as pleasant as I was hoping. Tried to settle the college business, tried to get mom off my back and stop breathing hot, disgusting, cigarette-smelling air down my neck. I caved, and I called Grandma, begged her to do this for me, and the phone was dying so I said I'd call her back. All mom talked about was -her- credit, not caring about mine or anyone else's, of course not, she only cares about what happens to her. Grandma was supposed to pay for it all to begin with, so why she isn't, I don't understand.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I get off the phone and mom starts a rant about something or other, about how I'm not responsible and how I never will be, and how ungrateful I am that she's doing all this for me, paying my bills. I ask her, 'am I not paying you back? Am I not trying to take the stress off you by doing the one embarassing thing I said I wouldn't do?' And she says that if I'd done what I was told in the first place, this never would've happened, and I get angry. 'I didn't do it then, I'm trying to fix it now, what the hell else do you want?'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;'Some appreciation.' She started an argument with me, 'just' to get 'some appreciation'. It doesn't seem rational. Of course I'm thankful, she's covering my ass when it shouldn't need covering and I'm pissed too, and I'm angry and I'm in the same position she is, except I don't get money automatically every month because I don't claim social security. I actually work to get what I want.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The conversation escalates, we're talking louder, and she's just so mad about how irresponsible I am and I say 'OKAY! So I'm irresponsible, I'm trying to fix it, what are we even talking about?' And we repeat the same thing, she says that if I'd done what I was supposed to to begin with- you see where I'm going, so she starts insulting me, my intelligence and finally, I'm like 'I'm doing the best that I can to make up for it, to set things right, holy shit, you need to back off.'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;'Don't you tell me what to do.'&lt;br /&gt;'Are you kidding me? Shut the hell up.'&lt;br /&gt;'Don't you tell me to shut up.'&lt;br /&gt;'Shut up.'&lt;br /&gt;'Get out.'&lt;br /&gt;'No.'&lt;br /&gt;'Or I'll have the police escort you.'&lt;br /&gt;'Fine. So long as you count this as throwing me out.'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She gets angry. I go pack my things. She watches me, neutrally comments if something falls, puts my blankets in trash bags and takes my stuff outside. I take the rest out and when I'm turning to get my skates, she slams the door closed after saying 'Don't call or come back until you can treat me with respect.'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can't. But I want my skates. They belong to me. I'm getting them back if I have to call the police because I'm so sick of her winning by technicality. It's frustrating. So I'm going to play by the rules and get what I want.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5318206088043574873-8059928021085240432?l=ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/feeds/8059928021085240432/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5318206088043574873&amp;postID=8059928021085240432' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/8059928021085240432'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/8059928021085240432'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/2008/09/world-ends-with-me.html' title='The world ends with me.'/><author><name>Chalki</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15462116432273864378</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SejdVSrmXtI/AAAAAAAAAHw/IHfippkZy4s/S220/Grumpy+as+shit.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5318206088043574873.post-4240741647924914309</id><published>2008-09-30T00:25:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-09-30T00:44:28.904-07:00</updated><title type='text'>John dies at the end.</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" &gt;http://www.johndiesattheend.com/1-1.html&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My mother and I got into a 'fight' today. I say 'fight' because she was the one being stupid. There's a problem with my college, we called them and we tried to discuss these payments and we kept getting hung up on and I seriously believe there's a conspiracy going on when it comes to that matter, but my mom was freaking out and she keeps telling me it's not my fault and I know that but I wanted her to know I still felt bad. So I said just that. 'I'm sorry mom, I feel really bad about this.' And then she went and did it. I have this problem, if you phrase things incorrectly, I get pissed off to no end. If you say it right, there's always a right way and you could say anything to me and I would never get offended if you said it just the right way. So she asks me, the way girls have a tendency of pushing something and says 'For what?'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She's not stupid, completely, and so I'm irritated. She should know what I feel bad about, I feel bad about the entire situation, but I'm angry that I'm getting punished for something that 'isn't [my] fault' so I say "You know what? Never mind, Fuck this, I'm going to play on Jon's computer" and so I go and I do. A bit later, she pops out of her room and says "By the way, Colleen called about a job for you, and you need to look for another place to live." Which pisses me off further and I call Colleen. She doesn't answer cause she isn't home so I take the present I got for her daughter and walk over to her house to wait. I stay with the child for a bit and then leave because her mother wasn't there and as I get to the bottom of the stairs and start heading home I hear my mom's voice saying 'So are we going to talk about this, or what?'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I ask what we have to talk about, and she says my 'snippy' attitude. The discussion turns into an argument out in the open and I wonder why she has to make such a spectacle out of the event. She tells me the reason I can't live with her anymore is because I never agree with her. We never have the same opinions and I laughed at her, that's stupid, isn't it? We're two different people, of course we don't, but she reiterates, saying 'NEVER have the same opinions' and as far as I'm concerned, who cares? So I say 'Fine, I'll move out.'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Mom: No one said you have to.&lt;br /&gt;Me: I'm not living with someone who doesn't want me to live with them, and yes you did.&lt;br /&gt;Mom: No, I didn't.&lt;br /&gt;Me: Then, I guess, that's just your opinion.&lt;br /&gt;Mom: Fine. I'm the bad guy and you can just blame everything on me, I'm the one who kicked you out and made you go and-&lt;br /&gt;Me: Yeah, you are, and yes, I will blame it all on you.&lt;br /&gt;Mom: Because you're an adult and you refuse to take responsibility-&lt;br /&gt;Me: No, mom, I'm not an adult.&lt;br /&gt;Mom: You don't act like one or take respon-&lt;br /&gt;Me: Cause I'm still a kid, I know.&lt;br /&gt;Mom: You're not a kid, just not an adult.