<?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:georss="http://www.georss.org/georss" xmlns:gd="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005" xmlns:thr="http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0" xmlns:feedburner="http://rssnamespace.org/feedburner/ext/1.0" gd:etag="W/&quot;DE8FSX48eSp7ImA9WhRRFE4.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769552</id><updated>2011-11-27T18:33:38.071-05:00</updated><category term="prison" /><category term="america" /><category term="verse" /><category term="traffic" /><category term="democracy" /><category term="mediocre" /><category term="stupid" /><category term="politics" /><title>Misc.txt</title><subtitle type="html">Multiworded to preserve your visual acuity</subtitle><link rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.jrmartinson.net/feeds/posts/default" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.jrmartinson.net/" /><link rel="next" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default?start-index=26&amp;max-results=25&amp;redirect=false&amp;v=2" /><author><name>Zoel</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="16" height="16" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" /></author><generator version="7.00" uri="http://www.blogger.com">Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>43</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/Misctxt" /><feedburner:info uri="misctxt" /><atom10:link xmlns:atom10="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom" rel="hub" href="http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/" /><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;C0UDRnw_fSp7ImA9WhdREUg.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769552.post-7056596593405341805</id><published>2011-07-31T18:26:00.003-04:00</published><updated>2011-07-31T18:27:57.245-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2011-07-31T18:27:57.245-04:00</app:edited><title>Her Dark Countenance</title><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/7056596593405341805?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/7056596593405341805?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Misctxt/~3/8q5oRQS-LlE/her-dark-countenance.html" title="Her Dark Countenance" /><author><name>Zoel</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="16" height="16" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" /></author><content type="html">Your mask has a crack on the cheekLarger if I'd noticed it soonerBut I’ve peeked past your porcelain skinI’m over playing chessWith the black queen I can’t say the things I want to sayby not saying themIt hurts youThe tender scarWhere your mask used to beIt must be hardI missed the chance to see youAs you are
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/BFJ3xPYjKAXWzNWgsBZR2Qk2NxI/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/BFJ3xPYjKAXWzNWgsBZR2Qk2NxI/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/BFJ3xPYjKAXWzNWgsBZR2Qk2NxI/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/BFJ3xPYjKAXWzNWgsBZR2Qk2NxI/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Misctxt/~4/8q5oRQS-LlE" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><feedburner:origLink>http://www.jrmartinson.net/2011/07/her-dark-countenance.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DUYFSH0zeip7ImA9WhZQFEU.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769552.post-3330191628507040270</id><published>2011-04-22T11:44:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2011-04-22T11:45:19.382-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2011-04-22T11:45:19.382-04:00</app:edited><title>I would like to take a walk on the dark side.</title><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/3330191628507040270?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/3330191628507040270?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Misctxt/~3/YkYkG3uiDiM/i-would-like-to-take-walk-on-dark-side.html" title="I would like to take a walk on the dark side." /><author><name>Zoel</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="16" height="16" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" /></author><content type="html">I think I’m bad at dreaming, because I die every other time I do it.  When you find out what a joy it is to live, you learn what it’s like to be afraid.  Now I’m older and manly, so I’m scared of being scared.  But scared is natural.  It’s the self imposed darkness of sleep that brings either nightmares or dream escapes.  Uncertainty leads to fear.  Fear leads to a lot of things.  A fear your 
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/RoWBWXouJSQ9_NtO3zncZMmNfWo/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/RoWBWXouJSQ9_NtO3zncZMmNfWo/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/RoWBWXouJSQ9_NtO3zncZMmNfWo/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/RoWBWXouJSQ9_NtO3zncZMmNfWo/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Misctxt/~4/YkYkG3uiDiM" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><feedburner:origLink>http://www.jrmartinson.net/2011/04/i-would-like-to-take-walk-on-dark-side.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;D0QFRXo-eyp7ImA9WhZQEk8.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769552.post-2292049162316429310</id><published>2011-04-19T11:01:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2011-04-19T11:01:54.453-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2011-04-19T11:01:54.453-04:00</app:edited><title>We don't always mean the things we say.</title><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/2292049162316429310?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/2292049162316429310?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Misctxt/~3/SnJgWTy65LI/we-dont-always-mean-things-we-say.html" title="We don't always mean the things we say." /><author><name>Zoel</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="16" height="16" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" /></author><content type="html">When I was young, there was a child in my elementary school class who was deaf.  The teachers all tried to teach us how to speak cued speech so that we could communicate with him.  I never really got it. I believed that if I just faked it, I would eventually pick up the language.  I didn’t know how mean this was at the time.  Now I know exactly what it is like to be made fun of by someone who isn
