<?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-17927490</id><updated>2011-07-07T21:27:29.113-04:00</updated><title type='text'>I Dance Barefoot</title><subtitle type='html'>...and self-indulgence is my other hobby</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><link rel='next' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default?start-index=101&amp;max-results=100'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>200</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-6357090821658723085</id><published>2010-03-20T22:32:00.004-04:00</published><updated>2010-03-21T15:10:57.733-04:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>No doubt, no empty spaces, no secrets. Disappointment lingers, however, just a trace of a spec of a molecule of disappointment and I push it away and it gets further and further from consciousness but it's still there. A shadow, a ghost peeking into every thought in my mind, a virus. A virus that threatens to infect my/our happiness.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am grateful, I am joyous, and I bless the day I met you. But I still manage to stand in the way of my own peace, and you are still standing in the way of yours. This love is a gift we are both thankful for every day, but the struggle is there to allow ourselves to let it in fully and flawlessly. Individualism is a mine. Selfishness threatens to detonate it. Love is the victim.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-6357090821658723085?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/6357090821658723085/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=6357090821658723085' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/6357090821658723085'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/6357090821658723085'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2010/03/no-doubt-no-empty-spaces-no-secrets.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-2561297176775024778</id><published>2009-05-10T23:40:00.005-04:00</published><updated>2009-05-10T23:56:08.705-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Fly Straight</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/SgehGSvtIeI/AAAAAAAAAXk/0uJTS6mLVdM/s1600-h/DSC06897.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/SgehGSvtIeI/AAAAAAAAAXk/0uJTS6mLVdM/s400/DSC06897.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334409413126857186" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Even though sometimes it will be hard, and even when you wonder why nobody cares, you will have something. Your experiences, the people you've met and the things you've done.  I went to Edinburgh and lived for six months. Got a job, made friends, travelled. I went to Croatia, Greece, Turkey and Ireland all by myself and made memories. No one else on this earth has what I have. No one shares my memories with me. The memories of my experiences are mine and mine alone and I will carry them with me forever.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So when you wonder why nobody cares, it's because they will never ever understand. They weren't there. It means nothing to them. The only person it matters to is you, and that makes it special.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This point in my life is an interim step. I feel in between chapters, and so I've become nostalgic about last year. Last year was action packed and full of newness and change. September will mean that again, but for now I am enjoying the pause. A few months of taking a deep, deep breath and enjoying everything around me. Smelling the roses if you will. The action will start again, I'm just waiting.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Waiting and smiling&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-2561297176775024778?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/2561297176775024778/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=2561297176775024778' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/2561297176775024778'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/2561297176775024778'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2009/05/fly-straight.html' title='Fly Straight'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/SgehGSvtIeI/AAAAAAAAAXk/0uJTS6mLVdM/s72-c/DSC06897.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-3919526703924662990</id><published>2009-02-01T19:02:00.006-05:00</published><updated>2009-02-01T21:58:20.512-05:00</updated><title type='text'>How the Heart Bends</title><content type='html'>Longing is just love projected into space with the hope that it will land somewhere. Love is your heart expanding in order to contain something other than yourself.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(Art is an experience that evokes a feeling from you.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297989254525780674" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 399px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/SYY9KDPYgsI/AAAAAAAAAXI/yTtWTLcwRDk/s400/art.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p&gt; &lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-3919526703924662990?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/3919526703924662990/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=3919526703924662990' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/3919526703924662990'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/3919526703924662990'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2009/02/how-heart-bends.html' title='How the Heart Bends'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/SYY9KDPYgsI/AAAAAAAAAXI/yTtWTLcwRDk/s72-c/art.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-3484869340482940778</id><published>2009-01-31T23:30:00.004-05:00</published><updated>2009-01-31T23:56:18.639-05:00</updated><title type='text'>I Don't See What Anyone Can See in Anyone Else</title><content type='html'>This has not shaken my faith in the least. The opposite, in fact. I have rekindled my romance with renewed exuberance! I love myself and I am capable of doing remarkable things. Nothing can shake this foundation I have built.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As it stands, I am in the top tenth percentile of my Perception class. Booya.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I remember thinking, writing a final exam in a different course a while ago, "There's no way I can pass this, I'm way too tired." I had pulled an all-nighter the night before and could barely keep my eyes open. Not surprisingly, I failed. That was the only exam I ever failed, but it was also the only exam I ever thought I &lt;em&gt;would&lt;/em&gt; fail. Coincidence?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So this time I thought, "I'm going to do so well on this exam, the material is so easy." And guess what happened? Maybe all we need in order to get what we want is a little faith.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-3484869340482940778?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/3484869340482940778/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=3484869340482940778' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/3484869340482940778'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/3484869340482940778'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2009/01/i-dont-see-what-anyone-can-see-in.html' title='I Don&apos;t See What Anyone Can See in Anyone Else'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-5610827417044831382</id><published>2009-01-21T20:33:00.005-05:00</published><updated>2009-01-27T23:47:02.280-05:00</updated><title type='text'>I'm The Girl With a Dove and You're a Boy With a Feather</title><content type='html'>I love writing. I love the idea of being able to invoke a feeling in myself or someone else just by words on a page. The thing I've learned about myself and writing though, is that I find I'm more creative when I'm sad. So I would often be my own worst enemy when I felt like writing: A masochist, if you will. Making myself feel lonely, or imagining things to be upset about when there were none, just so I could write something good.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The thing is, now I'm happier than I've ever been &lt;em&gt;ever&lt;/em&gt;. I jump for joy every day. It may sound silly, but the minute my feet hit the floor in the morning, I'm smiling. I have so many things to be happy about, and over time I've stopped having any desire to make myself miserable. The problem with that is that I've pretty much stopped writing, and I miss it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So this is me, the happier version of me, making an effort to continue where I left off. My inspiration is going to need to come from somewhere else, and I am going to make an honest effort to train myself in the art of happy posting.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293925259635135890" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 308px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/SXfM-agFFZI/AAAAAAAAAXA/Ovy3y0AjI10/s400/kurt+halsey+feets.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-5610827417044831382?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/5610827417044831382/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=5610827417044831382' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5610827417044831382'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5610827417044831382'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2009/01/im-girl-with-dove-and-youre-boy-with.html' title='I&apos;m The Girl With a Dove and You&apos;re a Boy With a Feather'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/SXfM-agFFZI/AAAAAAAAAXA/Ovy3y0AjI10/s72-c/kurt+halsey+feets.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-8465645259154091679</id><published>2008-12-15T22:32:00.003-05:00</published><updated>2008-12-15T22:41:13.323-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Help in Proverbs</title><content type='html'>It's almost as if in running away I found myself&lt;br /&gt;And in coming home I lost it again&lt;br /&gt;I’m beginning to remember who I am at home&lt;br /&gt;But I may like me better when I’m gone.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My home friends are loyal and consistent&lt;br /&gt;My away friends are fun at best&lt;br /&gt;And me, I feel like a gem&lt;br /&gt;I can’t be polished without friction.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Call me, call me! Where am I meant to be?&lt;br /&gt;Only I can show me the way.&lt;br /&gt;I am alone again, uncomfortable in comfort.&lt;br /&gt;Remove this safety net from beneath me&lt;br /&gt;I want to fly.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I will forever keep this bough in my heart&lt;br /&gt;And eventually the singing bird will come&lt;br /&gt;I will light a candle rather than curse this darkness&lt;br /&gt;Someone light me a match.&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The search continues on and so does my lesson&lt;br /&gt;We are all together on this one&lt;br /&gt;Why do I feel so far when I’ve never been closer&lt;br /&gt;Straining myself for some recognition of days past.&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Call me, call me! Where am I meant to be?&lt;br /&gt;Only I can show me the way.&lt;br /&gt;I am alone again, uncomfortable in comfort.&lt;br /&gt;Remove this safety net from beneath me&lt;br /&gt;I want to fly.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-8465645259154091679?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/8465645259154091679/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=8465645259154091679' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/8465645259154091679'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/8465645259154091679'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2008/12/its-almost-as-if-in-running-away-i.html' title='Help in Proverbs'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-4522252853864442418</id><published>2008-10-29T15:30:00.009-04:00</published><updated>2008-10-31T07:13:38.411-04:00</updated><title type='text'>This Season</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/SQkpA6Dg8QI/AAAAAAAAAP4/_eqcs8v26hI/s1600-h/DSC08000.JPG"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262782735119872258" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/SQkpA6Dg8QI/AAAAAAAAAP4/_eqcs8v26hI/s400/DSC08000.JPG" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Autumn by the Liffey is bitter cold on a good day. Yet I still find myself romanticizing the leaves crunching under my feet and rosy red cheeks. The air is different here, and I am becoming different here. Unfamiliarity has become familiar, and change has become the norm. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;What will happen when I leave this nomadic chapter of my life? Will I begin another? I suppose it's my fate to be always chasing, always looking for something before I know what that something is, and I'm starting to become okay with that.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;The river flows by quietly in this city. The leaves fall unheard and we pass each other by on the street like ghosts. We are in the same city now, oceans away from normality and strangely connected. This thought makes me feel so serendipitous; nothing like the lonely vagabond I thought I had become.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;em&gt;Tantalus: Thank you for pointing out this interesting coincidence! Life never fails to surprise me. &lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-4522252853864442418?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/4522252853864442418/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=4522252853864442418' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/4522252853864442418'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/4522252853864442418'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2008/10/this-season.html' title='This Season'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/SQkpA6Dg8QI/AAAAAAAAAP4/_eqcs8v26hI/s72-c/DSC08000.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-7344560901216665866</id><published>2008-10-15T09:31:00.005-04:00</published><updated>2008-10-15T12:49:15.567-04:00</updated><title type='text'>The Unrequited Girl</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/SPX6QMefbrI/AAAAAAAAAPw/WjOJXtx1e_Q/s1600-h/kurt.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257383296158887602" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/SPX6QMefbrI/AAAAAAAAAPw/WjOJXtx1e_Q/s400/kurt.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Despite everything, I can't manage to shake... &lt;div&gt;Thousands of miles of miles away, still etched inside my eyelids.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Every minute of silence is filled with echos of this...&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I've tried to forget. I've really tried.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;An open mind, a new attitude, a well-worn suitcase...&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Yet the opening line of an old song can wash it all away.&lt;br /&gt;My fate as the unrequited girl is becoming me...&lt;br /&gt;It's almost more romantic like this, anyway.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-7344560901216665866?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/7344560901216665866/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=7344560901216665866' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/7344560901216665866'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/7344560901216665866'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2008/10/unrequited-girl.html' title='The Unrequited Girl'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/SPX6QMefbrI/AAAAAAAAAPw/WjOJXtx1e_Q/s72-c/kurt.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-5347077134493664326</id><published>2008-07-05T09:30:00.003-04:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:41.879-05:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/SG94Zql0PGI/AAAAAAAAAOg/zNmep-TAKhg/s1600-h/DSC06323.JPG"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5219522875470658658" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/SG94Zql0PGI/AAAAAAAAAOg/zNmep-TAKhg/s400/DSC06323.JPG" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I came looking for something, and have found something else. Not what I expected, but not &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;disappointing&lt;/span&gt;. What/where/who else will I discover on my adventures? I have no idea. Even if I had one, I'm sure I would be proved wrong.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-5347077134493664326?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/5347077134493664326/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=5347077134493664326' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5347077134493664326'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5347077134493664326'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2008/07/i-came-looking-for-something-and-have.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/SG94Zql0PGI/AAAAAAAAAOg/zNmep-TAKhg/s72-c/DSC06323.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-5457127285081696590</id><published>2008-06-18T09:01:00.003-04:00</published><updated>2008-06-18T09:23:47.236-04:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>I have this constant battle with fear. I'm continuously conquering it in new ways, and it slowly becomes easier for me to manage, but it's always there. Somewhere brewing under the surface, manifesting itself in different circumstances, putting on a new mask or fooling me into thinking it's some other emotion: Jealousy, embarrassment, anxiety. Sometimes I don't recognize it until it's gone, but it's essentially the same thing every time. The war against myself. The fight against my own fear.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm not the first person to say these things. People can spend their entire life listening to others, believing and even understanding what they say: But until you experience those words on a personal level you'll remain ignorant. Books can tell you the truth, but the wisdom of truth is in experience.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-5457127285081696590?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/5457127285081696590/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=5457127285081696590' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5457127285081696590'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5457127285081696590'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2008/06/i-have-this-constant-battle-with-fear.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-6738787952695834362</id><published>2008-05-23T13:55:00.003-04:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:42.068-05:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/SDcGLaPe2DI/AAAAAAAAAN4/CLGLj7lIfXg/s1600-h/labourdaywknd07+111.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203634687542482994" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/SDcGLaPe2DI/AAAAAAAAAN4/CLGLj7lIfXg/s400/labourdaywknd07+111.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;em&gt;The summer wind came blowing in from across the sea, and lingered there so warm and fair to walk with me. All summer long we sang this song, and strolled on golden sand. Two sweethearts and the summer wind.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Like paper kites those days and nights went flying by. The world was new beneath the blue umbrella sky. And softer than a piper man, one day it called to you, and I lost you to the summer wind.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The autumn wind and the winter wind have come and gone, and still those days, those lonely days, go on and on. And guess who sighs her lullabies through nights that never end? My fickle friend the summer wind; the summer wind.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-6738787952695834362?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/6738787952695834362/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=6738787952695834362' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/6738787952695834362'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/6738787952695834362'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2008/05/summer-wind-came-blowing-in-from-across.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/SDcGLaPe2DI/AAAAAAAAAN4/CLGLj7lIfXg/s72-c/labourdaywknd07+111.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-1053908075220775254</id><published>2008-04-23T16:00:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2008-04-23T10:57:48.589-04:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>You're looking at a happy girl. One with nothing to complain about, nothing to want and nothing to look back on. My eyes are forward for once. Nothing that's happened before this day (this very minute) matters. All I need is a good laugh, a hand to hold, my favourite song, a cup of coffee, a surprise, and maybe every once in awhile a warm blanket to sleep under in the afternoon.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-1053908075220775254?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/1053908075220775254/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=1053908075220775254' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/1053908075220775254'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/1053908075220775254'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2008/04/youre-looking-at-happy-girl.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-6916842383486199577</id><published>2008-03-10T14:44:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:42.311-05:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/R9VH0i8pp2I/AAAAAAAAANA/__mRrHAiJJo/s1600-h/DSC05680.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/R9VH0i8pp2I/AAAAAAAAANA/__mRrHAiJJo/s400/DSC05680.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176122314792216418" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Having someone else witness what we’re doing has made it seem so much more real. I guess routine makes the reality fall away.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-6916842383486199577?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/6916842383486199577/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=6916842383486199577' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/6916842383486199577'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/6916842383486199577'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2008/03/having-someone-else-witness-what-were.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/R9VH0i8pp2I/AAAAAAAAANA/__mRrHAiJJo/s72-c/DSC05680.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-7561974407329504229</id><published>2008-03-04T14:22:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-03-04T09:33:47.961-05:00</updated><title type='text'>I'll Be Fine</title><content type='html'>If there has been one thing I’ve learned from this trip thus far it has been that this feeling of unrest I’m trying to settle probably won’t ever go away. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What I’m looking for I may never find.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Even when I’m surrounded with people who love me, I still feel alone.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And most of all, my ghosts still haunt me.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-7561974407329504229?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/7561974407329504229/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=7561974407329504229' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/7561974407329504229'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/7561974407329504229'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2008/03/ill-be-fine.html' title='I&apos;ll Be Fine'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-7876507804746362553</id><published>2008-02-06T11:17:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:42.604-05:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/R6mSm62ZM9I/AAAAAAAAAL4/Xbua-8Lim2Y/s1600-h/london+056.JPG"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163819645087069138" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/R6mSm62ZM9I/AAAAAAAAAL4/Xbua-8Lim2Y/s400/london+056.JPG" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I thought I would miss the basic amenities and the life I had gotten used to, but I really wasn't used to any kind of lifestyle. I had been a gypsy for a while already so I supposed it was more of a natural progression. There is nothing more liberating than knowing all you own in the world is contained in one suitcase. Before I left I gave away most of everything I own, because I wasn't going to need it anymore. It's just extra baggage, literally.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;There is a certain culture about being a gypsy. There's an etiquette toward your fellow gypsies, and almost immediately you learn to live in a manner you never thought you would. You learn to live in the most basic way, to do without some things, to talk to strangers (which is scarier than it sounds). And most importantly you search for happiness. Fortunately, the quest itself, the actual process of looking so fervently, usually makes you pretty damn happy. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;But what do I know. I'm just looking (in my own way) for what everyone is trying to find.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-7876507804746362553?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/7876507804746362553/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=7876507804746362553' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/7876507804746362553'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/7876507804746362553'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2008/02/i-thought-i-would-miss-basic-amenities.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/R6mSm62ZM9I/AAAAAAAAAL4/Xbua-8Lim2Y/s72-c/london+056.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-4327139213075376225</id><published>2008-01-22T00:58:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-01-22T01:00:43.322-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Tomorrow</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://ca.youtube.com/watch?v=G1vG9KCT12o"&gt;It's time for me to do everything I've always wanted to do.&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-4327139213075376225?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/4327139213075376225/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=4327139213075376225' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/4327139213075376225'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/4327139213075376225'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2008/01/tomorrow.html' title='Tomorrow'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-2512134538054712085</id><published>2008-01-19T11:32:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:42.874-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Four Days</title><content type='html'>And some days you feel so low you don't want to leave the safety of your own room. But sometimes certain people have the talent of shaking your confidence on a good day anyways, so what difference does it make?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157229538759849634" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/R5Io8PrutqI/AAAAAAAAALU/Umswy9Y9-1g/s400/london-fog.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-2512134538054712085?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/2512134538054712085/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=2512134538054712085' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/2512134538054712085'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/2512134538054712085'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2008/01/four-days.html' title='Four Days'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/R5Io8PrutqI/AAAAAAAAALU/Umswy9Y9-1g/s72-c/london-fog.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-8418428093913103167</id><published>2008-01-16T14:02:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:43.494-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Seven Days</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/R45XG_rutoI/AAAAAAAAALE/_qTgz1oX6bY/s1600-h/london-eye2.