&lt;br /&gt;Me: Then what does that make me, an old person?&lt;br /&gt;Mom: There you go again with that attitude. You need to find new living arrangements.&lt;br /&gt;Me: Does that count as you telling me to leave?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;No answer.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, I'm moving out, and fuck her, and I'm going to have to quit my job and live with my dad. In the mean time, it's stressful and I appreciate everyone's patience with me. I'm sorry.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5318206088043574873-4240741647924914309?l=ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/feeds/4240741647924914309/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5318206088043574873&amp;postID=4240741647924914309' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/4240741647924914309'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/4240741647924914309'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/2008/09/john-dies-at-end.html' title='John dies at the end.'/><author><name>Chalki</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15462116432273864378</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SejdVSrmXtI/AAAAAAAAAHw/IHfippkZy4s/S220/Grumpy+as+shit.png'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5318206088043574873.post-8023962862331765314</id><published>2008-09-29T01:19:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-09-29T01:42:14.831-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Treat others the way you would like to be treated.</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SOCUIlb6rRI/AAAAAAAAAGM/nqYUbCMIwAs/s1600-h/31978-1178315924.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SOCUIlb6rRI/AAAAAAAAAGM/nqYUbCMIwAs/s320/31978-1178315924.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251360040723066130" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" &gt;Life is weird right now. My mom's body is slowly breaking down over the sudden weight gain and she's having a hard time dealing with her. Her marriage has been failing for years and it's slowly, slowly, coming to a close. I'm happy for her and him, hoping it will be over soon even though neither of them really knows how to stop or how to move on or even let go. They just don't get it. If they can't be friends then they need to walk away. If they can't even act friendly, why even bother? She's so bitter that she drives him away whenever he tries to do better and he's so done with it that he's beginning to give up on his attempts, and she doesn't understand. He'll call her on the phone and all she'll talk about is how he never calls. When he finally does, he gets a lecture about it and so of course he's not going to want to chit-chat with her on the telephone anymore because it gets nowhere. She's stuck in a rut and he just wants to carry on life the way it was and she refuses to have it. I don't blame either of them for what they're doing, I can't, but I wish they'd go about their business in other ways. This could end classier than they think.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" &gt;Mom's been cr&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" &gt;ying a bunch lately. We almost got evicted because of the brother I constantly refrain from mentioning because he's been buying drugs and saying it's for his mother. We have under cover police in the apartments I live in (They're not 'hood' but they're technically 'the projects') and on Saturday, we were going to be raided and kicked out. She doesn't do drugs anymore, so all they'd find was paraphernalia and that's not a big enough offense,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" &gt; not enough to be put in a holding cell even. She's torn up about it because that means the people at the office had it out for her. This is why they were a little bit reluctant to put me on the lease again if we were getting kicked out the next day. After I left the office, mom stayed and was told about this. She ended up giving a lot of information about who -should- be removed. We all know who they are, if the police are stupid enough not to know, fuck them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SOCUOJyzbvI/AAAAAAAAAGU/O6N_1H9aAao/s1600-h/82924-1178315108.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SOCUOJyzbvI/AAAAAAAAAGU/O6N_1H9aAao/s320/82924-1178315108.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251360136382082802" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" &gt;I'm tired, a little, or, I have been for a while. Not lazy, just sleepy. I mean, I get like, five hours and then go to work and return and try to relax and post in the mean time and then I get five hours sleep and I'm running on E, it sucks. But, I want everyone I care about to know, or think at least, that I'm putting in an effort to see or talk to them. I don't think everyone quite understands just how much of a mess I am and if they did, I imagine they'd be more lenient, or at least more accepting of the circumstances. I want to soak into someone and let them take care of m&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" &gt;e. Sounds the best and I'm sure someone would be willing, I know enough people who like me to be able to find someone and explain that I'd like to use them for as long as it takes to get back up on my feet.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SOCUg5Up6oI/AAAAAAAAAGc/tuZ0Id3tX3k/s1600-h/th_45839.gif"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SOCUg5Up6oI/AAAAAAAAAGc/tuZ0Id3tX3k/s320/th_45839.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251360458378177154" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" &gt;I don't&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" &gt; know why but I feel like no one loves me, even though I'm consciously aware of it. I used to feel enveloped in another persons presence, used to be sated with minimal efforts on another persons part and now it's just not cutting it. It's like I'm wearing myself thin and I used to be okay with not getting much back in return, so long as people understood that I cared about them and now I'm just so fed up with getting nothing or very small amounts and it's &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" &gt;killing me. Am I not worth it? Am I too much of a bother? Is it because I lost myself somewhere along the way? Does no one understand that it hurts when they don't try to be a friend? It's not hard, even. It's starting the conversation when I don't, it's saying hello when you think of me, stupid little things that make a world of a difference and if it's so hard, then why talk to me at all? What good am I to you if you can't do these things for me? I'm not thinking of any one person or any one time in particular, just generally speaking.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" &gt;I wish that I wasn't feeling like this, feeling like I'm dreaming, I hate being Lucid, I don't like the idea and the state and I don't even want to get up some mornings. I don't cry, no, I'm done with that. I'm so far from letting this hurt me that I'm begging other people to gi&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" &gt;ve me a moment of relief, to treat me better for just one second so that I can breathe. I want to be happy and energetic when you can't and I want to listen to you when you talk, I want to be serious when you need me to be and I want you to do the same. What am I asking for that isn't assumed already when you become 'friends' with someone else? Is it selfish? Fine. I guess I'll be selfish then.