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/SAEGwpwn6d-Itg0MHUfzfvb1zM8/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/SAEGwpwn6d-Itg0MHUfzfvb1zM8/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/SAEGwpwn6d-Itg0MHUfzfvb1zM8/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/SAEGwpwn6d-Itg0MHUfzfvb1zM8/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Misctxt/~4/SnJgWTy65LI" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><feedburner:origLink>http://www.jrmartinson.net/2011/04/we-dont-always-mean-things-we-say.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;D0cHRnY4eCp7ImA9WhZQEU0.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769552.post-4788148870185368494</id><published>2011-04-18T01:36:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2011-04-18T01:37:17.830-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2011-04-18T01:37:17.830-04:00</app:edited><title>Selfish</title><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/4788148870185368494?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/4788148870185368494?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Misctxt/~3/BdivyduYnMI/selfish.html" title="Selfish" /><author><name>Zoel</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="16" height="16" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" /></author><content type="html">We all want things that we aren’t entitled to.  I’ve wanted to be in love for a long time.  I used to trick myself into believing I was in love when really I had just found someone who would tolerate me.  I wanted it that badly.  I still want it, but sometimes it is better to be open to something you want instead of seeking it out.  When a woman rejects me it still hurts, but I act like it doesn’
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/knVVobEO5mbAtmoEFGxyLNsnFS4/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/knVVobEO5mbAtmoEFGxyLNsnFS4/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/knVVobEO5mbAtmoEFGxyLNsnFS4/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/knVVobEO5mbAtmoEFGxyLNsnFS4/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Misctxt/~4/BdivyduYnMI" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><feedburner:origLink>http://www.jrmartinson.net/2011/04/selfish.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DUEHQH87fCp7ImA9WhZRF00.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769552.post-8313405668252722629</id><published>2011-04-13T11:13:00.002-04:00</published><updated>2011-04-13T11:13:51.104-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2011-04-13T11:13:51.104-04:00</app:edited><title>Phillip K. Dick was not actually catholic</title><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/8313405668252722629?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/8313405668252722629?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Misctxt/~3/14bTilRNhY4/phillip-k-dick-was-not-actually.html" title="Phillip K. Dick was not actually catholic" /><author><name>Zoel</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="16" height="16" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" /></author><content type="html">When I was young and idealistic I thought I could change the world.  From a cubicle or outside of one, wherever really.  If everyone was on the same page, maybe the world would be a better place.  Then I got old and not stupid and I realized that so many things that are wrong with the world are a reflection of individuality.  You cannot change the system from within, because the system changes 
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/YgYrBpl1NI_nL4AtQjaW3ylvkUQ/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/YgYrBpl1NI_nL4AtQjaW3ylvkUQ/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/YgYrBpl1NI_nL4AtQjaW3ylvkUQ/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/YgYrBpl1NI_nL4AtQjaW3ylvkUQ/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Misctxt/~4/14bTilRNhY4" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><feedburner:origLink>http://www.jrmartinson.net/2011/04/phillip-k-dick-was-not-actually.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CUICSH0-cSp7ImA9WhZRFk0.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769552.post-6370423313282223291</id><published>2011-04-12T06:19:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2011-04-12T06:19:29.359-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2011-04-12T06:19:29.359-04:00</app:edited><title>We're all made of memories.</title><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/6370423313282223291?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/6370423313282223291?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Misctxt/~3/SRbIz0poHaY/were-all-made-of-memories.html" title="We're all made of memories." /><author><name>Zoel</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="16" height="16" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" /></author><content type="html">I still get sad about things that happened a long time ago.  Even though we aren’t supposed to admit this, I think it is normal.  If you are capable of letting go of your experiences without reservation and struggle, then you are close to sainthood.  Imagine if everyone could do this. What would the world be without the malice that our scars create?  But it is hard, because we don’t know what it 