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156154401071478402" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/R45XG_rutoI/AAAAAAAAALE/_qTgz1oX6bY/s400/london-eye2.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I may or may not be losing my mind.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Time is crawling along at it's usual pace, but I'm not sure I want it to.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm in between wanting time to stop completely so I can catch my breath, and wanting time to speed forward 156 hours from now so I can finally stop broading.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Please help me cope with my anxiety, my fear, my excitment and all these other emotions I have yet to figure out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Warm my hands and cool my head.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-8418428093913103167?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/8418428093913103167/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=8418428093913103167' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/8418428093913103167'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/8418428093913103167'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2008/01/seven-days.html' title='Seven Days'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/R45XG_rutoI/AAAAAAAAALE/_qTgz1oX6bY/s72-c/london-eye2.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-1495911704623028741</id><published>2008-01-06T02:33:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-01-06T02:29:00.476-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Seventeen Days</title><content type='html'>I realize I haven't written in almost a month, don't yell at me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I barely have time alone these days. The past four months have been solely about making money and trying to make other people happy. My life has taken a temporary backseat, but my reward will come to fruition very, very soon. I will be on the other side of the world for a long, long time writing from a place I've never been before. I'm putting myself in an unfamiliar position on purpose. I'm hoping that by removing comfort, everything will become comfortable. I'm hoping that all my years of wanting to do this will make sense and I'll finally understand why. I hope I get scared and I hope I become wiser because of it. And most of all I hope I can stick it out and prove to myself that I'm as strong and determined and worldly as I've always wanted to be.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why do I want to leave, and why this particular place? I'm not sure, but I know it's been in my blood for a long time and I'm finally making it happen.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What will I do? I don't care. I'll figure that out when I get there.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When will I come back? I don't know. A year keeps resonating as an appropriate length of time, but I don't know what's going to happen. Maybe I'll never return.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What I do know is that right now, I'm anxious and excited and ready to go today, but at the same time wondering if I've made a mistake. I'm confused and proud and I don't know which of those emotions to focus on at any one point in time. I'm mostly everything at once. Teeming with an array of reactions in response to my choices, and unsure of exactly how I feel. But I do know that I'll return a different person than the one who's writing these words. One day I'll look back on this decision and it will all make sense. I have to do this in order to become the person I want to be.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-1495911704623028741?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/1495911704623028741/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=1495911704623028741' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/1495911704623028741'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/1495911704623028741'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2008/01/seventeen-days.html' title='Seventeen Days'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-926798490401011482</id><published>2007-12-08T02:26:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2007-12-08T03:00:05.093-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Impermanent</title><content type='html'>And vague. And also ambiguous. Yes, definately that last &lt;a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rwMj8pGpIKE"&gt;one&lt;/a&gt;.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-926798490401011482?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/926798490401011482/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=926798490401011482' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/926798490401011482'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/926798490401011482'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/12/impermanent.html' title='Impermanent'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-4394961877773713019</id><published>2007-11-28T00:55:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:43.765-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/R00DZ1Xq2EI/AAAAAAAAAK8/_LdaeQcK_xg/s1600-h/400px-Maslow%27s_hierarchy_of_needs.svg.png"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/R00DZ1Xq2EI/AAAAAAAAAK8/_LdaeQcK_xg/s320/400px-Maslow%27s_hierarchy_of_needs.svg.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5137766492257572930" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;I was thinking about this the other day. There were a lot of these little graphs and theories I was meant to memorize and regurgitate for my psych exams and every once in awhile I remember one that clicked. It came to me in a conversation about people, and how a lot of the time, people are not happy. They complain about anything they can find to complain about: the weather, their families, the government, you name it. And as a waitress good &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;God&lt;/span&gt; do I hear a lot of complaining. "You should have candles. It's too echoey in here. My stirfry has too many noodles." I swear I've heard it all; but I digress.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The reason this little theory came to mind is that I thought maybe the reason all these people are unhappy with all the teeny, insignificant imperfections they find in their lives is because they can't get past that green part of the pyramid: Esteem. They're so involved in themselves because they haven't achieved reasonable levels of self-confidence yet, and are thus unable to be the calm, rational, unprejudiced people they are meant to be.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Considering I know very few people who could be at the top of the pyramid, this saddened me. And made me think, what could we be doing so wrong where so many people are unable to be happy with themselves? Is there some flaw somewhere in the social framework of our culture that prohibits so many people from achieving self-actualization? Or is it a personal journey separate from cultural constraints?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Insecurities are a strong motivator for irrational behaviour. Almost any question about why someone acts in a way contrary to how you would expect them to can be answered by examining that person's insecurities.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I apologize for the psychobabble, I can't help it sometimes.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-4394961877773713019?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/4394961877773713019/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=4394961877773713019' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/4394961877773713019'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/4394961877773713019'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/11/maslows-hierarchy-of-needs.html' title='Maslow&apos;s Hierarchy of Needs'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/R00DZ1Xq2EI/AAAAAAAAAK8/_LdaeQcK_xg/s72-c/400px-Maslow%27s_hierarchy_of_needs.svg.png' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-7021422401042571725</id><published>2007-11-27T00:41:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:44.257-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Pure Joy</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/R0u71FXq2BI/AAAAAAAAAKk/kIPjowoMwxs/s1600-h/emi.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5137406320595097618" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/R0u71FXq2BI/AAAAAAAAAKk/kIPjowoMwxs/s320/emi.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/R0u6ilXq2AI/AAAAAAAAAKc/QFiLljeyZXc/s1600-h/em.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5137404903255889922" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/R0u6ilXq2AI/AAAAAAAAAKc/QFiLljeyZXc/s320/em.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/R0uyclXq1-I/AAAAAAAAAKM/buy-yOLabC4/s1600-h/e.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5137396004083652578" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/R0uyclXq1-I/AAAAAAAAAKM/buy-yOLabC4/s320/e.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-7021422401042571725?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/7021422401042571725/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=7021422401042571725' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/7021422401042571725'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/7021422401042571725'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/11/blog-post.html' title='Pure Joy'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/R0u71FXq2BI/AAAAAAAAAKk/kIPjowoMwxs/s72-c/emi.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-868564899828387617</id><published>2007-11-19T12:55:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2007-11-19T13:30:25.288-05:00</updated><title type='text'>I am a Ghost</title><content type='html'>I've fallen off the world, and I'm sorry. It had to be done. I'm not back yet, but I'm on my way.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It seems my twenties are marked by a war between ego and depression. Because I sometimes know who I am but then I get a glimpse of something I don't like and decide I'm not good enough. Is it in everyones nature to try and be the perfect self? Is that why we're here, or is it a fruitless search? Is it ever possible to be perfect according to your own idea of the word?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Considering we're fluid beings and the idea of who we want to be is also fluid, how do we get there? How do we get anywhere?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can pinpoint a few of the things in myself that need adjustment, but how many more flaws are there?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Are they flaws?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have nothing better to do than attempt to be a better person. I can't decide if that's a good thing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Is this it? Brief glimpses of enlightenment, a millisecond of understanding and then back to the grind. What world have we created where no one really understands anything, and our tiny spec of existence seems like forever when the universe is millions and millions of years older than our home on this moldy rock.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Look out at the stars and try not to fall off the edge of the earth. I dare you.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-868564899828387617?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/868564899828387617/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=868564899828387617' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/868564899828387617'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/868564899828387617'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/11/i-am-ghost.html' title='I am a Ghost'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-5947439895977398804</id><published>2007-10-15T01:20:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-11-19T13:32:34.631-05:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;div&gt;I don't pretend to believe in any God. I try to stretch my mind further than that. Far into the reaches beyond anything any of us could imagine to a place where there is no place. We will never know anything and that's the way it is (and always will be.) &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;So imagine my surprise when I began praying for you. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Try death on for size. The nearness of it fucks with everything you (don't) know.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-5947439895977398804?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/5947439895977398804/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=5947439895977398804' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5947439895977398804'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5947439895977398804'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/10/i-dont-pretend-to-believe-in-any-god.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-3219764149264925152</id><published>2007-09-18T23:30:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-09-18T23:54:40.294-04:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>I'm all alone in a big house.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My dog died this afternoon.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm living sans &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;Internet&lt;/span&gt; and working twelve hour days.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We probably wont be seeing each other for a few months. I will miss you.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-3219764149264925152?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/3219764149264925152/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=3219764149264925152' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/3219764149264925152'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/3219764149264925152'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/09/im-all-alone-in-big-house.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-9141375206910285620</id><published>2007-08-24T12:08:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:44.868-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Three Cheers for Narcissism</title><content type='html'>Whatever, I'm entitled, I just got a new haircut.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102122233804827970" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Rs5hI7KPLUI/AAAAAAAAAJk/jPSWcELV52o/s320/24-08-07+018.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;They always say that Psychologists are more likely to suffer from mental illness than people in other professions. I guess it's because if you know all the symptoms you're more likely to see them in yourself.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today I feel bi-polar.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102291159163546978" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Rs76xrKPLWI/AAAAAAAAAJ0/l081LrCnkkI/s320/24-08-07+015.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm going back and forth between highs and lows. I think I get this way right before a big change. I felt like this around the time I was finishing my degree and moving from Waterloo forever, and next week I'm moving again, away from Toronto. I feel a combo of excitement, fear and anxiety. Very confusing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102291167753481586" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Rs76yLKPLXI/AAAAAAAAAJ8/ejEi4y6jig4/s320/24-08-07+012.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Nothing a new haircut and some self-portraits can't fix.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-9141375206910285620?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/9141375206910285620/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=9141375206910285620' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/9141375206910285620'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/9141375206910285620'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/08/three-cheers-for-narcissism.html' title='Three Cheers for Narcissism'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Rs5hI7KPLUI/AAAAAAAAAJk/jPSWcELV52o/s72-c/24-08-07+018.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-5354592288082125203</id><published>2007-08-14T14:50:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-08-14T14:49:57.754-04:00</updated><title type='text'>*Cough Cough*</title><content type='html'>I watched Michael Moore's SiCKO last night and can't stop thinking about it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;First of all, I understand if some of you are skeptical about Moore's films. They are bias and loaded with opinions, even though he makes it seem like you are watching something fact-based. Yes, he bases his films on fact for the most part, but he definitely does not present both sides of the story. There is also evidence that he alters some information to fit it into a mold of his own making. That is the nature of cinema I suppose: You already know your script and the way the movie will turn out before you've even started filming.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;However, despite knowing all of this I am still a fan of SiCKO as well as the other films Moore has produced. Not because I think everything he claims is true, not because they are interesting to watch (which they are) but because his films educate and enrage people on issues they should be educated and enraged about. Many people already knew that American health care was lacking before they watched the film, but it helped to really bring the issue to light. Things like this are necessary to collapse this idea that America is somehow Utopian. So many of its citizens idealize the "Land of the Free" as some kind of perfect prototype, and it's important for people to realize that it's not.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As a Canadian watching this movie, I was scared shitless. Yes, we have better healthcare than the States, but it made me realize how fragile that service is and how easily it could escape us. Harper has proposed privatizing healthcare, or changing to a two-tiered system. Public healthcare is one of the things that makes Canada unique from the U.S., and changing that system would be de-evolving. I can see the gradual changes occurring already, from my own personal experience. Canada's drug services are not universal. I am not covered, because I am over 21 and am not working at a job that has a drug plan. Every time I need a puffer it costs me $120 and if I were someone who couldn't afford $120 a month, I would simply need to live without it, unable to breathe.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I apologize for the rant, but I think it is so sad that it takes a loaded movie with cancer patients crying into a frosted camera lens while a sad "broken American dream" ballad plays in the background for people to become aware that something isn't right. Why don't people realize the problem until Michael Moore shoves it into their poor, sickly little faces?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-5354592288082125203?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/5354592288082125203/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=5354592288082125203' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5354592288082125203'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5354592288082125203'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/08/cough-cough.html' title='*Cough Cough*'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-4748965354553752570</id><published>2007-08-08T10:30:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-08-08T12:15:48.121-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Was it the Wine, the Loneliness or the Prostitute?</title><content type='html'>Maybe it's the recent lack of meaningful, romantic relationships in my scope (because romance tends to blur my vision. It's as if I neglect the the lens through which I usually view the world because nothing else seems to matter. "Who cares about that, I'm blissful with whats-his-face!")&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It could be the bottle of Sauviginon Blanc I drank last night. (Drunkenness often leads to increased awareness... right?)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It might have been the conversation I had with the hooker on our corner, who turned out to be a very nice girl. (Her shoes were hurting. Those things are not practical.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Irregardless, I had an epiphany: &lt;em&gt;I don't know everything. &lt;/em&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I know that may come as a serious shock to you, it definitely did to me. I'll give you a minute to absorb.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I usually walk around with an air of infallible confidence. I love argument and debate, because I usually believe that I'm right. I will fight you about anything and try to force you into defeat, but if you somehow manage to shake the grounds of my argument, I will be grateful. I will most likely thank you for teaching me something with which I can use to fight somebody else in the future. But with this new found epiphany, I'm not so sure my confidence is justified. It is usually seen as a positive characteristic, but there is a fine line between being confident and being arrogant. I may be crossing that line.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Psychology is the study of general trends in the population. We're basically trying to figure people out, but people are complicated (thank you, I'm a genius.) All the moments in life, both significant and insignificant, shape who we are, and knowing we all have specific, individual life experiences, how can anyone possibly &lt;em&gt;truly &lt;/em&gt;know anyone else? And yet in a single meeting I will judge you. You will judge me. We will both believe we have at least a vague impression about the other, and that impression almost always turns out wrong.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So what then, should we do? Remain humble, I suppose. Keep an open mind, don't judge too quickly and all that. It's easy to say that we should remain non-judgemental, but when it comes to actually applying the "shoulds," it gets a bit tricky.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is the art of living.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-4748965354553752570?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/4748965354553752570/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=4748965354553752570' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/4748965354553752570'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/4748965354553752570'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/08/was-it-wine-loneliness-or-prostitute.html' title='Was it the Wine, the Loneliness or the Prostitute?'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-5067175748320607631</id><published>2007-07-18T00:15:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:45.078-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Lesson Learned, Pun Intended</title><content type='html'>On my lunch today, I sat alone in a sandwich shoppe underneath the office buildings on Bloor Street. I don't mind eating by myself, it gives me time to think and I like to watch people and imagine where everyone is going to or coming from in such a hurry. I noticed an elderly gentleman sit beside me, but I didn't make eye contact because I didn't want him to engage me. I was enjoying my solitude. But he did. I could barely hear what he was saying, it was rather loud where we were, but he began by complementing my shirt.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;"My wife wore polka-dots to church once..." he mumbled, I didn't know what that had to do with anything. "Do you play the piano?"&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;"Yes, why?"&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;"You look like a piano player."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;"And how exactly does one look like a piano player?" What a strange question.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;"You look smart. And creative. There's also something about your posture."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;And on he went, talking, talking, talking and I attempted to humour him and listen, but I really wasn't in the place to be talking to strange, elderly men. He mentioned Shakespeare, and how he wrote about Shakespeare once. I asked him if he was a writer.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;"I consider myself more of a poet. In England, my first published work was when I was eighteen." I didn't believe him. He was quite thin, his face wrinkled and sunken-in, and his clothes looked like he had slept in them for days. His beard was uneven, long sporadic hairs protruded from beneath his shirt and his eyebrows stuck out further than his nose. My first impression was that he was homeless. After a while of feeling intensely uncomfortable, I excused myself to head back to work. He introduced himself to me as Paul Bailey, and I made a mental note to research that name to see if he really was who he said he was.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I immediately looked him up when I got back to the office and the name can up several times, including a picture. His was much younger in the photo, but it was clearly the same man I had eaten lunch with. It turns out, he was being modest about his accomplishments. Paul Bailey was the first-ever recipient of the E.M. Forster Award and won a George Orwell Prize for one of his essays. He is considered an influential writer, and is still publishing work today. I found the following quote which affected me tremendously:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;em&gt;I write because I have to and want to. It's as simple, or as complicated, as that. And I write novels specifically because I am curious about my fellow creatures. There is no end to their mystery. I share Isaac Babel's lifelong ambition to write with simplicity, brevity and precision. It was he who said 'No steel can pierce the human heart so chillingly as a period at the right moment.' I hope one or two of my full stops have done, and will do, just that.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;He is "curious about his fellow creatures", as I consider myself to be. Maybe this is why he started a conversation with a perfect stranger: To learn something. But instead of learning from him I brushed him off. I immediately judged him. When I discovered what this man had accomplished, I felt such shame for how I had treated him. Not just because he is a great thinker and I could learn from him, but because it demonstrated an enormous flaw in my own character. I acted as if I was somehow better than this man, that I had more important things to do with my time than listen to his chatter. I would be lucky to have a conversation with someone like him, and who knows how long I'll have to wait before meeting someone as brilliant ever again. I would be lucky to accomplish half of what he has in his life.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;It's a cliche, but my lesson of the day: Never judge a book by it's cover.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088375917008506178" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Rp2K7-jxzUI/AAAAAAAAAJQ/hDVwwtiyNHI/s400/pbailey.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-5067175748320607631?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/5067175748320607631/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=5067175748320607631' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5067175748320607631'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5067175748320607631'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/07/lesson-learned-pun-intended.html' title='Lesson Learned, Pun Intended'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Rp2K7-jxzUI/AAAAAAAAAJQ/hDVwwtiyNHI/s72-c/pbailey.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-8358703518196159348</id><published>2007-07-13T00:29:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-07-13T00:40:13.097-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Toronto's Heirarchy</title><content type='html'>There's a drastic and visible social order in Toronto. From the Louis Vuitton toting, Gucci sunglasses wearing fashionistas to the homeless. Wondering shoeless and tired-eyed, they tend to beg in the same place everyday.