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SOCUxooccSI/AAAAAAAAAGk/L3gmfl4Hvug/s1600-h/th_z4757417.png"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SOCUxooccSI/AAAAAAAAAGk/L3gmfl4Hvug/s320/th_z4757417.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251360745955553570" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" &gt;&lt;br /&gt;If you can't give back what I give to you, and it's because you literally -can't-, that's fine. If you won't &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" &gt;give it back to me because it's tedious or something is always in the way or there's never time or you just feel like you can't give it to me completely so you won't at all- burn in hell. Burn, in fucking hell, and don't you ever open your mouth to me if I fail you at something. I try harder than most people to do my best for the people I care about, and if you haven't noticed, I'm not doing ask much as I used to. I'm trying to return what's given to me. I am following the golden rule.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5318206088043574873-8023962862331765314?l=ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/feeds/8023962862331765314/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5318206088043574873&amp;postID=8023962862331765314' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/8023962862331765314'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/8023962862331765314'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/2008/09/treat-others-way-you-would-like-to-be.html' title='Treat others the way you would like to be treated.'/><author><name>Chalki</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15462116432273864378</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SejdVSrmXtI/AAAAAAAAAHw/IHfippkZy4s/S220/Grumpy+as+shit.png'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SOCUIlb6rRI/AAAAAAAAAGM/nqYUbCMIwAs/s72-c/31978-1178315924.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5318206088043574873.post-7739039816466251166</id><published>2008-09-26T13:32:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-09-29T01:44:49.279-07:00</updated><title type='text'>So extremely pissed.</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SN1J8gMFu4I/AAAAAAAAAFs/TYPB3b8ML4M/s1600-h/12407344.png"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SN1J8gMFu4I/AAAAAAAAAFs/TYPB3b8ML4M/s320/12407344.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250434044365486978" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"  &gt;I wasn't having a bad day, just, not a good one either. It was one of those days where you're neutral and with the right influence it could go either way. I got home and my brother explains that he bought me Crisis core and I was incredibly excited. I thanked him and I was told they even bought me subway for lunch.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The whole way home as I roller bladed, I'd been planning what to do with the rest of my afternoon. I got off at twelve, decided I'd change into my shoes once I got home and go to the office to sign on the lease again. Then I thought I'd take a nap since I've been really tired.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, I got home and all these good thi&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"  &gt;ngs happen and then my dad tells me, gives me this ultimatum, that if I don't go to the &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"  &gt;office that I'm not allowed on the computer. He says similar things about me and a phone number, which I tell him- I have to get off the computer. So, angry now, because I hate it when people try and force me to do something, I stomp in my socks up to the office and say this;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"  &gt;"We received a threatening letter from you guys the other day, telling us that the rent would sky rocket if I didn't A) prove my current residency elsewhere or B) Move in. So, I can't prove I like somewhere else, so I guess I'm moving in."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SN1KDdUEG9I/AAAAAAAAAF0/QwkeEe_Ii-E/s1600-h/14543057.png"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SN1KDdUEG9I/AAAAAAAAAF0/QwkeEe_Ii-E/s320/14543057.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250434163852712914" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"  &gt;Woman: "Oh, all you have to do is give us a proof of residency."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Me: "OMG I just said I can't prove it, what the hell?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Woman: "Okay.... Well.... We're going to need your mo&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"  &gt;ther to sign you on."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So I mumble something about beating the shit out of someone soon (relative to when it was spoken) and I find my mom, outburst at her awkwardly and drag her up there, complaining the whole way. When we get inside, the lady is much nicer and says 'Oh, alright, I just wanted to talk to you (speaking to my mother) first before I did anything.' I wanted to kill her.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"  &gt;And my college is charging me for a third quarter even though I was put on academic probation for not logging on enough and then removed so I wasn't even able to log INTO my third quarter and they won't answer their GOD. DAMN. PHONES.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SOCVa22xebI/AAAAAAAAAGs/1-5u1-4Tb_4/s1600-h/th_8032025.png"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SOCVa22xebI/AAAAAAAAAGs/1-5u1-4Tb_4/s320/th_8032025.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251361454148385202" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"  &gt;NOT TO MENTION ALL THE BULLSHIT, oh so much bullshit. I'm so tired. I'm so sleepy, and instead I want to roleplay &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"  &gt;porn with a friend (you know who you are). I don't normally get that angry. I don't verbally speak heated at someone. I &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"  &gt;say cruel things, but never so feverish as I spewed at her.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"  &gt;This sucks. But hey! Dad just told me to start thinking about what I want for my birthday! Yaaaay. I want something cute, but inexpensive. Gotta think!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I love Pictochat.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"  &gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5318206088043574873-7739039816466251166?l=ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/feeds/7739039816466251166/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5318206088043574873&amp;postID=7739039816466251166' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/7739039816466251166'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/7739039816466251166'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/2008/09/so-extremely-pissed.html' title='So extremely pissed.'