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/YMbQokHbATiUEJV4wuo7UXaxvIU/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/YMbQokHbATiUEJV4wuo7UXaxvIU/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/YMbQokHbATiUEJV4wuo7UXaxvIU/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/YMbQokHbATiUEJV4wuo7UXaxvIU/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Misctxt/~4/SRbIz0poHaY" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><feedburner:origLink>http://www.jrmartinson.net/2011/04/were-all-made-of-memories.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DEcAQXc4cCp7ImA9WhZRFEg.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769552.post-1797756663357922049</id><published>2011-04-10T13:19:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2011-04-10T13:20:40.938-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2011-04-10T13:20:40.938-04:00</app:edited><title>The abyss doesn't actually stare back at anyone.</title><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/1797756663357922049?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/1797756663357922049?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Misctxt/~3/kqbw3gcEtG8/abyss-doesnt-actually-stare-back-at.html" title="The abyss doesn't actually stare back at anyone." /><author><name>Zoel</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="16" height="16" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" /></author><content type="html">As an object approaches the event horizon of a black hole it appears to slow down, taking an infinite amount of time to approach the singularity.  I guess it is appropriately fitting that the strongest gravitational forces in the universe are only interested in containing information about themselves and who ran into them and then never letting anyone forget about it.  When you define yourself in
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/Jqi2D15cbJAIeVMgzi1H1ZqxCZY/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/Jqi2D15cbJAIeVMgzi1H1ZqxCZY/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/Jqi2D15cbJAIeVMgzi1H1ZqxCZY/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/Jqi2D15cbJAIeVMgzi1H1ZqxCZY/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Misctxt/~4/kqbw3gcEtG8" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><feedburner:origLink>http://www.jrmartinson.net/2011/04/abyss-doesnt-actually-stare-back-at.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DEIAQHs9fip7ImA9WhZREkQ.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769552.post-6829931288351524532</id><published>2011-04-08T17:00:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2011-04-08T17:02:21.566-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2011-04-08T17:02:21.566-04:00</app:edited><title>I guess Romans had a passionately violent view of love all along.</title><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/6829931288351524532?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/6829931288351524532?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Misctxt/~3/MDRwRrwOqoI/i-guess-romans-had-passionately-violent.html" title="I guess Romans had a passionately violent view of love all along." /><author><name>Zoel</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="16" height="16" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" /></author><content type="html">I think love would be a lot less stressful if it were a battlefield instead of a chess board.  There’s no real deception in Russian Roulette, it’s just chance.  You don’t have to calculate two rolls of the barrel ahead to determine the outcome, and if it’s perfect, you both shoot each other at the same time. That’s how Cupid works when he outsources his bow.  He doesn’t require anyone to be an 
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/NmKCLFbNvjfBAaA2y40YKHrbJJs/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/NmKCLFbNvjfBAaA2y40YKHrbJJs/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/NmKCLFbNvjfBAaA2y40YKHrbJJs/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/NmKCLFbNvjfBAaA2y40YKHrbJJs/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Misctxt/~4/MDRwRrwOqoI" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><feedburner:origLink>http://www.jrmartinson.net/2011/04/i-guess-romans-had-passionately-violent.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CEICQX8-fSp7ImA9WhZREk4.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769552.post-1028810285884112371</id><published>2011-04-07T23:15:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2011-04-07T23:16:00.155-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2011-04-07T23:16:00.155-04:00</app:edited><title>I have no desire to speak French in France.</title><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/1028810285884112371?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/1028810285884112371?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Misctxt/~3/ykssJ7jEgnA/i-have-no-desire-to-speak-french-in.html" title="I have no desire to speak French in France." /><author><name>Zoel</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="16" height="16" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" /></author><content type="html">I  want to speak the language of flowers and be fluent in music.  If I could only express happiness, I would make graffiti in the form of smiles.  If my nose could exhale as it inhales, I would roll around in dumpsters and steal all the bubble wrap I could find.  I want to know how to taste a sunset and speak a sunrise.