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The one by the Dominion seems happy, he's always smiling and offering assistance to people who struggle with their bags. He has a dog who seems tired but content. Not well-fed, but fed enough. It's truly surprising to me that someone in the most adverse of circumstances can always be so friendly and outgoing. He almost seems happier than me on a good day.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Another has a place outside a small grocers on Carlton. He sits on a milk crate with his empty Tim Horton's cup resting on the ground in front of him, never making eye-contact with the people walking past. He just sits quietly hoping for some extra change. He takes better care of himself of then some of the other homeless men I've seen. I get the feeling that the owners of the store let him sleep there and shower every once in awhile. Maybe he gives them some of the money from his coffee cup in exchange. I've seen him walking around elsewhere as well, I suppose he has friends panhandling in other areas of the city. More of a social network than most.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The tall man with the grocery cart who wanders Ryerson park scares me a little bit. He walks back and forth all day asking people for the time. Maybe it's his way of maintaining social contact. Maybe it's his own sociological experiment to see how many people simply ignore the homeless and walk on by. Maybe he's one of the many homeless in the city with mental illness, unable to get help and better his situation.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I often think what it would be like if I was in the position of one of these people and how difficult it would be. Not just because of the dangers of living on the street, or the poor diet, or the lack of cleanliness, or the dangers to your health, but because of the isolation. People ignore you and literally walk over you. It would get so lonely to never have anyone to talk to. The stigma of being on the street would be overwhelming. Of knowing you're on the "bottom rung" and that most people look down on you. Your self-esteem would plummet and your hopelessness would grow everyday. It is amazing how resilient people can be, and how positive their thinking must be to get through the day. It really makes you think, how lucky we all are to have a roof over our heads and a warm bed at night.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-8358703518196159348?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/8358703518196159348/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=8358703518196159348' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/8358703518196159348'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/8358703518196159348'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/07/torontos-heirarchy.html' title='Toronto&apos;s Heirarchy'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-8149448501145103961</id><published>2007-07-10T10:55:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-07-10T10:55:52.155-04:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>Not even in the evening, 'cause I've been drinking.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I tend to get restless staying in one place for too long, so it helps to have several different places I can move between when I need a change of scenery and some fresh faces.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Seventeen hours of driving in three days.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Just when you think you're comfortable and understand this whole life thing, after forty-some-odd years it throws you a curve ball. We never saw this one coming.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Stop coming to me if you can't. It's never safe for us. When will we get the time to be...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-8149448501145103961?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/8149448501145103961/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=8149448501145103961' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/8149448501145103961'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/8149448501145103961'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/07/not-even-in-evening-cause-ive-been.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-344956068588200615</id><published>2007-06-22T12:10:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-06-22T12:10:38.921-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Your Tongue is Sharp, but I Miss the Taste of It</title><content type='html'>It's been a strange few days.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1) I spent the last three days in isolation at my cottage. Not a soul was near. All the windows in the house are facing out to the beach and I trotted around naked the whole time, no need for clothes. There was no one to see me. I gained a new appreciation for being nude.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2) A good friend of mine got pregnant. She's close in age to me, not married but has been with her boyfriend for years and years. They just bought a house together, and I suppose in their world it's exciting and it makes sense, but it's strange. When things like that happen in other people's lives, it makes me feel so young and immature. I &lt;em&gt;cannot &lt;/em&gt;relate to wanting to have a baby. It's such an immense responsibility to take on, and I suppose I'm still at a place in my life where I don't see the allure of being a mommy. I'm still too selfish.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3) It's been a rat race searching for a job. I've officially been unemployed for almost two months. I'm waiting on one woman to contact me for a dance teaching position at a girls camp, which would be perfect for me, but we've been playing the most &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;elaborate&lt;/span&gt; game of phone tag ever. It's been about two weeks, and we haven't actually spoken to each other directly, only voicemail. Please cross your fingers for me people, these are desperate times.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;4) I've decided I have a very confusing relationship with my body. About half the time I love it and believe I am super sexy, but the rest of time I see flaws with every bit of it and try to cover up. I flip-flop every day between love and &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;disdain&lt;/span&gt;. Do you think there is any woman out there who &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;consistently&lt;/span&gt; loves herself?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-344956068588200615?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/344956068588200615/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=344956068588200615' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/344956068588200615'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/344956068588200615'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/06/your-tongue-is-sharp-but-i-miss-taste.html' title='Your Tongue is Sharp, but I Miss the Taste of It'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-6744847351540079759</id><published>2007-06-21T17:27:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-06-21T17:27:50.698-04:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>Love is sometimes disarranged in the haze.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-6744847351540079759?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/6744847351540079759/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=6744847351540079759' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/6744847351540079759'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/6744847351540079759'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/06/love-is-sometimes-disarranged-in-haze.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-4358023612725074513</id><published>2007-06-08T12:00:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:46.188-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Chinese Food</title><content type='html'>Congratulations to my &lt;a href="http://www.myspace.com/chinesefoodmusic"&gt;cousins band &lt;/a&gt;who played &lt;a href="https://www.nxne.com/"&gt;NXNE&lt;/a&gt; and were amazing!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Rml5cnhkKHI/AAAAAAAAAI4/Wzy6IjSlYs4/s1600-h/torontogoingouttimes+024.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5073719987762636914" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Rml5cnhkKHI/AAAAAAAAAI4/Wzy6IjSlYs4/s320/torontogoingouttimes+024.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;I was so proud of him in the parental kind of way that makes you wanna squeeze cheeks and say things like, "your mom would be so proud of you right now!" I was also getting really excited that there's a potential celebrity in the family that I can brag about.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;I've been discovering a new phenomenon lately. When girls go out together, they dress alike. I don't know why I've never noticed this before, it's quite obvious. I'm going to try and document this with a collection of secret photos, taken illegally and without consent. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5073719983467669602" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Rml5cXhkKGI/AAAAAAAAAIw/ByyeWAGFJNY/s320/torontogoingouttimes+021.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Notice: Jeans, plaid shirts, large hand bags over the left shoulder, ponytails, no earrings, and though their shoes were not in the picture, I assure you they were both wearing black runners.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;More installments to follow.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-4358023612725074513?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/4358023612725074513/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=4358023612725074513' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/4358023612725074513'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/4358023612725074513'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/06/chinese-food.html' title='Chinese Food'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Rml5cnhkKHI/AAAAAAAAAI4/Wzy6IjSlYs4/s72-c/torontogoingouttimes+024.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-5438296605876944436</id><published>2007-06-04T23:53:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:46.398-05:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RmTcJXhkKEI/AAAAAAAAAIg/wEgT00wRjRo/s1600-h/me+053.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5072421133817751618" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RmTcJXhkKEI/AAAAAAAAAIg/wEgT00wRjRo/s320/me+053.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;I'm finally happy right now. Right now, where I am.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-5438296605876944436?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/5438296605876944436/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=5438296605876944436' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5438296605876944436'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5438296605876944436'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/06/im-finally-happy-right-now.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RmTcJXhkKEI/AAAAAAAAAIg/wEgT00wRjRo/s72-c/me+053.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-7376734977352966719</id><published>2007-06-03T20:41:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-06-03T20:40:29.059-04:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>I haven't written in almost a week because I've been too busy becoming an alcoholic.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Apparently bonding with my roommates means we must drink copious amounts of booze and fall down.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The heat has created an extra layer of greasy, dirt all over my body. I can wash it off, but 5 minutes later it's back.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My &lt;a href="http://www.chinesefoodmusic.com/"&gt;cousins band &lt;/a&gt;is on the schedule for &lt;a href="https://www.nxne.com/"&gt;NXNE&lt;/a&gt;. I'm totally gonna use my celeb connection to get backstage/free stuff/popularity.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-7376734977352966719?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/7376734977352966719/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=7376734977352966719' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/7376734977352966719'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/7376734977352966719'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/06/i-havent-written-in-almost-week-because.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-827198591105454108</id><published>2007-05-29T13:02:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:46.695-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Where I End and You Begin</title><content type='html'>I almost went &lt;a href="http://raymitheminx.blogspot.com/"&gt;Raymi&lt;/a&gt; on your asses for this post. I may still soon, but I'm not quite ready to take my top off for the Internet. Also, I don't think my baby bro and dad would appreciate seeing my boobies.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5070024665476971666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RlxYkjQ5PJI/AAAAAAAAAIY/M43qkcG09gY/s320/me+039.jpg" border="0" /&gt;I know you're all probably bored with my dream commentary, but I had &lt;em&gt;the most &lt;/em&gt;frightening dream last night. There were ghosts in my room and one possessed me. A woman with curly, blond hair. She was in my body for a few seconds until I managed to focus really hard and force her out of me. Why do I keep torturing myself in my sleep? I'm not that tortured during the day, I can't figure out why I am so fucked up during the night.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;em&gt;Ghosts: In general, ghosts symbolizes aspects of yourself that you fear. This may involve a painful memory, guilt, or some repressed thoughts. Alternatively, ghosts are representative of something that is no longer obtainable or within reach. It indicates a feeling of disconnection from life and society. &lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;em&gt;Possessed: To dream that you are possessed, represents your state of helplessness and not being in control of things. &lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Maybe I should stop analyzing my dreams, or I'll start to think I actually am as messed up as they keep telling me.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-827198591105454108?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/827198591105454108/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=827198591105454108' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/827198591105454108'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/827198591105454108'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/05/where-i-end-and-you-begin.html' title='Where I End and You Begin'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RlxYkjQ5PJI/AAAAAAAAAIY/M43qkcG09gY/s72-c/me+039.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-5143132016623678261</id><published>2007-05-28T00:55:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-05-28T00:55:28.360-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Fun With YouTube</title><content type='html'>My new favourite &lt;a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4PsWTxvOArs"&gt;video&lt;/a&gt; from my new favourite album. Am I predictable?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ceNf-11-ddI"&gt;She&lt;/a&gt; just wanted to join the fun!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Daddddyyyy! It's the &lt;a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YhP8XsRP09w"&gt;wrong colour&lt;/a&gt;!!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wonder what inspired Alanis to cover &lt;a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f2uBfi4miC8"&gt;this&lt;/a&gt; song?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7VTPSL9TcJc"&gt;Dying&lt;/a&gt; to see this movie. It's about time something like this came around.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I'll take &lt;a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jiqLSVDzIME&amp;mode=related&amp;amp;search="&gt;Famous Titties &lt;/a&gt;for 400!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Who's the choreographer for &lt;a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pv5zWaTEVkI"&gt;this&lt;/a&gt; video? Genius!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;God Warrior? More like &lt;a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T0MHK8ntKqk"&gt;crazy devil woman &lt;/a&gt;who embodies everything that is wrong with America.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can't stop watching the &lt;a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G-Cbry2X1c8"&gt;blinking&lt;/a&gt;!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hope no one was in &lt;a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KgVzqp7H1gw"&gt;there&lt;/a&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Maybe it's 'cause of the way that I walk, that makes them think that I like... &lt;a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LZoO8LyizLA"&gt;boys&lt;/a&gt;."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The only &lt;a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gZ_eaBgaDzY"&gt;cereal&lt;/a&gt; that understands you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X-PQY9ntAJo"&gt;Phony&lt;/a&gt; photo booth skit.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OwruVwjuYso&amp;mode=related&amp;amp;search="&gt;Holy&lt;/a&gt; shit! I &lt;a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2E4dvwTj1A8&amp;mode=related&amp;amp;search="&gt;love&lt;/a&gt; this &lt;a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-WBwRn_J2vQ&amp;mode=related&amp;amp;search="&gt;show&lt;/a&gt; so much!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-5143132016623678261?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/5143132016623678261/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=5143132016623678261' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5143132016623678261'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5143132016623678261'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/05/fun-with-youtube.html' title='Fun With YouTube'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-5932444707442190865</id><published>2007-05-24T20:17:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-05-24T20:17:32.382-04:00</updated><title type='text'>My Arranged Indian Marriage in Hell</title><content type='html'>It's been awhile since I've had a dream that I remember when I wake up. I know I have them every night, but I think lately they've all been boring dreams that I'm too lazy to remember in the morning. But last night I had a series of crazy dreams, about four in a row, and one specifically that I thought was fucked up enough to share with the Internet.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was in hell. How crazy is it that in my own dream, I die and go to hell? Anyways, hell wasn't all fire and pitchforks, it was your own worst nightmare. Mine was being in an arranged marriage to a disgusting old man who didn't love me. It was as if I was being sold into sexual slavery. I met him on the day of our wedding and I could tell it was a purely business transaction and that he wasn't too impressed at the look of me. Weirdly, it was an Indian wedding, my fiancee was Indian, and I remember looking at myself in the mirror and I had brown skin. Then, somehow in the nick of time, someone rescued me from my hell.  This mystery person kidnapped me and drove me away in an old van, away from my wedding and into a kind of hell-limbo. We were on the verge of hell and earth just driving, driving, driving and getting nowhere. The evilest of the evil were chasing us, and everyone else in hell knew we were missing and were looking for us too, so we had to keep pulling our van into caves along the road to hide. The scariest thing was that the people chasing us always knew where we were, but they could never quite catch us, so we just kept running and hiding.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;Hell: To dream of hell, denotes that you may be suffering from a seemingly inescapable situation. You may have placed your decision or course of action into someone else's hands. Alternatively, you may be possessing many inner fears and repressed guilty feelings. It is time to quit punishing yourself and take it easy for awhile.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Repressed guilty feelings? Suffering? Ouch, guys gimme a break.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;Running: To dream that you are running away from someone, indicates an issue that you are trying to avoid. You are not taking or accepting responsibility for your actions. In particular, if you are running from an attacker or any danger, then it suggests that you are not facing and confronting your fears. To dream that you are running with others, signifies festive and prosperous times. &lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Doesn't that seem a bit contradictory? I'm not facing my fears but I am having festive and prosperous times?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;Hiding: To dream that you are hiding, suggests that you are keeping some secret or withholding some information. You may not be facing up to a situation or not want to deal with an issue. However, you may be getting ready to reveal and confess before somebody finds out. To dream that you or somebody else is hiding, indicates a need for security and protection.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;OK, this has &lt;em&gt;some&lt;/em&gt; merit. No, I'm not telling what my secret is.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-5932444707442190865?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/5932444707442190865/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=5932444707442190865' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5932444707442190865'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5932444707442190865'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/05/my-arranged-indian-marriage-in-hell.html' title='My Arranged Indian Marriage in Hell'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-3879670388831895795</id><published>2007-05-10T00:00:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:47.228-05:00</updated><title type='text'>It's Such an Ugly World for Something so Beautiful</title><content type='html'>1) You'll all be happy to hear that I am settled and happy and exploding with joy at my new place in Toronto. My room is all set up, everyone has been so nice and I already feel comfortable with the novelty of everything. I'm gonna like it here.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RkKWa3XcVVI/AAAAAAAAAHg/w4a2L5SoeRQ/s1600-h/thekooks058007+028.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5062774319400899922" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RkKWa3XcVVI/AAAAAAAAAHg/w4a2L5SoeRQ/s200/thekooks058007+028.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;2) I spotted my blog idol &lt;a href="http://raymitheminx.blogspot.com/"&gt;Raymi&lt;/a&gt; at the Kooks concert last night! And I was definitely too chicken shit to go say hi and that I read her blog everyday and that I think she's so cool. She was the first person I saw when I got there, what's wrong with me? Hopefully I'll get my picture with her before I leave the city because that would highlight my entire stay in Toronto.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;3) The Kooks were amazing, but I didn't know they were twelve years old. They looked like little babies on stage. Drunk, stoned babies in tight pants. Then we tried to sneak backstage afterwards and we got pretty far. We saw the bassist run past us without his shirt on before we were forcibly removed from the premises.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;4) I'm not used to having funds literally siphoned out of my bank account. I've been in Toronto for two and a half days now and I cannot believe how poor I am. Living five minutes from the Eaton Centre is responsible for this.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;5) Buy the new Feist, Peter Bjorn and John and Kings of Leon albums and then thank me later.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-3879670388831895795?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/3879670388831895795/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=3879670388831895795' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/3879670388831895795'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/3879670388831895795'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/05/its-such-ugly-world-for-something-so.html' title='It&apos;s Such an Ugly World for Something so Beautiful'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RkKWa3XcVVI/AAAAAAAAAHg/w4a2L5SoeRQ/s72-c/thekooks058007+028.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-7760490935253801182</id><published>2007-05-02T13:15:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-05-02T13:14:36.436-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Just Fine</title><content type='html'>I am at my parents house, the entire contents of my life sitting in my car, and I find myself unable to grasp exactly my feelings on what is happening. In between houses and without a job, my life is at a bit of a stand-still. Not only that, but the future is still blurry and now the future is only a few days away. I've always been relaxed when it comes to planning. Most people I know have their whole lives planned out; travel, jobs, marriage, etc. Everything laid out on a clear timeline of when and where. I have always been one to roll with the punches. To be OK not knowing exactly what's going to happen tomorrow, and to follow the road where ever it happens to lead.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Cliches aside, I really wish I knew what was going to happen next. I wish I had planned a bit better and I wish I had considered all my options before impulsively choosing whichever one seemed the most exciting to me at the time. I know everything will be fine, I don't need to be reassured of that. But knowing everything will be fine is different from not knowing what fine is.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-7760490935253801182?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/7760490935253801182/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=7760490935253801182' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/7760490935253801182'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/7760490935253801182'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/05/just-fine.html' title='Just Fine'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-8248467196121867491</id><published>2007-04-23T19:23:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:47.941-05:00</updated><title type='text'>This Blog is Dedicated to Miriam and my Future Husband, Who She met and Thus I am Jealous</title><content type='html'>This is the best thing to ever happen to me, and it didn't even happen to me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5056766363005974114" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Ri0-NxsddmI/AAAAAAAAAHI/8IqIAQnHKso/s320/n187901399_32724268_1713.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, just a few days after I write a whole blog dedicated to my future husband, Mr. John Mayer, my good friend Miriam meets him. Is this fate? Does this mean we are meant to be together? I think we all know the answer to that question. Not only did she meet him, but it is a damn funny story. Here it is in her own words.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;~ Miriam ~ *gravity*says:&lt;br /&gt;the concert alone was euphoric - but that was just the icing on the cake!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;- miss.emily says:&lt;br /&gt;how on EARTH did you manage to meet him?