/><author><name>Chalki</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15462116432273864378</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SejdVSrmXtI/AAAAAAAAAHw/IHfippkZy4s/S220/Grumpy+as+shit.png'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SN1J8gMFu4I/AAAAAAAAAFs/TYPB3b8ML4M/s72-c/12407344.png' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5318206088043574873.post-4443683194999941931</id><published>2008-09-24T02:17:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2008-09-24T02:30:53.856-07:00</updated><title type='text'>And another thing!</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SNoITILloAI/AAAAAAAAAFE/RNXjAHOPkhk/s1600-h/1327857.gif"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SNoITILloAI/AAAAAAAAAFE/RNXjAHOPkhk/s320/1327857.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249517440360357890" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" &gt;Been busy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;With what? Nothing really. Oh, I mean, I've been role playing and that's definitely something so I suppose I lied. Aside from that, not much. I talk to people on MSN, don't hold many conversations and I sit in the house and Veg about nothing. I stood in my mom's bedroom today and told her about one of the RP's and danced around because I'm still so active and she was crawling into bed. Sad story, but very true.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My brother got a call from the guy I'm supposed to start dating and my mom gives me the phone and we talk about nothing in particular. I'm still upset about the fact that he had a panty party and people of the opposite gender were present and they were playing his guitar. Petty? A little. What can I say, he said he would wait and he hung out in his boxers with girls more attractive than me, what am I supposed to do? I'm not jealous, not really, if he d&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" &gt;oesn't want me then fine, but he shouldn't do things like that if he's 'waiting'. I dislike it when people don't do what they say they will.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" &gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm a little tired of some of my friendships, I'm slowly realizing. I become more fond of some a restless with others. I wonder how we got so far off track? We started off on the same path and now we're walking in opposite directions. Let me share something with you; If you like me more than I like you, we're having problems. I don't know how else to say it, I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings, I don't want to go out of my way to do it, but it's there, it's obvious and it's apparent; When you don't want to hug me, I'm more likely to want to hug you. So if you spend a long time wanting a hug from me and get it, I'm less and less willing to want to embrace you in return.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SNoIZgPI8yI/AAAAAAAAAFM/-7HPiRO3Jg8/s1600-h/6831730.png"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SNoIZgPI8yI/AAAAAAAAAFM/-7HPiRO3Jg8/s320/6831730.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249517549896921890" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" &gt;What's up with people hating on man hugs anyway? I want to be the man and I want to man to be the woman. We're reversed. I like it that way. So feel free to laugh about how I pat backs, just realize that I'm not going to change it and it makes me want to hug you even less than I already do.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" &gt;The only time it kills me to not be close with someone is when I'm talking to them. If they're far away or living life, I get upset when they try to include me, aware of the distance. If you're on another continent and you're bragging about something that occured, well goodness, I hope you get raped and die. I can't enjoy the moment with you because it'll make me insanely jealous or envious and if that's what you're looking for, be my guest.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SNoIrThbZ0I/AAAAAAAAAFU/oHjSiyiEZTw/s1600-h/14176619.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SNoIrThbZ0I/AAAAAAAAAFU/oHjSiyiEZTw/s320/14176619.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249517855721613122" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" &gt;I&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" &gt;'ve gotten into the habit of acting stupid/clumbsy/etc. so that people don't feel intimidated around me. It's ki&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" &gt;nd of hurting my public image but what can I really say, you know? The people I like are attracted to the intimidating side of me but it makes it hard to be around me, so I get that whole cutesy/loud/boisterous thing going and it works out relatively fine.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I lie a lot. I'm weird. Boo.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5318206088043574873-4443683194999941931?l=ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/feeds/4443683194999941931/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5318206088043574873&amp;postID=4443683194999941931' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/4443683194999941931'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/4443683194999941931'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/2008/09/and-another-thing.html' title='And another thing!'/><author><name>Chalki</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15462116432273864378</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SejdVSrmXtI/AAAAAAAAAHw/IHfippkZy4s/S220/Grumpy+as+shit.png'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SNoITILloAI/AAAAAAAAAFE/RNXjAHOPkhk/s72-c/1327857.gif' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5318206088043574873.post-8814588792673862288</id><published>2008-07-28T03:10:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-07-28T03:12:06.405-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Changing my myspace- wanna keep this.</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SI2bb4FF1yI/AAAAAAAAAEc/O_lSOjRSfLo/s1600-h/Icon.png"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SI2bb4FF1yI/AAAAAAAAAEc/O_lSOjRSfLo/s320/Icon.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228005645659526946" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;&lt;span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"&gt;Hello,&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"&gt;My heart is open, my mind is attentive, and my smile is permanent. My arms are wide and waiting for when you need them. Name a song, and I'll hum it to you when you're tired, give me the chance and I'll lie next to you.&lt;/span&gt;  &lt;span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"&gt;I love a lot.&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"&gt;I love completely.&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"&gt;I love you.