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/bjvSiHzzfn8rdBF-34I55m-xHyw/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/bjvSiHzzfn8rdBF-34I55m-xHyw/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/bjvSiHzzfn8rdBF-34I55m-xHyw/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/bjvSiHzzfn8rdBF-34I55m-xHyw/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Misctxt/~4/ykssJ7jEgnA" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><feedburner:origLink>http://www.jrmartinson.net/2011/04/i-have-no-desire-to-speak-french-in.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CEIBQnoyfyp7ImA9WhZSE0o.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769552.post-6737544915390783175</id><published>2011-03-29T00:22:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2011-03-29T00:22:33.497-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2011-03-29T00:22:33.497-04:00</app:edited><title>Stones look better, stacked together.</title><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/6737544915390783175?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/6737544915390783175?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Misctxt/~3/QgluL4xjuDg/stones-look-better-stacked-together_29.html" title="Stones look better, stacked together." /><author><name>Zoel</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="16" height="16" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" /></author><content type="html">I used to think I had it all figured out.  And I did, but then I found out that I didn’t.  So I carried a stone in my chest for a while, right between my lungs.  For a while I thought it was my heart, but it turned out it was just tension.  I talked with my friends, and they felt the same as me, so I threw the stone away.  Feeling better made me feel bad about not talking to my friends sooner, 
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/XtVefRgx6-e8eO1Wl0ybIu9e7_s/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/XtVefRgx6-e8eO1Wl0ybIu9e7_s/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/XtVefRgx6-e8eO1Wl0ybIu9e7_s/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/XtVefRgx6-e8eO1Wl0ybIu9e7_s/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Misctxt/~4/QgluL4xjuDg" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><feedburner:origLink>http://www.jrmartinson.net/2011/03/stones-look-better-stacked-together_29.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;D0EGRXc5eCp7ImA9Wx5aFk4.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769552.post-2988784259666499899</id><published>2010-11-13T03:03:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2010-11-13T03:07:04.920-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2010-11-13T03:07:04.920-05:00</app:edited><title>There Is No Truth In Music</title><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/2988784259666499899?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/2988784259666499899?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Misctxt/~3/Ps4RGlgAKW4/there-is-no-truth-in-music.html" title="There Is No Truth In Music" /><author><name>Zoel</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="16" height="16" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" /></author><content type="html">The Time Signatures have no authorAnd direct themselves at no oneWithout Regards,I only love the musicBecause every lyric is a lieA note betrays nothing, justa pithy life unlivedAll this culture is made up anywayDid I go to the concert thinkingI will get laid tonightOr did I go because of some dark emotionpulling me into the rythym of the night?In a college town on a side walk I read:I am the 
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/c8ada3ba5ZJnrTzwXFfwNUy0_pg/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/c8ada3ba5ZJnrTzwXFfwNUy0_pg/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/c8ada3ba5ZJnrTzwXFfwNUy0_pg/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/c8ada3ba5ZJnrTzwXFfwNUy0_pg/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Misctxt/~4/Ps4RGlgAKW4" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><feedburner:origLink>http://www.jrmartinson.net/2010/11/there-is-no-truth-in-music.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CEUNRH06cCp7ImA9Wx5TFEs.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769552.post-8947135768850558223</id><published>2010-07-29T13:13:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2010-07-29T23:58:15.318-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2010-07-29T23:58:15.318-04:00</app:edited><title>I am urinating in your stream of consciousness presently</title><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/8947135768850558223?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/8947135768850558223?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Misctxt/~3/Ve6NEqoJwto/i-am-urinating-in-your-stream-of.html" title="I am urinating in your stream of consciousness presently" /><author><name>Zoel</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="16" height="16" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" /></author><content type="html">Cheese gets everywhere in your mouth if you have bad teeth.  I hate deserving anything because to deserve something means you don't have it.  I'm sick of deserving things.  I want to be unjust.  I want to own things that I shouldn't.  I want to be able to live outside my means, to not do without.