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;~ Miriam ~ *gravity* says:&lt;br /&gt;well it was pretty funny because I just had this feeling that we were going to... so I brought a sharpy and my CD with me just in case!! (also I had a feeling because Katie is THE luckiest person I have ever met.. and crazy good things happen around her.. and that was pretty much the craziest and the best thing that could happen period in the universe)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;~ Miriam ~ *gravity* says:&lt;br /&gt;(except him asking to marry me. obv.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;Edit: No, he is going to ask me to marry him. Just to clear that up.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5056766367300941426" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Ri0-OBsddnI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/77tHjXZkNw8/s320/n187901399_32724270_2224.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;~ Miriam ~ *gravity* says:&lt;br /&gt;anyway after the concert she and I really want to go find the tour bus, but everyone was like 'no.. that's not going to happen.. he won't sign stuff, he's too famous..' etc, so we all get in the car&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;~ Miriam ~ *gravity* says:&lt;br /&gt;then we are having a heated discussion about him and Jessica Simpson - and my friend driving hits the car ahead of us!! she thought he had started moving, and he hadn't, so we nudged him. anyway freaking out but there was no damage so it was OK&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;~ Miriam ~ *gravity* says:&lt;br /&gt;anyway because of that we wanted to avoid this dude and not drive behind him anymore so while we are recovering from being freaked out we end up in random London and have to loop back towards downtown&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;~ Miriam ~ *gravity* says:&lt;br /&gt;as we drive past the Labatt Centre once again, we happen to go on the side where the parking lot is.. and out of SHEER coincidence, there is the tour bus, and there are barriers, and a little crowd of people!!!!!!!!!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;~ Miriam ~ *gravity* says:&lt;br /&gt;It Was Him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5056766367300941442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Ri0-OBsddoI/AAAAAAAAAHY/QqHFaT9rvHE/s320/n187901399_32724272_2744.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;~ Miriam ~ *gravity* says:&lt;br /&gt;we pulled into this random spot and we all jetted out of the car!!!! as if we were in a marathon!! he was just working his way down the barrier signing everything and Em he was SO close.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The moral of this story is that I should always go to concerts with Miriam and Katie and that the universe is desperately trying to bring me and my future husband together by having him meet my friends first so we can have a conversational ice-breaker when we finally go on our first date of a life-time of dates.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-8248467196121867491?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/8248467196121867491/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=8248467196121867491' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/8248467196121867491'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/8248467196121867491'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/04/this-blog-is-dedicated-to-miriam-and-my.html' title='This Blog is Dedicated to Miriam and my Future Husband, Who She met and Thus I am Jealous'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Ri0-NxsddmI/AAAAAAAAAHI/8IqIAQnHKso/s72-c/n187901399_32724268_1713.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-7616663277730124756</id><published>2007-04-20T02:25:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:48.339-05:00</updated><title type='text'>It's Tuna.</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RihTcBsddkI/AAAAAAAAAG4/l14j6oQmWLU/s1600-h/john%26jess.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5055382322679739970" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RihTcBsddkI/AAAAAAAAAG4/l14j6oQmWLU/s320/john%26jess.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;This picture was posted on my &lt;a href="http://blog.honeyee.com/john/"&gt;future&lt;/a&gt; &lt;a href="http://blog.honeyee.com/john/"&gt;husband's blog&lt;/a&gt; with the caption "the most you're gonna get..."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;For the slow kids in the back, this is documented evidence that the future father of my children, John Mayer, is walking around outside in Australia with Jessica Simpson, a.k.a. blonde sell-out who thinks buffalo have wings. Umm, hello? John is way too smart for her, plus he's already practically betrothed to yours truly. I know all kinds of facts about Buffalo and Chicken of the Sea and I'm way prettier than her. This is so silly, lets just see if I can fix this...&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Ok, this is way more realistic. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5055389735793292882" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RihaLhsddlI/AAAAAAAAAHA/XO2TES5VoVY/s400/john%26jess%26me.JPG" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p&gt;You're welcome.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-7616663277730124756?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/7616663277730124756/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=7616663277730124756' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/7616663277730124756'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/7616663277730124756'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/04/its-tuna.html' title='It&apos;s Tuna.'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RihTcBsddkI/AAAAAAAAAG4/l14j6oQmWLU/s72-c/john%26jess.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-8082487205509766419</id><published>2007-04-18T23:48:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-04-18T23:47:10.445-04:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>I am not yet jaded. I know this because people still have the ability to surprise me, and I still have the ability to surprise myself.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-8082487205509766419?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/8082487205509766419/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=8082487205509766419' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/8082487205509766419'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/8082487205509766419'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/04/i-am-not-yet-jaded.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-5444023864885491871</id><published>2007-04-17T23:53:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-04-17T23:51:52.658-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Cookie</title><content type='html'>1) So I'm writing a long blog and it's late at night so guess what that means? I'll give you two guesses. Yes, you're right I have an exam tomorrow which means I must do everything but study. So far today I've gone to the gym, gone to Shoppers, talked about having an exam, watched Scrubs and written here. I've done a total of two hours of studying since I've been awake. Enjoy the fruits of my procrastination.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2) Remember how a million years ago I was trying to come up with &lt;a href="http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/12/oooh-oh-oh-uh-huh.html"&gt;my top five bands of all time &lt;/a&gt;and only could think of four? The fifth spot has been appointed to Metric, yayyyy! Let's have a party where we all talk about our top five, and I'll be popular because I already know mine and don't have to stand there going, "Umm, ahhh, I don't know!" They will probably change eventually, but for now I have some piece of mind. So here are, officially, Emily's Top Five Bands of All Time, aka The World's Top Five Bands because we all know I have better taste in music than the world. &lt;em&gt;Radiohead, Muse, Phoenix, Led Zepplin &lt;/em&gt;and&lt;em&gt; Metric. &lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3) My thoughts before I leave for the gym: "&lt;em&gt;Man, I look good in my tight little workout pants!"&lt;/em&gt; My thoughts while at the gym: "&lt;em&gt;I'm fat, I'm fat, I'm fat..."&lt;/em&gt; My thoughts after the gym: "&lt;em&gt;I'm still fat, the gym did nothing! I want a cookie."&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;4) I am an actual chocoholic. People use that word lightly, but really for me it's a drug. I crave it at all points of the day, I think about where I can get it and I get real withdrawal symptoms. I've known that I was a chocoholic for awhile, I went off it for a year and a bit in High School because it started to get out of control, but then one little brownie and I fell back into being a crazy addict. It takes me about three days of not having chocolate to not get cravings anymore. But then, like I said, one little chip and I'm a crazy person again. I tried to not eat chocolate today, but I caved. I want a cookie.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;5) I was thinking about my Kindergarten report card the other day, and my teacher wrote that I didn't play with the other children and I was a loner (those weren't her exact words, I hope.) Anyways, I remember Kindergarten and my favourite thing to do was walk around and watch the other kids play. I watched them try to put puzzles together, I saw how the boys always played blocks and the girls always played house. I just realized something: &lt;em&gt;I was a facking psychologist at the age of five!&lt;/em&gt; It wasn't that I had no friends or that I didn't know how to play, I just enjoyed watching the social behaviours of my friends. Still, I love people watching, sometimes at the bar I'll stand and just watch the way people interact. I was born to be a psychologist, I tell you. Five years old and observing the play behaviours of my peers, I'm a frigging genius.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;6) I still want a cookie.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-5444023864885491871?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/5444023864885491871/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=5444023864885491871' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5444023864885491871'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5444023864885491871'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/04/cookie.html' title='Cookie'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-1628309686715870391</id><published>2007-04-12T22:49:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:48.468-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Fake Mink Pubes</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Rh7o9jwi3HI/AAAAAAAAAGo/5ecbifetMj4/s1600-h/me+038.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5052731976224791666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Rh7o9jwi3HI/AAAAAAAAAGo/5ecbifetMj4/s400/me+038.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt; .&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dear Fake Mink Blanket;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Your hairs look like long black pubes, which is really embarrassing when I have guests over and they see these pube-looking hairs all over my bed and floor. I don't want them to get the wrong idea so please stop shedding. Thanks.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;__________&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I like the way my eyeball looks in this picture. My eyes were blue until I was a year old, then they started to turn green but you can still see blueishness around the outside, which I like. I hate when people say I have brown eyes, they're not brown dammit! No offense to brown-eyed people but I'd rather not be lumped into the majority when I have very interesting &lt;em&gt;not-brown&lt;/em&gt; eyes. Look closely, they are green on the inside and blue on the outside.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;__________&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Is it weird if you have a sex dream but you're not the one having sex, you're actually watching your two friends do it in your own bed while you're trying to talk to them but they're obviously not listening cause they're going at it? &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;__________&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-1628309686715870391?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/1628309686715870391/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=1628309686715870391' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/1628309686715870391'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/1628309686715870391'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/04/fake-mink-pubes.html' title='Fake Mink Pubes'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Rh7o9jwi3HI/AAAAAAAAAGo/5ecbifetMj4/s72-c/me+038.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-2642433333639149182</id><published>2007-04-06T21:58:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-04-06T21:57:17.049-04:00</updated><title type='text'>22 Human Years = 55 Dancer Years</title><content type='html'>I'm choreographing a solo for myself to be performed in less than a month. It'll probably be the last dance performance of my life, which is a bit discerning. It's a jazz solo to Little Wing by Jimi Hendrix and it's working out OK so far, except for the fact that I haven't taken class in, oh I don't know, about three years. I'm old now in dancer years so things take a bit more effort. And I'm performing in front of all my students and their parents which is also very discerning. They expect me to pull out something amazing because I'm supposed to be an expert at what I do. I'm a good teacher, but my body does &lt;em&gt;not&lt;/em&gt; do the things a dancers body should be able to do any more. Every time I jump or turn or bend I need to do an "UGH!" to help me through it. Ugh, God help me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had the longest dream last night about eating a hard boiled egg. It was the whole process too, not just eating it. There were no eggs in the fridge, so I had a discussion with my roomies about not eating my food. Then I drove to the grocery store and had to sift through cartons and cartons of eggs that were broken and shattered in order to find one with nice eggs in it. Then when I went to pay I had no money left so I had to borrow five bucks from the old lady behind me. When I got home, all the pots were dirty, so I washed one and sat watching while the water boiled. I waited and waited and finally the egg was ready. When I opened it to eat it, it was black and rotten and disgusting but I waited so long for it I just ate it anyways.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;Eggs: To see or eat eggs in your dream, symbolizes fertility, birth and your creative potential. It indicates that something new is about to happen. To see cracked or broken eggs in your dream, denotes that you will suffer from many disappointments and misfortunes. It is indicative of a fragile state in your life and feelings of vulnerability. Alternatively, you may be breaking out of your shell and being comfortable with who you are. &lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So I'll suffer many disappointments and misfortunes and then get pregnant?!?! I need to stop interpreting my dreams or I'll start actually believing this stupid crap. Now I've got to go... take my pill. And buy some more condoms. Bye.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-2642433333639149182?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/2642433333639149182/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=2642433333639149182' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/2642433333639149182'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/2642433333639149182'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/04/22-human-years-55-dancer-years.html' title='22 Human Years = 55 Dancer Years'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-2275880658660532224</id><published>2007-04-02T01:45:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:48.632-05:00</updated><title type='text'>I'm Too Hot, That's Why I'm Still Single</title><content type='html'>&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5048694596628770242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RhCQ_It97cI/AAAAAAAAAGY/JZeLzrrCZhg/s320/me+035.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've been the most skeptical about relationships and love and stuff lately and here's what people have been telling me is the problem:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;Person #1: "You're too beautiful, unique, confident and smart so guys get intimidated by you. You just haven't met someone that can handle your greatness yet."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Person #2: "We both know there are no guys worth dating at Laurier. Just wait until you leave, guys will be tripping themselves just to get a date with you."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Person #3: "You're too picky. Just keep your options open and things will happen."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span&gt;Person #4: "Guys suck. Just become a lesbian and your love life will totally change."&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;Person #5: "You're just not willing to settle with something mediocre. You know what you want and what's going to make you happy and don't want to waste your time dating some immature frat boy who doesn't know where your clit is."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Too bad I don't think any of those is the one. I think it's a combination of lack of opportunity and my own fear and inability to act coherent around anyone I actually like. I clam up and answer questions with either nervous laughter or one word answers in a high-pitched, squirrel-like voice, or some combination of both. Even I don't want to hang out with myself when I'm around guys I like.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In other news, each day that goes by gets me closer and closer to leaving this hell hole. But I keep having anxiety dreams. The worst one yet happened a few days ago when I dreamt that my mom killed herself and I woke up with my cheeks wet and sobbing. I immediately called her and she laughed at the thought, telling me she'd never ever leave me. Then I yelled at her for not taking me seriously. Then I called her back and apologized for being a bitch.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-2275880658660532224?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/2275880658660532224/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=2275880658660532224' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/2275880658660532224'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/2275880658660532224'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/04/im-too-hot-thats-why-im-still-single.html' title='I&apos;m Too Hot, That&apos;s Why I&apos;m Still Single'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RhCQ_It97cI/AAAAAAAAAGY/JZeLzrrCZhg/s72-c/me+035.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-4723931626160160218</id><published>2007-03-25T02:18:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:49.383-05:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;div align="center"&gt;Honestly, I don't give a shit. I just act like I do sometimes to make my life seem more interesting.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/merkley/"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5045752322682306850" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RgYdAQIUwSI/AAAAAAAAAGM/gPvgFGBozqc/s400/merkley11.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-4723931626160160218?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/4723931626160160218/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=4723931626160160218' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/4723931626160160218'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/4723931626160160218'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/03/honestly-i-dont-give-shit.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RgYdAQIUwSI/AAAAAAAAAGM/gPvgFGBozqc/s72-c/merkley11.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-2458838824857252881</id><published>2007-03-22T03:05:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-03-22T03:03:37.355-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Umm, I'll Pass.</title><content type='html'>Today sucked. It was so boring. Until the end, that part was fun. Here was my day:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;12am-10am:&lt;/em&gt; Sleep.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;10am-1pm:&lt;/em&gt; Think about going to class, but don't. Watch two episodes of The Office.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;1pm-3pm:&lt;/em&gt; Nap.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;3pm-4:30pm:&lt;/em&gt; Think about going to the gym. Drive by the gym and notice there is no parking so go buy groceries instead.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;4:30pm-6:30pm:&lt;/em&gt; Make and eat Pad Thai.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;6:30pm-7:30pm:&lt;/em&gt; Think about taking another nap.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;7:30pm-8pm:&lt;/em&gt; Get ice cream with Amber.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;8pm-9pm:&lt;/em&gt; Watch Lost.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;9pm-10pm:&lt;/em&gt; Shower and make self look pretty.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;10pm-2am:&lt;/em&gt; Bar.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We went to the UW Bomber, which was nice because there were no Laurier cocks there. And by cocks, I mean dicks. Penises. Walking around penises of men. Anyways, UW men are so much more respectful and nice and they want to talk to you before attempting to remove your pants. It's refreshing. So then I'm all happy from being flirted with, &lt;em&gt;real &lt;/em&gt;flirting not "Hey, we're both drunk. Let's make some bad choices and then I'll never call you after" and I come home to this message:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;CV-says:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/em&gt;ok&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;CV-says:&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;come over and give me a bj&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;CV- says:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/em&gt;please&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;CV-says:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/em&gt;hey babe&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And who is this from? Oh ya, a drunken Laurier walking penis. No wonder they call this town the Loo.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-2458838824857252881?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/2458838824857252881/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=2458838824857252881' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/2458838824857252881'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/2458838824857252881'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/03/umm-ill-pass.html' title='Umm, I&apos;ll Pass.'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-3174113011863215768</id><published>2007-03-16T16:15:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:50.291-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Three Question Marks</title><content type='html'>&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Rfr5UBzWaPI/AAAAAAAAAF0/LH1XmHGsEOA/s1600-h/merkley6.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5042616855271205106" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Rfr5UBzWaPI/AAAAAAAAAF0/LH1XmHGsEOA/s400/merkley6.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;I love &lt;a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/merkley/"&gt;Merkley???&lt;/a&gt;'s work so much, I would pay him whatever he charges PLUS pay for my own flight to San Fransisco where he lives just to take my clothes off so he can take nudey pics of me.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5042611190209341618" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Rfr0KRzWaLI/AAAAAAAAAFU/xrhTZODrp4k/s400/merkely2.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;What I love about his photos is that these girls are not models. They have real bodies, unique faces, their own style (sometimes tattoos and piercings) and actual, home-grown boobies. No silicon here, people.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Rfr0KhzWaMI/AAAAAAAAAFc/3JG3_Et_WnY/s1600-h/merkley.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5042611194504308930" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Rfr0KhzWaMI/AAAAAAAAAFc/3JG3_Et_WnY/s400/merkley.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt; Also what I love is that the settings these girls are in are not typical. I mean, they're more real. There are stains on the mattresses, the floors are dirty and the props are things you can probably find in your own home. There's something purposely mundane about the props and locations he uses. I love it. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Rfr0KxzWaNI/AAAAAAAAAFk/vV6RgfUcyoA/s1600-h/merkley4.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5042611198799276242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Rfr0KxzWaNI/AAAAAAAAAFk/vV6RgfUcyoA/s400/merkley4.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;I hear he lets the girls wear their own favourite pair of shoes. That could just be a rumour though.&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5042616850976237794" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Rfr5TxzWaOI/AAAAAAAAAFs/q9nvOLckLA0/s400/merkley7.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-3174113011863215768?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/3174113011863215768/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=3174113011863215768' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/3174113011863215768'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/3174113011863215768'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/03/three-question-marks.html' title='Three Question Marks'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Rfr5UBzWaPI/AAAAAAAAAF0/LH1XmHGsEOA/s72-c/merkley6.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-8055038415104020780</id><published>2007-03-15T13:05:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-03-15T01:05:20.310-04:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>Not overthinking, just thinking. Being. Wondering questions with no answers makes my entire body hurt. I'm tired and my eyes have dark circles almost as black as the ones I wish were around my heart, but no. Nothing to burden me but thinking. And that's more tiring than anything.&lt;br /&gt;__________&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Looking in the wrong places. With eyes closed.&lt;br /&gt;After years of waiting, still more to pass by.&lt;br /&gt;__________&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why do I put you on a pedestal? Because there is no one else. You are a joke. We were a joke. We were nothing and it drives me insane that you are my comparison. You're on the pedestal rather than someone worth being my example. But alas, it is you. My bullshit exemplification.&lt;br /&gt;__________&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-8055038415104020780?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/8055038415104020780/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=8055038415104020780' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/8055038415104020780'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/8055038415104020780'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/03/not-overthinking-just-thinking.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-1460242604046603328</id><published>2007-03-12T02:35:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2007-03-12T02:38:21.435-04:00</updated><title type='text'>It's Anxiety... I Think.