<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?>
<?xml-stylesheet type="text/xsl" media="screen" href="/~d/styles/atom10full.xsl"?><?xml-stylesheet type="text/css" media="screen" href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~d/styles/itemcontent.css"?><feed xmlns="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom" xmlns:openSearch="http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearch/1.1/" xmlns:blogger="http://schemas.google.com/blogger/2008" xmlns:georss="http://www.georss.org/georss" xmlns:gd="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005" xmlns:thr="http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0" gd:etag="W/&quot;AkAFQ34_eip7ImA9WhBbF0w.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16152152</id><updated>2013-05-16T11:38:32.042-04:00</updated><category term="Christopher" /><category term="Just Me" /><category term="Birds do it. Bees do it" /><category term="OMG WTF LOL BBQ" /><category term="Conor" /><category term="Pices Litmus Test" /><category term="Memphis" /><category term="Male Delivery" /><category term="Clemson" /><category term="Mark" /><category term="P0Rn" /><category term="Online Dating Diaries" /><category term="Blogging for charity" /><category term="I never liked my stepfather anyway" /><category term="The Alcoholic" /><category term="My Parents Are Crazy" /><category term="Cancer Schmancer" /><category term="Notables" /><category term="Corporate Wordwhore" /><category term="Valdosta" /><category term="Poet" /><category term="Statham" /><category term="Gently stalking through teh Intarwebs" /><category term="Singleton" /><category term="Abraham" /><category term="Mirror/Mirror" /><category term="30 before 30" /><category term="Al-Anon" /><category term="The Hungarian" /><category term="Adam" /><category term="Conversations with Self" /><category term="Scott" /><category term="Nick" /><category term="The Accident" /><category term="I like this one" /><category term="Jack" /><title>He Loves Me Not</title><subtitle type="html">When God closes a door, He opens window. Just not too wide I hope. All kinds of things can get in.</subtitle><link rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://desperatesarah.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://desperatesarah.blogspot.com/" /><link rel="next" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default?start-index=26&amp;max-results=25&amp;redirect=false&amp;v=2" /><author><name>Sarah</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07071308334107855937</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="21" height="32" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_V9dCvDCQ8gU/TOafqDg_R3I/AAAAAAAAAbw/TLw8bRFAxmc/S220/flower.jpg" /></author><generator version="7.00" uri="http://www.blogger.com">Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>887</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>25</openSearch:itemsPerPage><atom10:link xmlns:atom10="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/HeLovesMeNot" /><feedburner:info xmlns:feedburner="http://rssnamespace.org/feedburner/ext/1.0" uri="helovesmenot" /><atom10:link xmlns:atom10="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom" rel="hub" href="http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/" /><feedburner:emailServiceId xmlns:feedburner="http://rssnamespace.org/feedburner/ext/1.0">HeLovesMeNot</feedburner:emailServiceId><feedburner:feedburnerHostname xmlns:feedburner="http://rssnamespace.org/feedburner/ext/1.0">http://feedburner.google.com</feedburner:feedburnerHostname><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CU8ERXcyfip7ImA9WhBbFEs.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16152152.post-8590900827051879334</id><published>2013-05-13T12:50:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2013-05-13T12:50:04.996-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2013-05-13T12:50:04.996-04:00</app:edited><title>Winner</title><summary type="html">


Tiffany! You won! Email me with your address.&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/HeLovesMeNot/~4/BxFoDGfmxTg" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16152152&amp;postID=8590900827051879334" title="1 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/8590900827051879334?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/8590900827051879334?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://desperatesarah.blogspot.com/2013/05/winner.html" title="Winner" /><author><name>Sarah</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07071308334107855937</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="21" height="32" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_V9dCvDCQ8gU/TOafqDg_R3I/AAAAAAAAAbw/TLw8bRFAxmc/S220/flower.jpg" /></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nnDhn9-wDAU/UZEZZtpc9iI/AAAAAAAAAfk/wQK6icTLrMU/s72-c/winner.JPG" height="72" width="72" /><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CEADQns6eSp7ImA9WhBbEk0.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16152152.post-7172172526782013586</id><published>2013-05-10T11:53:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2013-05-10T12:19:33.511-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2013-05-10T12:19:33.511-04:00</app:edited><title>Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man</title><summary type="html">When I got dumped by Valdosta, the lovely and wonderful Tex in the City put together a care package for me with love from Texas. I still think about this gesture at least once a week. This is a woman I have never met, although we do share a mutual friend in real life, and she did one of the kindest things anyone has ever done for me in my life. 