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/m-CpbSIMP3jtAzM3bZOCRCsyau8/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/m-CpbSIMP3jtAzM3bZOCRCsyau8/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/m-CpbSIMP3jtAzM3bZOCRCsyau8/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/m-CpbSIMP3jtAzM3bZOCRCsyau8/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Misctxt/~4/Ve6NEqoJwto" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><feedburner:origLink>http://www.jrmartinson.net/2010/07/i-am-urinating-in-your-stream-of.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CkABSXg8fCp7ImA9WxFXE08.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769552.post-306800585185215909</id><published>2010-05-19T21:30:00.003-04:00</published><updated>2010-05-19T21:59:18.674-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2010-05-19T21:59:18.674-04:00</app:edited><title>In Memoriam to the Unknown Intellectual</title><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/306800585185215909?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/306800585185215909?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Misctxt/~3/lS2ilwWYRXw/in-memoriam-to-unknown-intellectual.html" title="In Memoriam to the Unknown Intellectual" /><author><name>Zoel</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="16" height="16" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" /></author><content type="html">I have heard you, learn'd astronomer;But other astronomers have taught methe placement of the Pleades,the memorandums of Messier,and the construction of the cosmos.Of all the lessons I have learned,for all the knowledge that I've yearnedOne fact has brought me comfortThat all intelligence and effortis irrelevant to my class.I have heard you, learn'd astronomer.But remember when you wear your 
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/F6FTTfAtTaA1b46XxIddoOUr3RY/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/F6FTTfAtTaA1b46XxIddoOUr3RY/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/F6FTTfAtTaA1b46XxIddoOUr3RY/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/F6FTTfAtTaA1b46XxIddoOUr3RY/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Misctxt/~4/lS2ilwWYRXw" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><feedburner:origLink>http://www.jrmartinson.net/2010/05/in-memoriam-to-unknown-intellectual.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CUcGSHwzfip7ImA9WxFQFk8.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769552.post-2650203606621577233</id><published>2010-05-11T20:07:00.002-04:00</published><updated>2010-05-11T20:10:29.286-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2010-05-11T20:10:29.286-04:00</app:edited><title>Dark Days Stormy Nights</title><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/2650203606621577233?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/2650203606621577233?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Misctxt/~3/zDsbcXBHz2k/dark-days-stormy-nights.html" title="Dark Days Stormy Nights" /><author><name>Zoel</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="16" height="16" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" /></author><content type="html">For various reasons I had to spend the day away from my normal work at home environment and perform work at work.  Paradoxically there are far more distractions for me at work, simply because I am such a people person in a comfortable environment.  In general, however, it seems like I just don't get as much done in a day as a man ought.  Ah well, as they like to say, tomorrow is another chance [
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/9dwBGSNFQFSW_ORLDMXaCGmXcrc/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/9dwBGSNFQFSW_ORLDMXaCGmXcrc/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/9dwBGSNFQFSW_ORLDMXaCGmXcrc/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/9dwBGSNFQFSW_ORLDMXaCGmXcrc/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Misctxt/~4/zDsbcXBHz2k" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><feedburner:origLink>http://www.jrmartinson.net/2010/05/dark-days-stormy-nights.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;A0ANRXc9eip7ImA9WxFRF0o.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769552.post-4600460246649856383</id><published>2010-05-02T01:35:00.002-04:00</published><updated>2010-05-02T01:56:34.962-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2010-05-02T01:56:34.962-04:00</app:edited><title>The Nature of America</title><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/4600460246649856383?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/4600460246649856383?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Misctxt/~3/eid5r5jbASQ/nature-of-america.html" title="The Nature of America" /><author><name>Zoel</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="16" height="16" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" /></author><content type="html">To be American is, for the most part, a legal and self-appointed property.  When demagogues or cultural critics attempt to identify some particular demographic or group as members of the "real America" it is difficult not to scoff.  Nevertheless I am pondering the probability that being American is something of an attitude rather than the legal identity of citizenship.This attitude entails, as 