</title><content type='html'>My dreams have been getting more and more strange, and probably because of anxiety. I say probably because I never seem to know I'm anxious when I'm anxious. Or when I'm stressed or scared. I am, surprisingly, not very good at reading myself and it usually isn't until after I've recovered from the anxiety or stress or fear that I can recognize why I was out of sorts at the time. I know something's not right, and other people know but for some reason I cannot concretely identify my own emotions at the time they are occurring. So because of this unsettled feeling in my gut and because I'm grumpy and am going through a transitional time in my life, I have deduced that I'm anxious.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The increasing strangeness of my dreams is most likely a product this. I never have a truly sound sleep these days and I always wake up feeling strange. Like I didn't actually get any rest, I just entered an even more exhausting state of consciousness that is my life turned upside-down. Last night I dreamt that I was sleeping, and I woke up and opened my sleepy eyes to see someone lying next to me watching me. I could see him, a man, foggy because I was deeply asleep, and I remember thinking that he must have been really tired to have crawled into bed with me in the middle of the night. I was disturbed, but not quite enough to fully wake up and kick him in the balls which is what I would do if a real stranger crawled into bed with me. So I just went back to sleep. I awoke wondering if it had actually happened.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why the anxiety? I'll soon be graduating. I'm moving to Toronto in less than two months, a city I've never lived in, and I don't yet have a place or a job. I'm a small town girl at heart and Toronto is a big place. It's a whole different world and I'm throwing myself into it without knowing what I'm going to do once I'm there. Of course this is my choice and it will all turn out ok, blah blah blah, but I can't help but feel like a little lamb unknowingly walking herself to the slaughterhouse.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm excited to be done with academia, with grades and homework and textbooks. There's another chapter on the way that will be amazing and different from anything I've ever experienced before. I've been saying to everyone how I can't wait for the next chapter to start, but I suppose there's another part that will miss this. There's nothing in the world like university life. And I know I've already grown out of it, and I am ready to leave, but it's still a sad thing knowing it's over. Almost.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-1460242604046603328?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/1460242604046603328/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=1460242604046603328' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/1460242604046603328'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/1460242604046603328'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/03/its-anxiety-i-think.html' title='It&apos;s Anxiety... I Think.'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-1075280953287026099</id><published>2007-03-08T03:51:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:50.592-05:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;div align="center"&gt;You know, the longer I'm by myself the more frightened I become at the thought of being with someone else.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt; &lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5039472892847221218" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Re_N5VFeaeI/AAAAAAAAAEs/ZKZWL2OrHxo/s320/me+032.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;I don't want to be scared anymore. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-1075280953287026099?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/1075280953287026099/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=1075280953287026099' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/1075280953287026099'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/1075280953287026099'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/03/you-know-longer-im-by-myself-more.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Re_N5VFeaeI/AAAAAAAAAEs/ZKZWL2OrHxo/s72-c/me+032.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-5669031054081659142</id><published>2007-02-27T15:40:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:51.664-05:00</updated><title type='text'>This Post is a Self-Indulgent Piece of Crap</title><content type='html'>I went to Cuba and you didn't. I pity you right now, I really do. Poor you. Highlights of the trip include:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;- Rum Punch, also lovingly called "Ron Ponche." Don't know why.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;- Salsa dancing until I could no longer feel my feet. Yes that's me, I have long hair.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; &lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5036312144914342130" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/ReSTNlea4PI/AAAAAAAAADw/N7hFPY5oKbk/s320/n187900263_32043899_6895%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;- Sun. Which resulted in a tan.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;- Sand, which was found in places I didn't even know I had places.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;- No sex. Which means no Cuban babies.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/ReSTN1ea4QI/AAAAAAAAAD4/G9g9EAZyWjE/s1600-h/n187901290_32115679_6153%5B1%5D.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5036312149209309442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/ReSTN1ea4QI/AAAAAAAAAD4/G9g9EAZyWjE/s320/n187901290_32115679_6153%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;- Lots of ruckus and destruction of private property and disturbing the lovely elderly couples that go to Cuba for a nice quiet vacation. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;- Feeling like an adult surrounded by six-year-old who've had chocolate for breakfast and lunch and caffeine for dinner.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;- Catamaran adventures and hermit crabs.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5036312153504276754" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/ReSTOFea4RI/AAAAAAAAAEA/-9gK2D3gQB8/s320/n187905752_32051154_5245%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;- Meeting several fling-worthy boys who coincidentally &lt;em&gt;all&lt;/em&gt; had girlfriends. They should wear signs or something.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;-Pina Coladas at 9:30am.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;- Jellyfish near-death experiences.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;- Learning the two most important phrases in Spanish, "Una vino blanco, por favor" and "Fiki fiki a la playa."&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/ReSTOFea4SI/AAAAAAAAAEI/IAtNf-tJiuU/s1600-h/n187902877_32070343_7482%5B1%5D.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5036312153504276770" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/ReSTOFea4SI/AAAAAAAAAEI/IAtNf-tJiuU/s320/n187902877_32070343_7482%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;- Unpasteurized cheese.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;- Developing a taste for seafood. Seafood that still has a face after its been cooked.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;- Non-snow.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;- Fourteen hour flight delays. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/ReSTOVea4TI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/xW-cTOYzVmA/s1600-h/n187902877_32070388_804%5B1%5D.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5036312157799244082" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/ReSTOVea4TI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/xW-cTOYzVmA/s320/n187902877_32070388_804%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;- Paraíso.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-5669031054081659142?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/5669031054081659142/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=5669031054081659142' title='5 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5669031054081659142'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5669031054081659142'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/02/this-post-is-self-indulgent-piece-of.html' title='This Post is a Self-Indulgent Piece of Crap'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/ReSTNlea4PI/AAAAAAAAADw/N7hFPY5oKbk/s72-c/n187900263_32043899_6895%5B1%5D.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>5</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-5620231031512725841</id><published>2007-02-13T00:17:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:52.740-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Do You Like Pina Coladas?</title><content type='html'>Dear Everyone;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In about 50 hours I will be here,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RdFDmAq_s0I/AAAAAAAAADY/gOs041Ak9X0/s1600-h/cuba3.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5030876579043980098" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RdFDmAq_s0I/AAAAAAAAADY/gOs041Ak9X0/s320/cuba3.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And here,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RdFDlwq_syI/AAAAAAAAADI/UHHn9QIAtVU/s1600-h/cuba1.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5030876574749012770" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RdFDlwq_syI/AAAAAAAAADI/UHHn9QIAtVU/s320/cuba1.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Also here,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RdFDlwq_szI/AAAAAAAAADQ/onCTN-Kx0TU/s1600-h/cuba2.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5030876574749012786" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RdFDlwq_szI/AAAAAAAAADQ/onCTN-Kx0TU/s320/cuba2.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And sitting by this pool. But I hope that annoying, lovey-dovey couple in the picture isn't there when we go, 'cause I might barf on them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RdFDlgq_sxI/AAAAAAAAADA/mz6KbaMBt8g/s1600-h/cuba.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5030876570454045458" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RdFDlgq_sxI/AAAAAAAAADA/mz6KbaMBt8g/s320/cuba.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Feel free to be jealous, I know you are. Moving on.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm pretty proud of myself because I've been cooking a lot recently. This is a new development because since I moved to school almost four years ago I've frequented the local Subway, Pita Pit and Quick Sandwich for most of my meals. And by most I mean all. I'd make the occasional stir fry on the days when I was too lazy to leave the house, but nothing extravagant. Today, I made Thai Red Curry with chicken, zucchini, green beans, onion and carrots. Yesterday I made artichoke dip with vegetables and whole grain pitas. I've also recently made bruchetta with feta cheese on focacchia bread. So delicious, but not so much for my ass. Which will be seen very scantly clad in 2 days. I didn't think this through.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But seriously though, my ass will be just fine it's my nether-regions I'm still worried about. Countdown to hair being ripped out of my special place: 2 days.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had another dream last night that warrants a review. I had a cat, who I loved and was my best friend. When I had an ex over for dinner, the cat repeatedly clawed at his face and tried to get away from him. He tried to make friends, but kitty wouldn't have it. There are a couple interesting things here. One is that I hate cats, so the fact that I dreamt that I owned one and loved him is a bit strange. Also, that my cat hated my ex when actually in real life I have a decent relationship with him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;To see a cat in your dream, signifies much misfortune, treachery, and bad luck. However, for the cat lover, cats signifies an independent spirit, feminine sexuality, creativity, and power. If the cat is aggressive, then it suggests that you are having problems with the feminine aspect of yourself. &lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;To dream that a cat is biting you, symbolizes the devouring female. Perhaps you are taking and taking without giving. You may be expressing some fear or frustration especially when something is not going as planned. &lt;/em&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-5620231031512725841?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/5620231031512725841/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=5620231031512725841' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5620231031512725841'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5620231031512725841'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/02/do-you-like-pina-coladas.html' title='Do You Like Pina Coladas?'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RdFDmAq_s0I/AAAAAAAAADY/gOs041Ak9X0/s72-c/cuba3.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-2428146022366188497</id><published>2007-02-04T18:15:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2007-02-04T18:17:07.437-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Oooh La</title><content type='html'>1) I'm supposed to find some behaviour I do that I don't like and change it for the final assignment of my Behaviour Modification class. The problem is that I'm perfect, so I can't think of anything. I should probably tell my Prof and be exempted from this assignment.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2) Help me make this very difficult decision. Choice A: Go to &lt;a href="http://www2.blogger.com/www.coachella.com"&gt;Coachella&lt;/a&gt; after the finals of my last term of University undergrad life ever and spend a disgusting amount of money travelling across two countries to hear a great line-up of bands (would be better if Phoenix was there this year, I'm just saying.) Or Choice B: Go to work that weekend, which I was expecting to attend since September, and &lt;em&gt;make&lt;/em&gt; money not disappointing all my students and not having to lie to my boss. I will consider any and all advice.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3) I'm getting a Brazilian. Yeah, you heard me right, I'm going to be spread eagle in front of a perfect stranger while she rips &lt;em&gt;all&lt;/em&gt; the hairs out of my special place using hot wax. I'm totally insane, but also it's a prep for my trip to Cuba in eleven days. Wilfrid Laurier University Grad trip. You never know what could happen when you're drunk for eight days straight. My cha-cha could end up on the grad video and I want it to look goooood.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;4) Just so you all know, my mom is better than yours. It's a scientific fact and we all know you can't argue science.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-2428146022366188497?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/2428146022366188497/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=2428146022366188497' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/2428146022366188497'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/2428146022366188497'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/02/oooh-la.html' title='Oooh La'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-5098535073863717470</id><published>2007-01-31T16:07:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:52.912-05:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>Hope boils over and keeps me warm in the winter, while everyone around me turns blue.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5026303653310282594" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RcEEiszOu2I/AAAAAAAAAC0/4ZsZIYxwmag/s320/me+033.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-5098535073863717470?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/5098535073863717470/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=5098535073863717470' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5098535073863717470'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5098535073863717470'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/01/hope-boils-over-and-keeps-me-warm-in.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RcEEiszOu2I/AAAAAAAAAC0/4ZsZIYxwmag/s72-c/me+033.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-5216724635595540804</id><published>2007-01-24T21:23:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2007-01-24T21:23:17.906-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Justin Timberlake and the Black Cake</title><content type='html'>Welcome to another installment of "Miss.Emily has messed dreams which is probably a sign that she is crazy but she's been told that before so whatever." This one was a nap dream from earlier today.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was the weekend of my wedding. I guess it was around April, 2008 cause I knew I was 23 and I had known my fiancee since October of 2007. I was all busy planning and rushing around trying to do wedding type stuff, wrapping up loose ends and all the crap that I'm sure goes into such an event. Anyways, the air in my dream was kinda dark through the whole thing. Like there was a black fog over everything all the time. And all this supernatural stuff kept happening that didn't really phase me at the time of the dream because I was so preoccupied with the wedding. I don't remember a lot of specifics but I do remember my cake turning black. Which is a pretty bad omen but it didn't affect me at all during the dream. So I had this bad feeling far, far at the back of my mind through the whole dream too, like I knew I didn't want to marry this guy. His initials were JT (and it's possible this is because I posted about Justin Timberlake yesterday.) And he was an amazing guy, handsome, nice, really intelligent and my parents loved him and I really think I loved him too. But there was this deep feeling of being strangled and confined by the thought of marrying him. I was determined to do it consciously, but unconsciously there was this intense fear that I was making a big mistake. No one else said anything to me except &lt;a href="http://complexworldofkelly.blogspot.com/"&gt;Kelly&lt;/a&gt; who somehow sensed that I shouldn't marry JT. She said, "You know you're allowed to say 'no' at the alter. You've only known this guy for 7 months, you don't have to do this." And although I half agreed with her, I almost felt obligated to marry him anyways because I loved him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now here comes the part where I'm sensible and don't search for meaning in this...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;1) To see a marriage in your dream, signifies commitment, harmony or transitional period. You are undergoing an important developmental phase in your life.  The dream may also represent the unification of formerly separate or opposite aspects of yourself.  In particular, it is the union of masculine or feminine aspects of yourself. Consider the qualities and characteristics of the person that you are marrying. These are the qualities that you need to look at incorporating within yourself. &lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;2) To see a wedding in your dream, symbolizes a new beginning or transition in your current life.  Dreams involving weddings are often negative and highlight some anxiety or fear. It often refers to feelings of bitterness, sorrow, or death.  Alternatively, wedding dreams reflect your issues about commitment and independence. To dream that you are planning your own wedding to someone you never met, is a metaphor symbolizing the union of your masculine and feminine side. It represents a transitional phase where you are seeking some sort of balance between your aggressive side and emotional side. &lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That anxiety stuff rings a bell. And a new transition. I'm trying to plan for graduate school at this point so I guess that's all that "new beginning" and "transition" stuff. This is a sign for sure. Or maybe it means that Justin Timberlake from the Bookstore is my future husband.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-5216724635595540804?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/5216724635595540804/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=5216724635595540804' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5216724635595540804'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5216724635595540804'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/01/justin-timberlake-and-black-cake.html' title='Justin Timberlake and the Black Cake'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-3229030845319316265</id><published>2007-01-23T01:49:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2007-01-23T01:50:07.722-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Blonde on the Inside</title><content type='html'>So one day I went to the Bookstore to buy these three books I needed for a class. Looked and looked over the shelves I did, and nope couldn't find them. So I went to ask for help from the two dreamboats that worked there, of course knowing that in the two minutes they would spend helping me they would learn how witty, charming, beautiful and intelligent I am and would want to marry me. So I'm waiting for help, it's very busy. I wait for a good five minutes and ask the Justin Timberlake clone about these books and he doesn't know so he asks the Zach Braff clone. Zach asks me to follow him, and of course I'm thinking "Wow, he wants to spend some one-on-one time with me because he wants to have beautiful babies together." And then in one sweeping motion he grabs all three books right off the shelf from where I was looking and hands them to me, not saying a word. I am thinking in my head, "WHAAAA jeez, I'm such a stupid bimbo. There's no way I'm buying these books right now, maybe I can slip away quietly and the hotties will forget that this ever happened." So I inconspicuously try to slither out the door when I hear the following conversation...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Justin Timberlake: "So, did you find those books?"&lt;br /&gt;Zach Braff: "Yeah they were on the shelf dude."&lt;br /&gt;Justin Timberlake: "Yeah right!" (Laughter of disbelief and mockery ensues.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Thus, I am stupid. The end.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-3229030845319316265?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/3229030845319316265/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=3229030845319316265' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/3229030845319316265'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/3229030845319316265'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/01/blonde-on-inside.html' title='Blonde on the Inside'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-3733466162897902361</id><published>2007-01-15T17:38:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:53.115-05:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>I'm wondering if I'll regret wishing these next four months away.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The more I think about it, the more I realize I'm trying so hard to get something I may not really want.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Keeping asking me, I kinda like it. But I'll never say yes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is how I want to be, not how I am. I'm trying hard to change my thoughts on purpose.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;Make the most of it&lt;/em&gt;. I don't know if I can.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5020384312745842786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Rav87u0o2GI/AAAAAAAAACc/LasBmAQ-qts/s320/me+031.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;This is so hard. I'm only really strong on the outside.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-3733466162897902361?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/3733466162897902361/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=3733466162897902361' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/3733466162897902361'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/3733466162897902361'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/01/im-wondering-if-ill-regret-wishing.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/Rav87u0o2GI/AAAAAAAAACc/LasBmAQ-qts/s72-c/me+031.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-3017388039154161900</id><published>2007-01-08T21:33:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:53.344-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Vegetables are good for you</title><content type='html'>1) Question: What do you do when one of your favourite aspects of your own personality is one that annoys the hell out of a good friend? Just ignore them or change or what? I guess I'm just pretty arrogant and think there's nothing wrong with me so when someone says there is I'm pretty surprised. "Wait... I'm &lt;em&gt;not&lt;/em&gt; perfect?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2) I've started drinking V-8 because vegetables are good for you, d'uh. It tastes like tomatoes mixed with gasoline and some vomit too because of those little chunks. I just chug it down, like one would chug a tomato/gas/vomit combo. I've also contemplated becoming a full-fledged vegetarian lately because I already don't eat any red meat or fish and I eat chicken maybe once a day. Hello health kick, how are you doing? When my ass turns into the most beautiful thing I've ever seen I'll take a picture of it for you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3) I'm going to add a post-script new years resolution to my list, and that is to go to class. I've skipped three classes already in the first three days of school, go me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;4) So I don't know the etiquette about cell phones yet, I'm a new user. What happens when you get your phonebook full of numbers that you add while at the bar? You know, those people you insist you'll call again but never do? Can you delete them? Or is it courtesy to keep them for awhile until you go through them and say, who the hell are "Phil" and "Jason" and forget when you even added the number and &lt;em&gt;then&lt;/em&gt; delete them? Or do you keep them just so people will think you're a huge pimp because you get a lot of numbers? Or do you wait a couple months and then call Phil or Jason and say, "Oh, I had your number in my phone and was wondering who you are?" and then make a date with them because of this funny story you have together and you can tell people that's how you met?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RaL7hUTBKsI/AAAAAAAAACQ/W_JFpR0dCDI/s1600-h/me+027.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5017849484646886082" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RaL7hUTBKsI/AAAAAAAAACQ/W_JFpR0dCDI/s200/me+027.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;5) I went shopping today and spent $257 that I don't have. Look at the jacket I bought, not at my face in the picture. I look like I'm about to commit murder to babies. This jacket is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me, not including non-material stuff like life and sex. I always secretly make fun of people who take pictures of their reflections in mirrors, which is why I hid the camera at the side and took off the flash so no one would know, except now you know. I give you permission to mock me. But not the jacket, I don't want it's feelings to be hurt.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-3017388039154161900?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/3017388039154161900/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=3017388039154161900' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/3017388039154161900'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/3017388039154161900'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/01/vegetables-are-good-for-you.html' title='Vegetables are good for you'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RaL7hUTBKsI/AAAAAAAAACQ/W_JFpR0dCDI/s72-c/me+027.