The care package consisted of:

A blank diary, "to&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/HeLovesMeNot/~4/xmDcWO-KKjc" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16152152&amp;postID=7172172526782013586" title="13 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/7172172526782013586?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/7172172526782013586?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://desperatesarah.blogspot.com/2013/05/act-like-lady-think-like-man.html" title="Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man" /><author><name>Sarah</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07071308334107855937</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="21" height="32" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_V9dCvDCQ8gU/TOafqDg_R3I/AAAAAAAAAbw/TLw8bRFAxmc/S220/flower.jpg" /></author><thr:total>13</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DkAASH4_cCp7ImA9WhBbEU8.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16152152.post-754980389673814014</id><published>2013-05-09T14:28:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2013-05-09T14:39:09.048-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2013-05-09T14:39:09.048-04:00</app:edited><title>Singled Out</title><summary type="html">Any time someone mentions a great person looking for love, I'm all "I know loads of single people!" And then when I try to think of those said single people, it turns out I don't know any. Mel just celebrated her one-year anniversary. Swayze landed a dream girl we all love. My fun coworker has been in a relationship with Abraham's neighbor for a really long time now. [On a side note: I've noticed&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/HeLovesMeNot/~4/puqYtUhv_s0" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16152152&amp;postID=754980389673814014" title="6 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/754980389673814014?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/754980389673814014?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://desperatesarah.blogspot.com/2013/05/singled-out.html" title="Singled Out" /><author><name>Sarah</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07071308334107855937</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="21" height="32" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_V9dCvDCQ8gU/TOafqDg_R3I/AAAAAAAAAbw/TLw8bRFAxmc/S220/flower.jpg" /></author><thr:total>6</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CkQAQHkyfip7ImA9WhBbEk0.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16152152.post-3643746407697744047</id><published>2013-05-06T14:51:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2013-05-10T11:39:01.796-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2013-05-10T11:39:01.796-04:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Abraham" /><title>Life after Yes</title><summary type="html">Life after the engagement:


Drinks. Lots of drinks. Most of them free. I drank more in the following week than I had all year.

A birthday! Thirty-two was not exciting. I had so many friends come out to dinner that the restaurant said our party was too big and refused to accept our reservation. This was both touching and stressful as I spent the afternoon calling businesses (and failing). We &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/HeLovesMeNot/~4/8aY_gYoGcuc" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16152152&amp;postID=3643746407697744047" title="7 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/3643746407697744047?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/3643746407697744047?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://desperatesarah.blogspot.com/2013/05/life-after-yes.html" title="Life after Yes" /><author><name>Sarah</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07071308334107855937</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="21" height="32" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_V9dCvDCQ8gU/TOafqDg_R3I/AAAAAAAAAbw/TLw8bRFAxmc/S220/flower.jpg" /></author><thr:total>7</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CUEFRHw7eyp7ImA9WhBUFE8.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16152152.post-8045292202944673547</id><published>2013-05-01T11:53:00.003-04:00</published><updated>2013-05-01T11:53:35.203-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2013-05-01T11:53:35.203-04:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Abraham" /><title>Failed Engagements</title><summary type="html">
Going to our favorite restaurant that we visit every week and having the bartender deliver my plate of tater tots spelled out to read WILL YOU MARRY ME. I like that restaurant and my tots and all, but I'm glad the bartender talked him out of it.