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/klnR6bk5mlx6IT06-9ws61v7wJU/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/klnR6bk5mlx6IT06-9ws61v7wJU/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/klnR6bk5mlx6IT06-9ws61v7wJU/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/klnR6bk5mlx6IT06-9ws61v7wJU/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Misctxt/~4/eid5r5jbASQ" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><feedburner:origLink>http://www.jrmartinson.net/2010/05/nature-of-america.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DkcESXc5fip7ImA9WxFSGE0.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769552.post-4792403835762076286</id><published>2010-04-20T18:47:00.003-04:00</published><updated>2010-04-20T18:53:28.926-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2010-04-20T18:53:28.926-04:00</app:edited><title>Knights of the Title IX</title><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/4792403835762076286?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/4792403835762076286?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Misctxt/~3/qx07YwpgDw8/knights-of-title-ix.html" title="Knights of the Title IX" /><author><name>Zoel</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="16" height="16" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" /></author><content type="html">I'm a child of Title 9"Fuck you, got mine.”Discrimination is anti-discrimination,As we fight war with violence;With our cognitive dissonanceWe'll reconstruct our gender fixation,You can't fight pussy.From the GamermeronThus, I spoke unto my fellow surplus males:'Tis humane to have compassion on the afflicted,And as such, to have compassion for the fellows of our number,Though Fortuna's wheel has 
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/-RXO3e29sCt22fIh12ruMvkzQdc/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/-RXO3e29sCt22fIh12ruMvkzQdc/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/-RXO3e29sCt22fIh12ruMvkzQdc/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/-RXO3e29sCt22fIh12ruMvkzQdc/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Misctxt/~4/qx07YwpgDw8" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><feedburner:origLink>http://www.jrmartinson.net/2010/04/knights-of-title-ix.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;AkcDR3wycSp7ImA9WxJTEUg.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769552.post-807563174066729937</id><published>2009-04-19T12:20:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2009-04-19T12:21:16.299-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2009-04-19T12:21:16.299-04:00</app:edited><title>The Suzanne Effect</title><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/807563174066729937?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/807563174066729937?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Misctxt/~3/KnHfGNqEm_s/suzanne-effect.html" title="The Suzanne Effect" /><author><name>Zoel</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="16" height="16" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" /></author><content type="html">I purchased a digital camera at her suggestionTo impress her with my reproductive organsLike all women, she was hotand then she was cold.The camera doesn't work anymore.
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/PjVVHink2KDs_Drc1v1kIEPWwWY/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/PjVVHink2KDs_Drc1v1kIEPWwWY/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/PjVVHink2KDs_Drc1v1kIEPWwWY/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/PjVVHink2KDs_Drc1v1kIEPWwWY/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Misctxt/~4/KnHfGNqEm_s" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><feedburner:origLink>http://www.jrmartinson.net/2009/04/suzanne-effect.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;AkYNSX85eCp7ImA9WxVVE0o.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769552.post-3523997175586604819</id><published>2009-03-06T17:19:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2009-03-06T17:23:18.120-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2009-03-06T17:23:18.120-05:00</app:edited><title>Uniquely Awful</title><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/3523997175586604819?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/3523997175586604819?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Misctxt/~3/RR68Pp9EFXE/uniquely-awful.html" title="Uniquely Awful" /><author><name>Zoel</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="16" height="16" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" /></author><content type="html">Every human being is a unique snowflakeTerrible in his or her own wayIn the appropriate mannerBefitting their experiences and abilitiesPerhaps if we were to quantify demeritBeing naturally pessimistic,I would find the glass half-empty after all.