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-1596485011878978810</id><published>2007-01-04T13:51:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:53.470-05:00</updated><title type='text'>I Resolve: The 2007 Edition</title><content type='html'>&lt;div&gt;&lt;a href="http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2005/12/i-resolve.html"&gt;Last year&lt;/a&gt; I had a whole list of resolutions that I did or did not keep for a period of time. This year I have only two but they're big ones. Really big.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1) Go to the gym five times a week. This is the big one I had from last year which I actually kept until I got mono and couldn't walk for a month and I haven't been to the gym since. If you do the math I've been gymless for about seven months now. Eeek. Thus, I resolve to go to the gym five days a week starting yesterday.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2) To finish all my papers the day before so I can sleep. No more all nighters, no more half-assed papers because I avoid stress like the plague. "Dear Emily; The more you put things of the more stressed you will be and the more tired. Stop avoiding the inevitable!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can't fail now that my goals are documented on the Internet. People are watching me...&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5016254200602766482" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RZ1QnkH9LJI/AAAAAAAAACE/zKRLf2GdkBA/s320/newyears8.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-1596485011878978810?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/1596485011878978810/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=1596485011878978810' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/1596485011878978810'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/1596485011878978810'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2007/01/i-resolve-2007-edition.html' title='I Resolve: The 2007 Edition'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RZ1QnkH9LJI/AAAAAAAAACE/zKRLf2GdkBA/s72-c/newyears8.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-2410349933995906657</id><published>2006-12-30T00:19:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2006-12-30T00:19:51.893-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Enjoying Freedom</title><content type='html'>I don't care. I'm surprised at my own non-caringness, but very excited. Life is way less stressful this way. There could be two reasons for this new line of thinking;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1) I'm selfish and don't give a damn about anyone but myself, or&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2) I'm only moderately selfish and have realised that people have their own shit going on all the time and this may or may not affect me. Either way it doesn't matter.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Everyone is selfish for the most part, so caring what other people think about you is pointless. They really only care about themselves in the end anyways.&lt;br /&gt;__________&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Emily's favourite song's of 2006 list in no particular order:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1) Banquet - Bloc Party&lt;br /&gt;2) Who Are You, Defenders of the Universe? - The Dears&lt;br /&gt;3) One More Night - Stars&lt;br /&gt;4) When the War Came - The Decemberists&lt;br /&gt;5) Wake Up - The Arcade Fire&lt;br /&gt;6) Naked as we Came - Iron &amp; Wine&lt;br /&gt;7) One Evening - Feist&lt;br /&gt;8) The Widow - The Mars Volta&lt;br /&gt;9) Bridge to Nowhere - Sam Roberts&lt;br /&gt;10) The Twist - Metric&lt;br /&gt;11) If I Ever Feel Better - Phoenix&lt;br /&gt;12) Supermassive Black Hole - Muse&lt;br /&gt;13) Sexual Healing - Ben Harper&lt;br /&gt;14) Talkshow Host - Radiohead&lt;br /&gt;15) From What I Once Was - Neverending White Lights&lt;br /&gt;16) There There (The Boney King of Nowhere) - Radiohead&lt;br /&gt;17) Black Swan - Thom York&lt;br /&gt;18) You are a Runner and I am my Father's Son - Wolfparade&lt;br /&gt;19) It's all Understood - Jack Johnson&lt;br /&gt;20) Gold Lion - Yeah Yeah Yeahs&lt;br /&gt;21) I Don't Trust Myself (With Loving You) - John Mayer&lt;br /&gt;22) Somersault - Zero 7&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You don't care what my favourite songs were this year? Shut up, yes you do. Now go download them and enjoy, biatch.&lt;br /&gt;__________&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I got my parents my graduation photos for Christmas, and when they opened it they both cried.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Haha, mom and dad now &lt;em&gt;everyone&lt;/em&gt; on the Internet knows that you cried!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I got a new cell phone, leather boots and other stuff including gift certificates with which I already bought a little black dress for new years. We've got a hotel room this weekend and we're going skiing Saturday with all the crap loads and piles and piles of snow, holy shit there's so much snow! Not really, we're going to ski down slopes of watery fake snow and grass.&lt;br /&gt;__________&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-2410349933995906657?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/2410349933995906657/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=2410349933995906657' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/2410349933995906657'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/2410349933995906657'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/12/enjoying-freedom.html' title='Enjoying Freedom'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-8110559156935794630</id><published>2006-12-24T23:20:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2006-12-24T23:19:13.453-05:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>"Don't settle" they all say, but then what? Maybe the thing right in front of my face is perfect for me, but I can't see it. Maybe I'm blinded by the idea of something better. Something perfect.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-8110559156935794630?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/8110559156935794630/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=8110559156935794630' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/8110559156935794630'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/8110559156935794630'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/12/dont-settle-they-all-say-but-then-what.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-8057666781687435915</id><published>2006-12-19T14:37:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:54.304-05:00</updated><title type='text'>The Nutcracker</title><content type='html'>&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5010317137693754674" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RYg45BRJxTI/AAAAAAAAABg/voqaSWetwO8/s400/nutcracker1.bmp" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Is it possible that someone could be more excited than me, Miss.Emily, to be seeing the National Ballet's Nutcracker tonight? The answer to that question is a resounding and explicitly negative...&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Hell no.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I saw the Nutcracker when I was two years old or so, and I still remember the ambiance and excitement of the whole experience. I remember specific scenes even, which is amazing for having seen it at such a young age. My favourite was the dance of the snowflakes, because I thought those ballerinas were so enchanting dancing completely in sync and in matching tutus. That scene is the archetypal ballet scene in my mind to this day. Watching this ballet changed &lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RYg6mxRJxUI/AAAAAAAAABo/hW_Z1Q_UdFY/s1600-h/nutcracker2.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5010319023184397634" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RYg6mxRJxUI/AAAAAAAAABo/hW_Z1Q_UdFY/s320/nutcracker2.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;me. I wanted to be the sugar plum fairy. I wanted to be Marie. I wanted to be a ballerina. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;After my parents took me to see the show, I demanded to be put in ballet immediately and they bought me the Nutcracker soundtrack. I memorized every song and danced around my room spinning and leaping and fantasizing about the day I would be up there in my own beautiful costume with a handsome prince twirling me around the stage. This show is the reason why ballet is such an important part of my life today, and still gets me so excited every time I see it.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I haven't seen the National's Nutcracker in twenty years, so this is an overwhelming moment for me. Going back after all this time to the place where my obsession with dance started. &lt;a href="http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/01/ode-to-amber.html"&gt;Amber&lt;/a&gt; is taking me for my birthday so I can thank her for my twenty-year reunion. She has never seen it before (I &lt;em&gt;know!&lt;/em&gt;) so she'll have to put up with me ignoring her through the show and shhhing her if she has questions. There is no talking during the Nutcracker!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5010322197165229394" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RYg9fhRJxVI/AAAAAAAAABw/IKXxPetfQ10/s320/nutcracker4.gif" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'll tell you how it goes.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-8057666781687435915?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/8057666781687435915/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=8057666781687435915' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/8057666781687435915'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/8057666781687435915'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/12/nutcracker.html' title='The Nutcracker'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RYg45BRJxTI/AAAAAAAAABg/voqaSWetwO8/s72-c/nutcracker1.bmp' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-1339944075900086828</id><published>2006-12-17T14:39:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2006-12-17T14:39:22.242-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Oooh oh oh uh-huh</title><content type='html'>1) I have an exam tomorrow, so the rule is I must be counter-productive and write a blog.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2) I can't decide whether drunkenness reveals mine and other people's true colours, or whether all the normal rules of politeness and morality should be discarded for the night.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3) I've made it my goal to come up with a list of my top five bands of all time. This is a difficult task because while everyone can enjoy many many artists, there are only a few that really affect us in a certain way. You know, the feeling that you're actually falling in love with the music and that your soul is saturated with every nuance in every song. That you can really relate to their sound in a way that almost changes your life, and every time you hear them you want to sing along at the top of your lungs. I have come up with four out of five: Radiohead, Led Zepplin, Muse and Phoenix. Here are some serious contenders for the fifth spot: John Mayer (also known as the future Mr. Emily), The Arcade Fire, Metric, Our Lady Peace, Incubus, Zero 7 or The Dears. All of whom are fantastic artists, but aren't quite there on the level of I-love-this-band-so-hard-in-my-soul-to-the-point-of-near-insanity.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;4) Speaking of love, I can't get enough of &lt;a href="http://www.raymitheminx.blogspot.com/"&gt;Raymi&lt;/a&gt;. Check out this girl if you haven't already, she's a kick ass writer and her style is whatever falls out of her head, through her fingertips and onto the keyboard at the time, forget about grammar. I'm addicted, so luckily she posts every day so I can procrastinate even more than I already do. Also, she's hot and sometimes shows her tits.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-1339944075900086828?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/1339944075900086828/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=1339944075900086828' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/1339944075900086828'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/1339944075900086828'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/12/oooh-oh-oh-uh-huh.html' title='Oooh oh oh uh-huh'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-3813195983992397169</id><published>2006-12-15T05:19:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:54.797-05:00</updated><title type='text'>To Whom it May Concern...</title><content type='html'>Dear Old Phone;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sincerest regrets but after four years of faithful service I'm going to have to replace you. Your reception has been lacking lately, you weigh approximately five pounds and you have no call display, voicemail or other features I desperately need.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5008691499259501730" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RYJyYaLhnKI/AAAAAAAAABA/3gd0NW5iagc/s200/phone+001.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My new phone, who I lovingly call "baby," is way sexier than you. I'm already in lust and I know we'll have a long, happy relationship together. She actually fits in my purse and she vibrates... you've never once vibrated for me. I'm sorry, but it's just not working out. All the best,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-Miss. Emily&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5008691769842441394" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RYJyoKLhnLI/AAAAAAAAABI/ItKgYQyCBE8/s200/phone+002.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;__________ &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Dear Grilled Cheese Sandwich;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;I made you at 4:30am and you the the most delicious thing I've ever put in my mouth. I'm writing an exam in 4 hours and I've wasted precious study time making you, but I don't care! You taste like little pieces of heaven dipped in ketchup. &lt;/p&gt;Love,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-Miss. Emily&lt;br /&gt;__________&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dear John Mayer;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm not one to predict the future or anything, but we're going to get married and buy a big house in the country so our kids and run and play outside and learn music and become musical geniuses like their father. Just one thing though, I'm going to be the best wife ever so you'd better fucking be the best husband or else I'll divorce your ass so hard and take all your money. Looking forward to lots of sex with you in the future,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-Miss. Emily&lt;br /&gt;__________&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dear Miss. Emily;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What the hell are you doing? Look at the time, you are writing two exams back-to-back and you have less than 4 hours now to learn four months worth of material, way to go. You suck. Stop writing this minute and continue to read that textbook sitting right under your nose. Good luck failing out of university tomorrow, oh wait! You already will so I don't actually need to wish you luck, ok good. I hate you right now.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;All the best (you loser)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-Miss. Emily&lt;br /&gt;__________&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-3813195983992397169?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/3813195983992397169/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=3813195983992397169' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/3813195983992397169'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/3813195983992397169'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/12/to-whom-it-may-concern.html' title='To Whom it May Concern...'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RYJyYaLhnKI/AAAAAAAAABA/3gd0NW5iagc/s72-c/phone+001.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-4339961957974565891</id><published>2006-12-14T02:57:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:55.186-05:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RYCPNqLhnHI/AAAAAAAAAAk/c6RrxkNRrAY/s1600-h/room+001.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5008160250459692146" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RYCPNqLhnHI/AAAAAAAAAAk/c6RrxkNRrAY/s320/room+001.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt; I am more than you think I am.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And more than I believe I am sometimes. Thinking and being are not exclusive, and you helped show me that. We are alike in that respect, which you never knew. We are thinkers. That's why this is so easy for me. This feels good, and I'm happy.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-4339961957974565891?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/4339961957974565891/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=4339961957974565891' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/4339961957974565891'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/4339961957974565891'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/12/i-am-more-than-you-think-i-am.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RYCPNqLhnHI/AAAAAAAAAAk/c6RrxkNRrAY/s72-c/room+001.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-4350222985749469183</id><published>2006-12-11T02:10:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2006-12-11T02:12:46.429-05:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;em&gt;Hope&lt;/em&gt; (noun, verb): 1. the feeling that what is wanted can be had or that events will turn out for the best, 2. to look forward to with desire and reasonable confidence.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've decided that this is what has tripled my happiness in the past little while. Waterloo is only a temporary holding cell for my life while I finish my degree, and that has given me so much hope about the possibilities I have. My life could take any twist or turn after this, and I know I wont see it coming but that just gives me increased anticipation and impatience for what's coming next. I was in a rut and I guess it was because I had no clear line about the future. Everything was a bit hopeless and hazy but I can see the metamorphosis of my life coming and that exhilarates me!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes without hope, you have nothing. But sometimes with it, you have everything.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-4350222985749469183?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/4350222985749469183/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=4350222985749469183' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/4350222985749469183'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/4350222985749469183'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/12/hope-noun-verb-1.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-2131969205667550970</id><published>2006-12-07T15:31:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:11:55.528-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Juiced Lemon</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RXh5GVTOMlI/AAAAAAAAAAU/7pTTBPa8pss/s1600-h/randoms+011.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5005884135526249042" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RXh5GVTOMlI/AAAAAAAAAAU/7pTTBPa8pss/s320/randoms+011.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I'm surprised at myself for wanting to leave here so badly. But I can see the end of this part of my life coming soon (four months from now) and I can't wait for what comes next. I'm excited for change this time. I'm done with Waterloo and with Laurier and with being a student. I've squeezed all the juice out of this lemon.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Maybe I'm just in a bad place with school right now, but I don't think I'll miss it as much as I should... or think I should. I believe that whatever happens after this will be just as or more fulfilling and I'll continue to learn and grow, just in a different environment. I need a change of scenery pretty badly.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5005884131231281730" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RXh5GFTOMkI/AAAAAAAAAAM/29Q8Np8MZ3k/s320/home+010.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-2131969205667550970?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/2131969205667550970/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=2131969205667550970' title='5 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/2131969205667550970'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/2131969205667550970'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/12/juiced-lemon.html' title='Juiced Lemon'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gfZ5v06C6HE/RXh5GVTOMlI/AAAAAAAAAAU/7pTTBPa8pss/s72-c/randoms+011.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>5</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-8997631062235080185</id><published>2006-12-04T00:10:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2006-12-04T00:11:03.803-05:00</updated><title type='text'>If I knew I was going to die in real life, I promise wouldn't tell you in an e-mail</title><content type='html'>I should make my strange and far-from-normal dreams a regular feature post because I have so freaking many of them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I dreamt last night that I kept having these erratic twitches that would shake my entire body, and they gradually were happening more and more frequently. I also was having problems concentrating in lecture (which isn't far from normal) so I decided something was wrong with me and went for a CAT scan. They told me I had brain cancer and only a few months to live, so I sent an e-mail to all my friends saying I was gonna die and if they wanted to say goodbye to me they could. I also got Chemo and lost all my hair so I turned into one of those cool bald chicks who wears hats. And then I inspired everyone by always saying things like, "Live each moment to the fullest," and "Love often and with all your heart" because I felt like I wasted my life. Then the best part of my dream was when I told my roommates that the one thing in life I really wanted was to fall in love and be proposed to and that never happened. So because they are the best roommates ever they all pooled their money and bought me an engagement ring. It was a nice one too, platinum with a princess-cut diamond. They all proposed to me with it, it was the sweetest thing. I guess when someones about to die, people stop caring about money, but I told them they could sell the ring after I died and get their money back if they wanted.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This dream was more vivid than the turtle one. My grandfather, my great-uncle and my great-great-uncle all died from brain cancer, so it's in my family and I had to go through the whole treatment process and everything in my dream. Don't even ask if I looked up the meaning of cancer in a dream dictionary because you know I am the most rational person and would never ever think of doing that:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;To dream that you have cancer, denotes hopelessness, grief, self-pity, and unforgiveness. You feel you are wasting your life away. This dream also represents areas in your life which are bothering you, disturbing you, and hurting you in some emotional way. &lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Firstly, is "unforgiveness" even a word? Are these people making up words now? Secondly, I guess lately I've not been living my life the way I want to be and I feel that it's wasting away sometimes. And as for self-pity? A big YES there, and also to the part about certain areas of my life hurting me in an emotional way. Not that any of this is true of course. Good thing dream interpretation isn't a real thing! Why can't my dreams ever mean things like:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;You'll win the lottery for seventy-trillion dollars and marry the most handsome man in the world who will be faithful to you until you both die in each other's arms of old age in your sleep. &lt;/em&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-8997631062235080185?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/8997631062235080185/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=8997631062235080185' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/8997631062235080185'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/8997631062235080185'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/12/if-i-knew-i-was-going-to-die-in-real.html' title='If I knew I was going to die in real life, I promise wouldn&apos;t tell you in an e-mail'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-6034831176145026554</id><published>2006-11-29T02:13:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2006-11-29T02:15:14.983-05:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger2/3394/2188/1600/290836/bedsheetphotoshoot%20004.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger2/3394/2188/400/272685/bedsheetphotoshoot%20004.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt; Tangled in your sheets and my thoughts. Tangled hair and twisted hands, pull the day away with one sweeping motion. Billowing like sails, they help us float away.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-6034831176145026554?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/6034831176145026554/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=6034831176145026554' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/6034831176145026554'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/6034831176145026554'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/11/tangled-in-your-sheets-and-my-thoughts.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-6171964808057401958</id><published>2006-11-27T02:42:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2006-11-27T02:42:25.415-05:00</updated><title type='text'>I'm in League with the Foe</title><content type='html'>This term has gone by too fast for a girl who doesn't know what the shit is supposed to happen after all this.&lt;br /&gt;__________&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm 22 now. The three day birthday extravaganza is over and now I can start settling into my new age. Twenty-two will be different. I'm ready for 22.&lt;br /&gt;__________&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I didn't think making such a decision would be so easy. I didn't know that I knew what needed to be done, and more importantly I didn't think I'd have the strength to do it. But I am stronger than I thought which makes this easier and I'm almost happy with the whole thing. I wouldn't go back if I could. I have my strength back along with my hope for something better. I had lost some hope for awhile, but I'm a strong girl. A &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;resilient&lt;/span&gt; girl. I am happier now, and back to hoping and looking for love.&lt;br /&gt;__________&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I can tell from your hair and your confidence."&lt;br /&gt;"From just that you can tell I'm in psychology?"&lt;br /&gt;"Confident people have the &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;ability&lt;/span&gt; to look into themselves, find flaws and reasons for those flaws objectively without losing faith in themselves or mankind. &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;Insecure&lt;/span&gt; people can't do that."&lt;br /&gt;"What about my hair?"&lt;br /&gt;"Oh, you just have nice hair."&lt;br /&gt;__________&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;They say an end can be a start.&lt;br /&gt;Feels like I've been buried yet I'm still alive.&lt;br /&gt;It's like a bad day that never ends; I feel the chaos around me.&lt;br /&gt;A thing I don't try to deny, I'd better learn to accept that there are things in my life that I can't control.&lt;br /&gt;They say love ain't nothing but a sore, I don't even know what love is.&lt;br /&gt;Too many tears have had to fall, don't you know I'm so tired of it all.&lt;br /&gt;I have known terror dizzy spells. Finding out the secrets words won't tell, whatever it is it can't be named; There's a part of my world that' s fading away.