While ice skating. Initially sounded cute, but one of this friends reminded him that the only people who go ice skating these days are pre-teens. Kind &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/HeLovesMeNot/~4/sBq3_X4Tonc" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16152152&amp;postID=8045292202944673547" title="10 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/8045292202944673547?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/8045292202944673547?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://desperatesarah.blogspot.com/2013/05/failed-engagements.html" title="Failed Engagements" /><author><name>Sarah</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07071308334107855937</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="21" height="32" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_V9dCvDCQ8gU/TOafqDg_R3I/AAAAAAAAAbw/TLw8bRFAxmc/S220/flower.jpg" /></author><thr:total>10</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CEcHQ3s9eip7ImA9WhBVGE4.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16152152.post-3446560222875603339</id><published>2013-04-24T14:43:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2013-04-24T15:33:52.562-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2013-04-24T15:33:52.562-04:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Abraham" /><title>Home Sweet Home</title><summary type="html">As I was leaving work the following night, I complained to my coworkers about my pending kickball game. The pollen count was so high that the ground was slick with yellow dust and billows of pollen blustered  through the air. Just standing outside irritated my nose and lungs, much less playing a game of kickball in a grass field. To quote my friend, people were buying meth to make allergy &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/HeLovesMeNot/~4/nLyfs5Bh4Bs" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16152152&amp;postID=3446560222875603339" title="36 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/3446560222875603339?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/3446560222875603339?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://desperatesarah.blogspot.com/2013/04/home-sweet-home.html" title="Home Sweet Home" /><author><name>Sarah</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07071308334107855937</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="21" height="32" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_V9dCvDCQ8gU/TOafqDg_R3I/AAAAAAAAAbw/TLw8bRFAxmc/S220/flower.jpg" /></author><thr:total>36</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CkYMQX4zeyp7ImA9WhBVEU4.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16152152.post-4335777636357394023</id><published>2013-04-16T12:32:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2013-04-16T12:36:20.083-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2013-04-16T12:36:20.083-04:00</app:edited><title>The Rules</title><summary type="html">A girlfriend of mine has a tradition within her circle of friends. One of her friends used to work at a wedding magazine and had received a Mr. Wonderful doll as a promotional item. Mr. Wonderful is a plastic doll with pre-approved sayings such as "You look nice today," and "Why don't we go the the mall, didn't you want some shoes?" 

She kept Mr. Wonderful on her desk until she met her real-life&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/HeLovesMeNot/~4/pbQeJBriawY" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16152152&amp;postID=4335777636357394023" title="10 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/4335777636357394023?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/4335777636357394023?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://desperatesarah.blogspot.com/2013/04/the-rules.html" title="The Rules" /><author><name>Sarah</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07071308334107855937</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="21" height="32" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_V9dCvDCQ8gU/TOafqDg_R3I/AAAAAAAAAbw/TLw8bRFAxmc/S220/flower.jpg" /></author><thr:total>10</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;D0QBQHk_fSp7ImA9WhBVEEk.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16152152.post-7638674440013912501</id><published>2013-04-15T12:58:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2013-04-15T13:02:31.745-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2013-04-15T13:02:31.745-04:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Abraham" /><title>Swan Song</title><summary type="html">I needed to choose a song about my current relationship, but I was currently irritated at my current relationship. Monday I wanted to go running because I had gained two pounds, and Abraham refused to join me. I stared at him slackjawed with just a total Do-you-not-care-about-your-health accusation on my face. Tuesday he went to play raquetball with his friend and didn't get home until late. I &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/HeLovesMeNot/~4/B-OOLPxRELs" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16152152&amp;postID=7638674440013912501" title="8 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/7638674440013912501?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/7638674440013912501?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://desperatesarah.blogspot.com/2013/04/swan-song.html" title="Swan Song" /><author><name>Sarah</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07071308334107855937</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="21" height="32" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_V9dCvDCQ8gU/TOafqDg_R3I/AAAAAAAAAbw/TLw8bRFAxmc/S220/flower.jpg" /></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://img.youtube.com/vi/DHEOF_rcND8/default.jpg" height="72" width="72" /><thr:total>8</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;AkEGR3k9eCp7ImA9WhBWGUo.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16152152.post-7116087639913626778</id><published>2013-04-14T18:30:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2013-04-14T18:30:26.760-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2013-04-14T18:30:26.760-04:00</app:edited><title>Foreshadowing</title><summary type="html">As a part of our kickball game, I was asked to pick a song that described "your current relationship or lack thereof. " I didn't put much thought into my choice. I didn't know how important that song would be. &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/HeLovesMeNot/~4/0cGGorfv-rI" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16152152&amp;postID=7116087639913626778" title="10 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/7116087639913626778?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/7116087639913626778?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://desperatesarah.blogspot.com/2013/04/foreshadowing.html" title="Foreshadowing" /><author><name>Sarah</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07071308334107855937</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="21" height="32" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_V9dCvDCQ8gU/TOafqDg_R3I/AAAAAAAAAbw/TLw8bRFAxmc/S220/flower.jpg" /></author><thr:total>10</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;D0MBSHw9eCp7ImA9WhBWFk8.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16152152.post-1814467162656071190</id><published>2013-04-10T16:24:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2013-04-10T16:24:19.260-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2013-04-10T16:24:19.260-04:00</app:edited><title>Movers and Shakers</title><summary type="html">I feel like I did back in college when I was in the middle of a semester, and I had the constant stress of the final looming over me. It would be a constant nagging in the back of my mind. Only this time, my final is my upcoming move. 