&lt;/span&gt;  &lt;span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"&gt;Come,&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"&gt;Sit down and stay a while, let me bask in you, and when the stars and the clouds and the sky starts to fall, can I hold your hand so that I know this is real?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5318206088043574873-8814588792673862288?l=ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/feeds/8814588792673862288/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5318206088043574873&amp;postID=8814588792673862288' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/8814588792673862288'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/8814588792673862288'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/2008/07/changing-my-myspace-wanna-keep-this.html' title='Changing my myspace- wanna keep this.'/><author><name>Chalki</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15462116432273864378</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SejdVSrmXtI/AAAAAAAAAHw/IHfippkZy4s/S220/Grumpy+as+shit.png'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://bp3.blogger.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SI2bb4FF1yI/AAAAAAAAAEc/O_lSOjRSfLo/s72-c/Icon.png' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5318206088043574873.post-340204263268984817</id><published>2008-07-17T20:48:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-07-17T20:53:55.277-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Oh shit, what do I do now?</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SIATpgdMZwI/AAAAAAAAADk/0xc95MMMgOI/s1600-h/VM1.png"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SIATpgdMZwI/AAAAAAAAADk/0xc95MMMgOI/s320/VM1.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224197171557721858" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-size:78%;" &gt;I was talking with a close friend last night and with someone who didn't know my sitution very well. The latter asked me who the people I mentioned in my notes on Facebook were, and so I went into this huge explanation about who they were and what was going on and by the end of the conversation, she asked me about one of my long-distance close friends redeeming qualities and all I could do was stare at her.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;"She's loyal"&lt;/span&gt;, &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;'What, is she a dog?'&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;"She cares about her friends"&lt;/span&gt;, &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;'Who -doesn't- care about their -friends-?'&lt;/span&gt; And I didn't know what to say.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;"She's funny and can put up with me?"&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;'All of your friends do that. So why her specifically?'&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And then they asked &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;'Is it because you feel like she depends on you? Everyone likes to be needed, I get that.'&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SIATyLlOOaI/AAAAAAAAADs/nshHnvhaLLg/s1600-h/QUIT.png"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SIATyLlOOaI/AAAAAAAAADs/nshHnvhaLLg/s320/QUIT.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224197320573073826" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-size:78%;" &gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I thought about it, and I couldn't come up with an answer. Why was I friends with her? She's done some shitty things, so have I, but my friends can't make sense out of it and I need a better answer than 'because I want her'.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5318206088043574873-340204263268984817?l=ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/feeds/340204263268984817/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5318206088043574873&amp;postID=340204263268984817' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/340204263268984817'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/340204263268984817'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/2008/07/oh-shit-what-do-i-do-now.html' title='Oh shit, what do I do now?'/><author><name>Chalki</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15462116432273864378</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SejdVSrmXtI/AAAAAAAAAHw/IHfippkZy4s/S220/Grumpy+as+shit.png'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://bp0.blogger.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SIATpgdMZwI/AAAAAAAAADk/0xc95MMMgOI/s72-c/VM1.png' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5318206088043574873.post-8709152661674179714</id><published>2008-07-16T19:08:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-07-17T20:27:05.920-07:00</updated><title type='text'>What I want to keep.</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:78%;" &gt;Tonight, I went with a friend and we watched the sky on the cabin of a boat as we ate our Taco bell treats. I had forgotten my shoes, thinking of other things, and it was just a bit cold so I let her use my jacket. There were spiders leading from the fence we jumped all the way down the dock we walked across. It was quiet, and the only motion was that of people taking walks in the dark and a street light that constantly blinked red.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was hard to see her face, since the only lights were at our backs, but we smiled and laughed and she pointed out the big dipper. It was nice, how the vessel rocked with our movement, and there were no breezes, and it was peaceful.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She drove and the streets were empty, and Stars was in the CD player, singing in harmony as she stroked the back of my neck and steered with one hand. I went home with her, to play a video game but the television was preoccupied and so were we. Playing with the cat and falling asleep on each other, waking up with a slap fight. Once we were red and the marks were warm, we crawled into bed and cuddled. Her fingers trailed over my skin, until she hit my ticklish spot and I snorted, a war beginning. A treuce ended it, and was later betrayed. Giggles, and cut off words that ended in snickering, stroking down the bridge of a nose and minutes of hugging later, it was all interrupted.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The night was shot to hell. But the car ride home made it better. She was warm, and drove in a blanket because she didn't want to put pants on. I fit in with her.