&lt;br /&gt;You know I don't want to be clever, to be brilliant or superior.&lt;br /&gt;True like ice, true like fire, now I know that a breeze can blow me away.&lt;br /&gt;Now I know there's much more dignity in defeat than in the brightest victory.&lt;br /&gt;I'm losing my balance on the tight rope, tell me please, tell me please, tell me please...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If I ever feel better, remind me to spend some good time with you. You can give me your number, when it's all over I'll let you know.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Hang on to the good days, I can lean on my friends. They help me going through hard times.&lt;br /&gt;But I'm feeding the enemy; I'm in league with the foe.&lt;br /&gt;Blame me for what's happening, I can't try, I can't try, I can't try...&lt;br /&gt;No one knows the hard times I went through. If happiness came I missed the call.&lt;br /&gt;The stormy days ain't over, I've tried and lost now I think that I pay the cost.&lt;br /&gt;Now I've watched all my castles fall, they were made of dust, after all.&lt;br /&gt;Someday all this mess will make me laugh, I can't wait, I can't wait, I can't wait...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If I ever feel better, remind me to spend some good time with you. You can give me your number, when it's all over I'll let you know.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's like somebody took my place, I ain't even playing my own game. The rules have changed well I didn't know.&lt;br /&gt;There are things in my life I can't control. I feel the chaos around me, a thing I don't try to deny.&lt;br /&gt;I'd better learn to accept that there's a part of my life that will go away.&lt;br /&gt;Dark is the night, cold is the ground, in the circular solitude of my heart.&lt;br /&gt;As one who strives a hill to climb, I am sure I'll come through I don't know how.&lt;br /&gt;They say an end can be a start. Feels like I've been buried yet I'm still alive. I'm losing my balance on the tight rope, tell me please, tell me please, tell me please...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.allmusic.com/cg/amg.dll?p=amg&amp;amp;sql=11:lidxlfdekcqy~T3"&gt;Phoenix, "If I Ever Feel Better."&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;__________&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-6171964808057401958?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/6171964808057401958/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=6171964808057401958' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/6171964808057401958'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/6171964808057401958'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/11/im-in-league-with-foe.html' title='I&apos;m in League with the Foe'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-69042225144256403</id><published>2006-11-18T00:10:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2006-11-18T00:10:13.122-05:00</updated><title type='text'>I'm Feeding the Enemy</title><content type='html'>1) Wow, I can't believe how amazing &lt;a href="http://www.allmusic.com/cg/amg.dll?p=amg&amp;amp;sql=11:r69fs31la3zg~T0"&gt;Phoenix&lt;/a&gt; is. I've been downloading a crap-load of new music lately including the latter and We Are Scientists, Marc Andre, Wolf Parade and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. All quality.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2) I wish I was cooler. Like an indie chick or something who wears hightops and has a weird hairdo but it suits her. Weird hairdos do not suit me, I'd look like a poser. But maybe I'd start out as a poser and then I'd become indie just from acting like it for so long. I'll try it. No more shopping at the mall.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3) Only two more weeks of school to go, but pretty much it's the whole semester of school condensed into these two weeks because I suck at doing work when I'm supposed to.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;4) I've made a resolution to change. I will wait for no one. Life is too short to wait for shit to happen. Everyone's working out their own shit at their own pace, and that's fine but I'm not going to wait for people to get it together when I'm ready to move on. I'm like the hare racing past the tortoise. Maybe slow and steady is your way, but it's not for me suckaaaas!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;5) One week until my birthday. Pretty soon I'll be too old to enjoy getting older. Twenty-two, holy crap.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-69042225144256403?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/69042225144256403/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=69042225144256403' title='9 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/69042225144256403'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/69042225144256403'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/11/im-feeding-enemy.html' title='I&apos;m Feeding the Enemy'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>9</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-396363858808345273</id><published>2006-11-15T01:22:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2006-11-15T01:23:17.740-05:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger2/3394/2188/1600/me%20022.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 251px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 177px" height="230" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger2/3394/2188/320/me%20022.jpg" width="295" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Your indifference strikes a familiar chord. Show me this time is different, like you said it would be. &lt;em&gt;Show&lt;/em&gt; me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is the last time. Please give a shit.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-396363858808345273?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/396363858808345273/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=396363858808345273' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/396363858808345273'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/396363858808345273'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/11/your-indifference-strikes-familiar.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-4297624536760906986</id><published>2006-11-12T17:52:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2006-11-12T20:30:23.642-05:00</updated><title type='text'>I am SO Rational</title><content type='html'>Ok, so I'm in psychology which means I should be able to distinguish true psychologies from pseudo-psychologies like for example, astrology or those dumb-ass personality tests they have all over the internet that end up telling you nice things about yourself so you say, "Oh! That stuff is all true! I'm a cool person, and this personality test is so freaky and right!" However, the catch is that even though I can spot that pseudo-psychology shit from a mile away, I use it anyways. I take those personality tests all the time and I check my horoscope even though I know it wont make a difference anyways.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So I had the most vivid dream last night where I had some broccoli in the fridge that I forgot about for a couple weeks, but I decided I'd eat it anyways. So it was all slimy and stuff, and I was chopping it and I look down and it was covered in baby turtles. There were at least fifty of these teeny-tiny turtles crawling all over the counter and in the broccoli and they were under my shirt too, crawling around. It turns out a turtle had somehow laid it's eggs inside my broccoli and they had hatched while it was rotting in the fridge. So this dream had me so worked up and I wanted to remember it so in the middle of the night I got up and wrote "turtles" on my white board in big, sleepy letters.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Being the bright, young psychology student that I am, I don't believe that dreams have any profound meaning. I don't think they represent your repressed thoughts surfacing or your underlying desires rising up from your unconscious. In fact, I believe they are random combinations of neurons firing during REM sleep and often times we dream about things that happened that day or that week simply because those are the newest neuron connections in your brain. I actually do have broccoli in the fridge that will go bad very soon, so I had a "rotting broccoli" neural connection firing in my dream last night. Because I am so sensible and scientific and rational, I obviously did not look up the meaning of turtles in a dream dictionary:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;To see turtles in your dream, suggests that you will make slow but steady progress. You need to slow down and pace yourself. Alternatively, it indicates that you are sheltering yourself from the realities of life.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This analysis is so general, it could apply to anyone's life. That's the beauty of this sort of thing. The people who write these interpretations make them seem specific but really if anyone thought hard enough they would think, "Oh, they're right I should slow down and pace myself in my life. I need to face reality." Good thing I'm rational and can see through the veil of this pseudo-psychoanalysis!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Next post: How I shelter myself from the realities in my life.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-4297624536760906986?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/4297624536760906986/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=4297624536760906986' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/4297624536760906986'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/4297624536760906986'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/11/i-am-so-rational.html' title='I am SO Rational'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-1854966888613435735</id><published>2006-11-08T12:06:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2006-11-08T14:17:41.798-05:00</updated><title type='text'>I've Been Meaning to Tell You...</title><content type='html'>So a couple thoughts have been running through my jumble-y, indecisive brain lately...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1) I've "decided" what to "do" with my "life" recently. And that is...&lt;br /&gt;- Finish the last half credit of my degree this summer,&lt;br /&gt;- Work from April to December doing whatever,&lt;br /&gt;- Apply to Graduate programs within that time (still don't know what for),&lt;br /&gt;- Have my convocation next November 2007,&lt;br /&gt;- Take the following few months to travel (or work, depending how poor I am),&lt;br /&gt;- Start Grad school September, 2008.&lt;br /&gt;I haven't told my parents or really anyone but you, but I'm happy with the slow pace of the whole thing. I need some time because I consider whatever it is that's happening after undergrad to be pretty serious business. Whatever it is I decide to do in Graduate school is pretty much determining my career, so I figure what's the rush? I can really sift through my options this way and take my time in deciding what I &lt;em&gt;really&lt;/em&gt; want to do.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2) I started calorie counting recently. I found a website that automatically calculates how many calories you take in daily, after you type in what you've eaten. I did this because I want to loose some flab before I head to Cuba in February. But lately this little website is becoming an obsession. I think about food all the time and what I can and cannot eat. I no longer eat when I'm hungry, but when it's meal time. I no longer eat what I want, but what I think I should. I'm turning into one of those annoying girls that starves herself and then binges and constantly obsesses about her food. That is NOT me. I like my body, even my flab. I don't want to be perfect and I hate perfect people. They're not unique. I am no cliche! Rage against the machine! I deleted my website account today. Back to eating healthy and exercising when I want to, and not feeling guilty about every cookie that passes my lips!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3) My birthday is coming up! And just so you know, I like presents.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;4) Are all men confusing, or just the ones I like? And do men think we're equally confusing? Is everyone just confused all the time? They should call it "perpetual perplexity" instead of a "relationship." Someone please explain it to me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;5) I'm getting a tattoo. I know what and where, but not when. I'll post pictures once I've grown the balls to go.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;6) Ski season is approaching! Yet another reason to get in shape. This year I will make the effort to go (even though I say that every year.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;7) I miss you all and love you.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-1854966888613435735?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/1854966888613435735/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=1854966888613435735' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/1854966888613435735'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/1854966888613435735'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/11/ive-been-meaning-to-tell-you.html' title='I&apos;ve Been Meaning to Tell You...'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-5414440182128813498</id><published>2006-11-04T19:00:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2006-11-04T18:56:35.262-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Not Ready</title><content type='html'>I sat at my desk with my coffee and my slippers and my textbook reading yesterday. It was snowing outside my window and warm inside my sweater. This was the first time I've really felt like a student and that I deserve to be here. Like I was actually earning my degree in that moment, and every other moment I was just faking it. I'm almost done, and haven't felt real once. Except for yesterday, that was real.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I go to class regularly this year. I didn't last year, or the year before. Why? I'm leaving. I like my courses. Less pressure. All of these things together, and I'm finally feeling good about my education. But I have to leave next year. I'm leaving next year.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I want to do it again. I do have regrets about my education, and I would do it differently if I could. I'd work harder. It's so easy to take something like this for granted, and now that I'm almost twenty-two I can fathom the value of this degree. Not just physical value, but personal value in my own growth and development. I didn't take as much as I could have from this experience and it makes me sad. I love learning new things, but I didn't learn enough here. I'm not satiated yet. There are too many things I don't know. I'm not ready to leave yet.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-5414440182128813498?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/5414440182128813498/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=5414440182128813498' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5414440182128813498'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/5414440182128813498'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/11/not-ready.html' title='Not Ready'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-536819737093612636</id><published>2006-10-20T00:27:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2006-10-20T00:27:24.318-04:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>And I'll fill your heart with the joy in my own. Don't worry brother, we'll float on alright together.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why do I bother? Because it's in my nature to give the benefit of the doubt and I'm curious. Curious to see if everything will resolve itself and people will learn from their mistakes. Often they don't. We're not as smart as we think we are.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Because I like you. More than you like me, and that used to be enough but I'm not so sure anymore. Moving around in circles gets us nowhere, and I'm getting dizzy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've lost my rhythm. I can't hear the down beat in my own song.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-536819737093612636?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/536819737093612636/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=536819737093612636' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/536819737093612636'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/536819737093612636'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/10/and-ill-fill-your-heart-with-joy-in-my.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-3806772864213124561</id><published>2006-10-17T01:31:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2006-10-17T01:31:52.431-04:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>"You followed your heart. You shouldn't feel shame in that."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yet each day that goes by it gets worse and I get more and more frustrated that I am a silly girl. Just a silly girl who can't resist a charming word or two and a kiss. Following my heart is what hurts me, but I have a big heart and I love with all of it. A hopeful romantic at the best of times and a scorned lover at the worst.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am looking for love, always. And yes, it will be worth all this trouble.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-3806772864213124561?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/3806772864213124561/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=3806772864213124561' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/3806772864213124561'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/3806772864213124561'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/10/you-followed-your-heart.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-8791571610961440524</id><published>2006-10-12T01:56:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2006-10-12T01:56:32.013-04:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger2/3394/2188/1600/me%20021.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger2/3394/2188/400/me%20021.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;em&gt; I don't cry for myself anymore, only for others. I don't know if this is good or bad.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-8791571610961440524?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/8791571610961440524/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=8791571610961440524' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/8791571610961440524'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/8791571610961440524'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/10/i-dont-cry-for-myself-anymore-only-for.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-2939485406707930546</id><published>2006-10-10T23:36:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2006-10-11T00:37:50.880-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Merci Beaucoup</title><content type='html'>In the spirit of the holiday I will do as Canadians do at this time of the year and recognize all the things I &lt;em&gt;should&lt;/em&gt; be thankful for on a regular basis. Of course, a lot of the things on my list tend to be neglected as far as thanks go, but that's what this holiday is for. The recognition that I'm a selfish jerk. Right?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1) My mom. She's the shit. She's always the first person I call when I'm stressed or upset, so she's also the one person who has to bear the weight of my bad moods and rantings. And no matter how many times I swear at her, snap at her and tell her the most horrible things I've done, she still sticks around. I thought she'd have disowned me by now, but that's unconditional love for ya. It never ever goes away and as long as we're both alive, we'll have each other.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2) My mom's cooking. I have only three words; green bean casserole.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3) My roommates. Although we're all diverse and each trying to find our own way through University and life, we work. Like a well-oiled machine. No one can deny the chemistry we have living together in our warm, snuggled apartment, and even though we've had our differences there's some peace knowing that we all love each other.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;4) My dog. She's not going to be around much longer, but we're buds and I love every minute I get to spend with her.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;5) My bronze Sketchers. I adore you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;6) My education. I think it's safe to say I slack off quite a bit, but I find my field of study fascinating and I'm grateful that I've found something I love and could do forever.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;7) My mind. I still have a lot to learn and I'm glad I can acknowledge that fact. Life is a process, and everyday I acquire new knowledge and become a better person. I'm open-minded and and very appreciative for that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;8) My health. I am so very lucky in this department. No glasses, braces, broken bones, illnesses or deficits of any kind to date (knock on wood.) Just watch, tomorrow I'll end up falling down the stairs and breaking my face.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Thanksgiving may be my favourite holiday. No obligations about gifts and deadlines. Do I buy for friend A and not friend B? No stress. No dress up. Just family and food. Reflecting on the fact that we're lucky to have each other and a hot plate of delicious turkey, mashed potatoes and of course, green bean casserole.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-2939485406707930546?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/2939485406707930546/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=2939485406707930546' title='5 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/2939485406707930546'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/2939485406707930546'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/10/merci-beaucoup.html' title='Merci Beaucoup'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>5</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-115984186746896732</id><published>2006-10-03T21:45:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2006-10-04T01:08:52.106-04:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>This wall is the only thing keeping me vertical and I press against it hard. Emotional symptoms manifesting as physical ones; I've read about this a million times.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes I feel like a two-year-old when I don't get my way, stamping my little feet and throwing a temper tantrum. The two-year-old inside my head just wants to scream and cry and thrash around until someone gives me what I want. Why does this have to be so hard?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Every day that goes by I get dizzier. Every day the room spins faster and faster and I clench my teeth harder. Waiting waiting waiting, I don't want to do this again. Patience is not a virtue I possess, but you'll never know it. I will wait. And wait and wait. I'll remain quiet on the outside and make you believe I have grace and poise and sweetness in my bones, but my insides are spinning spinning spinning.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;No. You'll never know the war that goes on inside my head. I'll make sure of that.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-115984186746896732?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/115984186746896732/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=115984186746896732' title='5 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115984186746896732'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115984186746896732'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/10/this-wall-is-only-thing-keeping-me.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>5</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-115949815662226514</id><published>2006-09-30T20:50:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2006-09-30T20:56:47.693-04:00</updated><title type='text'>No More Gaps</title><content type='html'>1) The apartment is back to its homeostasis, hoorah! I was really worried there for awhile, but I guess when the five of us are apart things just turn to shit. You need all five roomies to create the perfect equation. Things are good again, and the ora of the house is a much perkier shade these days.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2) The Dears are one of those extremely talented bands that are depressingly underrated. I know there are a million bands trying to make it, blah blah blah, but you can tell these musicians have put in the time and are still not appreciated they way they should be. I saw them live in Toronto this week and they have such chemistry together. They have a new &lt;a href="http://www.thedears.org"&gt;kick ass album&lt;/a&gt;, check it out and help Canadian talent get the recognition it deserves.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3) Dear New Bronze Sketchers; I love you more than my other shoes, but don't tell. Love, Miss Emily.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;4) I find it interesting how you can have an impression of someone for so long, and suddenly notice it's changed. Like one day you look at them with a completely different perspective and are witnessing your own opinions morph.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;5) Why does September mean change? How is it so different from all the other months? Everything is changing and I'm just sitting still watching it spin around my head. It feels like I'm the only consistent thing in my life right now, which is not normal. I'm consistently inconsistent.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;6) God made a huge mistake when he decided eating would be simpler and more pleasurable than working out. "But working out IS pleasurable!" you say? You're all liars. It hurts, especially when you're out of shape like soft ol' me. Running around the block is a lot less pleasurable than, say, eating ice cream with hot fudge and peanuts... and smarties. And maybe whipped cream on top if I went to the gym that day.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-115949815662226514?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/115949815662226514/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=115949815662226514' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115949815662226514'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115949815662226514'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/09/no-more-gaps.html' title='No More Gaps'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-115913119930078486</id><published>2006-09-25T00:21:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2006-09-25T00:26:32.833-04:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7339/1740/1600/me%20017.0.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7339/1740/200/me%20017.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Let's steal away for awhile. Just long enough to remember how we got to this place. Remind me why I love you so I can let go of whatever it is that has driven a wedge between us.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-115913119930078486?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/115913119930078486/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=115913119930078486' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115913119930078486'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115913119930078486'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/09/lets-steal-away-for-awhile.