I've learned over the last six months that I can get by with very little. Staying at Abraham's made me realize I only needed a handful of dresses and a few really&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/HeLovesMeNot/~4/DMfId6VcDRc" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16152152&amp;postID=1814467162656071190" title="12 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/1814467162656071190?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/1814467162656071190?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://desperatesarah.blogspot.com/2013/04/movers-and-shakers.html" title="Movers and Shakers" /><author><name>Sarah</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07071308334107855937</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="21" height="32" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_V9dCvDCQ8gU/TOafqDg_R3I/AAAAAAAAAbw/TLw8bRFAxmc/S220/flower.jpg" /></author><thr:total>12</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DEIASHY5eCp7ImA9WhBWEE0.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16152152.post-6981019314751845169</id><published>2013-04-03T12:29:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2013-04-03T12:29:09.820-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2013-04-03T12:29:09.820-04:00</app:edited><title>Overdose</title><summary type="html">The blog has lost a second periphery character. The Boston Brother's wife, the woman who got drunk and high on the cruise ship and was found naked in the crew section of the boat, died. 

The reason is not shocking. As evidenced from my only experience with her, she had destructive alcohol and prescription medication habits. It's not known for sure whether it was suicide or an accidental overdose&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/HeLovesMeNot/~4/_XIt59vr1UY" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16152152&amp;postID=6981019314751845169" title="7 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/6981019314751845169?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/6981019314751845169?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://desperatesarah.blogspot.com/2013/04/overdose.html" title="Overdose" /><author><name>Sarah</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07071308334107855937</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="21" height="32" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_V9dCvDCQ8gU/TOafqDg_R3I/AAAAAAAAAbw/TLw8bRFAxmc/S220/flower.jpg" /></author><thr:total>7</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;A0UHRn8yfSp7ImA9WhBXGE4.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16152152.post-2654166100456020374</id><published>2013-04-01T13:56:00.004-04:00</published><updated>2013-04-01T14:00:37.195-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2013-04-01T14:00:37.195-04:00</app:edited><title>Winner</title><summary type="html">


The winner is comment #4, which is incidentally also my favorite number.