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But not with them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;---&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Hello, I'm that one girl that everyone claims to know, the one who smiles in your general direction and waves as if she or you mean something. I'm the quiet and still hour between sunset and sunrise, I'm cool sprinkles of rain on your over-heated face. I'm the feeling you get when you finally beat the boss of whatever video game you were playing- after having to put the controls down and walk away. I'm the white noise on your radio and the flutter in your heart after a kiss. I'm the girl who understands when no one else does and the one who seems to never be understood in return, I'm the child who cries in bed during a thunderstorm and the mother who wants desperately to go offer comfort. I'm the beating in your chest, I'm your last breath and the event it takes to open your eyes to the world. I'm unimpressive, complex and wonderful, and I want nothing to do with you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;---&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;table style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);" class="profileTable" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"&gt;&lt;tbody&gt;&lt;tr&gt; &lt;td class="data"&gt;&lt;div class="datawrap"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.facebook.com/s.php?adv&amp;amp;k=100000010&amp;amp;n=-1&amp;amp;cy=Joann%20Fabrics&amp;amp;o=4"&gt;Joann Fabrics&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/td&gt;&lt;/tr&gt;  &lt;tr&gt; &lt;td class="data"&gt;&lt;div class="datawrap"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;June 2008 - Present&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/td&gt;&lt;/tr&gt;   &lt;/tbody&gt;&lt;/table&gt; &lt;span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:78%;" &gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;table style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);" class="profileTable" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"&gt; &lt;tbody&gt;&lt;tr&gt; &lt;td class="data"&gt;&lt;div class="datawrap"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.facebook.com/s.php?adv&amp;amp;k=100000010&amp;amp;n=-1&amp;amp;cy=Dicks%20Drive-in%20on%20Broadway&amp;amp;o=4"&gt;Dicks Drive-in on Broadway&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/td&gt;&lt;/tr&gt;  &lt;tr&gt; &lt;td class="data"&gt;&lt;div class="datawrap"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;May 2007 - December 2007&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/td&gt;&lt;/tr&gt;   &lt;/tbody&gt;&lt;/table&gt; &lt;span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:78%;" &gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;table style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);" class="profileTable" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"&gt; &lt;tbody&gt;&lt;tr&gt; &lt;td class="data"&gt;&lt;div class="datawrap"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.facebook.com/srch.php?n=50434140"&gt;Party City&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/td&gt;&lt;/tr&gt;  &lt;tr&gt; &lt;td class="data"&gt;&lt;div class="datawrap"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;September 2006 - May 2007&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/td&gt;&lt;/tr&gt;   &lt;/tbody&gt;&lt;/table&gt; &lt;span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:78%;" &gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;table style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); width: 143px; height: 28px;" class="profileTable" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"&gt;&lt;tbody&gt;&lt;tr&gt; &lt;td class="data"&gt;&lt;div class="datawrap"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.facebook.com/srch.php?n=50435677"&gt;Cold Stone Creamery&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/td&gt;&lt;/tr&gt; &lt;tr&gt; &lt;td class="data"&gt;&lt;/td&gt;&lt;/tr&gt; &lt;tr&gt; &lt;td class="data"&gt;&lt;div class="datawrap"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;February 2006 - August 2006&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/td&gt;&lt;/tr&gt;&lt;tr&gt;&lt;td class="data"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/td&gt;&lt;/tr&gt;&lt;/tbody&gt;&lt;/table&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5318206088043574873-8709152661674179714?l=ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/feeds/8709152661674179714/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5318206088043574873&amp;postID=8709152661674179714' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/8709152661674179714'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/8709152661674179714'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/2008/07/what-i-want-to-keep.html' title='What I want to keep.'/><author><name>Chalki</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15462116432273864378</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SejdVSrmXtI/AAAAAAAAAHw/IHfippkZy4s/S220/Grumpy+as+shit.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5318206088043574873.post-3667883282432203172</id><published>2008-07-08T23:47:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-07-09T00:18:36.565-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Sure, I can put that in the song.</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:78%;" &gt;I say:&lt;br /&gt;I liked this guy, right? But he says he wants someone who is broken. And while, yes, a lot of shit has happened to me, I'm definitely stable in some way- and who wants to call themself faulty anyway? It's like someone calling you fake. Which he did. But whatever. I mean- saying you're not real. And- I don't like the concept of leaving myself open to a person, just so I can be hurt. So, it's just, he tells me he likes me back, but I'm not what he needs. How do you respond to that? I said 'oh, okay. I hope you find it then' and he's angry because I didn't fight for it. What's wrong with wanting someone you care about to be happy? Boys confuse me. My first boyfriend told me we'd still be together if I had cried when he mentioned breaking up. Do you like it when people cry? Is that normal?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And so, I cut open my stomach and leave my guts hanging out and for what? So they can back away in disgust? No one cares what I think, or why I do what I do. It's like- why care about me if nothing really matters besides yourself?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm ranting. I don't talk about my issues. And so this is strange. Sorry. I've taken up knitting. Because it's something productive and people don't ask you questions about your well-being when they see you do it. Instead they ask 'What're you making?' and I respond 'Leg warmers'. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm not sad, even. I'm just so angry. Is that normal? Natural, even?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Usually, I just shrug things off or bury them so I don't get hurt. But I hate this. People are stupid, and blind, and they don't know what they want. I want to be important. I want to be valued. I don't mind being distanced as long as I'm respected, but both and neither- damn it. How 'bout you? What do you want? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;[] iFloof [] ∮ [Ruru is the sheep to my rabbit, the bull to my goat. &lt;3] ∮[I think its called foods library.] says: SOmeone who loves video games, snuggling, and cares about me and wont cheat on me =/&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I say:&lt;br /&gt; I tried dating a girl, and realized I don't like spooning. Or- perhaps it was just with her? It's weird though. Maybe it's normal? I don't like hands on my chest. Or, do you suppose, that's something you get used to? Or maybe you never do. Like, how the inside of your thigh is ticklish. Or that lower area, beneath the belly button but above the hips? That's ticklish too. Or- that's the only place I'm ticklish. Did you ever get into tickle fights as a kid? To where, it -was- fun, but now that you can't breath, it hurts and must stop. I'm talking a lot. I bet you didn't expect that. Er... Typing. Usually I'm anal retentive and bitch about something because I don't know what else to say. Or- I don't want to be nice and then have you get upset at me for some reason. Maybe I should just be bordering sane every time we chat. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I liked this Australian guy. Because. I like the noise that bones make when sloppy wet, torn up skin, bleeding knuckles hit teeth. And he agreed. That'd never happened before. People always say I'm sick and- hey, I want to stab a person to see how hard it is for the knife to pierce through fat. I'm emotionally retarded. Did you know? I can't retain feelings.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And every line is blurred for me. I don't know what is okay and what isn;t. I don't know when I'm allowed or not allowed to do something. When should I laugh? Cry? Be a man (figuratively)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, I do them at the wrong times. I laugh at funerals and cry in the middle of a party.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When people ask me if I'm okay, I don't know how to answer. Are they asking to be polite, or do they really want to know? So I say ''Oh, I'm okay, I guess' and they usually drop it. I lie to my friends because it doesn't matter if I'm honest. No one cares. I lie when I don't have to&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I always make things seem better than they are.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had my gall bladder removed. And I laughed about it when I told people. The stones clogged the hole and ended up killing it. Six hours more and I would be dead right now. That shit is serious business.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When I was young, I have a bad history with bastard guys, and so I avoid men in general. I was molested a lot. And, I remember passing out because I nearly suffocated on a cock that was shoved down my eleven year old throat. I have big trust issues. I have fears that I'll be left because of something petty.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So why bother liking people at all? It makes you feel so good to like someone and be liked back. That's why. Plus, you can't always help it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And I'm so tired of the run-around. It's like- if you like me just fucking say it, what's with all the games? Batting eyelashes, or all the stupid asshole comments- are they needed? Is there some reason that people need to do that shit? Is it human nature? Is it the species' mating dance? What the hell happened to all the honest people? And here I am asking that. The one who lies for no reason. I mean- lying. Why not? People piss me off. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Alright, what else can I complain about to your poor soul? How about those people who think they know you because they've gone through similar events? Or say 'I feel you'? One event doesn't define a person, right? And so, it's like- A friend of mine was raped recently, and when I was younger, so was I. And so, she talks to me like she understands completely, brings it up a lot, makes it seem like this one event makes her who she is. Now she's scared of all men. 'Are they gonna rape me?' and then she always says 'you know?' but only to me. Because we're rape sisters now. It pisses me off. I don't like being reminded of it. It's not like I judge men because of it- yes, I'm completely aware of how powerless I can be compared to one, but my life did not end at that moment. There are really nice guys in the world. Everywhere. And there are total douches. But didn't everyone know that to begin with? Just like there are really sweet girls and then there are bitches.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And why do ex's always think they have a right to you? Like, somehow, because you knew eachother in that way, they have some exclusive priveledge? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;[] iFloof [] ∮ [Ruru is the sheep to my rabbit, the bull to my goat. &lt;3] ∮[I think its called foods library.] says:&lt;br /&gt;&gt;&gt;; Yer so cute xD&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I say:&lt;br /&gt;Thank you. I didn't expect that while complaining.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;[] iFloof [] ∮ [Ruru is the sheep to my rabbit, the bull to my goat. &lt;3] ∮[I think its called foods library.] says:&lt;br /&gt;Well it's true. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I say:&lt;br /&gt;Whenever you post, I laugh at the 'I think its called foods library'.   I like that show. I was thinking that if they were real- I would have trained to become one of their bad-ass snipers.   And my brother wondered why I wouldn't want to date Nathan, and- honestly, everyone around them gets killed- except their manager, themselves, and their snipers. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;[] iFloof [] ∮ [Ruru is the sheep to my rabbit, the bull to my goat. &lt;3] ∮[I think its called foods library.] says:&lt;br /&gt;I ALWAYS crack up on the episode where they adopt the fat kid. Because at the end they are all trying to figure out what to do with him and Nathan is like "Guys..I think we need to build a space helicopter." &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I say:&lt;br /&gt;Cause, they're like 'I think we know what we must do' and then he says the most random fucking thing. And of course they take him to the recently dubbed 'kitty island' place. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;[] iFloof [] ∮ [Ruru is the sheep to my rabbit, the bull to my goat. &lt;3] ∮[I think its called foods library.] says:&lt;br /&gt;xD  RELEASE THE KITTIES &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I say:&lt;br /&gt; "He'll be okay, he's really fat"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;[] iFloof [] ∮ [Ruru is the sheep to my rabbit, the bull to my goat. &lt;3] ∮[I think its called foods library.] says:&lt;br /&gt;I LOVE the part when Toki and Skwisgaar go to feed him. And Skwisgaar is like Dammit you fat tub of shit.....WE love you. xD Show cracks me up so much.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; I say: Or when the doctor tells them they shouldn't feed him candy and they're like "oh, but he loves chocolate' and so they try to have him neutered instead. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;[] iFloof [] ∮ [Ruru is the sheep to my rabbit, the bull to my goat. &lt;3] ∮[I think its called foods library.] says:&lt;br /&gt;Okay, I'll change my name just for you. YES xD &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;[] iFloof [] [I think its called foods library.] [IT'S A GROCERY STORE YOU DOUCHEBAGS! I'm sorry about 'douchebags,'] says:&lt;br /&gt;Ok there xD&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5318206088043574873-3667883282432203172?l=ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/feeds/3667883282432203172/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5318206088043574873&amp;postID=3667883282432203172' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/3667883282432203172'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/3667883282432203172'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/2008/07/sure-i-can-put-that-in-song.html' title='Sure, I can put that in the song.'