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/nS5mkwGR3sQ1R_tuk5aFAm4rzX8/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/nS5mkwGR3sQ1R_tuk5aFAm4rzX8/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/nS5mkwGR3sQ1R_tuk5aFAm4rzX8/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/nS5mkwGR3sQ1R_tuk5aFAm4rzX8/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Misctxt/~4/RR68Pp9EFXE" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><feedburner:origLink>http://www.jrmartinson.net/2009/03/uniquely-awful.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DEANSHc4fip7ImA9WxVRGE8.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769552.post-6525829228644065949</id><published>2009-01-24T14:53:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2009-01-24T14:53:19.936-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2009-01-24T14:53:19.936-05:00</app:edited><title>The rut</title><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/6525829228644065949?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/6525829228644065949?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Misctxt/~3/bTae92gAbPg/rut.html" title="The rut" /><author><name>Zoel</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="16" height="16" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" /></author><content type="html">The vehicle is something to look forward to at the point in your life when you have run out of things to look forward to.  When you are falling gracefully toward adulthood this isn't the sort of thing you think about.  There is still your first kiss, losing your virginity, your first job, and all sorts of other things to look forward to.  Then at some point after I started looking back to find 
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/E8EJL4IujCZOQTfPt4eyal3u4uY/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/E8EJL4IujCZOQTfPt4eyal3u4uY/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/E8EJL4IujCZOQTfPt4eyal3u4uY/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/E8EJL4IujCZOQTfPt4eyal3u4uY/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Misctxt/~4/bTae92gAbPg" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><feedburner:origLink>http://www.jrmartinson.net/2009/01/rut.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CU4CQXgyfCp7ImA9WxVRFkU.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769552.post-3879790229975882078</id><published>2009-01-22T23:12:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2009-01-22T23:12:40.694-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2009-01-22T23:12:40.694-05:00</app:edited><title>Chemicals</title><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/3879790229975882078?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/3879790229975882078?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Misctxt/~3/UTNFzTQOu5w/chemicals.html" title="Chemicals" /><author><name>Zoel</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="16" height="16" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" /></author><content type="html">Every minor event can become a catastropheExpectations diverted to predictable lowsThe ability to care diminishes and growsI don't think I'll live happily.This flawed and useless brain of mineCan only lead to my declineNo matter for whom I might opineMy feelings don't seem to align.
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/TVOamCkX4wLBG0ByqCvLfEgm8mY/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/TVOamCkX4wLBG0ByqCvLfEgm8mY/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/TVOamCkX4wLBG0ByqCvLfEgm8mY/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/TVOamCkX4wLBG0ByqCvLfEgm8mY/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Misctxt/~4/UTNFzTQOu5w" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><feedburner:origLink>http://www.jrmartinson.net/2009/01/chemicals.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;AkIFRHc-eSp7ImA9WxVRFU0.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769552.post-8165412495406264242</id><published>2009-01-20T22:25:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2009-01-20T22:28:35.951-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2009-01-20T22:28:35.951-05:00</app:edited><title>Love and Lust</title><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/8165412495406264242?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/8165412495406264242?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Misctxt/~3/lP-wwMciKQY/love-and-lust.html" title="Love and Lust" /><author><name>Zoel</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="16" height="16" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" /></author><content type="html">In the system of romantic justice, there are two separate yet equally important groups.The wanted, who instigate and develop relationships, and the scorned who catalog the results.We live their stories.*dun dun dun*
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/MRalqTptZYv_2YucsRMaazOiB3Q/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/MRalqTptZYv_2YucsRMaazOiB3Q/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/MRalqTptZYv_2YucsRMaazOiB3Q/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/MRalqTptZYv_2YucsRMaazOiB3Q/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Misctxt/~4/lP-wwMciKQY" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><feedburner:origLink>http://www.jrmartinson.net/2009/01/love-and-lust.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;D0EDRHw4eip7ImA9WxVSEkU.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769552.post-3407769626382639621</id><published>2009-01-06T18:47:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2009-01-06T18:47:55.232-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2009-01-06T18:47:55.232-05:00</app:edited><title>Snow in January</title><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/3407769626382639621?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/3407769626382639621?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Misctxt/~3/8C-It_i6JZo/snow-in-january_06.html" title="Snow in January" /><author><name>Zoel</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="16" height="16" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" /></author><content type="html">I have an inspirational picture of Rocky Balboa.Like all inspirations it is a form of hubris.Snow falls lightly enough to stickto my purple and white knit cap.My leather jacket and dirty white jeansare far from the appropriate attire.Looking up at the sky,I figure the hill is an easy climband a possible sprint.Will I feel the burnand warm my barely covered bones?I hear the beat in my head.I try 