Melissa, please email me so I can get your address.
&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/HeLovesMeNot/~4/SNt41QlTxNM" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16152152&amp;postID=2654166100456020374" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/2654166100456020374?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/2654166100456020374?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://desperatesarah.blogspot.com/2013/04/winner.html" title="Winner" /><author><name>Sarah</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07071308334107855937</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="21" height="32" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_V9dCvDCQ8gU/TOafqDg_R3I/AAAAAAAAAbw/TLw8bRFAxmc/S220/flower.jpg" /></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-r-CgyEZ8xkQ/UVnLHvQnPTI/AAAAAAAAAfE/hYAkH_Yj3DA/s72-c/winner.GIF" height="72" width="72" /><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DkMDRn48cCp7ImA9WhBQGUo.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16152152.post-2034796866408586629</id><published>2013-03-22T13:47:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2013-03-22T13:47:57.078-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2013-03-22T13:47:57.078-04:00</app:edited><title>He's Not That Into You</title><summary type="html">I don't think I ever got dating right. I don't think I ever got rid of my bad habits; I think I just got really, really lucky with Abraham.

I mean, we talked for months, so that was good. Then we made out behind a bar and  didn't see each other for weeks and weeks (he was nervous, he said.) That's... less good. According to the Rules, He Wasn't That Into Me. And then I got shitfaced, went home &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/HeLovesMeNot/~4/q0Os0lQG8Hk" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16152152&amp;postID=2034796866408586629" title="7 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/2034796866408586629?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/2034796866408586629?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://desperatesarah.blogspot.com/2013/03/hes-not-that-into-you.html" title="He's Not That Into You" /><author><name>Sarah</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07071308334107855937</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="21" height="32" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_V9dCvDCQ8gU/TOafqDg_R3I/AAAAAAAAAbw/TLw8bRFAxmc/S220/flower.jpg" /></author><thr:total>7</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;AkINR3w8eip7ImA9WhBQEE8.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16152152.post-8729804548614408191</id><published>2013-03-11T12:49:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2013-03-11T15:03:16.272-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2013-03-11T15:03:16.272-04:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Abraham" /><title>Crash Into Me</title><summary type="html">The first time I met Abraham was in 1999. I had just graduated from high school and was working that summer as a lifeguard at a neighborhood pool. Abraham was a year out of college and living in the Florida panhandle. He drove his rickety 1988 Plymouth Horizon 270 miles North to attend the same concert as me. We were separated by 130,000 people.

The second, third, fourth and fifth times I met &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/HeLovesMeNot/~4/pg4xOGrxvsg" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16152152&amp;postID=8729804548614408191" title="13 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/8729804548614408191?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/8729804548614408191?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://desperatesarah.blogspot.com/2013/03/crash-into-me.html" title="Crash Into Me" /><author><name>Sarah</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07071308334107855937</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="21" height="32" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_V9dCvDCQ8gU/TOafqDg_R3I/AAAAAAAAAbw/TLw8bRFAxmc/S220/flower.jpg" /></author><thr:total>13</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;D0ANRnw6eSp7ImA9WhBRFko.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16152152.post-3456797905106091757</id><published>2013-03-07T11:59:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2013-03-07T12:03:17.211-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2013-03-07T12:03:17.211-05:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Abraham" /><title>Out of the Woods</title><summary type="html">Abraham's bedroom smells like wood.

I guess I should stop calling it Abraham's bedroom. Next month it will be my bedroom as well.

Truth is, I signed that lease to buy me 6 more months in my apartment, and I haven't spent a single night there. I've been at Abraham's house (I mean, our house). Katielookingforward referred to my lease as an insurance policy. "You can 'waste' money on rent for an &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/HeLovesMeNot/~4/fn34o0fapU4" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16152152&amp;postID=3456797905106091757" title="7 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/3456797905106091757?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/3456797905106091757?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://desperatesarah.blogspot.com/2013/03/out-of-woods.html" title="Out of the Woods" /><author><name>Sarah</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07071308334107855937</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="21" height="32" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_V9dCvDCQ8gU/TOafqDg_R3I/AAAAAAAAAbw/TLw8bRFAxmc/S220/flower.jpg" /></author><thr:total>7</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;AkMCRn0yeSp7ImA9WhBREUg.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16152152.post-674840001986473581</id><published>2013-03-01T12:21:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2013-03-01T12:21:07.391-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2013-03-01T12:21:07.391-05:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Abraham" /><title>Black Diamond</title><summary type="html">The scene was the same: when a coworker asked how my ski trip went, she'd ask while staring at my bare left hand. Every time. 