/><author><name>Chalki</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15462116432273864378</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SejdVSrmXtI/AAAAAAAAAHw/IHfippkZy4s/S220/Grumpy+as+shit.png'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5318206088043574873.post-2551765064029547805</id><published>2008-07-07T04:57:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-07-07T05:08:00.792-07:00</updated><title type='text'>So, like, when did that happen?</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SHIG9TrjWRI/AAAAAAAAABQ/5cMKPceZruo/s1600-h/ava_weisskreuz_jpg_007.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SHIG9TrjWRI/AAAAAAAAABQ/5cMKPceZruo/s320/ava_weisskreuz_jpg_007.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220242568400558354" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:78%;" &gt;Somehow, over the last couple of days, my head was cleared and I'm not thinking in spasms. It's great, really, because that means I can be human again and have normal contact with others without freaking them the hell out. I like being able to express myself correctly, without all the noise. Of course, I have no idea what set me straight and if this happens once or twice more, I won't know how to fix it. Time? Patience? Talking about it? Thinking about it? Endless issues that upon hindsight have ended?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SHIHEILWWNI/AAAAAAAAABY/nHL0R7OUp2Y/s1600-h/ava_weisskreuz_png_013.png"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SHIHEILWWNI/AAAAAAAAABY/nHL0R7OUp2Y/s320/ava_weisskreuz_png_013.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220242685571782866" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:78%;" &gt;&lt;br /&gt;The excitement is building. I'm happy about this. Really enthusiastically happy. I want to kiss someone until my lungs burn, alas, I have no one for that, but it doesn't mean the yearning isn't there. I don't know &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:78%;" &gt;when it happened either. I just thought randomly 'wow, I can think' and had to scurry to the computer and test it out. Even with the person who brought the insane habits around, I'm precise. I'm a robot and data is being taken. I love this.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5318206088043574873-2551765064029547805?l=ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/feeds/2551765064029547805/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5318206088043574873&amp;postID=2551765064029547805' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/2551765064029547805'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/2551765064029547805'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/2008/07/so-like-when-did-that-happen.html' title='So, like, when did that happen?'/><author><name>Chalki</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15462116432273864378</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SejdVSrmXtI/AAAAAAAAAHw/IHfippkZy4s/S220/Grumpy+as+shit.png'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://bp0.blogger.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SHIG9TrjWRI/AAAAAAAAABQ/5cMKPceZruo/s72-c/ava_weisskreuz_jpg_007.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5318206088043574873.post-3069376299651656582</id><published>2008-07-05T21:34:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-07-05T21:53:05.011-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The coffee never tasted so good.</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SHBPbUkuayI/AAAAAAAAAAg/QB3MDIhKkig/s1600-h/ava_100_png_002_a.png"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SHBPbUkuayI/AAAAAAAAAAg/QB3MDIhKkig/s320/ava_100_png_002_a.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5219759298920213282" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-size:78%;" &gt;I'm okay, really, I am, geez self, why are you trying so hard to make such a big deal out of it? A guy has expressed his interest in you and his disinterest in a relationship and if you'd be so kind, try and keep the brain clear of your stupid thoughts, please and thank you. I know you well enough to realize that's a hard task but do remember that even if he doesn't love you back, there are others and me even, who care for you ten times more.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I said I'd stop analyzing him, I think, or was that a dream? Anyway, I didn't stop. I think it was a dream, actually, but that's fine because the promise was in my heart and I'm no one of importance and definitely not worth a complaint. All that aside, I've been wondering about him lately and a question arises. Does he really want a person? That's not the question, that's what comes before the realization that he doesn't know what he wants for the life of him. Somehow he knows it's not me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm functioning better, I think I'm finally coming around.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SHBPlYmyhDI/AAAAAAAAAAo/a_vNAgd5krQ/s1600-h/ava_100_png_002_b.png"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SHBPlYmyhDI/AAAAAAAAAAo/a_vNAgd5krQ/s320/ava_100_png_002_b.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5219759471801304114" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-size:78%;" &gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't want to be someone else for someone else. I want to be me in accordance to their them. I want them to like the me I am so that I don't see any sense in lying. I want to be confidant enough to not lie even if they don't like the me I am because I probably don't like the them they are anyhow.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-Love, She walked through the forest and wondered a little, about the apples that shone too red in the light to be non-toxic.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5318206088043574873-3069376299651656582?l=ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/feeds/3069376299651656582/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5318206088043574873&amp;postID=3069376299651656582' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/3069376299651656582'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5318206088043574873/posts/default/3069376299651656582'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ninjafucksyouup.blogspot.com/2008/07/coffee-never-tasted-so-good.html' title='The coffee never tasted so good.'/><author><name>Chalki</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/15462116432273864378</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SejdVSrmXtI/AAAAAAAAAHw/IHfippkZy4s/S220/Grumpy+as+shit.png'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://bp1.blogger.com/_4E-VHmF4QuA/SHBPbUkuayI/AAAAAAAAAAg/QB3MDIhKkig/s72-c/ava_100_png_002_a.png' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry></feed>