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/lbD6ljouLIuoG9cV3LEzrNoeLV4/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/lbD6ljouLIuoG9cV3LEzrNoeLV4/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/lbD6ljouLIuoG9cV3LEzrNoeLV4/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/lbD6ljouLIuoG9cV3LEzrNoeLV4/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Misctxt/~4/8C-It_i6JZo" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><feedburner:origLink>http://www.jrmartinson.net/2009/01/snow-in-january_06.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CE4MQXs9cSp7ImA9WxVTGEg.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769552.post-6952495249057946134</id><published>2009-01-01T18:36:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2009-01-01T18:36:20.569-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2009-01-01T18:36:20.569-05:00</app:edited><title>Calculus of Desire</title><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/6952495249057946134?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/6952495249057946134?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Misctxt/~3/_1-sVOkuMsA/calculus-of-desire.html" title="Calculus of Desire" /><author><name>Zoel</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="16" height="16" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" /></author><content type="html">Take the differentialto represent the deceleration of life.Time spent versus time enjoyed.Subtract messages sentfrom messages received.Two roads diverged from my crotchso I took the one I could travel;rather than banging my head against obstaclesand uselessly chattering in barsFor one year of being lovedI paid with eight years of being lost
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/-6HBku1mBVsQwCj6nmtxAXfsBkQ/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/-6HBku1mBVsQwCj6nmtxAXfsBkQ/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/-6HBku1mBVsQwCj6nmtxAXfsBkQ/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/-6HBku1mBVsQwCj6nmtxAXfsBkQ/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Misctxt/~4/_1-sVOkuMsA" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><feedburner:origLink>http://www.jrmartinson.net/2009/01/calculus-of-desire.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CkYCRnYycSp7ImA9WxRaFE0.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769552.post-3105550097364032450</id><published>2008-12-15T23:02:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2008-12-15T23:02:47.899-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2008-12-15T23:02:47.899-05:00</app:edited><title>Flash out</title><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/3105550097364032450?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/3105550097364032450?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Misctxt/~3/OtOIQ__1YA4/flash-out.html" title="Flash out" /><author><name>Zoel</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="16" height="16" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" /></author><content type="html">I'm not used to being now.In unused spaces or quiet places,I stare off with a worried frow.Should we learn from our pastOr should we pray for ignorance?I'm stuck in a place that is not hereIn a time that is not nowAs if my life has devolved intoA cheesy science fiction novellaOr a zen koan with no answerWhen I locate my halted breathcan I rescue myself from the void?I try to count the breathsOr 
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/4DOCHx5lIHdiOfaXy8WMWOkGjcg/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/4DOCHx5lIHdiOfaXy8WMWOkGjcg/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/4DOCHx5lIHdiOfaXy8WMWOkGjcg/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/4DOCHx5lIHdiOfaXy8WMWOkGjcg/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Misctxt/~4/OtOIQ__1YA4" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><feedburner:origLink>http://www.jrmartinson.net/2008/12/flash-out.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;AkUDR3g9fip7ImA9WxRaE0w.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8769552.post-3418369662681986100</id><published>2008-12-15T00:12:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-12-15T00:17:56.666-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2008-12-15T00:17:56.666-05:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="mediocre" /><title>Resolve For An Old Person With a New Calendar</title><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/3418369662681986100?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8769552/posts/default/3418369662681986100?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Misctxt/~3/WtTh8-TE80I/resolve-for-old-person-with-new.html" title="Resolve For An Old Person With a New Calendar" /><author><name>Zoel</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="16" height="16" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" /></author><content type="html">"And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make."- The BeatlesI never liked the term resolution,The natural implication of the nounobscures the intention of the verbthough I wish my thoughts alone could conquerall my inertia and regret.I realize that your absence is my absenceRedefined by insecurities and concernsThe resolution is to be presentrelentless in the pursuit of 
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/2TtlMcBUXVVmazdzoGS79ew8djo/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/2TtlMcBUXVVmazdzoGS79ew8djo/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/2TtlMcBUXVVmazdzoGS79ew8djo/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/2TtlMcBUXVVmazdzoGS79ew8djo/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Misctxt/~4/WtTh8-TE80I" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><feedburner:origLink>http://www.jrmartinson.net/2008/12/resolve-for-old-person-with-new.html</feedburner:origLink></entry></feed>