"It was the best vacation I've ever had," I'd respond, trying to ignore the glances. 

"So he didn't propose on top of the mountain?" one asked. 

"I was so sure it would happen," another consoled. 

"The ex-boyfriends come out of the woodwork because they know you're &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/HeLovesMeNot/~4/BLY2LAl2Fn0" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16152152&amp;postID=674840001986473581" title="8 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/674840001986473581?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/674840001986473581?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://desperatesarah.blogspot.com/2013/03/black-diamond.html" title="Black Diamond" /><author><name>Sarah</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07071308334107855937</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="21" height="32" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_V9dCvDCQ8gU/TOafqDg_R3I/AAAAAAAAAbw/TLw8bRFAxmc/S220/flower.jpg" /></author><thr:total>8</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;D0YFRHw6eip7ImA9WhBSEkQ.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16152152.post-5331614020508212637</id><published>2013-02-19T11:52:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2013-02-19T12:31:55.212-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2013-02-19T12:31:55.212-05:00</app:edited><title>Valentine's Day, according to Facebook</title><summary type="html">Schmoozer's BF took a girl to dinner that he had been seeing for a month. She got him a card, a couple bottles of wine, two wine glasses and a wine aerator. He got her nothing.

Mel's boyfriend sent her a beautiful bouquet of flowers to work. They did not see each other, but they scheduled a date for the next day.

Jenna and Government Mule posted hearts to each other's timelines. No usual check &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/HeLovesMeNot/~4/8rGdlZwPfUM" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16152152&amp;postID=5331614020508212637" title="7 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/5331614020508212637?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/5331614020508212637?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://desperatesarah.blogspot.com/2013/02/valentines-day-according-to-facebook.html" title="Valentine's Day, according to Facebook" /><author><name>Sarah</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07071308334107855937</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="21" height="32" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_V9dCvDCQ8gU/TOafqDg_R3I/AAAAAAAAAbw/TLw8bRFAxmc/S220/flower.jpg" /></author><thr:total>7</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;C0EAQ34yfSp7ImA9WhBTEks.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16152152.post-2145859949119010793</id><published>2013-02-07T13:15:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2013-02-07T13:27:22.095-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2013-02-07T13:27:22.095-05:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Christopher" /><title>Take the Cake</title><summary type="html">I'm not a big fan of Facebook chat. Mostly the incoming messages startle me while I'm creeping on my news feed. I think the main problem with Facebook chat is that it's never someone you actually want to talk to. 

Yesterday it was Christopher. I hadn't heard from him since last Valentine's Day when he sent me a friend request. I had sat on it for a week, accepted it, and then forgot about the &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/HeLovesMeNot/~4/03h9PnsAaqw" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16152152&amp;postID=2145859949119010793" title="17 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/2145859949119010793?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/2145859949119010793?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://desperatesarah.blogspot.com/2013/02/take-cake.html" title="Take the Cake" /><author><name>Sarah</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07071308334107855937</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="21" height="32" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_V9dCvDCQ8gU/TOafqDg_R3I/AAAAAAAAAbw/TLw8bRFAxmc/S220/flower.jpg" /></author><thr:total>17</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DE4CQ305eSp7ImA9WhNaF04.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16152152.post-6446963971244439412</id><published>2013-02-01T11:42:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2013-02-01T11:42:42.321-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2013-02-01T11:42:42.321-05:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Abraham" /><title>For Love or Money</title><summary type="html">Every year Abraham goes on a ski trip. As soon as he got back from the last one, he informed me that I would be going on the next one. 

"The trip this year is going to be in February," Abraham emailed me and attached a long string of planning correspondence. 

"Yeah. Sure. No problem."