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-115829513434244688</id><published>2006-09-18T11:48:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2006-09-19T23:56:44.796-04:00</updated><title type='text'>One Boot Short</title><content type='html'>And fall is here with it's clean, cold smell of dead leaves and new beginnings. I still feel so attached to the summer and to my trip, like it's a mudpuddle I stepped out of too quickly. I'm still running but one boot short. A constant reminder of where I want to be. A part of me was left behind.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fall means settling into routines, and looking ahead. No more living in the moment, because everything happens tomorrow, or the next day. Deadlines move fast and the days move slow, leaving me tired and weary. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I miss the moments. The minutes that make all this worth the effort. The stars, the hands, the kisses and the kindness. Where did the moments go? They disappeared with the warm weather. In the fall we just fill our time with routine and monotony. Pass the time. Pass the time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Pass the time.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-115829513434244688?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/115829513434244688/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=115829513434244688' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115829513434244688'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115829513434244688'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/09/one-boot-short.html' title='One Boot Short'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-115820658319281803</id><published>2006-09-15T00:18:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2006-09-15T00:33:33.196-04:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>I've returned home with brown skin and a fresh perspective.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Having such a large number of amazing experiences in such a short period of time changes a person. I feel different now. Especially when I first got back from my trip, I realized that the lens through which I viewed the world had changed. Everything seems a bit more focused now, everything is a bit clearer. Both the good and bad things, but I suppose a clear line of sight is beneficial either way.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now that I'm back, I am forced to complete the last year of my undergrad. This raises a number of issues;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1) I don't know where my life is going.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2) I don't know where I want my life to go.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In eight months I will be a twenty-two year old university graduate, an adult. Shouldn't a person have at least some idea about where they want to be in eight months? I'm too overwhelmed with the very idea of graduation to even start researching grad schools, and even if I wanted to I wouldn't know where to begin. I haven't a clue what I want to study. A number of things have crossed my mind including (but not limited to) law school, getting a masters, sex therapy, clinical psychology, child psychology and bus driving (considering I have the most experience with that last one from the safari, it seems the most viable at this point.) Even sitting here writing this I'm biting my nails and getting more and more frustrated at the very thought of having to make up my mind on the matter.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Grrr.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The moral of the story folks, is this: Things have never been so clear and so fuzzy simultaneously. Which leaves me in a very confusing place. I've grown from my trip but am still waiting to become a grown up.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-115820658319281803?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/115820658319281803/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=115820658319281803' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115820658319281803'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115820658319281803'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/09/ive-returned-home-with-brown-skin-and.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-115792362140222224</id><published>2006-09-10T23:25:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2006-09-10T23:30:10.896-04:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7339/1740/400/europesummer2006%20077.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7339/1740/1600/europesummer2006%20077.jpg"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;The metamorphosis of me and my need for disparity. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;Take me back to this place. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;Where everyone speaks my language using different words.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-115792362140222224?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/115792362140222224/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=115792362140222224' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115792362140222224'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115792362140222224'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/09/metamorphosis-of-me-and-my-need-for.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-115768180314484668</id><published>2006-09-07T23:11:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2006-09-07T23:22:38.096-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Twenty-Two Days</title><content type='html'>In the bustle and hum and velocity of three weeks, there is some peace. The peace in enjoying places for the sake of enjoyment. Feeling a sense of community with people you barely know. Never have I met so many people. Never have I felt so welcomed and warmed by strangers. Diverse, intelligent and open-minded people. Warm people and warm places.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Enjoyment for it's own sake. We're all here for the same reasons.&lt;br /&gt;__________&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In the garden at night we sit and I can see the shimmer in his eyes by the moon. He pulls his chair up to mine and studies me for a minute. "Tell me everything," he says. I wish I could. I wish there was such a thing as knowing without telling. Words are barriers. Adjectives and nouns and verbs aren't enough, especially since introspection occurs without words getting in the way. We're all more than anyone else thinks we are.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Where should I start?" My heart is smiling. We are connected despite oceans and miles and miles of earth. There is so much more to say and do. Time is a gift that doesn't last.&lt;br /&gt;__________&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In the moment for once. The moon is full and the tide washes over us as we forget the world back home. Nevermind the restrictions and mores and conventions of our previous lives. I am naked in the open air, smiling up at the black sky with nothing to lose but inhibitions. Our history doesn't matter in this place they call Paradise.&lt;br /&gt;__________&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can't tell whether I've changed or everyone else has stayed the same. People are secure in their monotony because it is safe. Security blankets wrapped tightly around frightened masses. Safety is over-rated. Were they like this before?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;More importantly, was I like this before? Change is linear.&lt;br /&gt;__________&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-115768180314484668?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/115768180314484668/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=115768180314484668' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115768180314484668'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115768180314484668'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/09/twenty-two-days.html' title='Twenty-Two Days'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-115716918688892767</id><published>2006-09-01T23:47:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2006-09-03T01:26:09.590-04:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>"It's an English name."&lt;br /&gt;"A very posh one. High class. You'd own a ranch and a yacht if you lived in England. And a summer home with a servant or two."&lt;br /&gt;"Do you own a ranch?"&lt;br /&gt;"No. I don't even like the dressing."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A nap on the beach, a handful of kisses and I miss you. If I could find a way to drive my car across the Atlantic I'd be set.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-115716918688892767?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/115716918688892767/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=115716918688892767' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115716918688892767'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115716918688892767'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/09/its-english-name.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-115493138243670825</id><published>2006-08-07T11:52:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2006-08-07T11:57:14.453-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Europe Trip</title><content type='html'>Welcome to the longest and most well-planned trip you have ever witnessed. Twenty-two days, ten trains, nine hostels, four ferries, and three flights. Refer to the map if you get confused. I know I will.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7339/1740/400/600-europe%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p&gt;Amsterdam. Our starting point. This should be an easy one considering our &lt;a href="http://www.flyingpig.nl/hostels/flyingpigdowntown.shtml"&gt;hostel&lt;/a&gt; is a five minute walk from the train station. The hostel includes free walking tours and they have a "happy room." For the slow kids in the back, that means you go there to get high. Apparently we're also going to see naked prostitutes in the &lt;a href="http://www.amsterdam.info/red-light-district/"&gt;red light district&lt;/a&gt;. I'll be sure to update you on that one.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Paris. We're taking the train right into &lt;a href="http://www.pariserve.tm.fr/English/paris/montmart.htm"&gt;Montmartre&lt;/a&gt; where our &lt;a href="http://www.paris-hostels.com/"&gt;hostel&lt;/a&gt; is situated. It's pretty close to Moulin Rouge and Sacre Coeur but we'll probably need to take public transit to the Eiffel and Notre Dame.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Nice. We're taking a night train for this one, because it's a twelve hour trip. I'm pretty excited about this &lt;a href="http://www.vsaint.com/tourists/en/home.html"&gt;hostel&lt;/a&gt;. It's a bus ride away from the city, but it's beautiful. It was once an old monastery and is sitting right on top of a cliff over-looking the city and the Mediterranean. We'll be taking a day trip into Monaco on our second day here. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Venice. I'm more than excited for this city. Our &lt;a href="http://www.havenhostel.com/"&gt;hostel&lt;/a&gt; is right in the centre of the city and they also offer complementary tours. This is where I'll meet &lt;a href="http://topy.blog.excite.it/img/milo.jpg"&gt;Paolo&lt;/a&gt; and we'll take a romantic gondola ride together.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Florence. The night life in Florence is unreal, and we will be living it up, for sure. Our &lt;a href="http://www.siestahostel.com/"&gt;hostel&lt;/a&gt; is in a great location for stumbling home drunk from the bar late at night. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Rome. I've been to Rome before and it was my favourite city in Italy. The history is unreal, you have to see it for yourself to really comprehend. We're obviously seeing the Colosseum, the Spanish steps and the Pantheon among others. The last time I was there I burst out crying because I was so moved. Our &lt;a href="http://www.hostelalessandrodowntown.com/"&gt;hostel&lt;/a&gt; was built just three years ago and it's right downtown. Check out the pictures, it looks gorgeous.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Ancona to Patras. We're taking an over-night ferry across the Adriatic Sea in order to reach Greece. It's over twelve hours in the Ferry, and we don't have sleeping accommodations. We have a wooden seat. Outside. I'll bet any money there will be thunderstorms that day.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Athens. I'm slightly scared of Greece because I don't know a single word of Greek. Not one. But I am really excited about seeing the Parthenon. Our &lt;a href="http://www.hostels.com/en/availability.php/HostelNumber.6337"&gt;hostel&lt;/a&gt; looks ok, nothing special. It's near a lot of the main historic sites, but availability and variety of hostels was really limited.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Mykonos. I'm not one to pick favourites, but I have to say that I'm pretty excited about this Greek island. It looks &lt;a href="http://www.mykonos-web.com/mykonos/photo_gallery.htm"&gt;incredible&lt;/a&gt; and apparently the night life is insane. I'm also the most excited for our &lt;a href="http://paradise-greece.com/"&gt;hostel&lt;/a&gt; here. We're staying in &lt;a href="http://paradise-greece.com/accommodation.htm#tents"&gt;tents&lt;/a&gt; right on the beach where we can stumble in drunk at night and stumble out hung over the next day with no effort. We'll definitely be beaching our whole time here.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Santorini. This is apparently one of the most &lt;a href="http://www.santorini.net/110.html"&gt;beautiful&lt;/a&gt; places on earth and in fact it was rated the number one place to go in Europe. This whole island is an old volcano, and they're famous for their black sand beaches and sunsets. Our &lt;a href="http://www.envision2000.com/anna/"&gt;hostel&lt;/a&gt; is five steps away from Perrissa beach which is the most famous black sand beach on the whole island.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;There it is peeps. Feel free to leave jealous remarks or anecdotes in the comments section. I hope to be able to write while I'm there, but I am making no promises. We'll be super busy the whole time trying to fit everything in that I doubt I'll be hearing from any of you until I get back (August 31st.) Have a good summer my fuzzy ducks!! Don't miss me too much.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-115493138243670825?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/115493138243670825/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=115493138243670825' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115493138243670825'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115493138243670825'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/08/europe-trip.html' title='Europe Trip'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-115438798517121202</id><published>2006-08-03T22:30:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2006-08-03T22:32:11.990-04:00</updated><title type='text'>A Broken Shoelace Can Say A Lot About Life</title><content type='html'>1) My last day ever at work was celebrated by thunderstorms and breaking the shoelace on my safari boot. I took it as a sign that I chose the right day to quit.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2) My heart is on edge. I can't decide if it's because I'm leaving for Europe very soon or because I want some sex. I'll get back to you on that one.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3) Hospitals are less intimidating when you're healthy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;4) People are less intimidating when they're naked.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;5) Question of the day asked by an eight year old girl, "Does this boat have a capacity plate? What is it's horsepower?" Uhh...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;6) Elizabeth Taylor has taken to chewing holes through her water bottle. We've gone through four in the last three weeks. Either she is trying to commit suicide or is deliberately trying to piss me off.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;7) My goal for the next post is:&lt;br /&gt;       a) for it to actually have some substance, and&lt;br /&gt;       b) for it to outline our trip in detail. Including links. It'll rock your socks.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-115438798517121202?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/115438798517121202/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=115438798517121202' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115438798517121202'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115438798517121202'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/08/broken-shoelace-can-say-lot-about-life.html' title='A Broken Shoelace Can Say A Lot About Life'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-115447566398695199</id><published>2006-08-01T19:36:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2006-08-01T19:41:04.030-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Just Another Day</title><content type='html'>1 city-wide power outage. 0 electric fences. 10 hungry lions. 2 ambulance calls. 1,500 angry customers. 45 degrees.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Just another day on the job.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-115447566398695199?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/115447566398695199/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=115447566398695199' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115447566398695199'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115447566398695199'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/08/just-another-day.html' title='Just Another Day'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-115437758349213858</id><published>2006-07-31T16:10:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2006-07-31T16:26:23.536-04:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7339/1740/1600/me%20013edit.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7339/1740/400/me%20013edit.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-115437758349213858?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/115437758349213858/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=115437758349213858' title='7 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115437758349213858'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115437758349213858'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/07/blog-post.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>7</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-115397700716652170</id><published>2006-07-27T01:05:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2006-07-27T01:22:55.460-04:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>He always finds something positive to say in a less than perfect situation. I'm on the outside looking in and still the depth of his eyes intimidates me. The further I look into them, the deeper they go.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I still can't shake you. I miss kissing the lips that make no promises.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-115397700716652170?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/115397700716652170/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=115397700716652170' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115397700716652170'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115397700716652170'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/07/he-always-finds-something-positive-to.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-115360844366607002</id><published>2006-07-22T18:43:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2006-07-22T18:48:37.303-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Ode to the Safari</title><content type='html'>Yes, so after spending quite some time deliberating I decided to dedicate this Ode to the Safari and &lt;em&gt;not&lt;/em&gt; to any of you who left me comments &lt;a href="http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/07/absolument-rien.html"&gt;here.&lt;/a&gt; Why? Because I said I wanted "ass kissing", people! There was not one solid attempt at flattery or brown-nosing that would warrant an entire blog dedicated to you. I need more effort next time, and I'm very disappointed in you. All of you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.lionsafari.com"&gt;&lt;img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7339/1740/320/safari.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;I've been working a la Safari since May (minus a month hiatus thanks to the mono) and I only have two weeks left which is why I've decided it deserves an Ode. My job consists of driving a bus, boat and train, giving tours, watching the animals have sex and cleaning baboon poop off the buses. Now I know many of you are thinking, "How glamorous!" But this job isn't all poop cleaning. There are many pros and cons about working a la Safari that I have outlined for you below:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Pros:&lt;br /&gt;1) I get to see the animals every day.&lt;br /&gt;2) I get to see the rhino penis every day.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Cons:&lt;br /&gt;1) It took over a month to train for this job. Learning to drive a bus is a long process.&lt;br /&gt;2) I've had to learn how to speak when I can't hear my own voice over screaming children.&lt;br /&gt;3) I've had to memorize over 40 pages of script about animals. Long nights of studying &lt;em&gt;for my job.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;4) It's a 40 minute commute every day.&lt;br /&gt;5) My uniform is an ugly piece of crap, and I've started to develop sock/shorts/farmers tans.&lt;br /&gt;6) I make $9 an hour.&lt;br /&gt;7) Sometimes I don't get a lunch because of the way the bus schedule works. Is that legal?&lt;br /&gt;8) Refer to "baboon poop", above.&lt;br /&gt;9) The most frightening moment of my life happened just last week when I thought I was going to get punched in the face by a customer who couldn't fit his family on the bus. He raised his fist up to my chin and said through clenched teeth, "You fucking white people! Fucking white service is a piece of shit." Good times.&lt;br /&gt;10) The Safari is an idiot magnet. I've seen people get out of their cars in the lion reserve. Lions! Fucking wild, carnivorous, 400 pounds of pure muscle, will eat you if they get a chance, lions! Although if I did watch those people get eaten, at least it would add another point to my "pros" list.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There you have it folks, the truth about the Safari. Soon I'll be permanently hanging up my beige uniform from hell and moving on to better things. (Better things being Europe for three weeks with my &lt;a href="http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/01/ode-to-amber.html"&gt;Amber&lt;/a&gt;!) Ciao for now my fuzzy ducks!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-115360844366607002?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/115360844366607002/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=115360844366607002' title='10 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115360844366607002'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115360844366607002'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/07/ode-to-safari.html' title='Ode to the Safari'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>10</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-115311074204682568</id><published>2006-07-17T01:50:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2006-07-17T01:55:53.766-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Reciprocity</title><content type='html'>You can hurt the people you love without knowing it, and some of them will hurt you right back. Unanticipated reciprocity.&lt;br /&gt;__________&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I fell asleep on the grass outside my apartment for just a second, and it made me realize: I feel safe. Safe enough to sleep outside and alone in the dark. Safe and confident in my own skin. Safe but lonely.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't like feeling vulnerable. In fact, I'll take great measures to appear strong, confident and unscathed in difficult situations. Even if I'm screaming and suffocating on the inside, I wont let anyone know I'm distressed. I wont tell people how I really feel if there's any sort of risk involved. I am guarded and defensive and all I really want is for someone to help me break down all my walls and force me to face my fear of getting hurt. I'm safe inside these walls but the problem is, if you don't risk, you wont gain. I'm alone. Consistently and cyclically alone.&lt;br /&gt;__________&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Thanks for putting the icing on my cake. The road to hell is paved in your good intentions.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-115311074204682568?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/115311074204682568/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=115311074204682568' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115311074204682568'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115311074204682568'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/07/reciprocity.html' title='Reciprocity'/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-115294281975603359</id><published>2006-07-15T01:50:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2006-07-15T01:53:39.783-04:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7339/1740/1600/me14-07-06%20001.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7339/1740/320/me14-07-06%20001.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;I am lost.                Come find me.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-115294281975603359?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/115294281975603359/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=115294281975603359' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115294281975603359'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115294281975603359'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/07/i-am-lost.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17927490.post-115267929781702006</id><published>2006-07-12T00:37:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2006-07-12T00:41:37.856-04:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>"You're very introspective, aren't you?"&lt;br /&gt;"I suppose. Is that a bad thing?"&lt;br /&gt;"No. I wish I knew myself as well as you do."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I love his skin next to my skin, both sunkissed and warm. My eyes shine green in the sun, and flash when I look into his.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Tell me a story."&lt;br /&gt;"I met this girl once. We hit it off right away and then I proposed, but she thought it was just a joke. That was the day my heart died."&lt;br /&gt;"Tell me a true story."&lt;br /&gt;"I like you."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And I like him. The beginning is always the best part, discovering each other and trying to fit the pieces together. I'm scared, but I like it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Can I tell you a secret?"&lt;br /&gt;"Of course."&lt;br /&gt;"Sometimes I keeps secrets that I shouldn't. I'm overly secretive."&lt;br /&gt;"Well I'm underly secretive, so we'll get along great."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A hopeful girl and a courageous boy. Is there anything better?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17927490-115267929781702006?l=dancebarefoot.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/feeds/115267929781702006/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17927490&amp;postID=115267929781702006' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115267929781702006'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17927490/posts/default/115267929781702006'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dancebarefoot.blogspot.com/2006/07/youre-very-introspective-arent-you-i.html' title=''/><author><name>Miss.Emily</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14460917510042151394</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/250/8359/640/balletme%20008.jpg'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry></feed>