I didn't really think anything of it other than my fear of powdered snow. I learned to ski in the South, which&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/HeLovesMeNot/~4/CbRQ_Jk7tkk" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16152152&amp;postID=6446963971244439412" title="14 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/6446963971244439412?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/6446963971244439412?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://desperatesarah.blogspot.com/2013/02/for-love-or-money.html" title="For Love or Money" /><author><name>Sarah</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07071308334107855937</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="21" height="32" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_V9dCvDCQ8gU/TOafqDg_R3I/AAAAAAAAAbw/TLw8bRFAxmc/S220/flower.jpg" /></author><thr:total>14</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DkACSHc8eSp7ImA9WhNbGE0.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16152152.post-8557783290015010998</id><published>2013-01-21T16:46:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2013-01-21T16:46:09.971-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2013-01-21T16:46:09.971-05:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Abraham" /><title>Never be rude to your mother</title><summary type="html">I was laying on Abe's bed when the phone rang. It was my mom. I rolled my eyes. We had already spoken three times that day, and Abraham just got home from work. I wanted to visit with him. 

I picked up the phone and sighed. My mom prattled about the movie she had just seen. She had recognized the actor from a previous movie. 

"Why are you quiet?" she asked. 

"I dunno. That was a scintillating &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/HeLovesMeNot/~4/LBs0dhLhgrk" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16152152&amp;postID=8557783290015010998" title="13 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/8557783290015010998?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/8557783290015010998?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://desperatesarah.blogspot.com/2013/01/never-be-rude-to-your-mother.html" title="Never be rude to your mother" /><author><name>Sarah</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07071308334107855937</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="21" height="32" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_V9dCvDCQ8gU/TOafqDg_R3I/AAAAAAAAAbw/TLw8bRFAxmc/S220/flower.jpg" /></author><thr:total>13</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;A0UASXs8eSp7ImA9WhNUE04.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16152152.post-3173571732449608616</id><published>2013-01-04T17:40:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2013-01-04T17:40:48.571-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2013-01-04T17:40:48.571-05:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Abraham" /><title>Ring in the New Year</title><summary type="html">On New Years Eve, the girls and I sat around a table while the boys watched a movie.

"2013 is going to be a big year," I smiled. 

"I want to be the first to get engaged. Oh damn, we're out of Jello shots," announced Jenna. She looked at her sister Katie. "I hope that doesn't hurt your feelings, but I want to be first."

"Well you've been with Government Mule longer than we've been with our &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/HeLovesMeNot/~4/BnVmU1ERH6I" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16152152&amp;postID=3173571732449608616" title="16 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/3173571732449608616?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/3173571732449608616?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://desperatesarah.blogspot.com/2013/01/ring-in-new-year.html" title="Ring in the New Year" /><author><name>Sarah</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07071308334107855937</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="21" height="32" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_V9dCvDCQ8gU/TOafqDg_R3I/AAAAAAAAAbw/TLw8bRFAxmc/S220/flower.jpg" /></author><thr:total>16</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DEUFRXY8fCp7ImA9WhNVFk4.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16152152.post-7920358309825929101</id><published>2012-12-27T14:23:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2012-12-27T14:23:34.874-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-12-27T14:23:34.874-05:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Abraham" /><title>Things I wish I didn't overhear on Christmas</title><summary type="html">
I was laying in bed at 10:30 pm in Washington DC. The flight didn't go so well. There was so much turbulence that the insides of my stomach had become the outsides of my stomach. Twice. And there were no barf bags on our row of the airplane, so Abraham and I were the collateral damage. The airplane steward meekly handed me a wet paper towel. To make things worse, the traffic circles of DC had me&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/HeLovesMeNot/~4/V4WLFNm2kuA" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16152152&amp;postID=7920358309825929101" title="21 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/7920358309825929101?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/7920358309825929101?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://desperatesarah.blogspot.com/2012/12/things-i-wish-i-didnt-overhear-on.html" title="Things I wish I didn't overhear on Christmas" /><author><name>Sarah</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07071308334107855937</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="21" height="32" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_V9dCvDCQ8gU/TOafqDg_R3I/AAAAAAAAAbw/TLw8bRFAxmc/S220/flower.jpg" /></author><thr:total>21</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;D0AFR306eyp7ImA9WhNWGEo.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16152152.post-6365390975974117181</id><published>2012-12-18T19:08:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2012-12-18T19:08:36.313-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-12-18T19:08:36.313-05:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Corporate Wordwhore" /><title>DDF Revolve 400X Micro-Polishing System</title><summary type="html">

For most of my twenties, I was able to eat whatever I want and fall into bed with a full face of smudged makeup without any skin repercussions. This is not true anymore in my thirties. I’ve had to invest in night cream and a skin cleanser and a skin exfoliator. 

Products are expensive. I went to one of those in-home product shows and was introduced to a skin care line that cost over $230. &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/HeLovesMeNot/~4/CMSv3YQDiwI" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16152152&amp;postID=6365390975974117181" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/6365390975974117181?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/6365390975974117181?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://desperatesarah.blogspot.com/2012/12/ddf-revolve-400x-micro-polishing-system.html" title="DDF Revolve 400X Micro-Polishing System" /><author><name>Sarah</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07071308334107855937</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="21" height="32" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_V9dCvDCQ8gU/TOafqDg_R3I/AAAAAAAAAbw/TLw8bRFAxmc/S220/flower.jpg" /></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-co4ViK--pdw/UNECc3K0HAI/AAAAAAAAAeo/0WHrKG9c4e4/s72-c/DDR.Product.jpg" height="72" width="72" /><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;D04HQ3k9eSp7ImA9WhNXF08.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16152152.post-771375374960410427</id><published>2012-12-05T11:21:00.003-05:00</published><updated>2012-12-05T11:45:32.761-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-12-05T11:45:32.761-05:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Abraham" /><title>Reindeer Games</title><summary type="html">I didn't know I was dating a Grinch.

Okay, that is neither an entirely fair nor accurate statement. He's not a Grinch. He's a Jew, and Christmas is not his holiday. Within the next year or so, it will no longer be my holiday but a tradition I celebrate with my parents. 

But Abraham, he hates Christmas. He cannot walk past a trimmed tree or holiday decoration without making a snarky comment. He &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/HeLovesMeNot/~4/qnP3eijJezA" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16152152&amp;postID=771375374960410427" title="12 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/771375374960410427?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/771375374960410427?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://desperatesarah.blogspot.com/2012/12/reindeer-games.html" title="Reindeer Games" /><author><name>Sarah</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07071308334107855937</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="21" height="32" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_V9dCvDCQ8gU/TOafqDg_R3I/AAAAAAAAAbw/TLw8bRFAxmc/S220/flower.jpg" /></author><thr:total>12</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DEQESX49fyp7ImA9WhNXEU4.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16152152.post-8140790902657418681</id><published>2012-11-28T15:58:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2012-11-28T15:58:28.067-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-11-28T15:58:28.067-05:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="The Alcoholic" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Mark" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Valdosta" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Abraham" /><title>Ghosts of Boyfriends' Past</title><summary type="html">I've been having this dream lately where I successively date a few of my ex-boyfriends. Ghosts of boyfriends' past, if you will. 

In my dreams time has elapsed since I've dated them. It's present day in my alternate universe. We indeed broke up like we did in real life, but for some reason we are getting back together.

***

My first love is fat. He's severely overweight, just as he was in high &lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/HeLovesMeNot/~4/w3iQsZ3JKeo" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</summary><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16152152&amp;postID=8140790902657418681" title="8 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/8140790902657418681?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16152152/posts/default/8140790902657418681?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://desperatesarah.blogspot.com/2012/11/ghosts-of-boyfriends-past.html" title="Ghosts of Boyfriends&amp;#39; Past" /><author><name>Sarah</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07071308334107855937</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="21" height="32" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_V9dCvDCQ8gU/TOafqDg_R3I/AAAAAAAAAbw/TLw8bRFAxmc/S220/flower.jpg" /></author><thr:total>8</thr:total></entry></feed>
